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“You gonna watch?” I ask. It’s not like I can stop him. I’d do anything to keep my brother safe. He owns me, and he knows it.
Nicky rests his forearms on his thighs as he gazes up at me from under sooty eyelashes, a sheen on his olive skin. His damp undershirt clings to his sculpted pecs.
I’m covered from chest to knees in a thick towel. The bathroom is thick with steam.
Every muscle in his body is straining. Yeah, he’s watching.
I unwind the towel from around my head. He’s rapt. I drop the soggy towel on the floor and toe it into a corner. He doesn’t blink.
I spritz pre-styler on and work it through with my fingers. I do my routine without thinking, rinsing the tackiness from my fingers, plugging the dryer in, dividing my hair into sections, clipping it up, and getting to work.
Nicky watches like he’s never seen anything like it before, and his interest makes me aware of every inch of my skin, every slight movement, in a way I never am.
I gentle my motions so my hair swirls through the brush like in a commercial. Shivers race across my drying skin as Nicky notices every little thing.
When I swallow, his gaze falls to my throat. When I inhale deeply, it drops to my chest. It’s like there’s a thread between us.
My lungs tighten, but it’s not a panicky feeling. It’s an edge-of-your-seat feeling.
What would I do if he made a move?
What would I feel?
My hair is thoroughly done well before I turn the dryer off. After I apply finishing spray, I take my time combing it through with my fingers, arranging the curls over my shoulders, and then tossing it back like all the effort was nothing.
What is he going to do now?
It’s almost a relief when he stands, except he moves behind me, and I freeze. Lungs, limbs, everything.
He’s so much taller than I am. He could rest his chin on the top of my head.
Our eyes meet in the mirror. I can see his blown pupils, the thin band of dark brown iris, the vein in his neck that throbs in time with the pounding of blood in my ears.
He shuffles a half step forward until I’m bracketed between his arms.
He divides a length of hair, combing his fingers from scalp to ends, and lays it carefully over my left shoulder. His touch doesn’t linger. It skims. Dusts.
My belly spasms. My breath audibly catches.
He takes another length of hair, and slowly, so slowly, places it over my right shoulder.
Nicky bends, and—gently, carefully—presses his lips to my exposed nape, his nose brushing along my neck. Shivers race from nerve to nerve, down my spine and arms, to the tips of my fingers and toes.
A sound escapes my mouth. A strangled moan, a smothered whimper.
Nicky straightens, steps back, finds my eyes again in the mirror.
Calmly, methodically, he wraps his fingers around the base of my ponytail and slides his fist to the ends, winding my hair around his hand, drawing my neck back, forcing my chin to rise. I can feel his strength, how much he’s holding back.
He leans to speak in my ear, his breath hot on my cheek.
“I like it either way,” he says.
Then he lets go, still smiling, and he walks out.
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