Page 70 of Too Hexed to Handle

‘No, it’s the curse of me being near you.’ He pulls me closer, encouraging me to roll over and face him. His eyes search mine as he brushes hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my jaw.

My heart rate peaks higher than any mountain. ‘Really? Because before the maze, you’d act like you could barely stand to be around me. One time I entered the kitchen, and you actively ran away.’

‘You confused me then too.’ He gives me a wry smile. ‘It seemed safer to keep my distance. But sometimes you’d walk into a room and beam at me, and it would be like bathing in sunshine. And I started noticing other things, like the way you pull your lower lip into your mouth when you’re thinking. How you do this sway-dance when you’re happy, and the way your hips move . . .’ Slightly dazed, I let him pull our bodies flush. ‘The way your hips move drives me insane.’

‘Astin . . .’ I’m light-headed, floating somewhere above my body, watching this conversation play out, unable to comprehend the one person I want might want me too. Because for once he doesn’t sound confused. He doesn’t sound confused at all.

‘I’ve tried to fight it. Tried to ignore it. It gets more exhausting every day. I don’t want to do it any longer. The more I’m around you, the more I think about you,’ he goes on. ‘What it would be like to have you beneath me.’ He rolls me over, lowering the blanket to expose my chest. ‘What it would be like to touch you.’ His fingers trail down the side of my neck, my collarbone. Lower. ‘How your skin would taste.’

I squirm, torn between wanting him to do just that, and knowing this is risky. Not only because of what would happen if I lost my senses and kissed him, but because the room smells like it’s on fire, but those flames are coming from him, the smell of spice so strong my nose tingles and my eyes water.

His emotions are burning, and I want to catch alight.

‘We shouldn’t,’ I say, half-heartedly.

‘I completely agree.’ His teeth clasp my ear lobe, like his brain has lost control of his body, and I wish I could say I minded. I make no attempt at stopping his hand from skimming my breast, then lower, towards my belly, pushing the blanket with it –

‘Wait!’ I exclaim, bolting upright, holding the blanket to my chest.

Panic swarms in his eyes. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

‘No, it’s –’ I press my lips together – ‘I still have some magic. There’ll be a mark. I don’t want you to see it and remember you hate me.’

He softens. ‘Let me see.’

‘But –’

‘Daisy.’ He tugs, gently, on the blanket. ‘Let me see you.’

I inhale. Nobody has ever seen me. Even when there was nothing to see, Michael was subjected to dark rooms and baggy nightdresses, just in case. I lower the blanket slowly, exposing myself inch by inch until the black swirl on my belly is visible. It’s faded after blasting magic at Cale, but it’s unmistakeably there, glistening and whirling, marking me for what I am.

His throat bobs. Tears prick my eyes. This is it. This is the moment everything crashes down, where he realises I’m a monster, something dark and unlovable and all the things I pretend I’m not.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to my stomach. I gasp. His hands find my waist, pushing me on to my back once more, his mouth trailing a path upwards, along the sides of my breasts, my neck, my cheeks. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispers.

I shudder. Maybe it’s because it’s been so long since anyone has touched me in this way, but I’m overly sensitive, his touches a brand I’ll never wash off. He flicks his tongue over the tender flesh behind my ear while his hand moves between my legs, and I part for him out of instinct, desperate for relief.

His finger slides up the core of me and presses deeper. I whimper. My head empties. All my focus goes to the sensation he’s eliciting; the way his touch makes my back arch from the bed. A moan escapes my lips and I grip the sheets, hard, but for once it’s not because I’m struggling with my powers – I’m still aware of the heat and spice drifting from him, but I can smell him now, pine and musk and the sweet scent of flowers, something inherently Astin. I don’t want the magic in his emotions.

I just want him.

My whole body relaxes. Or relaxes as much as it can when his thumb is flicking over a spot that has me crying out, pushing against his hand, aching for more. I run my hands along his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, giggling at the way he sucks in a breath when I move lower, stroking him in time to the way he strokes me. I can’t quite believe this is happening, my mind unable to catch up, thought after thought racing through my head: Astin is touching me. This is a bad idea. This is an excellent idea.

The strongest thought of all: I’m so happy I might burst.

He groans as my pace quickens, thrusting into my hand as his fingers match my speed, driving harder and deeper, pressure coiling inside me, within me, like there’s magic clamouring to escape. Only there isn’t – it’s just me and him and the pleasure building and building, until my whole world, my whole existence, narrows to that rising wave until it breaks. My legs clamp around him. His finger crooks, finding a new spot that has me whimpering and shaking as I break, and break, and break.

‘I could listen to you make that sound every day.’ Another touch of his hand, and I melt beneath him. ‘I want to make you make that sound every day.’

I’m not opposed to it. His movements are slow now, lazy, and I move against him, insatiable. ‘Astin –’

‘Can I try something?’ He’s looking at my mouth, which can only spell trouble, but I nod anyway. I whimper as he pulls his hand away, to instead leave the bed, which I didn’t agree to at all, and pulls my nightdress free from where I’d draped it over the chair. I blink at him, confused, because getting dressed seems the opposite of what I should be doing right now, but then he places the dress over my lips. Oh no. He cannot be serious.

He is.

His head lowers. I should move away. There’s no way to tell if one flimsy piece of clothing will be enough to stop my hex activating, but his fingers cup my chin, tilting it up, and I’m letting it happen, wanting it to happen. Although the dress is warm from the fire, the fabric does nothing to dispel the heat of his breath, as though he burns hotter than flame.

It does little to hide the heat of his lips either. The dress pushes against my mouth as he presses from the other side, not a kiss in the truest sense, but the closest we’ll come. I tense, terror gripping me. I didn’t stop him in time. I didn’t stop him and – his mouth is still moving. A light brush against my upper lip. A firmer one on my lower.