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His touch through the thin fabric—one finger, then two, pressing against the heat of her with the same precision that characterized his cooking and his conversation and every other thing he seemed to do—and she felt how ’wet’ she was, felt it with humiliation, the fabric damp and hot and giving nothing away about dignity at all.
Viktor’s mouth pulled back from hers just enough to look at her face.
She turned her head.
"Don’t—" she managed.
He pressed again, t ...
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