Page 10 of Saviour
My hand rests on the door handle and in one quiet, subtle push, the door opens just a crack, and my heart races. I push it open, stopping before the hinge creaks and gives me away, and my eyes instantly meet the mirror on the wall opposite the shower to show my Birdie’s exquisite body once more.
In the lake, she looked elegant, beautiful, breathtaking, but here in my shower, surrounded by steam, she looks sinful, sexy, divine. I want to lick at her skin, follow the water droplets to that sweet pussy, and devour her and make my Birdie sing so beautifully.
I watch those dainty fingers fiddle with her plait once more and I realise she’s untangling it and within a few seconds, long lush silvery hair, the same shade as the moon on a starry night, floats down her back. The water clings to it, dampening her hair as she tips her head back, and she lifts her arms to brush her fingers through the strands.
Her back arches as she pushes her breasts forward, her nipples tight buds as the water drips off the points, and her throat is exposed, the perfect slide for the spray of water to travel down her body, reaching between her thighs.
I rub my dick over my trousers and wish I could have some release, but before I do anything reckless, I take one hard look in the almost steamed up mirror and quietly close the door, leaning my head against it in agony.
I’mdefinitelya peeping Tom now. This is the second time today I’ve watched this girl naked without her consent, but I struggle to feel ashamed when it feels so electric.
I make my way back to the kitchen and continue sorting out dinner for the evening and trying to tame my aching cock for release. That’ll have to wait until later.
I hear the bathroom door open a short while after and I refrain from peering down the hall to watch her towel wrapped body glide across to her room.
A few minutes later, Rori appears in the open kitchen, a black shirt of mine completely drowning her, covering her body almost below her knees, where I assume a pair of my black plain boxers sit underneath. I left the clothes on her bed so she’d have something clean to change into. Her hair is over one shoulder as she rubs at it with a towel, catching the last of the water droplets.
“Nice shower?” I question just as she asks, “You’re cooking?”
Her cheeks blush and I chuckle lightly at her surprise.
“My mama raised me right.” I laugh and nod to the bar stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen. She smiles slightly before plastering the blank expression back on her face as she hauls herself up onto the stool.
“It was a lovely shower. Thank you. The best in ages.” She sighs and continues to towel dry her damp hair. I choose to ignore the tone in her voice that has opened up a million questions within me, starting with when the last time she actually had a shower was.
I continue chopping and prepping the veg when Rori drapes her towel on the edge of her chair and starts gathering her hair to one side to begin plaiting it again.
“You have beautiful hair.”
She flinches and her fingers still.
“Do you always wear it in a plait?” I nod to her fingers and she takes a second to recover before whispering out a timid yes.
“Any reason?” I ask, but again she freezes, and I run my question through my head and wonder what I could’ve said that was so bad.
“It, umm, it keeps it tidy,” she replies quietly, her eyes wide and wary.
She doesn’t carry on with plaiting her hair but instead holds it closely to her chest in a tight grip and I try to think of how I can rectify this situation.
“Do you want some help? I can do you some French plaits,” I offer and her brows crease as her eyes spark with judgement and I realise how ridiculous that probably sounds coming from me.
“You know how to French plait?” she questions, a hint of amusement lacing her tone, and I try to hide my smile every time I get a reaction out of her.
“French, Dutch, fishtail. Pick your poison,” I say and throw a wink her way, completely throwing her off, and I let out a genuine laugh at her look of shock. “I had a very girly cousin. I learnt at a young age how to plait hair as she had no one to do it for her and her brother sure as hell wasn’t going to.” A slight pang of pain hits my chest as I think of Bonnie and King, and I wish I had a bottle of something to numb the pain.
“Okay,” she says and very carefully releases her hair and lets it flow down her back. Her hair is long, like it hasn’t been cut in years, and reaches below the bar stool and past her ass whilst she sits.
I wash my hands quickly and walk slowly to her back and stand close, taking in her scent and freshly washed hair that smells so much like mine after she used my shampoo. Very slowly, I gather her hair in my hands and just mindlessly play with it, feeling comfort in the softness. Her shoulders tense, her body stiffening as I play, and I can tell she’s growing uncomfortable, so I try to distract her.
“Do you know how to French plait?” I ask as I part her hair down the middle so the strands fall beautifully on each side.
“No,” she whispers, her voice shaky.
“Well, first, you get your parting and then when you’ve got even sides, you start at the top and take three strands,” I narrate as I do each action. “Then you start to plait as normal, but on each new strand, you gather a little more and a little more, until it all gathers up into the plait.”
I continue to braid her hair and as each second passes, her shoulders start to relax and by the time I’ve finished the first plait, her eyes are closed and for the first time all day she looks fully at peace.
I continue with the other plait in silence and let her enjoy the sensation of someone else doing her hair. Plaiting Bonnie’s hair was never this easy. She would always whine and shout, telling me I was pulling too hard.The drama queen.
