Nine Naughty Novelists

He knew how hot those rumbly-grumbly, gravel-voiced noises made her: hotter than two rats wrestling in a wool sock_only not as scratchy. Or as smelly. Probably less squeaky, too. But she had to be strong. For the sake of her children. For the sake of her winery. For the sake of her poor, battered heart. For the sake of this story, which would be over far too quickly if she gave in to him now.