Page 38 of Made for Wilde

"Will this work?" he asks, looking almost nervous.

I nod, touched by the thoughtfulness.

"It's perfect."

I drape a towel around his shoulders, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of his neck. He tenses slightly at the contact, and I pull away quickly.

"Sorry," I murmur. "My hands are probably cold."

"It's fine." His voice is gruff.

I take a deep breath, trying to channel my inner professional.

This is just a haircut. I've done dozens in school. The fact that it's Koda—imposing, mysterious, forbidden Koda—doesn't matter. Right now, he's just a client.

"We should wash your hair first," I say, slipping into my professional voice. The one I use when I'm trying to convince myself and everyone else that I know what I'm doing. "It'll cut better wet."

Koda nods and drags the chair over to the sink.

His broad shoulders make the wooden frame look like doll furniture, his knees spread wide to accommodate his large frame.

I swallow hard.

"Lean back," I instruct, turning on the faucet to check the temperature.

He complies, tilting his head toward the sink. I position a dish towel around his shoulders, acutely aware of how my fingers brush against the warm skin of his neck. When I guide his head under the stream of water, his eyes close, dark lashes fanning against his cheeks. I pour a small amount of shampoo and work it into his hair.

The moment my fingers touch his scalp, a low sound rumbles from his chest. Something between a sigh and a groan that shoots straight to my core.

"Sorry," he murmurs, eyes still closed. "Been a while since anyone's done this."

I can't speak.

My fingers work through his thick hair, massaging his scalp, watching his face relax under my touch. When my nails accidentally scrape against his skin, his lips part slightly, andI have to clench my thighs together against the rush of heat between them.

I rinse his hair thoroughly, then wrap another towel around it, patting gently. When he sits up, water droplets trickle down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

I want to follow their path with my tongue.

"Where do you want me?" His voice is deeper now, rougher around the edges.

I nearly choke.

"Right here is fine. Just sit straight."

He positions himself, and I stand awkwardly, assessing the best angle.

There's only one way to do this.

I take a deep breath and step between his spread knees.

His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't move. Doesn't close his legs or back away. Instead, he looks up at me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.

"So," I say, unfolding my scissors with fingers that still shake. "How much are we taking off?"

"Whatever you think." His eyes hold mine. "I trust you."

Those three words settle in my chest like stones.