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... rnating between the Wellington and the sides, chasing it all down with a gulp of claret that made his cheeks flush warm.
He was halfway through the pudding by the time he finally slowed, slumping back in his chair with a groan.
"Gods above..." he muttered, patting his stomach. His belly strained against the fabric of Meical’s shirt, round and full, and he swore he could feel it pressing against the table.
"I think I’m about to explode."
Meical’s gaze dipped, linge ...
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