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SEVENTEEN

The Shark was aware that he was hurting her, but he could not stop. It was not in his touch, his touch was fierce, yet gentle, and perfectly skilled in love making. It was in what he said, promising her that he would never – could never love her, and yet taking from her the only thing she had to give her mate, her virtue.

She was so beautiful, so innocent in her arousal. She did not deserve a male who would make love to her one minute, and treat her like a prisoner the next, a male who didn’t love her. She deserved to be loved, cherished. She deserved a male who would stay awake for hours just to watch her sleep, a male who would love to wake up every morning to see her warm blue eyes open, in their naïve bravery and trusting love . . . . a male who wouldn’t hurt her heart as he brought pleasure to her body.

She was wanton this evening, arching her hips against his throbbing need. He pulled her to his bed, gently, and lowered her lush body against his sheets. He propped himself
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