Michelle Johnson

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He tasted of nothing but clean, just water and skin, and I was an animal, wanting to lick his salt from my fingers, put my teeth to his throat. He came quickly in a jet of heat, with a sweet, piercing cry, his head falling back and his trapped wrist straining against my grip like his body had arched under mine when I’d fucked him a few nights back.
Waiting for the Flood (Spires, #2)
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