I nuzzle up against him, eyes closed, my nose at his throat, drinking in his sexy Christian-and-spiced-musky bodywash fragrance, my head on his shoulder. I let my mind drift, and I allow myself to fantasize that he loves me. Oh, and it’s so real, tanglible almost, and a small part of my nasty harpy subconscious acts completely out of character and dares to hope.
-E.L. James
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