The Entanglement of Rival Wizards (Magic and Romance, #1)

by Sara Raasch

“We’ll have this place set to rights in no time. With you coming home for the holiday, it isn’t sanitary to leave your home in such a state.” What state? Did they not see the throw pillows?

I wonder if it’s soundproof? Great, Elethior and I can kill each other without being disturbed.

And I realize, in him trying to get us to work together, that he’s being the bigger person and has therefore claimed the moral high ground. Gods damn it.

I wheel my whiteboard in front of the window and start a list of potential evocation spells that can be used as jumping-off points for my safety net idea. I’d ordinarily put it in a document on my laptop, but we’re collaborating, and I’m vehemently pretending I’m not now overly aware of Elethior in the lab. Gods-damned brain had to go and fuck up my already fragile truce with him by realizing, shit, he does have nice arms.

He played a prank on me. Elethior, king of maturity, played a prank on me. I can feel him at his workstation, reclined in his chair with his feet on his desk, watching for my reaction.

Elethior catches my tone with a resigned smile. “I’m guessing I shouldn’t ask how you slept, then.” Better than I have in weeks, but I woke up and you were gone.

He shrugs. Totally chill. “I’ve had your dick in my mouth. Figure you can call me Thio now.” How hot can the human body blush and not get internal third-degree burns? Don’t think about last night. Don’t think about last night.

Davyeras hums agreement, looking far more pleased than he did at the mixer a few weeks back. “Indeed. This is the progress the committee has been hoping for. And what would you say has been the most beneficial tool towards your reconciliation?” “I—” Do not say sex, do not say sex. “We—” Thio glances at me, and my thoughts must be clear on my face, because his eyes bug out. “We—” he starts, then his mouth hangs open, and I swear I can see the same words rolling through his head: Do not say sex. Yeah, not so easy to answer that question, is it?

Founder’s Day goers stop to ooh and ahh at their procession. Someone shouts, “Feel the sting!” and a number of players chant it back. Players and fans alike do not appreciate it when “Feel the sting” is followed up with “of going raw.” Ask me how I know.

“Rotini with grilled chicken and a sun-dried tomato parmesan cream sauce,” he tells me with a dismissive wave, and I pause to give him a dry look. “Oh? Just that? Sound less impressed with yourself. Like using sun-dried tomatoes isn’t some Top Chef fancy business.” Thio beams, cheeks pinking; I want to kiss them. But the siren song—siren scent? Siren scent-song—of the pasta is screaming at me. I shovel in a bite. And moan. Gods, do I moan.

“You can cook.” I take another bite. “Oh my gods. If there’d been any question about whether I put out on the first date, you can assuage your worries. I will. Done and done.”

Thio grabs my hands. “No, never mind. You’ve told me enough. I can find out on my own. You don’t need to do anything else, okay? You—” “Thio—” “They’ll pay for this, Sebastian,” he swears to me. His eyes are wide and manic in their fury. “Everything they’ve done. Everything they do. They won’t get away with this. I’ll make them pay for this.”

I lie back on his pillows and he grabs the hem of his shirt, whips the whole thing off one-handed. My eyes pop. “Oh.” “What?” “Oh. Just oh. An unremarkable exhalation of sound. Oh, it’s Friday. Oh, it rained a few days ago. Oh, a hot guy did the one-handed cross-body shirt-stripping move. No biggie.”

I moan his name, moan it until it becomes a sob, and I know as I reach for my dick that he isn’t going to let me. He grabs my hand and puts his mouth at my ear and snarls, “Mine,” and it doesn’t matter that he stopped me from touching myself, I almost come on that hair-trigger word.

“No,” I grumble. “Summon me back to earth. Not sure where I ended up.” A chuckle reverberates in my ear.

“Are you okay?” he whispers. “Did I go too rough? Too—much?” There’s uncertainty in his tone. I look up at him, resting my chin on his chest because I can’t find the strength to hold my own head up. “It was perfect,” I manage. Then I attempt a glare I’m sure falls flat. “Sadistic, with the edging. But perfect.” My face heats. “All of it.”

“You said no more sadism,” I mumble. “I did.” “Then don’t make me move.” He chuckles again. “We can eat dinner in bed.” “Can we shower in bed?” “Sadly, no one’s developed a spell for that yet.” Another groan. “What is the point of magic?”

I need Thio to be happy. I need him as happy as he makes me, as supported, as safe.

Thio winces, breaks with a panting gasp. “I love you so much.” I yank back from him. He teeters, not letting go of me. “You dick,” I snap with no bite whatsoever. “I wanted to say it first. I almost did say it first, but you cut me off.” Thio grins. An unhurried, delighted smile, it bathes over me, settles the last of the worry. “I win,” he declares, eyes teary, and before I can get out more than an indignant huff,

“Brat? You’re talking about yourself, right? Because there’s no way you could know we have anything to celebrate, since I told my father to not call you with the news. However you found out was through dishonest means and doesn’t count.” “Except”—Thio puts his finger on my chin—“I had your father call me first.” I scowl at him. “No, you didn’t.” “He told me about the verdict two hours ago. When did he call you?” “I—” I calculate. “Gods damn it.” Thio beams, smug in his victory, and I let him have this. I like him happy. “You’re conspiring with my dad behind my back.” I sneak my thumbs under his shirt, wanting skin contact. “Which is fitting, honestly, since I’ve been conspiring with your coworkers behind your back.”