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... hot, water beading along the carved ridges of my chest before I dragged the towel across it. Hair slicked back, dark and gleaming, I shrugged into the black shirt—damp fabric clinging instantly to pecs and shoulders like wet paint, every button pulling taut against muscle.
The penthouse breathed quiet menace: low city drone beyond armored glass, the ghost-scent of oud and fresh linen hanging in the air.
Nathalie stood framed against the windows, a black-and-cream silhouette haloe ...
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