"Lean your head back," he asks.
I do as he says, purring in satisfaction when he starts massaging my hair, dumping almost half a bottle of shampoo onto it to make absolutely sure there isn’t a single trace left of that guy having put his hands on me.
I laughed when he explained it to me, which only earned me a sharp look, as if I weren’t taking seriously something that is practically sacred to him.
"I was thinking about cutting my hair."
"Don’t you dare."
"Why? It’s my hair."
"It’s mine too now," he murmurs, focused on his task as he rinses the shampoo from the already clean strands again.
"Matt, enough," I say when he pours more shampoo into his hand.
"This is the last time."
"This is the third time you rinse it. It’s clean."
"Let me," he growls. "I don’t want even a trace left
