The Water Nymph by Michele Jaffe Page B

and he needed a moment to assimilate it.
    But Sophie’s anger would not be contained. She did not even notice the decor of the Worshipful Hall as she and Crispin exited, too absorbed was she in resenting the disrespectful, hideous, and wholly unacceptable behavior of the Earthworm of Sandal. He had silenced her, insulted her, and threatened her, and she was not going to let him get away with it. They had barely crossed the threshold of the patriotic association and reentered the stable yard when she wrenched her elbow from Crispin’s grasp and began, “You are the mo—”
    Crispin pulled her toward him, cutting off the flow of words with his lips. “I warned you,” he whispered, not lifting his mouth from hers. “I told you this would happen.”
    Sophie willed herself to push him away or pull away or run away or melt away or even simply turn away. She ordered herself to stop acting weak and foolish, to show him how strong she was, how she did not need him. Instead, she stood there and let his lips play over hers, first gently, then with more insistence.
    As their mouths slid together with increasing pressure, Sophie felt a curl of heat begin in her stomach and spiral through her body, until she could no longer feel her legs, or arms, or hands, or nose. This was better than hot spiced wine, better even than orange cake, she thought sacrilegiously, and she wanted to taste more. Sophie lost herself in his kiss as she had not lost herself in anything for years, gave herself up to it completely, achingly, overwhelmingly. It was not frightening, not weakening, just devastatingly marvelous. Unable to stop herself, she let out a short moan as his tongue wrapped itself around hers.
    Crispin was gone. He wanted to lap the moan off her lips, lips that moved deliciously under his, opening to let him explore them, parting so that he could run the tip of his tongue over them, trembling in response. Lips that moaned again into his, the sweetest sound he had ever heard, lips that parted more fully to let his tongue slip between them, circling slowly, tasting and licking and savoring the sweetness of her mouth, of her.
    His tongue slid against hers, dancing around it delicately, gliding off its tip, embracing it in its warmth. Sophie was ravenous, for him, for his touch, for his flavor, starving for the feel of his tongue not only in her mouth and on her lips but everywhere, over all of her. Her body was filled with wave after wave of the intoxicating heat, washing over her, making her feel like she was spinning, like she was all powerful, and like she was going to collapse. She had never kissed anyone before, and she never wanted it to end. Pressing her body against his, she reached up and ran her hand through his soft, thick hair, urging his lips against hers, demanding them, begging them to cover her with their kisses.
    Her hand moved from his hair, along his cheek, and toward his neck with a softness that contrasted with the heat of her kiss, a tentativeness that made Crispin gasp for breath. She really must have been some sort of Siren to have this effect on him, to take his wellgoverned body and make it completely ungovernable. His only thought was to get her out of the stable yard and her devilishly cut dress so he could feel her bare thighs against his, so he could touch her and taste her and lick her all over, so he could learn what it would take to get her eyes to open all the way, learn if they were blue or green, learn how she would react when she reached her climax, learn how his name would sound on her lips, learn how she would change his life.
    Crispin pulled away, inhaling sharply. When he looked at her, she did not see the pain he was feeling, or the desire, or the awe, or the anger at himself, anger, bordering on fury, that he had allowed such a thing to happen, such thoughts to pass through his mind. He felt as though he had been a traitor to himself, as if he were undermining his own strength, his own power, his own