Deborah Gutteridge

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Grim drags this kind of intimacy from me at every turn. When I want to rush and just feel his skin against mine, he forces me to slow down and absorb the small moments. With my hand still wrapped around his length, I shift to stroke him. Grim’s jaw tics, telling me he’s grinding his teeth, but it still doesn’t spur him into action.
Some Kind of Monster (Friends with the Monsters, #2)
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