Oh jeez, he heard me. Maybe that’s why he’s backing off. I thought he was already gone when I was on my knees, clutching the rim of the toilet bowl. But he must’ve been downstairs with Shep, who always renders his plaintive doggie wails whenever I’m battling a case of morning sickness. Shep’s howling undoubtedly muffled Eric’s anxious footsteps. I didn’t even know he was down there listening to me. How humiliating. I’m not even comfortable with Eric hearing me pee behind a closed door, never mind puking my guts out.

“I’m fine,” I reply before turning to face him. “Sit down.”

He raises an eyebrow, not even bothering to hide the smirk forming on his lips. I think he likes when I get all bossy with him. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, acting like he’s ready to obey my every command.

I turn on the faucet, waiting for the water to warm up. This close, I can see the tiny freckles dotting his shoulders. I want nothing more than to bend down and kiss each one, but I have a job to do. I can’t allow myself to get distracted—not yet. Eric starts stroking the back of my leg as I get everything ready. He’s waiting patiently, not sure of what to expect.

Once the water is lukewarm, I gently nudge his back, urging him to lean forward as I drape a towel around his shoulders. Trailing my fingers over his neck, I ease him into a reclining position. He gets the drift of where this is going as he gazes up at me, his head resting above the sink. There’s nothing but adoration in his eyes as I touch his face, my hand lingering on his cheek.

I hover over him, pausing for a minute. It’s hard to concentrate with him looking at me like that. I grip the edge of the counter. If I give in now, it’s all over, and I really want to do this for him. I take a deep breath, willing myself to continue.

I cup my hand under the running water and start wetting his hair. I work my fingers through it as he turns his head, allowing me to get the sides. His strong jawline stands out even more in profile. I feel his breath skim my breasts through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, causing my nipples to harden in response. Seeing how my body is reacting to him, he lowers his hands to his knees, gripping them tightly. He seems determined not to touch me, and that gets me going even more.

His hair is now completely wet, but I can’t stop myself from running my fingers through it. He moans with pleasure, making me glad I read that Cosmo article about how to massage a man’s scalp. He’s loving every minute of it. The ends of his hair are starting to curl as I rake my nails across his head. I can’t believe how long his hair got. He’s been too busy to go into town for a cut, but I’m about to change all that.

I turn off the faucet, and he takes it as his cue to sit up. I lift the towel from his shoulders, tossing it over his head. Only his mouth is visible as I wring out the excess moisture. I pat him dry as he leans back with his eyes closed, a sigh escaping his lips. My heart flutters from knowing that what I’m doing is making him feel relaxed and content.

Reaching for the scissors, I comb out a section of hair and start snipping away. I’m not a professional stylist by any means, but I’m competent enough to give him a decent trim. I measure how much I’m going to cut between my fingers as the pieces of hair start to fall to the floor. His eyes are shut, but there’s a smile on his face like he’s in a state of pure and utter bliss.

When I finish with the top, I kneel down to work on the sides. He can’t prevent his eyes from opening when he senses how close I am to him. He tries to get me to meet his gaze, but I keep my attention on what I’m doing, drawing the comb through his sideburn. He blinks when I bring the scissors near his face. I make a few snips then caress his neck reassuringly. I move around him to cut the other side, making sure everything looks even. We’re practically nose to nose as I make a few extra passes, wanting him to look perfect. It’s intense, feeling the weight of his stare on me. I can’t believe I got through all of that without kissing him.

I step back for a moment in anticipation. Now for the part I’ve been waiting for. I don’t know why but I’ve always wanted to shave the guy I love. Those kinds of scenes in movies never fail to turn me on. The man and woman are touching but not touching. Every movement is heightened. Every breath is labored. Every touch is charged. They’re playing at restraint when really they’re bursting at the seams. I admit that I always wanted to feel that level of sexual tension that such an intimate act creates. Not through a screen—but in person.

And Eric is about to help me live out that fantasy.

My heart races as I pick up the can of shaving cream, shaking it for all it’s worth. I tremble, squirting a generous amount onto my hand. I can’t believe how nervous I am. My mouth is watering as I dab my finger into the rich lather. He’s looking at me with such intensity that I almost chicken out and rinse my hands in the sink. Instead, I rub them together before spreading the shaving cream onto his stubbled cheeks.

I cover his mouth, gliding my fingers across the faint beginnings of a mustache. His face is nearly all white, and I chuckle to myself as I remove the lather from his lips with my thumb. He groans when he feels my finger on his mouth. I grin as I wipe the lather from my hands onto the towel before reaching for his razor.

I try to get in a good position as I raise the blade, but I feel awkward. He gazes at me warily, afraid that I’m going to cut him. He’s at my mercy now. A surge of heat shoots through me, and I press my thighs firmly together. He shifts uncomfortably on the tiny stool, causing me to look down. There’s a huge bulge in his boxers. I purse my lips to keep from smiling. I’m not surprised that he’s enjoying this, too.

I start by making a large vertical stroke down the length of his cheek. I love the sound of the bristle of his beard scraping against the path of the razor. It’s so sexy. Elated by my first attempt, I turn on the water to rinse off the razor before making another pass. I continue my way across his face from left to right, pleased by my progress. So far, I haven’t even nicked him. Familiar with the drill, he lifts his chin, allowing me free access to his neck. The blade scratches against his skin, causing him to flinch. I stop what I’m doing and wait for any blood to appear, but there isn’t any. Now that I’m in the home stretch, I have to calm my nerves. The last thing I want to do is cut him. I’m not used to handling a razor over the angles and planes of a man’s face. It’s a lot more difficult than the long, easy strokes I use to shave my legs.

With the last swipe, I want to jump up and down and scream, “I did it.” Instead, I bury his face in the towel, blotting away the last remaining traces of shaving cream. I can’t resist running my knuckles against his cheek. His skin feels so incredibly smooth. I love when he’s clean-shaven. When he’s scruffy, his stubble scratches my face and neck. His kisses end up leaving a trail of red marks that can last well into the next day. Not to mention, his mouth feels best between my legs when it’s not irritating the delicate skin surrounding my inner thighs.

He runs his hands over his face, examining my handiwork. He smiles at me, indicating that he’s pleased with the results. He’s usually in such a rush to get to the garden center that he doesn’t take his time getting ready. On the days he does shave, it seems like he’s always gulping down his morning coffee with bits of toilet paper stuck to his face to stem the bleeding where he cut himself. I’ve even caught him trying to shave with the bathroom mirror still fogged up from his shower. Oh, the crazy things men do.

I lean forward, intending to kiss him, but catch myself at the last moment. I want to draw this out as long as I can, and his lips are distracting me. I nuzzle against the softness of his cheek and whisper in his ear, “Did you like that?”