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over the past week. He now planned ahead enough to use protection against pregnancy. Still, their joining had been nearly spiritual. Somehow she always sensed what he needed: slow sweetness or fast careening. Or was he sensing her needs? |
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He was beginning to think like her, damn it! He'd had enough. She wasn't going to find those journals, and even if she did, they couldn't serve the purpose she wanted. So why didn't she just cut it out? |
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He turned out the light around midnight, but sleep didn't come. There was no noise from next door. How could she sleep with him lying there so miserable? So much for the myth of her sensing what he felt. If she did, she would know |
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He saw the faint glow of light from the hall as his door opened. It closed. The edge of the bed sagged a little with Abby's slight weight, and then he felt her warmth just inches away. She smelled of cinnamon and potpourri. |
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"Mike?" Her whisper was hardly louder than a breath. "Are you awake?" |
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With a low growl, he pulled her to him. For the first time he failed to be gentle, but her eager response, the way she moaned aloud and raked her nails down his back, told him that she wanted nothing different. She bucked beneath him when he entered her, and the intensity of the sensations centered in the place of their joining soon made her gasp with pleasure. The sound, coupled with the feeling of her throbbing release, sent him spinning into his own crescendo. |
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