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... eft in her world—arms locked, thighs squeezing, breasts pillowed and dragging in that maddening, rhythmic tease.
And soon, when Jack demanded answers, when he saw her walking perfectly fine—no limp, no swelling, no mark at all on that "injured" ankle—she would stammer the same story:
"It twisted... Dexter had to carry me... I couldn’t walk..."
He would look at her flushed cheeks, at the way she avoided his eyes, at the memory (or the rumor) of her body wrapped around mine ...
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