“Don’t be a gentleman right now.” She pronounced the word gentleman like idiot. “We might not have time for an entire book.” “Don’t say that,” he managed, mouth dry. “Please don’t say that.” Sasha leaned forward, lips against his cheek. “Write me a tragedy, Lev Fedorov,” she whispered to him. “Write me a litany of sins. Write me a plague of devastation. Write me lonely, write me wanting, write me shattered and fearful and lost. Then write me finding myself in your arms, if only for a night, and then write it again. Write it over and over, Lev, until we both know the pages by heart. Isn’t that
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