Apocalypse - NC-17 - Romance - Smut“Come on come on come on…” Arthur prompts in the doorway, a mantra to the small fluffy dog sniffing around in the frigid air. He dances on his bare toes, knowing that as soon as he turns away or decides to close the main door, she’ll be back and scratching. Or worse, barking, which will make the neighbors cross at this early hour
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Kneeling between her legs now, he trails his lips up her smooth thigh, lingering at her hipbones, teasing the apex of her thighs with his tongue briefly, too briefly, just long enough to make Gwen squirm and whimper
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I'd love if they use really flimsey pathetic excuses for staying at home
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“What?” he asks innocently.
“You know what,” she scolds. “I’m going to have to face that man on Christmas, you know ( ... )
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That was hot. Thanks
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