Thursday, July 23, 2009

Excerpt of Obsessed by Delilah Devlin

Excerpt from Obsessed: An Invitation Erotic Odyssey by Delilah Devlin

Auctioned is part of the Invitation Erotic Odyssey Series along with Disciplined by Allison Hobbs and Auctioned by Kimberly Kaye Terry. They are part of the Strebor Quickies line, economically priced at $9.95 per copy but with enough action, romance, and sex for books that cost twice as much. I hope that you will check it out. Blessings, Zane

Book Description
On an uncharacteristic whim, an obsessive-compulsive woman vacations at an island resort where she learns how to surrender to her disorderly, capricious, and wanton inner self.
Briana's pristine life has recently gone downhill after she realized her perfect marriage was a sham. Weighed down by the burdens of her impending divorce and the shame of being a "starter wife," the hysterically out-of-control Briana calls the number printed on a postcard for a limited-time offer at a distant lodge. Upon arriving at the sex vacation resort, Briana is confronted with all of her old hang-ups and throws herself into the pleasures of exhibitionism -- freeing herself from her heartbreaking past and the inhibitions that have always held her back in life.

About the Author
Delilah Devlin dated a Samoan, a Venezuelan, a Turk, a Cuban, and was engaged to a Greek before marrying her Irishman. She's lived in Saudi Arabia, Germany, and Ireland, but calls Texas home for now. Ever a risk taker, she lived in the Saudi Peninsula during the Gulf War, thwarted an attempted abduction by white slave traders, and survived her children's juvenile delinquency. Creating alter egos for herself in the pages of her books enables her to live new adventures. Since discovering the sinful pleasure of erotica, she writes to satisfy her need for variety--it keeps her from running away with the Indian working in the cubicle beside her!

Chapter One


Briana Neeson paused, switched the wand to her left hand, and then continued scrubbing. Never mind, the white bowl gleamed. Or that the pipe cleaners she’d shoved into the jets had come out without any flakes of sediment. She’d never get the damn toilet clean again.

The bitch had sat her fat ass on the seat after screwing her husband blind.

Briana allowed herself to think the coarse words, although she’d never have said them aloud. Not even when she’d walked into her bedroom with her arms full of packages from the Galleria Dallas mall, only to drop them when she realized the sounds she’d heard while climbing up the stairs hadn’t come from the television. The low, keening moans had been the woman’s. The sharp grunts her husband’s.

Shocked, she’d realized she hadn’t recognized his sounds because he never made them when he pumped away atop her body. He’d sounded agonized.

Probably strained something, he pounded the woman’s quivering butt so hard.

He’d turned when she dropped the packages, his dark, half-lidded gaze meeting hers, but he hadn’t missed a stroke. His hand reached for the woman’s long, blonde hair that stuck to her sweaty shoulders and wrapped around it, pulling it hard to force her back into an arch and her face toward the headboard, and kept right on pumping, until at last, his lips pulled away from his gritted teeth and he came.

Briana had stood frozen, her breaths coming in short, choppy pants and her body trembling. Part of her hadn’t believed he’d done this in their bed. The other, knew it was her own damn fault.
After all, Jonathan had warned her.


Her hand slipped, and her chest hit the porcelain. An anesthetizing chill struck a nipple. Without realizing it, her robe had fallen open as she labored. She stroked the wand deep into the bowl and leaned toward it, purposely hitting her nipple again.

The cold caused it to contract, spiking the tip, and she discovered the sensation wasn’t unpleasant. But the other nipple wasn’t equally aroused. Equally…chilled.

Pulling open the opposite side of her robe, she switched the wand again, eased her knees apart for balance on the hard tile floor, and let her forward motions slam her other breast into the toilet.

Then stroking the bowl with the bristled brush, she arched her back, just like the skanky blonde her husband had screwed, and bit her lip to hold back the sounds as her arousal built.

With her nipples tightening, elongating, a rush of liquid seeped from her pussy, encouraged by the soft rasp of the terrycloth robe settling between her buttocks, draping lower to gently abrade her open sex.

She’d have to wash the robe, but not just yet. The sensations were too pleasurable. With the smell of the disinfectant swirling in the bowl, she blinked, and tears spilled down her cheeks to mingle with the soapy water.


Soon enough, the sensations didn’t satisfy. Rising on wobbly legs, she ran scalding water from the shower’s long, flexible shower head over the toilet brush, followed by a rinse of bleach to disinfect, and then sat the brush in its holder beside the toilet. She dropped her robe into the hamper, stepped over the edge of her pristine tub, and turned on the faucets, setting the temperature as hot as she could take it.

She squirted a quarter-sized dollop of liquid soap on the back brush and counted the strokes with her left hand, then the right. Another dollop on a loofah, and she scoured her left arm, then the right. Rinsing clean, she did the same for her left leg, then her right. Then at last, she placed a foot on the rim of the tub and scoured her pussy—to remove the traces of her own arousal, but lingering long enough, rubbing hard enough, that at last her body bowed.

Briana’s orgasm wasn’t loud or dirty, and she didn’t come with sweat and smell, or even sound. Still, she couldn’t help feeling just a little envious of the woman who’d scrambled into the bathroom with streaks of her husband’s ejaculate striping her fleshy buttocks and thighs.

She may have been a sleazy skank, but she’d accomplished something Briana never had in seven years of marriage. The whore had made her husband tremble.

Standing in the shower with the scalding water running down her body, Briana faced the fact that she’d failed.

While Jonathan had been appreciative of her organizational skills early in their marriage, later he’d begged her to loosen up a bit at home. Leave the laundry for a day inside the hamper, let him rest his feet on the furniture…and don’t rush to shower after they made love.

She heard muffled footsteps coming from the bedroom. Hours had passed since Jonathan had thrown on his clothing and herded the other woman out the front door. Briana had watched them through the kitchen window as he held the car door open for the woman, sharing a look with her that seemed filled with an easy, sensual satisfaction.

Then his gaze had risen to the window where Briana stood, and his expression changed instantly, shuttering her out. His jaw tightening, he’d walked around the car and slid inside, backing out of their driveway without hesitation and spinning his wheels in the pea-sized gravel Briana had raked to perfection the day before.

He hadn’t called. Hadn’t answered any of the dozen messages she’d left as she hurried around the bedroom and bathroom, nose wrinkled, donning plastic gloves to strip away soiled sheets and tossing the woman’s underwear into a plastic bag that she carried immediately to the outdoor bin.

With her heart tripping in her chest, she hurried to wrap a towel around her body, and then glanced into the mirror. She paused to run a comb through her damp hair before easing open the bathroom door.

A suitcase lay on the bare mattress.

Briana hesitated at the door and scanned the room.

Jonathan stepped out of his walk-in closet carrying an armload of his clothes. Upon spotting her, he strode quickly forward and dumped the clothes into the case.

“What are you doing?” she asked and then inwardly winced at how ridiculous that sounded. Of course, he was leaving. Didn’t everyone leave her?

Dressed in khaki trousers and an open-necked, long-sleeved shirt, she noted the crease on the edge of his collar and bit her tongue to hold back the urge to tell him about it. He didn’t look in the mood to listen to her fuss.

His expression was hard and cold. The set of his square jaw a clue he wasn’t in the mood to talk. He’d made up his mind.

“I’ll try harder,” she whispered, her hand clutching the edge of her towel. She needed something to squeeze because her heart felt ready to explode.

He gathered up the clothes spilling over the sides of the case, not bothering to fold them, and looked over his shoulder, spearing her with a hot glare. “You don’t get it, Bri. You drive me crazy. You couldn’t wait to tear the sheets off the bed, could you?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Her scent was all over them.”

His upper lip curved into a snarl. “But the wet spot bothered you most, didn’t it?”
It had. The longer she’d stared at it, the bigger and yellower it grew. “We can talk about this,” she said in a rush. “You don’t have to go.”

Jonathan snorted. “I’ve talked until I don’t have a thing left to say to you. I don’t love you, baby. Haven’t for a long time.”

The words hurt, but he couldn’t leave. She just needed one more chance to prove she could change. “But you need me. You told me that.”

He turned his head away and zipped the case shut. “I can afford an assistant to take over the scheduling. I can afford an anal bitch I don’t have to sleep with.”

“I’ll see a therapist.”

A deep breath expanded his well-muscled chest. “Do what you need to do to get well, but it’s not going to make a difference for us.” He picked the case off the bed and sat it upright on the floor, before sending her another glare that cut right through her. “I’m through.”

He meant it this time. She could tell by the way his jaw firmed. His gaze held no emotion. “Are you going to her?”

“Carrie?” He shrugged. “She’s just a girl who was willing.”

He hadn’t even cared about the bitch he fucked in her bed. “Why did you bring her here?”

Jonathan lifted a hand and raked it through his neatly cut brown hair. “I didn’t know how else to tell you. I’ve used words, but you talked right over me, never once acknowledging you understood. I’ve made appointments with therapists and marriage counselors, but you found one excuse after another not to go. You weren’t willing to change.”

“I don’t need them. We don’t need them. I’ll just try harder.”

“Fuck, Bri,” he bit out. “Try any goddamn harder, and I swear I’ll cut my own throat.” He turned away, hefted the large case easily, and strode toward the door. Without looking back, he paused. “My attorney will be in touch.”

Chapter Two

“I can’t believe that asshole.”

Briana sighed and settled deeper into the armchair as her best friend Heather opened the topic of conversation.

Heather had made it so easy, calling her and cutting through Briana’s soft hello with a sympathetic, “I just heard,” before Briana could think of the words to tell her Jonathan had walked out.

After she stifled her brief disappointment that it wasn’t her husband calling, Briana didn’t bother asking how Heather had learned about her humiliation. The subdivision’s grapevine had likely issued an all-points bulletin the moment Jonathan and his slut drove through the security gate.

“So, what are you going to do?” Heather asked, sympathy softening her tone.

“What can I do?” Briana muttered. She’d rearranged furniture and moved some of her clothing from her closet to his to even them out. Beyond that, she wasn’t sure what else to do. She was still too stunned.

Her life was about to change, and change unnerved her. Made her feel uncomfortable in her clothing, made it impossible to sleep. Set her mind racing through her long to-do list of chores she should put off until they were due, but wouldn’t because she had to stay busy.

“Do you have a lawyer?”

“I’ll put that on my list.” Why hadn’t she thought of that? Did she secretly still hope Jonathan would walk back through the door and say he’d changed his mind?

Heather groaned. “Tell me that you at least changed the locks.”

Changed the locks? “Why would I do that?”

“Bri, do you want some slut sittin’ on your sofa, watchin’ your TV?”

Briana shook her head, knowing she wasn’t following Heather’s train of thought. Her concentration was shot from too little sleep the night before and too much stress. “Do you think he’d bring her back here, again?”

“I swear, sometimes you’re clueless,” Heather said, her exasperation deepening her Texas twang. “I’m talkin’ about him cleanin’ you out. Takin’ all your things when you leave the house.”

“Jonathan’s not like that.” He wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t even move a coffee table without asking first—a thing he’d learned in their first week of marriage could set her teeth on edge.
Still, he’d fucked another woman in their bed, knowing she’d be home at any time.

“He’s a man. He’s probably listing all your household possessions right now and figurin’ out where the split should be. And it won’t be down the middle.”

Briana wondered how much Heather’s two divorces colored her perspective. “He’s the one who left. He abandoned me and the house.”

“He’s just gettin’ away to think. And talk to the boys. They’ll have all kinds of advice to give him about how to screw you good and proper.”

Or maybe he would change his mind once he figured out he still needed her.

“Are you thinkin’ he’s gonna come back, sweetie?”

Was she really so predictable? “He left in such a rush. Maybe he’s had time to—”

“What did he say when he left?”

How could she tell her? Heather was her friend, her closest one, but Briana had never let her know things weren’t perfect between her and Jonathan. His hurtful words still raised bile in the back of her throat.

“He said I drive him crazy,” she blurted before she had time to think about it. There was a long pause, and Briana cringed inside, wishing she’d never told her. “Did he have a reason to say that?”

“You know I love you, right?”

The hesitant way Heather said it had Briana shaking her head, wishing she could make an excuse and just hang up the phone. She knew she didn’t want to hear what blunt bomb her friend was preparing to drop.

But hanging up wouldn’t be polite.

“Honey, sometimes, you drive me a little crazy, too.”

Briana shifted uneasily in her chair, bent her head to hold the phone against her shoulder, and reached both hands for the fruit-decorated coasters stacked on the side table. “I know I’m a little obsessive…”

“A little? Obsessive Compulsive Disorder can be just as challenging for friends and family as it is for the person who suffers from it.”

“I’ve never been diagnosed.”

“You won’t go to a therapist to get the diagnosis, but I don’t know anyone who alphabetizes their canned goods.”

Briana shuffled the coasters, arranging them alphabetically: apples on top of bananas, bananas onto grapes, grapes onto oranges. “You think that’s weird?”

“A little...but I’m sure you can find everything a lot faster than me.”

“Heather, he didn’t look back once when he walked away.” Not satisfied, she began to re-sort: orange on top of purple, purple topping red, red on top of yellow.

“He’s already moved on, honey. Once a man cleans off his shoes on the welcome mat, he forgets about the dirt he just tracked through. It’s why he always leaves muddy footprints.”

Briana set the coasters back on top of the side table and clasped her hands on her lap to make herself stop. “I hate that.”

“I bet you do.”

The starch in her friend’s voice almost had her smiling. But only for a second. She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on. “I can’t believe it. I’m a starter wife, aren’t I?”

“A starter wife?”

“Yeah, the one he needed when he was getting started.”

“Honey, you need to stop thinking about him. He’s so not worth it.” An audible sigh sounded over the line. “When was the last time you did something spontaneous?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do I have to pull out the dictionary?”

“I know what it means, but I’m capable of spontaneity.”

“Sure you are,” Heather said dryly.

“I am,” Briana sputtered. “I do…spontaneous things all the time.”

“I just bet you do, like when you shop for groceries and think about what you’re gonna make for dinner?”

“Well, no. You know I always have my list.”

“Uh-huh… When was the last time you did something wild and outrageous?”

Never. Briana bit her lip. They both knew she didn’t do anything without planning. “I can be outrageous. Maybe I’ll paint my toenails blue…I’ll just have to add—”

“—the polish to your shopping list?”

Another long pause had Briana ready to end the conversation she felt so depressed, so lacking in the “normal” gene.

“You know what the problem is, don’t you?”

“Other than my husband left me?”

“He’s not in his proper place. Hell, you get a panic attack when a coffee cup doesn’t get turned right side up in a cupboard. Why don’t you stick a pin in the map and take a trip? Get away from everything familiar. Give your brain a chance to reset some switches.”

“I can’t just take off. I have plans. There’s the luncheon with the ladies tomorrow.”

“Um…about that, Bri…”

Briana heard the hesitation in Heather’s voice, and her stomach sank. “They don’t want me to come, do they?”

“They asked me to talk to you. Some of the bitches think it might be a bit uncomfortable for you there.”

Briana snorted. “That’s so sweet,” she said, letting a little acid bleed through her tone. “They’re concerned about how I might feel?”

“Yeah. They’re probably afraid it’s catchin’. You know, the Big D.”

Briana heard the growl in her friend’s voice and almost smiled again. Count on Heather to always have her back. “It’s too bad we can’t be spontaneous together.”

“Yeah, twins kinda rule that out. I could use some ‘me’ time.”

“Maybe I’ll take your advice.”

“You should.” By her tone, she seemed doubtful. “Maybe an opportunity will come faster than you think.”


“I’m just sayin’, keep your options open.”

“Seems like my calendar’s going to be completely free,” Briana said, forcing cheerfulness into her voice she was far from feeling.

“You feel better? Any less anxious?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Heather.”

“What are friends for? Call me tomorrow?”

“I will.” As she hung up the phone, she wished she could be the person Heather wanted her to be. But how could she pick up and leave if there was even a chance Jonathan might want to talk? Seven years they’d been together. For seven years, she’d run the social side of his business. The man had never lifted a finger to make any plans, any arrangements.

He didn’t have her Rolodex.

When he called, she’d be cool. She wouldn’t answer the telephone on the first or even the second ring. Maybe after he’d asked to come back, she’d do as he’d suggested. See someone who could help her be a little less…obsessive.

God, that word again. She wasn’t that person, was she?

She just needed another chance, another shot at showing him she could be perfect enough.
Heather was right about one thing. Briana didn’t like things out of place. She knew she ought to be more concerned about the fact he’d cheated, but she couldn’t shake the anxiety that kept her heart racing and her palms damp.

Jonathan wasn’t in his proper place. She’d felt that most keenly the previous night when she lay down to sleep. Weight wasn’t distributed on her mattress in the way she was accustomed. She hadn’t had to fight rolling toward the middle. She’d been perfectly, wretchedly level.

No, Heather would never understand that she could forgive him fucking a whore in the middle of her clean sheets, but she couldn’t forgive him upsetting the balance in her bed.

* * *

After yet another sleepless night, Briana awoke feeling groggy, her head pounding. The house was spotlessly clean. Every closet was reorganized. Even the tools on the pegboard inside the garage had received her attention. Jonathan wouldn’t find fault with anything—if he ever came back.

She was beginning to doubt he would. He hadn’t called once. Wednesday had passed, which meant he’d been back to work for two full days and hadn’t needed her help with arranging a single luncheon appointment or dinner reservation. Perhaps he’d already hired an anal bitch to take her place.

Slowly, over the past few days she’d come to terms with the fact he wasn’t coming back. Which left her wondering what she should do next. Nearly paralyzed by the worries that flashed through her mind, one after the other, she’d worked like an automaton cleaning the house and working in the garden to exhaust herself enough she wouldn’t notice how silent the house was, or how empty her bed felt.

She’d tried to look at the bright side. She no longer had to clean up after Jonathan, but that left her with even more time on her hands. Then the niggling thought flashed that maybe she wouldn’t be able to hold onto the house once they divorced. What would he be made to pay in a settlement? They didn’t have any children; the time had never been right to begin the family he’d wanted.

There was only her. What judge would understand that she might lose her mind if she were forced to move someplace else? As soon as that thought occurred, she’d shoved it back into her subconscious, unwilling to face it. Not yet.

She had the morning’s dishes to do.

With the lemon-fresh scent of the frothy water soothing her, she slowly cleansed her coffee cup and dish, and then grabbed the spoon rest next to the stove and the magnets from the refrigerator to wash them, too. She pointedly kept her gaze from the window in front of her, not wanting to watch the driveway as she’d done compulsively for days.

When at last she had nothing left to clean, she let out the water, dried her plastic gloves and pulled them off, folding them before tucking them in their baggie beneath the sink. Then she washed the scent of the gloves from her hands, slathered on rose-scented hand cream, and slid her diamond ring back into place on her third finger.

As she held her hand up, the perfect stone caught the light shining through the window, refracting multi-colored rays like a prism.

The perfect ring for the perfect girl.

That’s what Jonathan had said when they chose the ring together before they married. When had he come to hate “perfect”?

A metallic clang sounded from outside, and she dropped her hand and curled her fingers tightly. The mail. Probably with a stack of bills. She hadn’t checked her household account to see whether Jonathan had added funds for her to pay them. Something she’d let slip.

She hurried to the door and opened it, watching as the mailman stepped off the flagstone pathway onto the sidewalk on his way to the next house. Reaching into the metal box beside her door, she lifted the lid and took out the envelopes, letting the lid drop with a loud clang.

As she turned back toward her door, she sorted through the envelopes. Nothing urgent.

Advertisements for new credit cards, a coupon for a car wash…

A metallic clang sounded behind her again, and she turned, her brow wrinkling. Had a breeze lifted the lid?

Still, she couldn’t resist checking the box like Pavlov’s dog expecting another treat even knowing the routine had been somehow changed.

She swirled her hand inside the box, and her fingers touched on something. Withdrawing her hand, she found she held a postcard advertisement, but one unlike anything she’d ever seen.
The edges were pristine, not a single fray or bend. No postmark. On one side, the glossy side, there was a picture of a beach—a long scythe-like stretch of white sand that curved until it disappeared, sandwiched between a line of symmetrical palm trees and lapping azure waves.

The jagged, vertical cliffs in the background were softened by lush vegetation draping their steep sides.

The palms, so straight and perfectly spaced, appealed to Briana instantly. So did the empty expanse of sand. When she looked closer, she saw a man standing in the shadows beneath one tree, wearing only a pareo knotted at his waist.

Even in the shadows, she could tell how perfectly made he was. His chest was smooth, his muscles well defined, and his waist lean and narrow with the knot in the colorful fabric resting atop one notch of his slim hips. His smooth skin was the color of coffee lightened with cream. His hair hung in dark ropes to his shoulders.

Her breath caught at the expression on his face—full lips turned up slightly at the corners, a chocolate gaze held wide and entrancing. His nose was narrower than she would have expected among features that looked Samoan or Hawaiian and flared only slightly at the end. He seemed to beckon her, to dare her to say “Yes.”

Reluctantly, she turned the card over. The texture on this side was slightly gritty and the same pale shade as the sandy beach. The lettering was in black and had the look of handwritten calligraphy. At the top was an embossed flower in deep, reddish orange.

Prepared to quickly skim the contents and flip the card again for another glimpse of the beach and the man, her gaze snagged on the greeting.

To Ms. Briana Neeson:

You are cordially invited to The Island, a place where your most fervent desires come to life with just one wish. At The Island, we cater to your needs…seduce you beyond your inhibitions…set you free to discover the woman you were meant to be. This invitation is given to a select few, and you’ve been chosen. Should you choose to accept this invitation, you agree that you are ready for a change, that you are freeing yourself to experience something you’ve never dared to dream, and in doing so, your desire to be fulfilled, to reach perfection will manifest deliciously…

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

This invitation will expire in twenty-four hours, Briana. You can contact us at
800-555-9860 to experience the fantasy of a lifetime. We’re waiting for your call…

Absently, Briana laid the other correspondence on a pewter dish on top of the foyer’s bureau and slowly closed the front door behind her. Although she knew the postcard was just a seductively designed advertisement meant to catch her eye, she couldn’t suppress the thrill that shot through her. As though the invitation spoke directly to her soul.

Before she had time to think twice and drop the card into the trash, she reached for the phone and dialed Heather’s number. She’d know what to do. She would tell her it was a scam, a lure to entice lonely women into giving up their credit card numbers and embarking on an adventure that could only disappoint.

However, Heather didn’t instantly discredit the postcard. In minutes, she stepped across the threshold, her hand extended for the invitation, which she read intently for several minutes.
Briana braced herself for disappointment.

Instead, Heather’s eyes widened as she lifted them to meet Briana’s gaze. “Let’s dial the number,” she said, excitement quivering in her voice.

And because this was the first time in days that Briana had felt a swell of something other than grief, she let Heather’s excitement sweep her along.

Before she knew it, Heather had taken down the details, handing the phone to Briana for her to give them her dietary preferences, bungalow versus hotel room, view of a beach or the island’s volcano, and so many other things that Briana’s head swam.

When she handed back the phone to Heather, she stood still, only half-listening as she realized she was seriously considering the trip.

Heather hung up the phone, turned toward her, and then let out a girlish squeal as she wrapped her arms around her and squeezed hard. “Girl, you have to do this. It’s perfect!”

Briana shook her head and pulled away. “This is crazy. You know that, right? I can’t afford a vacation like this.”

“Yes, you can. It’s only three days.” She shoved the paper she’d used to take down the details and circled the figure at the bottom. “That’s an all-inclusive price—airfare, hotel, and meals. Charge it to your credit card.”

“But I might need that money. Who says Jonathan’s going to keep paying the bill?”

Heather’s eyes narrowed, and then fell to Briana’s hand. “Sweetie, if you’re worried about cost, I have a solution for you.”

Before Briana could muster up another half-hearted protest, she let Heather slip the ring off her finger.

“I know this guy who runs a jewelry store. It’s not a pawn shop, not really, but he will hold the ring for a month before offering it up for resale. His commission isn’t outrageous.” She slipped the ring into her purse, and then grabbed both Briana’s hands. “You have to do this. Remember, we talked about you getting away? You’ve been living like a mole. I bet you haven’t been any farther than the edge of your lawn, have you?”

Briana nodded slowly. “But this is crazy.”

“You know what’s crazy? You waiting on that asshole to change his mind and ask to come back. You don’t need him. Not for a damn thing. You take this vacation. Let your island guide show you everything you’ve been missing—”

“Island guide?”

“You know that man on the front of the postcard?”

Briana nodded—he was the reason she hadn’t immediately consigned the card to the trash can.
Heather’s lips stretched into a wide grin. “He’s yours if you want him.”

If you enjoyed this excerpt, please purchase a copy of Obsessed by Delilah Devlin at your local bookstore or online at:


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