Page 8 of The Summoning Spell (The Holiday Glitch #1)

Mine, In Every Language

T he more she thought about it, the more she liked it. Not just the protectiveness, but the way he claimed her.

The raw certainty in Ashar’s gaze said, Touch her, and die.

It had scorched the air between them, curling in her gut like heat and danger and something a bit unholy.

It made her thighs press against each other in the passenger seat of his car.

It made her remember the way his voice had gone dark and soft when he said, You’re mine.

She’d laughed it off at the time, teasing, deflecting.

But now?

Now she couldn’t stop replaying it in her head, like a song with a hook that made her ache.

The second they walked through her apartment door, she tossed the bag of coffee on the counter like it owed her money. Her hands were shaking, but she wasn’t cold.

Ashar closed the door behind them and leaned against it, arms crossed. Watching her.

His eyes still burned, low, steady embers that glowed like they could smolder forever if she let them.

“You liked it,” he said, voice velveted with certainty.

She didn’t bother pretending not to understand. “No one’s ever looked at me like that.”

“Like you’re mine?”

Her breath caught. Only a flicker, but he noticed.

Ashar pushed off the door and crossed the room with the grace of something that had never tripped in its life. Not a walk. A prowl. Controlled. Sure.

Predator. Lover. Both.

“You are,” he said.

Not because he’d taken her, but because he saw her, every sharp edge, every soft ruin, and claimed her anyway.

“Ashar…”

“You don’t have to say it back,” he murmured. “But I need you to know it.”

Her back met the wall before his hands ever touched her. His presence pressed her into it, thick and inescapable. And when he did touch her, when his hands landed with firm reverence on either side of her head, boxing her in, it was more than desire.

It was recognition.

“You don’t flinch when I touch you,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You don’t pretend you’re not burning inside. No one’s ever wanted you like I do, have they?”

Words wouldn’t come. Because his mouth was already on hers, fierce, claiming, relentless.

And she let him.

Part of her wanted to pull back, to crack a joke, to make it safe again, but his hands weren’t just asking for her body. They were asking for the part of her that always stayed hidden. And for once, she wanted to say yes.

No games, just raw, open hunger. She kissed him back with everything she had, everything she’d never let anyone see, every cracked-open piece of her she didn’t have words for.

It wasn’t soft or patient. It hit like a storm breaking its spine against a mountain.

Ashar lifted her like she weighed nothing, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pinned her to the wall, his hips grinding into hers with the promise of more. She could feel him through his jeans, hard, thick, demanding, and she arched toward him with a strangled moan.

Clothes didn’t come off. They were shed, torn off, destroyed. The hem of her shirt ripped. His buttons were scattered across her tile floor. Her bra snapped like it had been waiting to be undone.

His hands mapped her like a territory, rough on her ass, reverent on her hips, worshipful where he dragged his fingers across her stomach.

He kissed her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder, and then he bit down, just hard enough to make her gasp. She didn’t just feel wanted. She felt devoured.

And when he lined up, eyes burning into hers, and thrust inside her in one brutal, perfect motion, she came apart around him, crying out, clawing at his back, her body stretching to take all of him.

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

He stayed there, buried, thick and pulsing and full, letting her feel every inch of him, every breath, every heartbeat.

“This,” he growled into her ear, his voice guttural, primal, “this is what you’ve needed.”

Her mouth tried to form a denial, but her body knew better.

She arched against him like her spine had a mind of its own, legs tightening around him, muscles clenching as if to keep him there.

He began to move, hard and deep, in rhythmic motion. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, echoed off the walls, and merged with the rough gasps and broken cries spilling from her lips.

She dropped her head back, nails digging into his shoulders, her body unraveling and rebuilding around every thrust.

It was more than sex.

It was a ritual.

Ashar began to whisper, in a low, ancient language she didn’t know, but one that felt like it had lived in her bones forever. Every syllable curled around her like smoke. Like silk. Like spell work. Her body responded, arching, trembling, opening in ways she didn’t know were possible.

He turned with her still wrapped around him and carried her down to the floor. He didn’t drop her. He laid her down, careful, like she was something precious.

He moved inside her with a new intensity, slow, deep, deliberate, watching every twitch of her face, every roll of her eyes, every whimper that escaped.

His hands slid to her thighs, splayed them wider, and drove in again with a pressure that made her sob.

“I want to ruin you,” he said, his voice a low growl against her skin. “For everyone who made you feel like you were too much. Or not enough.”

She choked on a moan .

“I want you wrecked with how good this feels. I want you coming on my cock with my name in your mouth.”

And she did.

Her climax crashed over her, wild and wrenching, her body caught in its undertow. She came again and again, her voice hoarse, her body trembling with aftershocks she couldn’t control.

Ashar didn’t stop.

He held her through it, fucked her through every tremor, every plea, until she was begging him to come too.

And when he did, when his body finally gave in and he groaned against her neck, spilling inside her with a shudder that rocked through his whole frame.

They stayed tangled like that. Breath syncing, their skin buzzing, and sweat cooling between them. He cradled her head with one hand, his other arm locking her tight against him, murmuring something again in that strange, ancient tongue.

She didn’t need a translation.

She felt it in his hands, and she felt it in her chest.

She felt it in the way he held her, like he might never let go, and maybe, the scariest thing wasn’t him leaving. It was the possibility that this time, someone might stay.