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... s preparing—in his chosen wear of prim casual slacks, a crimson inner; a sensous onyx doublet, bringing out the ebony rings in his iris—for Lady Fairfield's dinner.

"Oh fuck the tux!" He tossed a marine bowtie backward to the bed. Leaving the top strings that would knit his shirt a few inches down, he said aloud in a calmer voice. "What do I call you, system? You still haven't told me."

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Rafel had to wait a beat, but then, the reply came; a s ...

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