Page 25 of Second Draft

His lips twist up just slightly, and I swear he reads my thoughts.

Heat suffuses my cheeks, giving me the strength to look away.

“You scared me,” I say, breaking the tense silence between us.

“I came down to get a drink,” he grumbles, dumping the glass in the trashcan.

More strained silence.

When he’s finished mopping up the mess, he pulls out a clean dishtowel from the drawer, then runs it under the tap.

He’s beside me, only a few inches separating us. Ringing out the towel he looks at me, then down at my legs, which I realize now are bare and splattered in chocolate milk.

“What foot did you hurt?”

“My right.”

“Let me see.” His expression is stoic, hard and unyielding.

I lift my leg and he captures my ankle in his large hand. All my muscles tense as I try to control the shiver that races down my back and through my limbs.

He crouches slightly to inspect the damage, then gently presses the wet dishtowel against my heel.

“It looks like a clean cut. I don’t see any glass. Where’s your first aid kit?”

I nod at the cupboard beside the fridge. “Second shelf.”

He pulls it out, and rummages through it until he finds a Band-Aid, then moves back to me.

“Hold this.” He hands it to me, then moves back to the sink, and rinses out the towel.

His nostrils flare slightly when he turns back to me, takes one of my legs in his hand again, and starts to wipe it down with the dishtowel.

“What are you doing?”

“You have milk all over you.”

“Oh. Right.” It’s a stupid thing to say, but then his touch does that to me – makes me say and do senseless things.

One calloused hand cups the back of my calf gently.

I can’t think.

Can’t breathe.

All I can do is watch him as he drags the towel, in slow, deliberate movements across my lower leg.

Energy spins between us, filling the space with a heat that makes my body feel feverish.

I need to get away from him. Because with every small touch, he’s distorting my judgement, making me feels things I have no business feeling.

A soft hum vibrates in my throat, and I pray to God that he doesn’t hear it.

His gaze remains on my legs, lifting the other one and spending just as much time, if not more, on it.

When he finally releases me, every cell in my body is vibrating, crying out for more of his touch.

Holy hell but the man is hot.

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