One of my favorite scenes in this story in when Austin attempts to wash his wife’s hair. The hot-water tank is out of commission and the facilities are, shall we say, rustic. But he wants so badly to make Melinda less miserable and so he does this clumsy, thoughtful thing that ends up being a bit of a mess. Those are, I think, the most romantic gestures; not the ones that work perfectly, but the ones that involve risk, the chance of failure, of being laughed at.

**

Austin set the aluminum tub on the butcher-block table in the kitchen.

"Come here," he said.

Melinda looked at him with caution, but he could feel excitement, thrumming like a field, around her like a field.

Fear and temptation.

She stepped up to him and he handed her a towel.

He wanted to unzip that thick hoodie and pull it off. To lift up the shirt beneath, little by little, revealing her creamy torso by inches, until he could see the lower swelling of her breasts.

"Eyes up, big guy."

He jumped. "Sorry." He laughed shakily. "Habit."

He gestured to the chair. "Sit. Put this around your neck. I'd ask you to take off your top, but..."

To his surprise, she slipped out of her hoodie. Underneath, she wore a tank top and it was fantastically obvious that she was braless.

Her breasts looked larger, the nipples pink and straining through the thin fabric.

He adjusted his pants. This was going to be harder than he thought, pun intended.

"Are you going to wash my hair, Austin?"

She asked it in a smoky voice that might have come straight out of an old western saloon. Low and slow and smooth as honey.

"I am." He helped her lean back and draped her hair into the small tub. "Comfortable?"

"I'm okay."

He scooped a bowlful of water and poured it over her head, being careful not to get any in her eyes.

She groaned, deep in her throat, a sound that sent more blood rushing southward, a sound he'd only heard when she was in his arms, sweaty, sated and limp with pleasure.

He stroked her hair, lifting it and continuing to pour, getting every bit saturated.

Then he squirted a handful of shampoo and began massaging it into her head. He'd never done this before and water splashed onto the table.

A bit of foam dripped onto her throat, then slid slowly toward the neckline of her tank top. She lifted her hand and caught it, without looking. The sight of her fingers, caressing her skin, so close to those rosy nipples...

"Ow!"

The towel beneath her neck slipped, allowing the sharp edge of the tub to bite into her skin.

"Damn, sorry, baby," he said. He tried to tug it up but his soapy hands slipped. He bumped the tub with his elbow and suds splashed onto the table.

Way harder than he expected. In every way.

Suddenly he was aware of Mel, giggling. She put her hand to her mouth, trying to hide it, to let him carry on.

Then she grasped the back of her head and sat up, dragging the towel with it, laughing freely.

He felt like an idiot. Washing a woman's hair was supposed to be a sensual thing, not a comedy show.

She leaned forward, laughing with her whole body now, and he felt the humor tickle him, too.

"That," she said, between gasps, "was the single best shampoo... I've ever had."

"Liar," he said. But her joy unlocked something inside him and before he knew it, the two of them were bracing themselves against each other, bent over at the waist, howling, while water dripped onto the floor and Mel's still-soapy hair sagged onto her shoulders.

"We're going to have to heat more water," said Mel, when she got her voice back. "I need a rinse."

Her face was flushed and her now mostly-transparent tank top had slipped off one shoulder. Dark hair, red lips, those pink nipples. She looked like a strawberry sundae, with chocolate drizzle and whipped cream on top and yeah, he wanted to eat her up.

"There's enough hot water," he said, taking her hand, "to do this properly."