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TemitOpe Ibrahim

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“Since meeting with Mr. Pym was the responsibility of the current Lord Ramsay, Cam bullied Leo into attending the meeting with him. Not because Leo would have anything sensible to contribute, but merely as a symbolic gesture. “Besides,” Cam had told Amelia grimly, “if I have to be bored witless talking about gadjo affairs, there’s no reason Leo should be spared.” He had swept a proprietary glance over her, taking in the green wool walking dress and fur-trimmed black cloak. “I shouldn’t let you go with Dashiell and Barksby,” he said. “You’ll be the only woman there. I don’t like it.” “Oh, it’s all very circumspect. They’re both gentlemen, and I’m—” “Spoken for,” he had said curtly. “By me.” Her heart beat a little faster. “Yes, I know,” she admitted without looking at him. The small concession seemed to please him. He pushed the door closed with his foot, and reached beneath her cloak with importunate hands. He kissed her as if he could breathe her in. Fierce kisses, hard ones, teasingly articulate ones, soft enticing ones, kisses to light bonfires and fill the sky and hold the stars aloft. When Cam finally relented and eased her away from the door to open it, he said one word in her scarlet ear before she fled. The word went down to the marrow of her bones. “Tonight.”

TonightCam And AmeliaSpoken For
Book:Mine Till Midnight
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“The endlessness of the extent of that whistle resulted, without a doubt, also in an enormous metaphysical knowledge of the art of whistling, which mingled, not just with the hearing of people, but extended, in an incisive manner, to the depths of their souls, the protected corner where each one hid their things- that frightening cave, which many call the centre of their being.”

SoulSoundEndlessMetaphysicalBeingAfrican AuthorsWhistling
Book:The Whistler
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