The night was as dark as ink, passion like fire.
From the study to the bedroom, from the bedroom to the bathroom, everywhere were sparks.
Isabella Weaver had long lost track of time, only falling and losing herself in his ocean of tenderness.
The sensation was so wonderful that even when he hurt her and she cursed him, she lacked the strength.
The night was deep, and she fell into a deep sleep in his warm and solid embrace, soft and lazy like a kitten.
Harry Hunter held her, kissing her repeatedly until she pushed his head aside, annoyed at him disturbing her dream.
Harry Hunter chuckled, got up to dress, tidied himself, and went out.
But half a minute later, he returned, bent down to kiss her once more, and then left again.
Outside the main door of the living room, Connor was already waiting solemnly.
Seeing Harry Hunter come out, he opened the car door: "Young Master."
"Hmm, let's go."
"Yes."
