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It had been his pants, maybe, that first caught her attention:  flimsy, threadbare in certain
strategic areas, hitching up provocatively in others.  A picture of his pants -- and the way he wore
them -- was worth more than the currency it could bring.  After that, she found herself staring at
Crichton’s shirt where it was tucked into the front of his pants … and then his chest, his arms,
neck … all of him.  

She watched him saunter away, her body aching with an unfamiliar, physically painful brand of
longing.    

“Furlow!” one of her mechanics yelled.

“Can’t you see I’m busy!”   Frelling welnitz.


                                                       
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