The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. He suckled at her shoulder blade as he slid her panties down. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine. Your maid would not be of the least protection. That was what she was trying to make him understand.
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