I channel my wrong, wrong lust into caring for him. Giving him this. Wanting this nice look for him. Still a wild boy, but superhot.
When his beard is trimmed to perfection, I unwrap one of the razors from the pack I got. I suds up his neck with soap and clean it up with careful razor strokes. I’m gentle. Slow.
He’s one of the most powerful men I’ve ever encountered, and he’s letting me put a razor to his neck. It means something.
I have to touch him a lot for this part and he seems to like it. He seems to like touch. I suppose he hasn’t had much touch in his life. Not of the caring kind, anyway.
I step back. Perfect.
He just stares off to the side.
“It’s very good,” I say. Understatement of the year.
He doesn’t seem to like being made much of. So I just move on.
I rinse his neck, patting it dry, trying not to adore him too much, but he’s starting to look way too fucking amazing.
I move on to his hair. I take off length. I give him soft layers just over the shoulder. He never once looks at the mirror. His big body heaves in a sigh at one point. There’s still that edge of wariness to him.
It means a lot that he’s making himself vulnerable to me like this, considering who he is and what he’s been through.
Considering that he’s completely feral.
I think I never understood the concept of feral until Kiro gripped my arms and pressed me to the wall, trembling on the knife edge of control. I felt utterly held. Utterly open. Utterly powerless.
When I’m done, I stand behind him in the mirror. He keeps that faraway stare, just off to the side, seemingly lost in thought. Or maybe just enduring my attentions. I brush aside a sooty curl and then force myself to stop touching him.
God, the way he looks now…he was hot with the long hair, but now he’s pure and utter madness… “Shit,” I say. “Kiro.”
He keeps his gaze fixed on the tub spigots.
He’s a dark, scowly angel. Hard and gorgeous. The neatly trimmed beard brings out his cheekbones and the sharp, confident line of his jaw. I really want to touch his beard again. “Shit,” I say, because apparently that’s all my vocabulary has left. “Take a look, dude.”
He finally turns his gaze to the mirror, but not at his reflection. At mine. My eyes. “You don’t think it’s good?”
“No,” I say, mouth dry. “I think it’s a little thing calledun-fucking-believable.”
His gaze doesn’t stray from my eyes. This so Kiro. One-pointed. Committed.
“Take a look for yourself.”
“No thanks.”
Something seizes up in my heart.
“Look,” I say.
He keeps his gaze fixed stubbornly on mine.
“Fine.” I go around to the front of him, my back to the sink, the mirror. “Then look into the mirror of my eyes,” I say. “Not only are you the most fucking brave, fierce man I’ve ever met, but you’re officially the hottest.”
He stays hard and wary. The air between us seems to tremble. He seems to take up more space than he ever did. He’s mostly clear of the drugs, now. He’s so there, so alive, so…male.
“Do you seriously not believe me? Do you think I’m a liar?”
His gaze tells me he does.
“We need to wash you up, now—without getting that bandage or your stitches wet. Maybe you could bend over the side of the tub and hold a towel to your shoulder while I wash your hair with the sprayer and then you take a bath after, carefully avoiding…”