Page 32 of Whiskey Shivers

Mystified, I turned and looked up at him, blinking in wonder and blurted, “I thought I’d find a unicorn before I’d find a man who liked my shower temperature. I mean, the unicorn seemed like the likelier scenario.”

He looked down at me and broke into a wide grin, laughing too and gently putting a hand to my waist, sliding down and giving my hip a squeeze, before saying, “Turn around for me. Get that mane wet again.”

I leaned back carefully and wet my hair under the spray, watching him watch me. It was as though the temperature increased pleasantly within the confines of the shower but it didn’t have anything to do with the heat of the spray.

He took my bottle of shampoo and said, “Turn around for me,” and I did. He worked the soap through my hair gently with his strong hands and I couldn’t help but groan.

“It’s not lathering up that great. May need to wash it twice,” he said. “In fact, I’m going to.” He spent some time massaging my scalp and where my skull met my neck, but it wasn’t a deep enough or hard enough pressure. He was being so careful of me and I could appreciate that but still. A slightly frustrated sigh escaped my lips.

“What’s that for?” he asked and I could hear the smile in his voice. I leaned back against him and told the truth.

“That feels good, but I wish you could do it like fifty percent harder.”

He chuckled and went a little bit deeper with how he pressed his fingers and thumbs, but I would say only by like twenty-five percent. Still, for now, it was enough.

“Oh, God, that’s divine,” I said and sighed out in perfect pleasure.

“Happy to help,” he said.

“You’re going to spoil me,” I murmured.

He chuckled, placing his lips next to my ear, his lips grazing the outer shell as he spoke, low and intense, “That’s the whole point.”

I shivered against his body, his voice as smooth as Tennessee whiskey, where I knew he was from. I don’t think I’d ever swooned by a man’s voice alone. He kept me up and kept me steady and pried the tension from my scalp and neck with his tender touch, rinsing my hair carefully, reapplying the soap, and washing the long strands a second time.

He worked conditioner through my locks and listened to me when I told him how to do it and left it in while he tended to the rest of me. I offered to do what I knew I could myself at every turn but he wouldn’t hear of it, telling me to relax and enjoy myself for once.

It wasveryhard not to stare at him. He was a damn near perfect specimen of a man – so fit, with corded muscle and a to-die-for physique. I mean, he had abs and that delicious V that a man’s hips made and women couldn’t help but squeal over.

I don’t think I’d ever been so close to a man that looked like him, or felt like him. The way he ran his soap-covered hands through my hair and over my skin like he was trying to memorize every inch of me by touch was something completely tantalizing and erotic. I found myself pressing my thighs together and hoping and praying the thrum of the hot water against my body would disguise how hard my heart beat against the inside of my ribcage, as though it held a humming bird trapped.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered against my ear and a whimpering, answering moan escaped my lips.

He chuckled darkly and pressed his lips gently over the pounding pulse in my throat in a chaste kiss, my back pressed along the front of his body. I felt his cock stir against my ass cheeks and my pussy gave an answering throb of desire.

“Turn around for me,” he whispered and I complied as if I were his marionette, drawn by strings, that he so lovingly plucked and played.

By the time he was done with me, I was as clean and polished as I’d ever felt until I realized he wasn’t done.

He turned me out of the water’s spray and asked, “You trust me?”

“Of course, I do. Why?” I answered automatically, even though it caused fresh anxiety to fizz under my breastbone. He took up my razor and my can of gel stuff that turned to shaving cream when you agitated it against your skin.

“Oh,” I murmured and he kneeled at my feet and lathered my leg up over the knee.

He carefully stroked the razor up my leg and I smiled and said “Push it down my leg. It’s the best way to get the trapped hair out.”

“What?” he asked.

I held down my hand and he handed me the razor. I stroked up but then immediately pushed it back down the track I had just made in the shaving cream and he looked a little startled, like the lightbulb had just gone off. He said, “Never thought of that. You ladies are hardcore.”

I laughed a little and said, “I’ve never cut myself.” I shrugged my good shoulder.

He took up my razor again and shaved my legs carefully, although he seemed a bit squeamish at first about the pull/push motion, but he got the hang of it fairly quickly.

He stood and turned me back into the shower spray to rinse off and said, “I can get under your good arm if you’d like but I’m not sure how far out you can bring out your bad one to get up under there.”

I thought about it, and the thought of leaving it undone actually really bothered me, so I raised it very carefully, as far as I could, and he was swift about it.

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