Page 60 of Bewitched By the Djinn
“This floor?” I stomp on the hard wood. “I mean, we’re adults. Adults who have now brought each other to orgasm twice. We can—” I wave a hand at the bed like that somehow makes it less of an issue. “We can stay on our own sides. Avoid magic. That kind of thing.”
Do not think about the mind-boggling, earth-shattering orgasms.
Do not think about the way his mouth moved against mine alternately hungry and tender, like he was starving for the connection.
Do not think about all the fun things we could get up to in a bed that’s way more comfortable than a dusty basement or the dirty ground.
Nope. Not thinking about it.
This is all temporary anyway.
I clear my throat. “I’m going to use the facilities.”
The bathroom is about the size of an airplane lavatory, just big enough to turn in without hitting the walls. The mirror above the sink is old and warped, stretching my reflection in odd places. I splash cold water on my face, gripping the edges of the sink to steady myself.
It’s only one night.
It’s fine. I can do this.
When I step back into the main room, Bennet is already on the bed, partially obscured by the netting. He glances up as I enter but says nothing, reaching for a piece of bread from the tray.
I tilt my head, eyeing the net. Lovebug season is over. “I wonder why?—?”
A skittering echoes across the floor and I give a strangled cry. It’s definitely not a scream, but it is also definitely not dignified. In one completely instinctual motion, I launch myself onto the bed, shoving my way inside the net.
Bennet snaps upright, body tense. “What happened?”
“Bug,” I gasp, heart hammering.
His brows dip. “A bug?”
I nod. “It was huge.” So I didn’t actually get a look at it, but he doesn’t need to know that. The skittering sounded big enough.
He blinks. “Where?”
I point to the floor. A tiny, barely visible insect sits there, unmoving.
Bennet stares at it. Then at me. Then back at it.
“That?” he asks flatly.
I nod, still breathless. “Did you see the gleam in its eyes?”
He tilts his head. “It has eyes?”
“I’m sure it does. And I’m sure they have a wicked gleam in them.”
He leans forward slightly, moving the net to study it. “It’s half the size of your pinky nail. I can’t even tell if it has a face.”
When all else fails, double down. “Well, it does. And it’s full of malice. It could be poisonous.”
There’s a pause. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure you’re correct.”
I glare at him. “This is not funny.”
His amusement presses against my senses like a warm pulse.
And then, despite myself and my cursed pride, I laugh. It bubbles out unexpectedly, half exhausted, half hysterical, and then he’s laughing too. A quiet, breathy chuckle.
