Page 65 of My Monster’s Keeper

I let them do their thing while I go and grab some important items like razors, my favourite soap, shampoo and conditioner. I only have to put a couple of items back, but I do point out that Stix can get coffee at the café, already made.

Heads turn towards us and watch us as we walk. I notice a couple of women attempt to talk to my guys when they walk away from me. The women are left standing with confused expressions, wondering what the hell happened.

I try not to smile too smugly as I watch a particularly lusty look from a guy as he melts into a puddle as Puppy growls in my ear.

Frost takes the card this time and, with no instruction from me, rings up our groceries. We carry them all back to the hotel room, and I spend half an hour slowly, meticulously putting everything away and ignoring them.

It’s different now.

Because of what Diablos and Hartley said and because of the fact that I’m thinking really hard about it.

I take my toiletries and go into the bathroom, closing the door. I fill up the bath, chuck a whole heap of Epsom salts in, and get in with a razor in hand.

I grab the razor and reach for my leg when my wrist is seized.

“What are you doing?” The sharp accusation startles me.

I peer up at Stix, willing my heart to calm down and answer simply. “Shaving?”

“Cutting your perfect skin? I think not.”

“No, it’s shaving. Removing the hair.”

Stix tilts his head to the side, and I think, I really do think, that I might die from humiliation right now.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like hair.”

“I like it.”

“It’s not your body, it’s mine. I don’t want it there. I like my legs smooth and soft.” When he doesn’t let go, with burning cheeks, I add, “It grows back!”

Stix considers this. “Are there other places you shave?”

I choke. “Yes,” I finally get out.

“Where?”

“Between my legs and under my arms.”

He strokes a hand down my leg, from knee to ankle, before possessively holding my foot

“Let me do it.”

Every thought slips away, leaving me speechless with my mouth hanging wide open.

Stix reaches over and takes the razor. He inspects it carefully before leaning towards my leg.

“We need to soap my leg first so there’s less chance of nicks.”

Stix looks at me from under his lashes and sweeps up the bottle of body wash.

He shifts to his other form, and long, spindly fingers soap my legs, pausing to massage the deep muscle until I’m almost boneless in the tub.

When he picks up the razor, I’m almost surprised.

The smooth glide of the blade has me gasping.