He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. He pulsed and thrust as he released himself into her body. “I’m not gentle. Sebastian slowed the car after they had traveled seventy miles into the countryside. But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede.
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