Snow Job by Tara Wyatt (best classic books to read TXT) 📕

the towel. A part of her—a large part—wanted him to drop it to the floor. The corner of his mouth quirked up and then he turned and opened a drawer in his dresser, pulling out some clothes and retreating back into the bathroom.

Sebastian Prescott wasn’t just hot. He was a work of art, a specimen of masculine beauty and athletic grace. She shifted in her seat, suddenly very aware of other parts of her body besides her ankle.

The door to the bathroom opened again and he emerged wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a navy blue sweatshirt. The outline of his dick was clearly visible beneath the sweatpants, erasing any doubt that he was both thick and long. It looked very much like Willa’s theory about the Prescott men had been 100% correct. She shifted in her seat again, her cheeks growing hot as she couldn’t help but stare.

Sebastian moved into the kitchen, retrieving a small bottle and a glass of water and then headed toward her. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to stare at him as he moved. He stopped in front of her, handing her the bottle of Advil and the glass of water, an unreadable expression on his face. She took the painkillers and the water, and then he crouched down in front of her, unraveling the tensor bandage.

Holding her eyes, he slowly, carefully rolled her sock down, his strong fingers warm against her sensitive skin. He let her sock drop beside him.

“Stand on your other foot and hang on to my shoulders,” he said, helping her up out of the chair. She did, bracing her hands on his broad shoulders, curling her fingers into him slightly. Looking up at her, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her sweatpants and worked them down over her hips, her ass, her thighs. She pressed her lips together, stifling the whimper at the sight of Sebastian on his knees in front of her, undressing her.

Once he’d worked the pants down to her knees, he helped her sit back down again and pulled them free, then set to work gingerly rolling up her leggings. With each brush of his fingers against her skin, she felt an accompanying throb right between her legs. For a brief second, she tried to convince herself that her response to him was only due to the fact that she hadn’t had sex in months. But she knew that wasn’t true. The achy throb setting up camp in her core had everything to do with Sebastian.

With sure, gentle fingers, he started wrapping the bandage around her ankle, a little tighter than was comfortable, but she assumed that was the point. As he worked, her stomach made a quiet grumbling sound, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since lunch, which was almost eight hours ago now.

“Looks like you’re stuck eating dinner with me after all,” he said wryly. His features were drawn in concentration as he continued to wrap the bandage around her swollen ankle. God, she was living for those fractions of second when his fingers would brush her bare skin, sending a shivering thrill coursing through her.

“I should’ve said yes,” she whispered. His movements stilled and he looked off to the side, his gaze on the fire. He let out a breath and then continued wrapping her ankle.

“Why? Because now you know that I look good with my shirt off?” He glanced up, meeting her eyes for a second.

“No. Because what you said was right—I don’t know you, but I’m starting to think that I want to.”

He made a gruff sound, almost a grunt, and then pinned the tensor bandage in place. “Put the ice pack on for another few minutes and keep it elevated. I’ll get us something to eat.”

“I can help,” she said, starting to push out of the chair, feeling more and more like an unwelcome burden.

He urged her back down with a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine, Kayla. I’m just gonna heat up some leftover beef stew. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He nodded and stood, moving into the kitchen. As he worked, she opened and closed her mouth to say something so many times that she lost count. But she didn’t know what to say to him. She was starting to realize that maybe she was actually interested in him—even though she was still pretty sure he was all wrong for her, but that wasn’t something she wanted to unpack right now—but it was too late. She’d wounded him one too many times and he’d clearly lost interest.

A few moments later, he pressed a warm bowl of stew into her hands, then took his own with him to the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table as he ate, scrolling through his phone.

“Forecast says we could get up to three feet over the next twenty-four hours,” he commented without looking up.

“Whoa. That’s intense.”

He glanced up, meeting her eyes. “We might be stuck here for longer than just tonight.”

She nodded, not entirely sure how to feel about that. She licked her lips, searching for a topic of conversation. “Is your knee okay?”

He returned his attention to his phone. “It’s fine.”

She took a bite of her stew, swallowing, suddenly determined to make him talk to her. If they were going to be stuck here for a day or two, she didn’t want to sit in silence the entire time. “How did you hurt it?” When he just looked at her, she squirmed a little in her seat. “Lauren said that you were supposed to go to the Olympics, but then you got hurt. What happened?”

He looked back down at his phone. “I got hurt and couldn’t go. That’s pretty much the whole story.” His jaw was tight, his brows drawn together.

“I’m sorry. That must’ve been really disappointing.”

He said nothing, just kept scrolling, and so she finished her stew in silence. When she was finished, she set the bowl aside