Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
“When did you see me do a good job? With my hair, I mean.”
The question lands between us with a thud. She’s facing the mirror, arranging her tools, and her hands pause for a second. I watch her reflection, the way her expression freezes before sliding into a grimace.
“Oh, um…I saw you on television,” she says, her hands busy again. “Like a press conference on TV after a game, in a few magazines, sports highlights. Stuff like that.”
I’m not sure which view I enjoy more. When she’s turned away from me, and I can appreciate the long lines of her legs encased in tight black denim, and the two overripe globes of her ass, or the front view. When she faces me again, my eyes involuntarily drop to her breasts, bigger, rounder than they were senior year. To be expected. She’s put on weight in perfect places. Hips, thighs, butt, breasts. I thought she was fantastic before. If possible, she’s bigger and better. Slim and thick. Lush and tight with braids falling to graze the small of her back. Holding her for just a few seconds proved she’s as soft as she looks. She’s not little. Not a woman you’d have to hold back with. Not a girl you’d be afraid to break if you fucked her hard.
It's very quiet with only my lascivious thoughts speaking to me as Takira leans against the small counter, arms folded under her breasts, brows raised.
“Should I turn in a slow circle?” she asks mildly. “In case there is one part of my body you didn’t get to ogle? Maybe you missed a spot. I’m sure you could accurately guess my cup size by now.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Oh, you weren’t checking me out?”
“No, I was,” I admit unabashedly. “I was gonna say I actually wasn’t done, so a slow circle would be great.”
“Oh, my god. You—”
“And I wouldn’t miss a spot.”
That shuts her up. Her pretty, pouty lips purse. Her eyes narrow before she rolls them and turns back to the mirror and the items spread out on the counter. She walks behind me to drape a protective plastic cape over my shoulders. We both fall silent while she edges me up with her clippers, the occasional brush of her fingers at my neck and ears sending a jolt to my dick. Fortunately, years of discipline playing at an elite level keep me from making a complete fool of myself. I rest my hands casually in my lap so the slight rise of my erection won’t be too noticeable.
“So you did it, huh?” I ask when she’s finished with my hair and putting the clippers away.
She plucks a case of powder from the array of makeup on the counter, meeting my eyes briefly in the mirror.
“I did what?” She turns back to me with a wipe in her hand.
“You told me that night before the game you wanted to do hair. Looks like all your dreams came true.”
The wipe she’s gently passing over my face stills at the words “before the game,” and I kick myself for even bringing it up. She resumes wiping my skin clean and tosses the used wipe to the nearby trash can.
“I still have a few dreams left.” She lifts my chin and dusts my face with powder.
“Is this really necessary?”
“It’s for shine,” she says, smiling but not looking at me, which is good because my gaze is fixed on her breasts at eye level while she’s applying the powder.
It’s feeling like puberty all over again. I’m not one of those ballers who has a different girl every night. I get my share, but it’s never out of control. When I’m fucking someone, I feel good, of course, but it’s all below the belt. Seeing Takira again stirs other parts of me, just like she did the one night we had together on that roof. All the things I’d like to do to her, with her, run through my mind now like they did then. Only then they seemed…possible. After what happened at the championship game, I thought none of those things could ever happen. Hell, Cliff basically told me they couldn’t. Now, though, all these years later, we’re older, and maybe old wounds have healed enough that new possibilities could rise.
“Which dreams do you have left?” I ask, drawing my brows together when she spreads something cool and gelatinous over them.
“Stop frowning.” She laughs. “I’m trying to set your brows.”
“Completely necessary to walk out there for two minutes wearing whatever Lotus puts on me,” I say wryly. “Which dreams?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She sighs, pauses, and fixes her eyes over my shoulder, a wistful look settling onto her pretty face. “My own makeup line. A few other things.”
She glances back to me. “What about you? Seems like all your hoops dreams came true.”