Lana Dicusara

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“Are you cold?” she asked him, and he cleared his throat. “Freezing,” he assured her, and she nodded gravely, reaching up to brush her charmed fingers across his lips. She waited for a moment, drawing the tip of her index finger back and forth along the line of his mouth, until finally his lips parted, his breath warm and tinged with a smoky hint of whisky. “This,” he said, her fingers still hovering above his lips, “is what they call mixed messages, Sasha.” She blinked, startled, and drew her hand away. “Right.” She exhaled. “Right, of course, sorry, I was just, I wasn’t—” “Oh, hell,” Lev ...more
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One for My Enemy
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