Page 74 of The Rut in the Road

I couldn’t really argue with that.

“That doesn’t mean they’re going to make it easy,” he warned me, gesturing with his fork, which held the last bite of his pie. “This could get ugly. Which is why I don’t want you walking home at night.”

I pressed my teeth together, holding back my objections to what I saw as his overprotectiveness. Nothing about anything I had touched suggested that the drivers had known their victims. And since I didn’tlookmagical—no horns, no hooves, no fangs or fur—I wasn’t likely to be targeted by this particular anti-Arcane group.

I was much more likely to be targeted by the Magic-Free Movement, who were protesting a séance I had to work with Ward and Vi the next day. I wasn’t going to say so out loud, though. I was getting good enough at understanding people—and Raj, in particular—to understand that it would only upset him. And likely result in an argument about whether or not I should be doing my job.

Smothering a sigh so that Raj wouldn’t ask me what was wrong, I stood, pushing my pie towards him. “You should eat mine,” I told him. “I’m full.”

“You sure?” he asked, looking up at me, his gaze sharp. “Don’t you like it?”

I forced myself to smile, not wanting to have to have a conversation about what—whatelse—was upsetting me.

“It’s good,” I assured him, although why he was concerned that I didn’t like something he hadn’t made I wasn’t sure. “I just don’t have a shifter’s stomach.”

He studied me, then decided that either I wasn’t hiding anything from him or it wasn’t worth pursuing. “Okay,” he said, sticking his fork into the rest of my pie.

I took the rest of the dishes into the kitchen, washing them to give myself time to stop stressing so much. Time to let my irritation cool so that I could actually enjoy spending time with Raj—assuming he didn’t bring up my walking to and from work again.

Raj came up behind me, setting his finished pie plate on the counter beside me. I was slightly surprised, since usually he tried to shoo me away and do the dishes himself.

But then his hands settled on my hips, and he nuzzled against the back of my head, the warmth of his breath against my scalp sending faint shivers down my spine. I paused in my dish-washing, still wrist-deep in the soapy water, as Raj’s hands slid around to the front of my khaki slacks.

I sucked in a breath.

I hadn’t been thinking about sex—which wasn’t unusual for me—but once Raj started touching me, I couldn’t focus on anything else, the warmth of his hands through my pants sending the blood rushing to where his palms were gently rubbing and chasing the irritation from my thoughts.

“Raj.” The word slipped from me in a half-gasp.

“Mmmm?” he hummed into the back of my neck, rubbing his face against my skin.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t have a question or a comment or a thought, really.

The bowl I’d been washing slipped out of my soapy fingers and clunked against the bottom of the sink.

“You should finish washing that,” he murmured into my neck. “Because it’ll bother you if they aren’t done later.”

He was right. It would bother me. It was just getting difficult to concentrate on bowls and plates and forks.

I fumbled in the sink, picking up the bowl again, but I didn’t manage to do anything with it because Raj pressed against my back, muscle and heat and the rigid pressure of his erection against my backside.

“Raj,” I repeated, a little desperately.

“Dishes,” he whispered.

I made a sound in the back of my throat, but I tried to focus on my hands. On picking up the soapy dishrag, washing the bowl.

It was particularly difficult to think about cleaning out the grease and streaks of cheese while Raj slowly unzipped my fly. I could feel each tooth of the zipper give way, releasing just the slightest amount of the building pressure. My heart was pounding, my breath rasping a little in anticipation of what Raj might do to me.

I had no idea what was going on—I wasn’t objecting, but this was new.

And very exciting.

I managed to finish washing the bowl, then rinsed it with a little hot water from the tap before setting it on the drying mat, my hands shaking.

Raj had finished undoing the zipper, and his hands were rubbing across the tops of my thighs, getting close to the most sensitive parts of me, but not quite touching.

I had one big and the two small dessert plates and several utensils left to wash. I couldn’t quite decide if that was exciting or infuriating.