Sara Smith

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Sasha’s eyes may have been the color of ice, but all I felt was blazing lust when he looked at me. It radiated from his gaze, the hand in my hair, every thrust of his hips. No one had ever looked at me like that, like the sun rose and fucking set with me. It was thrilling, empowering. He wanted this — he wanted me. Bad.
The Kidnapping of Roan Sinclair
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