‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. 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. ‘You’ll come with us and get yourself safe back home to your convent, understand?’ ‘But wait,’ begged Melusine, hanging back. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids.
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