His Unknown Babies

His Unknown Babies

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WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing1h 59m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Tue, May 11, 2021
There was something about Madeleine Newman that drew people to her. I guess it didn't hurt that she was attractive; but it was more than that. She was quiet, but not out of painful shyness. It was a reservedness, like a conscious choice to observe the lie of the land before she got involved. Yet she wasn't stand-offish, she remained a friendly face among a sea of anything but. It wasn't like she sat down one day and planned to be like that, it's just the way she was. There was nothing threatening about her, nothing at all. Though, the same couldn't be said for Blake Maxwell. The mysterious guy who people distanced themselves from for self protection. Yet, there was one woman who he would give up his life to protect. He didn't know what it meant but he called it love. Years later, she's back into town with a few extra additions. Read to find out about Blake's journey to Madeleine's heart, the mother of his children.
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A scent. A scar. A slow-burning fucking romance dressed as nostalgia. It started with a fruit. Not love, not sex - a goddamn strawberry. The kind that looks like it's been kissed by every shade of red your childhood never had. He didn't share it. Didn't speak of it. Just tasted it once, and carried the ache ever since. Years later, she walked in - smelling exactly like that forgotten sweetness. Not perfume. Not fantasy. Just... truth. Sharp, quiet, terrifying truth. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers remember me when you least want to. He lied to her face. About himself. About the million ways he'd already started unraveling. But she knew. Women like her always know. She stared at him like sin dressed in judgment - and touched his wrist like she already owned his pulse. And he? He was fucked. Because she wasn't just beautiful. She was red. That memory. That craving. And no matter how much he pretended to be in control - she was already in his bloodstream. This isn't a love story. It's a slow possession. By scent. By memory. By her. And it ends exactly how it starts - with him on his knees, and her smelling like fucking strawberries.

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