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The weight of the mountain air was nothing compared to the way his hand felt against the small of my back, searing through the spandex.
I’ve written five hundred sex scenes, Nolan, but I couldn’t have plotted the specific, heavy way you moved your thumb against my hip.
His hand was a hot, calloused weight against my lower back, a direct violation of the three-foot rule we’d both signed off on.
The flour was everywhere, a fine white dust coating the dark wood of the island and the sweat-slicked curve of her inner thigh.