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Unexpected Connection

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Grazi Siqueira

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“I promise ye, lass, I'll keep ye safe. No one will harm ye." He grasped at anything he could think of to dry up her tears. "I offer ye the protection of my body and my sword arm for as long as we bide together. And any time ye might have need of them after." Her whole frame shuddered with a silent sob. "Please, lass." He stroked her from the crown of her head to the base of her spine. She shivered under his touch, so he didn't do it again. "Elspeth, sweetheart, ye dinna have to cry so.”

“When she first realized he was there watching her, she couldn't believe it was happening. There she was, bare as an egg, and his intense gaze made her lose the will to move. His stare had lingered at her breasts. She'd had to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from covering her nipples with her hands to still the ache. And when his gaze traveled down her body, little flames seemed to lick her skin. When he smiled at her private parts, she caught fire completely.”

“Just a few nights ago the roaring fire prompted a conversation about Gaston Bachelard's Psychoanalysis of Fire,' I said to Foucault. 'Did you by any chance know Bachelard?' 'Yes, I did,' Foucault responded. 'He was my teacher and exerted a great influence upon me.' 'I can just visualize Bachelard musing before his hearth and devising the startling thesis that mankind tamed fire to stimulate his daydreaming, that man is fundamentally the dreaming animal.' 'Not really,' Foucault blurted out. 'Bachelard probably never saw a fireplace or ever listened to water streaming down a mountainside. With him it was all a dream. He lived very ascetically in a cramped two-room flat he shared with his sister.' 'I have read somewhere that he was a gourmet and would shop every day in the street markets to get the freshest produce for his dinner.' 'Well, he undoubtedly shopped in the outdoor markets,' Foucault responded impatiently, 'but his cuisine, like his regimen, was very plain. He led a simple life and existed in his dream.' 'Do you shop in the outdoor markets in Paris?' Jake asked Michel. 'No,' Foucault laughed, 'I just go to the supermarket down the street from where I live.”