Growing uncomfortable, she scooted down on the couch and laid her head on her upper arm, closing her eyes. That way, she couldn't see him. She couldn't see the way he looked at her.
When normal conversations ended with Keenan, she always grew uncomfortable. The mix of hatred and lust played in her head, and she despised him more for making her feel that way toward him.
"Cut it."
She opened her eyes. "What?"
"Cut my hair and beard." He stood.
She sat up straighter. "I don't know how—"
"Fucking shave it all off if you want." He stormed from the room.
"That's not what I meant when I said you should trim it," she yelled after him.
"Are you coming?" he asked. The question came out more like a bark.
She walked down the hallway and found him in the bathroom, holding a pair of scissors. Afraid he'd whack off his hair because she made a comment, she grabbed them. "This is a stupid idea."
"It's what you wanted." He sat down on the lid of the toilet and closed his eyes. "Just do it."
She bit the bottom of her lip, eyeing his head. She'd never cut her hair, much less someone else's.
"I don't know where to start," she muttered.
"Do my hair first."
"How short do you usually have it?" She stepped closer.
He sliced his hand in the air at the level of his shoulder. She blew out her breath and looked for the brush that was always on the counter. Setting the scissors down, she carefully worked the tangles out of his hair until all the strands hung straight. The mass of hair hung to the middle of his back. She could tell that at one time, he'd had it layered. She wanted to leave it long enough he could flip it back, and it'd stay off his forehead.
Taking a small section, she held it between two fingers like she'd seen the hairstylists do all her life.
"Are you sure? This is the last chance to stop me," she said.
"Do it."
She clipped, shocked when her hand came away, holding four inches of his hair. "Shit."
"Just keep going."
Slowly, she worked her way around the side of his head, leaving the hair almost touching his shoulder. It was at a more manageable length than before. If he wanted it shorter next time, he could have someone else cut it.
As she snipped, she moved from left to right, making sure the sides looked the same. Even sitting down, his head was at the same level as her. Though squeezing between the vanity and toilet on one side and the toilet and tub on the other made navigating around his big body awkward.
She wasn't even aware of straddling his leg until he cupped the inside of her thigh and caressed his thumb against her skin. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing his touch bothered her, she kept snipping and clipping and brushing and styling. The faster she finished, the sooner she could move away from him and stop the feelings he evoked in her.
It dawned on her as she nearly cut her finger that she wielded a weapon. Where had he found the scissors? She'd scoured the whole house looking for items to use against him and would've remembered if she'd stumbled upon them.
Scissors were as sharp as a knife and pointy.
She could easily stab him in the neck or heart and run out of the house.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling it taunt. Snip.
Her breath came in pants. She could hurt him and escape. Was she brave enough? Strong enough?
Lightheaded, she blinked furiously, paying attention to the blades of the metal shears gliding through his hair and how easy it was to slice through the strands and watch them slip through her fingers.
"Grace?"
She jumped, dropping the brush. Bending over, she picked it up afraid he could read her thoughts or see the flush warming her face.
"Are your ribs hurting?"
"No. No. I'm fine." She brushed his hair, pretending to inspect the new hairstyle as she struggled to stay focused. "I'm done. I think. It's the best I can do."
She stepped back, needing to stop him from touching her. He hooked her behind the knee, pulling her back until his face was inches from her breasts.
"Do my beard." His warm breath heated the front of her.
Her nipples peaked. Her pulse radiated in her neck, and she swallowed, trying to fight the way her body responded to him.
Keenan added another hand on the back of her leg, keeping her immobile in front of him. She couldn't step away if she wanted to. Her legs had turned to Jell-O.
He tilted his head. She peered down into his face. He kept his eyes closed as if he hadn't a care in the world, but she was highly aware of his hands gently squeezing, stroking, and cupping her legs. The tips of his fingers lightly caressed the inside of her thighs.
Without looking, she sensed his arousal. She'd gotten used to seeing the outline of his hardened cock when he was around that the state of his arousal no longer threatened her because he never acted on his desires—and he'd had plenty of time to force himself on her if that was his prerogative.
Because he never forced himself on her, she found herself paying more attention to him. No stranger to men who kept in shape or worked out, she couldn't help admiring how perfect Keenan's body structure was. Unlike those at the gym with their bulked upper bodies and slim legs, Keenan's muscular fitness went from his feet to his head, perfectly sculpted. The only part of him that was enlarged to abnormal proportions was his penis.
Whether genetics or born under a lucky star, Keenan was blessed.
And as her mind wandered, her pussy pulsed, wetting her panties.
"Grace?" Keenan squeezed her thighs. "Cut it."
She held the scissors close to his neck. Her chest tightened. The haircut was enough. She wouldn't want to change him. Underneath the haggard appearance, she could tell he was a gorgeous man. Styling him into a more attractive style only tempted her in ways that made her sick.
He'd kidnapped her. That was something she refused to forget.
She set the scissors on the counter, relieved to get them out of her hand. Picking up the brush, she untangled his beard.
The repetitive strokes as the bristles slid through the wiry whiskers only wound her up more. Her body buzzed in awareness of his jawline. His strength. The glimpse at his mouth.
Gathering his beard in one hand, she held the ends together as she retrieved the scissors again. She cut off three inches, leaving him with a beard that still reached his chest but was now a little tamer.
She was going to leave it at that, but she couldn't help herself. Wanting to see his lips—those mysterious lips that could harm her with his anger and comfort her with his kisses.
Snip. Snip.
Slowly, she followed the path of his mouth until the fullness of his bottom lip appeared. Then, his upper lip. She tilted her head, taking in his full mouth, now in view.
She sucked in her breath, using her finger to brush away the discarded whiskers from the plumpness of his lips. His chiseled face remained lax underneath the beard.
Her hand shook as her body vibrated.
Tears came to her eyes as her body clamped down, holding on to the rush of arousal consuming her. Her breath hissed as she struggled to catch her breath. This wasn't supposed to happen.
Logically, she should be repulsed by him. What was wrong with her?