Asrar Lydia

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I openly gawk as water drips from his deltoids and the back of his neck. The droplets drift down his spine. His muscles jump beneath his skin as he dries off and gets dressed. “You’re starin,’” he calls idly. I blink rapidly. My hands slice through the water as I move toward the ladder. “How can you tell?”
The Surviving Trace (Surviving Time, #1)
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