Walker stopped right behind me, and when I looked over my shoulder—once I could draw breath again—I caught him staring at my ass. “Are you looking up my dress, Sheriff? I’m going to have to call the authorities.” He strolled over like he had all the time in the world, and ran a hand down the curve of my spine and over my ass. “You should definitely call the authorities,” he murmured. He bit his lip, the points of his fangs dragging at the slightly pale flesh, reminding me that I’d fed from him and then made him drag me across the Canadian wilderness like a packhorse. Or a donkey. But he did
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