I want to pounce on him.
And I just might.
His phone buzzes with an alarm.
The haircut.
I shake off my desire as best I can. Let go of his finger.
Rise.
Offer him a hand to tug him up. He takes it. As he stands, his eyes glimmer with mischief. He stares at my crotch. “I turn you on.”
It’s a statement. Not a question.
I roll my eyes. “Wiseass. You know you turn me on. I was just talking about sucking your cock. If I didn’t have a raging erection, we’d have a bigger problem.”
A groan seems to rip from his chest. “There’s nothing problematic about that.”
I inch closer, lining my body up with his, bringing my face near his ear to that spot I love on his neck. “It is a problem, since you just swore me off for more than two weeks.”
“Did I?” Stone asks slyly.
I shake my head. “You swore off getting involved. Evidently, there is no one you won’t bet with. So, whether it’s sex or getting involved, it doesn’t matter.” I gesture to the bed. “You made your . . . bet.”
“And now I have to lie in it?”
This time, I do laugh.
And because I do have control, because I am disciplined, because I’m going to stick to the plan, I step away from him, not giving a flying fuck about my raging erection as I mutter, “Goddamn bet.”
He mutters it too as we leave for the barber.
17
Jackson
The cherry blossoms paint her skin beautifully, weaving down one trim arm.
Stone tells the stylist as much as she snips and clips his hair in a swank hipster barbershop in the basement of the hotel.
It’s closed right now. Or, really, it’s open only for him. Being a celebrity has its privileges.
She shifts around to bring the scissors to his other side, revealing her left arm now. Calligraphy dances down it too—ink that reads “I believe . . . in me.”
Stone glances from one arm to the next. “Damn, woman, you have some empowering ink.”
“Thank you,” she says, as she continues to work her magic on his hair.
On the leather couch a few feet away from them, I flip through a National Geographic magazine.
“They mean a lot to me,” she adds. “But then, that’s how ink should be, don’t you think?”
“Hell yeah. That’s how mine are.”
As I try to read an article on a new mutant hornet, I’m too distracted by this conversation to focus on the words.
“Why did you get the cherry blossoms?” Stone asks.
As she slides the scissors across a lock of his hair, she answers, “I lost my partner of eleven years. He died of a freak heart attack. He was only thirty-six.”
Stone’s hand goes to his heart over his smock. “Oh, Lola,” he says, and it registers that he knows her name already. “I’m so sorry for your loss. When did it happen? How are you doing?”
“I’m doing okay. Thanks for asking. It was three years ago. I got the cherry blossoms a year ago for hope. Not so much hope for new love, but hope for . . . not hurting.”
I stop pretending that I’m reading anything. I listen to every word.
“Do you hurt?” Stone asks.
She shakes her head. “Not every day. Not most days.”
My heart squeezes with sympathy pain, but the pain disappears quickly, and I want to say to her, “I know the feeling. I understand you completely.”
But I don’t need to say anything, because Stone has this covered. He gets this innately, I’m learning. “I’m glad you’re starting to heal. That’s a good thing.”
“Thank you. Now what about you?” With her free hand, she taps his arm. “Your ink is all over.”
He glances at his arms, as if he only just noticed that he has tattoos, matching circular swirls, all over his skin. “That’s a symbol for humility. This one is for grace. Another is for inspiration. You and me, we’re artists, right? We always need to be grateful for inspiration.”
She laughs, a sweet, pretty sound, like bells. “I’m an artist for hair.”
“Damn right you are,” he says.
“And I love those symbols. Those are good reminders.”
“Also, I have stars right here.” He points to his hip. I lower my face, fighting a grin. I’ve touched those stars. I’ve run my thumb over them. “They remind me that the world is big. The universe, the galaxy—we need to be aware of all of it.”
They talk more about ink as he names all the other ones on his body.
But he never once mentions the musical notes.
I try not to let my heart gallop away from me, but I love that he kept that one secret.
That I’m the only other person in this room who knows about it.
She finishes snipping his hair, and he looks good.
Sexy as hell, just like I predicted.
She stretches for the clippers on her counter to smooth over the ends. When she’s done, she turns off the clippers and reaches for a soft brush, the kind used to swipe off hair on the neck.
Before she can start, her phone beeps.
She glances at it on the counter. “Sorry, sweetie. That’s my daughter. She’s eight. I need to grab this right now. Is that okay?”
He gestures for her to go ahead. “Of course. I’m good.”
Setting down the brush, she holds up a finger, answers the phone, listens, then whispers, “Give me two minutes. I’ll clean you up then.”
She steps around the corner into a back room of the barbershop.
It’s just us.
Stone glances at me in the mirror like he’s waiting for a verdict.
I rise from the couch. “Haircut looks good.”
Green eyes twinkle at me from his reflection. “You like it?”
“I do. A lot,” I say, my throat going dry again. I eye the brush she left in front of the mirror. That’s hardly a risk. I can handle that. So can he. “Let me finish that up for you.”
His lips curve into a crooked grin. “Yeah?”
I move by his side, reach for the brush, then walk behind him. “Yes.”
I swipe the brush across the back of his neck, dusting off the fine hairs.
He laughs lightly.
“Are you ticklish?”
“A little.”
“Where else?”
“Belly.”
“Good to know,” I say, meeting his gaze in the mirror, giving him a watch out look.
“Are you going to tickle me sometime?”
“You never know.”
“I’ll consider this my warning.”
I brush the last strands of hair from his neck. There’s nothing left for me to clean up, but I don’t stop. I clear my throat. “If you ever need the hairline cleaned up, like right here,” I say, swiping along the ends of his hair, “I can do it.”
“You cut hair?”
“I was a Marine. I know my way around clippers.”
“You’d do that?”
“If you wanted,” I say softly.
“I would.” In the mirror, I glance at his reflection. He sighs and closes his eyes, looking serene.
Stone Zenith is beautiful, and it steals my breath.