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He watched the way the silk fought against the curve of her hip, a tactical disadvantage he was more than happy to exploit.
His thumb hooked into her lace, the tension between them snapping like a high-tension wire in a Santa Ana wind.
The taste of her anger was exactly like a burnt roux—bitter, clinging to the back of my throat, impossible to scrape away.
I watched the way his thumb traced the spine of that first edition, a slow, calloused drag that made my own skin prickle.