Beautifully Toxic (Toxic Love #1)

by L. M. Roberts

  I feel his erection push against my entrance as he lowers himself to me again. One hand is fisted next to my head as the other is fisting his cock. He gives me a small smile before thrusting until he’s in to the hilt. His hand slaps over my mouth as the pain courses through my whole body and I scream. My teeth clamp down on his finger as the pain continues to travel through my body. When I can hear something other than the blood in my ears, I hear his gravelly voice breathe into my ear.

  “Now you’re full of me,” he grunts.

  And I was—in every sense of the word.

  Chapter One

  Sinclair

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” I say, pushing an unknown man into the wall.

  I’m sorry, but if anyone is going to be feeling up my goodies, it's going to be me. Motherfuckers. I hate it when men think that they can just rub all over you and that you will sit there and take it. Fuck that idea. I am a woman, yes, but that doesn’t give the man a right to put his hands on me like that. I’ll mess a man up first and ask questions later. The only time it’s okay for a man to put their hands on a woman is if their attention is warranted. In this case, it isn’t.

  “Now, what do you say?” I growl to keep from laughing because the man looks like he's about to piss himself.

  Didn't think a little thing like me could take care of herself, huh? Bastard.

  “I-I-I’m sorry, miss,” he stutters, cringing away from me as I settle down closer to him.

  I flick his nose with my pointer finger and grin. “That’s what I thought, lover boy.”

  All the men around me seem to underestimate me. And that is a real fuck you right in the face. It was always the same with them. They thought since I was a female tattoo artist that it would be okay to touch my junk. Well, wrong-o. I wasn’t the type of woman that just sat back while a man made unwanted advances toward me. If I didn’t want their attention, it was simple—you touch me, then a few fingers get broken in the process.

  “Dammit, Sin,” James states with a frown marring his lips.

  I know he secretly wants to laugh, but being the owner of the tattoo shop I work at—Get Inked—he can’t. He has to wear a professional mask, which I will say is total bullshit. It’s his shop, so it should be his rules—not the other way around. But what can you do when you’re nothing but a pushover?

  “What, James? The motherfucker was getting friendly, so I decided to get friendly right back.” I give him my biggest smile and a wink.

  “People are going to stop coming here if you can’t watch yourself, girl,” he groans, rubbing his bald head with his tattooed fingers.

  I giggle. “Aw, poor babies. They can’t stand a little rough play.”

  “Goddammit, Sin, this is my business you’re messing with.”

  The only thing I offer him is a wink before I begin tattooing on a blonde-haired-bimbo co-ed. For the thousandth time today, I have another woman wanting a heart with her beau's name tatted in the center. Gag. There was no way that I would ever tattoo a man's name on me. Besides it being bad luck, it was just plain tacky. It was like you were branding yourself with their name so all other men would know who you belong to. I’m sorry, but no man owns me, which was why the tat on my chest was there. It was there for the whole world to see. Nemo Ligatus Fuero, which means ‘No man binds me.’ It was just as true today as it was the day I got it done.

  By the time I was finished with Blondie’s tattoo, it was close to closing time. Snapping off my gloves, I encouraged her to look in the mirror and see her new masterpiece. I roll my eyes when the woman starts jumping up and down exclaiming that she loves the tattoo and her beau will just love it too. Yeah, I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. It wasn’t the man who should love the piece; it was the person who was wearing it. However, with the women that came in here to get the tattoos, it was never about them. It was always about their man.

  “I’m sure your man will love it, but what do you think?” I ask, walking over to the mirror to stand beside her.

  She rocks her head from side to side as if she’s contemplating it. Bitch, it should be a quick answer; yes, you fucking love it. I’m about to let the verbal bashing commence when I hear the bell over the door ring. Glancing over my shoulder, a smile instantly tried to bloom over my face. Mr. Alexander Pierce—Alex or Pierce for short. He was without a doubt the most handsome man that I have ever seen. He was also the man who ran away from me all those years ago.

  He stood at six-foot-eight—way taller than my five-foot-five height—with sandy-blond hair styled in his infamous fauxhawk, hazel eyes that always seem to look past all the bullshit and see into a person's soul, chiseled features that look like he was made from stone, and muscles… God, the man had some muscles. Even on some of his bad days, he still looks like a linebacker in the NFL. I swear his biceps were almost as big around as my thigh, and I was no skinny bean either. He is just as good-looking today as he was all those years ago, except now he looked more mature and had filled out very well. When I’d thought he was twenty-one, I later found out from my brother Dom that Alex was the same age as my older brother, Chase, who was eighteen at the time. Big mind fuck that was.

  “Hey, Sin,” he sizzles, causing a rush of blood to heat my face.

  Dammit… Only this man can make me blush. And the sad thing about it is, he doesn’t even remember me. I was the little girl that lived next door to him when I was sixteen. He was also the man that left me barefoot and pregnant. Literally. The night after he and I had our fun in the shed, he took off like a bat out of hell. I didn’t know what the hell had happened. I never saw him again, and a month later I found out I was carrying his child. Yeah, it was one fucked-up situation. Nine months later and out popped, Alex Andrew Adams, Triple-A for short. That was when everything changed, and I had to grow up very quickly. If Alex had been there to help me raise his son, then everything would have been better for us.

  “Hey, Pierce,” I mumble, feigning indifference.

  I can’t believe I used to stay up every night and look out my window, waiting for him to get back to his little one-bedroom house. He was my first love, and he didn’t even know who I was. He was the reason I got the tattoo across my chest in the first place. I would never let a man get to me the way he got to me. It was put there as a reminder that I would never lose my head over a man again, especially someone like Alex Pierce. I had responsibilities now, and his son was one of them. But that didn’t mean that my body was on the same page as my head. Even after all these years, and all the pain I went through, my body still thrummed with desire every time I saw him.

  I turn back to the mirror to see him walk over to James’ booth and sit down, removing his shirt in the process. I close my eyes at the sight. Alex has no idea what his body does to the women around him, because if he did, he would keep that shit under wraps. However, he also doesn’t know that his body was my motherfucking kryptonite. I release a sigh of frustration; sometimes I just want to junk punch him for being so goddamned sexy. Just the mere thought of his muscular back, washboard abs, and tribal tattoos swirling around his biceps before coming to a rest on his shoulders drove me abso-fucking-lutely crazy.

  “So, do you like the tattoo?” I ask, opening my eyes.

  I look at the girl to find that she is gaping at the sight of the shirtless Alex. I roll my eyes. “Honey, may want to keep your eyes in your head, or did you already forget the man’s name you just got tattooed on your chest?”

  Her eyes turn back to mine, darkening with fury. “Who are you, the relationship police?”

  I narrow my eyes in return. “No, but I am the person that figures out how much you owe for that lovely tattoo on your barely-there chest.”

  I walk away from her, heading back to my booth. I call out over my shoulder, “That’ll be three hundred, sweet cheeks.”

  After she left, moaning about the cost of the tattoo, I set to cleaning up my station. Since it was almost closing time, I am sure that James would let me
leave early. I was just fine until that asshole came walking through the door. It seems like when he’s around my brain goes to mush, and I can't think for myself. I hate that feeling. It always reminded me of how it was when I was younger. I never knew what he did for a living then, but it must have paid off—considering he was now the CEO of Pierce Security, a company constantly sought after to guard the rich and famous.

  I wish for just one night that he could guard me and see to my every wish. However, that would mean that I would have to drop my badass routine, and that was something that I wasn’t going to do. It didn’t matter if his son and I could use the financial support from him or not. We’ve made it this far on our own, and we will continue to make it by ourselves. The only thing that I hate about this whole clusterfuck is that Alex doesn’t even know that his son is right under his nose.

  If he were to see him, he would end up putting two and two together. There was no doubt about that. The only thing my son got from me was my raven-colored hair; the rest is his father. He was the spitting image of Alex at that age—or at least what I thought he would look like considering my son is only thirteen years old. He was an early bloomer just like me, but instead of breasts and a period, he got muscles upon muscles and scruff lining his jaw.

  Triple-A never went through the awkward phase that most kids did at his age. He was already almost a foot taller than me, and he looked like an eighteen-year-old man instead of a thirteen-year-old boy. It wasn’t fucking fair. His voice seemed to adjust overnight, and he threw out the GI Joe dolls for Playboy mags. It sucked being a single parent—especially to someone that looks like he could be your boyfriend instead of your son. I blame all this shit on Alex’s genetics, and I curse them straight to hell.

  I couldn’t date. I could only hang out with my girlfriends, all of whom needed a constant reminder that Triple-A was my son and not some player that they can use to get their rocks off. Sharon and Dominique were the ones there for me after all that shit went down when I was sixteen. They even stayed with me through the whole pregnancy and were outside the room when I brought Triple-A into the world by myself, crying and yelling at the doctors. I know they do it just for fun, and they do it now because they know how much it bothers me.

  Triple-A is world renowned for turning down cougars left and right, as well as every girl his age. He doesn’t like seeing me with men, and I don’t like seeing him with little bitches whom I know I’m going to have to mess up. So, we came to a mutual understanding. No dating. Period. He is my pride and joy, and I thank God every day that he turned out to have a good head on his shoulders. We are all each other has, and I will walk through Hell and back before I let anything happen to my baby boy.

  Chapter Two

  Alex

  Damn, why is that girl always so hot?

  It didn’t matter what time of the day I come here; she’s always here giving someone a new tattoo. If I weren't such a damn pussy, I would let her give me a tattoo. But then again, I would have to drop my guard and let her touch me. That was something that I was not going to let happen. She was a sweet girl, no matter her take-no-shit attitude, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to stop at just one touch with her. It took everything in me to stop all those years ago. My body would demand that I take her until she had nothing left to give. She thinks I don’t remember her, but I do.

  She was the little sixteen-year-old perv that was always staring out her window at night when I got home from fighting. It was funny as hell to say the least, but how could I ever forget her? She was the reason I looked forward to coming home alone, just so I got a little glimpse of the shy girl standing behind her curtains. She made butterflies flap in my stomach every time, even if I was battered and bruised from fighting. The night that she fell into my arms, I about lost my shit. Just remembering the way her hair blew in the wind and the shy blush that crept up her neck and settled on her cheeks gets me every time.

  That was the night I lost myself. I took her innocence in an utterly barbaric way and didn’t even have the decency to apologize for it. Not that I would have—regardless of the outcome—but it’s nice to think that I would have. That was the only stipulation I had for all the females I was with. If you don’t like it rough, then you’re not looking for what I’m packing. That’s the way I am, and I’m not changing for anyone.

  Sin wasn’t going to break me. That’s why I’d left all those years ago. I knew from the moment my cock tore through her hymen that I was fucking lost, and there was no way I could let that happen. I fought my entire life to get out of my hellhole of a life, and I wasn’t about to get sucked back into caring about someone. Bullshit to that! That was the reason I took up fighting.

  Fighting was my way to get out of the fucked-up situation that I found myself in when I was sixteen. Because I was living with a drugged-out whore of a mother and her then-pimp, I had to do something. The constant fear I lived in was something that no person should ever have to live through. In my case, it went all the way from being burnt by their crack pipes to starving and living in a crappy apartment that had no heat or water.

  From the time I learned to walk, I’d have to go to the local supermarket up the street from our apartment where I’d take a shower and get ready for my day. Some said I was fabricating everything that happened in my life, but I have one thing to say to them—fuck you! No one knows how hard someone else's life is until they live it themselves. And I will be the first to tell you that no one would have wanted to live my life. I lived in constant fear of when the next beating or burning would come or whether I’d get something to eat that day. It was no way for a kid to live.

  I went days without eating and sometimes weeks without showering. Even though I hated my mother, I didn’t want anything to happen to her. I knew she cared more about the drugs than she did me, but I still had to stay and make sure she was all right. Then there was that dreadful night I’ll always remember just like it was yesterday. I came home from one of my fights to show my mother that I’d won close to five thousand dollars. She was lying on the sofa with the needle still in her arm. Damn! I still cringe at the memory of seeing her there—her hazy eyes and the pallor of her skin almost steel gray.

  I’ll admit it; it scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know what to do or who to turn to. She was just lying there and cold to the touch. I remember looking down at the needle still in her arm and seeing the red bloom up underneath her skin. That was the last night I ever cried. When the paramedics finally made it to the apartment, her pimp was already there. He was the nastiest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. His eyes were always bloodshot and his teeth were almost decayed out of his head. To this day, I don’t understand why my mother had ever been with that guy.

  “Hey, dude… Come on back, now.” James’ voice filtered into my thoughts and stopped them.

  I blinked a few times to see that he was looking at me with concern etched on his face. It was then that I felt him move over one of my scars from way back when. I grunt from the pain, but that’s all I let slip past my lips; I’ll be damned if I let anyone see my weaknesses.

  “Yeah, I’m right here with you,” I reply, stretching my neck. “It’s just been a long day.”

  He chuckles. “Well, you could’ve waited for this weekend to finish it up, Pierce.”

  I cluck my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Nah, it needed to be done tonight.” I look over at James to see that he’s shaking his head about something. “Out with it.”

  “You and your schedules, man. To be honest, I don’t know how you do it.”

  I make sure not to shrug the shoulder that he’s working on and reply, “I just do. It’s the way things have to be.”

  James cocks an eyebrow at me but says nothing. Instead, he returns to his work on my shoulder. I’m left sitting there with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and try catching a few peeks of Sinclair. Damn, even her name sounds sexy. I couldn’t tell you the reason I’m so drawn to her. I’d like to say that it’s from gettin
g hit in the head, but I know that lie will never pass. No, she just has so many attributes that attract me to her.

  She's a short little thing, standing just a little north of five feet. Perfect cock sucking height if you ask me. Her raven-color hair hangs down her back in waves of layers, highlighted underneath with purple and pink streaks. Her body… Damn, her body is made for pure sin. She may be short, but she packs her shit well. She has curves in all the right places starting from her double D breasts—with a sternum piercing between them—and ending at her wide hips, showcased in tight-fitting jeans. Her flat stomach is always showcased in a cutoff shirt so her navel piercing can show. She has a tattoo on her left shoulder, that extends down to the crease of her elbow, of a giant red rose surrounded by smaller roses and cheetah print. The cheetah print leads me to believe she's a wildcat between the sheets. Another tattoo runs across the length of her chest with birds that have long-stemmed roses in their beaks and the words Nemo Ligatus Fuero, that I’ve found means ‘No man binds me.’ And the tattoo that makes me weak in the knees every time I catch a glimpse of it, is a feather running over the curve of her hip that begins underneath her jeans.

  She is the epitome of perfection in a lovely, compact package. She always wears heels to make herself appear taller; even still, I tower over her in height. Just looking at her and I feel the need to protect her—like someone is going to hurt the little firecracker while I’m away from her. I’ve never had this reaction to anyone before, and that leads me to believe that she’s trouble—and trouble is the last thing I can afford to have right now. There are certain things I need to do, and with my busy schedule, I just wouldn’t have enough time to give her. She needs someone that can give her all of their attention—for every hour of every day, because she deserves it.

  She may be beautiful, but to me she’s toxic.