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It turns out I find karaoke a bit of a turn on.

Or maybe it was James’s eyes, dark with lust, watching my performance, as much a fully clothed striptease as a half-assed karaoke number.

I finished Son of A Preacher Man to overly generous applause and left the stage, flagging our server and slipping her a twenty to clear the tab.

I leaned in close to his ear. “I think you want to take me to your apartment. Now.”

An hour later we lay on the bed in a sweaty tangle. I rode him to the brink of exhaustion, then coasted the shockwaves of my own orgasm while Dusty belted her heart out on a crackly vinyl recording of You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me.

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