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        Thatletter,he''''''''dwrittenitlongago.Thewordshadbledoutofhimlikeafessionheneverdaredtospeakaloud.Buthecouldneverbringhimselftodeliverit.

        Lately,withthehauntedhouseunderrenovation,themanagerhadn''''''''tofferedhimotherwork.Therewasn''''''''tmuchhecoulddoanyway.Withtheburnsacrosshisskinandthelossofsweatgheplushmascotsuitsweredangerous—trappihreateningseizuresinthiskindofweather.

        Sohestayedhome.Dayafterday,nightafternight,eating,sleeping,wakingonlytofiillthere,etchedintohismindlikeafeverdream.Buteveninhiswildestfantasies,hehadneverdaredtoimagihismoment.

        Hishandwasrge,andunderhispalm,Reya''''''''sbreastwassmall,barelyenoughtofillhisgrasp,butsoft,resilient,astonishinglyreal.Thetexturealoteredallthevague,distantimaginingshehadoertainedinsilence.

        Inallhisyears,hehadouchedanyonelikethis,certainlynotawoman,andneversomeoneyoung,warm,alive.

        Reya''''''''sboldnesslefthimspeechless.Thelingerinessofhertastestillgtohistongue,herweightsettledonhisthighslikesomethingunshakablyreal,andbeforehim,herskin,paleaspor,feltimpossiblysmoothbehhistremblingfingers.

        Itwastoomuch.Toooverwhelming.Hismindreeled.

        Maybethiswasadream.

        Maybehisoverheated,restlessbrainhadfinallyiedanillusiontoobeautifultobetrusted.

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

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