Michael Clifford Smut Novels & Stories

My pulse thudded in my throat. Claire slid off the stool, her heels clicking against the tile. "You really think he’d waste half a million on that dying woman?" Her voice was syrup-sweet, poison underneath. "Face it, Lily. No one wants you. Not even him." Michael’s jaw twitched. "Enough." But Claire wasn’t done. She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something floral, expensive, choking. "You’re pathetic. Running back here like he’d ever—"