The First Taste(24)

“You’re doing great,” he says. “Relax. Let me make you feel good.”

I don’t know how he senses my unrest. In an attempt to give him what he wants, what I want, I place my head against his chest and shut my eyes. Still, behind my lids, the visual of our intertwined hands remains. I’m warm, inside and out, and Andrew’s breath on my skin tickles. He flicks his fingers in just the right spot as he palms me.

“That’s it,” he says when I gasp, ramping up his assault on my clit. “Come on, babe.”

I climb and climb, trying to mount my orgasm. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and with a small nip, I reach the top, bracing myself against the tub as pleasure churns through me. I hold on and make love to his hand for the seconds it takes my climax to work through me, and then I release my muscles, breathlessly falling back against Andrew’s chest.

When I open my eyes again, we’re still holding hands, my fingers the only tense part of me. I loosen my grip.

“Bubble bath doesn’t seem so girly now, does it?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over mine “I’m glad I thought of it,” I say on an exhale.

He laughs, leaning his head into the crook of my neck. Some of his black hair, glossy from the water, falls over his forehead. I push it off, running my hand backward through his hair.

He nearly moans, his long lashes brushing my cheek as he closes his eyes. “It’s too long,” he murmurs. “Cut it for me?”

I twist my neck to try to look at him. “What?”

“Cut my hair. I took care of you, now take care of me.”

I raise one corner of my mouth. I can’t tell if he’s joking. “I’m not a hairdresser.”

“So? It’s not hard.”

“Are you kidding? You don’t just start snipping away. It’s an art.”

“Who am I trying to impress? No one. I need it cut. You have scissors, don’t you?”

“Yes, but they aren’t the right kind.”

“What the f*ck does that mean? Do they have blades?”

“Yes . . .”

“Can they cut things?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then they’re the right kind. Come on. You’ll save me twenty bucks.”

I lurch forward, turn back, and gape at him. “Twenty dollars? That’s how much you spend to cut your hair?”

“Unless I can get someone to do it free, yeah.”

“Oh my God.” I slap a hand over my eyes. “Andrew.”

“Amelia.”

“I run a fashion and beauty PR firm in arguably the chicest city in the world. I cannot be hearing this right now.”

He chuckles, but I’m dead serious. I don’t lower my hand to look at him. If I do, I know I’ll give in to his adorable but misguided idea. “Let me make an appointment for you at my favorite barber tomorrow. If they know you’re with me, they’ll hook you up. You can even get a shave. It’ll look and feel amazing.”

He takes my wrist and removes my hand from my face. In the dim light of the bathroom, dimples shadow his cheeks as he smiles. “I am not a prissy city girl,” he states. “Therefore, I will not be caught dead at a salon while I’m alive and conscious. Have you ever cut a piece of paper?”

I give him an incredulous look. “Of course.”

“Then you’re qualified to give me a trim. I cut Bell’s hair all the time.”

“That poor child. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Laughing, he stands, pulling me up with him. “You’re all sudsy,” he says, plucking a towel off a rack and scrubbing it through my damp hair. He wraps it around me and climbs out to dry himself.

“We could skip the haircut,” I say, nodding at his hard-on.

“What, this?” He tucks the towel around his waist. “We’ll get to it.”

I shake my head. Everyday scissors will give you split ends, but he doesn’t seem to care. I suppose he shouldn’t if he spends his days getting greasy under the hoods of cars. Still. This feels like a betrayal to my industry.

I find a pair in a desk drawer and return to the bathroom. As I set the scissors on the counter, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I don’t like what I see. My normally straight hair is wavy from the water and frizzy from the steam. Black makeup has smeared under my eyes.

“That’s more like it, huh?” Andrew asks, coming up behind me. He meets my eyes in the reflection. “Now you look like you’ve been thoroughly f*cked.”

“I look like a mess.”

“A mess I created,” he says, hugging me. Automatically, I place my hands over his forearms. “We don’t look so bad together, do we?” he asks.

I study our reflection. His wet black hair drips water onto his chest. The colorful ink is like a layer of clothes between us, a stark contrast to my white skin. I don’t like marks. I take particular, painstaking care of my complexion, and aside from a bruise forming on my chest where Andrew sucked and kissed, I’m smooth. Flawless. “We look like opposites,” I say. “You’re dark and big.”

“You’re light and small.”

It’s true—we look nothing alike. His height dwarfs me, even though I’m somewhat tall. His hair glistens, reflecting the overhead light, while mine is platinum and matte thanks to a talented colorist.