The Bride Test (The Kiss Quotient 2)

Acting like a professional, which she wasn’t, she picked up the scissors, but Kh?i said, “I need you to do this a certain way.”

“You want to see the hairstyle I picked for you? I can show you—”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I trust your taste. Maybe . . .” He ran his hands up and down his thighs a few times. Was he nervous? “Maybe put the scissors down for now.”

She put the scissors down. Great, he was scared she was going to mess up. She didn’t think she would. She’d picked out something classic and sophisticated. At least, she thought so.

Focusing on the wall, he said, “I’m autistic, and I have sensory issues. There’s a certain way to touch me, especially my face and hair.” He switched his attention to her face. “It’s probably best if I show you. Can you give me one of your hands?”

He held his palm out, and Esme approached him. She didn’t know what “autistic” was, or “sensory issues,” either, but she understood he was trusting her with something important—himself. Holding her breath, she slowly lowered her hand. Closer. Closer. Until they touched.

She bit her lip, expecting him to jerk away or grimace. His warm fingers closed around her and squeezed, and heat melted outward as she exhaled.

They were holding hands.

He cleared his throat. “Light touches bother me, and it’s worse when I don’t know it’s coming. So, when you cut my hair, I’d appreciate it if you kept your touch firm. Like this.” He gathered her hand in both of his and pressed her palm to the middle of his chest, keeping his hands over hers.

He looked calm on the surface, steady, competent, like he always did, but his heart beat wildly beneath her palm. He was nervous. But not for the reason she’d thought.

“All those other times when I . . .” she whispered.

His chest lifted on a deep inhalation. “Too light, and you caught me by surprise.”

“I didn’t know . . .” She’d thought it was her touch. She’d never imagined it was everyone’s touch. “What does it feel like when people touch you too lightly?”

His brow wrinkled. “It’s just too much. It almost hurts, but actual pain is preferable. It’s difficult to describe.”

“If I need to touch you, I should tell you first?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s best to warn me if I’m not expecting it.”

She tugged on her arm slightly. “Can I touch your face?”

He nodded and let his hands drop away from hers, but his throat bobbed on a loud swallow.

She lifted her fingers toward his jaw but stopped before making contact. “Can you help me?” She didn’t want to get it wrong.

His lips curved with the beginning of a smile, and he brought her hand to his face as he pressed his cheek into her palm. “You don’t need to be so worried. I know what’s going on now. If we work together, I can control my reactions.”

“Is this bad?” she asked, afraid to move a single finger.

“No, it’s fine. For my hair, it’s best if you can keep good tension on the strands while you cut them. I don’t mind if you pull hard. It doesn’t hurt. But no light touch. Please.”

“No light touch.” She reached her other hand toward him, curled the fingers as she hesitated, and then threaded them into his damp hair, pressing her fingertips firmly to his scalp. “Is that okay?”

When his eyelids drooped with pleasure and he nodded, she grew braver. She pushed her other hand from his jaw up to his temple and into his hairline.

“How is that?” she whispered.

“Good.” The word rumbled out of him, deep, almost gravelly.

His hair was thick and cool between her fingers, smooth as silk, and before she realized what she was doing, she was massaging his scalp with slow, sweeping motions. And he was letting her. His eyes fell shut, and he leaned into her touch like he was soaking it up. His breaths came slow, easy. If she pressed her palm over his heart now, she would have bet everything his heartbeat had calmed down. She’d done that.

She pulled on the strands like she usually did while cutting. “How is this?”

He frowned, but his eyes didn’t open. “Tighter.”

“Like this?” She pulled harder.