“Use spit.”
My internal ick-meter swivels toward Eww, but I’m already up to my t**s in trouble, so I lick my thumb and resume scrubbing. “What’s my punishment?”
“Is it coming off?”
“Yeah. I’m really sorry, Mr. De la Croix.” I wipe away the final traces and drop my arms. “It’s gone.”
“Put your hands back where they were.”
Why would he want my hands in his hair? On his face? It feels so…foreign. Improper. But he asked. No, he ordered. Dammit, why is it so hard to disobey him?
I return my hands exactly where they were, and for some reason, it’s easier this time, less awkward. He stares up at me, and the multi-shades of blues in his eyes glimmer beneath the fluorescents. His mouth is kind of pouty, not in a displeasing way. His full lips make him appear softer somehow. I think they’re my
