Whitlee Wayland

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“And blonds aren’t my type.” “I bet I could be your type,” he says in some last-ditch effort to keep me hanging around. “And I bet you couldn’t find my clit even if I pointed it out to you,” I say sweetly, and the bartender snorts. “It’s never going to happen, buddy.”
Hat Trick (D.C. Stars, #4)
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