Page 15 of Hot Blooded
“You’ve really never done number 7?”
She fidgets as I gaze down at the magazine. I can tell she wants to close the pages, or toss it across the room, but she doesn’t. She remains perfectly still.
“No.”
“Not even by yourself?”
“No.”
All varieties of kinky, unbidden thoughts leap into my brain.
Plundering my way through the buffet that is Tressa’s body sounds pretty fucking fabulous.
Rein yourself in, dude. Not happening.
She’s still fidgeting, and her wide eyes hold a wild look—panic and the excitement of being caught.
“One truth. Are you a virgin?”
“Reign,” she murmurs, and I hate myself for loving the way her tongue sounds moving over the word.
Before she can confess her truth, we’re interrupted by Mrs. Potts, who I’ve never once considered murdering until this very moment, but as she approaches, I imagine it in a hundred different bloody and violent ways.
“You’ve been in here working all day,” she chastises Tressa, carrying in a pot of tea on a tray with two mugs.
There are scones and muffins and when she gets closer and sets down the tray, I see it contains a decorative china set with delightful pink filagree swirling around the teapot and along the top of each mug.
I didn’t realize I owned this china set. What is Mrs. Potts up to? Is injecting some level of romance into this moment her motivation? I give her a curious stare and she chuckles nervously, fiddling with the tea bags.
I’m being set up by my caretaker. Like falling for Tressa would be some great hardship. I already know she’s got me under her spell. But I also know, she’s much too sweet and innocent for a man like me, and I would never allow myself to sully her.
“Wow, this is beautiful,” Tressa says, admiring the spread, her gray eyes sparkling in delight.
Currant scones and lemon poppyseed muffins. Dried apricots and a small dish of shortbread cookies. I’ve never been treated so well at teatime before. Tressa’s been here a week and already has Mrs. Potts wrapped around her finger.
I lift my brow at the old woman, who smiles demurely before darting away.
Most of me wants to press Tressa for the answer to my question from before we were interrupted… my curiosity about her past is potent. But the gentleman in me decides to let it go…for now.
And so, when Tressa helps herself to a shortbread cookie, and says, “Describe your perfect day.” I let the sex quiz go. I’m sure Tressa will be relieved by that.
I help myself to a spot of tea and consider her question. “Intelligent conversation… about a variety of topics.”
Tressa nods. “Thatisimportant. Someone with whom you can talk.”
My mouth twitches with a grin. “Indeed, Miss Porter.”
“What else?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
She nods.
“Feeding from a beautiful woman,” I admit.
Her eyes widen, but only slightly. Certainly, she expects the truth from me, given how forthcoming our previous conversations have gone.
We quietly sip our tea for a moment and Tressa eats a second cookie. There’s something very peaceful about this moment. I connect with her on a level that I don’t with others.
