Getaway Car [HS]

Chapter Thirty-One

"I don't understand why y'insisted on doing it like this, I do know how to shave my own face, y'know that, right?"

"Oh, hush. If you keep talking I might nick you," Harley mutters back with an equal amount of sass from where she is perched atop his lap with a razor raised to his face.

Harry doesn't know how he allowed this to happen. Actually, he does. He knew damn well how badly he fucked up a few hours after he left her there on the race track, alone and scared that something terrible had happened, and when she asked to shave his face, he couldn't deny her. One look at those tear-filled eyes and he caved in a matter of seconds. Still, he considers it a better alternative to her holding a knife to his crotch. Knowing her, she'd make it a gun this time if he hadn't wanted to get back in her good graces.

The scent of the shaving cream smeared under his nostrils and along his chin is all he can smell as she dips the razor beneath the running tap to get the hairs off of it. When he reluctantly agreed to the proposal, she dragged in a chair from the kitchen and gestured for him to sit beside the sink. One of his hands rests on the curve of her hip, not to keep her steady but rather because he wants to touch her after spending a week away, agonizing over the reason behind the call he got and how Harley would react once he returned.

Just for the sake of torturing him, she says, "You know, I kind of digged the stubble. I liked how it felt when I sat on your face that one time."

As per her request, he remains quiet when she has the razor to his face, but he does allow his lip to twitch upward in a slight grin at the recollection of that day. What a little brat, teasing him with talk about sex and face-sitting while he's on strict orders to remain silent. She's lucky he's being a suck-up tonight or else he'd have her bent over his knee with her panties shoved in her mouth.

The second she moves to run the razor back underwater, he asks, "So, all I have to do to get you to sit on m'face again is not shave for a week?"

She scoffs.

"Keep dreaming. You've lost your face-sitting privileges for the week."

Before she can start shaving off more of the hair, he leans forward to nuzzle his face in the curve of her neck and nips at the stretch of sensitive skin just underneath her earlobe with his teeth. His next words are muffled by it, but not before she lands a playful smack onto his arm for the bite, as well as getting shaving cream on her.

"What about next week?"

"If you keep talking while I'm shaving you, I will toss you out of your bedroom window," she snaps.

Harry offers an overly enthusiastic, "Yes, ma'am," and tilts his chin up to present it to her dramatically, shutting his eyes in acceptance of his horrid fate. The feeling of her body jerking with sweet laughter brings warmth to the center of his chest again, and he doesn't need to open his eyes to know how cute she looks right now. With her hair swept up away from her face with a scrunchie and pimple cream dotted over a few patches of disobedient skin, she looks better than he's ever seen her. Best of all, in his humble opinion, is the teeny tank top he can feel her nipples poking through against his chest whenever she inhales.

For the next few minutes, she works with diligence. Every curve of her wrist that brings the razor against his face is filled with care and caution, and she never, not once, cuts him in the process. All that's left to do is the mustache.

His hand grabs around her wrist to stop her from shaving it.

"Leave it," he says, his face unreadable.

Back in late October, he remembers her saying something along the lines of thinking mustaches are for firemen, dads, and pedophiles who like creeping around at the park, so he's trying to hold out on the little joke for as long as he can. Not that he's against the idea of a mustache. He isn't. Yet, knowing her dislike of them, he wouldn't keep it there.