Lake must sense it since he widens his thighs. “Just stand between my legs. I won’t bite.”
But what if I want him to? A blast of heat roars through me, as I step between his spread legs, running my fingers through the hair I need to chop off, my hand lightly sliding against his forehead as I go.
He sucks in a breath. The temperature in me rises. I take a beat, steadying myself.
“It’s a tight space,” he says quietly.
Everything is dripping with innuendo. “It is,” I say, breathy.
“I’d better make sure you’re…steady,” he says, then raises a hand and lifts his face, meeting my eyes as if asking for permission.
I give a faint nod. His right hand comes down gently on my hip, holding me in place as I stand between his thighs. I glance down at his hand briefly, the outline of the owl peeking out beneath his shirt sleeve. My fingers itch to touch it, to trace it. Tearing my gaze away, I cut the rest of his hair.
Soon enough, I’m done. “There you go.”
“Do you like it?”
I look down at him. His blue eyes are patient, but hopeful. “I do. Want to see it?”
“Yes, but first…” He drags a hand through his hair again. His eyes widen. “That’s short.”
“Too short?” I ask, hoping he likes it.
“You’d better check,” he says, then reaches for my hand, gently guiding it up toward his head. I take the permission slip he’s giving me and run my fingers through his short, wet hair. A full-body shudder runs through me as I do so, like I’m checking my handiwork when I’m just seizing the opportunity to touch him.
His body is tense as I go, like he’s keeping everything bottled up.
I move my hand away, turning around to grab a mirror, but he’s standing. “Let’s go check it out in a bigger mirror. Okay?”
The word mirror reverberates in my skull, as ideas—filthy ones—flash before me. “Okay.”
I walk to the bedroom, then show him the full-lengthmirror on the back of the closet door. He considers his reflection, then turns to me. “This what you like?”
I liked his hair before, but I like it even more now. “I do.”
His lips curve up in a small grin, as if he’s never been more pleased than to give me what I want.
And right now, in my bedroom, alone with Lake and his newly shorn locks that I want to grab hold of, I want…him.
His smile burns off though as his eyes roam over me. “You’re wearing a T-shirt,” he says, noting my outfit.
“It’s just for the haircut.”
“I figured,” he says, then swallows, pausing. “Are you going to wear one of those shoulder things?”
“Shoulder things?”
He steps closer, brushes his fingers along my collarbone, lighting me up. “Those tops you wear.”
I know what he means. “An off-the-shoulder sweater.”
“Yes. That.”
“I can wear one.”
“Good idea,” he says, all raspy and heated.
Lake likes my sweaters, and this should not delight me so much. But it does.
