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... m slung across Jasmine’s waist. She looked peaceful, but that tank top was riding up, and I remembered her griping once over drinks—how she hated sleeping in her bra, said it dug into her ribs and made her tits ache by morning.
I slid my arms under her—one behind her shoulders, the other under her knees—and lifted her easy, her weight soft and warm against my chest. She mumbled something incoherent, breath hot with wine, but didn’t stir.
"Wonder which room is yours..."
Th ...
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