This was just...awesome.
The water in the shower kicked on, and my grin died a sudden death. All I could picture was him...naked and wet, slicking the very soap I’d bought onto parts I’d never get to see...or touch. I wanted to be his hands so bad right now, smoothing their way up his muscled abs, or soaping his hair. Damn. This wasn’t awesome at all. He was torturing me without even knowing it.
Asher Hart didn’t need some fancy seduction to draw a woman in. He just had to be himself for me to want him. Bad.
I ended up letting Remy style my hair. I have no idea why; I knew he’d just been joking about that. But it’d been fun to tease around with him, and I needed a distraction, because truth be told, I was a little nervous about tonight.
Performing at Forbidden had become comfortable and predictable. I loved it, but I knew if we were ever going to grow, we needed to branch out. So...here was to new-and-terrifying experiments.
Gel-styled hair included.
Sticks jabbered the whole time, altering his voice to sound like one of those flaming hairstylists from old eighties movies and making his wrist limp when he flung out a hand. “Don’t you worry, darling, we’ll make you look just marvelous.”
“Shut up, asshole.” I punched at his knee, though he jumped back in time, dodging me. “Just do your thing.”
So he’d gooped his hand with that gel crap and sunk all ten fingers into my hair.
I closed my eyes and tried not to enjoy it too much. But...fuck. For someone who wasn’t raised by the touchy-feely kind of parents and then by an uncle who was the exact same way, even the slightest human contact was like complete carnal awareness for me. And he really had to torture me by working slowly, gently tugging at my scalp with these rhythmic pulls that forced me to swallow down a moan of delight.
It reminded me I hadn’t really been touched, aside from friendly jostles or pats on the shoulders from friends, in months. It made me crave sex, body against body, hands and lips caressing, mouths full of breasts and fingers buried deep in tight, wet—
When Sticks said something about how amazed he was by the lack of split ends, I jumped in surprise, suddenly remembering he was the one touching me.
“You about done?” I asked, moodily shifting my weight around on the closed toilet lid.
His hands in my hair suddenly felt way too personal. Even the women I slept with didn’t play with my hair this much. They’d been known to grip it when they were coming, but after that, it was no use to them. I wasn’t too sure how to deal with Remy being so familiar with it. And I’d never in a million years admit I liked how it felt when he messed with it.
“Geez, impatient much?” He pulled his hands free, and I almost whimpered from the loss of his touch. After picking up the comb, he did a little swishy thing here and there and then stepped back. “There. Perfection.” Grinning proudly, he motioned toward the mirror. “What do you think?”
I stood and checked out my reflection. He’d fashioned it all to flare up and off to one side in a somewhat messy fashion, but it was like a controlled kind of chaos. I looked like a freaking rock star. But then, I guess that was the idea. “It’s...”
“Sexy as hell,” Remy confirmed, earning a glower from me. But he shrugged, nonplussed. “Yeah, you thought you had a lot of women crawling all over you before. Just wait until tonight, boy. That beautiful mess is going to bring all the girls to the yard.”
I laughed, but the mention of women made me think of sex again.
It reminded me how long it’d been since I’d gotten laid, and a pulsing heat spread through my dick. Then my mind went into über caveman mode, thinking of nothing but *. And thrusting.
Damn. This was getting bad. I really needed to do something about this.
Grunting out something—I’m not even sure what—I escaped the bathroom and gathered up my wallet and keys. “I’m going to scout out the area, find out how close we are to the club. Then it’ll probably be about time to head out. Bathroom’s all yours, man.”
He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, watching me. When all he said was, “Okay,” a strange unease claimed me, as if I should do more, or know more, or hell, I don’t even know. I just didn’t feel right. So I ran. “Thanks again for...you know.” I motioned to my hair and hurried out the door.
I stayed away longer than I probably should have, but at least I learned the lay of the land, and when I returned to gather up the band, I was able to drive us straight to our destination without getting lost.
With Gally’s jabbering and Holden’s loud silence, the weirdness I’d experienced earlier with Sticks dissipated, and I was able to think about the actual gig. While we waited backstage for our time to start—because this place actually had a backstage—Sticks cracked his neck and hopped on the balls of his feet, as if preparing for a race or something.