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Summary
She doesn't want someone's hands, she wants Rupert’s heavy, calloused hands—the ones that handle those massive polo mallets with such sickeningly perfect precision—to be the ones bunching the cheap cotton of her skirt in his fists, his eyes the ones to rake over her like he wants to eat her alive, his tongue the one to plunge deep into her mouth til she can't breathe anything that isn't him, his—
Yeah, she thinks, Shelley is absolutely right.
— or, taggie gets drunk and calls rupert