Page 17 of Body Check
“A shave would be great,” he says, cutting me off. “After the scalp thing, right? That doesn’t hurt, does it?”
I smile to keep from laughing. “Not at all. Most people love it. It’s like a massage for your head. Come over with me to the sink. I’ll get a cape on you and we can get started.”
Since I had everything ready, it doesn’t take long until he’s leaning back in the wash chair and I’ve got my hands in his hair. It’s thick and full with a bit of wave to it. In my professional opinion, it’s the most beautiful hair I’ve ever laid my hands on. And yes, I’m being very objective. My assessment has nothing to do with the fact that the man this head of hair belongs to is the sexiest man to ever walk the earth. Nope. Nothing at all.
“So, you’re washing my hair?” he asks as I work the scalp exfoliator in.
“There’s a little more to it than that, but yes,” I answer, keeping my tone light and conversational, like I do for all my clients. And no, I don’t really notice any other client’s scent, or their eye color, or the fullness of their lips. Observation is an important part of my job, but I have never been this aware of anyone else in my chair—or even anyone I’ve ever dated.
Not that I left a string of broken hearts behind in New Jersey. Between school and work, I hardly had time to date, and it was never really worth the effort.
“How’s the water temp?” I ask, realizing I’ve been completely spaced out. Thankfully, I’ve done this enough times that it’s all muscle memory.
“Perfect,” he says, looking up at me and then letting his eyes shutter closed again. We fall into silence as I work on his scalp. I like to let my clients set the tone for conversation, and Dutton seems to be the quiet type.
But, wait. Did he just groan?
“Is the water too hot?” I ask. The temperature hasn’t changed in the last thirty seconds, but maybe his scalp is sensitive.
“No,” he assures me. “No, it’s great.”
“Okay, just let me know if that changes,” I say, working his hair into a nice lather and massaging the shampoo in with the tips of my fingers. Silence falls around us again as I rinse his hair and apply the scalp mask. “Since this has to set for fifteen minutes, I'll go ahead and start that shave, okay?”
“Sounds good,” he says.
Once I have the soap prepped, I move to the side of the bowl and begin to brush it along his jaw, chin, and neck. A lot of people are ticklish for this part, but he’s as still as a statue. That’s a good thing, considering I’m about to put a razor to his skin. I work methodically, paying attention to the growth pattern of his hair and making sure to give him a clean, smooth shave. I’m a consummate professional, after all. I’m only thinking about the job I’m doing, and I’m definitely not thinking about Dutton’s soft skin or strong jawline. Yeah, definitely not.
8
Dutton
Ishould have gone for the eyebrow wax. I’ve never had hot wax poured onto my skin, but I can guarantee it’d be less painful than this.
My dick is so hard I could pound nails right now.
I thought coming here was a great idea, a genius plan. For some reason, Bridgette isn’t taking me seriously when I ask her out, so I thought if I came in for a haircut, I’d have a chance to show her that I’m sincere. I want to go out with her, and I’m not the kind of man who spends time with other people unless I have to.
But Bridgette is the exception to my rule.
I figured we’d flirt a little and I’d get her to say yes to a date with me. But that’s not the way it worked out. The past thirty minutes of my life have been pure torture.
She’s wearing the same today as she did yesterday, but this one is light green instead of purple. She’s got a black apron on, but it does nothing to hide her luscious curves. From the second I sat my ass down in her chair, I’ve been fighting my attraction to her.
When Bridgette started running her fingers through my hair, and when I looked at us in the mirror, the image of her standing behind me, her curves on display, was hot as hell. We’re alone back here, but anyone walking by would have seen a stylist talking to her client. There was nothing sexual going on, except in my dirty damn mind.
It only got worse from there. Getting your hair washed should not be erotic. It’s a daily task, nothing special. Until now. I may never wash my hair by myself again.
And shaving?
Christ.
My future is going to go one of two ways. I’ll either be a miserable bastard with a beard down to my knees or I’ll be the happiest fucker alive with a smooth jawline you could see your own damn reflection in.
Now that Bridgette has had her hands on me, I’m addicted to her touch. I need more of it, more of her, before I lose my mind. The fact that she’s bent over me, her hips swaying gently to the beat of the music being pumped through the salon, is only making matters worse. I want to reach out and put my hands on her waist, pull her close to me, set her on my lap, and kiss her like she belongs to me.
I sound batshit crazy, I know. Bridgette doesn’t belong to me. Not yet, anyway.
“All done,” she says, wiping my face with a warm, damp towel. “I’ll get you rinsed and then we’ll head back to my chair.”
