Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
"Want help?" Santi asked. "The master bath might be a better idea. You could sit on the step. I can use the detached handle to wash your hair."
I wasn't going to turn him down.
"Okay," I agreed, making sure I didn't sound as into it as I felt.
It was needy and pathetic of me, but I was more excited than I should have been to feel the man's hands in my hair.
I mean, what the hell was that about?
I mean, yes, sure, I enjoyed men's hands in the past. But it was always, you know, a mutual exchange of pleasure thing. Just itches getting scratched. Nothing more.
But wanting a man to wash your hair, to fantasize about all the ways he could take care of you, well, that seemed incredibly intimate to me.
And I didn't do intimacy with men.
Sex, yes.
Intimacy, no.
But I sat on that step that led up to the jetted tub he'd laid me down in when I'd been feverish, and I watched as he carefully tested the temperature of the water, as he gathered the shampoo.
I was too in the moment to even remind him that conditioner would be good too.
"Okay, baby, lean back," he said in that soft, smooth voice of his that was doing all sorts of things to my stomach. Butterflies, the romantic sorts might call it. I went ahead and just called it desire. Because it felt more familiar, more comfortable.
"Ow fuck fuck fuck," I grumbled when I tried to get in the right position.
"Okay, okay," he said, still calm, still soothing. "Here, let's try this," he suggested, putting his fully clothed legs in the tub, and urging me backward across them.
Settled on his lap, I was looking right up at him as he started to run the water over my hair, focusing on his task, not giving a single thought to how his pants were getting soaked in the process.
And me, being the creep I was, I watched as his Adam's apple moved as he swallowed, the way his eyelashes fluttered, the way his jaw ticked a little as his free hand cupped my forehead to keep the water from running into my eyes.
My heartbeat felt like it was slamming in my chest by the time he cut off the water and spread some shampoo over my head.
As his fingers slid into my hair, his gaze lowered to mine. And there was this distinct, but unrecognizable, warm sensation that coursed through my chest, then down my belly.
Then his hands started moving, gently rubbing my scalp.
I wasn't sure why everyone had failed to inform me how erotic it was for a man to rub your head, but they were enjoying something I'd been woefully without for far too long.
I sucked in a slow, deep breath, pretending we both didn't notice the way it shook through me.
But then when the little moan escaped me, well, there was no denying how I was feeling right that moment.
And that was, despite everything else going on that should have made it impossible, incredibly turned on.
At the sound, Santi's jaw tightened, but he said nothing as his fingers continued to rub my scalp, making the desire grow even more, until it was a palpable ache coursing through my entire body.
I was so lost in my own need that it didn't strike me right away that Santi was scrubbing my hair like I'd been through an oil spill, not just missed a shower.
Because he knew how turned on I was.
And he was dragging it out.
Driving me crazy.
He grabbed the shower head, rinsing away the suds, but using his other hand to scrub as well.
"Santi." I hadn't meant to whimper out his name, but there was no mistaking that was exactly what I'd done. And that he'd heard.
At the sound, he washed off his hands, gently put down the shower head, and squeezed out my hair before resting his hand at the side of my neck.
Then slipping lower, his touch feather-light. Over my clavicle, the swell of my breast, getting a surprised moan out of me as my nipple hardened through my tee.
A low, barely audible growling sound escaped him as his thumb circled my nipple.
His hand slipped lower, over my ribs, my belly, my good hip, the top of my thigh, my knee, then sliding inward, moving back upward. But then pausing right before he touched me where I needed him most.
Did he not want to?
Was he waiting for permission?
"Santi," I whispered, my hand grabbing his wrist, pulling it up another inch or so.
He didn't need anything more than that.
His hand slid all the way up, pressing between my thighs, the touch getting a throaty moan from me.
"Sh," he demanded softly, his free hand pressing to my lips, nodding his head toward the door to the bathroom, reminding me that there were people in the apartment. Not just Avi. But whoever else was on guard shift, who might be showing up to take Avi to school.