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His eyes sizzled with passion — and it was not a sort of passion Annabelle had ever actually seen before. It was the sort of deep, enticing passion she'd read about in all of her romantic Russian and British novels — the sort of love which left you feeling transfixed, ripped apart and made whole again, all at once. "I see you chose not to leave," he said, his low voice growling with pleasure. "I... I didn't think it would be fair. There's still work to be done here." Her hands gestured weakly at the room, with its stacks of manuscripts, and priceless porcelin ladles. Annabelle felt herself beginning to swoon. He caught her. "Annabelle," he said, his crystal blue eyes brimming with passion. "Annabelle, I want to fuck you like an animal. I want to feel you from the inside." Annabelle turned away from him, and slapped her own ass. "Sounds good," she said, "but make it snappy. I got editing and ladle identification to get back to."
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