Tex held perfectly still in the chair, his eyes closed, his head tilted just a little bit back so Jessie would have full access to his scalp. His hands, clenched into fists in his lap, were shaking. He hadn't known what he would do when he saw her.
Finally let go? Fall head over heels? Drop down to one knee and beg her to marry him? Throw her down on the nearest surface and indulge the fantasies he had been having since he'd discovered that it felt good to run his hand along his dick once it got hard?
There were so many tempting options.
She wore her black hair long, and he could imagine bending her over a desk or the end of a bed, wrapping that hair up around his fist, and pulling her back to watch him as he fucked her long and slow. Directing her down to suck his cock. Commanding her to swallow—if she didn't already know—to get him all the way down past where she'd want to gag.
Jesus Christ, he had to stop this. He'd been half hard since he'd seen her bright green eyes, still full of laughter and light after all these years. She didn't remember him. If she did, she would have said something. No question. So she thought he was some weird freak begging for a haircut after hours.
He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. She stood perfectly still behind him, her gaze on his in the mirror. There was an unmistakable paleness underneath her tan and circles under her eyes.
No one was taking care of her. He was sure of it.
This hadn't been the plan. He was going to find Jessie, and introduce himself right away. Or he was going to romance her all slow and soft, like a woman like her would deserve. Or, hell, he'd take her hard and fast, like a man like him was used to doing.
But the plan had never involved seeing her from the street and buzzing into the salon like a customer, then plopping his shaved-headed ass down into the salon chair like the kind of person who saw a fucking stylist to get their hair done.
He made his mouth bend in a smile, the easy-going, wanna-get-fucked smile that melted the panties of most of the women and more than a few of the guys that he'd known in his life.
"Sorry." He let his voice drop a few notes lower, imagining the sound caressing her along the undersides of her breasts and down into the sweet crevice between her thighs. "I just burst in here like I owned the place. I have somewhere to be and someone to impress, so I was hoping to sharpen up my look just a little bit."
He reached up and ran a hand over the uneven scruff at the back of his head. "I can see my beard well enough to keep that looking good, but back here? I can't see what the fuck I'm doing."
His fingers brushed against hers when he touched the back of his neck, and an electric shock of pure need ran straight to his dick. He was stiff against his thigh, and it hurt inside the denim.
She laughed, and unless he was completely teasing himself, there was a nervous thread of need in her voice, too. "What did you do, go after yourself with a pair of garden shears?"
She hadn't moved her fingers. In fact, she pressed them into his scalp, scratching up from the back of his neck, and holy shit, he was seriously wondering if he was about to come right then and there.
"Not far off," he said, and he was thrilled his voice didn't crack. "I wore it long for a long time, but I got a new job, and I had to clean up my act."
He closed his eyes again. When had that happened? Probably when he slipped into a vision of going down on her in this chair, her heels hooked neatly on this little metal rung while he fucked her with his tongue. That was probably it. He opened his eyes, and her lips were parted, staring at him, the top of her chest moving rapidly with her breath.
If she were anyone else, he would take her hand and pull her down over his shoulder. He'd rub her hand against the rod of iron in his pants and bite the side of her breast. He'd take whatever she gave him, and when he was done, he'd be on her way.
He'd hoped it would be that simple with Jessie. But of course it wouldn't be.
He'd been thinking about this girl every time he'd gotten hard for almost twenty years. That kind of shit wasn't simple.
"Understandable," she said.
He stifled a groan when she shifted, the nipples on her small breasts pressing into her neat little black top. He wanted her in his lap, he wanted to rut against her until she screamed, until he came in messy spurts all over those tiny tits.
"Do you want me to shave it clean, or just even it out?"
He felt the shift in her, the turn back to the professional. He didn't like it at all. He wanted the fantasies, the daydreams, the stories where pretty little good girl Jessie had grown up into a wild woman who would do filthy things with a man she'd never met.
Well, she'd never met him as far as she knew. He could make her put her hands on the counter where all her tools were stored, and back up into his lap, and he'd be able to fuck her right here. This way, every time she put some client in this chair, she'd think of his cock and get all hot all over again.
"Even it out," he said, and this time his voice did crack. She turned him inside out, and his cock was aching, leaking against his thigh, desperate to be buried inside a sweet, hot pussy that would clench and squeeze for him. Or, fuck, his fist would do, if there were nothing or no one else.
But no, he'd had the brilliant idea to walk into this salon with no prep time or forewarning and just...sit down like an asshole and demand she cut his hair.
"Okay," she said. He closed his eyes again, and heard her clippers buzz to life. Then her hand pressed against his scalp, pushing his head forward gently so she could get the clippers where he needed them, and he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning with delight.
She was good at her work; she moved efficiently, quickly, and steadily, and he felt the soft fluff of tiny bits of hair falling around his ears. Every time her fingers lifted off and then touched him again, whether they were bending down the top of his earlobe or repositioning his head at the right angle, it sent a pulse of need to his groin. He didn't dare open his eyes to look down; he just had to hope his erection wasn't too obvious, down the side of his jeans, and that the wet spot he could feel developing wasn't showing.
He wanted her. He wanted her so much he was on fire, but she wouldn't want him. There was absolutely no way she would ever want him.
The clippers went silent, and he made himself open his eyes. She was staring at him in the mirror again, her green eyes big, her pupils so dark he could hardly see her irises. "All done," she whispered. She picked up a soft dusting brush off the counter—her hand was shaking—and brushed the stray cut hairs off his neck and shoulders. And then she took one step back, wobbling on her heels like her knees had gone weak.
He caught one booted foot on the floor and turned himself around slowly, still facing her. He could imagine how he'd looked. One of his boys had caught a photo of him last year when he'd been relaxed and hungry, and he'd looked like a prowling cat. His hair had been wild and tangled, his beard a windblown mess, but his eyes had been ferocious.
Tex knew more than anything that he needed to stand up and walk himself right the hell back out of Jessie's life, just as fast as he'd walked in, but he also knew it wasn't going to be that simple. He'd been lying to himself for years, pretending it would be. Hell, he'd never thought he'd find her this fast. He'd never thought a girl with as much potential as Jessie had would still be living in this fake-cozy shithole of a town. Especially not once he'd heard what the Racketeers were up to.
He wasn't arrogant enough to pretend like he was going to ride into town on his chopper and fix everything. Likely things would get a lot worse before they got better.
That didn't matter right now. Right now, what mattered Jessie standing in front of him, her eyes fixed on his painfully obvious erection. Her chest was almost heaving now, her teeth closed on her lower lip. Was she imagining taking him into her mouth, letting him fuck her throat until he spurted? God, he hoped so.
"What would you do," he asked in that low, dangerous tone women loved, "if I told you to kiss me?"
"I might slap you," she said, a flush bursting across her cheeks. Her eyes were brighter, though, brighter than they had been before.
She stepped closer, and he shifted, letting the groan out this time as his cock scraped against the rough denim. Her lips parted, and he couldn't help but smile. Was this some kind of fantasy she had? Some daydream about a last minute customer coming in and forcing her into rough sex while any old biddy could walk by outside and see her, ass up in the air, cheeks red where he'd slapped her until she begged him for more?
He adjusted himself luxuriously, taking a long moment to squeeze himself, letting his eyes show how good it felt. "Would you? Would you slap me? Or would you fuck me right here, ride me like a goddamn pony?"
She wasn't even trying to hide her panting now. Christ, she was hot, his little Jessie he'd been dreaming about for so long. "Is that what you want?"
He stroked his cock again, relishing the rasp of denim now. "You come over here and see for yourself, baby," he said. And she did. Jesus Christ on a cracker, she did. She moved fast in those heels, and he caught her waist and pulled her across his lap. If she straddled him, he would have come in his jeans just from being so close to her. She didn't care, just wrapped her arms around his neck, and sealed her mouth over his.
Firecrackers went off in his head, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her angular body as tight against him as he could. He tried to keep his hips still, but his cock was on autopilot, grinding up into her ass as his tongue pushed into her mouth, plundering her. She opened eagerly for him, her fingernails digging lightly into his neck, and he groaned into her open mouth, so eager he thought it would break him.
He didn't have to do this. He didn't have to do the thing he'd come here for. He could forget it had all happened, take this girl—this woman—as his own, and make her happy. Let that be the penance he owed. Let that be the way he would make his blood brother stop haunting him at night.
Except it would never work. He couldn't have Jessie. He didn't deserve her. At least, not yet.
She'd been scrawny before, and she was still scrawny now. It was nothing to stand up, holding her, and set her gently on her feet. He thought she'd step away from him, not mold that hot body along his, all angles to his planes, and now the length of his cock was pressed against the sharp tilt of her hip, and he was going to go mad, utterly mad if he didn't have her.
She was wearing a jersey skirt that came to her knees; it would be nothing to lift her up, tear off whatever panties she was wearing, and bury himself into her body. He could shove her against the wall and fuck her hard, muffling her gasps and cries with his mouth.
No. Christ, no. He wanted this so much, but this was not a thing he could have.
He moved away from her, feeling like he was tearing off a layer of skin that wanted desperately to stay close to her. Her eyes opened, and he couldn't decide whether her expression was more hurt or confused. It set up an ache in him, just below the solar plexus, that made him flinch. He didn't want to think about hurting her. He was about to hurt her a whole lot more.
"I'm here because of Danny," he said, then closed his eyes for the slap.
He knew it was coming. He didn't have to wait long.
The fact that it was a fist, though, was a surprise.