Page 81 of Small Town Swoo
I ended up on my knees in front of him on the couch, his jeans at his ankles, my head in his lap, his hands full of my hair.
“Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re such a good girl to take it all like that.”
Every inch of my skin tingled, and my clit fluttered. I went harder at him, and within minutes, he was filling my mouth. When I felt the last pulses of his orgasm subside between my lips, I swallowed and picked up my head, grateful for oxygen.
His jaw hung open, his eyes closed. His chest still rose and fell with accelerated breaths.
“How was that for a happy ending?”
“That wasmuchsexier than the ending ofCasablanca.” He opened his eyes, relaxing his grip on my hair. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I smiled and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I love your hands in my hair.”
“You should let me braid itsometime.”
“Stop it, you can’t braid hair.” I sat back on my heels so he could pull his jeans up.
“Want to bet? I’ll prove it. Turn around.”
I turned around and he moved to the edge of the couch so his knees bracketed my shoulders. I’d showered after work this afternoon, and my curls had dried in soft ringlets. He ran his fingers through them, and I closed my eyes.
“Okay, first I make three sections and now I cross this one over,” he narrated, “and then that one. And then this one again.”
I pictured the plait forming as he worked his way down between my shoulder blades, a look of concentration on his handsome face. “How did you learn to braid?”
“Someone taught me.”
“Who?” I asked, feeling the sting of jealousy. Was it someone he’d dated?
“Her name was Catrina. She was a patient on the oncology floor of a children’s hospital where I was doing a visit for the Wishing Tree Foundation.”
“What’s that?”
“An organization that grants wishes to kids with terminal illnesses but also arranges visits from celebrities.”
“I didn’t know you did that.” My heart absorbed the sweetness of him like a sponge soaking up water. “It must be hard.”
“It’s hard to see kids suffering, yes. But it’s not about me. And I’m good at keeping those feelings buried. Lots of practice.”
I thought of a six-year-old boy who didn’t speak for months. Who only spoke again when he could inhabit another character. “But is that...healthy? To always keep those feelings buried?”
“Probably not. But you do it for long enough, you getused to it.” His hands stopped moving in my hair. “Done! But how will it stay in so I can show you?”
“Here. Give me the end.” I reached over one shoulder and took it from him. “I need to look in the mirror.”
He followed me to the bathroom and watched as I pulled a hand mirror from a drawer and turned around to check his work in the mirror over the sink. “Well? How did I do?”
“Perfect,” I said, studying the loose braid he’d fashioned. “I’m very impressed. And I’ll never doubt your skills again.”
“Good.” He tapped my nose.
Smiling, I tucked the hand mirror back into the drawer and wrapped an elastic around the end of the braid. I didn’t want to take it out yet.
He leaned against the bathroom doorframe, watching me. “Do you want me to go?”
“No,” I said honestly.
“Do you want me to stay?”
