Page 27 of Hexed Up

“You can’t stop with the compliments, can you?” I tease. Because I once caught a look at my face in the mirror mid-orgasm and I looked like I was suppressing a snotty sneeze.

“It’s true. I’m making a mental note of that. I’ll be replaying it at regular intervals in my head.”

“That is pretty dirty, Mr Shaw.” Although, I totally plan to do the same with this whole make-out session.

“So how screwed are we now?” he asks me.

“Huh?” I ask, my mind too easily straying back to just how big that object in his pants felt and whether that would feel really good inside me or whether in fact I’d struggle to get it in.

Goblin’s nasal hair, why does that idea have me all hot and bothered again?

“The potion. I think technically we may have strayed from first base to third and then second.”

“Seriously!” I say. “I never really got the whole bases things. Never been a fan of baseball.”

“First base – kissing. Second base – touching above the waist. Third base – getting each other off. Fourth base – screwing.”

“I don’t think we technically reached third base then,” I say, hoping that might mean I’m less screwed when it comes to the potion and everything else.

“You just came all over my lap,” he says with a self-satisfied smirk.

“I did,” I confess, with an equally satisfied sigh, because the way he says that, in that sexy American drawl, is too, too hot. “And I don’t know how screwed this makes us – or me,” I correct. I’m the one who is going to have to brew this potion. I’m the one who will be hauled in front of the authorities if I’m found out. “But don’t worry, I’ll sort it out. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let things get this far.”

“Am I complaining?” he says, leaning forward to nip my shoulder. “In fact, if I go get cleaned up, do you wanna go for another round of making out? I wouldn’t mind spending a little more time at base two – because your tits–”

I slam my hand over his mouth.

“You can’t say things like this to me. It’s what got us into this mess in the first place.” I shake my head. “I didn’t know I had such a weak spot for dirty talk.”

“Good to know,” he mumbles with mischief. “So is that a yes?”

My aunt’s old carriage clock, resting on the mantel piece above the fireplace, chimes four o’clock. Time to leave.

This may be divine intervention or a case of being saved by the bell, because I can see just how easy it would be to fall into bed with Mr Hottie. But that would lead to disaster – and not just because my brewing skills will be pushed to their limits and if I’m caught, I’m in a quagmire of trouble so deep I’ll probably drown. I live across the hallway from Mr Hottie. It wouldn’t be like any normal one-night stand where you hopefully never ever see each other again after bumping uglies. We’d see each other all the time. It would be hideous. Especially when the love potion is reversed and he resents me for taking advantage of the situation.

A sense of shame sweeps through my body. I am a very bad witch. A truly awful one.

“I’m afraid not,” I say, extracting myself from his grip and shuffling off his lap, trying not to examine the wet patch he made and the one I’ve left too.

Niagara falls, I’ve never been so wet!

“It’s Sunday night: dinner at my parents’ house. I can’t miss it. Not if I want to retain all my limbs.”

“I could come,” he suggests.

I laugh, then stop when I realise he’s serious. That potion again.

“Not a good idea. You’ve only just been introduced to the paranormal world. Attending a witching family dinner might short circuit your little mind.”

“I think you have already short-circuited my mind,” he growls and I blush, until I realise he probably means with all the revelations, not the … well …

“Sorry, it’s strictly family anyway and,” I glance back towards the clock, “I’m going to be late.”

“So now you’ve had your wicked way with me, you’re throwing me out. Molly, you look so sweet and innocent and yet …” He mimes stabbing himself in the chest with a dagger andtwisting the blade dramatically. “At least say you’ll come knock on my door when you’re home?”

“That won’t be until tomorrow morning.”

He groans but lumbers to his feet obediently – once again none of the usual sulking or guilt-tripping.