Page 81 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

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Maggie

My body and mind were busy attempting to catch up with the fact that Graham and I didn’t have sex when we finally made it to bed last night.

We just… snuggled . And not that awkward kind either.

The kind that resets your entire nervous system.

Full-body wrapped around each other, fingertips tracing backs, hands tangled in hair, sleepy nuzzles traded like secrets.

We were exhausted—emotionally, mentally, all of it. Yesterday alone was a lot, but damn. Between the séances, the near-death exorcisms, everything we’d learned, plus more orgasms than there were days—it was no wonder we conked out.

I woke up first, which never happened when I was with someone, and honestly, it took serious strategy to escape from under that man. He was all biceps and thick thighs and dead weight when he slept. It was like trying to slip out of a cuddle trap set by a sexy anvil.

But I managed. Barely.

After freshening up, I slipped into something comfortable for the day of reading journals and looking over case files we had planned.

I padded into the kitchen with the quiet intention of making pancakes. It just felt right—something warm and familiar to cut through all the chaos. A calm Sunday, a few stacks of journals, and Derek and Katie on their way over. Yeah. Pancakes felt like the bare minimum.

The floorboards creaked overhead. Graham was awake.

I didn’t move. Didn’t call up to him.

It was strange how comforting that weight was—the knowledge that he was still here. That he’d stayed. That he hadn’t bolted after everything I’d put him through.

…

I turned from the kitchen sink when I heard him say my name from the foyer.

And there he was: shirtless, leaning in the doorway, one arm braced above his head and one behind his back.

His pants rode dangerously low, torturing me with the glimpses of those two black stars tatted on his V. God, I loved kissing them.

And then do you know what that asshole did?

He fucking put both hands behind his head and rolled his hips a few times in perfect silent rhythm like I was about to receive my own personal striptease.

My whole body betrayed me, flushing hot. The butterflies in my stomach went absolutely feral, jittering like caffeine-drunk squirrels. I spun back to the sink before I did something stupid—like drool or dry hump him into next Tuesday.

“Can you just… stop?” I inhaled in one controlled breath, trying desperately—and failing—to hide my excitement.

“Stop what, pretty girl?”

Pretty girl.

I swooned.

Fucking hell.

I wove my hand behind me, motioning at him, forcing myself not to look. “ That. There’s just so much. You’re too tempting.”

He didn’t deny it—cocky bastard.

“So…” he said, voice all gruff and still coated in sleep. “I found this box upstairs.”

My body went rigid. My eyes huge.

I knew exactly which box he was talking about. It was the only one out in the open. Shit. Fuck. Goddamn it . More fuel for his fire.

“Oh yeah, what was in it?” I asked, acting oblivious.

“Bunch of books and things. Decided I’d read a few pages and?—”

“Oh, God, no—” I spun around?—

And nearly choked.

He was still leaning against the half-wall, but now he wore the skull balaclava and the special-ops helmet my brother sent me as a joke one year because I said a certain skull-faced character from his video game was hot.

Graham crossed his arms, but held out his hand. Dangling from his index finger? The black leather cuffs I swore would never see the light of day, and in his other hand, a prop bowie knife, the kind covered in fake blood.

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ.” The words spilled out as I exhaled.

“Is this what you’re into, baby?” He growled, tucking the cuffs into a pocket with a wicked grin. He tilted his head like he’d just discovered I was his prey, and stepped toward me, slow and deliberate, taunting me with the knife.

Each step was like he dared me to stop him. But I couldn’t. No, my eyes were too busy watching his abs work as he basically prowled his way to me.

He just kept coming. He didn’t stop. Not until our bodies were pressed together, and my back was up against the archway to the dining room.

Another stuttered breath clawed its way out of me.

I covered my face with both hands. “Y-you weren’t supposed to see that.”

“See what?” He used the fake knife to move my hands. “Your stash of fairy porn, the ceiling hooks for your whip-and-chain set up, or the never-ending supply of vibrating cock rings and flavored lubricants?” He chuckled, running the knife between my breasts to my belly. “When’s it my turn to play?”

Right then, I forgot what breathing even was.

If I told you the sheer glee that threatened to burst out of me—squealing, panting, ready to combust—just from the sight of that man…

in that goddamn skull mask… with the knife…

shirtless… with that body… those tattooed arms…

those abs, that V leading to a cock so thick and sculpted and absolutely perfect for me—I wouldn’t have been exaggerating when I said I was fresh out of clean panties for the month.

“Sir. Staahhhp!” I laughed and yanked the helmet and mask off—tousling his hair in the process somehow making him hotter.

And now?

Goddamn it.

Fucking adorable too.

“What’s so important,” he murmured, still towering over me—so close I could feel the heat radiating from his core, “that you don’t have a moment to let me see you wearing only these?”

He pulled out the cuffs and dangled them in front of my face.

I rolled my eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know… maybe the stack of Belvedere’s journals we need to go through so we can prove he’s the mastermind behind this shit-show?” I broke free and dashed to the dining room grabbing a journal off the dining room table.

But Graham followed.

He grabbed both arms, spun me around, and pressed me flush against the table, his mouth just inches from mine.

The early morning sun spilled through the leaded glass, warming my left side and lighting up his face—igniting the hazel flecks in his stormy blue irises like fire caught in ice.

“Derek texted,” he said, voice low and dark, before kissing behind my ear. “He and Katie won’t be here for another forty-five minutes.”

Another kiss, lower this time.

Then another, and another trailing down my neck to my collarbone. “And I can’t think of a better way to relax you than by fucking you senseless.”

Before I could protest, he’d plucked the journal from my hand and tossed it behind me onto the pile. Then he grabbed my wrist and slid it into one of the cuffs, the cold leather biting gently as he snapped it shut.

I barely had time to breathe before he effortlessly lifted me onto the table, slipped my other wrist into the second cuff, and buckled me in, laying me back, arms pinned above my head, journals—and everything else I was supposed to do that day—forgotten.

“Graham—”

“Shh.” He kissed my sternum through my thin T-shirt. “We’ve got time.”

My core ignited at his touch. My mind flooded with visions of what I’d hoped he was going to do to me.

Then came the sound of my jeans unzipping, slow and teasing. His free hand dipped into my panties, fingers navigating until he landed—right there.

Direct hit.

I gasped, my hips jerking as that first bolt of electricity shot straight up my spine.

“That’s it… that’s my good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick and low as he applied the perfect pressure to my clit. “I need you nice and wet,” I writhed under his touch, bucking up into his hand, chasing more.

He brought that same hand up and shoved my T-shirt higher. The cool kiss of the table against my bare back sent another jolt through me.

Then his mouth was on my chest—nipping, teasing, dragging his teeth over my bra-covered nipples until they hardened beneath the lace.

I sucked in a breath.

His gentle kisses melted away any remaining resistance I might’ve held.

A low growl rumbled in his throat, then he yanked my jeans down, peeling them off—along with my panties—in one fluid motion.

“God, I love the way you taste,” he said, spreading my legs wide.

The sunlight warmed them as he stepped between and unbuckled his belt with slow, deliberate ease. His hands caressed up my sides, and every inch of my skin lit up like a fuse.

“I like it even better,” he whispered, running his hand down his length, “when I can see my cock buried in your beautiful pussy.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” I breathed, desperate and aching, and already so close.

He leaned forward, lips brushing my belly button.

“I love hearing you moan my name while I feast,” he said, “and since we’re already at the dinner table,” he nipped each of my inner thighs, slowly, possessively, “I thought I’d dine before breakfast.”

“Wait, Graham… my period.”

“I told you I don’t fucking care if you’re bleeding.” He examined the two fingers that were just inside me. “Besides, not a drop.” He showed me his blood-free hand, then slowly licked them. He fucking licked them—no savored them—like I was the best thing he’d ever had in his mouth.

I let out a single exhale and gave into him.

The scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs made me flinch at first, gasp, and grin. And then—his mouth.

He dropped to his knees and pulled me to the edge of the table, my legs draped over his shoulders.

That’s when I noticed it—the morning sun streaming through the leaded glass windows, scattering through the chandelier above. Rainbow fragments danced across the boxes from the move stacked in the corner… and across Graham’s wide shoulders as he worshipped me.

He looked like a beautiful demon on his knees in a cathedral about to taste holiness.

I dragged my cuffed hands down, tangling my fingers in his dark hair, gripping tight as his tongue worked its slow, delicious torment—circling, flicking, sucking?—

Then—

Oh. God.

He dipped his tongue inside me, slow and deep—but soon replaced it with two fingers, plunging in as his mouth returned to my clit.

I let out a stuttered breath.