Sacred and Profane by Nina Merrill

Sacred and Profane by Nina Merrill

Author:Nina Merrill [Merrill, Nina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-02-13T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Jennie didn't quite have to tiptoe to touch her mouth to Tibald’s, though he was resolute and did not bend his head to meet her. Her finger brushed to the side and her lips replaced it with the gentlest of pressures. A rush of air met her as Tibald exhaled, immediately afterward drawing a sharp breath. She tilted her head and kissed him more firmly, eyelids half-mast. With the increase of pressure, Tibald’s hands clutched at her. The troublesome mantle slid down from her shoulders again and with a frustrated mutter he fought free of it and hurled it aside before he caught her ribs in a painful grasp. He took control of the kiss, mouth pressing roughly against hers, and Jennie shook her head and spoke with her lips still on his.

“Stop, Tibald. Let me.”

He drew back to look at her once more, consternation clear on his face. Men didn't permit women such liberties, such outrageous, sensual leadership. Yet he waited. Jennie stroked her right thumb over his lower lip, tugging it down, and left her thumb there when she kissed him once more, her own lips warmly parted. The tip of her tongue slipped out to explore the sinful, sharp-cut arches of his upper lip.

Tibald shuddered and jerked as though she had touched his naked cock. His breath came short, hissing past his teeth and lips. Jennie sensed the restraint required to hold himself still while her mouth and tongue and the pad of her thumb controlled his mouth, opening it as she desired, guiding him.

Tibald was not the only one profoundly shaken by the experience of lips pressing sweetly together in a slow and tender exploration. Jennie had expected to find herself pleasantly excited by the novelty of kissing this knight, whose sensuality was deeply buried. Part of her had continued to believe she was caught in a long, elaborate dream of the past and would waken, but never in her dreams had she experienced such sensory overload. She felt his bearded cheeks in her palms, the softness of his sandy hair woven between her fingertips, the thrum of his body as he strove for control and fought with his own instincts. She wondered if he could feel her racing pulse in her fingers.

Could she really be in Paris of 1307, seducing a Templar in his own preceptory? The thought raced further. Was seduction truly her aim? And was she more attracted to the man himself, or the idea that she might be the cause of Tibald’s breaking faith with his oaths and his order?

Sometimes it was hell being an intellectual. Here she was, unable to stop her clockwork brain from ticking over all the possibilities when, by rights, she should be enjoying the moments in Tibald’s arms, riding the flood of passion that swelled like an incoming tide. With a murmur at her own didactic tendencies, Jennie settled closer to Tibald and slid her arms around his neck, uncaring about the vellum tucked in her sleeve.



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