Chapter 7 — Further

The stranger grabbed the thin towel from the rack, spread it over the closed toilet lid, then set her down on top of it.

Then he sat on the cold tiled floor with his back against the tub, white shirt still on, jeans still on, and barefoot, and looked up at her.

“Come here.”

Emily hesitated, then stepped closer. He reached for her hips and guided her until she was standing right in front of him. His hands slid down the outsides of her thighs and then gently pushed her knees apart so she was open to him.

The position felt weirder than she expected. She felt exposed and stupidly embarrassed. She could feel the air on every part of her that was usually covered.

“I look ridiculous,” she muttered.

“You don’t.”

“I do. This is weird as hell.”

He glanced up at her face, then back down. “It’s only weird if you keep saying it’s weird. Just try to relax.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with your…you know…in some stranger’s face.”

He smiled. “Fair.”

He opened the small tube of shaving gel that had come with the razors and squeezed some onto his fingers. The gel was cool when he touched her. He spread it slowly, carefully, working it through the hair with the pads of his fingers.

The touch was clinical at first, then less so. He took his time covering everything, thumbs brushing the soft skin of her inner thighs, fingers sliding through the thickest part of the hair until she was slick with the gel.

Emily’s breathing changed. She stared at the opposite wall and tried not to look down.

He picked up the razor.

“Hold still.”

The first stroke was light, almost experimental. He used his other hand to keep the skin taut and dragged the blade upward in a short, careful pass. The sound of it was quiet but very clear in the small bathroom.

Emily flinched even though it didn’t hurt.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just… feels weird.”

He made another pass, then another, rinsing the razor under the tub faucet between strokes. Each time, he asked her to open her legs a little more. She did. The further she spread, the more of her he could reach, and the more deliberate his hands became. He wasn’t rushing. He treated it like something that deserved attention.

“What do you do?” he asked after a while, voice casual, eyes on what he was doing.

Emily blinked. “What?”

“For work.”

She hesitated. The truth sat right there, but she didn’t feel like explaining the county or the system or any of it. “Bar. On the outskirts.”

He nodded like that made sense and kept shaving. Another slow stroke along the left side. The gel and the hair and the warm water from the faucet mixed under his hands. Every so often his knuckles brushed her clit by accident—or maybe not by accident—and a small jolt went through her.

She cleared her throat. “Why were you following me? At the bar?”

He rinsed the razor again. “I wasn’t. I went there to drink. You started a fight. That’s not the same as following you.”

Emily almost asked about the courthouse. The question was right there—were you the one outside that day—but she swallowed it.

If it wasn’t him, he’d ask what the hell she’d been doing at a courthouse, and she didn’t want to answer that.

So she let it drop.

He kept working. The more hair he removed, the more sensitive everything felt. The air hit her skin that hadn’t been bare in a long time. When he needed her to shift, he just pressed lightly on the inside of her thigh, and she moved without arguing.

The conversation stayed awkward and half-finished.

“Have you done this before?” Emily asked.

He rinsed the razor. “Shaving?”

“Shaving someone else. Like this.”

“No.”

She looked down at the top of his head. “You’re weirdly careful for someone who’s never done it.”

“I’ve shaved my own face for years. Same idea. Just… different location.”

Emily let out a short breath. “Yeah, okay.”

He glanced up once, then back down. “You’re tensing again.”

“No shit. There’s a razor between my legs.”

“I’m not gonna cut you.” He pressed lightly on the inside of her thigh. “Open a little more.”

She did. The new angle made her feel even more on display. She stared at the wall and tried to find something normal to say.

“You’re taking this very seriously.”

“Trying not to mess it up.”

“Great. Love that for me.”

He made a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh and kept going. The silence after that wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t terrible either. Just two people who didn’t know each other stuck in something too intimate for small talk.

Eventually he sat back a little and looked at his work.

“I think it’s done.”

Emily glanced down before she could stop herself. The hair was gone.

He set the razor aside. “Step into the tub.”

“Why?”

“Need to wash the rest of the gel off.”

She stepped over the edge and stood there, unsure what to do with her hands.

“You want to wash me too?” she asked, mostly to fill the silence.

He looked up at her from the floor. “Yes.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know, but I want to.”

He stood, turned the water on, and waited until it ran warm. Then he took the detachable showerhead down from its holder, tested the temperature on his wrist, and knelt in front of her again.

“Put your leg over my shoulder.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“Your leg. Over my shoulder. I need a better angle.”

Heat flooded her face. The request was so blunt and so filthy in its practicality that it shut down whatever protest she’d been about to make.

Emily was embarrassed—actually embarrassed—but her body was reacting in the opposite direction. She could feel herself getting all hard up again just from the way he was looking at her and the calm, almost focused way he’d asked.

Slowly, awkwardly, she lifted one leg and let him guide it over his shoulder. The position opened her completely. He adjusted the spray to a soft stream and brought the showerhead up between her legs.

Emily’s hand shot out to the wall for balance.

He hadn’t even started washing her yet, and she was already breathing as she had.