She’s under my skin. I can feel her latched on in a way that I know it’s going to be hell to get her out. And what do I do? Like a fool, I let her sink deeper. I let her cook breakfast, I listen to her laugh, I watch her blush, and I find any excuse under the sun to touch her. Most recently, I pretended there was a crumb on her lip.

“Michael?” she questions.

I reach up to wipe the non-existent crumble away, letting my finger press against the corner of her mouth and watching as her lips break apart to allow a shudder of breath pass through. I put a little weight on my finger, and just like that the tip is in her mouth. Almost instantly her tongue brushes against the tip of my finger. I release a sound which is guttural. I have to fight to escape the image of my cock sliding into her mouth and disappearing inch by aching inch.

Almost seven motherfucking years without thinking of sex, without even wanting it, and now it’s all I can think about. My cock feels like concrete. Getting Hayden off was almost innocent, and yet it is the most erotic thing I’ve ever done with a woman. It wasn’t about what we did, it had everything to do with the fact it was Hayden and what she’s doing to me. We share some kind of fucking connection I’ve never experienced before. I should be discouraging her, and instead, I agreed to let her cut my damned hair. I’m swimming in stupidity. You would think I would have wised up after years of dealing with Jan. Suddenly mad at myself, I move my finger and steadfastly ignore the confusion that clouds her eyes.

“You had something on your lip,” I lie, clearing my voice and refusing to look at her. “You sure you even know how to cut hair?”

“Will you quit worrying?” she responds, draping a towel over the front of me.

“What’s this for?” I ask her, grabbing it. I’m sitting in a chair she pulled away from the table. She’s got a comb and some scissors on the table while she’s standing above me, hovering nervously, looking down at me with those large gray eyes. Sad fuck that I am, I wasn’t able to resist looking at them for long.

“So the hair I cut off doesn’t get on your shirt and drive you crazy,” she says, looking as if it should be self-explanatory.

“You’re not cutting that much off,” I warn. God’s truth, I am having trouble figuring out why I agreed to let her do this in the first place.

“I won’t. Though to be fair, you have so much hair, we should shave you bald and donate it for wigs,” she responds, her fingers, combing through my hair, pulling it away from my head. I can’t see her face because she’s standing above me, but suddenly I wish I could. Her rounded stomach is right in front of me. The pajama top she’s wearing keeps rising up when she moves her arms, revealing glimpses of the peach skin beneath it. It should remind me that she’s pregnant with another man’s baby. A man I despise. It doesn’t.

Hell, my cock is rock hard and has been since the moment I stole a kiss before breakfast. I pull the towel away, putting it on the table. “Michael, honestly if you don’t—” I stop her by pulling my shirt up and over my head. I can hear her breathy rasp and she’s stepped away from me now so I can see her eyes. The desire inside of them leaps out at me. It’s there for me to read. No coyness, no disguises, nothing premeditated about it.

How different would my life have been if I had met Hayden earlier. If she had been Annabelle’s mother, Annabelle would still be here. There’s a lot about Hayden that is a mystery, but I don’t doubt for one second that she would lay her life down to protect her child. Thinking of my daughter makes that familiar pang in my chest hurt. I reach up and rub it unconsciously. Even that doesn’t dim my hard-on, however, and I feel guilty for having it. I came here to get away from everyone, to retire from the world. Hayden is making me live again. I feel torn and out of control.

“I don’t think I’ve ever given a haircut to someone without a shirt on,” she says, and despite my earlier thoughts, I find myself smiling again.

“I’m the one without the shirt,” I tell her, choosing to interpret her words differently than she obviously meant them. “But I do like your idea,” I agree, and I grab her pajama top and even sitting down and at this angle, it’s ridiculously easy to lift it up. Hayden tightens up and her hands try to stop me but I ignore them and don’t stop until her shirt is gone and she’s standing in front of me in her pajama shorts and bra. I eye her bra. I want it gone. Hayden must read my mind, because she’s shaking her head.

“The bra stays on. In fact, I’m putting the shirt back on,” she grumbles, reaching for it. My hand lays over top of hers as her fingers curl into the fabric.

“The shirt stays off,” I tell her, leaving no room for argument.

She sighs, and I fully expect her to argue.

“You do realize I’m pregnant, right? That I have scars…stretch marks?”

“You’re beautiful,” I answer, letting my hand move over her stomach. Maybe I shouldn’t find her sexy, because Maggie is not my child, and Hayden is definitely not my woman, not to keep. I can’t have that. I don’t deserve that…but I want it. I close my eyes as the truth of that delves a little deeper in. I push it aside, not prepared to think about it, or the repercussions right now.

Hayden’s hand captures mine before I can push her shorts down and see even more of her.

“If I have to cut your hair without a shirt, then I should get to trim that beard up… a lot.”

“No,” I tell her, not wanting her to see the scars. I don’t know why she ignores the ones she can clearly see now, but there’s no point in—

“Please?” she asks. “I’ll owe you one,” she adds, and the idea of Hayden owing me anything sends my blood pressure skyrocketing.

Fuck. I nod, yes without even thinking. I’m on the verge of telling her that I wasn’t serious, but the look of pleasure and victory on her face stops the words. She’s too happy.

And I’m fucking screwed.