Backseat Confessions
The steamed glass veiled their movements from the sleeping town. Her legs locked around his waist as the upholstery creaked beneath them. “Don’t stop,” she demanded, her nails clawing his spine. The distant music masked the gaps between their curses.
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The wooden stacks swallowed their harsh breaths as he bent her over the study desk. Her fingers clutched at old volumes, their pages rustling with each drive. A someone’s distant cough made them freeze—but the sound faded, and he growled, “Quiet, or we’re banned.”
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