BORDEN 2 Read Online Free

and tangible, a fantasy made real. But he never did it. He never got pushed far enough; he was still so well in control of himself, no matter how far off the edge he was.
     
    I hated it.
     
    After he set me down, he kissed me softly on the lips and went back to being normal Borden: hard, sarcastic, serious, but still with that lustful eye when he looked at me. It left me frustrated, and it left me panting. It made me want to question his feelings, and it made me terrified to know the answers.
     
    Things were a bit of a clusterfuck.
     
    Tonight he’d been off. Minutes after the shower, he changed into a pair of sexy faded jeans and a heavy black sweater. He didn’t fix his unruly hair, didn’t decorate his wrist with a watch. I had a feeling that shit was going down, and I wondered what he was up to.
     
    “Get dressed,” he told me, his demeanour relaxed. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
     
    My jaw dropped at the sudden demand. My hair was still dripping from the shower, my skin flushed red, and there was a dampness between my legs I hadn’t found time to properly clean up.
     
    “Can’t I just stay?” I replied, wearily.
     
    He rubbed at his cheek, which was loaded with stubble and about a few days away from a full beard, and turned to me.
     
    “No,” he simply said. “You can’t.”
     
    I narrowed my eyes at him, fuming. “I’m really exhausted, Borden. We had a long day at the office.”
     
    “It wouldn’t have been so long if you hadn’t looked at me like a little hussy,” he replied, smirking at my unimpressed expression. “Next time keep your sex eyes directed to your computer, hmm? Then I wouldn’t have to fuck you so much.”
     
    I pretended to be angry at him and glared. It only made him laugh as he left the room, but even I had to smile at that.
     
    God, I really loved this man.
     
    Still. I was so tired, and the last thing I’d wanted to do was get dragged back to the club, which had practically become my second home. To make matters worse, the office wasn’t particularly soundproof. Now I could hear rowdy screams and shit getting smashed. It wasn’t a normal sound. Whoever was out there was fucking shit up bad.
     
    I kept glancing up at Moustache Man – or Graeme I finally relented to calling him – who was sitting on a chair next to the door with a grip on his gun, and he was tentatively doing whatever he could to avoid making eye contact with me. He didn’t want to talk about why Borden was being a possessive asshole, forcing me to follow him wherever he went. The lead around my puppy dog neck was getting shorter every day and I was slowly losing my sanity.
     
    “I know all about the text,” I muttered to Graeme after I lost against the asshole in New Zealand. “You don’t need to go all weird, you know. You’re a bad actor. You wouldn’t even get the Golden Raspberry award, you’re so bad.”
     
    “I’m just not allowed to discuss it with you, Emma,” he replied, exasperated. We’d gone over this at least a dozen times tonight.
     
    “Why? Because you don’t want to tell me you’re planning on gutting the guy that’s threatening my life and decorating the streets with his guts as warning?”
     
    I was talking out of jest, but the look Graeme shot me was enough to make me shut my trap. He was pissed. Yeah, well, so was I. There was only so much of this being coddled like a baby I could take. It was only natural to get mouthy with the people you were forced to be around 24/7.
     
    “Your humour is too dark for me,” he remarked, shaking his head.
     
    “Well, we all know where I got that from.”
     
    “You’re meant to be a lady.”
     
    “You can remove the girl out of the ghetto, but you can’t remove the ghetto out of the girl. Isn’t that the saying these days?”
     
    “I don’t know what the saying is these days, Emma.”
     
    “Guess you’re just not hip, Graeme. Haven’t endured much hard times to appreciate some dark humour,