Victoria Root

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Cal locks eyes with me for a beat, almost like a plea for permission. Consent to breach this delicate wall of intimacy and trust. Releasing the breath I’ve been clinging to, I give him a small nod. And then the warm rag is traveling up my leg, knee to thigh, gently dabbing and washing. Cleaning me. Taking care of me.
A Pessimist's Guide to Love (Heartsong, #2)
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