She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest. All this was exciting and entertaining. Lucilla shoved Roding out of the way so that she could take hold of Melusine’s hands again. God, we suck. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. The land about these walls is a common graveyard.
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