8. Dutton
Dutton
I should have gone for the eyebrow wax. I’ve never had hot wax poured onto my skin, but I can guarantee it’d be less painful than this.
My dick is so hard I could pound nails right now.
I thought coming here was a great idea, a genius plan.
For some reason, Bridgette isn’t taking me seriously when I ask her out, so I thought if I came in for a haircut, I’d have a chance to show her that I’m sincere.
I want to go out with her, and I’m not the kind of man who spends time with other people unless I have to.
But Bridgette is the exception to my rule.
I figured we’d flirt a little and I’d get her to say yes to a date with me. But that’s not the way it worked out. The past thirty minutes of my life have been pure torture.
She’s wearing the same today as she did yesterday, but this one is light green instead of purple. She’s got a black apron on, but it does nothing to hide her luscious curves. From the second I sat my ass down in her chair, I’ve been fighting my attraction to her.
When Bridgette started running her fingers through my hair, and when I looked at us in the mirror, the image of her standing behind me, her curves on display, was hot as hell.
We’re alone back here, but anyone walking by would have seen a stylist talking to her client.
There was nothing sexual going on, except in my dirty damn mind.
It only got worse from there. Getting your hair washed should not be erotic. It’s a daily task, nothing special. Until now. I may never wash my hair by myself again.
And shaving?
Christ.
My future is going to go one of two ways. I’ll either be a miserable bastard with a beard down to my knees or I’ll be the happiest fucker alive with a smooth jawline you could see your own damn reflection in.
Now that Bridgette has had her hands on me, I’m addicted to her touch.
I need more of it, more of her, before I lose my mind.
The fact that she’s bent over me, her hips swaying gently to the beat of the music being pumped through the salon, is only making matters worse.
I want to reach out and put my hands on her waist, pull her close to me, set her on my lap, and kiss her like she belongs to me.
I sound batshit crazy, I know. Bridgette doesn’t belong to me. Not yet, anyway.
“All done,” she says, wiping my face with a warm, damp towel. “I’ll get you rinsed and then we’ll head back to my chair.”
Fuck the ideas running through my head right now are not workplace appropriate. I can picture her using a washcloth on me in the shower or me using one on her after we’ve— Damn . I jolt as a stream of cold water washes over my skull.
I hear Bridgette gasp behind me. I’m so sorry,” she says in a rush. “The water will warm up in just a second, I promise.”
“It’s fine,” I croak out because I could use a cold shower right now. It doesn’t take long for her to rinse my hair, and soon she’s gently smoothing a soft towel over my head.
A second later, she’s standing in front of me.
Like right in front of me. I’ve got my legs spread wide to accommodate my throbbing dick.
The fact that she’s standing in the vee of my thighs, bending toward me, is not helping matters.
That damn apron does little to conceal her ample breasts, the indentation of her waist, and the flare of her hips.
“Oh, my gosh, I made a mess of your cape,” she says, looking down at me.
I follow her eyes to see what she’s talking about.
Sure enough, there's a puddle forming in my lap from when she accidentally cranked the cold water. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats, and I hate that she’s flustered.
A little water is nothing to get excited about, and if she had any clue about what’s been on my mind while she’s been doing her job, I’d probably get banned for life from this salon.
“Here, I’ll get you a fresh one,” she continues, leaning forward to unhook the cape from around my neck.
“No, I’m good—” I protest, but it’s too late.
She’s already whipped the damn thing off me and tossed it aside.
Great. Now there's no hiding her effect on me. These gray sweatpants don’t conceal a fucking thing.
My erection is probably visible to the patrons in the bakery across the street, so there’s no way Bridgette missed it, even if she is looking anywhere but right at me.
If her cheeks were rosy before, they’re crimson now.
She’s biting down on her lower lip as she deposits the damp towels in a laundry basket before strolling over to her chair.
I follow her and take my cue. If she’s ignoring the elephant in the room, then so will I.
And yes, my dick is the elephant in this scenario.
The second I settle into her chair, she’s got her hands in my hair again. This time, though, she’s smoothing some kind of hair goop through the strands. She might have mentioned the name of it, but my mind has been busy wallowing in the gutter, so I didn’t catch it.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and the smile she sends my way hits me right in the chest.
“I’m just going to blow you,” she says, and it takes a full ten seconds for her words to register in both our brains.
”Dry,” she corrects quickly. “Blow-dry your hair. It’s wet.
” Her hands still as embarrassment washes over her features.
But that’s not the only emotion she’s feeling.
Her eyes are wide and her pulse is pounding.
She’s worrying that bottom lip again, too.
I want to smooth my thumb over it, then kiss it and make it better
The knowledge that she wants me almost as much as I want her is intoxicating. It’s enough to give me that buzzed feeling, the one that says there’s nothing in the world I can’t do. “Go out with me,” I blurt. “Please. I?—”
“Yes,” she answers, cutting me off.
“Yes?” I ask, like the dumb fuck I am.
She looks straight into the mirror, her eyes finding mine. Fucking hell, she’s beautiful with her full lips and fiery hair. “Yes, I’d like to go out with you. What did you have in mind?”
It’s a legitimate question, and one I should definitely have an answer to.
“I haven’t thought that far ahead yet,” I admit.
“But let me ask around to see what’s good.
Unless you have a favorite place to go?” Jesus, I’m rusty at this.
I should be embarrassed, but I’m so damn glad she said yes that I’m not going to stress about how awkward I sound.
Instead of laughing at me, her face lights up. “Actually, I do have a place in mind. It’s not a restaurant, but there is a bar inside, and sometimes they serve food. Let me see what their hours are for the next week. Can I text you the details?”
I nod because that sounds great. Truthfully, though, I can’t think of a single date idea that I would veto right now. She could tell me she’s always wanted to swim with sharks, and I’d buy a goddamn wetsuit.
I’m already gone for this girl, and we haven’t even kissed.
That should probably worry me, but it just makes me excited for what’s next.
“You like them,” I grumble, staring at the movie on the TV screen instead of looking at Blue. “Just fucking admit it.”
“You’re so damn dramatic,” he says with a laugh as he tosses popcorn into the air and eats it. Somehow, a few kernels manage to miss the gaping hole that is his big mouth.
Plucking a stray piece of popcorn off the couch cushion, I pin my buddy with a glare.
“Stop making a fucking mess or I’ll duck into my room and you can call Mickey up.
That guy leaves a trail of crumbs everywhere he goes, but now that you’re all chummy with the Bainbridge boys, I guess you don’t mind.
You probably think it’s charming or some shit. ”
“You’re jealous,” Blue accuses, pausing the movie we’re not really watching. We’ve seen it a hundred times, at least, so it’s not like we’re locked in.
“You’re damn right I’m jealous,” I say, stealing a handful of popcorn.
We just finished a lasagna dinner that Ollie cooked for all the housemates.
It pains me to say so, but it was actually a really good meal.
I’m not hungry in the least, but that doesn’t stop me from swiping Blue’s snack.
Lasagna’s good, but there’s nothing more satisfying than stealing food from someone who’s pissed you off.
Fine. I’m not actually mad. Well, not too mad. But don’t tell him that.
“In fact,” I say, because I’m just getting started, “I’m surprised you’re not still downstairs asking for Ollie’s recipe, seeing as you two are now the new dynamic duo. You anointed the whole damn team with nicknames. What’s next? Are you going to join him on the podcast he’s always yapping about?”
“Green’s a good color on you,” he says, as I roll my eyes. “No, I’m serious. This is hot. You should go down to the kitchen and tell Ollie you’re challenging him to a duel, and I’m the prize.”
“Fuck off,” I scoff. “There’s no way he’d beat me, I’m stuck with you.”
Blue pops the last few kernels in his mouth. “It’s okay to say you love me, Sparky,” he says, batting his eyelashes. I’m about two seconds away from batting the remote out of his hands.
Hazel, Blue’s Scottish Fold cat, hops up on my lap. Like her owner, she loves attention.
“Seriously, though,” he begins, “the guys aren’t so bad.
Once you get past Mickey’s constant need for motion and Ollie’s inability to be quiet for more than two seconds, they're decent people. Ollie wants a bunch of us to join the committee for the winter carnival. There’s a meeting next week and you should come. ”
I pull my phone out and look at it for half a second. “Sorry, I have plans.”
“I’m serious,” he scoffs. “You need to contribute to the team off the ice.”
“I do,” I insist. “Every time I don't punch Mickey in the fucking face, that's my contribution. I should have a sticker chart. But I want to punch him a lot, so you should get the mega pack of stickers.”
“Done,” he agrees. “Also, what are these plans you have? Are you getting a third haircut in as many weeks? Dude, even I don’t go to the barber that much, and this look is not easy to maintain,” he says,
“Yeah, must be tough to travel all the way back to 1989,” I say, poking fun at his outdated hairstyle. I don’t care what anyone says or does. Mullets are not back, and porn ‘staches aren’t either, no matter how trendy Blue thinks they are.