Текст книги "Unmasked: Volume One"
Автор книги: Cassia Leo
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Chapter Three
All week long, I lie on the sofa recuperating, staring at the door, waiting for someone to kick it down and arrest me for killing Shorty. Or turning him into a vegetable. But it never happens.
So I’m left to wonder in silence about Detective Rousseau. Poring over every detail of our conversation in my apartment, and every detail of the doctor visit to Highland Medical Clinic on Wilshire Blvd. Though it was hard to maintain my usual level of alertness with my anxiety level skyrocketing.
Highland seemed like a legit clinic on the outside. Inside, it looked like a typical doctor’s office: dingy industrial carpet, uncomfortable vinyl chairs, a few small tables displaying magazines from a time when the La Brea tar pits were free of mammoths.
I approached the plexiglass window, my heart pulsing in every inch of my weakened body. My stab wound throbbing, reminding me that I couldn’t just turn around and walk out. For the first time since I left home, I needed help.
I introduced myself to the receptionist, keeping my head down, hoping she couldn’t see the streaks of makeup that inevitably turn up on my collar. I whispered Rousseau’s name and it’s as if I just told them I was Princess Diana. They had a wheelchair waiting for me just inside the door leading to the back office area. The receptionist rolled it out into the waiting room for me. A medical assistant in purple scrubs held the door open while the receptionist rolled me into a corridor leading to an examination room.
She tried to help me out of the wheelchair, but I held up my hand to stop her. “I can do it myself, thanks.”
Moving carefully, I climbed up onto the examination table. Gritting my teeth and trying not to let the pain show in my face. By the time I looked up, the doctor was already in the room. They weren’t going to make me wait.
“Good morning, Alex. I’m Dr. Grossman.” She holds her delicate hand out to me and I wince a little when I reach forward to shake. “Would you mind lying back so I can take a look at that injury?”
I don’t ask how she knows I’m injured. I figure Rousseau probably called ahead to give her a heads up. Maybe threatened to put a bullet in her Ivy league brain if she didn’t treat me well.
Dr. Grossman’s silver hair falls softly over her shoulder as she tips her head to the side. Watching me curiously as I painfully move backward on the table. Unlike the receptionist, she doesn’t attempt to help me or ask if I need assistance. She also doesn’t ask me to remove my hood or sunglasses. Rousseau must have been quite forthcoming with her.
Once I’m supine on the vinyl examination table, she comes to my side and reaches for the bottom of my black hoodie. I feel vulnerable and my anxiety is multiplying. In this harsh lighting, at this close range, she’ll see the industrial makeup on my face and neck. With the overhead lights shining down on my sunglasses, she may even see through the lenses.
“Alex, I’m going to ask you to please try to remain calm. Take a few slow, deep breaths. Can you do that for me?”
My chest trembles as I draw in a long breath. Then I let it out and there’s the unmistakable whistling wheeze of an asthma attack. I haven’t had one in years. They only happen when I’m under duress.
“A few more deep breaths,” Grossman encourages me.
I do as she says and the wheezing subsides on the ninth breath. Then I close my eyes because I can’t bear looking at the harsh fluorescent lights above me. She gently lifts the bottom of my sweatshirt just enough to see the wound.
“I’m going to have to put you under to clean this out.”
“No!”
“But —”
“No!” I try to sit up and she gently grabs my shoulders.
“Okay, okay. We won’t put you under. But this will need a lot of local anesthetic. Just lie down. I’ll be right back.”
She shot me up with demerol, which made me feel really good. Then she injected some local anesthetic into my abdomen so she could cut me open even further and clean out the wound. I told her I couldn’t feel anything, but it was a complete lie. The demerol and the anesthetic had mostly worn off about two thirds of the way into the procedure.
Grossman sent me on my way with seventeen stitches and a prescription for some antibiotics, anti-inflammatory steroids, and pain meds. But not before questioning me about my medical history. She was appalled to find I hadn’t been to a doctor in five years and that was only because I broke my shoulder while sparring with my father. I’ve never even been vaccinated.
She took some blood tests and told me to come back in ten days to have the stitches removed and to get some vaccinations. Then she asked me when the first day of my last period was.
“Why does that matter?”
“It’s a standard question.”
I glared at her from the examination table. “Eight days ago.”
“Are you sexually active?” There’s a long pause, then she continued. “I’m not trying to pry, Alex. But I need to make sure there’s no possibility that you’re pregnant. And I need to know if we need to schedule a gynecological exam for your next visit.”
“I don’t want an exam.”
“Alex, it’s a normal part of being a woman. You should have been taught this in school. Once you turn eighteen, you should be getting a gynecological exam once a year. More often if you’re sexually active.”
“I’m not sexually active.”
“Have you ever been sexually active?”
Her pen was poised over my medical file, ready to jot down whatever answer I gave her.
“No.”
She scribbled something in the file, then she handed me my prescription and shook my hand. Making me promise I’d be back in ten days to complete the treatment. She’d never see me again.
I don’t care if she was extremely sensitive to my situation. Never asking why I wore this disguise. Never commenting on what she saw when she lifted my sweatshirt. Never asking how I got stabbed in the first place. She knew too much about me now. If Rousseau wanted to, he could use that information to take me down.
I reach up and grab the back of the sofa to pull myself up. Time to change the dressing on my wound. I make my way into the kitchen and switch on the stove light. A small collection of first aid implements are lined up on the counter next to the stove: four-inch by four-inch gauze squares, a box of sterile cotton pads, medical tape, saline wound wash, and antibiotic ointment. This collection standing next to my stockpile of drugs.
I haven’t taken any of the pain meds for fear that Rousseau or one of Shorty’s friends will show up at my door and I’ll be too drugged up to fight back. But it’s been six days since I visited Dr. Grossman and my stitches have been oozing and the pain is coming back. I don’t want to go back to Highland, but I don’t want my tombstone to read: She refused to see a doctor.
I’ve always imagined my tombstone saying something like, Head chopped off by Samurai master, or, A Samurai ripped out her heart with his bare hands.
Yes, I’ve watched too many Tarantino films. My father was obsessed with them.
He probably still is. But I may never know. I doubt I’ll ever go home to see my parents.
I begin my nightly ritual of cleaning my wound and applying a new dressing by opening a box of gauze. I pull out a packet and set it aside, then I remove the caps from the wound wash and antibiotic ointment. I tear off a few strips of medical tape and hang them from the edge of the counter. Open a packet of sterile cotton, I then squeeze a little of the saline wound solution onto the cotton pad. Then begins the worst part.
I grab a piece of the tape securing my dressing to my skin and begin to slowly peel it away. My skin is red and raw from changing my dressing twice daily; once in the morning and once before bed. Each time I peel away the tape, more skin comes away. So now I’m left with a screaming pink square of raw skin boxing in my knife wound.
I peel away the top half of the dressing, but that’s as far as it will go. The gauze is stuck to the wound with crusted pus and blood. I pull a little harder and suck in a sharp breath at the searing pain. Tears stream down my face as I inch closer to the oven to get a better look at the wound under the stove light.
Shit.
I pulled out a stitch.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Fuck!
I stick the tape back onto my skin and turn off the light. Pulling down my sweatshirt, I walk toward the door, breathing in my usual composure. Trying to pretend I’m not at all broken.
I peer through the peephole and I recognize the shape of the head under the black hoodie. Rousseau has his back to the door. A show of faith demonstrating he doesn’t expect me to open the door and attack him from behind. And also a friendly display of submission. He’s showing me that I can trust him. He’s not going to attack me either.
I unlock the door and walk into the kitchen. “Come in,” I shout across the breakfast bar and into the darkness.
He opens the door slowly, but he steps inside and closes the door quickly. “Better?” he asks, referring to the closed door.
“Thank you, Detective.”
“Please, call me Daimon.”
Daimon Rousseau. Daimon pronounced Deh-món. So French. And something about knowing his first name, even if it’s not real, makes me less tense.
“Why are you here, Daimon?” Saying the name aloud feels even better. If he weren’t here, I’d probably start repeating it. Daimon. Daimon. Daimon.
“I told you I would be back. I still need to take your statement.” I can see his silhouette move and hear the soft crush of the carpet beneath his shoes as he takes a few steps toward the breakfast bar.
“I already told you, I didn’t see anything. But even if I did, shouldn’t another detective be taking my statement? After all, you are the … I’m sorry, but are you the victim or the perpetrator in this crime?”
He lets out a brief chuckle at this question. “I am neither. I’m the responding officer in this case. You were the intended victim.”
“Right. Well, I have nothing to tell you. I didn’t see anything and I’m quite busy. I’d appreciate it if you left.”
“Forgive my intrusion. I didn’t realize you were busy standing in the dark.”
“I wasn’t standing in the dark.”
“How is your stab wound?”
I pause to take a deep breath as I remember the questions Grossman asked. And my stupidity for answering.
“Not very well, actually. Your doctor asked too many questions and I don’t think she did a good job cleaning the wound.”
“Let me see.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let me see the wound?”
“I’m not going to let you see it.”
“Then I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care if you believe me.”
“Yes, you do.”
I grip the edge of the breakfast bar to keep from grabbing something to throw at him.
“Let me see it,” he insists. “If it’s infected, you need medical attention.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I have a lot of experience with knife wounds. Just let me have a look at it. Or you can just lay here and die. It’s up to you.”
“You think you’re so smart,” I huff. “I can’t show it to you. The dressing is stuck.”
“Lie down on the sofa and I’ll get it unstuck.”
My heart pounds with anticipation. Am I really going to let this stranger help me? Am I going to let him touch me?
I can’t face Dr. Grossman after this. Not with her threatening to probe my privates in the name of medicine. This is less traumatizing. This is nothing.
I turn around and gather the supplies off the counter. Then I carry them, cradled in my arms, into the dark living room. I drop everything onto the coffee table and push the table back a little so he can kneel next to me. Then I sit down on the sofa.
He walks slowly, looking almost like a blind person as he taps his toe on the carpet in front of him with each step. Making sure he doesn’t bump into anything. When he reaches the coffee table, he bends down and feels his way around it until he’s about to step on my foot. I quickly pull my legs up onto the sofa as he kneels down.
“Sorry. Didn’t see your foot there.”
“Everything is on the table. Do you need me to tell you what everything is?”
“No. I’ll use my flashlight.”
“No light.”
“Just to look at the table, then I’ll turn it off. I promise.”
I swallow hard and consider telling him to leave. Then I remember that stitch I just pulled out. “Hurry up.”
He turns toward the coffee table, on his knees, and the flashlight clicks on. I pull my hood over my face and turn away from him, toward the back of the sofa as he sifts through my collection of first aid products. He clicks the flashlight off and I sigh as I turn back to him. He has something in his hand. It looks like a square of cotton.
“Just lie all the way back and relax.”
I ease myself down onto the sofa, but I keep my gaze locked on his hands as they move toward my belly. He grabs the bottom of my sweater and I flinch.
“Why are you so afraid?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“I can hear your heartbeat.” He pauses for me to respond, but I don’t. “Just relax.”
“Hurry up.” I repeat this demand because I don’t know what else to say.
He lifts the bottom of my sweater up, but it’s not enough to see the top of the dressing.
“Lift your back for a moment so I can raise this up a little more.”
I raise my hips and lower back a little so he can push the sweater up a bit more. Then his fingertip makes contact with the skin over my ribs and I flinch again.
“Please hurry.”
“I’ll go as fast as I can.”
He begins to pull the tape away from the top half of the wound, then he stops when he feels the resistance. He folds down the top half of the dressing and he squeezes the cotton square. A few drops of saline solution come out of the cotton and drip onto my burning wound. He uses the moisture on my skin and on the cotton square to loosen the dressing a bit.
“Why do you hide your face?”
The question stuns me and I have to remind myself to keep breathing. “I think you should leave.”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to pry.” There’s a long silence where neither of us moves, then he continues to clean my stitches. “I just wonder why anyone would want to hide such beauty.”
The word beauty is not a word anyone has ever used in my reference. Not even my parents have called me beautiful. My parents were not the best parents, but at least I can say they never lied to me.
“How do you know I’m beautiful if you’ve never seen me in the light?”
“I don’t. But you have a beautiful figure and a graceful voice. It stands to reason that your face must match the rest of you.”
“And if it doesn’t? Does that make me unreasonable?”
“Not at all. It makes you different. Different is good.”
He lifts away the old dressing cleanly and I breathe a sigh of relief. I begin to sit up and he places his hand on my belly to stop me.
“Wait. Let me put your new dressing.”
I push his hand off, perhaps a bit too roughly. “I can do that.”
He chuckles as he stands. “Have you ever been touched by a man, Alex?”
“It’s time for you to leave.” He bumps his leg on the coffee table as I usher him toward the door, then I quickly make my way back into the kitchen before he can open it and let the soft glow of the light in the corridor. “Thank you for your help, but I need to rest. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Alex. Until next time.”
Chapter Four
The lies we tell ourselves have more power to destroy us than any lie we are ever told by another. All week long, I lie to myself. I try to convince myself that I don’t want to see Daimon ever again. I tell myself that I didn’t need his help. I could have changed the dressing over my wound myself. And I insist he had no bearing on my decision to go back to Dr. Grossman’s office to have the stitches professionally removed.
And the biggest lie of all: I felt nothing when he touched me.
But after eight days without a single knock on my door, I can’t keep lying to myself. I don’t know what I felt, but I know it wasn’t nothing.
His voice echoes so soft yet commanding in my mind. That delicate French accent. The strong nose and jaw I could barely see the silhouette of with my left eye. His lips, the bottom one just a bit fuller than the top.
I shake my head to clear away the image as I pull the clean clothes out of the dryer and dump everything into a laundry basket at my feet. I push the basket back then close the door on the utility closet. Grabbing the basket, I take it into the bedroom and begin folding the clothes.
My wardrobe consists of eight pairs of size six blue jeans, eight black hoodies, eight white camisoles, and eight pairs of underwear. Why eight instead of seven? In case I lose something, I’ll still have seven of everything until the new item is delivered from my preferred online retailer.
I know it sounds crazy. Wearing the same thing every day. Never shopping in a real store. Believe me, I know. I used to watch TV and movies. I’ve seen how normal women my age live. Worrying over what to wear; spending hours at the mall to find the right dress to impress whatever random guy they meet at the bar. I know that’s considered normal. But I am in no way normal.
And I was finally coming to terms with that until Daimon Rousseau blasted his way into my life two weeks ago. I’ve had two brief encounters with the man, who killed someone in front of me. Despite him being a killer, I allowed him into my apartment. And in return, he saved my life by referring me to a physician. Then I let him in again. And he touched me.
“Have you ever been touched by a man?”
No. I’ve never been touched by a man. The only time my father touched me was when we were fighting or training. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never even shaken hands with Aasif. I fought off Shorty and his friends two weeks ago and two months before that I fought off a huge drunkard in the gas station parking lot when he tried to grope me. But, other than that, I’ve never felt the touch of a man. Until now.
I let him touch me.
And now I can’t think of anything else.
My panties are all that’s left in the laundry basket when I hear the knock at the door. I try not to smile as I lift the stack of folded clothes off my bed and dump them back in with the panties. Then I drop the basket onto the floor in front of my feet and kick it somewhere into the dark corner of my bedroom.
I take a deep breath and walk calmly toward the front door. Looking through the peephole, my stomach vaults at the sight of him. He has his back to me again.
Last time, I assumed this was a sign of submission. But now I’m wondering if he just doesn’t want me to see his face in the soft light of the corridor.
Suddenly, that schoolgirl giddiness I felt a moment ago seems like a moment of weakness.
I smile as I reach for the doorknob. I’ve healed enough to take him on.
I pull the door inward just a couple of inches, then I head for the dark kitchen again. Like last time, he enters and quickly pushes the door closed in one swift motion. Making it impossible for me to get a glimpse of his face. The room is dark again, but not so dark that I can’t see him turn toward me. We’re already establishing a routine.
Routines can be dangerous. Routines make people relax and do things automatically, without thinking. Not thinking is dangerous.
“Good evening, Alex.”
His voice is so different than any voice I’ve ever heard. It’s warm and strong, laced with a slight gruffness and that barely detectable French accent. All these qualities come together so that every word he speaks sounds orchestrated and … bewitching. As if he’s casting a spell on me.
“Good evening, Daimon.”
A long silence follows as I wait for him to tell me why he’s here and he waits for me to question his presence. Finally, he speaks.
“Are you going to offer me something to drink?”
“Are you planning on staying a while?”
I wish I knew exactly what his face looks like. I could imagine him grinning right now.
“All I have to drink is water,” I offer.
“I’ll take that.”
I turn around and step sideways. Reaching up, I open the cupboard above the counter and feel around until the tips of my fingers find a small glass near the back. I grab it off the shelf and turn around.
“Holy shit!” I scream as I bump into Daimon by the sink.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, taking a step back.
“Yes, you did!”
“I’m sorry, Alex. Truly. I should have known you’d still be a bit jumpy from the attack.”
I huff impatiently, slamming the glass down on the counter. “I’m not jumpy because of the attack. I’m jumpy because there’s a strange man in my apartment who just snuck up behind me.”
“I’m a strange man?”
“Yes! You killed someone and now you’re quietly paying visits to the one person who witnessed your crime. Yes, that’s strange.”
“Strange … or smart?”
“Get out!”
He laughs softly and the sound drives me crazy. It’s so sexy.
“I’m kidding, Alex.” His voice has taken on a bit of a hard edge now and I don’t like it. “I’m not grooming you to go along with my story. And I’m not trying to threaten you. I’m merely intrigued by you. Who wouldn’t be intrigued by a beautiful woman who hides in her apartment and can also fight off three armed men?”
“Stop calling me beautiful. I’m not susceptible to flattery.”
We stand in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, facing each other, waiting for the other to speak or make the next move.
“I brought you something,” he says, reaching for the pocket of his dark hoodie.
“Don’t move,” I warn him.
He freezes. “You can reach into my pocket and retrieve it if that would make you feel better.”
I focus on taking deep breaths as my heart beats faster. “If you try anything, I will kill you. One man is a lot easier than three.”
“I believe you. And I wouldn’t dream of trying anything.”
I reach forward slowly until my fingers make contact with the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. It’s warm from his body heat and something about that makes me nervous. He’s real.
I slowly slide my hand inside his pocket and immediately feel something soft. I feel around a little more then pull it out carefully. His hand comes up and gently closes around mine as I hold the feather up.
“It’s a black ostrich feather.” His other hand comes forward to pull the feather out of my hand and the feeling of his skin on mine sends a chill through me. “I saw it in a gift shop on the boardwalk and thought of you. Soft and dark. Delicate.”
I pull my hand out of his and tuck it behind my back. “I’m not delicate. Or soft.”
“I would have to disagree,” he whispers, taking a small step forward effectively closing the gap between us. “I’ve touched your skin and it is very soft.”
I swallow my anxiety and stand my ground. “What am I supposed to do with a feather?”
The moment the words come out of my mouth I regret speaking them.
His face is less than a foot away from mine and, from this distance, in the near absolute darkness of the kitchen, I can just barely see a hint of his features. A tiny hint of dark blue light painted in soft brushstrokes over the peaks of his lips, the tip of his nose, the angle of his cheekbones. But his eyes are still completely shadowed by that hood.
“Alex?”
I can’t breathe with him this close to me. But I almost can’t move. As if his body is a magnet and I’m a delicate piece of tin.
“Yes?”
“I know I can’t turn on the lights. And, to be quite honest, I rather enjoy getting to know you in the dark. But my curiosity is piquing, and I must …” His hand reaches up slowly. “Can I touch your face?”
A sharp pain twists in my stomach, though I know there’s nothing he will feel on my face that will help him understand why I hide. I don’t have hideous scars, deformities, or malformations. I have severe discoloration of my skin and eyes. One brown eye and the other, my left eye, a gray so soft it’s almost white. I have to wear sunglasses to protect my eye and to hide it from the world. I wear thick pancake makeup to cover the discoloration of my skin.
I think I could deal with the skin issue if I didn’t also have the discoloration in my left eye. When I was five years old, my mother walked me into the kindergarten classroom and all the children were afraid of me. None of them wanted to sit next to me. My mother vowed then and there that she would never expose me to that kind of ridicule.
She homeschooled me in all subjects, but one particular subject was the emphasis of her curriculum: How to Hide Alex’s Hideous Face. She gave me lessons on how to apply makeup to cover the skin discoloration when I was just seven years old. But she only took me out in public when it was absolutely necessary. Like when the basement was flooded during a particularly bad rainstorm and we had to stay in a motel for a few days.
Other than that, I spent most of my days in the basement, being homeschooled by my mother or physically trained by my father. Always perfecting the art of hiding.
So, Daimon won’t feel anything unusual on my face. He won’t even feel my makeup since I’m not wearing any tonight. I only wear makeup on days I work. And I’m not going back to work until tomorrow night. But I’m still afraid of letting him touch my face.
I draw in a deep breath. “First, I want to touch your face.”
“Very well.”
My heart pounds so hard my chest hurts as I reach for his face. My fingertips reach his jaw first and I draw my hand back immediately at the prickly sensation.
“That’s my scruff. Is it too rough?” he asks with what sounds like genuine concern.
“No. Just … It’s fine.”
I reach up again and the roughness of his scruff tickles my fingertips as I trace them along his jaw. My other hand reaches up to the other side of his face and I can hear him take in a sharp breath. With my hands working in unison, I trace from his jawbone down to his chin. Then I bring both hands up and place my fingers on each of his cheekbones. Before I can stop myself, my hands are sliding back to feel the curves of his ears.
He exhales a soft sigh, as if he were holding his breath, then his hands are on my waist. “Alex.”
The way he says my name, a soft incantation, I feel my muscles slacken. He can sense it and before I can question him, he scoops me up in his arms. My hands still clinging to the sides of his face, he looks straight ahead, his gait purposeful as he carries me to my bedroom.
He lays me down gently then sits on the edge of the bed, the way my mother sometimes did when I was sick in bed as a child. He reaches for my face and I hold my breath. Then his fingertips make contact with my cheek and I exhale.
This time, he doesn’t ask to touch me. And I think I prefer that.
His fingertips roam lightly over my cheekbone then swoop down slowly to caress my jaw. He curls his hand so he can feel the same area of my face with the backs of his fingers. A shiver travels through me, down my arms, through my chest, into my belly, and pulses between my legs.
“Shh.” He shushes me gently when he hears my breathing getting heavier.
Somehow it works. It works so well, I don’t notice he’s removing my sunglasses until he pulls them away from my face.
“Relax, ma chérie.”
I take in a deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth. I can see his face a bit more without my sunglasses, though the bedroom is even darker than the kitchen. I reach for his cheek and his other hand lands on top of mine. He presses my hand against his warm skin then nuzzles his cheek against the palm of my hand.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to fear me.”
A surge of raw emotion rises to the surface and I feel my eyes beginning to water. I’ve never been touched like this.
Suddenly, my mind draws back to a cold, rainy day eight years ago. Eleven years old and running a fever so high I could hardly see straight. I couldn’t move my body as my muscles were beginning to seize up. I begged my mother to take me to the doctor.
She looked down at me from where she sat on the edge of my bed and shook her head. “It’s just a fever, Alex. Do you want all those doctors and nurses to make fun of your face over a silly fever?” I grabbed her hand, desperately trying to force her to feel my forehead and she recoiled, yanking her hand away and standing up quickly. “Stop it! You don’t touch me. You don’t touch anyone!”
“Alex?”
Daimon’s voice draws me out of this painful memory. My hand is still on his face and his hand is still on mine, wiping the tears as they slide down my cheeks. I pull my hand away from his face and let it fall onto the bed between his leg and my side.
“Alex, are you all right?”
I look up at the dark place where his face is beneath the hood. As if he can sense what I’m thinking, he reaches up and pushes his hood back. I still can’t see the details of his features, but the ghostly outlines of his cheeks and nose are clearer. He has short hair. Almost short enough to be a military cut.
“Sit up, so you can feel my face,” he whispers. “I want you to see me.”
I sit up on my knees next to him, then he bows his head slightly as I begin exploring his face with both hands. I trace both thumbs over the straight bridge of his nose and up over each eyebrow. And a picture of his face begins to form in my mind.
His brow bone is prominent and his cheekbones and jaw are sharply angled. He keeps his eyes open as I lightly trace my fingertips over his eyelids and under his eyes. I can’t see if his eyes are dark or light, but I can feel that they’re round and turn down ever so slightly at the outer corners.
I pause for a moment so he reaches up and brings my fingertips down onto his mouth. Then he lets go and allows me to trace the outline of his lips. As I thought, his top lip has beautiful peaks and his bottom lip is slightly fuller. I trace my thumb over his bottom lip, marveling at the softness, when suddenly his lips pucker and he plants a delicate kiss on the soft pad of my thumb.
That pulsing between my legs is becoming almost painful. I pull my hand away and sit further back until my bottom is on top of my feet.
I place my hands in my lap and nod my head. “Your turn.”
He scoots a bit closer to me and I lower my head a bit because I know what he’s going to do. He slowly reaches up and I close my eyes as he pushes my hood back. Immediately, I feel his hand on the left side of my head. He can see the streak of white hair through the darkness. I shiver as his fingers run through my hair and it falls softly over my shoulder.
“Open your eyes.”
