Page 24

The soaking tub is big, but it’s a tight squeeze for a professional football player and his grown adult boyfriend. You don’t care, though. You like being close to Kai.

It’s Wednesday night; he’s been home for two days.

His mom left a few hours ago, with a fully-stocked freezer in her wake and dire warnings to call her daily or face her wrath.

You accompanied them to the team neurologist that morning.

The check-in was not dire, but not great.

Kai is still experiencing a lot of side effects from the concussion: bad headaches, sensitivity to sound and light, and a lot of pain in his head and neck.

The doctor said that none of these things were unexpected, and that they’d have to take things one day at a time. (Personally, that’s a phrase you hate.)

In your exploration of all the condo’s drawers, cabinets, and closets, you uncovered some pillar candles that Kai explained were part of his hurricane readiness kit—something that’s apparently a thing for Floridians.

You’ve scattered them around the bathroom and lit them, creating a warm, soft glow that isn’t too bright for Kai’s eyes.

The tub is full of hot water and drifts of foam. You had doubts about whether your Diptyque body gel was going to work as a makeshift bubble bath, but it rose to the occasion, perfuming the whole room with bergamot and tangerine.

Kai’s big body takes up most of the space.

He’s sunk deep into the hot water, his eyes closed.

You straddle his lap, careful not to bang your knees against the unforgiving porcelain of the basin.

Everything you need is on a low stool to the side of the tub.

Your wet skin prickles with goosebumps at being exposed to the cool air, and the damp strands of loose hair escaping the bun on top of your head are clinging to your neck.

You don’t care, grabbing Kai’s jaw and turning his head this way and that in the low light.

“If you cut me, I’mma be mad.” His voice rumbles though you.

You scoff. “I’m not going to cut you. Stop whining.”

Unable to help yourself, you run your hands over his buzzed scalp, which prickles your palms. You cut his hair for him before you ran the bath, him sitting on that same stool as you ran the clippers over his head carefully, mindful not to miss any strays.

It felt good, taking care of your man like that.

You’d never done someone’s hair before, but you watched a few videos online, and, besides, you have people messing with your own hair constantly.

You know that such jobs require patience and precision: two qualities that you have in spades.

The buzz of the clippers in your hand was solid and steady. Something you could control.

Now, in the bath, you consider your tools: the razor with the fresh blade, the shaving balm, the basin of clean water, and the wash cloth.

“How do you know that you are going to like me clean-shaven?” he asks. “You’ve never seen me without a beard.”

You lean down, steal a lingering kiss from his plush lips.

“I don’t love you for your facial hair,” you say. “Even if it is pretty sexy.”

Kai frowns. “I don’t have to shave it, you know. All I said was that it was hard not being able to get to my barber right now. I can manage it okay by myself.”

With your connections, you could easily get a top barber to make regular house calls. You convince yourself that Kai has to be aware of that fact, which is how you justify not bringing it up. You want this. Taking care of him. Loving on him. Touching him.

Ignoring his protests, you dunk your hands in the tub and wet them, then rub his face with them. His facial hair has already been trimmed down to almost nothing to make the razor’s job easier. His short hair abrades your fingers when you touch it, the strands coarse and bristly.

The shaving balm smells good. Minty. You are careful as you apply it, making sure that none of it goes between his lips or up his nose.

Using the tips of your fingers, you make sure to cover every millimeter of fuzz, going up his cheeks and over the curve of his jaw.

Then, you tip his head back and cover his neck.

You aren’t actually nervous about shaving him, but you’ve never actually done this before.

To yourself, sure, but shaving your own face is different from shaving somebody else.

You don’t grow a ton of facial hair, and an aesthetician waxes most of your body every four weeks like clockwork, because rubbing hair follicles the wrong way against your tight costumes is sensory hell for you.

(She leaves your armpits alone, because focus groups distrust men without axillary hair.) You’ve never shaved a lover before.

For Kai, though? It feels intimate. Sexy.

You press your body against his, and make sure your hands are very steady.

His big arms are on your waist, and a little puff of breath escapes him when the razor first rasps his skin.

“Go with the grain,” he says. “Otherwise, I get bumps.”

“Noted,” you murmur. Honestly, why have you never gotten this close to Kai’s face before?

At such a near distance, his lashes are long and thick, and there’s a gradient to his caramel eyes, which go almost amber towards the whites.

Between his lips, which are slightly parted, his teeth are a sharp, white contrast to his brown skin.

There is the barest hint of freckles across his nose, splotches a shade darker than his complexion.

How, all this time, has he been even more gorgeous than you realized?

“You’re staring at me,” he says. “‘S a little intense.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say. Having shaved one cheek, you do the other.

These are the easy parts, you reckon. You line up his sideburns and pull the razor no lower than his jawline.

You can feel your tongue poking out between your teeth as you lean in, deep in concentration.

Between passes, you rinse the razor in the basin.

Kai tilts his head back accommodatingly with the prompting of your palm as you angle his jaw to shave it.

The razor glides through the slick of gel along the crest of bone, as well as under his chin.

Here, you are exquisitely careful. If you so much as blink, the mental image of Tamatoa’s helmet spearing Kai under the chin is going to sprawl across your mind’s eye and turn your stomach.

There’s no visible signs of injury, but you run your fingers behind the blade to feel the tender, smooth skin it leaves behind.

To prove to yourself that he is whole and safe.

You shave his chin and neck with exquisite care.

There’s more hair here, the remains of his beard thicker.

It takes shorter strokes, and more rinsing of the razor.

When you denude his face, the skin underneath is very, very soft.

You can’t help but kiss the side of his mouth, tasting the astringent, bitter note of the shaving gel.

Shaving his upper lip requires one of your fingers on his Cupid’s bow to press it down, because his lips are so full. You are carefully angling the razor to skirt his nostril when his tongue dips out of his mouth, pink and wet, and touches your finger.

“Stop that,” you murmur severely.

Kai chuckles just a little. His eyes are still closed, and he doesn’t move a muscle. It does your heart good to hear him laugh and see him be a little foolish. Like, against all odds, you’ve discovered proof positive that he is, in fact, okay.

When you’re satisfied that his face is clean-shaven—it takes no end of checking and double-checking to make sure you didn’t miss any spots, feeling with your fingers and peering at his face—you take the wash cloth and dip it in the hot water, delicately cleaning him off.

Sans facial hair, Kai looks younger. Turns out that, under his manicured beard, there was a serious baby face. It charms you.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks. His eyes are still closed, so you have no idea how he sees your expression, but he’s also not wrong.

“You,” you answer honestly.

In response, he pulls you down atop him, embracing you amidst the bubbly water.

Your skin is pressed to his skin. Your head finds his shoulder, and you bask in the moment.

You wish you could frame it like a postcard and just live in it: the slip of his body against yours, the warmth of the water, the darkness of the candlelit room.

It’s deeply sensual, but not sexual, despite the fact that you are half-hard against his belly.

You both linger until the water starts to cool, and then you shuffle off to bed, where you spoon Kai until you are both sound asleep.

***

Late the next afternoon, you two are back in bed, resting, when his housekeeper comes in.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” she exclaims.

It isn’t until she speaks that you even realize she’s there; you were pretty out of it and didn’t hear the door open.

Kai is dead to the world, rolled over on his side.

He requires what feels like endless amounts of sleep, and the fatigue is contagious.

You raise your bleary head. She’s a young woman in rubber gloves, a Swiffer duster in her hand.

She does a double-take when she sees you, but doesn’t comment, which endears her to you immediately. You are grateful that both you and Kai are fully clothed.

“Hi,” you say, gingerly climbing out of bed. “I’m Sterling. You must be…” You rack your brain and, for once, it doesn’t let you down. “Marissa, right?”

She looks surprised. “Umm, yes?”

You nod, pleased that you got that right. “Kai mentioned that you come on Thursdays. You do such a great job; the place always looks amazing. I’m sorry that we’re here and in your way. What can I do to make your job easier?”