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... but insistently.

She let her hands climb his back first, pressing to feel the steel muscles beneath his shirt, her first instinct that she must be careful, have caution, that they might be discovered.

But no, she remembered with joy, this was right. This was true and good. He was her husband. Her body was his, and his was hers.

With a small gasp, tilting her head into his kiss—between his hands that framed her face—she pulled back enough to begin unbuttoning his shirt. < ...

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