by Katie May
Toxicity
A Villainously Romantic Retelling Book 4
Katie May
Copyright © 2019 by Katie May
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by Everly Yours Cover Designs
For those fighting against your own mind. I see you. Hang in there.
Contents
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Other Books By Katie May
Sneak Peek
Foreword
Toxicity does have scenes that may be triggering to some readers. It contains mentions of rape and abuse as well as mental illnesses and suicide. Reader’s discretion is advised.
Prologue
FIVE YEARS AGO
I always remember a man by their dick.
Faces? Nah. They’re one and the same.
But dicks? The mushroom tip. The length and width. The way it tastes.
Yup, there are most definitely differences between men’s dicks. Besides, it’s not like I have a whole lot to do. Comparing dicks is one of the few highlights of my miserable existence.
Customer 212? He has a long dick, slightly crooked, and a few shades lighter than the rest of his tanned body. He’s also the most attractive of the men I please, with ebony locks that frame his face and a pleasant accent. Despite this, 212 is a horrible kisser. I imagine kissing a gorilla would be more pleasing. 212 doesn’t kiss...he sucks. And not in a good way. I bet he fantasizes about ripping off my lips and putting them in the pocket of his designer jeans.
Customer 149 has the widest dick. My hand can’t even wrap completely around it. But the man it belongs to has Roman nose too large for his face and greasy, unwashed hair. He also calls me “Mom” when we’re fucking.
Yes, fucking.
I don’t make love. My profession doesn’t allow me to. Sometimes, the fucking is pleasant, if not pleasurable. Other times, I wish a meteor would race downwards and strike me dead. Anything would be better than having to fake an orgasm.
“Oh! Oh!”
Ohhhh.
But Customer 22? He’s my favorite. Not because he’s the best lover - he’s not - but because he tips me. Yup. Tips me. Like a waitress at a restaurant, he’ll throw me a solid Benjamin or two after his dick is wet. He’s also the quickest of my customers, and he never initiates awkward smalltalk.
Until today.
I lay panting on the bed, sweat beading on my forehead and cascading down my face. My dark hair is plastered to my forehead, and my body aches something fierce.
Customer 22 lies on his back beside me, a cigarette between his lips. The man is not traditionally handsome, but he’s better than others. His hair is a dark blond, and his eyes are a mossy green. I’m not the greatest estimator of age, but if I had to take a guess, I would say around thirty-five. Maybe forty. His cock is as insignificant as the rest of him. Not too large, not too wide, but not too small. A total mediocre cock.
Wordlessly, he offers me his cigarette, and I take a drag. As my arm hovers above my head, I catch a glimpse of my tattoo. Given to me by Gerald himself, it twines down my bicep. A twisting, curling, fire breathing black dragon.
Well, not breathing...though that would be fucking cool.
It marks me as a Dragon Girl but simultaneously demotes me as a human being.
I don’t know why we’re called that, but all of us girls - and the few boys - have dragon tattoos somewhere on our skin. Most prefer to keep it hidden, but not me. I don’t flaunt it; I don’t wear it with pride. It’s like a scar, a battle wound. It’s a part of me. The first line in my story.
Customer 22’s words pull me out of my thoughts.
“Do you want to get out?”
His voice is surprisingly husky, almost as if he never uses it. I wasn’t kidding about the whole “never talking” thing. Even during sex, he isn’t one of my screamers. Sometimes he’ll grunt, and a few times an “oh fuck” escapes his mouth just before he climaxes.
“What?” I turn towards him on the bed. The scratchy motel room quilt is pooled around our waists, baring my breasts to his lust-filled gaze. His finger absently traces around my nipple.
Honestly, I hate awkward small talk, especially after sex. What is there to talk about? Thank you for not giving me an orgasm? You’re welcome for sucking your dick? Great conversation. Ten out of ten recommend.
“Become my wife.” At first, I don’t hear his words. Sure, I hear them, but I don’t comprehend them. His thumb and forefinger tighten around my nipple, pulling to the point of pain.
And then his words slam into me like an icy wave. No, not a wave. A cement fucking wall. I can’t decide whether or not I want to laugh or gape at him like an imbecile. I settle for doing both: my mouth hangs open as a strangled laugh escapes me.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.
His smile is coy, devilish, seconds before his lips wrap around my aching breast. His tongue snakes out, circling my nipple before pulling it fully in his mouth. His teeth graze the beaded nub.
“Marry me,” he says again around my boob.
And there’s something in his voice…
Sincerity?
I almost don’t believe it.
Actually, I most definitely don’t believe it. It’s too surreal, too fairytale. A fucking Cinderella story where the prostitute is proposed to by the rich billionaire.
But my story? It has only ever been pain and heartbreak. There's going to be no prince galloping in on a white horse to save the day.
No, this princess, this fucking queen, is going to save herself.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask. His lips leave my breasts and trail down my stomach, pulling the blanket away from my pussy. His tongue slowly and leisurely laps at my slit, and I can’t stop myself from instinctively bucking my hips up to meet his lips.
“Marry me,” he repeats.
“Fucking ridiculous,” I moan as his teeth graze my nub. “Gerald won’t let me go.”
“I’ll take care of him.” There’s such finality in his voice. I don’t know what to think, what to believe. I can’t think that far ahead, not with an orgasm on the brink.
His hand creeps up my stomach, past my breasts, to wrap around my neck. It tightens to the point of pain, and I gasp, my nails immediately digging into his skin. His tongue continues to fuck me relentlessly even as his hand tightens, tightens, tightens.
I should’ve seen what this was. What I was to him. I should’ve realized…
But I was a young girl, and I saw him as a prince instead of a monster. At that moment, with his tongue devouring me and his rough hand around my neck, I say the only thing I can.
“Yes.”
Who knew that I was trading one prison for another?
One monster for one far wors
e.
Chapter 1
Fucking slow ass walkers.
I maneuver the slick walkways, the wind whipping my dark curls around my face. Brushing them away irritatedly, I peer around the bodies in front of me towards the main academic building.
I would be inside the school by now if the couple in front of me would pick up the damn pace. Honestly, slow walkers are worse than bugs. And I hate bugs. Seriously. If you walk slow, you deserve to be plowed down. By a semi truck. Or by me. Either one will suffice.
Same rule applies to all bugs. Those creepy crawlies can slither back to hell where they belong.
Snow pelts my face, and my scarf and jacket ensemble does little to stop the frigid cold. They’re pretty - stylish - but not practical.
Not like the one in my sketchbook.
Finally, finally, I step inside the modest brick building of the community college, ivy snaking down its sides and turrets erected at the top. I flash the couple from hell a glare, which they either don’t see or ignore, before hurrying to my class.
And of course I’m late.
For fuck’s sake.
Slow walking, bitch ass-
“You’re late,” Professor Stone says as soon as I enter.
I wince, squeezing my eyes shut. After a moment, I open up one eyelid and peek at the small class. It’s by far my smallest class size with only about twenty students.
Business Law.
Oh joy.
At least Professor Stone is nice to look at.
Speaking of…
“Sorry,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders. “This couple in front of me was too busy playing kissy face to actually walk. Seriously. It was like going twenty in a fifty-five mile zone.”
Stone’s lips twitch before he smooths his face once more. The man has perfected an impassive front. Impressive, I’ll admit, especially coming from someone who wears a mask daily and hides her pain behind snark.
“Have a seat.” He nods towards my usual table in the back of the room. Professor Stone - or Roman Stone - is a sexy as sin man. Despite teaching an entry level course at the college, he’s dressed in a form-fitting gray suit with darker silver cufflinks. The gray offsets his tanned skin and onyx black hair that’s a few shades darker than even mine.
There’s something incredibly sexy about a man in a suit. And when that man pushes up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms? Swoon.
It’s not even just his ethereal good looks that has me panting like a bitch in heat. It’s his character too. His fucking brain. The man’s smart - a genius, actually. He graduated law school when he was only twenty years old and worked as a defense attorney at the local law firm specializing in criminal law. Why he’s teaching a college level course now remains a mystery.
Not that I’m complaining.
As Stone begins his lecture, even his whiskey-soaked voice can’t hold my attention. Instead, I grab my notebook out of my backpack and turn to the page I was last on.
An intricately colored dress and dark jacket takes up the white page. The neckline dips low into a v, and the skirt cascades around the model’s body. The jacket itself is similar to the one I’m wearing, but fake fur adorns the interior, an idea I got from Cruel Clothing. Much more suitable for the harsh weather than the garbage bag I’m currently wearing.
I am just shading in the jacket when a honey-toned hand drops down on the desk. I jump, heart racing, and stare into the arresting blue gaze of Roman Freaking Stone. Sorry, Professor Stone.
“Am I boring you, Mrs. FaCent?” he asks in that orgasm-inducing voice of his. Honestly, I didn’t believe a voice even could be sexy. Until I heard his. It caresses my skin and heats my core.
Did I imagine it, or did his voice waver on the Mrs.?
“Mallie works,” I say, flashing him a shit-eating grin.
We have had this conversation hundreds of times before.
“Mrs. FaCent,” he repeats darkly. “Am. I. Boring. You?”
The class begins to snicker, and I catch Ashley Last-Name-I-Don’t-Know smiling at me smugly. The pretty bitch has had her eye on our professor since the semester began, and for some reason, she sees me as competition.
Ridiculous, seeing as how I’m married.
Rather unhappily, but married all the same.
I meet Stone’s gaze and brace myself on my forearms, leaning towards him. His eyes darken almost imperceptibly.
“Roman Stone,” I say sweetly. “Is that what you ask all the ladies?”
The class erupts into laughter, but Stone continues to stare at me. Caress me. Undress me. The heat emanating from his eyes is almost palpable.
I believe I’m the only person in the class who can get away with talking to him like that. Hell, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in the fucking world. And…
And I’m pretty sure he likes it.
His gaze lowers towards my still open notebook, and something akin to self-consciousness pierces me. The cocky girl from before dissipates as quickly as she came. Before he can comment, I slam the book closed.
“Won’t happen again,” I say stiffly, and his eyes bounce back up, surprised.
“Please make sure.” With a decisive head bob, he moves back to the front of the room. It takes considerable effort, but I focus on Stone pacing the front of the room as he discusses copyright cases. What asshole would steal an artist’s hard-earned money by placing their work on illegal websites? Wait. A lot.
Fucking assholes.
After a moment, he jumps onto his desk, swinging his legs as he perches on the edge. I’m actually slightly disappointed. Whenever he turned towards the chalkboard - no lie, a chalkboard - I got a delectable view of his plump ass. An ass I very much wanted to squeeze and smack in no particular order.
I’m not the only person upset. All of the girls, and even a few of the guys, pout. Ashley looks as if she’s about to cry, that damn hussy.
Not that I blame her.
My vagina is weeping tears too, thank you very much.
“Don’t forget that for your final paper, you must watch three hours of a court proceeding and write a reflection on it,” Stone says, and the class immediately groans. I actually prefer this over a research paper. I had one last term for my criminal law class, and let’s just say...well...if anyone was to look at my search history, they would think I’m a serial killer.
“On the bright side, I have nothing else for today, so class is dismissed early.” That announcement brings about the usual smiles and whoops as everyone filters out of the classroom. I pack up my bag as well and sling it over my shoulder. Just as I reach the door, there’s a warm touch on my arm, and I stop, glancing over my shoulder to see Stone. “Mallie, if I could have a minute?”
Ashley, who was slowly putting her belongings into her bag in the hopes of Stone noticing her, glares at me. With a dramatic hair toss I only thought existed in movies, she strides out of the door.
“You wanted to see me, Professor?” I ask coyly, leaning against the table in front of him. The movement raises the hem of my skirt, revealing a swath of milky-white thighs. His eyes latch on that glimpse of skin as his tongue wets his lower lip. Clearing his throat, he pulls my latest exam out of his briefcase. It combined both terminology and critical thinking, giving me a metaphorical case I had to solve if I was both the defendant and prosecutor.
A large red A is on the top.
“This is your fifth one-hundred percent,” Stone says. “And out of six exams, that’s pretty damn impressive.”
“Should’ve been six one-hundred percents,” I grumble, still peeved I mixed up two terms on the last exam.
“A ninety-nine is still good,” Stone points out with a small grin.
“One hundred. Ninety-nine.” I wave a hand in the air dismissively. “I feel like there’s a point to this I don’t yet know.”
He takes a step closer to me, and I’m assaulted by his unique citrus scent. I wonder if it’s some sort of cologne or body wash. Maybe it’s his natural scent. Would
it be creepy to ask?
Correction: would it be creepy to inhale deeply and then bottle up his scent and sell it on the black market?
Asking for a friend.
“You have a real knack for law.” His eyes capture and ensnare mine. I’m helpless to look anywhere else. “I took the liberty of looking at your other classes. Criminal law. Constitutional law. Philosophy of law. Have you ever considered a career as a lawyer?”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Oh please. As if I’ll ever be allowed to go to law school. Jared would have my ass.”
I know I said too much when Stone’s eyes darken, this time in anger instead of lust.
“I didn’t know your husband had quite a say over a woman as strong-willed as you,” he says carefully. Slowly. He grazes his eyes over my features, searching for something I know I have to keep buried. Hidden under lock and key in a cement safe miles below earth.
“Well, you know how husbands are,” I say lightly, averting my gaze. His voice is clipped, hard, when he speaks next.
“I can’t say I do.”
“Besides, if I could do anything with my life, it would be designing clothing.” An embarrassed flush erupts on my cheeks before I can stop it. Not that I can stop my body’s natural reaction. I shrug once more, attempting nonchalance. “But law’s cool.”
“Mallie…” I’m so shocked at hearing him say my real name that I don’t stop him from grabbing my wrists. White hot pain blazes up my veins, and I release a whimper, yanking my arms free from his hands. His dark brows furrow as his gaze cautiously roams over me. “What in the…?” Understanding twists his features, and before I can stop him, he has my hand gently between his own.