“Who are they from?” she asks.
You crumple the card in your fist. “A stupid magazine,” you lie. “Very rude of them.”
She purses her lips. “Veryrude!” she agrees. “With all the pictures that they steal of you two! That’s what I call some nerve. Ugh. People have no couth anymore. I do like tiger lilies, though. Do you think we should keep them?”
You feel like you are going to be sick. “Why don’t you take them?” you suggest faintly.
“Mmm,” she hums. “Do you think Kaius would mind?”
If Kaius finds out, he’s going to blow the fuck up, and that’s probably bad for his health.
“You should definitely take them,” you say, trying to sound as normal as possible. “He has so many nice ones already.”
“Well, twist my arm,” she says happily. She buries her face in the blooms. “Oh! I just love the scent of lilies. Smell them, baby.”
Instead of leaning in, you bodily jerk away. Blame it on allergies.
Chapter Eleven
The soaking tub is big, but it’s a tight squeeze for a professional football player and his grown adult boyfriend. You don’t care, though. You like being close to Kai.
It’s Wednesday night; he’s been home for two days. His mom left a few hours ago, with a fully-stocked freezer in her wake and dire warnings to call her daily or face her wrath. You accompanied them to the team neurologist that morning. The check-in was not dire, but not great. Kai is still experiencing a lot of side effects from the concussion: bad headaches, sensitivity to sound and light, and a lot of pain in his head and neck. The doctor said that none of these things were unexpected, and that they’d have to take thingsone day at a time.(Personally, that’s a phrase you hate.)
Outside the big bathroom windows, Miami keeps her eyes open, the streetlamps illuminating the churn of humanity on the sidewalks. Kai is on the 10th and 11th floors, high enough to feel like you have a bird’s-eye view, but close enough to the ground to number the cars whizzing by and pick out individual heads in the throngs of people on the street below, if not describe them in detail.
In your exploration of all the condo’s drawers, cabinets, and closets, you uncovered some pillar candles that Kai explained were part of his hurricane readiness kit—something that’sapparently athingfor Floridians. You’ve scattered them around the bathroom and lit them, creating a warm, soft glow that isn’t too bright for Kai’s eyes.
The tub is full of hot water and drifts of foam. You had doubts about whether your Diptyque body gel was going to work as a makeshift bubble bath, but it rose to the occasion, perfuming the whole room with bergamot and tangerine.
Kai’s big body takes up most of the space. He’s sunk deep into the hot water, his eyes closed. You straddle his lap, careful not to bang your knees against the unforgiving porcelain of the basin. Everything you need is on a low stool to the side of the tub. Your wet skin prickles with goosebumps at being exposed to the cool air, and the damp strands of loose hair escaping the bun on top of your head are clinging to your neck. You don’t care, grabbing Kai’s jaw and turning his head this way and that in the low light.
“If you cut me, I’mma be mad.” His voice rumbles though you.
You scoff. “I’m not going to cut you. Stop whining.”
Unable to help yourself, you run your hands over his buzzed scalp, which prickles your palms. You cut his hair for him before you ran the bath, him sitting on that same stool as you ran the clippers over his head carefully, mindful not to miss any strays. It felt good, taking care of your man like that. You’d never done someone’s hair before, but you watched a few videos online, and, besides, you have people messing with your own hair constantly. You know that such jobs require patience and precision: two qualities that you have in spades. The buzz of the clippers in your hand was solid and steady. Something you could control.
Now, in the bath, you consider your tools: the razor with the fresh blade, the shaving balm, the basin of clean water, and the wash cloth.
“How do you know that you are going to like me clean-shaven?” he asks. “You’ve never seen me without a beard.”
You lean down, steal a lingering kiss from his plush lips.
“I don’t love you for your facial hair,” you say. “Even if it is pretty sexy.”
Kai frowns. “I don’t have to shave it, you know. All I said was that it was hard not being able to get to my barber right now. I can manage it okay by myself.”
With your connections, you could easily get a top barber to make regular house calls. You convince yourself that Kai has to be aware of that fact, which is how you justify not bringing it up. You want this. Taking care of him. Loving on him. Touching him.
Ignoring his protests, you dunk your hands in the tub and wet them, then rub his face with them. His facial hair has already been trimmed down to almost nothing to make the razor’s job easier. His short hair abrades your fingers when you touch it, the strands coarse and bristly.
The shaving balm smells good. Minty. You are careful as you apply it, making sure that none of it goes between his lips or up his nose. Using the tips of your fingers, you make sure to cover every millimeter of fuzz, going up his cheeks and over the curve of his jaw. Then, you tip his head back and cover his neck.
You aren’t actuallynervousabout shaving him, but you’ve never actually done this before. To yourself, sure, but shaving yourown face is different from shaving somebody else. You don’t grow a ton of facial hair, and an aesthetician waxes most of your body every four weeks like clockwork, because rubbing hair follicles the wrong way against your tight costumes is sensory hell for you. (She leaves your armpits alone, because focus groups distrust men without axillary hair.) You’ve never shaved a lover before. For Kai, though? It feels intimate. Sexy. You press your body against his, and make sure your hands areverysteady.
His big arms are on your waist, and a little puff of breath escapes him when the razor first rasps his skin.
“Go with the grain,” he says. “Otherwise, I get bumps.”
