Michelle moaned and Lucy, unable to help herself, stroked her hair. 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. "Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. This—all this swamps them.
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