Page 49 of Caught from Behind

But mine.

Us.

I press my nose to her throat and inhale, taking in the scent of her, flowers and vanilla, mixed with a dozen other notes—soap and something sharp, like bleach, the fruity odor of someone’s perfume, the chocolatey goodness of the cookies.

And Ella.

Mine.

“Mmm,” I murmur, brushing my lips over her forehead, her cheek, her jaw, the column of her neck.

She shivers, hips moving against mine, even as her arm lifts over her head.

Okay, yeah, I like that. No, I fucking love it, love how it lifts her breasts, how it reminds me of this morning. If I could just have this woman holding on to something while I fuck her senseless for the rest of eternity, I’d be more than content.

I’d be fucking perfect.

“Got it,” she says a little desperately, and I focus enough to read the label on the box in her hand.

Pink.

Christ. She is fucking incredible.

Still, the box reminds me why we’re here.

So, I can see her work.

I slip the dye from her grip, toss it back onto the counter then take her hand and draw her from the room. “Come on, chérie,” I say, releasing her as I settle into the chair. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Blue eyes on mine in the mirror for a long moment. Then she exhales, her throat working, tone becoming no-nonsense. “Okay, mister,” she declares. “If you don’t want to end up with a lopsided buzz cut, you need to sit there and behave.”

That’s not going to happen—the behaving part.

But I will sit here and watch her in the mirror for the rest of all time.

Especially when she runs her fingers through my hair, nails sliding over my scalp and raising goose bumps on my arms. “You have great hair,” she says softly, seeming more focused, as though touching the strands of my hair has centered her. She reaches by me, picks up a spray bottle, then opens a drawer and extracts a comb. “I’d recommend leaving most of the length on top but shortening the back and sides.”

If it means she’ll keep touching me, I’ll agree to anything.

“Okay, chérie.”

Her eyes lift from my hair to my eyes again. “Okay?” she asks. “Just like that?”

I lift a shoulder, drop it. “You’re the expert.”

“My men’s haircuts are eighty-five dollars,” she says, setting the comb and spray bottle aside, picking up the clippers and plugging them in.

My eyes bug out of my head. “Eighty-five—” But then I catch a glimmer in her eyes.

Mischief. Trouble.

Ella.

“How much will it be if I pay in orgasms?”

She doesn’t miss a beat, just uses a plastic clip thing to tie my hair out of my face and away from where she’s working. “Two hundred and five.”

I flick my brows up. “Seriously?”

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