Read Online The Billionaire's Christmas (A Sinclair Novella) by J. S. Scott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. S. Scott
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tree!” Emily exclaimed as they entered the house, noticing the huge Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. It was a beauty, full and lush, and at least seven feet tall.
“You like it?” he asked cautiously, grimacing as he moved. “You said you wanted one. I asked the lady who cleans the house where I could get a big one. She said she’d have her husband bring one here and set it up. I guess they brought it this morning.”
“You’re hurting. Do you want some pain medicine?” she asked him anxiously.
“No. Do you like the tree?”
“It’s beautiful. I’ll decorate it later. Right now I just want to get you to bed.” She wrapped her arm around his waist, careful not to put pressure on his wound.
“Sweetheart, those are words I’ve wanted to hear from you since the moment I met you. And I’m not going to bed unless you come with me,” he replied obstinately, raising a teasing brow at her as he added, “Seriously? Do you really think you’re going to hold me up if I swoon?”
“Yes. I’m stronger than I look,” she told him defensively. Okay . . . maybe she couldn’t hold him up, but she could make his trip to the ground less painful.
“Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Feel free to get as close as you want to get,” he told her playfully as he moved slowly toward the stairs.
Emily walked him up the staircase, staying close to him because she needed to be there. She followed him to his bedroom, ready to put him into the enormous bed that looked incredibly inviting.
“Bed,” she insisted.
“Shower,” he said gruffly. “Are you planning to come with me? I could fall and hit my head. Or I might get dizzy.”
She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. She had no doubt Grady was in pain, but he was playing this for all it was worth. “I’ll wait outside the door.”
“But what if I need you?” he argued with a weak but wicked grin.
“I’ll be close,” she said sternly, her hands lifting to start unbuttoning his shirt, knowing the motion to do it himself would be painful for him.
“Not close enough,” he said hoarsely. “It’s going to take me a while to get the image of that asshole pointing a gun at your head to go away.”
Unfastening the last button, she opened his shirt and had to force herself not to gape at the mouthwatering sight of his bare chest and ripped abdomen; his smooth, warm skin stretched over sculpted muscle had her struggling not to salivate.
I need to be clinical. I have to help him. Grady needs me.
She slipped the shirt over his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. “Um . . . can you handle it from here?” She gulped, looking at the jeans sitting low on his hips, and the fine trail of hair that ran down into the waistband of his jeans. The man had a body that would tempt a saint, and she certainly wasn’t that angelic.
“Nope. Movement hurts. You’ll have to do it,” he said, deadpan.
Her eyes shot to his face. His expression was stoic, but his eyes were pure wicked heat. Her nipples hardened, and fire slithered from her belly and came to rest between her thighs. Even injured, Grady Sinclair was all masculine temptation for her, an alluring mix of demanding male and boyish mischief who had her wondering if she should laugh or be completely mortified.
“Grady,” she warned, licking her parched lips as she looked up at him.
“I need your help, Emily. Please.”
She couldn’t deny him, and to be honest, she couldn’t resist the opportunity to touch him. Her hands were trembling as she reached for the button of his jeans, grateful that there was only one button with a zipper. Honestly, she knew this task would hurt him, the movement required to shower probably excruciating. The arm movements required would pull at his sutures, and the last thing she wanted was for him to reinjure himself. He might be challenging her, but she was knee-deep in this task because she couldn’t stand to cause him another moment of
“You like it?” he asked cautiously, grimacing as he moved. “You said you wanted one. I asked the lady who cleans the house where I could get a big one. She said she’d have her husband bring one here and set it up. I guess they brought it this morning.”
“You’re hurting. Do you want some pain medicine?” she asked him anxiously.
“No. Do you like the tree?”
“It’s beautiful. I’ll decorate it later. Right now I just want to get you to bed.” She wrapped her arm around his waist, careful not to put pressure on his wound.
“Sweetheart, those are words I’ve wanted to hear from you since the moment I met you. And I’m not going to bed unless you come with me,” he replied obstinately, raising a teasing brow at her as he added, “Seriously? Do you really think you’re going to hold me up if I swoon?”
“Yes. I’m stronger than I look,” she told him defensively. Okay . . . maybe she couldn’t hold him up, but she could make his trip to the ground less painful.
“Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Feel free to get as close as you want to get,” he told her playfully as he moved slowly toward the stairs.
Emily walked him up the staircase, staying close to him because she needed to be there. She followed him to his bedroom, ready to put him into the enormous bed that looked incredibly inviting.
“Bed,” she insisted.
“Shower,” he said gruffly. “Are you planning to come with me? I could fall and hit my head. Or I might get dizzy.”
She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. She had no doubt Grady was in pain, but he was playing this for all it was worth. “I’ll wait outside the door.”
“But what if I need you?” he argued with a weak but wicked grin.
“I’ll be close,” she said sternly, her hands lifting to start unbuttoning his shirt, knowing the motion to do it himself would be painful for him.
“Not close enough,” he said hoarsely. “It’s going to take me a while to get the image of that asshole pointing a gun at your head to go away.”
Unfastening the last button, she opened his shirt and had to force herself not to gape at the mouthwatering sight of his bare chest and ripped abdomen; his smooth, warm skin stretched over sculpted muscle had her struggling not to salivate.
I need to be clinical. I have to help him. Grady needs me.
She slipped the shirt over his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. “Um . . . can you handle it from here?” She gulped, looking at the jeans sitting low on his hips, and the fine trail of hair that ran down into the waistband of his jeans. The man had a body that would tempt a saint, and she certainly wasn’t that angelic.
“Nope. Movement hurts. You’ll have to do it,” he said, deadpan.
Her eyes shot to his face. His expression was stoic, but his eyes were pure wicked heat. Her nipples hardened, and fire slithered from her belly and came to rest between her thighs. Even injured, Grady Sinclair was all masculine temptation for her, an alluring mix of demanding male and boyish mischief who had her wondering if she should laugh or be completely mortified.
“Grady,” she warned, licking her parched lips as she looked up at him.
“I need your help, Emily. Please.”
She couldn’t deny him, and to be honest, she couldn’t resist the opportunity to touch him. Her hands were trembling as she reached for the button of his jeans, grateful that there was only one button with a zipper. Honestly, she knew this task would hurt him, the movement required to shower probably excruciating. The arm movements required would pull at his sutures, and the last thing she wanted was for him to reinjure himself. He might be challenging her, but she was knee-deep in this task because she couldn’t stand to cause him another moment of
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