Friday Fiction

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He loved wet hair!

I don’t know why.

Some say his mother gave birth to him on the streets of Rio during a tropical cyclone, but I was never able to verify that story.   What I know is that on those occasions when I longed for intimacy, craved closeness, or hoped to shut out a little of the white noise of the world through physical touch I simply wet my hair and appeared before him.

That smile; it spread across taunt, tanned cheeks like a wild fire, turning a deeper amber as his pulse quickened.

Salty, dripping, curly tendrils sticking to the nape of my neck and bouncing off my brow as I shook my head reminded me of a Labradoodle drying himself off after a walk in the rain, but for him…for him it was aphrodisiac.

Everything else waited while he attended to my needs.

Everything!

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