Page 11 of Ten

“So—what were you thinking?”

His brain fritzed for a moment, and he almost blurted out the filthy thought he was having. “Uh—a trim?”

“A trim?” She eyed him skeptically. “Do you know what I charge? You could have gone to Great Clips if you only needed a trim.”

“Vivian insisted.”

She tilted her head. “Do you do everything she insists?”

“You’ve met her. She’s bossy.”

“I never took you for the sort of man to be bossed around by a woman.”

“Depends on the woman,” he remarked, pinning her with a heated gaze.

“Uh-huh,” she intoned dryly.

His flirtatious reply died on his lips. Nisha combed her fingers through his hair, lightly scratching her bright aqua nails along his scalp, and he shuddered at the incredible sensation. It traveled right down his spine, settling low in his groin.Fuck me.

“You okay?” She held his gaze in the mirror, her movements paused as she waited for his reply.

“Yes,” he ground out, worried he was going to embarrass himself with a groan. She started to drag her nails through his hair again, and he felt himself start to lean back, desperate for her to keep her hands on him.

“You and Wilford would get along like two peas in a pod.” She scratched her nails against his scalp, this time with enough pressure to make goosebumps break out on his skin. “Just don’t bite me the way he does when I stop.”

“I hope you’re talking about a pet.” He gripped the arms of the chair, the leather squeaking under his tightly clutched fingers.

“My cat,” she clarified. “He looks just like Wilford Brimley.”

“The diabetes commercial guy?”

“Yeah, andQuaker Oats,” she said, gently removing her fingers from his hair. “You have very healthy hair and a squeaky-clean scalp.”

“Is that strange?” He figured she wouldn’t mention it if it wasn’t.

“Considering most men use a shampoo and body wash combo like they're still teenagers? Yes.”

“I buy my products separately,” he assured her.

“You do seem to be a man who takes care of himself.” She opened a drawer at the hair-cutting station and retrieved a cape. “Do you want a shampoo?”

“Yes.” He craved the feeling of her hands on him again. He wanted to close his eyes and revel in the sensation of hot water and thick lather and her nimble fingers gliding along his scalp.

“Okay.” She draped the cape around his shoulders and fastened it in place. “This way.”

The shampoo chair was surprisingly comfortable, even for a man of his size. He shifted a bit to get his neck in just the right place. She gently cupped the back of his head, guiding his movements. This close, her scent wrapped around him, invading his nose and lungs and settling deep inside. He wanted to stare up at her gorgeous face, but he felt suddenly awkward and nervous.

Was she scrutinizing him? Was she counting the scars on his face? The small dent on the upper left side of his forehead where he’d caught a rock thrown by his cousin? The old acne marks hidden under his beard? The melted plastic spoon turned prison shiv that had sliced open his cheek? Was she drawing lines between the splatter of freckles on his forehead and cheeks like a connect-the-dot page in a child’s coloring book?

“Let me know if this gets too hot,” she warned before turning the spray nozzle onto his scalp.

“I will.” He relaxed into her skilled hands, closing his eyes and enjoying her touch. She worked slowly, wetting his hair and gently scratching his scalp. She moved away briefly and returned with shampoo that she lathered into his hair. It felt so good.

Too good.

He hadn’t been touched like this in a long, long time. Sure, there had been some one-night stands and hookups between his release from prison and now, but they were always the same. He seemed to only draw the attention of women who wanted a good time. They saw a man who was built like a bear, nearly seven feet tall and muscular, and wanted to be manhandled and fucked hard. They wanted wild and hot and dangerous.

But he craved something else.

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