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"From my friend, Jessica," he replied, wiggling his salt-and-pepper brows mischievously and dropping the gay model act. "I ended up crashing at her place after counseling her through her boyfriend problems for half the night. Seriously, does it look okay? I didn't have a change of clothes."

"You look fine!" Gillian heartily assured him. Great. Fabulous. You'd make burlap look hot. Really.

"Are you sure? It has slits on the side. For hips." Andrew lifted the hem of the sweater to illustrate his point, and the ridiculousness of the situation had Gillian giggling again.

"I don't think anyone is going to notice - except me, now that you've pointed it out," she grinned. Gillian took the liberty of scanning his figure one more time - after all, he'd invited her to look - and her gaze froze just over his left shoulder. "Andrew? Your... hair." Her hands gestured vaguely beside her cheek, fingers shaping a squiggly ball.

"Hair? Hair!"

Andrew's slim fingers tugged furiously at the girl's scrunchie that held his long hair in an unkempt, lopsided bundle, yanking out the bit of cloth and elastic and tossing it onto his desk. With the matted locks hanging over his shoulder, he bent to his nylon duffel bag and rummaged frantically for a brush. Gillian forcibly tore her gaze from his tight, upturned ass - she could feel the slow, familiar coil of desire stirring deep in her belly - and eyed the clock above the door. The first students would be streaming into the school in less than five minutes. When she glanced back, Andrew had straightened and was dragging a brush through his hair with ripping sounds that made her wince. Her fingers literally itched to assist him.

"Do you need me to help?"

Oh, God, the words were out of her mouth before she could call them back. Gillian tried not to look horrified.

"Aw, would you? That would be great!" Andrew cheerfully relinquished the hair brush and turned around, completely missing Gillian's look of total panic.

She was actually going to touch his hair. Touch him. His hair. God.

Clenching and unclenching her free hand, she willed herself to reach upward and grasp a handful of snarled mane. Lifting the surprising weight of the hair, savoring its slightly rough texture as she twined her fingers through to his nape and gripped tightly, she began to loosen the tangles by brushing rapidly from the bottom up.

Gillian was almost painfully aware of her own breathing, whereas Andrew seemed perfectly at ease. To break the silence, she inquired, "I'm not being too rough, am I?"

"Not at all," he replied, a hint of amusement in his tone.

As his hair turned to spun silk under her ministrations, she ran her fingers through the brown shot through with glimmering silver - there was more silver than brown, truth be told. She pretended to find and conquer another snarl to justify the action.

"Your hair is beautiful, " she said softly, honestly. "You should braid it."

"I'd love to, but I can't," Andrew replied with a chuckle.

Gillian's brows furrowed, wondering if this related to a Howard Davis dress code policy she had yet to discover. "Why not?"

"I've never been able to braid behind my back," he replied, and she could hear the self-deprecating laughter in his words. Andrew paused, then; and when he continued speaking, he seemed to pick his words carefully. "I can't braid my hair - but you can."

Gillian sucked in a breath, tried to release it silently. There was a subtle dominance in Andrew's voice, and she instinctively read his tone as that of a male whose statement was more expectation than suggestion.

She was unable to speak. "Okay," seemed an inadequate indication of her capitulation. She had the absurd desire to say, "Yes, Sir."

Saving herself the dilemma of conjuring a suitable response by placing the handle of the brush between her teeth, she lifted onto her tiptoes and reached high to separate the mass of salt-and-pepper into three even hanks.

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