and our eyes meet in the mirror,
smoldering gray to bright blue, and it gives me an idea.
“Can I reciprocate?” I ask.
He nods, though his brow creases. I reach for another
towel from the plethora of fluffy towels stacked beside the
vanity, and standing before him on tiptoe, I start to dry his
hair. He bends forward, making the process easier, and as
I catch the occasional glimpse of his face beneath the
towel, I see he’s grinning at me like a small boy.
“It’s a long time since anyone did this to me. A very
long time,” he murmurs, but then frowns. “In fact I don’t
think anyone’s ever dried my hair.”
“Surely Grace did? Dried your hair when you were
young?”
He shakes his head, hampering my progress.
“No. She respected my boundaries from day one,
even though it was painful for her. I was very self-sufficient
as a child,” he says quietly.
I feel a swift kick in the ribs as I think of a small
copper-haired child looking after himself because no one
else cares. The thought is sickeningly sad. But I don’t want
my melancholy to hijack this blossoming intimacy.
“Well, I’m honored,” I gently tease him.
“That you are, Miss Steele. Or maybe it is I who am
honored.”
“That goes without saying, Mr. Grey,” I respond
tartly.
I finish with his hair, reach for another small towel, and
move round to stand behind him. Our eyes meet again in
the mirror, and his watchful, questioning look prompts me
to speak.
“Can I try something?”
After a moment, he nods. Warily, and very gently, I
run the soft cloth down his left arm, soaking up the water
that has beaded on his skin. Glancing up, I check his
expression in the mirror. He blinks at me, his eyes burning
into mine.
I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips part
I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips part
infinitesimally. I dry his other arm in a similar fashion,
trailing kisses around his bicep, and a small smile plays on
his lips. Carefully, I wipe his back beneath the faint lipstick
line, which is still visible. I hadn’t go
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