Page 80 of Bewitched By the Djinn
This might be the worst idea ever. But here in the quiet, with no magic humming under our skin, no glowing lights or visions or supernatural heat, a whispered truth echoes between us, too heavy to contemplate.
I should be scared. But I’m not.
Maybe it won’t be the same without the magic. Maybe it’ll be slower, less intense. But maybe it’ll be better.More real. Like touching something solid after drifting in a dream.
And if we go into Aetheria tomorrow—if anything happens to him, or to me—if this all falls apart, I want this. I want a memory to take with me when he’s long gone.
Because I can’t imagine ever being this close to someone again. Not like this.
I take a breath and then a leap. “I want to be with you, now, without magic compelling us. Is that okay?” The words start strong, but grow weak by the end, rising in pitch with uncertainty.
In one smooth motion, he rolls me beneath him, his body caging me in, and then his mouth is on mine, hot, seeking, and perfect.
Everything disappears.
There’s no danger, no fear, no looming dawn. There’s only this, the heat of his mouth, the weight of his body, the way his hands slide through my hair like he’s anchoring himself to me.
I arch into him, desperate to be closer. His kiss deepens, turning hungrier, messier, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me with his mouth.
I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him tighter. He groans into my mouth, one hand fisting in the sheets as the other traces down my ribs, my waist, my hip, setting my nerves on fire.
His control is unraveling and it’s amazing.
The kiss goes on and on until all that exists is his mouth, our breath mingling, his tongue brushing against mine, until we’re nipping at each other with barely leashed hunger.
I gasp, and he drinks the sound in like he needs it to survive.
No magic, and still I’m unraveled.
My fingers skate over his shoulders, down his back, and he shudders. His lips trail down my neck, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. Every nerve in my body sparks. I arch into him, desperate for more, and he gives it—grinding against me slowly, deliberately, until I’m gasping into his mouth. Even with clothes between us, I’m about to lose it.
I need more.
“I want to feel you,” I whisper. “All of you.”
We shift, moving to our knees, clothes vanish in pieces, tossed aside in the dark, and when there’s nothing left between us, his eyes strike me again, taking me in. Not just my body, but me. Like every fear, every scar, every wall I’ve ever built is on display and he accepts it all. Wants it all.
His chest is magnificent and I take the time to graze my fingertips over the moonlit flesh before following with my tongue, moving farther and farther south, gripping the length of him in my palm.
Air hisses between his teeth.
The muscles in his stomach twitch and leap under my hands, his breath coming out in gasps.
Drifting lower, unable to stop myself, I suck the tip of him into my mouth.
He growls. “I want to be in you when I release.” He yanks me up and then we’re kissing again, drinking each other in.
His hands roam over me, not urgent, but exploring, reverent. His fingertips trace the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, the inside of my thighs. Everywhere but where I want them.
His mouth moves down my throat, teeth grazing my skin in a way that makes my toes curl.
“I’ve never—tell me what you like. I want to—I want to make it good for you.”
The words hit me harder than any touch.
I guide his hand between my thighs. “Start here.”
He follows my direction, tentative at first, then bolder as I arch into him, showing him exactly how to touch me. His mouth finds my breast, tongue flicking over a nipple, and I gasp, threading my fingers into his hair. I fall back onto the soft sheets, tugging him with me.
