Wild Wicked Obsession (Hyde #5) Read Online Layla Frost

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Hyde Series by Layla Frost
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Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
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“That’s my good girl…”
She was a good girl.
I wanted to make her my good girl.
Joss Lennon was shy. Sweeter than any baked good. Outta my league.
Her life was cupcakes, hand turkeys, and working too many hours to pay the mortgage her ex-fiance dumped on her. Mine was strip club drama, breaking hands, and working too many hours to fix the dumpster fire my cousin left me. I had no business sniffing around Joss. No business wondering about her pent-up wild. It would be selfish to drag her into my wicked.
That wasn’t gonna stop me.
‘Cause, truth be told, I’d been addicted to Joss since the first smile. I didn’t care how much time it took, I was making her mine and never letting go.
Except when it came to the pretty kindergarten teacher… I wasn’t the only one with a growing obsession.

FULL BOOK START HERE:

Prologue

Joss

One Year Ago

PLEASE, DON’T BE bad.

Please.

Like, the most please with a brick finish, repurposed wood detailing, and a cherry on top.

But when the mortgage broker handed me a paper with the estimated closing cost breakdown and monthly payments, I saw the cost of my dream home wasn’t simply bad.

It was worse.

So much worse.

Disappointment filled me as I blinked at the number, silently pleading for some of the pesky digits at the end to drop away. When it remained the same, the layer of resentment that hovered around me grew thicker, pressing in.

I’d told Peter I didn’t want to see the house.

I’d told him it was out of my budget.

I’d told him I didn’t want to fall in love with something I couldn’t have.

But I might as well have been talking to the beautifully rustic brick finish.

Because Peter was… well, Peter about it. He’d made the showing appointment without telling me. Then he’d claimed to be taking me to lunch but instead we went to said showing. Because, according to him, I was being irrational for not going to see it.

He didn’t get it. If I never saw it in person, I could pretend there was some massive flaw. Maybe the paint was faded. Maybe the listing photos were taken at deceiving angles to make it look bigger. Maybe there was water damage, a permanent smoke stench, and rats.

But thanks to his heavy-handedness, I had seen it. And it’d been as spacious and gorgeous as the undeceiving pictures had shown—more so, maybe. No damage. No flaws. No rats.

Not one measly cobweb.

Nothing but perfection.

Just as I’d feared, I’d fallen in love. The house was everything I’d ever wanted and then some.

Or should I say, and then sum.

As in a huge sum of cash.

Like he sensed my crushing disappointment and internal freak out, my fiancé leaned closer to whisper, “We can afford this.”

I so couldn’t. Even using my inheritance from my grandparents to cover closing costs and a sizeable down payment, the numbers staring at me were daunting.

“This is almost my entire monthly salary,” I pointed out.

“We can do it.”

“Take some time to think it over,” the broker said, his tone and expression doing little to hide his boredom. He likely saw similar scenarios all day long. “But you should know, it’s a seller’s market right now. Good houses are going fast. If you want it, let Martina know soon.”

I wanted it.

I wanted it so bad.

The gorgeous house was outside the city but still had all the traditional charm Boston was known for. It was big enough for us to grow into, with a yard and so much space.

It was a stark contrast to our shoebox of an apartment with barely enough room to move around without feeling on top of each other—and not in a good way. The tiny patches of weeds that grew between the cracks in the sidewalk were as close to a lawn as we had.

Standing, I shook the broker’s hand before gathering the papers, my coffee, and bag. The entire time, my thoughts raced.

On one hand, I knew I couldn’t afford the place. I knew it.

On the other, I wanted it.

Desperately.

So badly, my brain refused to accept the truth. Illogical regret squeezed my stomach as I thought about every impulse purchase I’d ever made, no matter how small. Because, sure, not splurging on that one dinner three years ago would totally have made a difference.

My head was a mess of numbers and budgets and ideas to scrimp and save, but it was pointless. It wasn’t as if I had a couple hundred grand stuffed between my couch cushions like lost loose change.

Once we were in Peter’s car, he turned to me and smiled. “Call Martina.” When I didn’t move, he pushed, “What’re you waiting for?”

A miracle windfall.

He glanced in the rearview mirror and fixed his already perfectly groomed blond hair. “Hun, we can do this. It’s perfect timing. We can move, decorate, even remodel the bathroom and kitchen before the wedding.”


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