Snow Job

by Tara Wyatt

  The door had barely closed before she turned to him, her eyes soft and her fingers curling around his arm. “Thank you. I…” She shook her head. “I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t found me.” She shivered and he fought back the urge to wrap his arms around her.

  “You’re welcome.” Now that they were alone, and she was safe, he didn’t know what to say to her. As the adrenaline started to dissipate, the sting of her earlier rejection returned. “Take your gear off and I’ll look at that ankle,” he finally said, his voice a little gruff.

  She nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Do you have any painkillers? I mean, I figure you’ve probably got some good shit…” She trailed off at the look on his face.

  He swallowed, his throat tight, prickly heat streaking through him. “I don’t know what you think you know or knew about me, but I’m not a pill popping drug addict. I have Advil. You can have some when you’re done judging me.”

  She swallowed visibly and nodded. “Right. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

  “It’s fine. Sit.” He helped her into an armchair near the fireplace and left her to take her gear off while he took off his coat and boots and then built a fire. The place had a propane furnace, but it didn’t work to keep the chill out the way an actual fire did.

  “No, it’s not fine. You’re right. I shouldn’t be judging you.” She took off her helmet, gloves, and scarf, setting them on the floor by the chair.

  He smirked, poking at the logs he’d just lit. “Little late for that.”

  She nodded and peeled herself out of her jacket. “I’m sorry.”

  He just nodded, staring into the growing flames. At least he knew what she really thought of him. Someone not worthy of her time, of her. Someone who’d made such a mess out of his own life that she didn’t want him to touch hers. Someone who was a slave to his vices.

  His emotions—the relief that Kayla was safe, the sting of her rejection, his lust—they all sat like a rock right in the center of his chest, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think. So instead, he focused on what was immediately in front of him.

  He turned and faced Kayla in the chair, kneeling in front of her. “Let’s get these boots off and see what we’re working with,” he said, pulling off first the right and then, much more carefully, the left. She sucked in a sharp breath as he gingerly probed her ankle.

  “I don’t think it’s broken,” he said after a moment. “Probably just a sprain. Stay here.”

  She nodded, relaxing against the back of the chair before sitting up suddenly. “So, are you going to radio someone to come take me back to the resort?”

  He grunted and shook his head, pointing out the window. They were in the middle of a full-on blizzard. “You’re safer staying here.”

  “Oh.” She glanced around the room, her eyes landing on the only double bed in the space. “Oh. Well, I guess I can sleep on the couch, and—”

  “Kayla, you’re not sleeping on the couch. Obviously.” He retrieved the first aid kit and pulled out a tensor bandage. Then he made his way into the kitchen, retrieving an ice pack from the freezer.

  “Why is that obvious?” she asked as he knelt down in front of her again, gasping softly when he gently pressed the ice pack to her swelling ankle. He cradled her calf, his fingers curling into the tense muscle there.

  He squinted up at her. “You really think I’d make an injured woman take the couch?”

  “I don’t know. I’m starting to think that I don’t really know you very well at all.”

  “That makes two of us.” He pushed to his feet. “Keep this on for fifteen minutes, and keep your ankle elevated. I’ll wrap it when I get out of the shower.”

  She swallowed thickly and nodded. “Okay. And Sebastian?”

  He turned, his hands on his hips. “Yeah?”

  “Thank you, again. I would’ve frozen out there.”

  He nodded. “Don’t mention it.”

  Kayla watched Sebastian retreat into the small bathroom at the rear of the cabin, limping slightly as he went, the back of his Henley damp with sweat. Because he’d carried her, half a mile through a snowstorm. And then she’d basically accused him of being a pill popper. Between her rejection of his request for a date and now this, it was no wonder he was being gruff and distant with her.

  She shifted in the armchair, adjusting the ice pack on her ankle as she looked around the cozy cabin. It was nice—a little rustic, but perfectly comfortable.

  Minus the whole bed, situation, anyway. She wasn’t going to take his bed tonight. And not just because she wasn’t sure how she’d manage to sleep on sheets that smelled like him and not crawl out of her skin with wanting him. He’d come looking for her in the snowstorm and then rescued her. The man deserved a comfortable bed tonight.

  She heard the creak of the pipes followed by the patter of water and she couldn’t seem to help herself from imagining Sebastian in there, water running in rivulets down what she was sure was an impressive chest. She made a soft humming noise in the back of her throat as she pictured it, and then closed her eyes, resting her head on the back of the armchair.

  She’d never been so mixed up over something in her life. She wanted him, but she wasn’t even sure if she liked him. She was pretty sure she wasn’t interested in dating him, but Willa had made a good point earlier, hammered home by her unfairly judgy comment: how much did she really know about him? She knew he’d been a crappy boss, but she didn’t really know what had been going on in his life to cause that. She knew scraps of information about him, all of it second hand. She knew he’d tried to get her fired because he’d overheard her talking to Patrick.

  She opened her eyes, realization dawning on her. Sebastian Prescott was a lot more sensitive than he wanted people to believe. He felt things deeply, got hurt easily. His emotions were always right there, just beneath the surface. She mulled that over as the warmth of the fire started to seep into her bones, relaxing her despite the throb in her ankle.

  Looking out the window, she couldn’t see much at all. Night had fallen and the ghostly reflection of Sebastian’s living room took up most of the glass. But she could hear the wind pushing against the cabin and rattling the windows. She definitely wasn’t going anywhere tonight—not with the storm raging and her ankle a swollen mess. Licking her lips, she glanced back at Sebastian’s bed, her stomach dipping as she wondered—

  The door to the bathroom opened, steam billowing out through the doorway. Sebastian stepped out, a white towel knotted around his hips, his chest still slick with water, his hair damp.

  Oh. Holy. Hell.

  She’d been totally wrong about his chest. She’d thought it was probably impressive, but impressive fell far short of describing the sight in front of her. His thick arms were sculpted and roped with hard muscle. His pecs were gorgeously defined and covered in a light dusting of dark brown chest hair that arrowed down over a mouthwateringly hard stomach, each of his abs delineated. She wanted to bite him. Lick him. Feel all of that muscle, all of that skin against hers.

  “Holy shit,” she said, then immediately pressed her fingers to her mouth because she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. For a second, he just held her eyes, his big hand fisted in 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 co
uldn’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 and eased herself to her feet. Sebastian leapt up to help her, but she waved him off.

  “I just need to use the bathroom. It’s fine.”

  But without a word, he slid his arm around her waist, the shower-fresh scent of him invading her nostrils and making her stomach dip and swirl. “I’ve got you. Go slow.”

  He helped her to the door, her nerve endings a riot of tingling heat at the close contact. Of course this was how she felt now that she’d pissed him off too many times. Of course.

  Once she was finished, she stepped back out and found him waiting for her. “Were you listening to me pee?”

  “It’s a small cabin, sweetheart. Just making sure you didn’t wipe out.”

  She nodded and then yawned, rubbing at her face.

  He glanced over at the clock on the microwave. “It’s getting late. We should get some sleep, you especially. You’ve had a long day.”

  She shot him a shy smile. “I’m not the one who literally carried someone half a mile through a snowstorm.”

  His expression softened a little and he shrugged. “You’re not that heavy.”

  She licked her lips and curled her hand around his forearm. His eyes went hot as he held her gaze. “I really am grateful, Sebastian. You saved me.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth, his voice a little husky. He cleared his throat and took his arm away. “Let’s get ready for bed.”

  11

  “Do you want a different shirt to sleep in?” Sebastian asked, rummaging through his dresser drawers and trying subtly to adjust the half-hard erection pressing against his sweatpants. All he’d said was let’s get ready for bed and Kayla’s eyes had melted, flicking between him and the only double bed in his cabin.

  “Um, okay. That might be a good idea. This fleece is probably too bulky to be comfortable in.”

  “Here.” He thrust a plain black T-shirt at her, deliberately not meeting her eyes. She took it and disappeared back into the bathroom, giving him a second to get himself together.

  I should’ve said yes.

  Her words kept pinging back and forth through his brain, twisting him up and making him want things he had no business wanting.

  There was no fucking way he was getting in that bed with her. He couldn’t. His dick would either explode, or they’d end up having sex, which didn’t sound like a bad thing, but he knew exactly how it would go. He’d fuck her, probably more than once. He’d make her come, definitely more than once. He’d fall asleep feeling like the king of the goddamn world and then wake up the next morning to Kayla telling him that it was a mistake and it should never have happened.

  He couldn’t face that. He couldn’t explain how she’d managed to get so far under his skin, but she had, deeper than a tattoo, and he didn’t know how he’d face her inevitable rejection. Because if they slept together, it was only a matter of time before she realized—or remembered—that he wasn’t good enough for her and didn’t belong in her life.

  Kayla emerged from the bathroom, her fleece sweater in her hands, wearing his T-shirt. Her nipples were visible beneath the fabric, and he could tell she’d taken her bra off. He fought back a groan and quickly moved away, turning off the lights in the kitchen an
d the living room. Then he crouched in front of the fire, adding two big logs that would keep it going for most of the night.

  “Shit,” he heard from behind him and turned to see Kayla stumbling her way toward the bed. He bit back a curse and rose, hurrying toward her.

  “Let me help you,” he said, his voice gruff.

  “Okay,” she whispered, biting her lip and toying with the hem of his T-shirt. Fuck, that shirt was going to smell like her and he’d never be able to wash it again. He moved closer and slid one arm around her waist, the other hand on her back and helped her carefully into the bed. His bed. Her fingers curled into his sweatshirt, holding him close. So, so close. A pink flush had risen on her chest, and her nipples were sharp points beneath the cotton of her T-shirt. He started to straighten, but her fingers tightened. “Let’s just share the bed,” she said softly. “I can’t stomach you sleeping on the couch when it’s this cold and you…” She swallowed thickly, licking her lips. “After everything you did for me today.”

  “It’s not a good idea, Kayla,” he said, his voice low.

  “Why not?”

  He leaned in closer. “Because if I get in that bed with you, I’m gonna wanna fuck you. And we both know that shouldn’t happen. So if I have any hope of sleeping tonight, I’ll be doing it on the couch.”

  Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t let go of his sweatshirt. “Just get in the bed. It’s cold. And if you won’t, then I’m going to take the couch.”

  Fuck. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted a woman this badly. He knew he should move away, tell her good night, maybe make a bad joke about bed bugs, but he couldn’t. All he could do was stand there, Kayla’s hand fisted in his sweatshirt, his dick throbbing, her eyes on his, all soft and sweet.