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... ath to glass.
A gentle rise. A slow fall.
Silken fabric, whisper-thin and blood-red, curled around the slope of her hips, the swell of her thighs peeking from beneath the hem.
Her legs, bare and pale as moonlight on snow, lay crossed carelessly—graceful yet cruel in the way only the beautiful could afford to be.
One arm sprawled above her head, the other draped loosely across her midriff, fingers twitching against the smooth plane of her stomach.
The night ...
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