Perfectly Toxic (Sterling Shore 9)

My eyes move up again just as a slow smile spreads across his face. His eyebrows bounce as he tilts his head to the

right.

“See? There were these two girls in my room, and—”

“On second thought,” I interrupt, “let me rephrase the question. What did this?”

I wish I could just read the damn chart.

“A crazy bitch with a broken beer bottle,” he answers with a careless shrug.

Yep. He’s the example of the bad boy all misguided girls think is sexy. Bad boys look sexy. Bad boys seem sexy. We all want a bad boy… Until they live up to their name and cheat, lie, or steal.

So I have no pity for him or the girl whose heart he broke. She had to have seen it coming. You can’t buy a snake and be surprised when it bites.

I used to be that girl. Not anymore. At least I’m trying hard not to be that girl anymore, I should say. Doesn’t make me immune.

Stupid body.

Shaking off the thoughts, I pull on my gloves, happy for the latex layer between us. “I assume you’re not allergic to latex,” I say sweetly, even smiling as I lay out the double entendre, while also asking the question required by law.

“No glove, no love, baby,” he says, winking at me.

“My name is Bella. Not baby.”

His grin widens. “Short for Isabella? Got you a sparkly vampire boy at home?”

I groan, sick of those kinds of jokes. “Way to be original. It’s short for Belladonna.”

His smile falters. “As in the pretty but toxic plant?”

This time, I wink. “Belladonna, as in the Atropa belladonna or the deadly nightshade,” I elaborate, but then I hear the words aloud and cringe. That sounds annoyingly pompous to my own ears.

I sit down and start working my way through the process of cleaning his wound. Am I imagining I’m in front of my late grandfather instead of him? Definitely. It’s working too, because my hands are steady and I’m really disgusted to be this close to the money shot.

“You can move your hand up a little higher,” he says, causing me to lift my eyes and shattering that whole grandfather illusion I had going on.

That damn cocky smirk of his is only boiling my blood—in numerous ways. But I continue to remain the picture of composure. Okay, that’s a lie, but I attempt it.

“Gee,” I say dryly, “use that line often?”

Using the gauze, I press down on the wound harder than necessary, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. Talk about pain tolerance.

“Usually when a girl has me out of my boxers, we’re past the point of me using any lines.”

He stares at me, biting down on his lower lip, and I swear he looks even smugger. What an ass—Hold up. What did he just say?

“Why did you take your boxers off?” I hiss, looking around like someone might see us even though we’re shielded in the private exam room.

My eyes dart back to his leg as I work quicker, needing him out of here.

“They said to strip and put on the gown. I was just obeying orders. I’m a good boy like that.”

Good boy my ass. He reeks of sex and trouble. He’s exactly my type—the type I hate myself for wanting. The type that comes with a warning label: Don’t trust me. I will slice your heart to pieces and sell those pieces to the highest bidder.

Why is this an issue for me? Hell if I know. Everyone has their vices. Meet mine.

He needs to go.