“Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon. They slow danced to a Bon Jovi ballad. Almost light-heartedly.
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