Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Riggs

Her throat bobs, and I don't miss the shiver that wracks her body.

I want to fuck her, here and now.

But I also really want to see her do her thing. Which is why, instead of bending her over this chair and fucking her senseless, I lift her hand to my lips, press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "Just do whatever you want, chérie ."

She trembles again and I have to work really hard at the whole not fucking part.

It would be easy to plunk her on the desk, to knock the poor, abused keyboard to the ground in much more pleasurable fashion.

But this is where she works .

This is her art. Her love.

So, I bite back my groan, release her hand, smiling at her slightly befuddled reflection. Then I shrug. "Or pink highlights could work."

A blink.

Then another.

And then mischief enters the chat.

"Pink it is," she says, those pretty blue eyes sparkling as she turns away, heads for a room blocked off by a black curtain.

Oh shit.

This woman has enough balls that she might actually do it.

I'm out of my chair a heartbeat later, catching her just as she dips behind the black fabric, spying rows and rows of little boxes sitting on a wall of built-in shelves. A store room, I realize before I draw her back against me, the fucking fabric thing she snapped around my neck getting in my way.

"I need to get the pink dye," she says breathlessly.

"The fuck you do," I mutter, nipping at her jaw and turning us, pinning her between my body and the counter.

So fucking beautiful.

So fucking mine.

Not Nova and Lake. Not some shit I thought I wanted.

But mine.

Us.

I press my nose to her throat and inhale, taking in the scent of her, flowers and vanilla, mixed with a dozen other notes—soap and something sharp, like bleach, the fruity odor of someone's perfume, the chocolatey goodness of the cookies.

And Ella.

Mine .

"Mmm," I murmur, brushing my lips over her forehead, her cheek, her jaw, the column of her neck.

She shivers, hips moving against mine, even as her arm lifts over her head.

Okay, yeah, I like that. No, I fucking love it, love how it lifts her breasts, how it reminds me of this morning. If I could just have this woman holding on to something while I fuck her senseless for the rest of eternity, I'd be more than content.

I'd be fucking perfect .

"Got it," she says a little desperately, and I focus enough to read the label on the box in her hand.

Pink.

Christ. She is fucking incredible.

Still, the box reminds me why we're here.

So, I can see her work.

I slip the dye from her grip, toss it back onto the counter then take her hand and draw her from the room. "Come on, chérie ," I say, releasing her as I settle into the chair. "Show me what you've got."

Blue eyes on mine in the mirror for a long moment. Then she exhales, her throat working, tone becoming no-nonsense. "Okay, mister," she declares. "If you don't want to end up with a lopsided buzz cut, you need to sit there and behave."

That's not going to happen—the behaving part.

But I will sit here and watch her in the mirror for the rest of all time.

Especially when she runs her fingers through my hair, nails sliding over my scalp and raising goose bumps on my arms. "You have great hair," she says softly, seeming more focused, as though touching the strands of my hair has centered her. She reaches by me, picks up a spray bottle, then opens a drawer and extracts a comb. "I'd recommend leaving most of the length on top but shortening the back and sides."

If it means she'll keep touching me, I'll agree to anything.

"Okay, chérie ."

Her eyes lift from my hair to my eyes again. "Okay?" she asks. "Just like that?"

I lift a shoulder, drop it. "You're the expert."

"My men's haircuts are eighty-five dollars," she says, setting the comb and spray bottle aside, picking up the clippers and plugging them in.

My eyes bug out of my head. " Eighty-five —" But then I catch a glimmer in her eyes.

Mischief. Trouble.

Ella.

"How much will it be if I pay in orgasms?"

She doesn't miss a beat, just uses a plastic clip thing to tie my hair out of my face and away from where she's working. "Two hundred and five."

I flick my brows up. "Seriously?"

"I'm sorry what was that?" she asks, her smile wide as she clicks on the clippers, sending them buzzing and drowning out the sound of my reply.

It's for the best, anyway.

I didn't have anything witty or funny to say. Especially when all I want to do is continue to stare at her, to watch her as she shifts her focus back to my hair.

Her hands are steady as she lowers the clippers to my nape.

I feel the slight pull on my scalp as she guides the blade through my hair in one steady stroke.

Shorn strands fall, bouncing off my shoulders before they hit the floor.

And maybe it's the feel of her hands on me, or the soft silence that falls when she sets the clippers aside and begins using her scissors to cut the top of my hair—or maybe it's just that this woman with all of her brightness and mischief that brings out a little of the same in me.

God, I can hardly remember a time before Ella where I felt light enough to tease.

To joke.

It was just hockey and work and…living a half sort of life.

Things are different now.

"You know," I say as she lifts a strand of hair up, pulls it tight and begins doing some sort of fancy cutting with her scissors.

She pauses, lifts a brow.

"You know that I don't think I've slept that well in a long time."

Something soft in her eyes.

"Even if you are a bed hog."

Those eyes narrow.

"Well," she says tartly. "I don't normally let hockey players sleep in my bed."

I don't like that—not the plural of hockey players, nor the insinuation of other men in her bed, but I bite back my growl. "From what Knox has said, you don't normally let anyone stay the night in your bed." I meet her stare in the mirror again, can't resist adding, knowing my mouth is curved into a smirk, "Except me."

Her nose wrinkles, but she breaks our stare, focuses on my hair again. "Don't let it go to your head," she mutters.

"Which head?" I quip, earning another narrow-eyed look.

"Funny." A grumble.

"Tell me about your day," I say, instead of further antagonizing the woman with scissors next to my head.

"I told you about it this morning," she says.

"Before it happened," I point out. "Now the day's almost over. Did everything go smoothly?"

She lifts another section of my hair with her comb, does more scissor magic. "Yup. No problem clients—with the exception of Samantha, who showed up thirty minutes late." A sigh as she combs and cuts again. "I managed to accommodate her, but she wasn't happy that I could only do a few highlights and a cut."

"Instead of doing her whole head?" I ask, remembering our conversation from this morning and now also sort of knowing what I'm talking about, if only because of the power of the Google.

Her gaze comes to mine, blue eyes unfathomable. "Yeah," she says softly. "I rebooked her for sooner, though, and I'll get her what she wants." A shrug as she seems to finish with the scissors, setting them on the counter and going back for the clippers. She pauses with them near my head, asks, "How was your day?"

"Great," I tell her as she tilts my head down, begins cleaning up the cut on the back of my neck. "I started the day with a beautiful woman under me."

A soft inhale, the clippers going still.

"Then I hit the gym, caught up on some shit at my house, Googled some hairstylist terms?—"

"Excuse me?" she asks.

I shrug, then still when she pulls the clippers away from me.

Right. Sharp objects near my head.

Sudden movements aren't recommended.

"It's your job," I explain. "The least I can do is know a little about it."

"Why?" she whispers. "Why is that the least you can do?"

" Chérie ," I murmur, "look at me."

It takes a minute, but eventually she looks up and I hold her stare in the mirror again.

"Have I not made myself clear?" I ask softly.

She swallows, but eventually shakes her head, and something softens in my belly.

This bright, beautiful woman doesn't get it.

Doesn't understand that from the moment I picked up the Sharpie, wrote on that puck, and decided to toss it over the glass to her…

She belongs to me.

"I thought you were the prettiest fucking woman I'd ever seen the first time Knox introduced us."

She inhales sharply.

"And that hasn't changed, chérie . But that's not why I'm sitting in this chair right now." My mouth tips up. "And it's not because you give insanely expensive, but great haircuts either."

Because I haven't missed the great job she's done.

My hair looks top notch.

"S-so, why are you here?" she asks quietly.

"It's not because of how you look on the outside, as beautiful as you are."

Her throat works again, those clippers still buzzing away. "Then why?"

I could lie.

But I don't want to.

I love the befuddled expression on her face, love the wide eyes and pink cheeks. Love the wonder in her tone.

"I'm here because of what you look like on the inside, chérie ."

A long pause before she returns the trimmer to my hair, even longer before she asks, "And what do I look like on the inside?"

"Like you're the woman I'm going to make mine."

And that's when the clippers slip.