Page 4 of The Summoning Spell (The Holiday Glitch #1)

Bench Press My Trauma, Daddy

“ A lright, Mr. Sex Demon,” Blair said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Prove it.”

He raised his eyebrow. “Prove I’m a demon?”

“No,” she said. “Prove you’re a pleasure demon. All I see is a guy with tattoos, good bone structure, and a superiority complex.”

He grinned. “And yet you still haven’t kicked me out, or used your lemon-scented justice on me.”

“It’s a Swiffer. And obviously make bad choices around men.”

“You have questions,” he told her, taking a step closer. “And wow, a lot of fantasies.”

Blair opened her mouth, but the breath caught in her throat when he reached out slowly, like approaching a lit fuse, and brushed a fingertip along her cheek.

“I’ll give you proof,” he murmured, his voice silk and smoke. “Let me tell you exactly what you just imagined. That flash fantasy you tried to bury the second it hit you.”

She flushed. “I didn’t.”

“You pictured me,” he interrupted, low and deliberate, “pushing you up against that wall. One hand is pinning your wrists. The other slips up your thigh. My mouth, right here.” He brushed a knuckle beneath her ear, and her whole body answered like a match to gasoline.

“And you thought, finally. Someone who knows how to make you come undone without treating you like just a couple of holes with a pulse.”

Her heart thundered, and her mouth parted. The room felt ten degrees hotter.

“And you’re still wondering,” he continued, his voice a caress, “if this is real, or if your body just knows before your brain does.”

She paced once, then twice; she looked at the door, then at him. He was still shirtless. Still watching her as if she were a miracle and a meal.

Blair didn’t know if she moved first or if he did, but honestly, it didn’t matter, because the next second, their mouths collided. The kiss wasn’t soft or sweet. It was hungry.

The kiss hit her like a shockwave, hot, deep, and terrifying in its intensity, yet thrilling in its sensation.

But then she did what she always did when things got too intense, she pulled back.

“Okay,” Blair gasped, stumbling a step away from him, cheeks flushed and heart pounding. “That, that didn’t happen.”

Ashar tilted his head, that maddening smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, it happened.”

“Nope.” She held up both hands like she could press reality back into place. “I slipped in the shower. I have a concussion. Or a brain bleed. This is a very elaborate coma dream, and you’re just a sexy figment with great tattoos and a stupidly symmetrical face. ”

Ashar didn’t move. “You want me to leave?”

“I didn’t say that,” she snapped. Then backpedaled. “I mean, yes. Yes. You’re not real. You’re a demon hallucination brought on by bad sex and expired glitter.”

“You summoned me.”

“By accident!”

“You lit the candle.”

“It was a birthday candle!”

He just waited.

Blair started pacing, mumbling to herself.

“This is fine. It’s fine. People have weird stress dreams all the time.

Some people dream about flying. Some people dream about showing up to school naked.

I dream about getting railed by a demon who could bench press my trauma and still have perfect aftercare, which I don’t even want to know what my therapist would say about that if I had one. ”

Ashar raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very specific dream.”

“Don’t analyze me!”

Silence stretched. The fridge hummed. Her pulse thudded in counterpoint.

And still, he stood there. Real as breath. Hungry as I need.

She looked at him again. Still shirtless, still standing in her kitchen like a TikTok thirst trap, all glowy eyes and dark magic inked down his arms.

She crossed her arms. “Okay. Let’s say I am dreaming. Or dead. Or drunk. Or insane. If I am hallucinating this…”

She stepped closer.

“If this is a coma-fueled delusion brought on by trauma and horniness…” and closer.

“I might as well enjoy it.”

And this time, she kissed him, no hesitation, no fear .

Just a woman finally leaning into the fantasy.

Blair’s fingers hovered above Ashar’s chest.

She pressed her fingers to his abs, testing. Solid, warm. Real.

“Hmm,” she muttered, eyes narrowed.

He didn’t flinch. Just watched her with that slow, knowing grin that made her thighs clench.

“Can a hallucination have abs?” she asked, more to herself than him.

“You tell me,” Ashar said, voice like dark honey. “This is your dream, right?”

She walked around him slowly, trailing one finger down his spine, watching the tattoos shift and coil like smoke. “Okay, what about this? Can a coma dream have body heat? And that smell?” She leaned in. “You smell like fire and cinnamon. And sex.”

“That’s all you,” he murmured, inching in closer. “You’re the one who reeks of need.”

She cleared her throat, “You’re pretty cocky for a figment.”

He leaned in, voice low. “Then prove I’m not.”

She turned suddenly, pushing him backward toward the couch. “Fine. Let’s test this. Let’s see what a dream can do.”

She straddled him, hands planted on his chest, heart racing. He let her lead for a minute.

Then he caught her wrists gently, but firmly, and flipped them, pinning her beneath him so fast it stole her breath.

“Can a hallucination do this?” he murmured against her ear, lips brushing her skin.

She shivered. “Probably.”

He kissed down her neck, trailing heat with every touch. “How about this?”

Her hips bucked .

His mouth found her collarbone, her shoulder, lower still. “What about when I make you come so hard you forget why you ever settled for less?”

She gasped, trying to respond, but he was already moving lower.

Ashar kissed her stomach, slow, reverent, like he was praying into her skin. Each kiss dragged heat behind it, a warm ache coiling in her belly. His hands slid along her thighs, parting them with ease, like they’d always belonged draped over his shoulders.

Then he paused. Looked up at her with eyes lit from within, a devil’s halo burning behind his lashes. His mouth hovered just above her, breath hot, teasing.

Blair tensed, every nerve lit up.

He didn’t dive in. He didn’t rush. He studied her, like her pussy was scripture, and he was about to memorize every verse.

Then his tongue flicked out, slow and exploratory, tasting her like it was his first sip of wine after a century of thirst. She gasped, hips twitching, hands fisting in the cushions. But he held her still, broad hands anchoring her in place while his mouth worked in devastating, patient circles.

“Oh my god,” she choked.

“Wrong name,” he murmured against her, the vibrations sparking up her spine.

He sucked her clit softly, then firmer, then just let his tongue swirl in lazy patterns that had her toes curling and her vision going white around the edges.

He was relentless in a way that felt like worship and ruin at once, like this wasn’t about getting her off, it was about undoing her completely.

And he was fucking good at it.

He alternated pressure and rhythm like a musician changing keys, knowing exactly when to back off and when to push her closer to the edge. Every time she thought she might fall over it, he slowed, teasing, drawing it out until she was grinding into his face, shameless and hungry.

His hands spread her wider, thumbs stroking the insides of her thighs while he buried his tongue deeper, lapping, savoring, like her taste was a spell he needed to complete.

She sobbed out his name, his real name, didn’t even realize she knew it, or could speak Latin until it tore out of her throat like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Ashar, fuck, don’t stop,”

He didn’t. He locked his arms under her thighs, pulling her closer, deeper onto his mouth, and flicked his tongue just so, right there, and she shattered.

Not like a pretty moan and a flush of heat, like screaming into a void and finding it echoed with pleasure.

She arched off the couch, body writhing, eyes rolled back, hips locked in a quake that wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t end, wouldn’t let go. Her whole body convulsed around his mouth like he was dragging the orgasm out in greedy, endless waves.

And he stayed there, mouth wet and hungry, drinking her down like he’d been starving for centuries.

When she finally collapsed, it felt like her bones had liquefied. Blair blinked up at the ceiling like it might explain what the fuck just happened.

Her body was wrecked. Her brain: goo. But her hand drifted to her side table, not for her phone, but for the notebook tucked beneath a tarot deck and a half-used tube of lipstick.

She flipped it open to a blank page. Pen in hand, fingers trembling.

This time last year, she would’ve texted her ex .

A shaky “u up?” or a half-hopeful “miss you” like bleeding on purpose.

Now she wrote spells instead. Wishes disguised as protection.

That could be growth, or maybe it was glitter-coated grief.

Either way, she didn’t reach for her phone.

Ashar kissed her inner thigh, slowly, smugly, and gratefully.

Then leaned back on his heels, face glistening, eyes glowing, every inch of him looking like the goddamn embodiment of sin and satisfaction.

She tried to speak, failed, and then tried again.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Ashar licked his lips and said softly, “Still think I’m a dream?”

“You’ve been starving for so long, Blair. Let someone feed you for once.”

Blair flinched. Not because it was wrong, but because it was true. She couldn’t remember the last time someone gave without expecting her to shrink in return.

She didn’t answer; her brain was too busy rebooting, and her thighs were still trembling.

And he was looking at her like he was about to do it again.

Blair stared at the ceiling, still panting.

“Wow,” she whispered.

She hadn’t felt wanted like that in ever. Not without having to earn it. Not without losing something in return.

“My imagination is incredible,” she added, breath still shaky. “I should weaponize this. Start writing erotica or something.”

Ashar turned his head lazily toward her.

“I’m not your imagination, Blair.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure you’re not.”

“Want me to prove it again?”

She hesitated, then she smiled.

“…Maybe.”