Page 33 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

EVERYTHING BUT RELEASE

Maggie

The blackness faded from my mind in slow, ugly waves.

I cracked my eyes open—and immediately snapped them shut again because the sunlight felt like an icepick.

Groaning, I sat up and peeled the covers back. The scratch of sequins against my skin made me wince.

What? I’m still in the dress from last night?

What the hell… how did I even get into my bed?

Wasn’t I just outside with Graham?

It’s morning?

What the hell is going on?

I rubbed my temples, trying to sort out the mess inside my head.

My eyes wandered the room, half-expecting something to jump out at me. There?—

A trashcan placed neatly beside the bed, within easy reach, should I have needed it during the night.

Judging by the disaster matting my hair and the rawness in my throat, yeah—I definitely fucking needed it.

I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye and turned.

In the oversized armchair next to the closet door, Graham sat stretched out, but dead asleep.

Boots off, legs crossed, arms folded tight, mouth open with the least threatening snore I’d ever heard. Chester curled into a tight ball on his lap like he belonged there.

I stared, my heart tripping over itself.

Did he sleep here all night?

Was he here when I got sick?

Was he the one who…?

The answers lined up neatly with no need to ask.

I peeled myself carefully out of bed, moving slowly.

But the moment I stood?—

BONGGG!

A migraine slammed into me like a goddamn gong.

“Ugh—!”

The sound tore out of me before I could choke it down.

Graham stirred instantly, snapping awake like he’d been waiting for the smallest threat.

“Max,” he said, voice rusty with sleep. “You’re up.”

“Yeah,” I groaned, pressing my hand to my forehead. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

I tiptoed past him toward the bathroom, trying not to jostle the world too much. Every step was a landmine.

“No, it’s okay,” he said, stretching his arms out in front of himself with a long and lazy groan, “Now that you’re awake, I should head out anyway.”

He slipped his boots back on, his movements automatic.

“You didn’t have to stay, you know,” I said, slipping into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked so I could still hear him.

“I know,” he said. “But I didn’t want you choking on your vomit or something.”

My face flamed.

I caught my reflection in the mirror and physically recoiled.

Dry, cracked lips. Bloodshot eyes. Hair that looked like it had lost a war and then dragged through glitter, vomit, and regret.

I picked up a limp, crusted curl between two fingers, inspecting it like it might bite me.

Perfect.

Real cute.

“Oh,” I managed, weakly. “Well… thanks.”

I turned toward the shower, desperate to erase the shame crusted on my skin.

Then the memory hit me before I could stop it:

Graham knelt beside me in the dark, holding my hair with one hand, rubbing circles into my back with the other, his voice a low, steady anchor while I heaved into the trash can.

Chester yowled in the background.

The whole scene, sharp and sticky, burned into the parts of me that still wanted to pretend I didn’t need anyone.

I pressed my hand into my face, mortified.

“Do you want some breakfast?” I called through the cracked door, cringing at how desperate my voice sounded. “It’s the least I can do after… everything.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Graham’s voice, wry and warm:

“Sure. I’d love some.”

I peeked my head around the door. He was standing now, adjusting his jacket, looking too damn good for a man who slept upright in a chair all night.

“Why don’t you go downstairs,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though my face felt like it was on fire, “make yourself at home. I’ll be down soon.”

I cranked the shower on, steam rolled out to meet me.

“There’s a TV in the great room if you want to watch something,” I yelled over the spray.

The sequins clinked against the tile as I peeled the dress off and tossed it aside.

I stepped into the water, wincing as the first blast hit my scalp.

Then came the hard part.

The water beat down on me, peeling the night off my skin in layers I didn’t want to look at too closely.

My body ached. Every move I made sent me a painful reminder that I wasn’t twenty anymore and that that much alcohol mixed with a night of frivolous dancing could not become a weekly occurrence.

My head felt like it had been split down the middle with a pickaxe. And the tight, gnawing loneliness inside me refused to loosen its grip.

I needed to breathe.

I needed to feel something that wasn’t shame or regret.

My hand slid over my belly then lower—clumsy and shaking. I brushed over my pussy, parting my lips, testing to see if I really wanted this.

I did.

I rubbed, desperate circles over my clit, slow at first, then faster as the pleasure built. The steam clung to my skin, my breath trapped in my throat.

It wasn’t graceful.

Or pretty.

It was pressure—weeks of it.

The move. The murder. The ghost in the house. Graham’s hands. Graham’s mouth. His goddamn broad shoulders, biceps larger than my head, and those fucking thighs I wanted to bite.

I needed to feel something I could control—one thing that was mine.

And for a second I had it.

Until I came—hard.

Body crumpling hard.

Knees buckling against the wall—hard.

I flailed, knocking over the shampoo, conditioner, and four different body scrubs that lined the shelves of the shower. They clattered to the floor with a crash that sounded like a goddamn hurricane in my bathroom.

Graham

Downstairs, I froze mid-stretch when the crash echoed through the ceiling.

Soap bottles probably.

Or her ass hitting the wall.

Then I heard it—a soft, broken little moan.

Fuck.

My whole body locked up, blood slamming to my dick like it had a mind of its own.

I dragged my hand down my face, gritting my teeth.

“You good?” I yelled, trying to keep my voice steady.

Silence.

Then a wrecked little “ Uh-huh .”

I let my head fall against the back of the couch with a dull thud and exhaled slowly through my nose.

Jesus Christ.

She was going to be the death of me.

No question about it.

Maggie

After my shower, I popped some painkillers for my throbbing headache and dressed in a pair of black leggings and a white oversized Stevie Nicks tee.

I wasn’t going anywhere today. All I wanted was to curl up in my papasan, Chester kneading biscuits on my lap, warm sunlight cascading through the sunroom’s windows and doze away any memory of last night.

But first, if I was going to humor Graham, I needed to eat something.

The stairs seemed dangerous with my legs still feeling a bit wobbly, like I’d just departed a ship after a long journey at sea.

The smell of strong coffee hit me as I reached The Great room.

“Graham?” I called softly, heart kicking up in my chest.

He stood in front of the TV, loose-hipped, boots untied, attention locked on whatever was playing.

I froze for half a second while I raked him over with my gaze.

God, if he had any idea what I’d been doing upstairs…

I swallowed hard and cleared my throat, forcing myself forward.

When I peaked over his shoulder, I caught sight of the screen—a hairless wonder of a dog, its skin gleaming like a well-oiled bowling ball, started across the stage.

“It’s Pudding!” The announcer cried, the crowd going wild over this ugly-ass dog.

Leave it to Graham to be enthralled with Britain’s Ugliest Dog.

I snickered before heading to the kitchen. “I’ll go make some food.”

“Oh… uh… yeah… that’d be great,” he said, clicking off the television. “I brewed some coffee, hope that was okay.” His fingers brushed mine when he passed the mug, just a flicker of skin against skin—but it lit up my nerves like a live wire.

I nodded and set the mug carefully back on the butcher’s block.

“I just figured you’d need it for your hangover,” he said, voice rough but suspiciously casual.

“Oh… I’m not hungover,” I said, a blatant lie.

“Oh, really?”

A sly grin slithered across Graham’s face.

He strolled over to the box of silverware by the window and gave it a violent shake—like he was trying to scare off a black bear.

Chester, who had followed me downstairs, screeched out of the kitchen like a bat out of hell, paws skidding uselessly as he tried to dig his nails into the floor at the turn.

Everything inside my skull rattled like a bag of goldfish in the hands of an excited toddler.

I threw up my hands in surrender.

“Okay! Enough! What are you? Pure evil? I might have the slightest hangover.”

“Mm-hmm. Drink your coffee and let’s get some fat in you,” he said with a smug grin, chuckling under his breath as he handed me my mug again.

“It’s black,” my face twisted in disgust. I handed it back to him.

“And…” he pressed it into mine again.

“If I’m going to drink it… it at least needs sugar.”

I set the mug on the butcher block and moved fast around the kitchen… too fast… my head spun, but I managed to stay on my feet. The sounds of syrup pumps, ice cubes, and the whir of my mini blender filled the awkward silence between us.

If I made enough noise, neither of us had to talk about what did or didn’t happen last night.

Graham leaned against the butcher block, watching me with this look on his face. It wasn’t really confused, it wasn’t amusement, it was more disbelief.

I whipped the heavy cream into a frothy cloud, poured it over the iced coffee, licked the rim of the glass, popped on the lid, and stabbed in a straw—never breaking eye contact.

Graham’s gaze flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes—quick, like he didn’t mean to let it slip.

My stomach twisted.

Not from the hangover.

“I see,” he muttered, sipping his plain black coffee like it was somehow regenerating his emotional armor. “Remind me never to order you a coffee.”

I took a sip of my blueberry muffin flavored sugar bomb, tasting victory and shame all in one mouthful.