Page 80 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“Close your eyes,” he says, all commanding like he suddenly runs the place. I open my mouth to argue, but the second his fingers touch my scalp, whatever I was about to say slips right out of my head.
“Let me take care of you, baby.”
I hesitate.
His fingers move through my hair, slow and careful, lathering shampoo like I’m something he doesn’t want to break.
No one’s ever done this for me before.
Not a boyfriend. Not a one-night stand. Not even a best friend-with-benefits situation. This? This is intimate. This is something else. Something I have to reject before?—
“I can wash my hair,” I mumble, not even pretending to move.
“I know.”
His thumbs find that spot just behind my ears, and I melt—completely, embarrassingly melt—like a popsicle abandoned on a July sidewalk.
“But you don’t have to. That’s not part of our . . .” We had an agreement, right? It should make me pull away. It should spark some inner alarm.
Instead, something inside me goes quiet. Like he reached into my chest, took the storm I’ve been carrying, and smoothed it flat with a single touch.
Then picks up the body wash.
I open my mouth to protest—again—but he just murmurs, “Let me,” like it’s nothing—like it’s everything.
And I let him.
Because his hands are so damn careful.
Because I’m exhausted.
Because maybe—for just a second—I want to pretend I’m his.
Even if I know better.
He runs soapy palms down my back, over my hips, and between my thighs with care, not heat. He’s not trying to get me going again—he’s just being . . . kind.
And it fucks me up more than anything else.
I flinch when his fingers graze a sensitive spot, and he pulls back instantly.
“You okay?” he asks, voice softer now.
“Yeah.” I force a breath. “Just . . . not used to this.”
“To what?”
“Being taken care of . . .”Like ever,I don’t say because that usually shows weakness, and I’m not going to let anyone see me as less just because I enjoy moments like this.
I’m the lucky subscriber. Fingers slow and firm, he massages behind my ears, at the nape of my neck—tilting my head back with this reverence that should not be legal after what he just did to me ten minutes ago.
And then his hands slide lower.
Just a brush between my thighs. The lightest pass of his fingers over sensitive skin that’s still humming from the lastround. He doesn’t go further. Doesn’t push for more. Just strokes once—intentional, knowing—then murmurs against the shell of my ear, “Next time.”
Next time.
Fuck, what is this man doing to me?
