They were her parents, after all; they knew what was best for her, and she knew she couldn't win anyway.Nonetheless, Susan wasn't without questions.Co...flicting messages seemed to be the overriding theme of her upbringing. She was apparently expected to perform the role of a beautiful painting in a museum, or of a fine porcelain statuette in a gleaming showcase: untouchable, yet always on display.Journeying through her teen years, Susan managed well enough. Always a straight-A student, she was. He pulled his notebook from his pocket and looked at his Saturday jottings. He had written that the dress billed to "T. Brookes" cost one pound two shillings, that would be the stepmother's dress, the one to "J. Brookes" was nine and six, and that one was somebody's else's. The noted measurements, though similar, were not identical so they obviously were not the same bill twice. Why would James lie to him, he wondered. Whose dress was it?The horse's easy gait brought his bladder to his. She brought her face back up until her wide green eyes were staring straight into his. He was lost again, pulled into and imprisoned within her glittering emerald depths. She held him there as her lips crushed down against his, harder this time, forming a seal around his mouth. Her hands gripped the back of his head.She exhaled and fire flooded into Phil's lungs.His eyes widened in surprise as her breath rushed through his body, scouring the lethargy and weakness from his muscles. Energy. Mine. She thinks fleetingly, proudly. Wickedly, Crysta leaps up off the bed. She means to prolong their foreplay, rushing outside into the cold of the afternoon. He watches her through the glass, playfully leaning out over the balcony and looking at the other high-rises. He shocks her by joining her out on the terrace. Marcel's body presses her thighs into the cold mesh of the balcony railing. His hands appreciatively take in the contours of her slender waist, her breasts. Her nipples are.
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