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All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Selena Kitt
Shorn © April 2011 Selena Kitt
eXcessica publishing
A Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved
Shorn
By Selena Kitt
Several pictures of her were tucked into the sides of the mirror over his dresser. Most were school pictures, and one was of the two of them together, their arms wrapped around each other, both of them smiling at the camera. My hand, holding the brush that I had picked up from amidst the clutter on his dresser, stopped in mid-air as I peered at those pictures. I glanced from her to my own reflection in the mirror, unable to prevent the mental comparisons. She looked so young, her skin lighter than his, like a sweet latte to his dark, black—no cream, only sugar. She was beautiful in a fresh, natural way that made me blink with envy. For me, that time in my life was gone—it had passed away somewhere between college frat parties and establishing my first IRA. A heavy, sodden dullness settled somewhere in the pit of my stomach as I glanced from her picture to my naked reflection in the mirror and then to Del, who was behind me, hauling up his jeans and cramming in the tails of his shirt.
"I've gotta shave." He moved to look over my shoulder. The mirror revealed him rubbing the top of his head. There was a fine stubble there he inspected, his eyes like smoky gray glass. He had a durably boyish face, but he was only twenty-one. His features would change by the time he was my age—but his eyes, those incredible eyes—they wouldn't change. His eyes were the thing that attracted me the most; there was some sort of reserve there I still couldn't place.
"What do you think?" He pushed his bottom lip forward in thought and studied his face in the mirror. "Should I grow a beard?"
"If you want." I found my voice—I thought I couldn't speak through whatever seemed congealed in my throat.
"I could leave the stubble." He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and rubbed his cheek against my neck. I shrank away a little from the feeling, smiling indulgently. I loved the feel of his clothed body against my bare skin.