Neither said a word as the bathroom fan hummed, the fog from their showers slowly lifting, and coiled hairs plummeted as she snipped. Focus intense, she traced her tongue over the points of her canines as she calculated her next move.
He didn’t budge. His seventeen-year-old self would have been at full erection, desperately tugging her close and plunging his tongue in her mouth, having her so close, him so undressed, and that intense look she was giving him.
He kept still, kept quiet, and watched.
Seemingly satisfied with her scissor job, she opened the drawer and scowled, then opened the next drawer down. Finally, she popped up with a peach-lidded, apricot-scented can of foam. He parked his tongue behind his teeth and angled a look.
Her ginger eyebrows drew together, and she set the can down long enough to grab him by the jaw and aim his head so he looked at her straight on.
Shaving cream shcrooshed into her palm. Hair grinding against foam and fingers, she worked it into the trimmed wires of his beard.
She turned on the faucet and ran it until steam puffed from the flowing stream. She opened the drawer again and drew out a fresh blade, then turned toward the shower and pulled the razor from the shelf.
Not moving, not daring to interrupt, he clutched the vanity counter under his palms, sitting and watching her think through every step. Finally, she took position facing him, framed between his knees, her focus narrowed in on her project.
Studying him , calculating, she lifted the blade and tilted her head as she made each careful move, scraping the blade smoothly over his cheeks, his jaw, staying with the grain and a hell of a lot more careful than he would be.
Scrape by scrape, she cleared the scruff. She pinned his chin between her thumb and forefinger and studied her handiwork. Voice low, soft with focus in the still of the room, she said, “Aftershave. It’s a thing I’ve heard of, but I have no idea what or why. I just put lotion on after I shave my legs. And places.”
He chewed the edge of his lip, trying to find his voice again to respond. “Second drawer. Your mom got me some. I’m honestly not sure what it’s for either, but it smells nice.”
Trace looked away long enough to grab the glass flask and poured a pool into her palm.
“You’re not going to expound on that, are you? ‘Places?’” he asked, searching to see if she’d flirt with him again.
“Nope,” she murmured, focusing hard, a light smile brimming with a wicked comeback, her eyes flashing only briefly to his, and he could see the shyness she was fighting against.
“Not to make you self-conscious about your red hair, but—“ He didn’t need to finish.
She picked the razor back up and gripped it threateningly.
He sheepishly bit his tongue and loved the way she looked ready to laugh deviously with his favorite witchy laugh, but instead, she tapped the back of the razor against his chin and set it down again.
She rubbed aftershave in her hands, warming it, then, instead of slapping it on like she should after he tried to push her buttons, she downshifted quickly, gently smoothing it over his face, with the grain, the sting of it not nearly as altering as her fingertips gracing the contours of his jaw.
Fuck, he was so screwed. Entranced as he watched her work, slower than she needed to, lingering with her gentle touch, his gaze dropped to her mouth again. What was it with those sweetly pink lips, always a breath away from a smile that tempted him so desperately?
Silence reigned in the room, the white noise of the fan drowning out the sounds of the house. Trace rested her palms on his jaw. Studying him with quiet, shallow breaths, she rubbed her thumb over his bottom lip. The aftershave tingled and he craved pressure to soothe it away.
Logical thought long gone, following the pounding in his chest, her hand on his face, her thumb on his sensitized bottom lip, he leaned into her touch. Closing his eyes, his lips, he lightly kissed the pad of her thumb.
Her breath caught, and she stilled.
Eyes fluttering open, he searched hers. Blue eyes boiling with a lust that mirrored his own, and he knew she wanted to kiss him. For better or worse.
Having her here, so close, so intimate, every nerve in his body hummed at the possibility of discovering what her lips felt like against his, her body pressing against him. Of peeling off black lace or pink cotton or whatever was under that shirt, of palming his hands over bare skin.
Gripping the countertop, he leaned in.
Trace inhaled sharply and pulled back, standing tall, biting her lips together, her eyes burning red.
She turned fast.
And ran.
Fuck. He’d stepped in it worse than ever. He dropped to the ground, his good foot hitting the ground first and he eased his healing ankle down, grateful for the pressure, but the splitting pain still hinted that he was far from recovered.
His reflection glared back at him, disappointed in the man looking through the glass, too single-minded to stop and think before trying to kiss her. Again. Hadn’t she opened up that very morning and told him how lost she was? How her self-esteem had hit rock bottom and she was trying to claw her way out?
