Page 48 of Bewitched By the Djinn
I stare at him, suppressing the urge to throw myself at him again, no magic needed.
I need to get a grip. A hot shower sounds divine, but honestly, what I really need is an ice bath and an exorcism.
The hot water works. Better than before, actually—like Bennet didn’t just fix it, he upgraded it with ancient, mystical spa settings. I don’t question it. I’m too busy sloughing off the residual embarrassment and magic-fueled horniness in scalding peace.
He insisted I go first, and I wasn’t about to argue. The water pressure alone nearly makes me weep.
I wrap myself in my robe, mentally formulating the world’s most awkward post-sex small talk.
What do I even say?
Hey, great magical orgasm, sorry I mind-blasted you with lust. Do you need a towel?
I half expect him to be waiting in my room, maybe in my bed, shirtless and smug. But instead, when I exit the bathroom, he walks by me, fully dressed and holding a pair of sweats. “I’ll be quick.”
“It’s no problem.”
He shuts the door without so much as another word or heated glance.
I get dressed and lotioned up, then grab the extra pillow and blanket I had planned on bringing him earlier—before the madness—and take it into the office.
The lamp in the corner is on, casting a soft glow over the space. Kevin’s baseball gear is gone. My desk is no longer cluttered with papers and books; everything has been set in careful piles. The thin blanket Bennet used last night is folded on the couch.
He cleaned up.
After his attempt at washing dishes I expected him to be more, I don’t know, like a spoiled trust fund baby expecting maids and room service. But instead he’s been sort of... helpful. And amusing. Earlier, when he helped with chores, he tried to battle the vacuum before realizing it wasn’t sentient, then used it on every rug in the house because it was “like cleaning with thunder.”
I settle on the sofa, clutching the blanket and pillow against my chest. This whole evening has been surreal. Hell, the past few days have been surreal. I don’t know what to think about any of it.
I must be staring into the distance for a while because when Bennet opens the door and steps inside, I startle so hard the blanket and pillow in my lap tumble to the floor at my feet.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. I wanted to bring you more bedding.” I reach down and grab the items from the ground.
“Thank you.” He steps around my legs to the couch, plopping down next to me and taking the items from my arms, setting it all on top of the other blanket beside him.
I’m waiting for some kind of signal that he’s weirded out or confused or—I don’t know—freaked outby what just happened.
But there’s none of that.
He glances over at me. “You’re staring.”
“No I’m not.” I totally am. “Just surprised. I thought this might be awkward.”
“Why would it be?” He raises a brow.
A startled laugh escapes me. “Because I acted like a sex-starved lunatic and mentally broadcast my horniness at you like a human speaker system?”
He considers this, then shrugs. “It was mutual.”
The weirdest thing about all of this, sitting here with him, chatting about all this, is that it isn’t weird. Somehow, this islessweird than every other interaction I’ve had with a man in the last decade.
It’s not just the lack of weirdness. It’s the way he fits into the space, into my space, like it’s natural.
There’s no tension. No guilt. Only the glow of the light, sharing silence that isn’t heavy at all.
And he’s not flustered or concerned at all. I’m not sure if I’m more alarmed by the magic-induced orgasm, or by how completely normal this all feels.
