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Takeout

Gina slickened her fingers and her face with the dripping noodles, rubbing them against her lips, widening the circles to include her chin and her cheeks, and touching her tongue to her hand. She could easily smother herself. Instead, she moved her hand, still full of the food, to the base of her throat, the edge of her silk blouse. She released the handful. It slid down inside her blouse, creaming her breasts and her belly.

“Join me,” she said—less an invitation than a command.

— Kathleen McClung

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