Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(44)

“Okay, fine. I’ll give you a facial.”

This time when she laughs, water sprays out toward the front of the room.

“Good god.” I flop back on the bed and toss an arm over my face, feeling my body vibrate as I laugh with her. She’s always had this effect on me. Her sunshiny persona is infectious. Sometimes I fight it, and right now for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

She claps one hand over her mouth and from behind it says, “I’m sorry. You can’t trust me right now.”

“Okay. More water. Then you can put whatever fancy voodoo-skin-shit this is on me.”

“Way to avoid saying facial.” She’s sitting on her knees now, looking down on me while she carefully sips her water.

“Please don’t spit water on my face,” is my reply as I stare back up at her, our eyes latching on to one another and not letting go. Without the brim of my hat, I feel exposed, laid bare, but for her I‘m not sure I mind so much.

People looking too closely makes me nervous, makes my skin itch. But with Sloane’s eyes on me, all I feel is warmth.

When the silent eye contact seems like it’s gone on for too long, I lift the purple tube and read the instructions while she polishes off the entire bottle of water. Once it’s empty, she tosses it over her shoulder. With a smirk, she reaches for the tube and flips the cap open, squeezing white clay onto the tips of her fingers.

“It says you’re supposed to wash your face with warm water first.”

Sloane rolls her eyes at me. “Rich coming from the guy who cleanses his face with bodywash.”

And then she’s slathering it onto my forehead. Down my nose. Up my cheekbones. Her eyes take on this slightly faraway look as her gentle fingers glide over the skin of my face. Her brow furrows in concentration, and her glacier irises eyes move around every corner of my face as she meticulously spreads the clay. She catches me staring at her, and I drop her gaze, closing my eyes like that might help.

Except, behind the privacy of my own lids, her touch sends electricity sparking across my skin, and the darkness transforms into the image of her bent over that pool table in front of me. I can still feel her slender body beneath mine, still feel the way my dick twitched before I had to force myself not to grind against her.

Because friends don’t grind their cocks on their friend’s perfect asses. It’s just not done.

Despite that friend rule, I feel the familiar swelling sensation all the same, and it has me lurching up and away from her touch. “Okay. That’s good,” I grumble, the thick clay substance tingling and tugging on my face. “Your turn.”

She nods, looking a little wide-eyed now. I’m not sure what went on in her head while she rubbed that into my face, but there’s immediate tension between us now. The playful notes are gone. Like in the lake. Like over that fucking pool table.

I take the tube and squeeze a dollop of the clay onto my fingertips. As I reach toward her face, I stare at her mouth rather than her eyes, thinking that will be less distracting.

I’m wrong.

Everything about Sloane Winthrop is fucking distracting. And I’ve been trying really damn hard for a really long time not to notice.

When I brush my fingers over her cheekbone, she sucks in a sharp breath. Both our gazes move to my hand, the one that shakes subtly under the scrutiny.

I just swallow and forge ahead, forcing myself to stare at my fingers and where I’m spreading the clay rather than her baby blues. I have to be careful with her. I don’t want to get it in her hair. Or her eyes. I’d like my low point for the night to remain hitting her in the face with a water bottle.

When I smudge the material over her jaw and swipe it over her chin, the tips of my fingers slide over her bottom lip. I watch it happen in slow motion. Chalky white over plush pink. My fingers. Her lip. The way it flattens and presses to the side with the lightest pressure. Everything about her is so soft and malleable.

She gasps again, her mouth popping open, and this time my eyes snap to hers. They’re wide and glowing, all the shades of blue. A kaleidoscope of colors. A prairie sky. A robin’s egg. A glacier lake. Streaks of something darker, making all those pale colors pop.

And that fucking gasp is a shot of lightning to my groin.

“You know what?” Her lashes fall down like a curtain, and she pulls away, unfolding herself from the bed. “I’ll just finish this myself. Won’t make you do it.”

Before I can say anything, she’s in the bathroom and the sink is running. By the time I get there, she’s scrubbing at her face and avoiding making eye contact with me.

She eventually gives me a flat smile while casting a furtive glance my way through the mirror, eyes lingering on my face that’s covered in what looks like drying white paint. It clings to my stubble and is cracking in spots.

It reminds me of myself in a way. A fragile shell. One little crack and the entire thing is liable to burst open.

“You okay?”

“Yup,” she says a little too brightly while drying her face. “Just realizing I should go to bed if I don’t want to feel like total shit tomorrow.”

When she leaves, I let out a heavy breath and drop my palms onto the counter before me.

I’m not sure what’s going on with us today, but we’re both going to feel like total shit tomorrow, regardless of alcohol intake.