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        Thatletter,he''dwrittenitlongago.Thewordshadbledoutofhimlikeaconfessionheneverdaredtospeakaloud.Buthecouldneverbringhimselftodeliverit.

        Lately,withthehauntedhouseunderrenovation,themanagerhadn''tofferedhimotherwork.Therewasn''tmuchhecoulddoanyway.Withtheburnsacrosshisskinandthelossofsweatglands,eventheplushmascotsuitsweredangerous—trappingheat,threateningseizuresinthiskindofweather.

        Sohestayedhome.Dayafterday,nightafternight,eating,sleeping,wakingonlytofindReyastillthere,etchedintohismindlikeafeverdream.Buteveninhiswildestfantasies,hehadneverdaredtoimaginethismoment.

        Hishandwaslarge,andunderhispalm,Reya''sbreastwassmall,barelyenoughtofillhisgrasp,butsoft,resilient,astonishinglyreal.Thetexturealoneshatteredallthevague,distantimaginingshehadonceentertainedinsilence.

        Inallhisyears,hehadnevertouchedanyonelikethis,certainlynotawoman,andneversomeoneyoung,warm,alive.

        Reya''sboldnesslefthimspeechless.Thelingeringsweetnessofhertastestillclungtohistongue,herweightsettledonhisthighslikesomethingunshakablyreal,andbeforehim,herskin,paleasporcelain,feltimpossiblysmoothbeneathhistremblingfingers.

        Itwastoomuch.Toooverwhelming.Hismindreeled.

        Maybethiswasadream.

        Maybehisoverheated,restlessbrainhadfinallyinventedanillusiontoobeautifultobetrusted.

        Becausesomeonelikehim—scarred,silent,strange—howcouldsomeonelikeReya,soradiantandkind,everwantto...

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