Frida

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“Lapping up every last drop, aren’t you?” I ask as she holds me there, swallowing it all before sliding off my length. I’m panting, hands still in her hair, when she peeks up at me. “The champagne was still better,” she says with a demure smile as she licks her lips like the little liar she is.
Reckless (Chestnut Springs, #4)
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