Closing his eyes, Ira tilted his head back. Wisps of hair had dislodged from his knot. Arthur tucked them behind his ear.
Along the jaw with short strokes to avoid nicks, because it was usually along the jaw that Arthur nicked himself, then on to the neck. Tilting Ira’s head back farther, Arthur pulled his collar aside. To his astonishment, Ira’s pulse thundered. When Arthur brushed his fingers against it, Ira’s head snapped up so fast that Arthur almost fell off him. Ira steadied him, a hand at his waist.
Arthur swallowed; his mouth was dry, for unclear reasons. The chill autumn air, perhaps, although why it shouldn’t have struck him until now he didn’t know. Ira caught his wrist, gazing at him intently.
Arthur’s breath hitched. He thought of his romance novels—of the heroine’s first brush against the hero’s skin, of moments of help and care more intimate than they’d been meant to be. Like the heroine with the love interest who was (anatomically) a monster, tending his wounds after a run-in with a monster hunter.
Anatomically?Arthur heard Charlotte saying, and he blushed. Perhaps Ira’s wolfish anatomy extended up his legs, to his nether regions—
Arthur’s blush deepened. He wasn’t sure why he’d thought that.
He cleared his throat. “I have to get around your eye.”
Ira released him. Cupping his chin, Arthur bent his head to the side. He liked the press of Ira’s body against his, the way Ira did whatever he indicated. Something fluttered frantically in Arthur’s chest.
He let out a soft breath.Focus.Examining Ira’s scar, he bit his lip, the fluttering in his chest fading.
“Hold very still.”
“All right.”
Ira’s voice was lower and hoarser than ever. Arthur’s stomach dipped at the sound.
Focus, he told himself as sternly as he could (not very). He lathered fresh soap as close to Ira’s eye as he dared. Getting shaving soap in one’s eye surely hurt whether it was blind or not, and Arthur was afraid of reopening his scar, or expanding it.
More carefully than ever, he scraped moss away with the shortest strokes possible. The scar he left. Its white flowers had closed up in the darkness.
Arthur ran his hands along Ira’s jaw, neck, cheek. Feeling for any moss he might’ve missed, he told himself, but Ira was gazing at him again and that made him want to keep doing it. Stomach swooping, he grabbed a towel and cradled Ira’s head in his hand to wipe the remaining soap away.
Ira leaned into his touch. Face upturned, throat exposed. For one wild moment, Arthur pictured the women in nearly this pose on the covers of his novels and the flowing-haired, muscled men leaning over them, ready to kiss them.
His ears pinkened. What a silly thing to think of.
What was it about the simple act of shaving that made his brain run amok with silly thoughts tonight? Now he was remembering the old fisherman whose shack he had visited with his father on that impromptu house call. Not merely the fisherman touching his sick friend’s hand, but the questions Arthur had asked his father about the two men afterward.
Why do they live with each other? Aren’t either of them married?
George had hesitated.They’re old bachelors, son. Neither of them is likely to marry at this point. Cheaper to keep one house instead of two, so they live together.
Arthur had been satisfied with that answer—though he’d wondered, later, why there had been only one bed in the shack. By then, his parents had gone to bed together, and he knew better than to disturb them. When everyone awoke in the morning, he’d forgotten about it.
He wasn’t sure why he remembered it now, except that his brain had been doing funny things since Ira had handed him the razor.
He tossed the towel aside and scrambled away. “Done.”
Feeling foolish, he wiped the razor clean and packed everything back into the kit. Behind him, Ira ran a hand over his skin with a sigh.
“Thanks.”
Arthur’s ears were pinker than ever. “It was nothing.”
Ira lay back on his fur, clasping his hands behind his head. He grimaced as his antlers touched the ground, leaving space between his skull and the forest floor. Turning onto his side instead, he propped his cheek on a fist. His lips twitched.
“It was useful.”
Arthur’s face burned. “If you’re making fun of me—”
“I’m not.” Ira snagged his hand as he passed. “I’m not. Really. It was helpful. Thank you.”
