Lucy acted the part of savoring the end of the meal, but it was difficult. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Michelle answered the door. But I don’t suppose you can understand.
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