Stroker (Big Bull Mechanics #2) Read Online K.M. Neuhold

Categories Genre: M-M Romance, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Big Bull Mechanics Series by K.M. Neuhold

Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)


Is there an easy way to tell your lifelong best friend that you secretly married his brother eight years ago? Asking for a friend…
When Gates shows up needing a place to crash , I offer him my spare room. Whatever happened between us nearly a decade ago is water under the bridge. I don’t lie awake at night wondering what could have been. Nope, definitely not.
But Gates seems determined to get a rise out of me. He’s tie-dyed all my clothes, removed my bedroom door, and replaced my hand soap with lube. I’m not sure if he’s hoping I’ll kick him out or kill him, but he won’t break me that easily.
When he tells me his Stroker Rod is broken… What kind of mechanic am I if I don’t get hands-on with his problem?
We put our feelings behind us a long time ago, and there’s no way I’ll let Gates break my heart again. No amount of fiddling under the hood will fix everything broken between us. From here on out, it’s purely physical. Right?
Yup, just a couple of guys and their stroker rods.

Full Book:




My heart and my mind both race with indecision in spite of the fact that there’s no doubt about the outcome. The room is nearly pitch dark, the only light comes through the small gap between the curtains, letting in the neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip just outside.

Tallahassee snores evenly, tucked onto one side of the bed, leaving room for me to change my mind and crawl back into my side without him ever knowing I got up to leave. My throat constricts and I glance towards the door while I absently drag my thumb along the smooth metal of the ring we picked up a few hours ago. Fuck, was it that recently? It feels like a different lifetime.

The fingers on my other hand twitch, inadvertently crumpling the piece of paper I’m holding. I glance down at it, the sweat from my palm making the letters smudge. Who writes a Dear John letter on hotel stationary? My throat tightens again, and I swallow roughly. It’s not really a Dear John letter though, is it? That would only count if we were dating.

Nope, you’re not dating, you’re married, dumbass.

“Not helpful,” I mutter quietly to myself before reaching up to pinch the bridge of my nose.

I should have said no when Tallahassee came up with the stupid, drunken idea to get married tonight. He kept saying it would be funny, but “funny for who” is what I should have asked, because I’m not feeling particularly amused right now.

Of course, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make impulsive, dumbass decisions on the regular. The only difference with this particular idiocy is that I can’t call my brother to bail me out. I stifle the manic sort of laughter that rises up in my chest. Now that would be a fucking text to send right now.

Hey, you’re probably still balls deep in that pretty drag queen you said you were going home with, but I married your best friend on a lark. Help? Oh, PS, we’ve been fucking for years whenever I’m in town, even though you asked me to never fuck your friends. Anyway, happy birthday!

I groan quietly. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me? No one should make this many shitty decisions in their life. If there was a Stupidity Olympics, I’d take home the gold every damn time.

I take a deep breath and look at the note in my hand again. I’m not really running out on him. Since we were all kids, I always said I wanted to get out of Wisconsin and stretch my wings. I was out the door on my eighteenth birthday, and I’ve been hopping around ever since. I leave and I come back, it’s what I do.

When I blew back into town two years ago after a particularly messy breakup in Florida, I just needed a place to crash and collect myself for a few weeks. I definitely didn’t plan to start hooking up with Tallahassee. It just sort of…happened. And then it happened again the next time I came home, and the next, and before I knew it, falling into his bed was just sort of a given when I was in Wisconsin…or whenever I managed to talk him into coming out to wherever I was staying.

That’s the story of my life: make a decision without thinking about the consequences, become horrified by the consequences, bolt, repeat.

Except the only thing horrifying about what’s happened with him is that I really fucking like him.

I inch closer to his side of the bed, trying to imagine a world where I tear the note up and climb back in next to him, and then go back to Wisconsin with him tomorrow morning and start some domestic fantasy of a life. My chest pangs at the idea, a deeply buried part of myself begging me to do just that.