If You Want Me (Toronto Terror #2) Read Online Helena Hunting

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Forbidden, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Toronto Terror Series by Helena Hunting
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Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 147021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
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Because this…is exactly what I don’t need.

I try not to let any invasive, inappropriate thoughts root. I really do. But my imagination is a giant asshole. Not for the first time, an image forms of Peggy lying in my bed, lip caught between her teeth. Only this time, she’s holding the superhero vibrator. I shake my head to chase it away.

Do I have footage of this stored on my cloud? My self-loathing is immediate and warranted. I let go of the vibrator like it’s on fire. It drops to my bed and lies there. It looks so damn harmless. It’s anything but. The rechargeable silicone device taunts me, a horrifying beacon of untenable hope.

She wants you. I shove that thought back down. That’s impossible. “She’s Roman’s daughter, you fuckhead,” I chastise.

I rub my bottom lip. I can’t afford to indulge in these kinds of fantasies about her again—the kind where I replace the freaking superhero vibrator with my own goddamn body part. It’s bad enough when it’s outside of my control and happens in my dreams. I clench my fists, forcing those traitorous thoughts aside. I want to be wrong. I want this to be a bad joke. But the sheets have been changed. The dark blue ones were on when I left, and these are a lighter blue. They smell like my detergent.

I head for the laundry room. A basket full of towels and bed sheets sits on the floor in front of the machine. My throat tightens as I pick up the towel on top. It’s damp. Did she shower here? Do not picture her naked in your shower.

Under the towel are my navy sheets. For reasons I don’t understand, I pull them out. Maybe to prove I’m wrong? That this scenario I’ve conjured is all in my head? The top sheet is covered in cat fur. Postie and Malone like to burrow under the comforter and nap there like a couple of weirdos.

But then my fist closes around the damp fitted sheet. I frown at the very inconvenient semi tenting the front of the towel wrapped around my waist. My hand lifts without my permission, and I do something I’ll probably regret for the rest of my life. I sniff the sheet.

And my knees nearly buckle.

I catch a hint of Peggy’s distinctive shampoo, a combination of honey, banana, and coconut. But more prominent is a second distinctive scent that underscores what I already know to be true: she used my bed for self-gratification.

“Don’t be a dirtbag.” I angrily pull the previous load out and jam the sheets into the washing machine.

I need to deal with this situation. I set the sheets to wash, start the dryer, and return to my bedroom so I can get dressed. But my erection is excessive and highly inconvenient. Not to mention inappropriate. I need to keep my head on straight when it comes to Roman’s daughter. Wanting her in secret is one thing, but actually entertaining the possibility that we could be anything more than friends is ludicrous. Any man would be lucky to love her, and it can’t be me.

I put on jeans, a shirt, and a hoodie, ignoring my hard-on, then flip open my laptop and pull up the video feeds from the kitty cams. One is aimed at the living room couch, where the cats often nap. The second is on my dresser, focused on my bed. It only records when motion is detected. I’m unsurprised by the footage of my boys doing zoomies. I’m also unsurprised when it picks up Peggy entering my bedroom with the giant banana-duck purse I bought her last year for Christmas slung over her shoulder. I stop the feed immediately, move them both to the trash and hover my finger over the delete forever button. I’m disgusted with myself for even hesitating. I hit delete and close my laptop.

If I can talk to Peggy before the diner, it’ll make this less awkward. I hope. I can even bow out of joining Roman and Peggy. Say something came up. Let them have their time together instead of tagging along. I don’t want to admit to myself that it’s been purposeful. A constant reminder that she’s his pride and joy and whatever feelings I have should be kept to myself.

I send a single message, careful with my phrasing. It’s hers. She knows it. I know it.

Hollis

I think you left something at my place.

The humping dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. This happens half a dozen times before they stop altogether.

It’ll be an uncomfortable conversation, especially when I tell her about the kitty cams, but I can reassure her that any evidence is gone and we’re the only two who will ever know it happened. I grab a gift bag from the closet in the spare room and one of my clean bath sheets, which she’s apparently a fan of, folding it so it’s narrow enough to stuff into the bag. I roll the vibrator inside the towel, turning it into an inedible Maki roll, then stuff it into the gift bag, adding tissue paper to cover the towel.



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