Larkspur Quinn

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Right this moment, he was entertaining a quite vivid fantasy of unwinding that knot in her hair, stripping that drab linen from her body, peeling away any layers of modesty beneath . . . and leaving those spectacles on. So she’d see him. So she’d know just who was making her twist and pant and moan with pleasure. So she’d watch each and every wince of pleasure on his face as he pushed into—
A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove, #2)
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