Inhale the good shit, exhale the bullshit.
Do we really need a sign that says Live, Laugh, Love?
I linger, taking it all in, and imagine her cozied up under the thick comforter of an evening. Does she read? Watch TV?
“In here,” she calls.
I enter the small en suite to find her holding a pair of grooming scissors and razor. My stomach churns. Did they belong to her ex? I’m about to decline her offer a second time when she clocks my expression.
“Relax. They’re unused. I bought them for when my dad visits.” She pats the lid of the toilet. “C’mon. Park it.”
Nothing is in sync around her and my legs move before my brain grants them permission. She crosses all my wires. I know it’s trouble as I lower to sit—that allowing myself to be in such close proximity to her for any amount of time is bad for my blood pressure—yet I do it anyway. Glutton for fucking punishment, and I’m the maker of it all.
Harriet drags the laundry hamper across the tiled floor. There’s no time to prepare before she’s wedging herself between my spread legs, our eyes almost level.
I stop breathing. It’s for the best.
The sink sits directly to my left. She fills it with warm water and shakes the can of shaving cream.
“What are the rules? Mustaches are okay, but no beard?”
“Yes. The rest needs to be clean shaven for them to check our equipment fits. Have you done this before?”
“Nope. Don’t worry, I haven’t seen Sweeney Todd. ” She smiles angelically. “I’ll trim the mustache first and then shave. Lean forward a little.”
I do as she asks. With steady hands, she snips away at my mustache. She holds the side of my face to tilt me in whichever direction. The rational part of me thinks I should close myeyes. The leading, irrational other half enjoys watching her lips twist in concentration, brows furrowing slightly.
When our eyes clash, I look away. Not a smart move, as I’m drawn to the freckle above her upper lip. Fuck. Now I’m remembering biting and kissing that exact freckle while she writhed and arched underneath me. My cock stiffens behind my zipper and my body screams at me to move and ease the building pressure.
I’m about to ask for a break when she pulls away, beaming proudly at her handiwork. “Perfect.”
Not the word I’d use to describe this moment. I keep quiet and nod stiffly, willing the blood pumping south to divert elsewhere. She squirts cream into her hand, lathers it up, then looks at me for consent. I shouldn’t. I’m not sure how much more of this I can handle. This was supposed to be a flying visit, and instead, I’ve locked myself in a torture chamber.
I nod like the weak man I am.
Harriet smears the foam over my cheeks and chin before picking up the razor. “Stay still. I don’t want to rush this.”
Please, please, fucking rush.
“Okay,” I croak.
Her hands return. This time, it’s worse. She leans closer, the outside of her thighs brushing the inside seams of my jeans. Her warm breath fans over my face, sweet, with a hint of coffee. What flavor cereal did she choose today? Does she need restocking? What god-forsaken perfume does she wear?
My racing thoughts keep me somewhat distracted, but only temporarily. She twists my head so I’m forced to look at her again. A hardship and blessing. Apparently, she needs to be closer, and when she scoots forward, her knees knock into my tightly locked hands, not so discreetly hiding my growing erection.
For some unearthly reason, I move them to rest on the outside of her thighs. She jumps at the contact, and I pull back.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”
“No, it’s fine.” Is her voice breathy? “It might be better. To steady yourself, you know?”
I return them and resist the urge to caress the velvety material of her leggings.
She continues with her task, though this time, our eyes don’t flit away whenever they meet. They loiter, and every time her blue orbs find mine, her pupils dilate. My heart jackhammers against my ribcage—fighting to get out, get away, get closer? I don’t know.
It’s then, after spending longer than necessary watching her delicate throat work with a swallow, that I notice she’s finished.
We don’t move.
