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His bathroom is sleek and modern and chrome, and he stands at the sink with all the gravitas of a great white. His reflection ripples in the metal, as distorted as if she's seeing him through water. He's fascinating to watch. She bites her lip and kicks her feet as she sits on the edge of his huge tub. Her socks are pink and fuzzy and one's gotten tugged down, so it hangs floppy past her toes.
He doesn't notice her looking.
He scrubs his hands under a stream of water until they're a tight pink. His fingers are long and thick, and his nails are trimmed short and neat and clean. Surgeon's hands. They can take things apart—can take her apart—as easily as they can put things back together. She presses her thighs together and thinks about her ribs cracked open, his hands inside her, a sternotomy so he could pull her apart and fit himself in her chest, next to her heart.
When he's done he turns off the water and shakes his hands twice—shuff, shuff—into the basin of the sink. Then he dries them onto a plain white towel, rubbing gently between his fingers. Emma imagines touching him there, on the soft webbing between his fingers. Imagines his palm on her cheek, imagines the feeling of those fingers in her mouth. She'd touch him as delicately with her tongue as she would with her hand. She'd lick the water from between his fingers and then suck them so they'd be wet with her spit instead.
"Hey." She jolts at clear bark of his voice. He gestures towards his shaving things, neatly lined up on the counter. His brows furrow and his face is harsh angles and a strong jaw and the firm line of his mouth. "You were the one who asked for this."
"Oh, I-I did," she says. She stands up and wipes her hands on the pajama shorts she's wearing—blue with little smiling panda faces on them. She wonders if they'd make a good meal for a shark. She knows that she would. She pads to the sink and picks up the wash cloth. "May I?" He doesn't deny her, and she leans in close to turn the water on, pressing against him as she waits the few moments it takes to get warm. Carefully she lets the water saturate the rag and then she wrings it out. She turns the water off and then holds the wash cloth up, her fingers pinching the top corners. He's tall, and she has to reach up to press it over the bottom half of his face like a mask. He looks down at her, annoyed, and she giggles at what she can see of his face. His eyes gleam, and she can read them now, maybe better than anyone else. No matter what they say, he's expressive. There's plenty going on beneath still waters. "We've got to open those pores," she says as explanation, her voice extra sweet. His eyes narrow for a moment, and then with a huff through his nose that she feels across the back of her hand they roll.
She just smiles at him, beatific, and pats the cloth against his cheeks, his jaw, the dangerous dip of his mouth.
It only takes a few more moments for it to cool, and then she's pulling it away. When she does he leans down and snaps his teeth by her jaw. She gasps and sucks in a little breath. He tugs at a curl, looking pleased with himself.
Emma grabs his wrist with one small hand. "Cream next?" she asks. He nods and she grabs the tube of his expensive shaving cream and squeezes some onto the tips of her fingers. She reaches up and swallows, nervous, before smearing it across his face. She starts at his cheeks, rubbing in little circles before moving down to his mouth and chin. With slow, gentle movements, she rubs a streak of it across his upper lip. She's rougher with his chin, pressing her fingers down to feel the stubble, the jut of bone. The she strokes down his neck, up the underside of his jaw. When she's done she wipes her fingers on the wet cloth.
They stand there for a moment, eyes locked.
He grabs the razor and holds it up. "Ready?"
Her hand doesn't tremble as she grabs the handle, but it's a near thing. Even though he's the vulnerable one, his throat literally bared, he's still the one in control. He watches her through half-lidded eyes, cool and calm and collected. One hand rests on his arm to steady herself, and his skin is soft and warm. It's disconcerting, but she doesn't let herself lose focus. Aren't sharks cold-blooded, she thinks. At least most of them.
It's a conversation they've had before.
Not all, he'd told her, throwing her panties to her from where they'd landed on the floor. He watches as she shimmies back into them. There are some sharks, one family, that are partially warm-blooded, too. Like the great white. He'd smiled then, dangerous, his eyes on the bare skin of her thighs and the gentle peaks of her breasts. His teeth had been big and sharp and gleaming.
"Careful," he murmurs now, as she guides the razor in a neat, careful stroke down his cheek. "Do it just how I showed you."
She nods, attentive, and stares as the cream disappears in the wake of the blade. His skin is pale. Smooth. She hopes she gets to taste it when she's done.
He makes a soft sound. It doesn't distract her, but. Almost. There's so little of him that's soft.
"Good girl," he says.
And Emma, warm with his approbation, continues with her task.