by Dawn Atkins
She’d just finished frosting the bread and the last of the water had sizzled into the decanter, when the garage door opened, signaling Jackson’s return. Her heart pounded with anticipation and she fought to keep her smile from spreading beyond a reasonable greeting. She still had it bad.
He walked in, a plastic shopping bag hanging from one hand, and sniffed. “Cinnamon bread?” He sounded eager as a child.
“All for you. To apologize for how I’ve been acting.”
“And I got this for you.” He held out the sack, emblazoned with the burgundy and gold logo of ASU. Inside, she found three psychology textbooks marked used. “From the bookstore. Assigned by the psych professors. These three looked interesting.” He seemed almost shy. “So you can get a head start.”
“Jackson. That’s so sweet of you…” Her throat tightened with emotion, so she bent her head to flip through the pages of the first book. “I can’t wait to dig in.” What a good man he was, supporting her dream, when she’d barely realized she’d been neglecting it herself. Here he was, backing her play.
She looked into his beaming face. “I have something else for you. I thought I would do…your hair.”
“Do my what?” Heat spiked in his eyes.
“Your h-hair.” She stumbled over the words, caught off guard by the sexual reminder. “Give you the treatment I promised the first day, remember? Hot oil?”
“Oh, I remember.”
“To keep your hair tuned up?” She smiled, trying to make a joke when she was feeling the same heat she saw in his face.
“I don’t know, Heidi….”
“I’m all set up.” She gestured toward the sink where the stool waited and the countertop with her equipment. “And I’ll give you a haircut afterward.”
“A haircut…?” He swallowed hard. “That would be…nice.” He sounded as though he longed for it, and dreaded it, too. “Where do you want me?”
How about the table? Shove that cinnamon bread out of the way. Except maybe the frosting would be fun… They’d forgotten to try sex with food. “Right here,” she said, patting the stool by the sink with a shaky hand. “Shampoo first so the oil will absorb better.”
He sat on the stool and she unfolded a towel for his shoulders to keep his shirt dry.
Instead, he crossed his arms at the hem and whipped it up and off. There was his naked chest, muscles shivering as he tossed the shirt to the floor. She went rubbery at the sight, just like that first day when she’d polished his best shirt.
“Sure…why not? We can do it that way,” she mumbled, rolling the towel into a pad for his neck, avoiding the luscious sight.
He leaned back on the towel and she reached past his head to turn on the water, aware that her breasts were inches from his face. She could feel him staring at them, wanting them. Doing his hair had sounded simple and thoughtful when she’d decided to do it, but now she saw it would be torture. All she could think of was his lips moving the millimeters necessary to take her nipple through her top.
After dreadful seconds, the water was hot and she turned the sprayer onto Jackson’s dry hair, running her fingers through the thick strands.
“Mmm,” he said.
She risked a glance and saw that his eyes were closed, his face soft with the pleasure of the warm water on his scalp.
She relaxed a little, applied shampoo, scrubbing deep with her nails, then massaging his scalp with her finger pads.
“Nice,” he murmured, then opened his eyes, catching her gaze. “No one’s ever washed my hair before.”
That fact touched her, but she strove to sound sensible. “That’s too bad. It’s so good for you. It stimulates…the roots.”
“You bet it does.” But he meant something else and her breath hitched and her fingers trembled. She pushed on, scrubbed harder, settling herself.
“Ow…easy there.”
“Sorry.” She slowed down before she scraped off his scalp altogether and focused on what she wanted from Jackson. “I have an idea you can help with.”
“Yeah?”
“The new numbers the girls are working on require great music, you know.” She felt him shift gears.
“I’ll put some pieces together. No problem.”
“I’m thinking live music would be better—more theatrical—and the girls agree.”
“Live music?”
“Yes.” She rinsed his hair, using the spray nozzle.
“Mmm.” He released a deep sigh of pleasure. He’d never be more vulnerable than right now. This was the perfect opportunity for Jackson to do what he really wanted to do. She’d just give him a little push.
“So, I thought, why not get your studio guys together…with the singer, too?”
“You want me to…?” Obviously sluggish from what she was doing to his hair, it took him a second to figure out what she was asking. “Huh? You mean get Heather at Moons? She’d never go for that.”
“If she sees the routines, she might.” She worked the water through, shampoo swirling down the drain. “It’s not stripping so much. It’s more of a revue, really. The idea is to bring in couples, not just men. And live music is just the edge we need.”
“I haven’t talked to Heather about working with the guys, let alone about singing in a topless club.”
“So, now you have a reason to talk to her. It would mean so much to the girls….”
She felt him ponder the idea, struggling against the soothing water and her fingers on his skull. She kept the water going a little longer, maintaining the trance, she hoped.
Eventually she had to ask him to sit up. She wrapped a towel around his head and went to warm the measuring cup of oil in the microwave, holding her breath for his next words.
“Heather is between gigs,” he mused. “I do know that.”
She brought the oil to where he sat, set it on the counter and stepped between his legs to pat the excess moisture from his hair with the towel. “Sounds perfect.”
Water trickled down his chest, tempting her to lick it off. How had they missed sex in the kitchen? Kitchens were sexy places. Of course, with Jackson, every room was sexy. She sighed, fighting to focus on her purpose. “Nevada’s choreography is amazing. She’ll like that.”
“The guys will, too, no doubt.”
She drizzled the thick liquid onto the top of his head, spreading it with her fingers, inhaling the soothing rosemary scent.
“Oh, God.” He closed his eyes.
His voice made her melt like the oil. She imagined trickling it onto his chest and arms, whipping off her top and rubbing herself all over him. Why, oh why, hadn’t she thought of oil or massage even? They’d missed so many options.
And now, here she stood between his legs, hands covered in oil, unable to do anything about it. Jackson’s hands rested on his knees. He could grab her hips in an instant and yank her close. Come here, he would say in a hoarse voice….
What he did say was, “Are you about done there?”
“Just about,” she said, gratified that he felt the same tension she struggled with.
She fetched plastic wrap and approached, tearing it off as she came.
“What’s that for?” He raised his brows in wicked query.
“To keep the heat in while the oil soaks.”
“You’re wrapping my head in plastic?”
“To make your hair healthy and lush. Trust me.”
“I do. You’re the only person who could talk me into this.” His voice held wonder and confusion. “And just about anything else you want.”
She moved between his legs again and began covering his head, trying not to shake too badly.
He gripped her hips to steady her and she almost gave up and dropped into his lap. Instead, she asked, “So you’ll do it?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll do it,” he breathed, lifting his gaze to her mouth. I’ll do anything you want.
She felt dizzy and unsteady on her feet, so she forced herself to focus on the plan. “That’s great, Jackson. T
he girls will be thrilled. And I’m sure Heather will see what good exposure this will mean. I think we can do media and everything…” She babbled on about the possibilities as the heat between them slowly dissipated.
“You’ve had your way with me again, haven’t you?” Jackson said finally, giving her a weak version of his smart-ass grin.
“Not quite,” she said, “but it will have to do.” Beyond Jackson, she noticed the books he’d bought her. A reminder of her real goal, her purpose for being here. Stick to the plan. “While this soaks, how about some coffee and cinnamon bread?”
“You had me at the first whiff,” he said.
She sliced bread and poured coffee and they talked about the new routines and the music the dancers needed. The scene was unnervingly domestic, intellectually stimulating and sexually tense, all at the same time. Her brain felt tied in knots. To calm herself, she sipped slowly, focused closely on the musky taste, the warm moisture, the mug against her fingers.
Jackson stared at Heidi while she sucked coffee with those luscious lips, groaning inside. The woman was killing him. All the while she was running her fingers over his scalp, pouring hot oil in his hair, he’d become so dazed she had him starting a band, getting a singer—drummer, too—and, while he was at it, maybe writing some music.
He watched her lick frosting from the tip of her finger, wiggling in her chair, and went soft inside. She was saying something about contacting the entertainment reviewers and writing news releases, but he could only watch her running her pink tongue around her finger and fight the urge to lunge across the table and grab her. He had to get out of here. He realized she’d asked a question. “Huh?”
“I said, don’t you think an ad would help?” She leaned closer, which squeezed her breasts onto her forearms. Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?
“Duke will never agree to a new ad,” he said, but he had to clear his throat to get the words out.
She blinked those big eyes at him. “Too bad.”
“Maybe we add copy to the regular one,” he choked out. “I could talk Duke into that.”
“That’s great,” she breathed, pushing to her feet and moving to the sink. “Let’s rinse out and do the cut.”
He moved to the stool again.
“Lie back for me,” she said softly.
Oh, yeah. Lie back, sit up, go down, roll over. He’d get in any position she wanted him. And there were her fingers on him again and warm water and her nipples inches away. Jeez. There seemed to be some direct wiring from the top of his head to his cock and it was shooting off electricity in hot bursts. He could only hope she wouldn’t ask him for anything else—the Aston Martin, his last dime, his first born—or he’d give it to her and then some. Bad enough he’d promised her a band, for chrissake.
A band he hadn’t even put together.
He closed his eyes and fought hot desire, keeping his hands on his knees, like the men at Moons getting a lap dance. No touching. Absolutely no touching.
He made it through the washing and rinsing, but then it was the haircut, his fantasy come to life. Her fingers felt so good on his scalp. And she ran the comb through his hair while he stared at her nipples through the flowery top she’d worn the day they met. He wanted to taste them.
Scritch, scritch. The scissors snipped the hair near his ear and bits of hair slid down his body like her eyelashes when she went down on him.
Stop it. Think baseball. Think two strikes, three balls.
Make that blue balls.
She smelled so damn good this close. And her breath was sweet on his face. She stood between his legs again. He could close his thighs on her and she’d sit on his lap and he would touch her and she would squeal…and there was more of that hot oil over there. Man. Ripping off her little top, smearing the hot stuff so she was slick and slippery, sliding over him, sliding into her body where she was slick from a whole other kind of liquid. Too bad he hadn’t thought of oil when they were still doing it. He hadn’t cared about anything fancy when he was with her. He just wanted her.
He still did. He liked having her here. Baking him bread, sitting at the table talking things over. That could be nice. Or maybe it was just the sex. It’s over, you big, dumb lug. That’s how Autumn would put it.
Snip, snip, tickle, tickle. She wiggled in front of him, her fingers flicking, comb flying, bits of hair fluttering down his chest. She leaned forward and her thigh brushed his erection.
She froze, scissors poised and her eyes hooked his in that way they always had, like invisible cholla spines. “This is hard,” she murmured. She looked right at his lap and he got harder. “I miss…”
Sex. She meant sex. “Yeah. Me, too.” But it was a dead end. A problem. And she had to move on.
To someone else. Another guy. The thought zapped his hard-on like a bucket of ice in his lap. He had to make sure she’d be safe. “You will be careful, right?”
“Huh?” She stopped midsnip and looked at him. “Careful about what?”
“Make sure he’s a decent guy, I mean?”
“Excuse me?”
“Any guy would be happy to be with you—believe me—but don’t just—”
“Screw the first guy I meet? Like I did with you? Is that what you’re saying?” She sounded pissed and amused at the same time.
“You know what I mean. You’re not the kind of woman who sleeps around. You need a solid citizen. A guy with a regular nine-to-five and a future.”
“I know what I want, Jackson. I can pick my own lovers, thank you.”
Something about that bothered him, so he said something stupid. “I just don’t want you getting into trouble on my watch.”
“On your…what?” She dropped the hank of hair she’d been trimming and it fell in his eyes. “I’ve already got two worrywart brothers. I don’t need a third.” She yanked up the comb full of hair, jerking his head up.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.” Snip, snip, whack, yank. No more slow tugs or sexy snnnnick, snnnnicks. Now she was doing a time trial of a haircut. She was pissed.
He’d done it again—said the wrong thing.
In the nick of time.
FIVE DAYS LATER, Heidi sat with Jackson and watched Jasmine, Nevada and Autumn work through the new routines for “Let Us Entertain You,” which was what they’d named their revue. Duke was due in a couple of hours to “check out this burlesque business,” so the girls were desperate to put on a good performance.
They were doing a seven-veils dance, using practice scarves until Jasmine finished the actual costumes, and Heidi thought the moves were genius—erotic, athletic and dreamlike. “This is so much better than the usual routines,” she said to Jackson. “It’s sexy, not vulgar. Women customers will love it.” They hadn’t stopped talking about the project since the hot-oil treatment, cinnamon-bread incident.
Jackson just grinned.
The band was improvising a Middle Eastern sound with a heavy calypso rhythm. “And the music is incredible. You really came through, Jax.” Heather sang scat, high and haunting. “And Heather’s amazing.”
“I still can’t believe her reaction to singing in a strip club. She thinks it’s trippy, can you believe that?” He shook his head, still smiling.
“The drummer’s great. I know you had to do some fast talking to get him.”
“He’s pretty laid-back, but we’ll see how it works out.”
“They sound great together, Jackson.”
“Yeah.” He sighed contentedly. He’d been livelier and chattier than she’d ever seen him, making her even more proud she’d pushed him to do this.
“Hold it!” Nevada barked at Autumn and Jasmine, who stopped, grateful it seemed for a breather, since Nevada had been working them hard. “Legato on the keyboard,” Nevada said to the musicians, “but keep the drums big. More bells, too.” She sounded so sure of what she was saying that no one questioned her, not even the exhausted dancers.
“You go, girl,” Heidi whispered.
>
Jackson snorted. “I’ve never seen Nevada this…”
“Alive? Driven?”
“No. Bitchy. She’ll hit her stride, I hope. Right now she’s fired up and freaked.”
“This is what she always wanted to do, so of course she’s enthusiastic.”
“I’m surprised that Jasmine and Autumn are taking it without backtalk. They’re never this—”
“Responsible? Dedicated?”
“No. Wimpy. But that, too.” He gave another happy sigh.
“You know what we are, Jackson, you and me? Impresarios.”
“Is it contagious? Or illegal?”
“We’re entertainment producers. I’m proud of us.”
“It’s all you, Heidi. You started this. And it’s all good.”
His smile lit his eyes with pride. Working on the project together had been fun. She felt surprisingly close to him and they hadn’t slipped and had sex once. Darn it. “Duke won’t shut them down, will he?” she asked, her next worry.
“Not if we present it right. Relax.” He patted her knee. The simple gesture of assurance warmed her entire leg.
She was slow to look away and he was slow to notice.
The dancers moved on to the next number, “Dance of the Phoenix,” based on the myth of the bird rising from the ashes. All three had fairly complex moves, including cartwheels and splits and a three-person flip.
They were deep into the song when the outside door opened. Sunlight flared, turning the velvet illusion of the bar into a sad gray until the door closed again.
“Shit. Duke’s early,” Jackson said, and they watched him head their way carrying stapled papers. He didn’t look happy.
Heidi’s stomach knotted.
“Let me do the talking,” Jackson said, leaning close to her ear, almost overriding her nervousness with the pleasure of his nearness.
Duke sat in the chair to Jackson’s left and shoved the papers across the table at him. “What’s with all the cash to Wilson Construction?”
