Idol (VIP 1)

I go to work on the back of his hair. “Arrogant, aren’t we?”

“A man who names his hairstyle after another man isn’t much of a man.”

Long locks of silky, mahogany hair fall to the floor. “If you say so.”

We fall quiet, which is a mistake. Because now I can’t help but notice how close I’m standing to him, or the feel of my fingers threading through his heavy hair, and my breasts hovering by his temple when I move to his side.

I should be immune to Killian by now. I really should. But aside from last night’s freak-out, I’ve never been this near him for a sustained amount of time. The heat of his skin has a scent—indefinable but luscious. My mouth waters, and I have to swallow hard so I don’t drool on him like some creeper. His breathing has a rhythm and sound that holds my attention.

Agitation. I hear it. I feel it. Agitation surrounds us. It messes with my concentration, and I find myself hacking at his hair, cutting fast and loose. Luckily, he’s asked for a short style, and I can fix what I’ve done. Biting my lip, I focus on my task and ignore him.

Or try to.

The more I cut away, the more his strong bone structure is revealed. Killian looked damn fine with long hair. Short? He’s a work of art. With his high cheekbones, squared-off jaw, and strong nose, he’d almost look too hard if it wasn’t for his pretty eyes.

My mouth twitches as I think about telling him he has pretty eyes. He’d hate that.

“What’s so funny?” His husky voice snares my attention.

“Nothing.” I carefully shape around his ears.

“Libby…”

He won’t let this go. He’s like a tick that way.

“I was just thinking that you have pretty eyes,” I mutter, face flaming.

He makes a gurgled sort of sound. “You flirting with me, Libs?”

I don’t meet his gaze. “Stating a fact. And you know they’re pretty.”

Those dark eyes watch me as I finish the basic shape of his haircut. “I know nothing,” he says softly.

Our gazes finally meet. We’re about a foot apart, and the air between us is hot and damp. It’s a struggle to breathe, a struggle not to look away. In the background, evening cicadas hum. Killian swallows hard, searching my gaze for some sign. I don’t know what to say. Every memory of all the awkward, bumbling encounters I’ve had with attractive men surges forward. I’m utter crap at this stuff.

Blinking, I stand straight and run my fingers through his hair. I’ve left it a little longer at the top. “I just have to shape this bit and you’re done.” My voice sounds thick and uneven.

“Okay,” he says in a voice just as rough.

I frown at myself as I trim. This exercise in torture needs to end before I do something stupid. I step between his thighs to finish off the front of his hair. Mistake. He’s now only inches away from my chest.

Killian’s shoulders go stiff. I swear he stops breathing. Or maybe I do. Silence falls over us just as the cicada song ends. Neither of us moves or says a word.

And then everything changes.

It doesn’t matter that it’s barely a graze of his fingers against my shirt, the second he touches me, my body tenses, then vibrates like a tuning fork struck. I pause a beat, breath halting before escaping in a silent rush. The scissors hesitate then snip through his hair with a loud snick. The tips of his fingers gently press against the dividing line between my shorts and shirt, holding me steady as I sway a little.

I close my eyes for a second. I could move away, tell him to get off. But I don’t. That small yet significant touch sends heat and need throbbing through me, and it feels so good, I almost whimper. I swallow hard and continue to cut his hair, less steady now but determined to finish the job well.

Neither of us acknowledges the fact that he’s touching me. We don’t say a word when his fingers slowly move up under my shirt, seeking bare skin. But, Jesus, I feel it, and my knees threaten to cave.

Idly he moves, as if he’s simply enjoying the feel of me. As if I’m his to touch.

I can’t pretend anymore. The scissors clink when I set them down.

Killian tilts his head back to stare up at me. There’s something almost defiant in his expression, and I can’t meet his eyes.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, heart pounding.

“Touching you.” Gently he strokes my skin, and he sighs as though in heaven.

“Why?” I croak, because I’ve lost my damn mind, apparently.

Killian’s tone stays soft, almost thoughtful. “It’s all I think about lately, touching you.” A low sound leaves him, as if he’s laughing at himself. “Can’t seem to talk myself out of it any more. Don’t want to.”