He stands up and shrugs out of his wet duster. I take it from him. It’s still dripping, so I walk into the back to hang it up in the work area where it can drip on the linoleum instead of the wood floors. When I turn back, I see Max has also shucked his jacket and draped it over the back of a nearby chair.
And he’s unbuttoning his shirt.
My steps slow. Then stop.
He’s looking down, so he doesn’t see my mouth drop open as he shrugs out of his oxford shirt. He’s wearing a white T-shirt on under his oxford.
I never, not in a million years, would have thought wearing a white shirt under a dress shirt would be inherently sexy. It shouldn’t be.
It’s oddly formal. It calls up images of old-world elegance and cuff links.
But it’s also just . . . hot.
Because while all of Max’s other clothes are ill-fitting—including the pants he’s still wearing—the crisp white undershirt is snug. It highlights every one of those perfect muscles I’ve been trying not to think about since I saw them at his house that day.
Every. Single. One.
From his stupidly broad shoulders to that narrow waist.
I’m still staring—who am I kidding? I’m still drooling—when he looks up from carefully draping his shirt over this jacket.
I must look like a pervy cartoon with bugging eyes and a long, dangling tongue, because he clears his throat and says awkwardly, “I don’t like having hair caught in my collar.”
I nod mutely.
“So I took off my shirt.”
I nod again. Still dumbstruck.
But surely I’ll be able to speak again sometime in the next couple hours.
“I hope that’s okay.”
I clear my throat.
Because the whole struck-dumb-by-his-muscles thing is starting to get ridiculous.
“Yes.” I swallow. “Absolutely. Whatever you need.”
God, I hope that didn’t sound like a proposition.
I clear my throat again and quickly add, “To feel comfortable. You should do whatever you need to feel comfortable. That’s the point, right? You should be comfortable and I should be . . .”
Silent.
I should be silent.
Because, oh my God. Dumbstruck was so much better than this rambling mess.
“Firmer is better,” he blurts.
“Excuse me?”
He blushes and presses his lips together, before saying, “When you’re washing my hair. Or touching me. A firmer touch is better than a light one.”
I nod, the pieces falling into place. I had read that people with sensory issues and people on the spectrum sometimes find light touches over-stimulating.
“Thank you for telling me.” I want to say more. Something that will get him to open up to me. But is that really a good idea? Do I really need more ideas about how Max likes to be touched?
Um . . . that is a big, fat no. No, I do not. Because I’m only touching him to cut his hair and trim his beard. I do not need to be getting ideas beyond that.