Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
“I’ll buy more.”
“Well. . .” She blinked. “Oh yeah. I guess you will.”
I inhaled the lovely scent. “In fact, I may buy the whole company so they can only make this for my Tiger.”
“Oh God. That would be hilarious.” She laughed harder, shaking her head as I gave her the bottle back and lathered the liquid into my own hair.
Oh.
The pink foam felt cool, luxurious, and soft.
She put the bottle up and then raised her hands to my head. “Let me help you. Lean over.”
I widened my eyes and did just that, bringing my head down to her hands.
“Perfect.” She captured my head, then slowly she began to massage the foam in with her fingertips and knead tension away.
Mmmm.
My scalp tingled from the loving attention.
My body vibrated in pure soothing pleasure.
A dark groan left me. “T-tora.”
“Aww. You like that?”
“You tell me to behave and then do this.”
“I’m just washing my baby’s hair.”
“No. You’re trying to get fucked in the shower.”
“Sir, I’m going to need you to chill out.”
I closed my eyes. “This feels so good.”
“It’s supposed to. It’s called love and hydration.”
I didn’t know much about hydration, but I was certain I’d never been loved like this before.
This is what I’ve been missing in my life. . .
A gentle tug brought me out of my thoughts. She was working the foam through my hair, finger-combing it through with meticulous care that I'd never experienced.
Her fingers brushed against my scalp once, twice, three times and I found myself leaning into her touch, my body begging for more, my cock twitching over and over.
I grunted, and my lids dropped low.
“Okay. Now you’re good.” She moved her hand away.
“No. I’m not good. I need more of that.”
“More of what?”
“Whatever you were doing.”
“Kenji, I am trying to get out of this damned shower and you are trying to keep us in here.”
I grumbled.
We rinsed our hair together beneath the steam and water, trading quiet laughter and soft touches. By the time we stepped out, her brown skin glowed and my hair—so rarely treated with such care—felt light and alive.
After handing me a towel, she wrapped herself in one too, and placed another around her head. “Now give me some more time because I have to do more.”
“More? You already washed your hair.”
She grinned, tightening the towel at her crown. “Oh, baby. The wash was just the beginning.”
“Was it now?” I had no idea what was coming next, but I’d already decided one thing—whatever ritual this was, however long it took, I was staying right here to watch every second of it.
Chapter nineteen
The Temple of Her Hair
Kenji
With that, my Tiger went to the other side of the bathroom and spread out her tools across the vanity in a careful lineup: odd-looking combs, oils, other bottles full of good-smelling products, clips, tiny gold cuffs.
Then she sat down and started.
Curious as I was, I leaned against the doorframe in my towel and crossed my arms over my damp chest.
I just. . .couldn’t look away.
There was something strangely captivating about the seriousness she gave it, coating her hair in some other mixture and fingering the strands.
I had thought all of this was going to be a ten-minute situation.
I was wrong.
But after thirty minutes, I stopped caring about the time because I realized I wasn’t waiting for her to get ready anymore. . .I was witnessing the beauty of our differences.
Over and over, she parted her hair with a small comb, each motion confident and careful. The sections she created were exact, clean lines across that crown of coiled texture.
And then just like that, she began working sections of coils free.
I quirked my brows and swore the movements were hypnotic. “What are you doing, Tora?”
“Detangling.”
She picked up a blue brush-comb combination. It didn’t look like anything I’d ever used—it was flexible, jointed, almost alive in her hand.
The handle curved comfortably into her palm. The spine was made up of slotted plastic prongs that could bend and move separately from each other. Each row of teeth had tiny, rounded ends, smooth and forgiving, designed to glide instead of tear.
When she pressed it gently into her wet curls, the brush flexed with the resistance, bowing and releasing like it understood her hair’s language.
No tugging.
No snapping.
Just a quiet, rhythmic slip through coils that defied gravity.
I leaned forward, mesmerized. “What’s that?”
“A detangling brush.”
When she hit a knot, the prongs adjusted, spreading wider to ease the tension instead of fighting it.
Water glistened on her shoulders as she worked through another section, and I realized how graceful the process was.
That brush wasn’t meant to dominate her hair—it was meant to listen to it. To follow its natural pattern instead of forcing it straight.
She caught me staring in the mirror and smiled. “Are you going to get ready too?”
“After I’m done watching you.”
“This is going to take some time.”