Page 115 of Hexed Up

Horatio comes to sit down beside me on the bed and for a moment we’re silent. Then he takes a sip of tea before passing the mug to me.

“Are we always going to get interrupted like this every time we’re doing it?”

“Are we doing it again, then?” I ask innocently.

He takes the mug from my hand, places it on the dressing table, then pushes me down onto the mattress, unravelling my dressing gown, and climbing between my legs.

“Yes, Molly,” he says. “We’re doing it again.”

And I have to confess, I can’t help squealing in delight.

Chapter Thirty-Two

It’s true what they say. Once the lid’s blown off the potion, it’s extremely hard to slam it back on. And so it seems it’s the case with me and Horatio.

All that sexual tension that’s been bubbling away between us, the tension building and building and building and building, has finally exploded. And now we’ve thrown caution to the wind and succumbed to our desires, we can’t keep our hands off each other. The sex is wild, non-stop, and the best I’ve ever had.

And by the time I stumble from my bedroom somewhere around mid-morning the next day, I’m weak-kneed and struggle to walk. But despite now officially earning the title of Sex Goddess, I do have responsibilities, which include feeding my dog.

I blow tufts of unruly hair from my face and, with a smile big enough to be seen from outer space, hobble into the kitchen–living room area, where I find not just McGruff perching on the sofa, but Damien too.

“Jeez,” he mutters, looking unimpressed. “Didn’t think you guys were ever going to stop.”

“How much did you hear?” I say, my hands flying to my face.

“A lot. You’re very noisy when you’re enjoying yourself. I think most of Hampstead heard you.”

“Terrific,” I mutter, sinking down into an armchair, my cheeks boiling.

“I thought we agreed you were keeping your hands off Mr Hottie.”

I place my hands neatly in my lap, attempting to adopt a neutral expression on my face.

“Who says it’s Mr Hottie in there?”

“I recognise his voice,” Damien says. “He has a very distinct grunt.”

I drop my head into my lap and thread my arms over my head. “Please stop talking,” I tell him.

“Anyway,” Damien says, paying no attention to my obvious embarrassment and distress, “I come bearing a gift.”

“A gift? For me? What is it?” I ask with suspicion, peering up at him.

He holds up a little bottle between his finger and his thumb. “Fairy’s toenails, already ground up and ready to go.”

I spring upright onto my feet. “But I thought it wasn’t going to be ready until Monday?”

“Julian came good early,” he says, tossing the bottle up into the air.

I reach up and catch it in my hand, staring down at the contents sparkling through the glass of the bottle.

“And these are genuine?”

“One hundred per cent,” Damien assures me. “I tested it myself.”

I decide not to ask how he tested it or how he knows. I’m not sure I want to be haunted by that piece of information.

“Hey, Damien,” Horatio says, emerging from my bedroom, dressed in my white silk dressing gown. Damien’s eyes nearlybulge straight out of their sockets. “What’s going on?” Horatio asks, his gaze swinging to me and the bottle in my hand.