Page 11 of Fire on the Ice

I do. Want her attention for as long as it’s going to take her to work inside me, want the pressure and the stretching and the fullness of that invasive and filled-to-bursting sensation. There’s nothing like it.

“Get in the bathroom, bring a chair.”

Blaze

A few minutes later, I’m leaning back in the chair I dragged in here, my head resting on the edge of the sink. I’d been ready to lean against the cool porcelain, but Maisy had tutted at me, insisted I sit up so she could put a folded towel between my skull and the hard surface. Of course it feels better this way. She’s good at that stuff.

Maisy must’ve put the stopper in the drain because the hot water creeps up to the level of my scalp, and she uses a cup to douse my head with scooped-up water. It feels really good, and the view’s not bad. She has to lean over me, which means I get an eyeful down her shirt. A blousy thing that hides her shape except for the low neckline that’s now giving me a view of her chest which is covered again by one of those lacey things. Nice.

She hums as she works, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before. She’s got a pretty voice, I can tell from the few bars. I’d like to hear her sing, but if I ask, she’ll refuse and then I’ll probably lose the humming, too—I don’t know if she realizes she’s doing it.

After she’s got my head good and soaked, she flips open the cap of a bottle, squirts what I’m guessing is shampoo into her hand, and starts working her fingers over my scalp, bringing up a luxurious lather and using the pads of her fingers to massage my scalp. It’s heavenly, and I say that as an expert on hedonism. I know about things feeling good, and I’d trade a lot of things for this simple pleasure.

I groan to let her know precisely what kind of effect she’s having on me and then have to locate something more articulate. “How’d you learn how to do this?”

There’s the slightest pause of the circular kneading motion. If I weren’t paying attention, I wouldn’t have noticed it. She continues as she answers. “My mom owns a salon. I’ve been shampooing since I could reach the sinks. I had to work a certain number of hours per week as part of my chores, but anything above that, and she’d pay me. That’s the money I used to use to buy my skates.”

“You must have washed a lot of hair.” Figure skates don’t come cheap, especially as you get more serious. At some point, you even have to buy the boots and the blades separately and have someone attach them for you.

She laughs. “I sure did.”

“It shows. You’re really good at this.”

With that, Maisy digs into my scalp with the pads of her fingers, and I moan again, letting my eyes close because I want to focus everything I have on the way she’s touching me. Yes, I have a lot of sex, and yes, I flirt a lot, and basically touch other people as much as I can because I enjoy physical contact, to feel wanted and liked. But no matter how much I touch, fool around, and fuck, this is something else. It’s simmering instead of boiling, and a really . . . pervasive feeling instead of something that flashes hot on the surface of my skin. I don’t know what to do with that. So for once, I shut my face and stay quiet while Maisy works.

It must be almost ten minutes before she’s using the cup to rinse the lather out of my hair, and I’m basically a puddle. I have freaking awesome reflexes, but I think if someone kicked the chair out from under me, I wouldn’t spring to my feet but rather fall on the floor and lie there, dazed. And then fall asleep. I don’t get this relaxed—there’s always a film of mania over everything I do. But I think Maisy’s sultry brand of calm has managed to work its way under that layer.

She lets the water out of the sink, rinses my hair again and then cracks open another bottle I’m guessing is conditioner. Pouring it into her palm, she circles the cream between her palms and then delves into my hair, her fingers working in, and repeats the same motions, though focusing on my neck, cradling it with both of her hands and easing the tight muscles there with the pads of her thumbs.

I don’t feel uncomfortable with Maisy seeing me like this, either, which is strange. I’m not . . . quiet, easy. With anyone. And I’m so rarely alone that I’m not like this by myself, either. It’s a secret layer that seems to belong only to her, and I’m okay with that. For all that I tease her about being a stick-in-the-mud, I like that about her. For lots of reasons, one being that I feel as though she can be trusted. She’s not going to forget about me or about us in a frenzied quest for pleasure, she’s not going to run roughshod over my feelings, because she believes I have them and she’ll be respectful of them. She’s not going to overreach in a frantic grab for my soul. Nope, Maisy lets me know she’s coming. Like now.

“One last rinse and then we’ll sit you up.”

I hum contentedly as she works the conditioner out of my hair, and then let her help me up, keeping the rolled towel at my neck so my soaking hair doesn’t drip down my back. She leaves it there, grabs another towel that she uses to cover my head, and uses that to sop up some of the water before scrubbing it over my head as though I’m a dog.

It makes me laugh, and if I were in fact a dog, this is the part when I’d shake off from my nose to the tip of my tail and leave her shrieking and crossing her arms in front of her face so she wouldn’t get too wet. As it is, I let myself enjoy the chafing until it’s over.

Maisy uncovers my head and takes a comb to me, running the teeth through the strands with ease. When she’s satisfied, she takes up her scissors and starts to separate my hair into sections, keeping the damp strands between her fingers and drawing them away from my scalp, using the scissors to cut the bits that stick out between her fingers.

She’s efficient but not hurried, and I let her work without saying anything. It’s companionable, this silence, and I appreciate her giving me the space to be quiet for once. That’s not what anyone else wants from me. Or expects from me. Which is fine for the most part, because I’m brash and brassy and that’s not an act. It’s how I am. But it’s nice not to have to be that way and still have a person who wants to spend time with me.

The message I got earlier was from one of the people who really is only interested in me because of my antics. I can’t blame him; I cultivated our friendship because of what he could do for me, too. Yancey started out as a flat-out paparazzi which is when I first met him, but now he works forCelebrinews,writing his own features with pics he’s snapped himself, usually.

He’d asked why I hadn’t been calling him with tips on where to get racy pics of me with whomever I was taking home that night. I’ll answer him at some point because I don’t want to blow a connection that could prove useful sometime, but also because I’ve come to genuinely like the guy. Not now, though. Now, I’ll bask in what Maisy is doing to my head.

It takes her a while until she’s satisfied, and then she uses her hand to shake out my hair. It’s almost dry after her handling, and she bends down close in front of me to make sure parts are even, and though I could—I totally could—I don’t grab her face and kiss her. I let her demonstrate her skill and get the job done. It’s possible I shouldn’t be such a shit to Maisy about her being a workhorse. I swear to god, though, it would do something for her skating to put on more of a show. To look like she’s having fun. But I’ll let her be for now. Which is a good call, because she’s breaking out a hair dryer and a round brush that looks so substantial she could probably club baby seals with it. Or maybe a mouthy speedskater.

She pulls and tugs and dries, and by the time she’s done, I feel downright glamorous. It’s usually a quick smear of mousse straight out of the shower, and letting it dry on the way to the rink because my hair’s going under a helmet anyhow. This treatment makes me feel as though I’m a princess, and I kinda like it.

Maisy’s gaze rakes over me as she inspects her handiwork, her mouth tight.

“Can I see it?”

“Yes.” Though she doesn’t seem particularly excited for me to. Did she fuck this up? I won’t give her a hard time if she did, and honestly, it’s not as if anyone would notice unless I shaved my head. Which A, wouldn’t be so bad, anyhow; and B, I know she wouldn’t do that. Probably even if I asked her to.

So I stand and turn to the mirror, not knowing exactly what to expect. When I see my face, I squeal. I look fucking amazing. She’s done this asymmetrical pixie cut kinda thing but left my bangs longish, sweeping them over to the side. Damn. I mean, damn. I would totally fuck that girl in the mirror—if she weren’t me. Because I obviously get myself off by any means necessary pretty often.

“Maisy, I look awesome. You’re really fucking good at this. Why didn’t you tell me you’re like Vidalia Sassoon?”

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