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So what did he need all this for?
Did he regularly have women over and end up doing their hair?
It was hard to say, and she definitely intended to ask. After all, asking was her job. But then he started actually rolling up his sleeves—like someone about to really get something done here—and she could see those forearms, which were in fact as hairy and meaty as she had imagined, and finally he said “Budge up” and she realized:
He wasn’t going to sit next to her.
He was going to sitbehindher.
With his legs on either side of her body.
And after that all her questions just kind of dried up.
She simply did as he’d indicated, and shifted forward, and let him move behind her.
Even though letting him move behind her was easily one of the weirdest and most nerve-racking things she’d ever done. She could feel herself going all hot before he’d even sat down. Then he did, and he slid around her, and something brushed against her butt and her back and oh god, histhighs.
Oh no, oh fuck, his thighs.
His thighs were really big.
And they were surrounding her, like meaty prison bars.
If meaty prison bars could somehow be a great thing at the same time as being stupendously awful and agonizing. Because Lord, they were all the things. They looked incredible, every time she dared glance to either side of herself. And they felt incredible, whenever he shifted and they sort of brushed bits of her.
Heck, they even smelled good.
Like that scent she’d noticed in the car.
That light, expensive scent—the one that made her want to take big breaths.
But also felt as if she were being plunged into hell. This washell.
And it wasn’t about to get any better, either, because now he was telling her “Just relax.” He was saying “I’m gonna touch you now.” Then he did, he touched her head, and his hand felt so enormous it should really have made her scream. But itdidn’t, it didn’t. It couldn’t, because oh Lord in heaven was he ever gentle.
It was like being handled by a cloud.
She almost started crying, it was that soft and good.
And it didn’t stop there, with him cradling her head and making it tilt.
It was the same when he started on the hair. She felt him part a section of it, smooth and efficient as a professional, and then there was this warm sensation and this stroking sensation and a slight tugging sensation, and she realized he was doing it. He was brushing through the bit he’d separated out.
But instead of it feeling like agony, it somehow felt like she was being massaged. Slowly, yet firmly. Over and over, until she wanted to do something absolutely deranged. Like moan, fucking hell she wanted tomoanover it. As if his hands were having sex with her head.
When really they were hardly doing anything at all.
He’s just brushing your hair, she tried to tell herself.
But unfortunately her body just didn’t want to listen.
It was too busy trying to lean into him in a way that would look even weirder than making sex sounds about it. After all, people groaned all the time over head massages. And there was a strong chance she’d be able to disguise it as a cough, if one leaked out. But if she started rubbing her head into his hands and putting her body right against his body, how would that look?
Like she’d gone out of her mind.
Or was really horny for him.
Or both.
