(no subject)
There’s a young woman in a chair not far from the fireplace, with brown hair, a black dress, and brown eyes focused on the paperback romance novel in her right hand.
The title, An Angel’s Embrace, is embossed in silver above a picture of a blonde in a negligee and the throes of passion (or possibly intestinal distress), leaning back against a man with dark hair, chiseled abs, and a pair of fluffy white wings. He’s surrounded by a faint glow.
Were such a thing possible, Verity would be in danger of laughing herself clean out of her host’s body.
The title, An Angel’s Embrace, is embossed in silver above a picture of a blonde in a negligee and the throes of passion (or possibly intestinal distress), leaning back against a man with dark hair, chiseled abs, and a pair of fluffy white wings. He’s surrounded by a faint glow.
Were such a thing possible, Verity would be in danger of laughing herself clean out of her host’s body.