The Fix Is In (Torus Intercession 4)

“Shaw?” he asked softly, stepping in close and gazing up at me with this sort of besotted expression. “This looks amazing.”

Because I had an overwhelming urge to reach out and cup his cheek in my hand, I growled at him instead. “Have you lost your mind? Are you trying to catch pneumonia and prove Sian’s dad wrong?”

“I––”

“Go dry your hair right now, and don’t come out here until it’s done,” I ordered, my voice louder and more thunderous than I intended.

“Oh, you’re worried,” he murmured, turning to go follow my directions.

Refocusing on the pancakes, I was surprised when I felt him lean into my back, arms wrapped around my waist, his head just below the juncture of my shoulder blades.

“What’d I tell you to do?” I snapped, realizing if I tried to move forward, I’d burn myself on the stove. “Go dry your hair.”

“It’ll be dry on its own in a couple of minutes,” he answered sleepily, his voice doing strange, fluttery things to my stomach before causing it to completely twist into a knot when he turned his head and pressed his nose into the same spot where his cheek had been a moment ago.

“It won’t be dry,” I muttered, sounding ridiculous, realizing I was, in fact, deliberately not mentioning that he was exerting more power than I had thought he had in his slight frame, to hold me. “Your hair is thick, it’s gonna take hours to dry, so––”

“You noticed my hair?”

“You’re gonna get pneumonia and die, and won’t that look fuckin’ fantastic on my resume?” I barked at him. “Dry it now, or at least go sit your ass by the fire.”

“I’m pretty warm here,” he nearly purred, making my stomach hitch again. “I told you before, you’re like a furnace.”

“I’m making breakfast,” I retorted, “and I can’t work with you holding me, so go––”

“I’ll get a sweater,” he teased, giving me a last squeeze before letting go and jogging back across the room to the hall.

Standing there, it felt like I had a million things running through my brain. Part of me needed to give Benji Grace some firm boundaries, the first of which was to stay the hell out of my space. Another part said that maybe if I kissed him, just once, to see if what was going on in my head and heart and stomach was based in reality or was something else altogether, like maybe I was worried about—

For the life of me, I couldn’t dredge up another thought. Shortness of breath, the flush of heat on my skin, that familiar roll of arousal that always started in my cock, I wanted to taste him. I was fixated on the idea, which wasn’t helping my mood or my ability to focus on the investigation. I needed distance, and there was no way to get it, but even then, I wasn’t sure what it would accomplish. The fact of the matter was, Benji Grace was luminous, and there was no running away from that.

“Look,” he said as he walked into the kitchen, now wearing a heavy cardigan that he’d buttoned midway up his chest, leaving his throat exposed. “Happy?”

“Delirious,” I muttered, using the spatula to point at the small table and mismatched chairs that had seen better days. “Sit down and I’ll serve you.”

“No, I’ll help.” He came up beside me and rubbed his face on my bicep before picking up the platter of bacon.

Why the hell was he— “Why did you just wipe your nose on me?” I groused.

His snort of laughter made me smile, which did nothing for my mood. “I can’t help it. You smell like leather and musk and pine, and I wanted to breathe you in.”

I glowered at him. “You’re messing me up. I’m a fixer, and you’re doing some weird things to my brain, and I can’t think,” I stated flatly.

Again with the smile that made his eyes glow. “I’m supposed to feel bad about that, right?”

I exhaled sharply. “We already agreed to focus first on your safety, and then whatever else is going on.”

“I don’t like how clinical you sound,” he said, coming back, but this time looking me up and down like I was in a display window. “God, it’s like you’re carved or something.”

“Quit––”

“This Henley is what, two sizes too small?”

“No, it’s––”

“I mean, I could trace every muscle in your back and chest, and Jesus, your arms. Can you bench press a car?”

“Take the eggs,” I replied belligerently.

“You sprinkled cheese on them? And are those sauteed mushrooms?”

“Go,” I ground out, feeling the muscles cording in my jaw.

He busied himself setting the table with plates and glasses, pulled a pitcher of water from the refrigerator, moved the napkin holder, and when I joined him with the pancakes, he reached out and took hold of my hand before I could move it away.