"What are you doing?" I ask, which is a monumentally stupid question given the obvious evidence, but my brain-to-mouth filter has been compromised by the sight of his bare torso and I'm running on fumes.
He smiles, amused. “Shaving so I won’t have stubble for you.”
For me.
I don't know what my face does, but whatever it is makes him set the razor down on the edge of the sink. He turns from the mirror and catches my hand.
I let him.
His fingers wrap around mine with a sureness that makes my breath stutter. He goes slow, tugging me in to the bathroom, into this private moment.
And then his hands are on my waist, his palmsspanning the curve of my hips, and he lifts me onto the bathroom counter like I weigh nothing.
The porcelain is cold through my flannel pants. His shaving kit clatters as my hip nudges it aside. I can see the individual flecks of gold in his warm, brown eyes.
"You want to help?"
“I don’t mind your stubble.” I have to make that clear. But also, yes I want to help. I trace my fingers over his moustache. “How do you shave around this?”
“Carefully.” He picks the razor back up and holds it between us, handle toward me.
"I've never shaved anyone before," I say.
“I’m thrilled to be your first.” He takes my right hand and positions the razor in my grip, adjusting my fingers. His hands are steady around mine. "Short strokes. Go with the grain at first. Down on my cheeks. Along my jaw, it goes forward. And my neck—" He tilts his chin up. "Goes up."
“That’s complicated.”
“No, don’t worry. You can’t fuck this up. I don’t mind if you shave against the grain, either. I sometimes do that, because it’s a closer shave, but I have to hold the skin just so…” He takes my left hand and demonstrates.
Or maybe he just wants me to press my fingertips against his throat, because his pulse leaps against my touch.
Taking a deep breath, I start on his cheek. I press the razor to his skin and draw it down in a short, careful stroke. Cream and stubble clear in its wake, revealing smooth, tanned skin underneath.
He doesn’t move.
I rinse the blade under the tap and do it again. Then another, moving down his cheek toward thehard angle of his jaw, and the concentration required to do this without cutting him narrows my world to a pinpoint. Nothing exists beyond the razor and his skin and the almost imperceptible flex of his throat when he breathes.
Heat licks up my core.
His hands settle on my knees, his thumbs curling to the inside of my thighs.
"You're good at this," he murmurs.
"Don't talk. I'll cut you."
"Worth it." His moustache twitches.
I tilt his chin with my free hand, angling his jaw to catch the light. The intimacy of feeling this man's heartbeat against my hand while I hold a blade to his throat makes my eyes sting.
I blink hard and move to his other cheek, working in short, precise strokes. The quiet between us is different now. Thicker. Warm, and heating up fast.
When I reach the delicate area around his moustache, I slow down. He's left the borders sharp and clean, and I trace the edge of the shaving cream with the tip of the razor, clearing away the stray bits without touching the moustache itself.
When I finish, I set the razor down and trace my fingers over his moustache, following the curve of it from the centre of his upper lip out to the corner.
When I pause my touch there, his eyes open.
We're very close.
