Colleen Collins - Building a Bad Boy

“Oh, no, that’s all right—”

“I insist. Because afterward, you’ll never ask me to grow my hair again.”

“Okay,” she whispered, reaching toward his scalp. She became aware of his scent—a citrusy aftershave. And she tried not to be overly aware that this mountain of a man, dressed in nothing but black stretchy briefs, was bending over in what looked like a bowing position.

For a moment, she felt like Anna taming the King of Siam.

And then her fingertips brushed lightly over his scalp, the connection warm, solid. She gasped and withdrew her fingers.

“No, touch me,” Nigel insisted.

“I did,” she said shakily.

He straightened a little, his blue eyes firing her a look. “That wasn’t a touch.” He gently took her hand and, bending down a little, placed it full on his bare scalp.

Her heart raced like a schoolgirl’s as her palm pressed against his head, her fingers resting on smooth skin over hard skull. Back here, tucked away in a curtained room, pressing flesh to flesh, she suddenly felt as though they were doing something secretive, forbidden.

“It feels so…” She breathed in and out, her chest rising with the effort. “…silky, yet hard.” She swallowed back a nervous sound, realizing how what she’d just said must sound.

Nigel still held her hand, his grip confident, warm. “Run your fingers over the surface,” he said in a low voice that rumbled from deep within the mountain.

For a split second, she thought about lying and saying, oh, no, no, she’d felt enough, thank you. But in that blip of time, he started to guide her hand slowly, trailing her fingers in lazy paths over the sleek, pink dome.

“See?” he said, his voice low and husky. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

She murmured something in the affirmative, not trusting herself to form coherent words. The pounding of her heart had escalated to a pagan beat, pulsing loudly over the piped-in music.

Nigel straightened, slowly, causing her hand to slide ever so gently off his bare head and drift down the side of his face. Her fingers touched the bristle of his unshaven face.

As he straightened to his full height, her hand slid to his chest. She paused on the thick carpet of chest hair, feeling his heat through her fingertips.

After several long moments, as though awakening from a dream, she slowly withdrew her hand and stepped back through the curtain, her last image being the big, nearly naked man whose simmering blue eyes looked at her as though he’d discovered far more than she had in that sensual interlude.

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