Page 1 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

SHITTY EXITS

Maggie

Balancing on the cock of my latest hookup in the back of the moving van wasn’t easy. Especially with his belt cinching my wrists tightly behind my back, my panties tangled around my ankle, and my legs spread an inch too wide while he fucked me from behind.

Jamie was one of the better lays I’d had. He was young enough to still have the stamina and strength needed to get me off, and surprisingly he cared that I did.

SMACK!

His palm cracked across my ass, sending a rush of stinging heat to my core.

I cried out—because apparently my brain decided we liked pain now. Yep. That was healthy.

He pressed his fingers against my lips, muffling my voice. My legs shook—an intense heat coiling inside.

I lost my balance, but Jamie grabbed my bound wrists, and steadied me, before pulling his dick out just enough to make me whimper.

I couldn’t believe it.

He was going to deny me again.

It was a silly game we’d play—he denied me, I begged until I dripped with need, then he’d plunge into me, making me come like the good girl I was.

Without warning, he spun me around, pinning my back against the cold metal.

I yelped at both the sudden change of temperature and the onset of a euphoric dizziness.

“Shh—” He slid his fingers around my throat, and dragged kisses down my neck, over my collarbone, and to the peak of my breast. “Christ, Maggie, you fuck like a goddamn dream.” He said, before running his tongue over my stiffened nipple.

His words didn’t mean much, though. We’d only been fucking for two or three weeks. And like I said—he was young—too young to compare me to much other than the teens he lost his virginity to in high school or the twenty somethings he tried to perfect his technique with.

Maybe I should’ve taken the compliment. I wasn’t getting any younger, and even though some thought my curves were to-die-for, I had insecurities just like everyone else who suddenly found themselves on a path to middle-aged.

My tits had dropped, my ass and hips had widened, and I had this fucking pooch that wouldn’t quit no matter how many planks or mountain climbers I did.

But at thirty-six and some change, Jamie’s words didn’t really stroke my ego—all things considered.

He dragged his cock through my wetness, teasing me, rubbing it past my clit before pulling me tight against him.

I locked a leg around his waist, holding him in, my gaze caught a glimpse of his hazel eyes.

Then I saw it.

Goddamn it!

That all-too-fucking-familiar look. The one that consumed every man—and even the few women—I’d enchanted lately.

“Stay with me,” he breathed.

“I told you—I inherited my great uncle’s estate…” I said, freeing one hand and trailing my fingers along his jaw before sliding them to the back of his neck.

He ran the back of his hand across my skin, sending tingles over my body, but my arousal slowly faded—which was to be expected. Hard to stay horny when your mind was flooded with the lives you’d wrecked with magic because you wanted a quick fuck.

“Jamie, I—” My fingers curled against his back. “I can’t.”

His grip tightened, “Don’t go, it will all work out if you just stay with me.” He plunged inside, stretching me open.

A moan slipped past my lips.

He grinned, bouncing me on his chubby cock, thinking it was just another one of my games, but it wasn’t.

Maybe if I could’ve just pushed his words away… remained in the moment… focused on his dick stretching me tight, fingers circling my clit, tongue flicking over my nipples—if I could’ve let go , maybe I could’ve gotten there with him.

Each thrust did manage to inch me closer, though. Until he opened his goddamn mouth—again. “Stay?—”

I crashed my lips into his. Swallowing his words. Then?—

He bit my bottom lip, and there went that pain to pleasure sensation again.

He pulled out, hovering at my entrance.

“Jamie—” I begged. “I need it.”

Something about the way he denied me the fullness I craved drove me insane. Maybe it was because I never knew when would be the last time I’d have it. Or maybe it was because I knew the pleasure that I got from it , and it made me impatient.

I moaned again, the need for something inside consuming me.

His hands snaked down my back, until they landed on my hips. He gripped me tight and pulled flush to him again. Then—just as I was about to lose my mind—he plunged deep inside, sending euphoria up my spine and through my body.

A guttural moan ripped from my throat, but Jamie just watched—eyes dark, lips curled into a rakish grin—reveling in the way I squirmed on his cock, aching to catch my orgasm.

He cradled my ass, securing me onto him. But it wasn’t enough.

I reached down, and circled my clit with the pads of my two middle fingers, grasping at the edge of ecstasy.

My mind went foggy. All I could think about was his rigid cock inside pumping me full. My hips rocked in rhythm as my climax built stronger and stronger, until the inevitable happened and a gush of pleasure sent stars to every inch of my body.

“ Oh, fuck!” I cried out, my body shuddering as my orgasm shattered me.

Jamie held me tight, slowly edging himself higher and higher, until I felt him go still, spilling inside.

“God, Maggie!” He grunted.

Just for a moment, we collapsed into each other—breathless and spent.

We stared into each other’s eyes, our breaths still ragged. My fingers tangled in his damp, tousled hair, the sunlight shining into the truck transformed it into a fiery red halo.

He had a way of making me feel amazing—most orgasms did—but the guilt of being the walking definition of a horrible person outweighed the dopamine this time.

It was all fake. Another victim caught in the crosshairs of a horny, almost middle-aged woman playing with magic to get laid.

“If you’re worried about your age, it doesn’t bother me. Thirty-six isn’t even that old.”

Oh, you poor ignorant thing.

“No, it’s not. ” I scoffed, rolling my eyes at the the fact that he dared bring up my age when my legs were trembling to the point of being useless. I couldn’t even walk away if I wanted to.

Ugh! His stupid reminder dropped me off of cloud nine real fast. Thirty-six. God, I’m thirty fucking six. If I wanted something real, I’d have to quit this shit. Quit the games—the love spells. I’d have to be patient. But what if a happily ever after wasn’t for me?

Jamie’d outlasted the side effects of the spell the longest of all my hookups.

We managed three weeks of bliss before he said those fateful words.

I’d known since I broke it off with Mark—every lover I’d enchanted had become trapped, unable to move on from me.

It made things complicated. It’s what made me a shitty person.

A selfish one, I know. But after having relationship after relationship fail—even the one engagement—magic had become my crutch to get me the fix I needed.

When I was sixteen, I found an old grimoire behind a dumpster. I was still a virgin—never been kissed. The closest thing I’d had to a boyfriend—or any friend for that matter—were my bullies and my twin sister, when she wasn’t ashamed to look like me.

One time in Phy. Ed., Kacie Pullman thought it’d be hilarious to trap me on the floor in front of the bleachers and pretend a Santa hat was her dick, shoving the pom-pom into my mouth and gyrating with fake gratification, while the entire class pointed and laughed.

Back in the early 2000s, being a witch or liking witchy things—especially in the ass-crack of Ohio—led to teasing, tormenting and shunning from children, parents, and random strangers. Desperate to feel even the slightest bit desired, I celebrated the day I found that book.

This spell solved everything—until recently.

I knew it didn’t make it right, but I couldn’t seem to get over the pain that came with real life dating. The feelings of never being enough or having to try so hard to have a genuine connection, made me not even want to try.

In the beginning, the spell wore off relatively fast. My dates would return to their normal state, not even remembering we did anything by morning. So I didn’t see much risk.

But the past few months, every partner I fell into bed with would develop this unsettling obsession—me. After we’d had sex, my partner almost instantaneously begged me to stay with them. No matter what I tried, they couldn’t escape the cycle.

I know, I know. Classy.

But I couldn’t stop.

Some would call it an addiction. Maybe they were right. It really only flared up when I felt sorry for myself, when the loneliness settled in, or during my fucking luteal phase. It was one very unhealthy—and unfair—coping mechanism I’d developed.

Pretending to be wanted… felt good . Their words—their compliments, their need and desperation for me was like a drug, and just like they couldn’t get enough of me—I couldn’t get enough of them.

The first time the obsession kicked in, I’d met a man at a bar in the next town over.

It was my first date after ending my engagement to Mark.

We clicked instantly—even before the spell—bonding over indie rock and a few good drinks.

The conversation just flowed, so I took the next step in my routine.

The truth serum.

I couldn’t bring myself to just select random people to sleep with. There had to be a bit of consent— I wasn’t a fucking predator —at least I didn’t think so.

It worked every time, without fail. I’d ask my date to get me another drink while they still had some left.

Then, while they were gone, I’d add the truth serum to theirs.

Upon their return, I’d be as blunt as possible, asking if they’d like to leave and fuck me .

That was it—simple. If it was an enthusiastic yes, I’d say the words Amorus Fornicatio , and we’d head to their place, a hotel, or the alley behind the bar.