Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Once we’ve eaten pudding and I’ve endured further questioning by my mum, she sweeps her arm through the air, sending the dishes to wash in the kitchen, and we settle back down in the lounge to watch an episode of the latest murder mystery to hit Witchflix, my sister firing up her laptop instead and tapping around in the background.
Halfway through the TV programme, I glance down at my phone and discover a message from an unknown number.
Feeling lonely here without you and can’t stop thinking about how good your tits felt against my mouth. Wanna send me a pic? H
I smile and add his number to my contacts, pausing to consider what to name him.
Not Mr Hottie in case he ever sees it. The man has enough ego as it is (which given the size of the snake in his trousers is probably warranted).
For the same reason, I can’t name him ‘The Boyfriend’. In the end, I opt for Building Buddy.
Erm, how did you get this number?
You gave it to me the first day we met.
Damn, that was foolish of me.
Very. So going to send me a pic? I’m going kind of wild here.
I can’t! I’m currently watching TV with my family!
You don’t have one saved?
Mr Shaw. I am not that kind of girl!
I find that very hard to believe.
Jeez that is the cheesiest thing I’ve read in a text message and also possibly the hottest. Usually, I just get straight out dick pics without any context, usually poorly lit and not terribly aesthetically pleasing.
They give off the vibe of a kid who’s come home from school very proud of a very shit piece of artwork and keen to show it off to everyone.
Go to the bathroom and take a pic.
After this afternoon, I’m not sure it’s such a good idea. This potion is already going to be tricky to brew.
It’s only a picture. No touching involved. Not of each other anyway.
It’s tempting. Despite all the rule breaking, I’ve never done something that feels this naughty before. Especially in my parents’ house.
Will you send me one in return?
A topless pic for a topless pic? Deal.
I remember how good he looked wrapped in my towel and hurry to the downstairs loo, bolting the door behind me. I close the toilet lid and sit down, unbuttoning my dress so my lacy bra and a lot of cleavage is on show. He asked for a topless shot. But I think he needs to earn it.
I spend the next few minutes playing with the angle so that my face is excluded, then I snap away, choosing the best one and adjusting the lighting before I send it his way.
There’s a delay and I begin to think he didn’t like it.
Or worse, maybe I sent it to the wrong number.
In an anxious frazzle, I check and double check again and then his response pings through.
Fuck, that’s hot. I loved how soft those tits felt against my mouth.
I squeak.
I’m so desperate to put those pretty pink nipples of yours into my mouth and suck them.
I squeak again and nearly drop my phone. I didn’t think I liked dirty talk; now I realise none of the other guys were any good at it. Mr Hottie is good at it. Very good at it. But I can’t sit in the downstairs bathroom having phone sex with my fake boyfriend while everyone else is watching Poirot.
Do you think we can pause this for 20 minutes?
Pause what, Molly?
I know he’s teasing me.
This. I want to give it my full attention and I can’t while I’m watching TV with my mum sitting right next to me.
Especially as my mum has a bad habit of reading my text messages over my shoulder. Although, who knows, she seems pretty pleased I have a boyfriend ‘at last’. Maybe she’d approve.
Send me another pic and I’ll wait.
I can’t believe he’s going to want another shot of my cleavage so, without thinking, I reach under my skirt and take a quick snap. It’s not exactly artistically wonderful but I suppose it’s the connotation that’s the important thing. I send it and hurry back to the lounge.
The next fifteen minutes of TV are the longest I’ve ever experienced and I’ve never been so angry at a TV detective for taking so long to solve the damn mystery. Can’t he see it’s the deranged ex-wife?
As soon as the credits start rolling, I jump up and announce I’m tired and am heading to bed.
“Don’t you fancy a nightcap?” Dad asks me. “I have some of those chocolates you like too.”
“I’m seriously stuffed,” I say, patting my belly and fake yawning for added effect.
“Must be that boyfriend,” Prim says, nearly making me jump out of my skin.
“What?!”
“Your new boyfriend must be wearing you out,” she says. My dad roars with laughter and my sister’s face turns tomato-red, along with mine. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that you’re probably–”
“It’s okay,” I say, giving her a hug. She has work first thing tomorrow and is returning to her flat tonight, although, as she has a transportation licence, that will take her precisely five seconds.
I kiss everyone else too and, before my mum can give me any chores to do, hurry up to my old childhood bedroom in the attic.
It’s full of my old dolls, toy cauldrons (even as a kid I had a love of creating potions), and my first few broomsticks.
There’s no lock on the door, so I move my old desk across the doorway and flop right down on my old bed – still made up in unicorn bed sheets.
You’d think my mum could have changed them.
There’s no way I could bring an actual real life boyfriend here to stay.
I’m back!
Was that last picture what I think it was?
What do you think it was?
Your panties.
I crease up laughing on my bed.
Oh my goodness. You cannot call them that!
My phone starts buzzing in my hand and I answer it.
“What do you want me to call them, knickers?” he says, adopting a ridiculously posh English accent that makes him sound like a drag act impersonating the Queen.
“Anything’s gotta be better than panties!”
“Panties,” he growls in that American drawl and I’m feeling less sure of that last statement.
“Please repeat,” I tell him.
“Did you send me a picture of your panties, you naughty little minx?”
I fan my face, my entire body suddenly feeling overheated. This man may not have witching abilities but there is definitely something magical about him when it comes to the sex department.
“Did you like it?” I ask.
“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?”
“Well, I’m not accidentally exploding my kitchen, or hiding from law enforcement, but yeah it can be.”
“And is this work you’re doing right now urgent?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then why don’t you turn off your laptop and we can–”
“We can?” he says, eagerly.
“Maybe watch another episode of the detective show together. I can’t believe it can always be the butler.”
“I’m telling you it is.”
“Wanna bet?”
“If the prize is another one of the selfies, then yes, I’ll bet.”
“And if I win,” I say, settling against the cushions and switching on the TV, “you have to send me one. You did promise.”