Heaven.
I’d always loved that, someone playing with my hair which was why, when Tate did it the night before, I could relax and fall asleep watching TV with my head on his stomach. In Phoenix, I went to a particular salon and paid extra just because they gave fifteen minute head massages when they shampooed your hair.
I melted into him and tilted my head forward.
“That feels nice,” I whispered.
He didn’t reply, just kept washing my hair then he gently moved me under the spray, using his big hands on either side of my head to tip it back, his fingers gliding through my hair to get the soap out.
Then he moved me back out of the spray.
Not even thinking, I tipped my head back and informed him, “I wash twice, then condition.”
He dipped his bearded chin, grinned at me, dipped it further, touched his mouth to mine then he washed my hair again and, after, massaged in conditioner.
I was deep in a mellow zone, again out of mind, when Tate turned me to face the spray and I felt his soapy hands moving on me. They were everywhere and I just stood there, his front pressed to my back, and gloried in his slick, wet, soapy hands gliding along my skin.
Then one glided between my legs and stayed there while the other glided to my breast and cupped it.
My eyes opened and I blinked against the spray hitting my face.
“Tate,” I whispered.
He didn’t respond except his finger and thumb rolled my nipple.
My conditioner covered head fell back and hit his shoulder.
“Tate,” I breathed.
The fingers of both his hands moved and he took me there again, this time it took longer but it was no less fabulous. When I came, my hips bucked, my body jolted, my legs went weak and Tate’s hand at my breast became an arm wrapped around my ribs to hold me up.
As I came down, I did it with Tate holding me close to his body, arm still wrapped around my ribs, his other hand cupping my sex and when I was steady on my legs again, he turned me and his fingers went back into my hair to rinse out the conditioner.
When done, he pulled me out of the spray, switched our positions so his back was to it and I was out of it and his arms went around me, bringing me close.
I tipped my head back to look at him.
“Get out, finish gettin’ ready,” he ordered softly.
I could do nothing but agree. “Okay,” I whispered.
He grinned, touched his mouth to mine again, let me go and turned to the spray.
I got out but stilled with my hand on the curtain when I saw the gigantic black ink eagle, its wingspan covering Tate’s back from the bottom of his right lateral muscle sweeping up his left lat and over his shoulder with the body of the bird painted on a slant across his back, lat and even curling around his side. The other wing, I knew, curled over his shoulder, going down his arm and partly down his chest to his pectoral. His left shoulder was covered in glorious ink, his right was naked.
It was extraordinary and somehow sexy and I felt my legs get weak at the sight.
His hands were lifted to press the water through his hair then he reached for the dregs of the little shampoo bottle.
I resolutely shoved the curtain closed.
I grabbed a towel and ran into the bedroom. I quickly toweled off, rubbed the wet out of my hair and wrapped the towel around me. I eschewed lotioning. Indiana was a moist climate, I could get away without lotion. Colorado, even in a freak out to get dressed before Tate got out of the shower, I’d consider it.
I went to my suitcase which Tate had clearly moved back to the luggage rack this morning because, thankfully, it was there. I pawed through it lamenting Wendy and my shop-a-thon where, in throes of ecstasy that I was two sizes smaller, I bought nothing but sexy undies and threw away every piece of underwear I’d owned.
My choices were baby pink with ecru lace; fire engine red with black lace, full on black; sage green with taupe lace; it went on – but nothing unsexy.
Darn!
I grabbed the sage green, tugged the panties on under the towel and then whipped off the towel and frantically put on the bra because I heard the shower go off. I was wrapping the towel back around me when Tate walked out of the bathroom with another one wrapped around his waist.
My eyes went to him and I marveled at the fact that he looked fantastic with wet hair. Then again that wet hair came with a full on view of his bare chest and broad shoulders and that chest and those shoulders would look good with a head on top of it that had wet hair, dry hair or no hair.
His eyes came to me and slid down the towel.
He looked back at my face. “That as far as you got?”
“I had an underwear selection to make,” I explained and my voice sounded weirdly breathy.
He grinned again and before I knew what he was about, he gripped the edge of my towel and whipped it off.
I gasped and made a grab for the towel.
Tate tossed the towel on the bed, captured me with hands at my waist, tilted me back and took a long look.