Page 54 of Seeking Her Studs

“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to do better than that.” He cocks his head to the side and looks at me questioningly. “You just tore out a chunk of yourself and the wall. Are you using a jackhammer for hair maintenance?”

“I have a lady who usually does it!” For some reason, I’m yelling now. “I can’t even figure out how to get my own hair off of my own damn body because I have a lady who has always done it for me. And I can’t get it lasered off in case, for some reason, I might need to grow it out for a role or a shoot. So I’m stuck with hair down there that I don’t even know how to take care of, even though I want to look really sexy for tonight!” Every word I say is a yell, and it feels damn good. So good that I wish he would yell back at me so I could keep yelling. But instead, his devastatingly manly face breaks open with a big smile.

I wait for him to say something, but instead he nods and walks out the door.

“What in the hell, Colt!” I yell after him. “Where are you going?”

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he leaves me naked and stewing in my own indignity.

I take a deep sigh and just as I’m about to get myself up off the cold tile floor, I can hear the floor outside the bathroom creaking from his weight.

He shows back up at the door, but this time holding something. He places a washcloth, a striped can of men’s shaving cream, and a silver-handled razor on the bathroom counter and then turns around and turns the bathwater on.

“Oh, no, no,” I push myself back against the wall as if I can glue myself there.

“Get in the bath,” he says calmly.

“Why?” I say skeptically.

“I’m going to fix your problem before you tear the entire cottage down.”

I sit firmly in place, frozen at what he’s suggesting. Sure, we’ve had sex. A lot of sex. But this is something different.

Colt isn’t frozen, though. He’s rolling up the sleeves of his black button-up shirt with measured reserve, exposing his muscled forearms. He stands firmly in place, his watchful eyes looking at me expectantly.

“Get in the bath, princess, or I’ll pick you up and throw you in myself.” He says as he leans down and pats the side of the bath.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Blaire

“I’m not one of your prized stallions that you can order around, Colt.” I say with a glare.

He steps closer to me and, to my horror, dips his massive frame and scoops me up into his arms with ease. I slap at him, but it’s no use. The man has more strength in his pinky than I do in my entire arm.

“No, you’re not. Because they actually listen to me. If you were one of my stallions, I’d already be patting you on the butt for a job well done.”

I stare at him with my mouth agape, mostly because I just realized that I actually think I want to be patted on the butt by him for a job well done.

He lowers me gently into the bath, which is empty but warm water pours out of the faucet.

He dips the washcloth into the water and runs it over the bloody patch of skin that marks the beginning of my wild pubic hair. I self-consciously close my legs to try to cover up as much of myself as possible because it’s one thing to have wild pubic hair, but it’s another to have a strange wound that highlights my ineptitude.

“Can I just ask what you’re being shy about right now? Me and her are well-acquainted.” He nods towards my furry little beast.

“I just haven’t taken care of her in a bit.” I try to sound confident even though it’s pretty hard at this moment. “And I want you to only think of her as sexy and not needing maintenance.”

“Every thing that’s worth a damn needs maintenance.” He says confidently. “And she looks beautiful as ever, despite you doing your best to damage her. You’ve really got to treat her more nicely.” His tone is serious, the hard lines of his face barely cracking, but I see the glimmer in his eye. Who would have thought that Colt Rile would be cracking tender jokes about my anthropomorphized vagina? If someone gave me a billion dollars to guess this scenario was true, I’d lose every penny.

He grabs the shaving cream from the counter and sprays the foam in his hand. The scent is deliciously recognizable. Notes of cedar and vanilla swirl around me and take me back to every time I’ve ever craved that smell on my body. Visions of the muscled lines of his back and thighs dance across my brain as he lathers my most sensitive areas with the shaving cream.

Damn. Is this supposed to be hot? Because this is really damn hot.

His arms flex as he opens up my legs to get every part of me. And this time I don’t resist. I’m pliant in his hands. He seems to notice and looks up at me curiously.

I avoid his eye contact and attempt to sit straighter, pushing myself up with my arms on either side of the tub.

But all the warm fuzzy feelings drain out of me when he grabs his razor. I hadn’t gotten a proper view of it before. It’s not a typical razor that you can get at a drugstore. The thing looks like a damn guillotine for squirrels. The sturdy metal handle isn’t attached to a cute 5-blade gliding head. Nope. It’s attached to a damn razor blade.

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