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This tub is so small, I wouldn’t think I could fit into it alone, but with Gwenna curled up in the front, it’s almost comical.
Right on cue, she looks over her shoulder and laughs. “Stretch your legs out, silly.” She reaches back and grabs my shins. “Wrap around me. Better yet—switch places! I can squeeze right in behind you.” Her eyes widen in excitement. “I want to wash your hair!”
I try to think of why she’d want to, and all I can come up with is maybe she thinks it looks unruly or dirty. I run my hand through it.
“Are you picky about when you wash it or how you style it?” she asks.
I feel my brows scrunch as I shake my head.
“Okay, good.” She sits up straighter, reminding me hilariously of an energetic little meerkat. “I’m a sucker for guys with pretty hair, yours especially. If you let me wash it I’ll…bake something after we have dinner. Something you really like. Or—something else. I’ll owe you one.”
I shake my head in confusion, even though the eager look on her face has me laughing. “Okay… You don’t owe me,” I add.
She’s out of the tub with a giant slosh of water, dripping on the rug as I scoot up, bending my legs so she’ll have space to sit behind me.
I’m not prepared for the feeling of her smooth, warm body settling behind mine. As she spreads her legs, her little feet scooting around my thighs and tucking over them, I’m painfully hard.
She wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me back against her. I grit my teeth and try to think of something grim—like IEDs. I don’t put my full weight on her, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t notice. I see her grab a green thermos from one ledge of the tub.
“I keep this in here for when I make my own bath scrub out of coffee grounds and coconut oil.” She fills it up from the tub, then tilts my chin up and smooths my hair off my forehead.
With one hand shielding my forehead from the warm deluge, she pours water over my hair. Chills dart all across my shoulders. My dick gets even stiffer.
She repeats the process, soaking my hair in the soapy-scented water. Then she rests her right elbow on the tub’s side. “Lean back in the corner of my arm.”
I do, even though I feel a little like a doll or some shit.
“This is good.” I see her smiling at an angle that puts her upside down for me. “It’s like the beauty parlor. Just relax.” She sifts her fingers through my hair, and I can’t help chuckling. The beauty parlor. This girl.
“These are the curls I always wanted, but my hair was only wavy,” she says, poking out her lip. “I wanted Shirley Temple curls.”
She starts to work soap into my hair, her fingertips massaging my scalp in a way that makes me shiver. When she’s finished, she smooths her hand back over my forehead, keeping the bubbles out of my face, and I feel this weird, hot feeling in my chest. It’s hard to breathe around the strange sensation, but I try not to focus on it. I smile up and back at her. “Your hair is pretty, Gwennie.”
“Don’t you call me that.” She gently slaps my cheek. “It’s Gwenna or Gwen. Gwennie is someone’s pet piglet.”
“You are a little piglet.” I grin, leaning up a bit and turning so I can see her. Which I quickly realize isn’t going to be enough. I turn more fully toward her, reaching out and trailing a finger down the inside of her forearm. “Pretty and pink.”
She tugs my ear. “Lay back, you infidel.” Her jaw drops open. “Shit. That’s not PC.”
Her blanched face tells me she’s concerned about more than just being politically correct. Shame moves through me as I settle my head back in the crook of her arm.
“Doesn’t bother me. It’s not PC,” I tell her with a smirk, “but I’ve heard it before. Some people used it to mean real insurgents, so we didn’t joke about it. But it doesn’t remind me of anyone or anything like that.”
She’s quiet as she massages what feels like an excess of conditioner into my hair. It smells like coconut sunscreen, which happens to remind me of training down at Benning.
“Did you have short hair when you were working?” she asks.
“Shorter than this, but not too short. Operators are supposed to blend in with civilians.”
She pauses in her massage to trace the tats on my left shoulder. “Do these not identify you?”
I nod slightly and pull my sagging eyes open. “One time we got caught by the Taliban for a couple days. We tried to tell the villagers we were journalists so their leader would force the Taliban fighters to let us go. But they didn’t believe us. Their village leader was afraid of my tats.”
Gwen’s hand shelters my forehead from another cupful of hot water. It sloshes hotly over my soapy hair, running down the back of my neck.
I can’t help a rumble in my throat.
“That sounded like a purr,” she teases. She pours another cupful over my head. “When’s the last time you had your hair washed?”
