Thalasa  Ashcombe

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“Are you close?” he asks, and I jerk a nod. He arches a brow, looking down at me like he hates me, but there’s a soft affection in his eyes. “Are you going to say my name when you come?” Another pulse of heat between my legs. I’m soaking wet. “I don’t know. Maybe.” “Wrong.” His jaw tightens. “You’ll say it. Without a doubt.”
Behind the Net (Vancouver Storm, #1)
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