Page 60 of His Last Shot
“You okay? Your cheeks are a little pink there, Rach,” he asks, and I can tell he’s smirking that sexy smirk he always has.
“I’m fine. Yep … totally fine.” It comes out all hoarse.
He chortles as he goes about what he was doing. Which was what exactly?
Oh yeah, washing my hair.Geez, concentrate, Rachel!
He must grab the shampoo bottle because I hear it click open, followed by a squirt. He dispenses it into his hand.
As he gently massages the shampoo into my strands, the aroma of papaya and mango wafts through the kitchen. His fingertips massage my scalp, the pressure soothing and expert. He wasn’t kidding.
“Dear Lord, you are really good at this.” I try not to sound like I’m panting.
Give the man a gold medal in hair washing. Throw in a silver and bronze, too.
He chuckles as he continues to work the suds in. “Yeah. My mom was desperate for a hair washer one summer when I was sixteen. So she showed me how. I thought it was going to be a great way to meet and flirt with some girls.” He huffs out a laugh. “Little did I know that all my mom’s clients were over the age of sixty. But it worked out in my favor because they loved me. I turned on the charm, and the tips followed.”
The mental image of Johnny, a gangly teenager, delicately washing the hair of all the older women cracks me up; it was utterly ridiculous.
The kitchen gets silent as he rinses out the suds, only to apply some more shampoo, and I am entirely too excited that I’m getting the wash and repeat.The pressure of his fingers around the base of my scalp sends waves of relaxation through my body. He tenderly lifts my head, his firm hands kneading the knots in my neck due to all the stress I’ve had.
Dear Lord, this feels fantastic.
Without any conscious thought, a moan of pure satisfaction slips past my lips. “Mmm…”
Johnny’s hands go still.
“Sorry.” Embarrassment courses through me as I silently scold myself.Good job making it awkward.
He remains motionless. Not moving. What is he doing? I can hear his heavy, ragged breathing, and his hands are still resting on my neck.
Don’t open your eyes, Rachel! Don’t do it. Do not—
I open my eyes. He’s staring at me, his gaze intense and unwavering. His brow pinches together, and the temperature in this room suddenly rises about twenty degrees. The chemistry that has ebbed and flowed these last few months is ready to explode. His chest heaves, each rise and fall a visible struggle. As if he is in pain.
He shakes his head, lets out a low exhale, and his hands work once again.
Johnny continues, not uttering a sound. Which is a good thing because my mouth can’t form any words at the moment. I close my eyes, gluing them shut.
The man is all round me. He’s everywhere. His smell, his strength. When he bends over to gather my hair, his hot breath skates across my face. He stands over me, tall, evoking a sense of security, protectiveness, and an intense attraction.
Like he has since the day we met.
Before long, he’s spraying the shampoo out, followed by the conditioner, a final rinse and squeeze of any excess water out of my strands, and we are all done.
Phew.Full disclosure here.Thatwas one of the best experiences of my whole life.
But what now? He is going to leave? Are we going to talk about everything?
He turns off the faucet. “Okay … all done. Just let me wrap your hair.” Before I realize it, he’s skillfully wrapping my hair in a towel, forming a flawless turban. Imake a move to sit up and hiss, wincing from the pain. He grips my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. “Wait, let me help you.”
He noticed.
I’m swooning.
Johnny’s powerful hand is now resting on the base of my skull as he gently lifts my head and helps me into a standing position. The turban almost slips off with the movement, but before I can react, he’s right there adjusting it. “Here, I got it.”
He’s there.
