The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. "I yield to fate. Walking into the bedroom, she quickly shed the miniskirt and sweater, folding them without ceremony. ‘Where’s the sense in running away?’ ‘Doesn’t trust me,’ Gerald said briefly. She struggled not to be afraid. " "Is this your notable scheme!" asked the knight, scornfully. "But I can guess what it's for. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness.
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