Chapter 29
EBBA
Fisher opens the door to our suite the next evening after a dinner with the wedding party. He loosens his tie with practiced ease and lets it dangle around his neck. It’s obnoxiously and annoyingly hot.
I reach down and undo the clasp on one heel. Before I can reach the other, Fisher’s in front of me kneeling down.
“Let me do it,” he says.
His fingers are cool against my heated skin and I shiver. Grabbing ahold of the wall for support, I look down to find him staring up at me.
“Cold?” he prompts. “Or something else?” There’s a challenge in his gaze, daring me to lie, but there’s no way I’m admitting to how much his touch affects me.
“I’m cold.”
He arches a brow, skimming his fingers up the inside of my calf. “Funny. You don’t feel cold.”
A whimper slips past my lips, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to slap my hand over my mouth. He grins up at me.
“Don’t gloat.”
His smile only widens. “I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t have to. Now, are you going to help me or not?” I wiggle my foot, and he wraps his hand around my ankle.
He undoes the clasp with envious ease, especially considering how much larger his fingers are than mine.
It feels good to plant my feet on solid ground again.
“Sit in that chair.” I point to the table in the corner. “I’ll cut your hair.”
I got the supplies I needed yesterday, but after traveling all day I didn’t feel up to it, especially since I’ve never cut a man’s hair before and I’m more than a tad nervous.
Fisher gives me a crooked smile and says, “Yes, ma’am.”
He finishes taking off his tie and button-down shirt, leaving him in only a white tank-like shirt that’s tucked into his pants.
“Should we do this in the bathroom?” he asks, tugging on the chair.
“Yeah, probably.”
He scoops the chair up and heads into the bathroom with it.
The bag of supplies I bought at the drug store sits on the dresser.
I double check the contents, making sure I have everything I think I’ll need.
My heart gives a nervous flutter, but the worst that can happen if I fuck up is that he has to go to a barber.
I open the pack of scissors and then add water into the spray bottle I got.
“You look like you’re scared.” There’s an amused tone to his voice, like he’s holding back a laugh.
“I’m not scared. I’m nervous. There’s a difference.”
“Don’t be,” he says gently. “I’m not. It’s just hair.”
Grabbing one of the towels, I drape it over his shoulders before I dampen his hair with the spray bottle. I hate to admit it, but I kind of like the longer hair and beard on him. It gives him a bit of ruggedness.
“Do you have any idea of what kind of cut you want me to do?”
“Whatever you want.”
I laugh humorlessly. “You’re not helping me at all.”
“Sorry,” he chuckles, but I don’t think he’s sorry at all. “I’m never that fussy about my hair.”
I run my fingers through the damp locks, assessing the length and texture and deciding what I want to do with it.
“I think I have an idea. Do you trust me?”
He looks up at me from the chair and a shiver runs down my spine.
I used to dream of a man looking at me that way—like I’m his whole world—and now here I am terrified.
I gave him my heart once and it was shattered beyond repair.
I can acknowledge now that I played a lot into my own pain, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not sure I can give him the ruined pieces of my heart I have left.
“I trust you with my life,” he says, his voice deeper than normal, slightly gruff.
The look in his eyes seems to say, “I see you. I see those broken pieces. Give them to me. Let me put them back together.”
I quickly drop my eyes, unable to handle the intensity even a second longer.
Before I start, I look up some photos of the style I’m thinking of.
Taking a deep breath, I part his hair in the middle and get to work. It’s nearly shoulder length now and as much as I love his more rugged, slightly lumberjack look he has going on, it’ll be nice to see my Fisher again.
“You’re very focused,” he says when I step in front of him.
“I want this to be good.”
Surprise jolts through me when he wraps his hands around the backs of my thighs and pulls me closer.
I look down at him, finding his eyes at half-mast and his lips parted slightly.
“What are you doing?”
His thumbs massage at my skin, exposed to his bare hands by the short dress I’m wearing.
“Sorry,” he says, but makes no move to take his hands off me. “I can’t seem to not be touching you.”
I wet my lips with my tongue, and his eyes track the movement. A low growl rumbles in his throat. My fingers freeze in his hair, and I happen to look down.
“Oh, god,” I gasp at the sight of his erection. My core clenches at the memory of him inside me in Vegas. How fucking good it felt. How right it was.
“Ebba,” he whimpers my name. Fucking whimpers it. I almost beg him repeat it so I can replay it over and over again.
A breath stutters out of me when he pulls me down into his lap. A moan slips past my lips. His erection is thick and hard and with the skirt of my dress shoved up my thighs it presses him right against my sensitive core and my panties aren’t doing a good job of providing any sort of shield.
He takes the scissors from my hand and leans over to place them on the counter, wrapping one arm around my back in the process.
When he settles back against the chair, he reaches up with his free hand to cup my cheek.
What is happening? I scream internally. I should stop this right now.
I should. But I don’t want to.
His thumb strokes gently against my cheek. “Please, tell me I can kiss you?”
I wet my lips again. I worry this might be becoming a nervous habit.
“Ebba?” he prompts softly, taking the hand that’s on my cheek and gliding it down to the back of my neck. “Please?”
I can’t find words. My ability to speak has apparently left me entirely. So, I nod instead.
“Thank fuck.”
His mouth is on mine an instant later. I’m helpless to stop the small moan that leaves me. My whole body practically melts into him. The kiss is mind blowing. No other guy has ever kissed me the way Fisher does. It’s an all-consuming and soul stealing kind of kiss.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing small kisses down the column of my neck before coming back to claim my mouth. “So fucking beautiful it hurts,” he adds, when his lips find my ear.
My hips rock against him seeking more friction as my fingers delve into the now shorter strands of his hair.
“Can you come like this?” he asks, voice breathless and ragged.
My small moan is my only answer, and I feel him smile against my mouth.
His warm hands find my hips, guiding the roll of them against his erection. “Just like that,” he encourages.
He slips one hand between us and the sound that comes out of me is downright embarrassing when he slides my panties to the side and his fingers find the wetness between my thighs.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
I tug harder on his hair, silently begging him to give me more than this. “I haven’t asked you to stop, have I?”
He chuckles at that. “You’re fucking soaked, Ebba. Is all this for me?”
I don’t answer him. I don’t want to admit that it is, but frankly, who else would it be for?
He kisses under my chin. “Come on, baby. Tell me who this is for, or I won’t touch you.”
His fingers slide away, back to rest on my thighs. I mewl in protest. “Touch me, please,” I beg.
“I’m going to ask you again.” He pulls away, cupping the back of my neck so I’m forced to look at him. Both of us are breathless. “Who are you wet for?”
I bite down on my lip. I don’t want to give him what he wants, but if I don’t then I don’t get what I want.
“You.”
He grins, triumphant. “Fuck yes you are.”
He slips his fingers into me, his thumb easily finding my clit. I bite down on my lip, trying to hold back my moan, but he reaches up and pries my lip from between my teeth.
“Don’t you dare. Let me hear what I do to you.”
“Fisher,” I whimper. “Harder, please.”
“Fuck,” he hisses out. “I love it when you beg.” He gives me what I want and I’m helpless to hold back the sounds I make. “You’re close,” he says only a minute, maybe two, later. “I can tell by the way your pussy is squeezing my fingers. Let go, baby. I’m right there with you.”
I cry out, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as I come. My legs tremble slightly and when he slips his fingers free of my body, he licks them clean with a devilish smile before steadying me.
“What about you?” I ask, reaching down to rub his length through his pants. Embarrassment floods me when I realize how damp his pants are.
“I already came,” he says nonchalantly.
“What?” My eyes shoot from his crotch area up to meet his gaze.
“Getting you off, gets me off.”
That’s why his pants are so damp. It’s not just me on them; it’s his release too.
“That was … unexpected,” I admit.
“I certainly didn’t plan it.” He brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Are you sure about that?” I tease, trying to shove down the panic threatening to rise inside me.
“Positive.”
Clearing my throat, I ease off his lap. “I need to finish your hair. Do you … uh … want to change your pants?”
He thinks it over for a moment. “I’ll shower after this to get all the hair off me, so I’ll just wait.”
I have to re-dampen his hair so I can finish trimming it. He doesn’t put his hands on me again, letting me focus entirely on the task.
It might not be the best haircut in the world, but by the time I finish I don’t think it’s the worst either.
Using the hotel’s hair dyer, I make sure that it still looks good dry before I let him take a look. His beard seems a little too thick now that his hair is shorter, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing the way his hand immediately goes to his face.
“It looks great,” he says, running his fingers through the sides of his hair.
I tried to go for the 90s and early 2000s bad boy haircut.
“Do you mind if I shower first?” He tears his under shirt off before he’s finished asking the question.
I jerk my eyes away from his bare chest and meet his knowing blue eyes. “Go for it,” I squeak and practically sprint out of the bathroom.
His laughter carries behind me as I close the door.
I have got to stop letting him get to me. I thought I was stronger than this.