Kissing.
So simple a thing, nearly thoughtless, instinctive and natural. How many kisses does one give in a life time? And receive? He couldn't remember any one in particular. No fireworks, no fluttering of the stomach. Pure, untamed lust. Animalistic, empty tanglings of sweaty limps and tongues.
And yet, with the nun's sweet bottom lip between his, in the most chaste and innocent meeting of lips he'd ever had, the former Elliot Spencer felt his withered, black heart quicken and warm.
Oh, how long had it been, if ever, since he had felt such desire?
His pale hands began to explore her elegant back, the soft skin of her arms, the curve of her hip. A growl rumbled deep in his chest when he became aware of a gentle, hesitant pressure on his forearm; her little fingers curled around his leather sleeve.
The cold room had become stuffy, heated. He wanted to be rid of his garments, and the nun of her nightgown. He wanted to make love to her, to defy his God in his very own house. He wanted to feel again; he wanted the girl to feel him, to cling to him as she was brought to the very zenith of pleasure.
And it took every bit of self-preservation he had to pull away from her.