“Can I brush it for you?” he asks quietly.
Taken aback by the request, I murmur, “Umm, yeah. Sure.”
He nods, just once, satisfied. God, he’s adorable.
“Get dressed so you don’t get chilled.”
“Yes, sir,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. His eyes narrow on mine, and I laugh. Whoops.
He’s already laid out a pair of his sweatpants and a navy-blue Petoskey Fire Department t-shirt on the bed for me. The weatherturned chilly overnight, the temperatures dropping significantly, and we woke to frost glittering the grass.
“I have socks, if you want some to wear, too,” he says over his shoulder as I follow him out of the bathroom and down the short hallway to his bedroom.
“No, thank you.” I swing the towel from my shoulders and shiver, my nipples peaking rapidly.
“Are you the kind of girl that refuses to wear socks and then insists on putting your frozen toes against a man’s skin?” he asks, glaring at me from across the room.
Laughing, I shrug before pulling the t-shirt over my head. Holding the collar to my face, I inhale deeply. It smells like him. Cedar and sandalwood and smoke. Zach.
“I’m keeping this,” I warn him.
“Good.” He leans his hips against the dresser and crosses his arms over his chest. “I want you to have something of mine.”
“You mean other than your handprint on my ass?” I tease.
The devilish grin he sends me says enough. “The handprint is for me. The shirt is for you.”
Pulling the sweatpants up over my hips, I make a face at how snug they fit. How is it that men’s clothes always look massive until a woman puts them on her body, and it’s like they shrink five sizes in a matter of seconds?
I’ve never beenlittle, and with an ass like a dump truck, pants have always been my nemesis.
Flipping my hair over my head, I wrap the towel around the back of my head and pat it dry the best I can. When I straighten, Zach takes the towel from me and disappears out the door. Back a moment later, he has a hairbrush in his hand.
“Sit on the corner of the bed, back to me.”
I do as he instructs, sitting cross legged on the corner of the mattress. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him raise thehairbrush, but he halts. I raise my chin, looking up and back at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you have a sensitive scalp?” he asks then, looking hesitant. “Chloe screams bloody murder when I brush her hair—”
Grabbing his hand in mine, I sink his fingers into my hair at the roots and curl them into my hair. Still looking up at him, I whisper, “Pull.”
His eyes darken on mine, and he does as I say, fisting his fingers tighter into my hair before pulling taut. My mouth drops open and I moan.
He chuckles darkly before dropping his mouth to mine in a deep, hungry kiss. “Goddammit, Louise. I’m trying to take care of you.”
“I’m just letting you know you don’t have to treat me like glass,” I whisper against his mouth. “I won’t break, okay?”
Zach releases the hold of my hair and sets to work brushing through the wet strands. He’s gentle, combing through the knots tenderly, until the brush glides through from root to tip effortlessly.
I can’t stifle the whimper of pleasure.
He chuckles behind me, gliding the brush through again, slowly. “Feel good?”
“Mmhmm,” I hum, nodding. “I don’t think anyone has brushed or played with my hair since I was a kid. It feels amazing.”
“You haven’t had a man to take care of you properly, then,” he harrumphs from behind me, and I laugh.
“That’s an understatement.” I look up at him again. “Dating is its own special kind of nightmare.”
