““Her fingers clawed uselessly at his clothes as her desire escalated to near madness. Simon invaded her in deep lunges, his rhythm insistent, until rapture shot and echoed through both of them, and their lungs pulled in drafts of air laden with the scent of clean, pressed linen, and their entwined limbs tightened as if to trap the sensation between them. “Damn,” Simon muttered a few minutes later, when he was able to catch his breath. “What?” Annabelle whispered, her head resting heavily against his coat lapel. “For the rest of my life, the smell of starch is going to make me hard.””
