Rory stretched languidly on the blanket up on the beach, on her stomach in a pretty sundress and reading a book of poetry by Robert Frost. She had taken care of her sunscreen thing, and based on a tip from her grandmother, oddly enough, she knew to have the Chanel No. 5 she had been given that Christmas on hand for bugs. Not that there were many
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"Hey," he said.
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"That's a tickling offense," he said, spitting his braid out of his mouth.
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She was not.
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Yeah, that was her whole defense.
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So, she kissed along his chest and shoulder, standing on her toes a little to kiss all the way up to his ear.
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