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Closing the distance between us, I stop just outside the narrow V of his legs. They’re so long, his feet are planted on the ground rather than the bottom rung of the stool he’s sitting on.
His jaw tightens. His guard’s up. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“I’ll help myself, thanks.” I kick his feet wide and step in between them, making Christopher mutter a curse as he sets his hands on my hips to steady himself.
“Jesus, Kate.”
“I’d like to fix your disheveled appearance for this photo so you look like a business owner worthy of people’s millions instead of somebody’s stunt double after a rough day on set. May I?” I ask, gesturing to his hair.
He blinks up at me. “I...”
I shift my weight to one hip. Which is when I process that Christopher’s hands are still on my hips, his grip tight.
And I like it.
And I shouldn’t.
“You what?” I ask, forcing myself to breathe steadily, to keep my voice even.
A rough swallow works down his throat. I stare at his Adam’s apple as it bobs, his jaw as it clenches. “I’m still hung up on the past ten seconds.”
I ignore that because I have to, because if what he said the other night knocked me sideways, what’s happening now, the way he’s touching me, is about to send me spinning clean off the earth’s surface. “Is that a yes?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine. His fingers flex on my hips, holding tight. “Yes.”
I slide my hands into his hair, thick and cool, silky locks that slip through my fingers as I tidy the disheveled waves. As I comb my fingers through his hair again, his eyes fall shut. A low, satisfied sound rumbles in the back of his throat.
My fingers trace down the ends of his hair, over neck muscles that are so tight, they make me wince in sympathy. “Lord, Christopher, you ever heard of a stress ball? A day off? Your muscles are like steel cables.”
He grunts pleasurably as my fingers rub down his neck, and his headthunksforward onto my chest. It feels simultaneously like the most natural and shocking thing we’ve ever done. His hands tighten their grip on my hips, and he breathes roughly when I sink my fingers into the base of his neck, then across his shoulders. “Fuuuuck,” he groans.
“All this money you bathe in, and you can’t spring for the occasional massage?”
“That’s the bad part,” he mumbles against my chest. “I do get massages. I’m worse than this without them.”
Itsk, working my fingers beneath the collar of his dress shirt, kneading those tight ropes of muscles banding his neck to his shoulders. Air rushes out of Christopher, and he turns his headsideways, resting it against my chest, his grip its tightest yet on my waist.
“Kate,” he says roughly.
I answer, redirecting my touch to the safer territory of his hair. “What.”
“E-enough.” His voice breaks on the word.
“I’m not done,” I tell him, smoothing back the pieces curling around his ears and jaw.
“I am,” he grunts. Easing away, he sits straight again and sighs heavily, eyes scrunched shut.
“Did I hurt you?”
He tips his head back and blinks up at the ceiling. Another heavy sigh leaves him. “In a manner of speaking.”
He’s clearly not in actual pain, so I go back to sorting out the last few straggling pieces that need to be smoothed back. “Whatiswith your hair these days? It’s so long.”
He shuts his eyes again and lets out another long-suffering sigh. “I’ve had to cancel my last few haircuts, then it just got to the point that I said, ‘Fuck it, I’m wearing it this way.’ ”
“Why’d you have to cancel so many haircuts?” I ask, leaning back, examining how I’ve arranged his hair, deciding one last comb through with my fingers will do the trick—
His hands come up to mine and clasp them, stopping me. Gently, his thumbs circle the sensitive skin of my wrists. I’m not sure if he draws me nearer or if I take a step, but somehow I’m now closer between his legs, staring down at him.
