Snatched

I hate athletes.

I can’t help it—I’ve spent way too much time trying to teach them stuff they have no interest in learning.

It’s bad enough to have to teach someone who doesn’t care about the subject matter, but it’s even worse to have to deal with…

Someone who’s hot and sexy as hell and knows it?

I mutter to myself as I walk.

The last thing I want to do be doing right now is tutoring a football superstar who decided he didn’t feel like paying attention in math class for the last ten years and needs to catch up on everything—now that he’s in college and flunking his exams.

So screw Finn Thorne, I think as I stomp back down the driveway.

But then I stop as I picture myself telling Professor Joshua Reams that I canceled the appointment with Finn Thorne because Finn was being obnoxious and hadn’t yet gotten dressed when I arrived.

I have a sinking sensation that the head of the math department would not be happy about my decision. Not to mention my mother, who’s a professor here, too, and second in command of the math department. Finn Thorne is a very big deal at Harton, and there are different expectations when it comes to handling someone like him.

In other words, I have to swallow my pride and go back and try again.

I shoulder my bag, full of snacks, math books, and colored markers (tutoring football players involves using a lot of tricks you’d use for tutoring elementary schoolers) and trudge back to his front door.

I’m now sweating profusely, and I feel a strange tightness in my lower abdomen. I’m suddenly aware of myself, the way I look, my lack of makeup, how un-put together I am right now.

And I hate that I feel this way, that I feel like I somehow want to impress him when I know that he sees me as nobody important. I’m not even a woman as far as he’s concerned, because I don’t have perfect tits, a tiny waist and the face of a runway model.

I raise my hand and knock on the door, twice.

It seems to take forever for him to come and open the door again. When he finally does, he’s now clothed, and I find myself almost disappointed.

“Forget something?” Finn asks, his lips quirking, not quite forming a smile.

“Let’s start over,” I say, putting on my most professional voice and trying to smile. I reach out my hand. “My name’s Kenley Sullivan and you must be Finn Thorne.”

“In the flesh,” he says, taking my hand in his. It’s not really quite a handshake. His hand is enormous, so big that it’s like mine is miniature by comparison. He merely holds my hand, and his grips is warm and solid and suddenly I’m breaking into goose bumps.

“Nice to meet you, Finn. I’m here to tutor you in math.”

“Come in, then,” he says, releasing my hand as quickly as he’d taken it. He turns and walks into the foyer, leaving me to follow.

He’s now wearing a t-shirt and basketball shorts, though I can’t understand how the shirts sleeves aren’t tearing against his biceps.

Think about something else. Anything else. Stop thinking about the way his cock looked when you saw it through that tiny towel he had around his waist, about how you wish the towel had fallen off completely so you could truly get a proper look—

“Is math a difficult subject for you?” I ask, trying to keep up with him as he makes his way into the kitchen.

“I have no use for it,” Finn says, shrugging and tearing into a box of protein bars on the counter. The counter is covered in treats befitting an enormous football player. Protein bars in a million flavors, a giant stack of locally made jerky, hardboiled eggs in packages, nuts and seeds and trail mixes, even some kind of weird protein-infused potato chip.

“No use for math?” I query, raising an eyebrow. “So I suppose you never try and figure out what’s fifteen percent to tip a waiter after a meal—“

“I usually just drop a large enough bill to more than cover it,” he says, not a hint of irony in his voice. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“But you wouldn’t know, since you don’t bother figuring it out.”

I set my bag down on the counter and begin removing notebooks. I printed out Finn’s math class syllabus, so I knew where to start, as well as an email from the professor on what sort of things we need to review for the first test.

“How long will this take? I’ve got plans,” Finn informs me, looking at the notebooks like I’ve put a live cobra on the counter. I swallow, and fully embrace Tutor Mode. Tutor Mode Kenley gets shit done. Tutor Mode Kenley has a job to do. Tutor Mode Kenley doesn’t care about hard dicks, flat abs, or any of that crap.