A warm rush of an emotion bordering on love washed over her. Mr. Thompson was just a good, honorable man and probably he'd been sick with guilt after ...he'd thrown herself at him. The other story she'd heard about him was a vicious lie, she was sure.The warm rush of emotion that washed over the schoolgirl was evidenced by more than the flush on her pretty face. Although not visible, the core of her being was weeping, weeping a clear, oily liquid between her thighs. She wanted to repay him with. Maisie was also the girl—woman now—who had haunted his dreams for months. The dreams since he had broken up with Isabella—one part heaven, one part hell—made it impossible for him to classify Maisie in this, his little game of mental preparation for the week ahead. Was their meeting something to look forward to, like the ocean-side meals and crisp ocean air runs? Or was it something to dread and prepare for? Her image flitted across his mind. Much to his annoyance it had developed a habit of. More

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