His hand was there.

Right there.

And he was watching me, waiting to see what I would do.

All I had to do was brush it away. It was just a simple matter of standing up straighter after regaining my balance so that he didn't need to have it there anymore.

That's all I needed to do. But I didn't do it. I didn't move away.

And I didn't stop him as he slid his hand higher. I didn't say a word as he moved it, brushing up the front of my thighs before sliding inward towards the place where a sudden, desperate ache was centered. I barely even breathed as a slow grin spread across his face. I didn't even move as his fingernail raked slightly over my seam.

But my breath caught, and that little sound shattered the silence. He let out a noise of his own, a soft low growl that sent vibrations through my body, then turned his face upward to mine.

I don't remember who moved first. All I know is that one second we were frozen, staring at each other, and I looked into his eyes without that curtain of hair shielding me from the penetrating blue of his gaze, and the next second I was kissing him.

Or, more truthfully, he was kissing me. Claiming me, his other hand snaking up and twining into my hair to pull me down closer to him. I stumbled and gasped as his fingers raked across my scalp, and his tongue took the opening of my parted lips as an opportunity to find mine. He tasted like Scotch. Like music. He kissed me like he knew exactly how I wanted to be kissed, like no one had ever kissed me before. There was no hesitation, there was no sense of trying to figure anything out. No, he already fucking knew.

Just like he knew how to move his hand between my legs, pressing upward and letting me arch my hips, grinding into him. My body was betraying me on every level, my heart thudding so hard it was timed to the beat of the voice in my head, wrong, wrong, wrong. This was insane. I was the daughter of a record executive, kissing her talent. There was no way I could spin this into something appropriate. I would never be taken seriously in the industry again. But I was still kissing him anyway because the sweep of his tongue against mine was almost enough to drown out all of that doubt.

"Fuck, lass," he breathed and in the moment I absolutely loved the way he kept calling me lass, that thick brogue making it sound like a song. "You like that?" he asked as he moved his hand some more. "You're so hot you're going to burn my hand up. Are you wet too, Celia?"

It was ridiculous. He wasn't even touching my skin, just moving his fingers over my jeans like we were a couple of teenagers making out in my parents' basement and yet what he was doing to me felt more intimate than if we were stripped naked under a blazing spotlight. The edge of his palm knifed upward, catching me right where my need was centered. "Yes," I gasped.

"Fuck. Yes. Say yes to me again, Celia," he begged, his hand moving faster. I sagged forward, slumping against his shoulders, and a noise keened up from the back of my throat. His hand moved away and I almost shouted in frustration until I felt him tug at my jeans. "This zipper has been teasing me for too long," he growled, and was he...oh fuck yes he was unzipping it with his teeth. He glanced upward, rumbled something profane and then yanked it down the rest of the way with his fingers. "You smell so fucking good, I need to know how you taste."

The fact that he was sitting on my toilet right now, the fact that I had to brace myself against my sink as he yanked my jeans down, the fact that I was awkwardly splayed out in front of him at the most unflattering angle possible, all of that didn't matter. Because the second his tongue slid against me, I exploded.

It was like a bomb going off in my brain.

I've never been a girl who could get off immediately. I need time, attention. I need to be in the right mood, maybe some soft candles and a scented bath first. I need about a half a bottle of wine in me before I can even begin to loosen up enough to kiss someone, so the fact that I was wanting this surprised me almost as much as the fact that I came the second his tongue touched my clit.

It was madness. It was insanity. My arms splayed out, windmilling wildly and knocking the towel off the rack as I clutched it for dear life. Ewan devoured me like a starving man at a buffet and if he knew I was coming, and coming hard, it didn't distract him in the slightest. He seemed wholly focused on the movements of his tongue and the quick, oh god was his finger inside of me? was that two? what was he...? oh god!

The sensation was too much. I threw my head back and a silent scream died in my throat as my whole body went rigid with shock.

"Holy shit," Ewan murmured against my clit. He pulled back, and I blushed to see the wet sheen on his chin.

"Holy shit," I echoed breathlessly. The waves of pleasure had barely subsided, but my cheeks were already heating up.

I made to yank up my jeans, but he stayed my hand. "Hey lass," he said in a ragged yet somehow still gentle voice. "Don't go pulling a runner on me now."

I was still breathless, half from the intensity and half from the rising panic that was now clawing its way up my throat. "Fuck," I exhaled, looking at him and then having to look away. "Why did you do that?"

He chuckled. "Because you seemed to enjoy it."

"Well, yeah but..."

"But what then, lass?" He leaned back on the toilet, his half-finished hair flopping back away from his face. "You know I fancy you, yeah?"

I bit my lip and looked down at him and something inside of me crumbled. I felt it. "Yeah," I breathed. Then my breath caught. "You want me to?" I bent awkwardly, making to kneel.

"I'm not about to make you kneel down and suck me off while I'm on the toilet, lass," he scoffed, standing and lifting me to my feet. "I know you think I'm a filthy rocker and all, but I've got standards too, you know."

I looked at him in shock and then suddenly burst out laughing. "You do?"

"Oh aye." He let his fingers trail up to brush under my chin. "They're very high."

This kiss was softer, sweeter. Traces of me still clung to his lips and tongue, but instead of making me feel filthy, it made me feel strangely cherished to taste myself on his mouth. My hands lifted of their own accord, making to rake through his hair, but then I paused and pulled back. "Oh shit!" I laughed. "I never finished your haircut!'

He turned and looked at himself in my cracked bathroom mirror and grimaced. "You've butchered me, lass."

"Sit down," I ordered. "Let me clean it up."

"What if I like it dirty?"

"Sit."

He sat back down again, grinning up at me, then sighed heavily. I bent again, aware of how my nipples tightened being so close to him. My pussy still throbbed a desperate "hey!" reminding me of what we'd just done, but I focused hard on just finishing up.

And soon I didn't have to work so hard to focus. Each snip revealed something about him that I didn't know before. This close, I could see his stubble, and the way it swirled along his jaw. I could see his jaw itself, that much was a revelation, hidden as it usually was behind that curtain of hair. I could see it clenching and the pulse beating at his temple. It seemed more rapid than it should be, but then again my own heart was racing too. I felt like I couldn't get a full breath, because every time I inhaled, my lungs were filled with his scent. I could almost taste him, swallowing greedily as more saliva gathered in my mouth than made sense. It was like I was smelling something delicious to eat when I been hungry for far too long.

I worked diligently, trying like hell to focus on the task at hand and not how close his eyes were to mine. With one last snip to even it out, I stepped back and looked at him.

He looked up at me from under heavy lidded eyes, and I pressed my lips together critically. "I think we should shave the sides," I said. "Can you do that?"

He grinned a lazy, triumphant grin. "Nah, lass," he said. God his accent made me weak. "I'm thinking you'd best be doing it all. I wouldn't want to muck up your good work."

I swallowed and reached down into my overstuffed drawer. His eyes glinted in amusement as I pulled out the electric razor. "Dare I ask why a lass like you has a beard trimmer in your possession?"

I bit my lip and said nothing, and he let out a low whistle. "Don't move," I ordered.

"She's a bossy one," he said softly, but he bent his head willingly as I pressed it down. Only his eyes remained on mine. My hands were trembling, but I managed the first pass with the razor, making him shiver violently. "Tickles," he murmured but bent his head again dutifully.

I held my breath as I passed it again in a clean line, shaving a part into the undercut. A few more passes, and I stepped back again.

"Wow," I said without meaning to.

He looked up at me, and I swallowed hard. His cheekbones, his jaw, the way his face was composed into a mass of planes and shadows... I knew he was good-looking before, but now, revealed from underneath that curtain of hair, he was goddamn breathtaking.

And then he grinned, which made it all the worse. "Wow, huh?" he echoed teasingly.

I swallowed, feeling myself blush. "Well," I said petulantly. "You look a hell of a lot better."

He brushed the hair off of his jeans and then stood up. Turning, he gazed at himself critically in my bathroom mirror. The jagged crack bisected his face into a funhouse mirror of shapes, but he stared at it like he could see everything clearly. I stood behind him, watching him watch himself. He didn't speak for a long time, and I held my breath. For some reason it really mattered to me that he liked it, that he saw himself to the way I did right now. "You think I look better this way?" he finally asked.

I nodded. "I do," I said. It was the truth. He had never looked better. It was doing funny things to my heartbeat.

Finally he nodded once. "Aye then," he said. "Then this is how I want to look."