Page 83 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

I spun her, bent her over. The shower pounded between us—warm and relentless.

“Take my hair,” she said. “Fuck me.”

Wrapping her hair in my fist, I watched her arch like I’d strung her up on wire. I pushed into her. Hard. And she gasped like I’d knocked the wind out of her.

Smack!

“Keep going, Graham,” she begged. “Again. Do it again. I want a reminder of you every time I sit.” She bit her lip and looked back at me. Her eyes burning with a fiery thirst, begging for more.

“Count them, Max.”

Smack.

“And if you mess up…” I thrusted deep. “We start over.”

Smack. Thrust.

“One.” She breathed.

My hand traced up her curve, fingers dragging over hot skin.

Smack.

“Two.” Her hips lifted higher.

“Last one, princess. You’re doing so well.” I tightened my grip on her hair, pulling her head back until she arched into me like she was offering me her soul.

Smack.

“Three.” She choked on a moan, body trembling, her needy cunt gripping me like a vice.

“That’s my good girl.” I growled into her ear, palming her back, smoothing my hand over the sting with slow reverent fingers.

Then I held her by the hips and fucked her.

Hard. The slap of our skin echoed off the tile.

Her thick thighs trembling each time her ass met my hips.

She braced herself against the wall, water cascading down her back, her moans bouncing off the porcelain.

I didn’t stop—not until her legs gave out and I came with a force drenched in her name.

That shower didn’t just witness us fall apart. It saw something crack open in me. She trusted me not to go too far, and that trust made me feral. It made me whole.

I didn’t just want her. I needed her. Every goddamn part she offered… and every part that resisted.

…

Maggie was still trembling, her skin hot beneath my hands. I stayed inside her, forehead pressed to the back of her neck, arm wrapped around her, holding her like the goddamn lifeline she was. Her breaths slowed—each one steadier, softer.

I kissed her shoulder. “You alright?”

She hummed. “More than alright.”

“Good. Because you just fucking destroyed anything I thought looked like an ounce of self-control. Not sure I can fix that.”

She laughed, a little breathy, and leaned into me. We stood there, caressing each other under the spray, letting the water wash over us like we could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Then—

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The door.

“MAGGIE?” Katie’s voice. Too chipper. Too close.

The sound of the door unlatching sent a jolt through us both.

We both froze.

“Oh, fuck me,” I muttered.

Maggie practically squeaked, trying to scramble for a towel.

“No time.” I grabbed one off the hook and threw it over her like I was covering a stolen masterpiece. She bolted for the bedroom, hair dripping, cheeks flushed, looking very recently fucked.

“Katie! Gimme—five minutes!” She shouted, pressing the already opening door closed again.“No rush!” Katie chirped. “Derek brought muffins. He said you needed fiber and spiritual grounding.”

“Tell him to shove the fiber up his—” Maggie’s voice cut off with a growl as she disappeared.

I stepped out of the shower, towel slung low on my hips, water still dripping down my chest.

“Tell him to what?” Derek’s voice filtered in through the hallway.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mumbled. “Next time, I’m installing a goddamn security system. Or a sock on the doorknob. Something! ”

Maggie

By the time Katie and Derek had set up at the dining room table, I’d tucked my hair behind my ears half a dozen times and ignored Katie’s glances toward my neck like she was searching for hickeys.

“You good?” She asked, lips twitching at the corners.

“Peachy. Let’s talk about dead guys and cryptic journals, yeah?”

I pulled out a chair—then I saw it.

My fucking puddle.

I bolted into the kitchen, ripped a towel off the refrigerator door, and wiped our mess up like it owed me money.

“Sorry, we had a little spill earlier.” I lied, my cheeks going volcanic.

Derek leaned back, casually thumbing through the exact notebook we’d defiled. “Yeah, I uh… see that.”

I felt my face twist into something that said I was sorry he was unknowingly holding the notebook soaked in my bodily fluids.

Graham snatched the journal from him like it had insulted me.

Oh, my god.

My soul tried to leave my body.

“Hey, I was reading that.” Derek grumbled.

“We’ve got this one.” Graham said, flipping to a safer page.

I could have died right there.

“Hey guys—look.” Katie held up a journal and pointed to a scribbled list of names.

Thank god.

“Aunt Ruby’s on this list—but it’s scratched out.”

Derek leaned in. “So is Natalie Belvedere. Jonathan’s sister-in-law. Scratched out too.”

“Look!” I said, pointing to the page, “Carmen Gallows!”

“So Portia didn’t kill her after all?” Katie questioned.

“I don’t know.” I said.

Smoke swirled in the dining room. Uncle Silas materialized. “What’s this now? Did I mishear something?”

“No—we found this list. There’s over twenty names,” I said, scanning it again.

“You don’t think this is a list of the victims?” Katie asked, turning to reveal an anatomical sketch of what looked a lot like Portia. Mid-dissection.

She flipped the page again.

Nine figures in a childlike sketch. Eight crossed out. Uncle Silas in the center. My name—faint—next to his.

My stomach sank like a rock in a lagoon.

“Why is my name on here? This man died before you, Uncle Silas.”

“I can’t say, dear. But I fear Portia may be involved. I’ve had you as my estate’s beneficiary for ages. She knew.”

Katie flipped another page. “Please see page twenty-seven of Journal Nine for the Mark of the Circle,” she read.

I went still. I knew exactly what journal it was, and exactly whose ass it was not imprinted on.

Derek and Graham shuffled through the journals, hunting for number nine.

Graham held it up—of course—it was the one we’d ruined.

And yep—page twenty-seven? Inked on my ass.

“Oh no, it’s the ruined one,” Katie said. “How can we find the mark now?”

Graham looked from the page… to me, his expression a mix of ‘Sorry, babe,’ and ‘It’ wasn’t my fault.’

I braced for impact, shielding my eyes.

“Got it here.” He pulled out his phone and casually showed Katie the pic.

She looked up, eyes gleaming, smirk growing like the full moon on Graham’s phone.

Derek squinted at the journal, trying to translate the soggy mess.

Katie lost it. “Oh god! I know why those pages are wet!” She cackled.

I glared. Hard.

She shoved the phone in front of Derek’s face, anyway.

God, I couldn’t believe that the one time I actually squirted with a man who loved it, it was all over the motherfucking evidence. I stood, shoulders stiff, rubbing my brow like it would somehow make this all go away.

His eyes went full saucer. He dropped the journal and shoved back so hard he almost flipped the chair.

“Jesus! A little warning next time—I didn’t know I needed a biohazard suit!”

My face flushed hotter than a teakettle.

Katie peered at Graham’s phone, zooming in and squinting like she was cracking a code. “It’s not just a symbol—it’s like a seal. Or a brand.”

“Maggie, dear,” Uncle Silas said, puffing on his pipe, “check the corridor—fourth shelf up. There should be a volume on occult seals. Perhaps it holds a clue.”

I did as he asked. Found the book, flipped through it. No match.

We spent hours flipping pages, scouring forums, straining our eyes for any link between Portia and Belvedere. The only thing we had? A sketch that looked too much like her to ignore.

It was late. We agreed to rest our eyes and hit it fresh in the morning—after Graham and I stopped by the bank.

Graham said he needed to head home—grab clean clothes, clear his head, whatever excuse made it easier to leave.

I walked him to the door, hoping for a kiss after everything—but it landed where it always did. My fucking forehead.

What?Was I too short for him?

Bad breath?

Did I imagine everything we just did, multiple times?

“Katie’ll keep you safe tonight,” he said, lips lingering on my forehead just long enough to wreck me. “And if she doesn’t, I bet Derek’s probably got a squirt gun filled with holy water in his bag.”

He pulled away and gave me that tired half-smile that melted me every damn time.

“I’ll be back before the coffee’s brewed, cupcake. Try not to miss me too hard.”

But I already did.