Make Me Stay (Safe Harbor #2) Read Online Annabeth Albert

Categories Genre: BDSM, Contemporary, Erotic, M-M Romance Tags Authors: Series: Safe Harbor Series by Annabeth Albert

Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)

Roommate Not Wanted

I’m a forty-year-old homeowner and former detective. My friends think a roommate is the solution to my recent funk, but I know that’s the last thing I need.

And even if they’re right, sharing my home with Cal is a bad idea. The prickly SEAL rescue diver has muscles for miles, haunted eyes, a wounded soul, and wandering feet that won’t be happy for long in Safe Harbor. Yet those fathoms-deep blue eyes have me making an offer I’ll surely regret.

Our arrangement may be doomed, but Cal is an amazing roommate. We’re soon cooking my mom’s favorite recipes, watching terrible TV, accidentally cuddling, and trying not to cross the line from friendship to fling.
Until I discover Cal’s sexy secret.

Boundaries blur, and I forget I’m not supposed to fall for Cal. Every kiss, touch, and discovery we make together pulls us deeper until there’s no denying our feelings.

I want nothing more than to keep Cal in town, in my bed, and in my heart, but Cal seems destined to swim back to his solo ways.

Can I bear to let him go, or will our love make him stay forever?

MAKE ME STAY is a hurt/comfort roommates-to-lovers MM romance. It features two mature, wounded heroes, disability rep, a proud pansexual, a SEAL having a demisexual awakening, and sexy discoveries involving rope. Deep feels, dual point-of-view, and big fluffy HEA guaranteed.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter One


“Come on, come on. I have a case to solve.” Fingers drumming on the steering wheel, I glared at the ancient, plodding RV in front of me. This country road led into the state park that surrounded the nearby lake. Tourists were a given, even in early spring, but I had no patience that morning. The sun was out after a long, long winter, and it was exactly warm enough to crack the windows and blast one of my favorite classic rock songs. My zippy Mustang was itching to take these curves at something other than tortoise pace. The curves, however, meant I had to wait for a passing lane to open up. Torture.

“Move. Faster. At least go forty,” I bargained with the RV, which predictably went slower, not faster. I shook my head, mentally cursing the driver to a damp campsite and poor hookups. “Tourists.”

Finally, a passing lane opened, and the second it was safe to do so, I zoomed around the RV. However, as I prepared to slide in front of the RV, a squirrel darted out from the dense green foliage, and I had to swerve far sharper than I’d intended. As a result, I nearly cut the RV off and undoubtedly looked like an asshole trying to make a point rather than a dude who preferred not to flatten a squirrel.

The RV honked twice as if to show how doubly perturbed the senior citizen driver was. At least, I presumed it was someone older, out on a scenic drive. It was hard to tell from a fast glance at the driver’s side. A dusty and battered ball cap pulled low was the main thing I’d noted.

“Whatever.” Eager to leave the irritating RV behind, I sped to the lake. The dense foliage continued as the road narrowed past tiny clapboard cabins ringing the eastern shore of the lake and huge hills of evergreen trees behind the row of little houses. The skinny, barely maintained road led past the public swimming area and several docks that would see far more use in the summer months. The eastern side of the lake—complete with cabins, a community center, Adirondack chairs, and volleyball courts—was a popular family retreat despite being in Middle of Nowhere, Oregon. The nearest town, Safe Harbor, was over a half-hour away, and we were hardly a metropolis.

Past a grove of haphazardly laid out picnic tables, warning signs started cropping up about deep water and steep drop-offs. The way more dangerous western side of the lake had an irresistible pull over local daredevil teens drawn to legends about the old timber railroad and wrecked train engine under this portion of the lake. Safety concerns about the dam that had created the lake in the fifties further added to the intrigue. And even the limited parking along the western shoreline wasn’t enough to discourage thrill seekers.

But I was forty, not sixteen, and despite my need for speed, I wasn’t out to catch an adrenaline rush. I was here in pursuit of answers for a twenty-year-old cold case surrounding the disappearance of the mother of one of my high school friends. My friend Monroe and I had traced a serial killer to one of these very idyllic lake cabins that fateful summer, long before his first known victim. Both of us were professional investigators, but our personal interest in this case had driven us to spend long hours analyzing interviews with the killer, who spoke almost exclusively in movie quotes.

All signs pointed to the possibility of answers being under the lake, so here I was, impatient and ready to find out if our hunches were correct. I found the most level place to park near the designated meeting spot, but getting my chair set was tricky. The mix of gravel, dirt, and old asphalt was hell on my tires and made me glad I’d packed my wheelchair gloves for better grip.

“Sorry.” Monroe hurried over, looking flawless as ever in a polo and pressed khakis. “I should have thought more about accessibility issues here at the lake. Maybe—”

“I’m fine.” I waved his concern off with a flick of my wrist. “And I love the smell of potential evidence in the morning. Wouldn’t miss this.”

“Ha.” Monroe shook his head at me. “Don’t you ever run out of bad jokes?”

All the damn time. “Nope.”

And if it kept Monroe and others from dwelling on accessibility issues and limitations, well, I’d keep right on rolling with the same class-clown routine that had served me well for over thirty years now. I’d discovered laughter hurt less if you laughed first yourself.

But this time, I must not have smiled widely enough or something because Monroe narrowed his eyes, gaze going sharp, exposing all his years as an NCIS investigator.

“Maybe Knox is right.” His tone was thoughtful. Too thoughtful.