What does he think of me right now? Does he like me with long hair? Would he like me in my skirt and heels? Or would he become like my roommate, angry and uncomfortable at the sight?
I don’t know, and I suddenly really want to know.
I want to know so bad. I need to know if he will accept me as I am.
He brushes out the strands for quite a while, and my eyes start to droop from the tug on my scalp, from the rhythmic stroke of the brush across my back. And then finally, I feel his fingers part the strands and start working the pieces over each other.
A curse escapes his mouth at one point and he sighs. “Gonna start over.”
I don’t fucking mind. I am just happy he’s touching me.
Keep touching me, Dean. This is my kind of heaven.
When he’s finally done, he grunts. “Yeah, could use some work, but not bad. Elaine would be proud.”
Ah yes, his dead wife. I have to remember that. He’s straight. This means nothing.
But still, I have a heart. This isn’t about me. I turn my head, my chin resting on his bent knee, and I meet his eyes.
“You miss her?” I ask.
Dean rolls the tip of my braid around his finger and shrugs.
“It gets easier each year. It’s been so long it’s almost like a distant memory that I can look back on fondly.”
“I get that,” I say and then turn my face so my chin is resting on his thigh. “You ever want to remarry?”
Dean reaches out and his finger traces the line of my cheekbone.
“If I find the right person.”
And I don’t miss the way that he saysperson, not specifying gender. It gives my silly little heart some hope.
I could be his person. I could so be his person.
“Your legs still hurting you?” he asks, his voice a little gruff.
I shrug and then nod because, really, I cannot lie to this man. I’d bare my soul for him if he’d let me.
“Come on, up here,” he says and I don’t even pretend to fight it. He could tell me to run laps and my unathletic ass would. I push myself up, situating myself on the couch right next to him.
Dean eyes me as those big hands wrap around my ankles and he tugs, pulling my legs right across his lap. He tugs a little more until my ass is right against his thighs.
“It’s always a little jarring after a long ride,” he says as his big, thick paws land on my legs, moving from my knees up to my thighs. He starts to knead my sore, spent muscles, and a few things happen at the same time.
My dick perks up with those fingers so close to it, my mouth lets out a long, very inappropriate groan, and I arch my back like he’s fucking into me.
It’s a little too sensual, I admit and yet, here I am.
“Oh god, Dean,” I groan as he massages my thighs. I sound like the whoriest whore, andI cannot stop.
It’s his fault, really. I mean, he can’t touch me like this and expect me to just sit silently.
“You’re noisy,” he grumbles, and I meet his stare.
“Yes, well, imagine if I was doing this to you, Dean? Would you be able to just sit quietly?”
His fingers dig into my inner thighs—a little too close to my dick, thank you very much—and he shrugs.
