Nola Christian

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Meanwhile, I wince at the sharp ping of the elastic on my wrist because her wrists are not made to be pinned to my bed. Thwap! I do it once more because I’m looking at her arse again. This time, the bright-blue rubber snaps. Was it a sign? Probably. A sign that I’m going to need a lot more rubber bands.
The Interview (The Whittingtons, #1)
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