He joined me a minute later, just as I was soaping up my hair. He dumped shampoo on his hair, and then took my face in his hands and kissed me hard and with desperation. He kissed me again. And then again. I felt him grow and I reached down, but he batted my hand away.

“Ignore it.” He continued to kiss me, his tongue intertwined with mine.

“I don’t want to ignore it,” I said. “I want you.”

He pulled his face from mine. “The sexiest words in the English language.”

He carried me from the bathroom and tossed me on the bed, both of us wet and covered with shampoo. As he lowered his head between my legs, I stopped him. I said, “I don’t need it.” I flipped him on his back and climbed on top. The room was cold, I was dripping water, and I started to shiver. He sat up until we were chest to chest and brought my mouth to his. We kissed as we made love. He said, “You’re cold.” He rubbed my back. Then he flipped me around until my back was against his chest. With one hand between my legs, he pulled my head back by my hair with his other hand and kissed me hard. I brought one hand to his cheek and the other between his legs.

He sighed like a moonstruck teenager. It brought me back to years ago and made me feel like that hormonally driven sixteen-year-old girl who would have drunk poison for him. Two stupid kids in love. And twenty-six years later, I was having sex, tingling with electric shock as his hands trawled my body. I climaxed first, but only by a few moments. It was a long, hard orgasm that came in waves of hot blue fire.

After we both caught our respective breaths, he carried me back to the shower—still running and still mercifully hot. He took the handheld showerhead and washed off my soapy hair and then his own. He got out first and gave me one of his many black silk robes. He took a hand towel and dried my hair.

He said, “I’ll blow-dry your hair.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can, but I want to do it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to cut it. It’s too long. Sit down on the bed. I’ll be right back.”

I sat. When he came back, I said, “Not too short.”

“Stop worrying. I like you with long hair. Just not that long.” He brushed out my hair and took scissors to my back. He drew a line about eight inches below my clavicles. “Right here.”

I didn’t answer. When the snipping was done, I felt the warm air going through my tresses as he brushed and curled. When he had finished, he took the dryer and passed it through his own shoulder-length white locks.

I looked in the mirror.