Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The kissing is good – really good.
Two hours later, we’re still kissing.
If I’m honest, I may, on the odd occasion, have imagined what it would be like to kiss Mr Hottie (among other things).
Mostly I considered doing it for the shock tactic, something that would stop him from grumbling at me when he was droning on with one of his many complaints.
I concluded that kissing Mr Hottie would be a bit restricted, a little self-conscious, probably quite rigid.
Kissing Horatio Shaw is none of those things.
In fact, I’m not sure I knew there were quite as many ways to kiss.
Slow, languid, sensual.
Fast, passionate, hungry.
Lazy, sloppy, sexy.
Penetrating, ploughing, overwhelming.
I think I like them all.
I especially liked when his hands shifted to my arse and he lifted me up, letting my legs curl around his waist, and carried us over to the couch, where we’ve been ever since – in various different positions.
This current position may be my favourite, I’m straddling his lap and his hands are idling up and down my back, occasionally straying back to my arse again for an impromptu squeeze that sends my pulse racing.
It’s not just the kissing that’s been surprising. It’s also the fact that he’s kept to his word and apart from the odd grope of my arse, we’ve kept things somewhat PG-rated.
And it’s been nice. It’s reminded me just how good spending an afternoon kissing a hot man can be.
Not that he’s currently kissing my mouth – his lips are currently caressing my throat – which is technically still kissing so the rules have not been broken.
The temperature in my flat has risen steadily and I’m not sure it’s simply because of the weather outside. I bet the windows are all steamed up. We’re both a lot more dishevelled than we were two hours ago and a little more sweaty.
Not that Mr Hottie seems to mind.
He drags his tongue up my throat and hums.
“Hmmm, you’re all sweaty.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah,” he says, “good enough to eat.” His eyes twinkle and I shift on his lap.
And good as this position may be, it’s also pretty frustrating.
Something solid, hard, and impossibly big is positioned right underneath me and the temptation to rub myself against it for a bit of friction and a bit of relief is frankly unbearable.
I suspect it’s something he’s more than aware of too, given the pained expression on his face when I shift.
However, dry humping would definitely cross the line.
To distract myself from the temptation, I lean down and copy his last move, slurping my own tongue against his thick neck; a neck corded with muscle.
He’s right, the taste is salty and the texture rough.
His hands clasp more tightly around my waist and I can’t help but clamp my lips to his neck and suck.
I haven’t given a boy a hickey since I was sixteen but maybe all the kissing and the pent-up frustration has sent me feral, because I really want to mark his skin.
“Shit,” he groans, “you little minx.”
His head tips backward, his eyelids flutter shut and his hips shift upward, thrusting that object in his trousers right against my core.
I whimper against his neck because the contact sends actual stars crashing across my vision.
I pull away, biting down hard on my lip, trying to regain my senses, not realising I’ve screwed up my eyes until I open them again. When I do, I’m faced with his penetrating stare, about ten shades darker than it was.
He’s panting and I may be doing the same.
It’s hot. It smells like sex (even though there’s been none). And he looks so hot I may die.
My resolve snaps at exactly the same time as his does. Our mouths collide, his hands grip my arse, as mine take hold of his shoulders, and then I’m grinding against him desperately and he pushes up against me, manoeuvring me against that very hard, very large object in his trousers.
“Oh shit, Molly,” he mutters, sounding so undone it might be enough to tip me right into an orgasm.
As it is, I’m so worked up, it takes very little friction to have me falling right over the edge.
Bucking and jolting on his lap as he continues to grind me against him.
More stars crash across my vision as ecstasy pours from my core right along every limb to the tips of my scrunched-up toes and rigid fingers.
I cry out, everything between my legs convulsing in waves and heat rushing up my neck and into my cheeks.
It’s the best orgasm I’ve had in a very long time and we still have our clothes on.
When my vision and my senses return and I can focus back on his face, I find him studying me intently, his jaw tight, his neck corded and the veins in his forehead throbbing.
He bounces me on his lap and then he’s burying his face in my cleavage. He grunts; the object beneath me throbs. Then there’s a flood of wetness, his body relaxes and he lets out one long strangled moan.
I don’t know the man that well, but I’m going to take it his own orgasm wasn’t half bad as well.
He flops back against the couch, taking me with him, nuzzling his face between my boobs.
I think we may definitely have overstepped the mark. Right now, in my post-orgasmic haze, I’m not sure I care. That’s three-weeks’-time’s Molly’s problem. That’s locked-up-forever-in-jail Molly’s problem.
“That was …” he murmurs.
“Hmmmm,” I agree, loving the rough feel of his stubble against my sensitive breasts a little too much.
He places a gentle kiss between my boobs, then tips his head back to look at me again.
“You’re really sexy when you come.”
“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 and twisting 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.
“Until tomorrow then, my little minx.” He kisses my forehead and I watch as his cute little arse leaves my apartment.
It would be very easy to sink back down on the sofa in a post-orgasmic haze – I haven’t felt this giddy for years and years and years – but I can already hear my mother’s disappointed voice in my ear because I’ve once again turned up late. I really have to go.