Romance: TOXIC (Forbidden, Pregnancy, Taboo Romance, Stepbrother Romance, New Adult Short Stories) Read Online Free PDF Page B

would’ve placed his age at about 25.
    Whatever my misgivings about letting him in, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.. Stepping forward, I directed him to the living room.
    “In here. You can sleep on the couch. Don’t make any noise, and don’t go outside until I say it’s okay. I want you out of here in two days, tops, okay?”
    He nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”
    “Do you have a name?” I asked, after a pause. I was reluctant to leave him just yet.
    “Gabriel. And yours?”
    “Officer David Felton.”
    His eyes widened. “You’re a cop?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then why are you letting me stay?”
    “I think it’s best that you don’t make me think about that too hard,” I replied. “You want something to eat?”
    “No, no, really, I will wait until I can get out by myself. I don’t want to be any trouble.” He shook his head, sitting down on the couch and shaking off his jacket.
    “Come on, eat something. The last thing I want is you getting ill while you’re here.” I snapped, walking through to the kitchen. The urge to protect him and look after him was overwhelming; white saviour complex , they’d have called it in a psychology paper. My brain was conflicted; I didn’t want him to stay, but I didn’t want him to leave, either. Pulling out some bread, I made us a round of bacon sandwiches, serving them on separate plates.
    “Sorry it’s not any of your burrito-taco-diarrhea food,” I said as I handed him his food.
    He looked at me as I walked round the couch, eyebrows raised. “I know what a bacon sandwich is, David.” His English was surprisingly good for an illegal immigrant. It was time to revise my assumptions, I supposed.
    I shrugged grumpily, taking a large bite of my sandwich. “Whatever. Just eat.”
    After he was done eating, I showed him to the bathroom and insisted that he bathe. I didn’t want a filthy immigrant, however good-looking, living in such close quarters with me, for however short a while.
    He stepped out of the shower with just a towel around his waist, and I checked out his abs rather shamelessly. Boy, he had a delicious body.
    Delicious body or not, I didn’t sleep as restfully that night as I usually did, my brain thrumming with the knowledge that an illegally gorgeous (and illegal) stranger was sleeping under my roof. I woke up to go check on him at least three times, afraid he would make off with some of my stuff. But I found him peacefully asleep every time. He didn’t even register that someone was shuffling around him.
    It amazed me that he trusted a complete stranger in a foreign country enough to just go to sleep in his house.
     
    The next two days went by in a strange, quiet sort of domesticity. I’d come down the stairs in the morning to find him leafing through my books, an English –Spanish dictionary next to him as he ploughed through Stephen King and Ray Bradbury and all the other American classics I had on my bookshelf. I didn’t like people touching my books, and illegal Mexican immigrants definitely didn’t feature in my list of ideal book borrowers, but I knew already that it was beyond me to deny him anything.
    When his third morning came, he didn’t bring up the possibility of leaving and neither did I. I would go out to work in the morning, and he would clean the house and read during the day. We would talk about my books when I got home, and I would cook us up a meal of something delicious and unhealthy
    We gradually, carefully, began to open up to each other, one little secret at a time. He had come to America on a whim, because he didn’t want to be stuck in his small rural Mexican town any longer. I told him about my parents and how they had died in a subway accident, my brother and how he had gone hiking to Europe and never came back.
    He was extremely intelligent, and followed arguments easily. Thanks to his stay with me, his accent was increasingly losing its Mexican touch and sounding more, well, American. Unwittingly, I