12. Chapter 12 – Clay
W e ate on the couch in Lucy’s living room.
On my last visit, I’d been more concerned with picking up the art supplies and helping wash out her hair dye.
Now, I could take in all the tiny touches that marked the space as Lucy’s.
Her home was cozy and comfortable, done in basic furniture and neutral colors.
Surprisingly, there was hardly a speck of black, yet it was still somehow all her.
The walls were where Lucy’s love of art shone. From floor to ceiling, every inch was covered in canvases, prints, and even a sprinkling of needlework. It was the Due to Personal Reasons, I Am Now Evil done in with a pretty pink border of flowers that made me laugh.
“Did you stitch that before or after I started calling you Lucifer?”
The faint flush beneath her cheeks was adorable. She chewed slowly, taking her time swallowing. “It’s not always about you, Robertson.”
“But maybe this time it is?”
She huffed, rolling her eyes. Her lack of answer was answer enough.
“Next time, we’ll eat at my place, so you can make fun of my décor.”
“Let me guess: subpar parks posters as far as the eye can see?”
“Oh, no. It’s much worse than that.” I grinned. “And that’s just the outside.”
“I don’t know if I should be curious or afraid.”
I wiped my hands on my napkin, offering her an innocent grin. “Then my work here is done.”
It might’ve been childish, but I wanted her to see my house. If I dangled enough hints, maybe she’d come visit to solve the puzzle for herself.
Lucy finished the last of her tacos while we chatted about island life, my work and hers. Her wry comments about her customers and the inherent challenges of running a glass studio that was both sales space and workspace kept me cracking up.
Her eyes followed each time I pushed my hair out of my face, something like tenderness creeping into her expression. That alone made me not want to cut it. But I’d already agreed.
“You ready to face my scissors?” she asked.
I should have been nervous. But there was no teasing in her tone.
I dipped my chin, holding her gaze.
She directed me to a chair in her kitchen. “Take a seat, Robertson. I’ll grab my shears.”
“Do you have one of those fancy capes? I always thought I’d look good in one.” I propped my fists on my hips. “Downright heroic.”
“And so modest, Robertson. I have a towel we can wrap around your shoulders. It’ll have to do.”
She returned a moment later, silver scissors in one hand and two blue towels tucked beneath her elbow. Her dark hair brushed her shoulders. She’d taken off her sweatshirt, revealing a white V-neck tee in its place. Her hips filled out her jeans, painting a picture of casual grace.
She stepped behind me, tugging my hat off. Her fingers tangled in my hair, lifting in sections as she examined the length. The gentle tickle as she tugged felt impossibly good. I wanted to bask in her touch, arching into her hands like a cat seeking attention.
“What are you thinking, style-wise?” she asked, stepping to my front. There was a breathy aspect to her voice, unlike anything I’d heard from her before. She wet her lips, drawing my gaze to her pink mouth. The urge to kiss her was nearly overwhelming.
“Just shorter. I’ll leave myself in your capable hands.” I held her gaze. Her eyes darkened. Electricity snapped in the air around us. I was already tense, unable to relax under her touch. Keyed up with her near.
“Let’s get you wet first.”
My chuckle came out deep and low, like a roll of thunder. “That should be my line.”
“Charmer.” Her tone was wry, her voice husky.
I scooted back until I could lean over the kitchen sink.
Lucy turned on the water, watching me as it warmed.
As much as I appreciated her not blasting me with cold water, having her hover above me was agony.
Her soft breasts swung at eye-level, making it impossible not to notice the way her nipples had tightened beneath the white cotton.
She cleared her throat, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. One of her thighs slipped between mine as she scooted closer until she was pressed against my side. Every inch of her soft curves nestled against me, making me painfully aware of how much I wanted the freedom to touch her.
But this was the game.
She met my gaze, her dark eyes flashing with heat. Lucy knew exactly what she was doing to me. How she was tempting me. What would happen if I tipped her into my lap?
Warm water sluiced over my head, sending a trickle straight down my face. Reminding me that she was the one in control. The one with scissors.
Her fingers speared through my hair. She directed the sprayer across my crown. The contrast of warm water and her nails scraping at my scalp felt amazing. If her goal was to turn me into a puddle, she was succeeding. How long had it been since I’d been touched like this? A year? Five?
Sure, I’d had haircuts. But those had been all business. This was something else.
Her breast brushed my shoulder, making me aware of her thighs bracketing mine as she leaned in to reach the back of my head.
I let out something that sounded suspiciously like a whimper.
“Too hot?” Lucy murmured.
Yes . “No.”
“Almost done.”
She shut off the water, rubbing my head with a towel. The rough strokes telegraphed directly to my dick, making it hard to focus. She was everywhere. Warm weight leaning against my chest. Hands in my hair. Spicy sweet scent enticing me.
The snip-snip of her scissors brought me back to earth. Locks of my hair fell to the floor around us like wet confetti. She seemed wholly focused on the task at hand, combing and tugging as she reshaped my hair into some semblance of a style.
She bit her lip, her teeth piercing the rosy pink flesh. I held back a groan, imagining her lips elsewhere. She was barely touching me, and I was still hard enough to worry about making a mess in my jeans. Her scent, her single-minded focus, everything was turning me on.
She leaned back, tugging strands from each side of my part, testing their length as she squinted at me.
“There. I think that’s even,” she pronounced, dusting hair from her fingers. “Why don’t you check it out in the bathroom; let me know if you want it shorter? I’ll sweep up here.” She gestured to the hair littering her kitchen floor.
I moved stiffly to the bathroom, aware of the tell-tale bulge in my jeans. Flicking on the light, I blinked. The man staring back at me was one I barely recognized. Gone were the chin-length waves I’d taken to tucking behind my ears. She’d brought me back to a style I hadn’t worn in years.
I looked eerily like my wedding photos.
The thought stopped me in my tracks.
I wasn’t that man anymore.
He’d been young. Na?ve about the future. The man in the mirror now had subtle streaks of gray and a few lines around his eyes. He’d been hardened by life. By loss.
My therapist used to say that grief wouldn’t be something I could fix. It’d be something I’d carry. That it was part of loving deeply, to feel the hollowness in my bones. That the emptiness wasn’t a flaw in me, but a mark that what we had mattered.
And she was right.
Slowly, I’d learned to honor what Jen and I had and still believe in the possibility of more. To take what I’d learned about love, about listening, and about showing up for my partner and bring it forward. That wanting fun and finding joy again didn’t dishonor what I’d lost.
Confronting a version of the man I used to be, I saw the difference clearly now. Not younger, just lighter. Maybe even ready.
“Everything okay in there?” Lucy asked. “Did you spot anything I need to fix?”
Pushing away from the sink, I turned to find her watching me, her expression careful. “I feel like a new man.”
I chuckled, the sound rusty. My fingers rubbed the back of my neck, scraping over the short bristles of hair. “That’s probably why it feels so weird. I haven’t seen this version of myself in years.”
Her brow lifted in question, silent but curious.
“Last time I looked like this, I was standing next to Jen in our wedding photos,” I said quietly. “She liked it short.”
Lucy’s smile dimmed, just slightly. I could see her shifting into sympathy. I didn’t want that.
“Pretty sure this haircut just unlocked my final form. Thank you.”
Lucy lifted one shoulder. “It’s no problem.” She squinted, eyeing me. “This is a good look for you. Shows off your jawline.”
Puffing up my chest, I preened. “So you have been looking.” I lifted one hand to my head, tightening the muscles in my arm, making them pop.
She rolled her eyes, her breath puffing out in a little sigh that disturbed the fine tendrils of dark hair near her forehead. “Don’t let it go to your head, Robertson.”
I glanced down at my crotch, bulge still apparent. “How about to my dick?”
She groaned, steadily keeping her chin steady, gaze well above my waist. “You’re impossible .”
Her gaze twitched down, just for a second. Widened slightly. Busted .
My grin threatened to crack my face. “No, Lucifer, I’m very possible . Anytime. Just let me know.”
That was meant to be the end of the joke. Just another tease. But then she stilled.
She was quiet a beat too long. Her breathing shallowed. I froze. Her gaze flickered to my mouth. Then she said it – casual, offhand, like she wasn’t changing my world.
“Now’s good.”
“Wh-at?”
My question came out in a strangled grunt, my voice cracking on the last syllable.
Her shoulders relaxed, her whole body softening with amusement. She wrinkled her nose, eyes crinkling at the corners as her lips curved – just enough to make it clear she was enjoying watching me short-circuit.
“C’mon, hotshot,” she said, voice low and smug. “Show me the romance.”
There was no way to misinterpret that. She beckoned me toward the living room, and I blinked. Sure I was dreaming. A beat later, I followed like a docile pet. Her hips swayed, and she glanced over one shoulder, eyes dark with promise.