Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(78)

“Come on, sleepyhead.” I stood and stretched, setting the guitar on its stand.

“What? We’re not finished.”

“You’re exhausted.” I stepped close to her stool, where she still sat, and slid my finger along the line of her jaw, up to her cheek and over her ear, pushing my fingers in her hair. “Let’s get you to bed.”

A beat passed before I realized what I’d said, during which her smile slowly grew. Suddenly, she didn’t look quite so tired.

“Promises, promises,” she whispered, lifting her chin, the light in her eyes as mischievous as it was nervous.

Grinning ruefully at my thoughtlessness but also combatting all my body’s sudden support for my slip of the tongue, I took a step back and reminded myself I still hadn’t told her about Razor. We’d have a week in Rome, during which I could arrange for plenty of champagne, silk sheets, rose petals, and candlelight.

Tonight had been progress. She’d smiled most of the night. Listening to her divine voice had been an indulgence. Singing with her again had been indescribable. If this—just singing and kisses—was our life together, I’d die a very happy man. Of course, the cause of death would likely be chronic excessive sexual frustration.

I would leave her at her door. But we’d also probably kiss. Maybe I’d walk her inside, but that’s it. And then I’d take a cold shower.

“You’re cute,” I said, my voice gravel as I offered my hand. “Let’s go.”

Scarlet placed her fingers in my palm and stood, allowing me to lead her from the room. “How am I cute?”

I sent her a glance, but that’s it. If I had to list all the ways she was cute we’d be up another twenty-four hours.

“You know how you’re cute?” she asked, climbing the stairs in front of me, giving me a magnificent view of her backside. I still wanted to bite it. I also wanted—

I’m not a good person.

“I’m not cute,” I said gruffly, swallowing the sudden rush of saliva. Maybe I’d take an ice bath.

“You are cute.” She glanced over her shoulder, smiling at me. “Your bushy beard is especially cute.”

Unthinkingly, I stroked it. “It needs a trim. Maybe tomorrow.”

She stopped on the second to last step, turning to face me, her hand on her hip. “How about tonight? Let me do it.”

“Pardon?”

“Let me do it.” Her fingers lifted to pet my face, her nails scratching with light pressure against my jaw. If I were a cat, I probably would’ve purred. “I would honestly love to trim your beard for you.”

Maybe after Rome, after we’d sorted through the rest of everything and we’d both defined the clear path forward. But now?

I opened my mouth, an automatic no on my lips, but she descended a step, bringing us to eye level and much closer.

Her arms came around my neck and she gave my nose a small peck. “Is your shaving stuff in the bathroom?”

I nodded.

“Go downstairs and get a folding chair. I’ll go to your room and get everything ready.”

I opened my mouth again to say no, but then she pressed her lips to mine, her arms around my neck tightening, bringing her body flush against mine. My hands were on her hips, drawing her even closer, her mouth parted and I slipped inside, her tongue teased mine, velvet and sweetness.

And then she pulled away, turned away, and marched up the last few steps. “Go get the chair and meet me in your room. See you in a minute!”





Chapter Eighteen





Billy





“Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.”

William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell





This was torture.

Her hand on my shoulder, under my jaw, positioning my chin like she wanted; her knee braced on the chair between my legs; the light touch of her fingers, her body incidentally brushing against mine.

Torture.

And she’d changed. I’d shown up with the folding chair, using the five minutes of our separation to mentally fortify for the beard trim, just to discover she’d changed into some sort of white cotton nightgown that ended mid-thigh. Which was why, when she’d offered a warm towel to cover my eyes, I’d accepted, figuring I’d be able to distract myself, keep my mind otherwise engaged if I couldn’t see her.

My mind was not cooperating.

“For the record, I like your face. A lot,” she said, a smile in her voice.

Do you? Want to sit on it? I clamped my jaw shut at the errant thought, just one of a plethora of ungentlemanly suggestions that had occurred to me in the last ten minutes.

She’d already trimmed the excess length, shaped it with the scissors, and brushed away the clippings. Now she was finishing up with gentle fingers.

“Shoot,” she muttered, her hand on my shoulder tensing before pulling away. “Just a second. Are you comfortable?”

No.

“Mmm.”

“Okay. Don’t move.”

I heard the rustle of fabric, maybe a towel, and then she was back, the heat of her body a gravitational anomaly. I had to dig my fingers into my thighs to keep from reaching for her and maybe encouraging her to sit on my lap and put those gentle fingers to better use.