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Mr LeBrun would be in for a shock, when all this was totalled up. How the hell all these rarities got together in this box, Reginald had no idea. At first glance, there seemed to be no book plates or other sign of former ownership, and as books there would therefore be little chance of identifying them as currently belonging to anyone in particular. They may have come from a monastery or abbey, but again identification of ownership was a remote possibility. With such an eclectic mix of items, he imagined they were not from an organised collection, and some of them were too modern to have come from a single ancient monastery. Possibly loot of some kind. That thought brought his mind to Nazi Germany’s theft of valuables of all kinds, from all over Europe, some of which had completely vanished. How, though, had they arrived here, in this attic? Perhaps it was the same process that had brought art work to the basement: payment in kind for parcels of drugs. Assuming a thief had stolen. ’ ‘I want to see your scars.’ She tensed, as I knew she would. ‘I want to kiss them and make love to them.’ She burst into tears. When the tears had abated a little, she hiccupped back to me, ‘Oh, Bryn, that’s the sweetest thing you could have said.’ I caressed her face and licked the tears from her cheeks, moving slowly down to her neck, all the while stroking her back and sides. My hands moved to the bottom of her t-shirt and drew it up over her head. As it came off, I ran my hands down her arms and sides until kneeling I was kissing her flat stomach and moving slowly up her delicious body. As my tongue and lips reached the underside of her bra, I unsnapped it and took it off, with the insert. She tensed again, but immediately my tongue was on her scars getting to know the shape and feel of her. ‘Oh God,’ she moaned, ‘I never knew a scar could be so erotic.’ I could feel her stomach fluttering, and she relaxed against me again, her hands fisting in my hair and pulling me gently into.
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