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𝑨 𝑴𝑰𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑬𝑳 𝑱𝑨𝑪𝑲𝑺𝑶𝑵 𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑯𝑶𝑹𝑻 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝒀
𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒓𝒂
**MATURE CONTENT - language. possible triggering points. sexual themes.**
IF ANY CONTENT IN THIS BOOK MAKES YO...
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Michael doesn't even remember the drive to Leigh-Anne's apartment. Years from now, he's sure he'll remember this night as a whole—his mouth crushed against hers, conveying just how much he wanted her as he licked the rain off her lips as they stood out in the parking lot before they left to her place.
In present time, Leigh-Anne files blindly through her satchel, searching for her keys. When she finally pulls them out, Michael grabs them and helps her out, opening the door and then proceeding to kick it shut behind them once they both stumble into the dark.
"Please tell me the movers haven't taken your bed yet," he murmurs against her lips as her calves hit the back of the sofa. He really wants to do this with her on a bed, laid out so he can see and taste every inch of her and please her the way she deserves to be pleased.
She smiles against his lips. "You're in luck," she mutters back in response. "The big stuff doesn't get picked up until tomorrow."
He grunts in approval, lifts her up, carries her down the hall, and kicks the bedroom door open.
The smell of Leigh-Anne drowns his senses. Lavender and freshly-washed linen—it smells like the only home he ever wants to know.
Upon setting her down near the bed, Michael spots a stack of her favorite printed out photos against the wall. The black and white photo of the day Jermaine had come home from Afghanistan catches his eye.
The seconds it had taken for his brother to walk out of that airport terminal to where Michael stood waiting had felt like hours. But Leigh-Anne had caught the exact moment they'd been reunited in that very picture.
A moment neither of them had gotten with their father.
Michael stares at the frozen memory. His arms are wrapped around Jermaine, his face buried in his shoulder, being careful of the sling that cradles his brother's broken arm. Jermaine came home alive, but he wasn't the Jermaine he grew up with, no matter how much he looks like himself in that photo.
No, it's taken a fuck load of therapy and even more time to get his brother back to being even a fraction of who he used to be.
'Is that what it'll be like with Leigh-Anne? Will the things she sees over in Sudan scar her? Ruin her?' He can't stand the thought of her being anything other than the vibrant, loving woman who's pushing his shirt up his chest in this very moment. When the shirt reaches his neck, he jerks it over his head and tosses it to the floor.
"Are you okay?" Leigh-Anne blinks up at him, her long lashes framing her eyes. Cheeks flushed. Lush, plump lips swollen from their frenzied kissing. Her kinked, dark hair is still high up in a ponytail.
He touches her cheek, and she smiles, leaning into his hand. He never thought he was capable of loving someone as much as he loves her, but he does—he loves her so much it fucking hurts.
