Angelina Quawas

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I sift through her suitcase and find her favorite flannel pajamas, and I amble over, my knee on the mattress. Easily, I slide her legs into the pants and then arms into the top. She does her best to help, but she whacks herself in the face. “I have you,” I whisper. She lets me dress her, and when she’s warm and clothed, she plops back down with a content smile.
Sinful Like Us (Like Us, #5)
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