The Nun In The Library I
IN the library, dust motes danced in the lone shaft of light that shone through the stained-glass window, illuminating the rows of bookshelves that were properly lined in the back. Sister Mary, her habit a stark silhouette against the warm glow, traced a finger along the spine of a theological text. The scent of old paper and beeswax polish clung to the air, a familiar comfort that came when she was reading books. Today, however, an unfamiliar tremor rippled beneath her skin. A new scent, sharp and vital, cut through the accustomed quiet: sandalwood and something else, something musky and undeniably male.
She had met him a lot of times in the library, and she could not explain the jolt of electricity that s**t through her every time their bumped into each other
