“So,” Eva says, her voice casual in a way that means she’s about to say something important. “You want to talk about work?”
“There’s not much to say.” I keep my eyes closed as she works the brush along my jawline. “Clayton went to outer space. My skill set is apparently most valuable on the opposite coast from everything I care about.”
Eva’s brush pauses at my chin. “And your skill set is…”
“System architecture for low-bandwidth networks.” I exhale, trying to keep some of my blood in my brain when it all wants to pool in my cock. I open my eyes. She’s looking down at me with an expression that’s frustratingly hard to read. “It’s not exactly a booming market in Fork Lick.”
“Hmm.” She picks up the razor. “Hold still. I’m going to do your neck first.”
The first stroke of the blade makes me inhale sharply. Not because it hurts—she’s careful, angling the razor just right, pulling the skin taut with her other hand. It’s the intimacy of it. The vulnerability. I’m sitting here with my throat exposed while a woman I love scrapes a blade along my pulse point. Something about that trust feels as terrifying and exhilarating as saying those three words in the shower.
Wait. Do I love her?
Unquestionably yes.
Eva rinses the razor in the sink and returns for another stroke. “You know what I was thinking about?”
“Mm.” A sound, not a word. I don’t want to move my jaw while she’s working on it.
“That thing you told me about, how people in rural areas can’t get to specialists. How families in Fork Lick used to drive to a McDonald’s parking lot to do steal Wi-Fi before you fixed the internet out here.”
Another stroke. She tilts my chin to the left, her thumb pressing into the hinge of my jaw, and I feel the drag of the blade follow the contour of my throat. I grip the edge of the toilet seat; the alternative is gripping her hips.
“What about it?”
“You said something about telehealth. How the connectivity could be used to expand access to remote medical care. You got really worked up about it.” She smiles. “It was hot.”
I frown—or try to. “Don’t make me move my face.”
“Sorry.”
She dips the razor in the water again and starts on my right cheek with short, careful strokes that peel away the excess growth. Her wrist rests lightly against my collarbone as she works, and I long to lick her.
“But seriously. You said something about talking to the hospitals via Meow Mobile. What if you talked to them just as you?” She leans back to check her work, turning my face left and right with her fingertips. A dollop of shaving lather transfers from my jaw to the heel of her palm, and she wipes it on the front of her shirt without thinking. The soap leaves a wet, translucent streak across her left breast, and through the dampened cotton I can see the dark circle of her nipple, pebbled from the cooling air.
My cock twitches. Visibly. Eva glances down. Her lips part.
She does not mention it. Instead, she resumes shaving my cheek with a steadiness I find either admirable or diabolical.
I stare at the wet spot on her shirt, at the shape beneath it, and try to engage the part of my brain that processes career advice instead of the part that wants to pull her onto my lap and mouth the damp fabric until she moans.
“I don’t have a degree,” I manage.
“You built Meow Mobile from scratch. I think your resume speaks for itself. And I don’t have a degree either. I’m doing okay.” She shifts between my legs to get a better angle on my upper lip, and her thigh presses against my erection.
We both freeze.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice strained. “I can’t… it’s the… you’re…” I gesture vaguely at her entire situation: the thin shirt, the visible nipples, the soap, the razor, the fact that she is touching my face with more tenderness than I’ve experienced in my entire adult life.
Eva doesn’t move away. Her thigh stays exactly where it is, warm and firm against me. She tips my chin up with one finger and leans in close enough that I can feel her breath on my freshly shaved skin.
“I’m not sorry,” she says quietly. “I like that I do this to you.”
Then she goes back to shaving my upper lip. The razor traces the curve above my mouth with aching precision. She’s so close now that her breast—the one with the soap stain, the one I can see straight through the soiled shirt—is inches from my face. I can smell the cedar of the shaving soap mixing with her skin, something floral underneath, something warm.
She finishes my upper lip and moves to my other cheek. I’m fully hard now, straining against my pants, and I’ve given up any pretense of hiding it. Eva works in silence for a moment, focused, the only sounds being the scrape of the blade and the soft splash of the razor in the sink.
“You could at least look into it,” she says softly. “The hospital thing. What’s the worst that happens?”
