Accidental Attachment Read Online Max Monroe

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Funny Tags Authors: Max Monroe Advertisement1

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Skin tingling, I jerk my back into a straight line, and the ringing in my ears turns to a high-pitched squeal from listening so hard. I know it’s wrong on every human level, and yet, I can’t turn the stupid things off. They’re like heat-seeking missiles, bound for any sound that can turn me on.

Stop listening. Focus on something. Anything else but that shower.

My ears ignore the rational side of my brain and appear to have formed some kind of kinship with my dick.

Brooke moans again, and I am so fixated on what’s happening inside that shower that I can practically feel it through the thin material of the wall.

Sweet Jesus.

My instincts warring with my humanity, I find it somewhere in the depths of myself to stand. My legs are shaky to the point of wobbly, and it’s everything I can do to stumble my way out of the dining booth, across the short distance of the living room area, and out the side door, into the clammy, cold air of the great outdoors.

Manuscript and work to do—forgotten.

I take three deep breaths to focus all the oxygen in the air toward my brain and will my legs to carry me even farther, away from the motor home to the picnic table on the other side of our campsite.

I don’t know what part of my life made me as naïve as I clearly am, but this very simple problem on the first night of our trip has enlightened me to the deep shit I’m practically drowning in.

Three weeks. Three weeks of living this closely with her—of fighting my dick’s urge to invade Brooke’s every personal moment.

I’d like to pretend I had no idea I would even consider a sexual attraction to Brooke, a woman whom I’m responsible for maintaining a professional relationship with. But the truth is, I’m not that good of a liar even to myself. I read every word of Accidental Attachment as though she were River and Clive were me.

Every lick, every stroke, every touch and kiss—I imagined them happening between two people who look a hell of a lot like us. I told myself it was a natural thing, with Brooke being as beautiful and likable and relatable as she is and having physical attributes that are similar to the character of River. But after my unconscious behavior tonight, I’m afraid it might be a little more complex than I was keen to admit.

Fuuuuuck.

Scrubbing my hands over my face roughly, I pace the trimmed grass on the far side of the picnic table with mania motivating the quickness of my steps.

I mean, this isn’t that big of a deal, right?

I’m making it out to be some gargantuan thing, but in reality, I’m a grown man with almost zero control issues. Just because I think something, doesn’t mean I’m going to act on it. I can separate the two easily.

And we’re not going to be alone all the time. It’ll probably be hardly any time at all, really. It’s a publicity tour, for God’s sake. The whole point is to shove Brooke in front of her rabid fan base and addicted readers at every opportunity. Tonight’s an outlier. Everything’s just getting started, and the two of us are still figuring out the logistics. I’ll just get a routine together where I make a habit of leaving while she’s in the shower, is all. Simple.

The trill of my ringtone sounds in my pocket, so I pull it out while still muttering to myself and answer without looking at the screen. Any distraction is surely a good distraction at this point.

“Hello?”

“Chase,” the caller breathes seductively, all the air in her body seemingly trapped inside her lungs. I recognize the voice right away, but that shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s the voice I heard say my name for nearly eight years.

You call this a good distraction?

Apparently, naïveté can strike more than once.

“Caroline,” I greet back through terse teeth. I can’t flipping believe I didn’t look at the caller ID on this one. And I thought I was in pain before; compared to this torture, blue balls and a stomach pitted with uncertainty are nirvana.

“Chase, baby, I miss you so fucking mush.”

The slur at the end of her statement is jarring and expected all at the same time. The last I’d heard, she was back on the wagon—but I don’t normally get phone calls from the sober version of her either.

“Caroline,” I say through a rough sigh, a knot lodging itself in my throat. It’s not because I’m upset so much as my body has adapted to keep me from saying the stuff that’ll end up making me feel like a sack of shit later. But this whole scene…believe me, it’s tired. Three fucking years, and it’s still not done.

“I can’t stop thinkings about you,” she whispers, allure in her voice.


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