she fell back on the mound of clothes, burrowing into the loamy softness of her husband’s worn cotton, his faded denims, and his threadbare tweeds. A strange warmth suffused the weave of the fabric, still lively with him, and so she dug deeper, pressing her face into the collars and pockets and sleeves, teasing out a whiff of smoke and whiskey—lingering nightclub scents that reminded her of the very first time he’d placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her and they’d kissed. She shivered with the memory. The sensation of scratchy wool and soft flannel felt so good against her skin, and
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