Page 9 of The Rut in the Road

I shookhim awake sometime around four-thirty, sweaty and panting. He let out a strangled half-yowl when I did, swatting at the hand I’d put on his shoulder.

I yanked it back, staring at the raised lines from his… claws.

I grimaced, rubbing at the back of my hand. Getting clawed by my boyfriend was not something I’d realized I would have to worry about. But the sting was fading, although I was pretty sure that if he saw them, he’d freak out.

“Raj,” I said, my voice sounding unnaturally loud, even to my human ears. I probably could have gone into the dream and found him, like I had a few months ago, but I’d promised to stay out of his dreams, so I didn’t want to do that unless I absolutely had to. I tentatively gripped his upper arm again. “Raj.”

He sucked in a breath, and this time, I pulled my hand back before his fingers reached his shoulder, although he blinked blearily in the light filtering in my bedroom window from the street outside.

“Shit,” he breathed, then rubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry. I was—” I heard him swallow. “It was bad.”

I put my hand on his back. “It sounded bad,” I said softly.

“I woke you.”

He hadn’t. “No,” I replied. “I was already awake.” I debated telling him I’d gotten up to pee or something to make him feel better, but I’m bad at lying, so I didn’t.

Raj rolled onto his back, and I moved my hand to let him. He studied my face. “Why?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “Too restless to sleep.”

“I’m sorry.” He reached up a hand and cupped the side of my face. “It’s my fault.”

It was, but it felt rude to confirm it.

“It happens to me, sometimes,” I said, instead. It did.

“What do you do? To sleep?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Deep breathing, sometimes. And sometimes I just lie there with my eyes closed and try to relax my body, even if my brain won’t stop.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “What’s a lot?”

He huffed out a sound that tried to be one of his little laughs, and failed, although I was glad he’d made the attempt. “More than once a week?”

“Some weeks,” I replied. “Depends.”

“And you just… don’t sleep?”

“Sometimes.”

He lapsed into silence, tracing the side of my face with his fingers. Minutes passed, but I was content to let him continue to run the pads of his fingertips across my face, in my hair, down the side of my neck, then back. I liked that he wanted to touch me.

“Would you be annoyed if I wanted to… touch you somewhere else?” he asked me, softly, almost breathlessly. The hesitation in his voice told me what he was actually asking.

“Never.” My heart suddenly started pounding.

He ran his fingers down the side of my neck, then down the center of my t-shirt-clad chest. I shivered a little.

“Would you—” He paused, studied my face again. “Would you take it off?” he asked softly.

I stripped the shirt off, the coolness of the air in the apartment causing my skin to pebble and my nipples to harden. Or maybe that was anticipation and desperation.

His big, warm hands reached out and slid around my waist, and he pulled me toward him, rubbing his nose against my collar bone as his fingers tightened against my skin.

I felt warmth and wetness, followed by cool, as he licked a small spot near my collar bone. I shivered again.