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31

He looked up to meet my eyes. I still breathed heavily, and my legs were even shakier that the night before. Sweat trickled down from my temples and underneath my clothes. My brain still struggled to emerge from the foggy swamp of raw physical sensations where he’d drowned me. I didn’t know why I’d asked, if my head was in no shape to process anything. Or maybe that’s why I did it.

“I do it because I can,” he replied, like it was obvious. His dark eyes slid down my face to my lips. “And because I want.”

“No, you don’t.”

He didn’t hide his surprise when I contradicted him and raised his eyebrows.

“Nothing you do turns you on,” I added. “Or it would show.”

He released my hands and headed to the restroom. I followed him, trying not to drag my feet, my drained junk still hanging out the fly that covered my ripped-off briefs, half my butt still showing out the back waist of my jeans.

“That’s it, right?” I insisted, grimacing because my legs and the small of my back were killing me. “You ca
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