Page 17 of A Pack of Mistletoe
“I’m hungry. You hungry?” he asks, casual.
“Actually, I’m starving,” I admit.
His crooked smile hits me like a gut punch.
He gets up and starts moving around the kitchen. Soon, the smell of butter, melted cheese, and toasted bread fills the air. My stomach growls soloud I almost laugh.
I stand and lean against the island, watching him cook. “Are there tomatoes in that?”
“Trust.” He shoots me a half-smile as he slides the sandwiches onto plates. He picks them up but stumbles. The plates tilt. The sandwiches clatter unceremoniously onto the table.
I’m by his side in a heartbeat. His face contorts in pain, one hand clutching his leg.
“Here.” I slip under his arm. He leans on me. Not fully, but enough that I guide him to the couch. He sinks down with a groan. Still gripping his right thigh, teeth clenched.
I’ve noticed it before. The limp. The winces. The way he favors his left side when he thinks no one’s watching.
I rush to the sink, grab a tea towel with little sheep on it, and run the water. It takes forever to warm. My hands shake. Finally, I soak it, wring it out, make sure it’s hot.
When I return, Wyatt’s watching me through the pain.
I set the towel on the coffee table and reach for his belt.
He jerks. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to get your pants off,” I say, exasperated.
He jerks again. “Sugarplum, I’d usually be real interested in a gorgeous woman trying to get me naked, but I’m not exactly at peak performance right now.”
I roll my eyes and ignore the fact that the way he called me a gorgeous woman makes me light up inside. “The compress will help. But I need to see the injury. Stop being such a baby.”
He glares, and then undoes the buckle and top button. The zipper drag reverberates in the room in a way that has me clenching my thighs. He pulls down his pants, leaving his boxers, so that his full thighs and knees are revealed. A jagged scar, fully healed but still an angry red wraps from his inner thigh around to his knee.
I bite my lip. His eyes catch the motion like a hawk.
I’d looked up ways to ease leg pain. Slowly, I start massaging around the injury.
He groans. Low. Rough. It vibrates through me like a struck tuning fork, straight to the heat between my legs.
I bite down hard on my lip. I try not to look. I fail. His head is thrown back, fists clenched, face tight with pain and... relief. He could be mid-orgasm. My panties are soaked.
“When did you get this?” I ask quickly, trying to ground myself in conversation.
“Accident with a bull.” His voice is gravel.
I raise a brow. “That might be the most cowboy thing you’ve ever said.”
He laughs. It's deep, warm and sinful. It slides over me like a rough palm.
“Fair.”
“Did you work on a ranch or something?”
“Bull rider,” he grits out as I press into a knot in his thigh.
I pause. “That’s not a real thing.”
He huffs a real laugh this time. Dimples cut into his cheeks.
