Page 16 of Pride

I studied the shape of his back as I walked up behind him. His muscular build didn’t come from time in prison, or from military training. Nor was it a result of God gracing him with a certain gene.

It came from a lifetime of discipline.

He raised the scissors over his shoulder and handed them to me blindly. With a shaking hand, I took them from his grasp, wondering the entire time if there was any way I’d be able to cut his hair without melting into a puddle at his feet.

“What were you, uhhm. What were you thinking?” I murmured.

“Cut it off.”

“How short?”

“Off.”

It was well taken care of, and in better condition than most women’s hair. Cutting it off seemed like such a drastic move.

“Like, to your shoulders?” I asked.

“No. Go ahead and cut it off. I’d like to look presentable this afternoon.”

“Why?”

“When we get to the coast, I don’t want to look like a bum.”

“You don’t look like a bum.”

“Thank you. But, cut it off, anyway. Short on the sides and back. Leave some length on top.”

“Oh wow. You’re serious.”

“That is correct.”

I mentally rolled my eyes at his response. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

I let out a breath. “Okay.”

I cut and snipped with precision, rubbing my breasts against Fisher’s bare back every chance I got. I pressed them hard against his shoulders and brushed them lightly against his face, hoping to get a rise out of his towel. My efforts produced nothing noticeable.

It certainly wasn’t from lack of trying. I’d all but assaulted him with my boobs during the haircut, struggling the entire time not to stare at his muscular chest and chiseled abdomen.

Twenty minutes later, my nipples were sore, and his hair was perfect. After a close examination of his new hairdo, I stepped aside and gazed down at the pile of hair that surrounded him.

“You can go rinse off now.”

“Gimme a minute,” he whispered.

The change was drastic, leaving him looking like a muscular model for a salon or shampoo product line. I looked him over and grinned at my accomplishment. “Be sure and brush that hair off your lap before you go in there. I’ll clean it up while you’re showering.”

“It’ll be a minute.”

He sat rigid in his seat, staring through the blinds and into the parking lot.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“I just need a minute.”

“Are you alright?”