Page 110 of Inception

In an instant, my mind was spinning out. Or maybe it was us that was spinning—falling, folding upon ourselves in a stateless state, and then suddenly we were solidifying again, the world slowly taking up its form around us. Except the picture was different now. Gone was the forest and its pine-green beauty, and in its place was a darkened living room inside a strange log cabin I’d never been to before. And the cold. The cold was near arctic. I began shivering wildly, still holding onto Trace as he held on to me.

The room solidified with colors, each detail falling into place, almost as though its molecules were being put back together again one by one. Or maybe it was our own molecules. And then, just like that, our body temperature rose, buzzing, climbing back up to a normal level. Well, as normal as it could be while standing this close to Trace Macarthur.

I stepped back and looked up at him in awe. “Oh, my God.”

He tried to laugh but winced again as he clutched onto his side in obvious pain. “I’m okay,” he assured upon seeing my worried expression.

“No you’re not. You should have taken us to a hospital!” I reached forward to touch him.

He caught my wrist mid-air. “There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom. First door down the hall.”

I pulled my hand back and followed his instructions. When I came back into the living room, he was already sitting on the wooden coffee table unbuttoning his shirt. Unprepared, I froze mid-step in the entrance at the sight of his peeking flesh.

He looked up and quirked an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“What? Yeah. Totally.” My cheeks flushed.Get it together, Jemma. “I’m fine.”

I stepped in the room and handed him the first aid kit. Not wanting to get caught staring again, I busied myself looking around the room, pretending to be interested in the decor. The antlers above the stone fireplace only mildly held my interest.

“Can you help me get this off?” He motioned to his injury as proof that he needed my assistance disrobing.

I nodded coolly though I could feel the heat surging through me when I knelt down on the area rug before him. Without making any eye contact, I carefully took the collar of his shirt and began sliding it off his shoulder, then down his arm—his taut, muscular, beautiful arm. To my relief, the sleeve came off easily, exposing the entire half of his body.

I looked up at him and caught him watching me.

My heart thumped at asinine levels as I reached up and took the other side of his shirt, gently sliding it over his shoulder. Careful not to scrape it against his injury, I slipped my thumb under the fabric and let my finger graze against his skin as I dragged the shirt down his arm. His skin was as warm as a fever and ignited my blood like a fire storm.

I peered back up at him in a daze and noted that his eyes had closed again. Even in this sorry state of pain, he was the picture of otherworldly perfection.

“I can hear you,” he whispered. His eyes flicked open and sang with regret.

“Huh?”

He gestured to my hand that was still touching his skin. “I try not to listen in—I prefer not to, but...” he shrugged as though it were beyond his control.

Oh crap. My cheeks felt volcanic, like at any moment they would burst into flames.Say something, Jemma! “I was just thinking that you, you know, still lookeddecentdespite what happened to you tonight.”

He arched a brow at me.

“Just shut up,” I warned, even though he hadn’t said anything. If he knew what was good for him, he’d leave it at that. “How well can you hear me anyway?” I wondered if it would be inappropriate to demand we test this thing out.

“Well enough.” He looked down to examine his wound.

The bleeding had slowed considerably but there was a gaping wound that looked as though it would need a few stitches. I tossed his shirt on the armchair and tried to move around him to take a seat on the couch. Far away. Where there would be no more skin-to-skin contact.

He grabbed my wrist. “Where are you going? I need you to do this for me.” He motioned to his injury again.

“Dowhatfor you?” I recoiled.

“Stitch me up.”

“Are you insane? I can’tstitchyou up.”

“Yeah, you can.” There wasn't the slightest hint of reluctance in his voice. “It’s just like sewing.”

“And what makes you think I know how to sew?”

His dimples flashed on both sides. “Wishful thinking.”

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