Chapter Thirty-Four
Lincoln
Sex with Michaela was getting dangerous. The closer we got, the more likely it’d be that I’d blurt out a post-orgasmic declaration that would send her running.
Sex between us was profound.
That sounded like romantic fairytale shit. I would’ve rolled my eyes at myself a week ago. But now? Damn. Locking eyes with her while she squeezed my cock was magic.
And I was falling under her spell.
I needed the bench in the shower after coming hard, my legs losing the integrity to support both of us. She’d screamed and slumped on my shoulder, so points for me.
We caught our breath.
She tried putting her feet down, wobbled, and I steadied her by her hips.
“Thanks.”
“Can’t let you slip and crack that beautiful noggin.”
An unguarded smile. Orgasms made her mellow and easy.
She grabbed a travel-size bottle of shampoo, lathered her hands, and worked it into her hair. Weighed down and straightened by the water, the strands almost reached her ass.
I knotted the condom, left it on the seat, and reached for the soap. A plain cream-color bar sat in one of the nooks and only smelled clean. Mom must’ve stocked it for guests.
Michaela’s gaze shifted to me as I lathered my chest. Yes, please, watch, baby.
She rinsed her hair, applied conditioner, and secured the twist with a clip. Then poured a dollop from a third bottle into her palm—body wash. The shower smelled mildly sweet and almost tropical from her various concoctions and I loved learning how she came together.
“Can I help?” I asked hopefully.
She laughed. “You haven’t finished yourself.”
“I prefer to be finished by you.”
She slapped my shoulder. “You’re so bad.”
I turned her around. “I’ll get your back.” She sputtered an objection until my thumbs dug into her traps. Then moaned. “See? Helpful.”
“Fine…”
“But save the boobs for me,” I added, giving them a squeeze. She squeaked in surprise.
Playing with soap was fun, but eventually the water ran cold. We rinsed and grabbed towels. She picked up a wide-tooth comb after drying her body.
“Ow,” she said, snagging on a tangle.
I plucked the comb out of her hand. “Let me. You can’t see behind your head.”
She opened her mouth to argue, met my gaze in the mirror, and let me work.
A privilege to pamper her. Since she’d started with the ends, I mimicked that, loosening an inch at a time. Once I reached a point where I thought I could comb her scalp, she closed her eyes and her face softened.
What was it about someone else’s hands in your hair that felt better than your own?
No telling how many moments I’d get, so at a time she was happy in my company, I was going to take care of her like no one had in way too long.
“There. All smooth.”
“Thank you.” She took the comb back and set it aside, then picked up a travel-size spray bottle, misted her hair, then flipped it upside-down and shook the curls into forming.
I hopped up on the empty side of the counter to watch her work.
“You’re not going to get dressed?”
“No rush.”
She reached for a small black hair dryer, working magic to turn wet waves into orderly ringlets. A misting of another product, a couple more minutes of low air, and she was done.
Beautiful.
Lotion went on her face first, then a dab of skin-tone cream under her eyes, then cases and brushes. “Is this really that fascinating for you?”
I shrugged. “I was curious.” To use her earlier phrase. “I haven’t sat like this since I was little.”
Some side eye. “You watched your mom?”
“Once or twice. It’s mysterious, isn’t it? You see mothers before and after they fancy up, but not how they do it. Until you sit in on the process.”
Michaela didn’t do much for a casual day, only using mascara and colored balm for color. Not that she needed more. To me, she was gorgeous bare-faced.
Only once her stuff went back in her makeup bag did I slide off the counter and return to the bedroom. My change of clothes was still in the car, so I put on jeans, shoes, grabbed my coat, and hurried out to the trunk. Temp maybe fifty, thank goodness. I grabbed the grocery bag and hurried back upstairs to her room.
She was pulling a pair of light blue panties up her shapely legs. I paused to watch her drop the towel and cover her breasts in a matching bra, then stripped to put on clean boxer briefs and socks before using the same jeans and adding the clean thermal henley tee. Most of my denim was the exact same model duplicated, so no one could tell one pair from another.
“What’s on the agenda today?” I asked.
“Breakfast, then putting the Christmas decorations away. All the boxes are stored in the basement.” She opened the closet to retrieve yoga pants and a loose sweater.
The same white and gray sneakers since Monday.
Once dressed, she headed for the door. I snagged her hand. “Before we reenter the world,” I murmured, and kissed her, caressing her jawline, her lips soft and willing.
The answering warmth in her eyes gave me hope.