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Waiting for the Wedding

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2018
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He rapped his knuckles gently against the wood, then waited for a reply. Nothing. No sound of stirring, no sound of anything remotely alive on the other side of the door. He knocked louder.

“Yes…” The sleepy reply drifted out, and Clint took it as encouragement to go in.

The moment he opened the door, he realized his mistake. She sat up and grabbed the sheet to her chest, but not before he saw the dainty spaghetti straps of her burgundy nightgown, not before he’d seen the expanse of creamy skin, the swell of her breasts barely hidden by the silky material.

Heat flooded through him. Unexpectedly. Spontaneously. He felt as if he’d been plunged into a fiery inferno.

“Uh…I brought you coffee,” he said, then cleared his throat in embarrassment. The room seemed smaller than it ever had before, and he felt as if somehow the air had gotten thicker, more difficult to breath.


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