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“Breakfast at eight in the dining room, Abigail.” He lifted me from his lap and placed me on the floor. The control was back. “French toast?” I asked, slipping my gown on, wanting to see if any of the Nathaniel I’d just glimpsed remained. “Whatever you prefer.” No. He was gone.
Kissing on the lips wasn’t unnecessary; it was the most necessary thing there was. I could live without air sooner than I could give up the feel of his lips on mine.
