But the truth was, his anger and her longing for him were like flame to oxygen. Both fueled their passion so a single look, a mere brush of fingers, ignited the conflagration.Their bodies were the battlefield, and the bliss.She surrendered to him, as she always did, in the kinetoscopic light of passing scenery, in their silvery moonlit compartment of forbidden pleasure.She gave. He took. He gave. She took.And in the rough slide of his skin, the firm touch of his hand, the slick insistence of his tongue, she found her place in the world.With him.At Lyon he rose and pulled the window shade down tight, plunging their secret hideaway into complete darkness.They barely spoke, save his husky murmured commands and her breathless moans of encouragement. With her wrist shackled she felt bound, frustrated when she reached for him and her movement abruptly halted. She wanted to hold him.“Turn me loose,” she complained.“Non,” he said, and shackled her other wrist to the first.He ravished her.
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