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“I know my favorite,” Sophia said, feeling mischievous as she only ever did with Max, her beautiful cop.
He looked up. “What?”
“This.” Sliding her fingers into the silky black of his hair, she surprised him by claiming his mouth again. Once, touch had meant pain, meant violation. With Max, it equaled only pleasure, that pleasure far beyond the physical. The way he shared his soul with her, no secrets between them, the way he treated her as his partner, the way he saw beauty and strength in the fine tracery of scars that marked her face…it made her his. Utterly and absolutely.
“God, you are so in trouble.” His breath uneven, Max slid the hand on her leg to between her thighs, callused fingers spreading against skin so sensitive, the mere brush of his jaw over it earlier that morning had made her tremble.
Afficher en entierSunday—you and me. No cell phones, no messages, no world-altering events. If anyone needs either one of us, they can damn well come to the apartment. At which point, we’ll have trouble hearing them. Better yet, I’ll cut the power to the doorbell. —Note from Max to Sophie
Dear husband: A cunning plan, but alas I am a telepath. —Note from Sophie to Max
No alas about it. You’re perfect. And you’re all mine this Sunday. —Note from Max to Sophie
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