by Susan Stoker
I may have started this day off minus a chunk of my hair, but I’ll be damned if I end it without the addition of the beautiful Bette’s number in my phone.
5
Bette
If it were possible to die of mortification, my family would be writing up my eulogy right now.
It’s one thing dealing with the inappropriateness that is Miss Dottie and her life advice on the regular. When the subject of that advice is standing mere feet away while it’s being dished out, it’s an entirely different ballgame. If it were physically possible to sustain injuries from the heat of a blush, my cheeks would be sporting third-degree burns.
I’ve met my share of athletes—the PSU campus abounds with them—but there’s something different about Eric, or E as he suggested I call him. Sure, he’s hot in a way some would sell their souls for, but it’s the effortless charm that practically oozes off him that has every cell in my body going haywire.
Don’t even get me started on the way he fills out his Nittany Lions football tee, the gray cotton looking almost suctioned to all those bulging muscles of his. Then there’s the could-be-airbrushed-they-are-so-perfectly-shaped abs I got a glimpse of when his shirt rode up, along with the light blond happy trail tempting me to follow it beneath the band of his joggers. Thank you Jesus for the invention of gray sweatpants.
For as much as it would have Miss Dottie whacking me with one of her wooden spoons—never underestimate the power of that utensil in the hands of an Italian woman—the thick, soft, could-run-my-hands-through-it-all-day-and-never-get-bored hair might draw me to him the most.
I wasn’t kidding—mostly—about the Nair shampoo. The culprit responsible for the hack job deserves to suffer some kind of consequence. I have no idea if E is any good at football—well, outside of what it takes to earn a scholarship for a top-tier program like PSU—but if he is one of the few who make it to the big leagues, he’s a perfect candidate for a shampoo endorsement.
He leans back, the chair shifting to allow for a comfortable angle while I wash his hair.
I use the extendable hose on the small sprayer to soak his head. I force myself to focus on working the shampoo into a lather and not the way his lashes, which I notice are a few shades darker than his hair, fan across his cheekbones when his eyes close as I start to scrub his scalp.
It’s a miracle I don’t end up drowning him as I rinse the suds away until there’s that satisfying squeak that only comes from super clean hair. A quick round of conditioner and another chance to watch the light dance over the golden and amber highlights in the strands, and then I’m gently wrapping a towel around his head and rubbing to soak up the excess moisture.
Thankfully Guy is still in the process of applying the color I mixed for him to Miss Dottie’s head, giving me a small reprieve from the peanut gallery’s comments since my chair is in another section. The salon isn’t huge by any stretch of the imagination, but the troublesome twosome would have to shout if they wanted to offer up any of their unwelcome opinions.
Keeping my hands steady enough to actually cut E’s hair is going to be difficult enough without them prodding at my hormones with their suggestions.
The sound of giggling has my attention snapping to the side to see Guy wiping at his chin while waggling his eyebrows and mouthing You’re drooling at me. It’s only then that I realize I’ve been captivated once again by E’s movements as he folds himself into my chair. Geez, he’s graceful. Must be an athlete thing.
Snapping myself out of my daze, I remind myself I’m a freaking professional dammit and whip open a blue cape to drape it around E’s muscular body then secure it behind his neck. It would be comical how much less of his body it covers compared to Miss Dottie’s except all I can think is Hot damn he must be strong given that I need to use one of the last snaps of the strip to not choke him.
With one last rubdown of the towel, I toss the terrycloth onto my station and shamelessly take another opportunity to run my fingers through the wet locks. It’s purely a professional action—promise. How else am I supposed to loosen the tangles before using a fine-toothed comb to work out the rest?
Once again, his eyes are closed, and if I’m not mistaken, I think he’s purring as he pushes into my touch.
My nipples tighten painfully against my bra, a bolt of heat settles into my core, and I have to lift a foot to the pedal I would normally use to raise the seat but don’t have to because he’s so large just to ease the pressure building in my clit. Praise all things Paul Mitchell—why does this feel like foreplay?
“Do you have a preference on the style of your cut?” Is that my voice sounding all husky?
E opens his eyes, those light, not-quite-hazel-but-not-quite-gray irises meeting mine in the reflection of the mirror. I shift my weight, cursing under my breath at the pink hue I see my skin take on as the air sizzles between us.
“As long as I don’t look like I let a drunken toddler cut it, I couldn’t care less.”
A different type of excitement flows through my bloodstream. One would think it would be the female clientele that is pickier when it comes to being creative with their hair, but the male opinions on the topic would surprise you.
“Are you saying I have carte blanche?” It takes every single ounce of self-control I have not to bounce on my toes in glee at the possibility.
Those wide shoulders shrug, the material of the cape rolling like a wave with the movement. “As long as you don’t buzz it down completely…sure.”
I gasp. “I would never. That’s a crime against beauty.”
“What?” He barks out a laugh, and damn if that smile isn’t even more lethal up close.
“I don’t want to offend your manly prowess or anything, but you have gorgeous hair. It’s bad enough I’m going to have to cut as much of it as I do to fix this hack job.” I make scissors with my fingers, pinching the hair on either side of his scalp between them, the strands on the left noticeably shorter and barely showing through my fingers.
“I have a little sister,” he explains. His smile softens as it takes on an affectionate edge, but that doesn’t take away from its wattage. No, all it does is make the urge to straddle him where he sits stronger. “I learned long ago to let go of my manly prowess.”
“How old?” I fiddle around with my instruments, selecting my favorite pair of scissors and knocking off the excess Barbicide from a comb to keep from following through on this new unprofessional instinct.
“Thirteen.”
This time I can’t help but meet his grin with one of my own. “Oh, it can’t be that bad then. She probably looks at you with hero worship.”
“Hero worship….yeah right.” He snorts, shifting around until his knees are manspread. “When she saw my hair earlier during our video chat, she told me I better use my day off to get it fixed because I was already an embarrassment. Here I was looking for comfort in my time of need and the brat kicks me when I’m down, ragging on me for fumbling yesterday when it wasn’t my fault the ball was slippery as fu—hell thanks to the rain.”
I don’t know what’s sweeter: the fact that he cut himself off from cursing in front of me or the goofy expression talking about his sibling brings out. It’s clear his family is very important to him.
He’s been in my chair for over five minutes and I’ve yet to get started. Another glance to the side and the set of knowing smirks directed my way tell me I’m not the only one to make this observation. I double-check with E that he’s cool with me choosing his cut and spring into action.
For the next twenty minutes, I convince myself learning about my clients and their lives is typical. That I’m not latching onto the smallest detail and committing it to memory. That I’m not charmed by the way he doesn’t shy away from the more self-deprecating stories. And I most certainly don’t have to stop, pausing with the scissors about to cut to wrap an arm around my middle when I learn this wasn’t his first unfortunate encounter with a buzzer.
With the bulk of his
haircut done, I move around in front of him, swallowing down my attraction, and step into the space between his spread knees.
I’ve taken this position countless times to check the hair is even, but the second I do it today, I know I’ve made a tactical error. I’m acutely aware of how surrounded I am by all things Eric.
Warmth and heat radiate off of him and into me. The sweet smell of soap and grass filling my nostrils causes me to shift just slightly closer. Gooseflesh overtakes my arms, each short hair on them and the back of my neck standing at attention.
Hands cupping each side of his head, I spread my fingers out as a reference of measurement and stretch my thumbs down to tilt his chin that much higher. The new angle makes it easier for me to gauge the haircut is spot-on, but it also brings his lips within kissing distance. It would take barely any movement from me to learn what he tastes like.
His lips…are right there.
They’re full.
Layered with a slight shine from when his tongue ran over them a few moments ago. That sight was almost enough for me to snip the tip of my finger off with my insanely sharp scissors.
There’s the most alluring hint of stubble surrounding his mouth that I bet would leave a burn only those lips could soothe away.
I blink. Then blink again as I back away from temptation.
His hair is perfect, but I itch to add the special touch I’m known for.
I wonder…
“She wants to do it.”
“Totally.”
“Look at how twisted her fingers are.”
“Do you think she’ll have the guts to ask?”
“Not a chance.”
“You do know I can hear you both, right?” I snap at the two Nosey Nellys gossiping in the corner.
“We know!” they singsong in unison. Typical.
The rustle of fabric moving draws my attention back to the instigator of the discussion to see E’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
“Something you’d like to add to the trouble twins back there?” I ask.
“Nope.” He punctuates his statement with a head shake. “But I am curious to learn what they think you’re too scared to ask me.”
6
Eric
Based on both the teasing and the obvious nerves about asking, I thought Bette’s question would be something far more serious than if she could etch designs on the side of my head. Thank God that’s all she asked for because, unbeknownst to her, I would have given her anything.
Moms Taylor, I know you’re up there pulling all the hopeless romantic strings your fellow angels have with how easily smitten I am right now, and I also blame you for knowing to use the word smitten.
Despite my ass going numb, spending another thirty minutes in Bette’s salon chair isn’t exactly a hardship, and the end result is sick. My previously wayward and lopsided locks are now even in a crisp undercut that has the top just long enough to flop forward or be slicked back. What really has me gawking in the mirror is the nothing-short-of-artwork that is the Nittany Lion logo and the 87 (my number) shaved on either side of my skull.
“Holy shit.” I’ve spent no less than an entire minute tracing around the delicate detailing.
“You like?” Bette’s question sounds unsure, but there’s an edge of smugness to the curl of her lips. Based on the evidence, it’s more than well deserved.
“Like? Fuck…if we win this week, you’re going to have most of the team in here looking for you to do them too.” It’s only after the words leave my mouth that I realize how that came out.
Bette blushes again and Miss Dottie mutters a “That’s what she said” while I borrow a move from my sister and roll my eyes at myself.
Much to my disappointment, as soon as Bette walks me to the front counter to pay, she disappears into the back of the salon. Resting my elbows on the glass top, I drum my fingers, my foot tapping as indecision wars within me.
Fuck it!
Not bothering to wait for Laura to finish processing my payment, I stalk through the salon, weaving my way through the stations until I come to the door Bette disappeared behind.
With more force than necessary given that it’s ajar, I push it the rest of the way open, the bang of it hitting the wall causing Bette to whirl around in shock.
Her wide eyes and dropped jaw give me zero pause.
Two steps and I’m in front of her.
One slide of the foot has mine sandwiched between hers, and another has my legs bracketing hers.
A shift forward has us breathing the same oxygen.
That earlier possessive thrum increases to a steady, powerful beat of mine-mine-mine.
Hair soft as silk cascades over my wrists as I thread a hand into her loose waves at the base of her skull until I have her gripped firmly at the nape.
I don’t blink as I hold her gaze, slowing my movements as I use my free hand to tip her chin until her face is angled up to mine.
One more breath and I seal my mouth over hers, bliss washing over me in an instant. My mind races, my heart beating a cadence I’ve never experienced as my soul is the one to recognize this for what it truly is. This is it. We’ve met our match.
Bette yields under my kiss, her lips pillowing against mine, opening as my tongue licks across the seam.
In and out our tongues stroke, the sweet taste of coffee and something inherently Bette consuming my taste buds as I swallow down her soft sighs of pleasure.
Arms loop around my neck, and when Bette presses up onto her toes, I drop my arm from under her chin to hook it around her middle, crushing her to me fully. She’s all soft curves to my hard edges. My ideal counterpart.
Just…
Perfection.
I use my teeth to trap her bottom lip and suck it into my mouth, laving across the flesh to soothe away the sting, the tiny whimper rolling in the back of her throat causing my dick to go from half-hard to full-on goal post imagining all the different sounds I could pull out of her if I had her under me.
On and on we kiss. Nothing outside of us matters in the least.
My fingers flex around her head and her side, her physical presence the only thing keeping me anchored in this moment.
The need for more than mere sips of oxygen has us breaking apart, and Bette slowly lowers down from her tiptoed position. Another flex deepens the cradle hold I have on her head, and I meet her lust-blown gaze with what I’m sure is one of my own.
Absentmindedly, I bring a hand up, running it along the swollen flesh of my lower lip as I try to find a way to process what the hell just happened.
7
Bette
After kissing me stupid—or at least to the point that I was incapable of actual speech—in the color room, E helped himself to my phone, inputting his number and making sure to send himself a text so he would have mine, and then he left with a promise to call.
Now I’m sure you’re asking yourself…well? Did he?
Oh, boy. Let me tell you…
Holy crap did he call.
And text.
And sleuth out my class schedule and coffee preference in order to surprise me around campus with it.
Six weeks. It’s been six blissful, storybook, romantic comedy, swoon-worthy weeks of—what Miss Dottie calls—courtship. It was wholly unexpected but absolutely charming.
I thought I was crazy attempting to work close to full-time hours while taking a full course load, but damn…E’s schedule puts mine to shame. Between his classes, practices, workouts, team meetings, and games, I have no idea how he’s managed to find time to date me, but he has.
The first time E invited me over to the house he shares with a handful of his teammates off campus, I assumed it was going to be one of those Netflix and chill nights Guy loves to tease me about not having. It wasn’t. Instead of spending the night not watching whatever show we put on, I spent it wrist-deep in haircuts. It may not have been the entire roster of the Nittany Lion football team, but his roommates all needed their own cu
stom shavings.
Since then we’ve gone bowling, played pool, and even on occasion shared an entire meal without any of his roommates around. At first, I thought his old-school approach to dating was a refreshing change, but after a month and a half of only making out with a side of dry-humping, I’m close to throwing myself on the fifty-yard line naked if it means we can finally get to the good stuff.
I think I’ve singlehandedly helped the execs at Energizer hit their yearly bonuses with the number of batteries I’ve gone through trying to fulfill the ache only Eric Dennings can satisfy.
I’m hoping the new step I’m taking in our relationship today—attending my first ever PSU football game—leads to that final physical push.
Dad was shocked when I told him I wouldn’t be spending all of Thanksgiving break at home, but he approved when he learned the reason. The fact that E FaceTimed me with his family—who rented an Airbnb in College Town to see him for the holiday—went a long way toward earning him bonus points with mine.
I tried to tell E I know next to nothing about football, but all he did was chuckle in this sexy way that had all my girly bits offering themselves up for tribute and tell me he’d take care of it.
Now days later I still have no clue what he meant about it. This is what I do know:
1. There was a package with a blue home jersey and a PSU football hoodie (both with E’s number printed on them) waiting for me when I returned to my dorm.
2. Along with the wardrobe update was a ticket to the game.
3. I think the ticket attendant at Beaver Stadium questioned my sanity due to the “Are you fucking kidding?” I shouted at him when he told me my seat was actually in one of the suites and not in the student section as I assumed.
