Toxic

by Nicole Blanchard

  “I wouldn’t let you go,” he says against my lips, “but I’d spend every day convincing you to stay.”

  “How do you think you’d accomplish that?” I’m breathing more heavily now and my heart, which is still thrumming from the adrenaline of our escape, beats double time.

  “How about I show you?” he says.

  I shiver against him as he tugs me down the hall. He presses kisses to my jaw and ear and then curses under his breath and plasters me against the wall in the stairwell. My hands go to his waist to tug at his belt loops and pull him against me.

  “You trying to distract me?” he asks as he tongues the hollow in my throat.

  “Maybe. Is it working?”

  He nudges his erection against me, and I suck in a breath. “You tell me,” he says.

  I groan and tug him down the hallway. “I think I need some more convincing,” I say with an impish grin. “That is if you aren’t too hurt.”

  We reach his door, and he presses into me from behind, the hardness of his cock nudging against the cleft of my ass. “Never. I’d be dying and I’d still be hard for you.”

  He opens the door, and we tumble inside enough to slam it shut. I struggle to turn, but he keeps my back pressed to his front and arranges my hands above my head.

  “Keep them there,” he growls, and I’m strung so tight I don’t have the willpower to argue.

  Behind me, I hear the sound of him shucking his clothes: the clink of his belt buckle coming undone, the crash of it against the floor, the click of his zipper, the whisper of his pants hitting the floor. By the time I feel his warmth at my back again, I’m shaking.

  I start to lower my hands, which earns me a nip to my shoulder in retaliation. “I thought I said to keep them there.”

  “Please,” I whisper. “I want to touch you.”

  “You will. Patience, little mouse.” He kisses the spot he bit and soothes it with his tongue.

  I do as he asks, but only because he keeps touching me without interruption. My head falls back, and I moan to the ceiling as his hands palm my breasts, kneading through the thin material of my shirt.

  “Take it off,” I beg, and he does, slipping the shirt over my head and tossing it away. “All of it.”

  This time, he teases instead of listening, and it makes me shift from foot to foot and throw my hair back. His palms cup my breasts over my bra and then he’s drawing circles along the cotton. There’s enough padding that I can’t feel him, but I know his touch is just one layer away, and it drives me crazy.

  When I’m mindlessly writhing against him, he tugs the cups down to bare me to his touch. Skilled fingers pay homage to my nipples, pulling deeper moans from me. He tweaks them, just enough to cause me twin edges of pain and pleasure, and then he releases the clasp and his hands travel down to the waistband of my jeans.

  My breath stalls in my chest as his fingers dance along the edge.

  “Please,” I whisper and this time he gives me what I want by unbuttoning my pants and diving underneath.

  He uses one hand to turn my head so he can meet my lips and the other to find the wetness with the slightest brush of his fingers.

  “So ready,” he says. “I think you like the idea of staying here with me. Has my little mouse turned into a cat?”

  I mumble unintelligible words against his lips and feel him smile. My heart flips over in my chest, and I know there will be no surviving him. There is no recovery for what he does to me. No walking away. Even if it was an option, I don’t think I could.

  His tongue invades, plunders, conquers, and I meet him stroke for stroke, eliciting a groan from deep in his throat. The hand at my throat tightens, reminding me unerringly of the first time he had me against a wall. The memory comes to life and causes me to shift against him, hips searching for an easement of the hurricane whipping around inside me.

  He only presses closer, so I’m pinned between his body and the door. I tremble with the need for release, the ache to touch him and express all the things I can’t with words.

  “Shh, I’ve got you,” he says as his fingers start to move against me.

  All I can do is take it. He keeps up the sweet torture until the door vibrates with the result of the tension growing inside me. Just when I think he’s going to push me over the edge, he pulls back and allows my arms to drop to my sides.

  I turn, and he takes me in his arms and guides me to the bed. Greedily, I take him into my arms and accept his weight on top of me. My legs wrap around his waist and pull him close.

  “Wait,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Not so fast, little heathen.”

  “I can’t wait,” I tell him and undulate against him. “Now.”

  He tugs down my jeans with the little space I allow him to have, and then he’s back against me. “I’m going to take my time,” he says.

  And he does.

  It feels like some sort of penance for everything he’d ever done wrong toward me. The manipulations when he was in prison, locking me up, being responsible for my pain. He worships me with the softest touches, the most maddening caresses until I’m near tears with the power of my need. He never made any apologies for what he’s done, and I realize he doesn’t have to any more than I have to thank him for saving me.

  Tears leak from the corners of my eyes and he laps them up just as he thrusts inside me. My breath catches in my throat as his piercing hits all the sensitive spots inside me and strokes them to life.

  His thrusts are slow, measured, and when I open my eyes, I find him watching me.

  “Stay with me,” he says right before his mouth finds mine in a soft kiss. “Tell me you’ll stay with me. I can’t lose you.”

  I lift my hands to his hair and peer into his eyes. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

  My words do something to him and his thrusts quicken. His hold convulses around me and I realize maybe he needs me to soothe the broken parts of him as much as I need him to show me there’s someone who needs me in return.

  As I come around him, surrounded by his arms and anchored by his weight, I know there isn’t a chance in hell I’m giving up another minute without him by my side. If he’s an addiction, I welcome the rush. Give me another hit, and another, and another, until it kills me or gives me a taste of heaven.

  I lose myself in his kiss, his touch, his toxic love.

  “The prosecution calls Tessa Emerson to the stand.”

  In another life as I walked to the stand, fear would have held me in its grip, much as my ex-husband had in the time we were married. I’m no stranger to its dark embrace, but now I face my fears instead of running.

  The bailiff leads me to the stand, and I sit facing a room full of people who have already sat through hours of witness testimony. There were a few guards who testified that Vic was an upstanding man and husband, but those testimonies were canceled out as soon as Annie took the stand. Apparently, I hadn’t hidden anything from her, and she recounted every single bruise and broken rib I’d shown up to work with. That wasn’t all. She produced picture upon picture of me at my desk, me bent over patients, and me hugging my ribs . . . in each one of them, the jury could see the blooms of purple and blue over my skin in various spots.

  "Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" The bailiff says in a bored voice.

  "I do," I say.

  Gracin isn't in the room, of course, as he's wanted for the murder of Tino Salvatore and for his escape, but he's around, watching. Waiting. I draw strength from that knowledge as the prosecution grills me about my marriage to Vic. I answer their questions as honestly as I can. When I shot him, I acted in self-defense, and they have no evidence to say otherwise.

  "You mean to say you stayed in an abusive relationship for years? Did you ever try to leave?"

  "Yes, on several occasions."

  "And what happened?"

  "He beat me."

  The lawyer smirks, and the aud
ience twitters. "You didn't think to go to the police and report his behavior?"

  "I did, once."

  "Once? And what happened?"

  I turn my attention to the Honorable Judge Edward Milton, who shifts in his seat, and raise my eyebrows, silently asking if he really wants me to answer this question in open court. He calls a recess, but it doesn't matter. Once Gracin and I decided it would be in my best interest to clear my name, I knew it was only a matter of time before I was brought face to face with the man who told me women should obey their husbands. The gray pallor bleaching his triple chin tells me he hasn't forgotten me either.

  As the courtroom empties, the bailiff gives me the go-ahead to get down from the stand. The prosecutor sneers at me, and I give him a wink in return. It's not his fault he has a thankless job, and besides, I have bigger things to worry about.

  I wait in the hall until it empties completely. Nearly all the employees have taken advantage of the lull to slip out to lunch, so no one notices when I carefully maneuver around the velvet rope delineating the public and private sectors of the courthouse. No one stops me on my way back to the judge's private rooms. It's a small town, and though everyone knows everyone, they are also too damn polite to tell me I'm not supposed to be there.

  I reach Judge Milton's door and enter without knocking. He doesn't seem too surprised to see me, considering he's more focused on the gun Gracin has against his temple. I close the door behind me and sit in a comfortably worn leather chair situated in front of his desk.

  Judge Milton opens his mouth to speak, but it snaps closed when Gracin nudges him with the gun. "This isn't the talking part. This is the listening part."

  "I see you do remember me," I say. "Good, then you must know why I'm here. I'm going to keep this quick because you're not worth wasting my time. I will be cleared of all suspicion in my husband's death, and you will make sure that happens. If you don't? Well, I don't think we need to be crass. Do you understand?"

  A bead of sweat trails down his forehead and plops onto his pristine desk. When he doesn't answer, I lean forward. "This is the talking part."

  A couple of hours later, I walk out of the courthouse and get into the nondescript SUV waiting at the curb. Gracin tugs me by the neck and kisses me long and hard, oblivious to the line of cars behind us waiting for us to move.

  "You're a free woman now," he says when he's done. "What are you going to do with the rest of your life?"

  "That's a good question. Got any ideas?"

  He sends me a look that has my stomach clenching in anticipation. "Oh, I've got a few."

  "I'm sure you do, but we have to do one thing first.”

  He takes my hand and presses it to his lips as he navigates through traffic. "Yeah? What's that?"

  "Why don't I show you?" I say as we come to a stoplight.

  Gracin glances over, and I pull out a photo from my purse and hand it to him. "What have we got here?" he asks.

  "A surprise," I say. "You might want to pull over, so we don't block traffic."

  "I like surprises." He does as I instruct and pulls off the road and into an empty parking lot.

  If there are memories that keep me up at night and make me question why I was put on this Earth to endure the things I have, then there are also memories that remind me why I keep going, keep fighting. A lot of them feature Gracin in some way or another. But none of them will ever top this one.

  "Tessa, what is this?" he asks, though we both know the answer.

  "Gracin, I don't know what the future holds for us, and I don't care. All I know is I can't imagine one without you in it. I love you, so much. I didn't think we'd ever have this chance again, but now that we do, I'm so glad it's with you."

  He looks up from the ultrasound picture and says, "You're pregnant?"

  Before I can answer, he takes me into his arms and crushes me to his chest.

  "There aren't words to describe what I feel for you," he says. "But if there were, they'd still never be enough."

  "So, you're happy?" I ask as happy tears fill my eyes.

  "I'm ecstatic, sweetheart." He kisses me again and then says. "Let's go home."

  Dear Reader

  Thank you for joining me on this wild ride. I hope you loved reading about this crazy couple as much as I loved writing about them.

  If you enjoyed Toxic, please consider leaving a review at your preferred retailer.

  Much Love,

  Nicole

  Acknowledgments

  To Melissa. Who is always there. Seriously. Always. The person who has waited (not so) patiently for Gracin’s story. Who has cheered me on since day one when brought this crazy idea up. Who has painstakingly read each chapters as I finished them and then ripped them apart. Who listened to each story idea, bemoaned the long time it took for me to finish, and loved it as much as I did (maybe even more).

  There wouldn’t be a Toxic without you. Gracin would have stewed on the back burner, shaking his fists and threatening to shank me if not for you.

  Thank you.

  To my mom who answered a million questions about the correctional institution without fail. If it weren’t for all of your years of hard work and dedication, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I owe a lot of what I’ve accomplished to you. Your unwavering support and patience. Your unconditional love. (Your hints about how to maybe possibly escape prison). ;) I love you, mom!

  To all of my readers, and most especially to my reader group, the Knockouts, there are never words suitable enough for the depth of my gratitude. It’s almost as if you know when I need your encouragement the most because you’re always there with a kind word or a morale boost just when I need it. Thank you for going on this journey with me. I couldn’t do it without you!

  Special shoutout to Michell Hall Caspar and Mandy Sawyer for your eagle eyes!

  Authors would be screaming into the black abyss if it wasn’t for the hard-working bloggers who promote our work just as passionately as if it were their own. A special thanks to: The Wonderings of One Person, SJ’s Book Blog, EscapeNBooks, Books Over Boys, Crystal’s Crazy Book Ramblings, Kiki Reader Loves Books, A Cup and a Book, Black Feather Blogger, I HAVE A BOOK OBSESSION, Exposure Book Blog, and so many more. If I missed you, please don’t hesitate to email. I can always update and I want to include everyone! :P

  About the Author

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Nicole Blanchard lives in Mississippi with her family and their menagerie of animals. She chooses each day to chase her own fairy tale even if they contain their fair share of dragons. She is married to her best friend and owns her own business.

  Nicole survives on a diet of too many books and substantial amounts of root beer and slim jims. When not reading, she’s lavishing attention on her family or inhaling every episode of The Walking Dead and The Big Bang Theory.

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  For more information:

  www.authornicoleblanchard.com

  nicole@authornicoleblanchard.com

  Also by Nicole Blanchard

  First to Fight Series

  Anchor

  Warrior

  Survivor

  Savior

  Honor

  Box Set: Books 1-5

  Traitor

  Immortals Ever After Series

  Deal with a Dragon

  Vow to a Vampire

  Fated to a Fae King

  Dark Romance

  Toxic

  New Adult Romance

  Friend Zone

  Standalone Novellas

  Bear with Me

  Darkest Desires

  Mechanical Hearts

 

 

 
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