His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. He gripped one of her pert nipples with his fingers as he came inside her. For a nun at night it is less dangerous than for the jeune demoiselle. She ducked behind a pile of unused drywall. He was angry. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.
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