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“Where do you want to do it?” he asks.
My heart thumps as I look around the space. I notice his bed, pushed into the corner, and my mind flashes to a daydream I’ve had too often. Him over me, kissing me, kissing my neck. Being in the same room with Jackson and a bed is more than I can handle. I focus on the table, where he’s placed two towels.
“Let’s do it here,” I say, spinning a chair out.
Jackson sits down, and I put my hands in his hair. It’s greasy and unkempt, the ends dry and the scalp oily. It’s probably been a week or more since he has washed it. No point in shaming him. We’ll work on getting him on a more regular schedule.
“Let’s wash your hair, and I’ll cut it wet,” I suggest.
“Of course, let’s go to the bathroom.” He walks with the towel around his shoulders. When we get into the bathroom and he turns on the faucet that goes into the white porcelain tub, he puts his hands on his hips, contemplates the situation, and pulls his shirt off before I can cover my eyes.
“This will be easier,” he says, tossing his shirt on the counter.
“Oh my God,” I say, creating a visor with my palm.
He grins. “I should’ve asked if you were okay seeing my naked torso.”
“It’s fine!” My “fine” squeaks, and I want to run away. “You look very, very nice.”
He chuckles. I can’t help it; my eyes drag down his tufts of chest hair, the definition in his abs. When I look up, I’m caught, and I swallow.
“Do you want me to wash my hair, or do you want to?”
Should I? I try not to touch Jackson. I shouldn’t touch him.He doesn’t have a shirt on.However, I’m not certain he can get his hair as clean as I can, and I know touching him is a necessary evil.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “Kneel.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, dropping to his knees.
I must be flushing bright red, because Jackson lowers his face level to my pelvis and another fantasy flashes through my mind. His hands pulling down my jeans, pulling my underwear to the side. His lips covering my center, taking one long suck. The thought is so intoxicating I have to brace myself to the wall.
Why are you thinking this? Wash the man’s hair! His hair is gross, full of dust and motor oil and bacteria.
That calms me down enough that I can function as Jackson bends over the tub.
His behind looks so cute.
No! Motor oil and dust!
He turns and leans over, setting his glasses on the counter. I notice the corded muscle in his back, the light freckles dusting his shoulders. His hair flops over into the tub as I turn the water on. He dunks his head under and makes a guttural noise.
“It’s so cold!” he says.
“You’re a big, tough guy. You can handle it,” I tease as I squirt a dollop of his shampoo into my hand. I rub my hands together and push the product into his hair. Working it to a lather, I avoid looking at his muscles. How they create grooves in his skin, lines I want to trace. He’s not meaning to, but he’s flexing, since he’s holding himself up by the lip of the tub.
He groans as I massage his head. I’m just trying to get all the buildup and gunk out from his scalp, that’s all. I’m not trying to elicit any reactions that will make me think about that bed more. However, his groans transport me to another fantasy, of him above me, thrusting in and out.
No, I can’t think like this. We’re just friends. He’s a widower, who said his late wife is the love of his life. I bet she was amazing. I bet if you compared her to me, there would be no contest. Amy would win every time.
So, I evict the thoughts from my mind and focus on the task at hand. Lather, rinse, repeat.
“Do you condition?” I ask.
“No, is that something I need to do?”
“Yes,” I say, as I work the conditioner I brought into his clean hair. He groans again as I work his scalp and lower his head under the faucet, rinsing the suds down the drain. I avert my gaze, so I don’t focus on his long neck or the two divots that peek out from his pants.
“Okay, you can stand up,” I say. Jackson pops up, and I don’t look away fast enough. There’s his torso again, his abs as shredded as his back, with a light dusting of hair along his chest. I’m not quick enough because I’m still looking when he puts his glasses back on.
