Page 46 of Heart of Iron
Will’s mouth broke from her skin, his warm breath cooling the wetness.Lena’s heart thundered behind the constriction of her corset.What was he doing to her?How had he turned the tables so deftly?She couldn’t bear it.
His hand was warm on hers, a blaze of welcoming heat.A considering look entered his eyes.“How often do you presentyourwrist?”
“Why?”She shifted.
The amber in his irises flared.“Tell me.”
The possessive quality of his voice thrilled her.“What does it matter?”
“Tellme.”His grasp on her hand tightened.
“Once,” she admitted.“I was young and Lord Ramsay was handsome.I learned my lesson, however.I’ve not offered it since.Not until now.”
“I’m not interested in your blood.”
“Then whatareyou interested in?”Lena leaned forward, knowing that her bodice gaped and her curls tumbled around her face.
A long breathless moment.Will leaned toward her unconsciously, as if some invisible force drew him.Reaching out, he brushed the backs of his fingers against her bodice, lightly stroking the silk as if memorizing the texture.The touch sparked through her and she leaned against it, forcing his hand against her aching nipples.That was where she wanted to be touched.There.
Every little hair on her body stiffened.A sudden yearning sprang to life, a desperate need to have his hands on her.Lena leaned forward, her hand sliding over his thigh, feeling the corded power in the bunched muscles, her face tilting toward his…
Opening his mouth, Will tried to say something, but the words died in a harsh growl.“Damn it, Lena.”His gaze skittered away.He pushed her firmly away and sat back, arms spread over the back of the daybed.“Learnin’ how to do what I’m here for.That’s what interests me.”
Just like that, she’d lost him.Confusion and frustration yawned like a gaping pit within her.Unfulfilled need.She’d never had any trouble wrapping men around her fingers, but Will constantly defied her.
She could barely breathe.Gave it one last attempt.“Of course, as with the throat, a covered wrist has different meanings also.”Gesturing to her gloves on the table.“You’ll notice I wear full-length for evening or gloves that cover my wrists quite decently.”
“As you should,” he muttered.
She shot him a glance, but his expression was flat, unreadable.He leaned his elbows on his knees and glared stonily at her.
“A lady wearing half gloves is another matter.It bares the wrist to a blue blood’s lips.A sure sign that she’s available, perhaps even a little fast.”
“And bare wrists?”
“Never.Only a patron sees a woman with bare wrists.It’s considered highly personal.”
“Yet you ain’t wearin’ them now.”
“You said yourself you’re not interested in my blood.”
His expression darkened.Lena leaned against the back of the daybed, her fingers toying with his sleeve.“You might be more interested in the distinction between blood rights and rights of the flesh,” she murmured.
The muscles in his arm coiled.“What’s that mean?”
“A woman offers her blood rights to her patron when she becomes his thrall in exchange for protection and provision.Her flesh rights are another matter.That’s one of the mistakes the middle class makes.They assume a patron may take his thrall to bed as well as drink from her body.”
Will’s gaze shot to hers.
“Not unless she agrees,” she added softly, knowing she was treading dangerous ground.“Her flesh rights are hers to give freely.Perhaps this is more to your area of interest?”Leaning closer, she licked her lips, watched his gaze drop to them.“Do you crave flesh, Will?”
“Are you offerin’ it?”His voice was harsh.“Cause we’ve a word for that, where I come from.”Jerking away from her, he found his feet as if hunted.
“You’re confusing the two,” she replied.“Flesh rights are given freely.For nothing more than the cost of pleasure.”
Hot color burnished Will’s cheeks.He shoved his hands into his pockets.“And how does a patron know if they’re bein’ offered?”
Lena arched a brow.Stroked her finger across the smooth arch of her collarbone.“He finds her naked in his bed.”
