Page 9 of Game Changer (The Morrison Brothers #3)

"One day at a time. That's all any of us can do."

I would never tell him, but I'm happy to be here.

Happy that beneath the alcohol and pain, glimpses of the old David still emerge.

The thoughtful man who researched children's museums and dinosaur restaurants, who bought a car seat and installed it himself despite shaking hands, who speaks about his mistakes with honesty instead of excuses.

But wanting to see more of that man and being willing to stick around through what comes next are two different things.

I watched my uncle try to quit drinking a dozen times over the years.

The pattern was always the same. Determination, withdrawal, sobriety for a week or two, then relapse, each cycle more devastating than the last.

During those withdrawal periods, he'd become someone else entirely—agitated, sometimes violent, a stranger wearing my uncle's face.

David is only on day two. What happens on day five? Day ten? When the reality of giving up alcohol fully sets in?

I glance at him as he moves closer on the couch, our thighs brushing.

Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, he's still ridiculously handsome: that perfect jawline now clean-shaven, those expressive eyes, the nose I always found oddly endearing, those arched eyebrows that rise when he's surprised or amused.

But what I can't stop looking at are his lips. He used to bite his lower lip when he was nervous, a habit he seems to have outgrown. They look soft, inviting. Delicious.

"Everything alright?" David asks, catching me staring.

"I'm just tired," I fumble, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "It's been an eventful couple of days."

He tilts his head. "I know you well enough to know when you're lying, Mia. You can tell me the truth."

The truth? The truth is that I'm an absolute idiot.

The truth is that I want him to kiss me, to touch me, to make me feel something besides stress and worry for the first time in years.

But I can't say that. I shouldn't even be thinking it.

Not when everything is so complicated, not when my son—our son—is asleep in the next room.

He leans forward slightly, his lips now just inches from mine.

I could close that distance so easily. One small movement and I'd know if he tastes the same as he did five years ago.

But no. If this is going to happen, and it shouldn't, I'm not taking that first step.

He left me. If he wants this, he has to show it.

David ruffles his hair and rubs his eyes, breaking the moment. "Sorry," he mutters.

"Are you okay?" I ask, partly concerned, partly relieved for the interruption.

He laughs softly. "I'm having thoughts I probably shouldn't be having right now."

"If it's about drinking, you can resist it," I say, assuming he means the craving. "Just take it minute by minute if you have to."

His smile turns rueful. "Resisting alcohol is actually easier than resisting what I'm thinking about right now."

My heart stutters. "What are you thinking about?"

"Do you really want to know?" he asks, his voice lower, rougher.

"Tell me," I say. "Or show me."

"I'll show you," he says, and before I can process what's happening, his lips are finally on mine.

Fireworks. Literal fucking fireworks explode behind my eyelids. He's a better kisser than I remembered, his lips softer, tasting of mint. He must have had gum earlier. His hands cup my face gently at first, then with growing confidence as I respond, parting my lips to deepen the kiss.

He kisses like a man starved for touch, for connection. His hands move from my face to my waist, then to my hips, one sliding down to cup my ass. I should stop this. It's too soon, too complicated. My child, our child, is sleeping just down the hall.

But I can't. God help me, I don't want to. I've been alone for so long, carrying the weight of everything by myself. To be touched, to be wanted, to feel desirable again… It's intoxicating.

David pulls back slightly, his breathing ragged.

"Can I..." he starts, his voice deep and gravelly. "Is this okay? Can I keep going?"

I nod, unable to form words, and that's all the permission he needs. Suddenly he's on his knees before me, hands sliding down my legs, fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans. He looks up, seeking final confirmation, and I lift my hips to help him as he slides them down my legs.

I'm self-conscious about my body. Motherhood and stress have added curves where there were none before, but David doesn't seem to notice or care.

He kisses his way up my legs, from ankle to knee to thigh, reverent and thorough.

When he reaches the edge of my panties, he traces the band with one finger.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, his eyes squinted with desire but still seeking consent.

"You're not going to see anything you haven't seen before," I say, attempting humor to mask my nervousness.

He chuckles. "It'll be like our first time all over again."

This David is different. The David I knew five years ago wouldn't have asked permission, wouldn't have taken his time. He certainly wouldn't have dropped to his knees, gently spread my thighs, and looked at me like I was a feast he'd been dreaming of.

But that's exactly what he does now, his big hands gripping my thighs as his mouth finds me. His tongue is relentless, skilled in ways I don't remember, finding spots that make me gasp and arch against him. I'm embarrassingly wet, but he seems to love it, groaning against me as I grip his hair.

When he finally pulls back, gasping for breath, his chin is slick. "I don't want to stop here," he says, "I want all of you."

"I've missed your big dick," I admit, surprising myself with my boldness.

He laughs again, extending his hand to help me up from the couch. I take it, and he leads me not to the guest room, but toward another door I hadn't noticed before—his home office, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city and a plush leather couch against one wall.

The view is incredible, dizzying. Part of me is self-conscious about the possibility of being seen, but another part, a part I'd forgotten existed, is thrilled by it, by the idea of being with him so openly, so completely.

We kiss again, more frantic now, hands pulling at clothing until we're both naked. We pause, taking each other in. He's still magnificent. Broad shoulders, strong chest, tapered waist. His knee bears a wicked scar from a surgery, but it doesn't diminish his beauty.

"You're fucking gorgeous," he breathes, and I believe him because of the way he's looking at me, like I'm a miracle he never expected to find.

He guides me to the leather couch, laying me back against it. "I know you always preferred being on all fours," he says, positioning himself above me. "But this time I want to see your face. I want to watch you come."

Jesus Christ. Who is this man and what has he done with the self-centered boy I used to know? He's so goddamn hot like this. Confident but considerate, taking charge while making sure I'm with him every step of the way.

He strokes himself a few times, his impressive length hard and ready, before positioning himself at my entrance. The first push inside makes us both gasp. It's been so long, but my body remembers his, welcomes him like he belongs there.

"Fuck," he whispers, forehead pressed against mine as he holds still, letting me adjust. "You feel amazing."

He starts to move, slow at first, then with increasing intensity.

His forearms flex on either side of my head as he thrusts, his eyes locked on mine as promised.

One hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing my lower lip before he kisses me again, deep and passionate as his hips maintain their steady rhythm.

The couch creaks beneath us, the leather sticking to my sweaty back, but I couldn't care less. All that matters is the feeling of fullness, of connection, of David moving inside me like he was made for this—for me.

But I want more. I want control. I tap his shoulder, and he immediately stills, concern flashing across his face.

"I want to be on top," I tell him. "I want to look down at you while I ride you."

His eyes darken further. "Fuck yes."

He flips us, hands on my hips to help me straddle him. I sink down onto him slowly, savoring the stretch, the way he fills me completely. His hands move to my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples as I begin to rock against him.

"You're so beautiful," he says, eyes roaming over my body. "So fucking perfect."