Page 33 of Hexed Up

“I’d tell you what I’d like, I’d like to rip those silky little panties off with my teeth. Then I’d like to sink my tongue into your–”

“Do not say pussy!” I warn him.

He chuckles, and why is that nearly as sexy as the growls? “What would you rather I call it, Molly? Your honey pot? Your love tunnel? Your lady garden?”

“Oh Merlin’s toenails,” I laugh, “none of those either please! You’re in danger of killing the mood, Mr Shaw.”

No sooner have those words left my mouth but my phone pings. Expecting my promised topless pic, I open my messages and find one long essay from Damien instead. He’s helpfully sent me a list of links to cases of witches prosecuted and punished for illegal potion brewing, seducing civilians, and failing to report magical incidents. Flicking my eyes down the list fills me with a sense of terror and definitely, most certainly kills the mood flat more effectively than if my mum had walked in on me in the middle of sexting.

“Molly, are you still there?”

“Errr, yeah.”

“Have I killed the mood?” he says, with clear disappointment in his voice.

“Uh huh, honey pot? Are you kidding me? Anyway, it’s probably for the best,” I say, keeping my voice light and cheerful while attempting to be responsible and grown up, “my parents are right downstairs and we’re meant to be behaving.”

He groans. “I hate behaving.”

“Hmmm,” I say, because I don’t believe that for one minute. I think Mr Plays-it-by-the-rules loves behaving. It’s why I get a lecture every time I miss recycling day. “I’m sorry.”

There’s silence down the phone for a moment and I wonder if he’s going to do that sulky thing men do when you tell them no. But then he surprises me by saying,

“You don’t need to be sorry. Honestly, I’m happy just talking with you, Molly.” I shake my head in disbelief. This love potion is even more potent than I gave it credit for. “Tell me about your evening. What were you watching on TV?”

“Some 1920s detective show. I was convinced it was the ex-wife. But turns out it was–”

“The butler.”

“Yes! How’d you know?”

“It’s always the butler, Molly.”

“Is it?” I rub my head, still confused how I missed that one. “I guess I’m really not the best judge of character.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. Tiggie, my sister, says I have a case of first-impression syndrome.”

“And what is that?”

“I make up my mind about people too quickly.” I smooth out my skirt. “Anyway, what are you up to?”

“Apart from drooling over hot photos this woman has been sending me?”

“Yeah, apart from that.”

“Working.”

“On a Sunday night!” I shriek in outrage. “You can’t do that!”

He chuckles. “There’re some things I wanted to catch up on.”

“Oh, I thought I was sad and pathetic spending the evening with my parents, but you are just plain tragic.”

“Why do you think I requested the selfies?”

“Is your job really stressful then?”