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... ith her bare hands—and the bomb was hot, pulsing, and shaped like a green, thorny club straight out of an adult-themed fairy tale.

She tried to get a grip, but the damn thing was thick, throbbing, and flexing like it was auditioning for a solo in an opera.

Her palm pressed against the thorn-like ridges spiraling up the shaft, expecting pain—but instead, they were soft, rubbery, almost inviting, as if crafted purely to tease and please.

'Gods help me... it's made for a wom ...

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