Jeanne could taste the wine on his tongue, could smell the musky manliness of him. Her head swam with the ecstasy his lips brought her; they were more delicious than any edible delight ever tasted. For a fleeting second she remembered her few juvenile kisses and realized how different, how inadequate, they were.
His lips left hers, and she thought to object until she felt them scorching a path of desire and heat down her throat, to the top of her young breasts, his mustache tickling her tingling skin like feathers, and she moaned with satisfaction and desire. She grew tipsy in his arms, their strength against her back the only thing keeping her from tumbling backward.
From the hollow of her collarbone, his words came as a garbled mumble.
“You have been at the convent for seven years?”
