“I’m being abused,” I say, nearly smiling. This is fantastic. I love this.
“Big baby,” Morana mutters as she brushes my hair.
She’s giving me little braids. Tying them with little bows.Touching me.
I’m so happy I could die.
After what I said yesterday, I wasn’t sure how she’d respond when we saw each other again. Clearly, she’s still opting to strong-arm me into thinking of her like a little sister, but if this is her method, the poor thing has no clue.
I mean, really. We’re onmy bed. I don’t care how many glittery barrettes she’s brought with her if we’re sitting on my bed together. I’m smitten. This is fabulous.
“I’ve always wanted a wife who would play with my hair,” I murmur, sitting cross-legged and patient, dwelling on the sensation of her fingers tugging and combing.
“Can it, e-boy,” she snaps and jerks on the braid she’s doing.
I let my head fall back at the bidding and roll my eyes up to catch her wrinkled nose. “When’s a good time to tell you thathair pullingis only abrother-sister thinguntil the age of, like, ten?”
“Never.”
“Got it.”
“Fix your head. I need tension, or your braids will look like crap.”
Obedient little husband that I am, I tilt my chin back down and let her finish up, at which point she says, “Okay, my turn.”
My spine straightens.
I get to… She wants me to…
My heart double times when she places the brush in my hand, positions herself in front of me, and tosses her hair over her shoulders. The dark strands land in a thick heap all the way down her back, against a gray shirt dappled with black line art moths.
Placing the final nail in my coffin, she says, “Start at the bottom. Be gentle.”
Yes, ma’am…
Wetting my lips, I gather her hair, grazing my fingertips against her neck as I do. She shivers.
I close my eyes. Collect myself. Resume.
Silk. In my hands. At her bidding.
It’s so shiny. So straight. So dark.
Her neck. Her shoulders.
I swear.
She turns. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m being tortured,” I whisper, struggling for breath. “I’m sorry, Morana. This…this isn’t doing what you want it to be doing.” I let go of her beautiful hair. “I— I shouldn’t.”
She stares at me, scanning, one brow arched. “You cannot be having a conniption over brushing my hair.”
Can. Am. What of it?
My heart battles against its confines, threatening to escape into her palm. “You greatly underestimate how attracted to you I am.”
Her eyes widen by a fraction, then she faces forward. “Brush.”
