Page 26 of Summertime Hexy
"You meanotherthan every flat surface in the camp?"
She grins back. "Your bedroom, maybe?"
"Better lace reinforcements on that bed," I growl.
She throws her head back with a laugh, the motion stretching her throat, revealing delicate veins that I've already tasted. I could spend an eternity discovering every inch of her, every nuance, every reaction.
But first, we need to get dressed before we're caught destroying the arts and crafts pavilion.
I pull out of her slowly, both of us shivering at the sensation. My movements are reluctant, like each millimeter is a battle, but eventually she's free, and I'm stepping back to find my clothes.
I offer her my hand, and she takes it, gripping firmly as she slides off the table. The place where we've been is wet and messy, and Hazel blushes, looking around for something to clean it up with.
But the damage is extensive: splattered paint, glitter, glue, and now sex.
"I think we're going to need more than a few paper towels," Hazel says, eyeing the chaos around us.
I smirk. "It gives the place character."
She grins back. "Let's chalk this up to artistic inspiration gone wild."
We manage to get dressed, although I have to summon a new shirt for myself, the one Hazel ripped earlier beyond repair.
As we head for the door, Hazel pauses, glancing back at the mess. "You think anyone will notice?"
I look back over my shoulder, then lock eyes with Hazel. Her cheeks are still flushed, and her lips are swollen from kissing.
"No," I say, smirking. "They'll just think you had a particularly inspired arts and crafts session."
"Worth it," she declares, and I can't help but agree.
CHAPTER 11
HAZEL
Love is a scam.
That’s my official statement, signed in glitter and legally notarized with a sparkly pen.
Becauseclearly, whatever I’m feeling lately—the chest-fluttery, stomach-swoopy, weirdly wistful, emotionally constipated mess of it—isn’t love. It’s a spell. A curse. A deeply unfortunate alignment of hormones and poor judgment that must be hexed out at the earliest convenience.
So obviously, the solution is to date someone safe.
Someonenotundead. Not brooding. Not prone to intense eye contact and soul-shattering silences.
Which brings me to Rowan.
Rowan the Elf.
Rowan who’s attractive in a nature-worship, moisturizes-with-moon-dew kind of way. He volunteers at the apothecary tent, composts religiously, and once told me with a straight face that he believes true magic is in emotional honesty.
He’s everything I should want.
Which is exactly the problem.
“Wow,” I say, swirling my herbal tea as we sit at a carved wood bench under the wishing tree, “you really do love bees.”
“They’re a cornerstone of ecological balance,” Rowan says serenely, sipping from his leaf cup. “Their matriarchal structure is a model of harmonious leadership.”
