Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(66)

He almost dropped the bottle while trying to open it. It was the way she'd breathed out the word "okay." He poured way too much in his hands and the excess lather immediately created billowing white suds. The fragrance from it brought tears of anticipation to his eyes as he made gentle swirls with it.

A gasp was trapped in her throat, and she quickly swallowed it away. No, the gentle strokes had to stop or she'd never make it through the night with him. She had to just be calm, talk to him like they were doing something else, like watching TV.

"Oh, c'mon. You can do it harder than that. I'm not a baby, and I'm not tender-headed."

He paused with her hair in his hands, shampoo lather dripping in large globs into the tub as her words made him breathe through his mouth. "Cool," he said quietly, scrubbing her scalp a little harder. "Like that?"

"Yeah," she murmured, "harder, though." She'd meant her voice to stay light and cheerful, but when he stopped and took a deep breath… his voice had dropped to a low timbre that practically vibrated through his legs where they touched her hips.

He closed his eyes and let his hands work with the erotic textures under his palms. The way she'd asked for it harder… Okay, he had to pull himself together. This was ridiculous. He was simply washing her hair and needed to remember that. He added a bit more pressure but was unsure. "Like that… it's not too hard, is it?"

"Uh-uh… that feels really good," she said on a heavy exhale.

The response made him pause, then redouble his efforts. He couldn't think about the sound of her voice and the many ways what she'd just said could be taken. He made his fingers work out the frustration, scratching her crown, the sides of her temples, the back of her skull till she gasped. The moment the sound escaped from her, he wanted to drop to his knees behind her so badly that the muscles in his thighs were twitching. But he knew better than that, and stopped his own agony by rinsing out the suds. He could do this and remain cool. He had to.

Just rinse it and let me get up, she begged him in her mind. This was such a bad idea. The man had made her tremble with a touch, and it was time to put an end to it. She had to be responsible, she reminded herself. And she also knew herself well enough to realize that at this point, she couldn't take another soaping—not the way his hands felt.

Her hair squeaked as he stripped her long tresses of lather, and he watched it turn into long ringlets, just transform in his hands. Mesmerized, he wanted to do it again, just one more time. He was fascinated by the way it went straight under the flow of the water, then as soon as the air hit it, it became a thick mass of unruly curls.

But when he reached for the shampoo, she chuckled.

"I think my hair is clean," she said, "but it could use some conditioner."

"Right… right… that's right. You've already washed it once."

He straightened his back and locked his knees to give his legs a short rest. He was glad her head was in the tub, and was too embarrassed when he looked down at his blue jeans. He should have bought the black ones, then a wet spot in them wouldn't have been so obvious. This didn't make any sense. He grabbed the conditioner and slathered some into his palms and bent over her again.

However, the viscosity of the fluid in his hands was like straight sex. The way it slid down her hair, the slickness of it under his palms, the sound of it going on, made him shudder in earnest. She glanced over her shoulder, and he didn't even care. He was beyond worrying about appearances when her spine dipped so she could look at him.

"You okay? You need a break? My mom always said doing my hair broke her back." If he didn't need a break, she sure did. She hadn't expected the feel of the conditioner going in under his hands to melt her. She had to keep the conversation light. Yes, that was the only way. Her face was hot, her throat felt flushed, and he'd awakened other parts of her that she dared not admit to herself.

"No, I'm good," he lied, rubbing the slippery conditioner through her hair and reveling in the textures of her scalp, the fluid, and the curls, with the scent of her and the sight of her wearing him out.

"How long do you have to leave it in?"

"How long do you want it in?" he said hoarsely, his eyes closed against the sensations that were rocking him.

He felt her tense, pause, and turn her head.

"It says on the bottle, three to five minutes," he said quickly, trying to recover.

"Oh…" For a moment, she thought she'd lose it—had almost moaned. It was time for distance.

"How about five?" she said quietly, turning off the water. "It's really been a long time since I've done this right. Some things you just can't rush."

He stepped away from her, leaned against the sink, shut his eyes, and nodded. "Uh-huh. Know what you mean."

"You sure you're all right?" she asked, squeezing excess water out of her hair and turning so her tresses could hang over the tub, but so that she could lean against it while sitting on the floor looking at him. She would not read more into his expression than warranted. "You didn't hurt your back, did you? I mean, you ride that bike all the time, and could have—"

"I'm cool," he said, gazing at her, "but this is breaking my back."

"I knew it," she said with a sigh. "I'm sorry."