Legacy Michener

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“Actually …” He takes a half step forward, herding me back until I’m pressed against the wall and his body is only inches from mine. So tantalizingly close that I smell his masculine scent—cologne, whiskey, and fresh air—and it makes the spot between my thighs ache. “I think I saw some paparazzi right over there.” He jerks his head backward, and I peer over his shoulder.
Broken (Manhattan Ruthless, #1)
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