How My Neighbor Stole Christmas by Meghan Quinn 480 pages • ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ • 🌶️🌶️🌶️ (but the spice shows up like a seasonal employee: enthusiastic, then gone)
In Kringle, where cheering was practically law, They competed with charm and a glittery awe. Then a Grinch came to jeer at their festival night, So he sharpened his plans till they gleamed in the light. I’ll guard the great throne, I’ll keep Kringle on track Because Cole and Max always know how to attack. That vixen can’t win, not with my two in the lead, With their wiles and their tricks and their ‘we always succeed’.”
Yes. It’s a Christmas romance loosely inspired by How the Grinch Stole Christmas. And by “loosely,” I mean: the vibe is Seuss-adjacent, but the emotional labor is pure Meghan Quinn. She does that thing where you’re laughing and then suddenly… you’re feeling feelings in a snowbank.
Meet Storrey Taylor: Californian, warm-weather loyalist, and professionally disengaged from… basically everything. Her quiet little life gets yanked into festive chaos when she has to care for Aunt Cindy over the holidays. Unfortunately, Aunt Cindy lives in Kringletown, Colorado, a place that doesn’t “celebrate Christmas,” it worships it year-round like it’s a glittering, peppermint-scented religion.
Also happening: the town’s annual Christmas Kringle contest, where someone gets crowned the Human Embodiment of Holiday Spirit. Aunt Cindy declares Storrey is competing. Storrey, who would rather bathe in lukewarm eggnog and regret.
Enter Cole Black, childhood friend turned recluse with a capital R. He remembers Storrey from the before-times, back when Christmas wasn’t a battlefield and she didn’t hate Kringletown with the passion of a woman who’s been publicly humiliated in a Santa-adjacent incident. Cole cannot stomach the idea of Storrey, the anti-Christmas icon, winning the crown… so he enters too, alongside his trusty sidekick Max. Cue sabotage attempts, forced proximity, and the inevitable “wait, why do I want to kiss the person I’m actively trying to ruin?” spiral.
You know the beats: hijinks, chemistry, mutual unraveling, third-act breakup (still my least favorite holiday tradition), and yes, a HEA.
What Quinn does really well here: grief. Cole’s loss, specifically losing his parents, is handled with care and physicality. His whole life becomes a museum of “before,” a decade-long freeze-frame where he’s not living so much as standing guard over the past like it might walk back in if he stays loyal enough. It’s tender and believable and honestly the emotional spine of the book.
Storrey’s pain is different, less catastrophic, but still real: she’s also frozen, just in a sunnier, avoidant way. Returning to Kringletown forces her to look at how small she’s made her life in the name of safety.
Now the part where I squinted: it’s cute, but it’s also a little codependent. They’re both stuck until they collide again, and suddenly love is the defrost button. I wanted just a hint that they’d started their own healing journeys before they became each other’s life raft. That said, if Quinn wrote that version, it would be 700 pages and I’d be in here yelling about pacing like a hypocrite in a festive hat. So. We contain multitudes. 🤷
Overall: an easy holiday read with enough plot to reassure your family you’re not reading open-door smut in the living room. And the cover is rom-com innocent, which is basically camouflage for your inner chaos.
Audiobook rec: yes. Duet narration, and it’s stacked:
JF Harding as the MMC
Vanessa Edwin as the FMC
Shane East as the narrator, plus a lot of cheeky fourth-wall breaks between him and Cole that genuinely works
Robert Hatchett and Emma Wilder for secondary characters
It’s a fun listen, well-acted, smooth pacing, and perfect for pretending you’re doing something productive while your brain is in Kringletown eating emotional candy canes.
Four stars. Festive. Funny. Surprisingly tender. Slightly red-flaggy in that “romance novel logic” way. Still worth the ride. 🎄✨
Writing prompt: A door of living obsidian appears at midnight in the center of your city, and only you can hear it breathing.
My eyes sprang open the vision of a black door searing into my mind. My heart began to race and a sense of unease, or fear, or impending threat nearly overwhelmed me. Just a dream It’s just a dream. My body doesn’t understand that, so I close my eyes and focus on taking deep, calming breaths. Just a dream.
The vision in my mind became more clear – a door, taller and wider than any door I had ever seen, shining like it was made of polished obsidian stood right next to the historic water fountain in the little downtown of our city. Part of me can’t seem to shake this, can’t seem to relax enough to abolish the image from my mind.
Looking at my watch, seeing that it just passed midnight, maybe I should just throw on some slippers and drive downtown to confirm it’s just a dream. No, that’s ridiculous. Insane. Logical people don’t go on a little joy ride to make sure they’re sane before falling back asleep. No. Sane people just go to sleep.
Maybe you’re not sane
My internal dialogue is not helping. Maybe I’m not the sanest person. I’m certainly not conventional, not accepted by the banal society of my smallish town. Conforming to their preferences is what I’d consider insane. So what if I’m quirky? So what if I’m going to fling back my covers, put on my slippers, and drive the scant few miles downtown to check on an obsidian door that is 100% not going to be there? It’s after midnight, it’s not like anyone is going to see me.
My mind made up, I did just that, flinging back my duvet and sliding my feet into slippers. This doesn’t demand dressing or normal shoes, I’m not even getting out of the car. Looking down I notice I’m wearing the moth-eaten nightgown that’s for comfort and definitely not for looks. Sighing, I grab a robe, touch the bun of hair on the top of my head, grab my glasses, and head out the front door.
This is insane. This phrase feels like it’s being tattooed on every bend and fold of my brain. Because on many fronts this was, in fact, insane.
And yet, I could feel something tugging at me from my heart, some weird preternatural pull towards downtown.
“Maybe I am insane” I mumble to myself. And maybe I am, but I have to know, and I’m not sure if I prefer for there to be nothing there, or for some mythological black door to be waiting.
There are too many cars as I get within two blocks of the fountain. This place is a ghost town after ten PM, so why are there so many cars? My heart rate picks up the pace. Could it be because others are drawn to a giant black door? It’s starting to feel like an alien abduction movie and an ominous feeling of foreboding nearly overtook the persistent warmth pulling me towards this city center. Maybe this is some mass hallucination? Some toxin in our water supply?
I decide to park a block and a half away from the fountain and go the rest of the way on foot. No, I did not dress for this, nor am I wearing appropriate footwear, and yet that pull feels tighter, more insistent. And then there’s the breathing. I could hear it slightly from within the car – it sounded like a steady rhythm, normal breathing. At first I thought it was my own, but realized I was breathing far faster. When I got out of the car, I could almost hear a hitch in the breathing, like whoever it was gasped, or stopped breathing for a beat. When it resumed, it felt faster. As the pace of the breathing slowly increased my footsteps matched the pace, my heart pounding in double time.
Turning the corner, the breathing sounded more like the exhalation of a sigh, a sound so full of relief and the barest hint of a smile. My heart didn’t slow, my breathing increased. Looking up, about a football field away was the fountain, lit up and beautiful, with a crowd of people surrounding a midnight black, gleaming door that towered over everything. It was twenty feet high and maybe fifteen feet wide. The door from my dream.
And it was humming. I could feel the vibrations of the hum – not a tune that I was familiar with, but a tune that my body seemed to understand. My feet propelled me forward towards the door. As I got closer the humming became more upbeat, a feeling of joy and anticipation in it.
Who was humming? Did someone have a microphone and speaker? As I got closer, the crowd was chattering as they looked at the door.
“What the heck is that?” an older gentleman said. He, too, was in his pajamas and slippers. So I wasn’t the only one awoken by this. Had we done some sort of shared dreaming? Did that manifest this door? Was this some sort of witchcraft and our dreams were hacked? That would be a really cool trick if it hadn’t been done on me!
All of the chatter made it difficult to make out full conversations. I got as close to the front of the crowd as possible to see the door. Some sort of mentally agreed-upon barrier was in place, because only one person was closer to the door, while everyone else kept about six feet back in a circle surrounding it.
There it was, the door, as beautiful and alluring as it was in my dream. No, it was even more appealing. The pull from my center mass felt gravitational, unavoidable, and the humming was now smooth and melodic, feeling almost like a lullaby.
“That tune is beautiful,” I said to no one in particular. No one responded. Everyone was so enthralled by this behemoth of a door that magically appeared.
“I think it’s Banksy.” a woman with a full face of make-up and silk nightgown with a robe with feathers – like a caricature of Blanche Dubois, perfectly put-together. Though, her logic is sound. Maybe this is some modern art installation. It had all the components of art, and it got a bunch of homebodies out of their houses after midnight, so maybe it’s just that.
Even the shared dream might be explained. Perhaps we’d all been slowly being fed images or ideas of this subliminally so when it appeared it just seemed supernatural, when it’s really just marketing. That seemed reasonable.
Feeling disappointed and jaded, I turned from the door to return home. The humming stopped with a squeak. It was definitely a male voice, further confirming the idea that it’s Banksy.
“No, please don’t leave me.” the voice was smooth, deep, but soft and warm, an edge of panic in his voice. It felt like warm apple cider, filling and warming my very core. Instinctively, I turned back to see what had happened to spark this reply, only to find that no one had moved. I stood on tip-toes trying to see the man that was near the door, only to see it empty.
“I don’t think it will let anyone get close to it. Did you see how he was trying to walk closer? It was like the ground was moving the opposite direction.” a woman diagonally to me said to someone.
What? I pushed my way a little closer, still feeling a pull, but not wanting to follow it. I don’t want to be anywhere near this door. It calls to me, but it scares me.
I stepped out of the circle, closer to the massive black thing. I could feel it vibrating, hear its own other-wordly music humming through my body. The sound was filling my brain, flooding it with harmonies, feeling the paints of each note caressing my mind, touching each part of it, of me, it was feeling for something. The tendrils of the melody stroked the borders of my memories, kissed at the recollections of joy, sorrow, anger, disappointment, and converted them into sounds and colors. My mind exploding with rainbows of light and spirals of vibrancy – tints and tones I don’t know if I’ve ever recognized before. Each caress felt solid and welcoming, like a lure.
My eyes popped open – I hadn’t even known I closed them. The sounds of people yelling crashed into my ears.
“What are you doing?!”
“How did you get that close?”
At that I looked up and noticed that I was directly in front of the door – the spot that I assumed was a handle almost too high for me to reach. What was I doing? All of this is more than suspicious. Random black, possibly murder doors don’t just wake people up and then give them candy – it was most definitely not a pinata. And yet, I could not move; I could not even contemplate turning around and walking away. There was something on the other side of that door that felt like me. Like some part of me that was missing and I didn’t realize it until I heard that humming, felt that voice inside me.
So I did the only logical thing I could do, I reached my arm up to the handle and pushed the door open.
What the Hell Is a Reverse Harem? Let’s Talk About It.
First things first: A reverse harem (RH) is a subgenre of romantic or erotic fiction where one central woman is in a consensual relationship with multiple men. Think: queen bee energy, where the honey comes from more than one comb.
Unlike a traditional harem setup (typically one man, multiple women), the reverse harem flips the script — because why shouldn’t one woman have all the attention, orgasms, and emotional support she wants, huh?
But it gets even juicier, because there’s a whole taxonomy of dynamics under the RH umbrella. Let’s break it down:
The Core Formats of Reverse Harem
RH with No Sword-Crossing (aka “Only Her”) This is your classic reverse harem setup. Each male partner is intimately and/or romantically involved only with the central woman. The men are often emotionally bonded as “brothers in arms” but don’t touch each other sexually or romantically. Think:
“She’s mine.”
“No, she’s ours, but I won’t touch you, bro.”
“Group hug? No homo.”
This is often seen in series tagged RH without additional acronyms like MFM or MMF.
MFM (Male-Female-Male) This configuration involves two men and one woman. The men do not engage sexually or romantically with one another — their attention is solely focused on her, either one at a time or as a team. It’s not quite a harem, but it’s a stepping stone, often featured in erotic romance. Think: She’s the center of the sandwich, and the bread doesn’t touch.
MMF (Male-Male-Female) In this delicious format, at least two of the men are bi or pan and interact sexually with one another in addition to their relationship with the woman. Think:
Bisexual tension.
Mutual pleasure.
A little “you look good with her, but damn, you look good with me too.”
This can be a standalone dynamic or part of a larger harem, the key is the sexual connection between the men.
MMFM / MMMF / MMMMF (You Get the Idea) These acronyms show the number and gender of players involved.
MMFM means: Two men have sexual interaction with each other and both are involved with the female; the third man may or may not interact with the others.
MMMF? Three men, at least two of whom are interacting romantically or sexually, all with the one woman. The more letters, the more flexible the dynamics. These are often polycules or polyam orgies with a center of gravity — Her Highness.
Sword-Crossing vs. Sword-Aversion
Let’s be clear, the “sword-crossing” term is fandom slang that just means dudes gettin’ it on with each other, either sexually, emotionally, or both.
In some RHs, it’s strictly platonic brotherhood.
In others, you’ve got shared touches, kisses, oral, penetrative play, and sometimes even full-blown romance between the men.
Gender can become fluid or unimportant in these stories, the emotional and sexual constellation revolves around connection, not identity.
Polyam vs. Harem vs. Orgies
Let’s not confuse terms here.
Reverse harem is usually relationship-based, it’s not just about sex, though the sex is chef’s kiss when done right.
Polyamory includes multiple loving relationships, some RHs fall into this category when feelings are involved.
Orgy scenes are a feature, not a genre, many RHs include them, but the genre thrives on ongoing character arcs, loyalty, and chosen family themes.
So Why Do We Love It?
Because power, baby. Power and devotion. A well-written reverse harem gives the central woman not just attention, it gives her safety, support, growth, and choice.
She doesn’t have to choose just one.
She doesn’t have to contort herself into a submissive shape to be loved.
She is the sun, and her men are the orbits.
It’s matriarchal energy in literary form.
Tag It Right, Babe
When reading or writing reverse harem, these tags are your treasure map. Here are the most common and what they mean:
RH – Reverse Harem, multiple men loving one woman.
WhyChoose – She doesn’t pick one. She picks them all.
Sword-crossing / Sword-free – Fan slang for guy-on-guy action or the absence of it.
Polyam / HFN / HEA – Relationship styles and endings (Happy For Now / Happily Ever After).
Want recs? Want the hottest RHs to break your brain and ruin you for monogamy? Oh don’t worry, darling, I’ve got a list coming that’ll melt your Kindle and your panties. Stay tuned, Book Slut.
They Were Bullied and Became Beasts? I Can Work With That.
You ever start a book and go, “Wait… this is the big emotional wound?” Yeah. That was me. Right at the beginning of Into the Fire.
Sadie Hunt’s got a signature style: broody alphas with emotional baggage, fast-moving drama, and banter that hits like a shot of tequila on an empty stomach. I went in ready to be wrecked—and I was… eventually.
The central trauma starts off feeling soft. The kind of soft that makes you say, “You’re billionaires now, baby. Let. It. Go.” But then Sadie does what she does best—she drags out the pain, layers it with secrets, and suddenly the story opens wide and deep. It’s no longer about high school bullying—it’s about powerlessness, revenge, and rewriting the past on your own terms. Yes, please.
The MMCs? Possessive, flawed, and totally unhinged in the best way. I wouldn’t call them emotionally available, but I would call them emotionally obsessive—and who doesn’t love a little danger in their devotion?
This isn’t high art. It’s high heat, high drama, high fantasy. A dirty daydream that demands nothing more than your full surrender.
Will I reread it? Probably not. Will I devour the next in the series the second it drops? Without hesitation.
Because Sadie Hunt doesn’t write to impress. She writes to own you.
Some books cling to you long after the last page. This one? It’s not just clinging—it’s etched into me.
On the surface, Things I Wrote About is a witty, delightful second-chance rom-com. But underneath, it’s something deeper. More vulnerable. More real. It’s a meditation on grief, growth, and the ways we sabotage our own happiness in the name of duty, fear, or sheer emotional exhaustion.
What hit me hardest was how both characters—Shep and Sadie—hide their true selves behind expectation. Behind societal norms. Behind shoulds. And how that slowly breaks them. Watching them try to claw their way back to honesty, to vulnerability, to love—it felt like watching two people bleed and heal in real time.
The depiction of maternal loss is especially poignant. There’s no sugar-coating. Just raw, unvarnished truth. And through that lens, Humphreys maps the messiness of transition—how grief delays our choices, and how choices can deepen our grief.
But don’t get me wrong—this book isn’t just ache and introspection. The banter? Chef’s kiss. Shep and Sadie spar with that delicious enemies-to-lovers tension that I live for. Witty, sexy, smart. Kelsey Humphreys knows how to write dialogue that bites and soothes all at once.
I started it on Kindle Unlimited, then switched to Audible, and now I’m buying the print copy. I know I’ll come back to it. Not just for the romance, but for the reflection.
If you’ve ever lost something precious—if you’ve ever wanted a do-over with someone who meant the world—this book will feel like coming home. Uncomfortable, maybe. But real. And worth it.
Get really comfortable with NO consent, gaslighting, and Stockholm Syndrome. This was every kind of toxic BDSM. All of the horror stories I’ve told to newbie subs are basically the summation of this book. So if you have some very dark fantasies about rape, kidnapping, and nonnegotiated BDSM, then by all means read it. I almost didn’t finish it once he slapped her. The ending is atrocious. Definitely NOT a HEA in my opinion. So. Much. Gaslighting.
The Good
If you’re interested in some dark dirty talk and kinky scenes, it has those.
The Bad
Where to start?! The characters are loosely fleshed out. It all feels as if the author was desperately trying to find a plot and anything redeeming in any of the characters to tell this story of no consent.
“How was I supposed to tell him this without using my words? I could communicate by being the best slave he could have. I would be obedient and compliant, which I knew pleased him.”
So that’s basically the jist – abuse her nonconsensually until she agreed to be with him. No. Just no. I’m willing to accept this as fantasy, as we all do with dark romances, but this one just soured my stomach. Further, if you’re getting the audiobook, it’s entirely from the FMC’s perspective, and yet it’s a male narrator. It was weird because it’s not like he has an exceptional female narration voice. It’s all too low and manly, and there wasn’t much differentiation in the voices of the different characters.
It’s 2025, and yet, in the world of books, censorship is on the rise, gatekeeping is rampant, and “acceptable” discourse feels more restrictive than ever. Book bans, author scandals, and the never-ending cycle of internet outrage have made something as simple as reading and discussing stories feel like a minefield.
But books were never meant to be tamed. They’re meant to challenge, provoke, and awaken. And the people who love books? We deserve spaces where we can be just as fearless.
That’s why an open, unfiltered, and unapologetic book club and sisterhood like Book Slut isn’t just fun—it’s necessary.
🔥 Why We Need a Rebellious Book Club Now More Than Ever
1. Book Censorship is Growing—And We Need a Place to Fight Back
From classrooms to bookstores, books are being banned at alarming rates. Titles that explore gender, race, sexuality, and rebellion are being pulled from shelves under the guise of “protecting” readers. But who really benefits from silencing stories?
An honest, independent book club like Book Slut isn’t just about reading for pleasure—it’s about reading for power. 📚 We read what they don’t want us to. 📢 We discuss what others are afraid to. 💥 We refuse to be told what is “appropriate” to love, critique, or write.
2. Women’s Voices in Literature Still Get Dismissed (Yes, Even Now)
It’s 2025, and yet, women’s literature is still: 🚨 Marketed as “niche” instead of universal. 🚨 Sidelined in literary criticism unless it fits a neat, “respectable” box. 🚨 Ridiculed if it’s “too emotional,” “too romantic,” or “too messy.”
Why do male-written books about everyday life get praised as deep literary explorations, but when women write them, it’s “chick lit” or “domestic fiction”?
At Book Slut, we say fuck that. 🔥 We celebrate women’s stories in all their forms—messy, raw, romantic, dark, or wild. 🔥 We refuse to apologize for what we love. 🔥 We make space for stories that don’t fit into literary elitism’s narrow vision.
It’s time for a book club where we don’t shrink ourselves to fit the conversation.
3. Because Literature Should Be Fun—Not Pretentious
Why do so many book discussions feel like a test we didn’t study for? Why do some readers act like you need a PhD in literary theory just to talk about a novel?
At Book Slut, we read widely, discuss freely, and leave pretentiousness at the door. 📖 You don’t have to analyze every sentence to love a book. 🔥 You’re allowed to enjoy “lowbrow” fiction just as much as “highbrow” lit. 💬 You can read for meaning or pure indulgence—both are valid.
Books are not a status symbol. They are a living experience—and we should be able to talk about them however we damn well please.
4. Because Women Deserve a Sisterhood of Readers and Writers
In a world that constantly tells women to edit themselves, Book Slut is a space where we get to be loud, opinionated, passionate, and fearless.
💡 We discuss books honestly—even when opinions clash. 💡 We challenge literary norms that erase or minimize women’s voices. 💡 We celebrate storytelling in every form—whether you’re a reader, a writer, or both.
And we do it together.
📢 What Book Slut Is—and What It Isn’t
✔ A space for book lovers, writers, and literary rebels. ✔ A place for deep conversations, unfiltered opinions, and wild ideas. ✔ A judgment-free zone where all genres, from literary fiction to smut, are welcome.
❌ NOT a space for gatekeeping or literary snobbery. ❌ NOT just another boring, polite book club. ❌ NOT a place where women’s voices are silenced or sanitized.
🔥 The Future of Book Clubs is Bold, Unfiltered, and Unapologetic
The world doesn’t need another polite, passive book club where everyone agrees just to keep the peace.
We need spaces that challenge, excite, and liberate.
Book Slut is that space. And in 2025, we’re reclaiming the way we read, write, and discuss books—without censorship, without guilt, and without limits.
The sounds of their wheels rolling on miles of tracks; creaks, squeals of metal, long, loud horns in the night… the sway and subtle rock of the car… it all rings of a promise. The possibility of adventure, romance, intrigue. A train is pure motion. They’re not meant to be idle, they bring you to places, some new, some old, all brimming with stories that have been and will be told.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” his voice is smokey. His apartment is dark, but welcoming in its own way. A relic of an older academic, much older than he appears. No, he’s the quintessential young, dreamy professor, with his dark brown tousled hair that he can’t seem to stop running his hands through. His eyes a warm chocolate brown, his skin almost pallid it’s so pale. A smattering of facial hair that never seems to grow beyond that, and that half smirk that must melt the co-eds.
Fortunately for me, I was not one of those swoony co-eds, not that he knew that. That is the point, afterall.
I nod as I look up at him through my eyelashes. Apparently that’s sexy, and that’s what I’m doing here, being sexy as fuck. Squelching the almost insurmountable urge to gag at myself I say, “I’d like that, professor.”
“Now, now, Veronica, didn’t I ask you to call me James? Tsk tsk.” His sole dimple reveals itself as he smiles then heads to the kitchen. And yes, he legitimately said “tsk tsk.” Jesus this guy was a douche, and he’s supposed to be the good one.
I roll my eyes behind his back and follow him in then change my demeanor back to the flirtatious co-ed. “But what if I like calling you professor?” I look at him through my eyelashes, using the smolder that makes them all believe that I’m lusting for them. Why are men so easy?
He half smirks, that dimple peeking out. He was a genuinely attractive man, if only he wasn’t also certifiably insane and a menace.He’s pulled out two wine glasses and a bottle of Syrah. At least he has good taste in wine.
Then again, he is utterly brilliant. No, he really is. He has two PhDs, an MD, and his JD. Genuinely brilliant. It’s just that he can’t control the other guy. And nothing he’s done in his demented labs has done anything to correct his “issue.” I have wondered if he’s not trying to fix it as much as control it so he can still use the other guy, as he wishes it. Regardless, they have to go. Both of them. I need to figure out how to make it happen. So often I wish I had different skills, but I don’t. My mother swore to me that the remnants of what our family did is out of our blood, but that’s impossible. If it was, I would be able to handle business the old fashioned way. Alas, here I am, attempting to seduce a super genius with massive issues.
He led me to a dark brown leather couch. His apartment screamed dark academia; bookshelves lined every wall packed full, with additional books laying down on each shelf. The only light was a dimmed lamp in the corner above a comfortable looking red-brown chair with a plaid blanket folded over the top. It was the quintessential professor pad. He nailed it for sure.
I sat down on the couch, which was more comfortable than anticipated, and he sat a little too closely to me. That actually helps me with my plan, but it’s irksome. I keep almost losing my game face. Just because he looks normal. Doesn’t mean I can treat him as such.
He begins prattling on about the art show we saw. I lightly begin tracing circles on his knee with my fingernails, holding his eye contact. His eyes darken at the touch and I know I’ve got him, it’s just a matter of time.
I lick my lips and see his eyes flash down to them. I can almost see the difficulty he’s having with keeping his eyes on mine. It’s adorable. When my fingertips graze higher on his thigh his breath hitches. I bite my lip while dragging it closer to the hardness stretching his pants. Looking down at my fingers position I watch my nail lightly trace the outline of his now very hard cock.
Only then did I notice he had stopped talking so I slowly raised my eyes to his. The heat rose inside me, I could feel his arousal inside my own chest.
Our chests began to rise and fall in sync more rapidly. This is good. He’s more susceptible than I thought he’d be. Much more like a human than a supernatural.
I throw my leg over his lap to straddle him, never breaking eye-contact, our breath becoming slower and deeper. In time with our breathing I begin to rock my hips slowly over his lap, feeling down the soft, fine fabric of his dress shirt, easily opening each button down his torso. Sliding my hips down and feeling his hardness against my own center. People think that when it’s a job then you no longer get aroused. Let me tell you, those people are wrong, well for me at least. I sometimes think it only works when I do become hot and bothered. It’s not a horrible job. And say what you will about the supernaturals, they have loads of sex appeal, even the hideous ones. I can’t explain it. Something to do with the blood I’d wager.
Slowly rolling my hips on his surprisingly sizeable bulge, I’m desperate to stoke my own desire and make that achingly delicious climb over the summit of an orgasm. Oh I’ll get there, but he has to take me over the hill. One of the biggest pains in the ass about my ability, I can’t be the one to make it happen – my victim has to. It has a certain poetic irony or tragedy to it.
Finding my groove I focus intention in my eyes and it begins to pull him in to me, not so much physically, but his soul was being drawn from his core.Pushing out my own to meet his soul, the searing heat that explodes inside me always takes my breath away, but I focus on the heat not the pain. It’s the heat that speaks to me. The way it ebbs and flows in concert with our shared breath. Linking us, our breath, and our souls allows me to reach inside him.
The sheer intimacy of soul-touching is painful, almost too painful to maintain for longer than a second. Supernaturals can hold it longer than humans. I can hold it for longer, despite my humanity. From what I got out of my ancestor’s journals, our blood has been altered and we can withstand a great deal more than most humans. So I held his, feeling the colors and emotions that flowed between us both. You could know a person better than anything alive through this process; their darkest desires, their deepest regrets, their fantasies, and their joys.
This one I knew would be different. I can taste his age, smell his power, and it’s making my arousal heighten. Breathing more deeply, I reached in to touch the enormous darkness he had pressed deep. It was made of chaos and anger, consumed with pain and rejection.
It felt like a hand gripped my throat, slowly applying pressure. It wasn’t trying to choke me or harm me. No, it felt exploratory, like this hand was doing what my mind was doing – searching for something. I felt digits move up my jaw, stroking up my cheek, and then combing through my hair, though it felt like wind blowing it back.
In an instant it was gone and I was left with a desperate need for glory, for recognition for all of my work, all my deeds. I needed someone to acknowledge me. This feeling was closing in on me, making my heart rake spike and my breathing to falter, which broke the soul-touch.
The immediate release of a soul-touch feels like a catapult hit you center mass with a sharp and painful blow to the chest.
I gasped and sputtered, still straddling the professor’s lap. He shook his head and looked at me in confused surprise. “L – let me g – get you some water.” He stammered while removing me from his lap.
A flash of light. That’s all it took for humanity to crumble. A simple flash of light. It wasn’t even nuclear or from some warring country that was trying to prove its military prowess. It wasn’t even a meteor or a solar flare. It was really just a flash of light, that blinded the wrong person, who then accused a country, and then got their buddies together to start a war. But this wasn’t like any war the world had had before.
Before, the magick was hidden, everyone believed magick to be the product of genius scientists, but no, they were actually magicians, or warlocks, or witches, or whatever you want to call them. And they quickly became the superstars of our world. The superheroes from comics come to life.
Up until the flash they kept us safe, even teaching magick in most schools in industrialized countries. I guess that’s where the problems started. Maybe if teaching magick had been a global endeavor we would have been able to train the tribal groups of rural areas how to use the magick safely and wisely.
It wasn’t an assassination, or a threat, it was a kid stretching his magick, but that threat was enough that Warlock shut everything down. When I say everything, I mean everything. The entire planet was in complete blackness for 4 days straight – no sun, no moon, no stars, nothing.
In those four short days, humans allowed their true selves to be seen, and it was horrendous. After the four days, we had lost 30% of the population. It didn’t matter where they were from, their age, or even if they didn’t know magick, it was essentially four days of the purge, and it was the bloodiest 84 hours the planet had ever seen. The bodies haven’t even been buried. You can still see skeletal remains scattered literally everywhere.
And that’s where my job comes in. No, I’m not a skeleton removal person. I’m a Magick Marshall, and I hunt unsanctioned magick users.
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