Beyond Romance: I can’t believe you’re pleading modesty!

Happy Wednesday! I’ve had guests for the past two weeks, so I didn’t participate in MFRW Book Hooks. Did you miss me?
Today’s hook comes from Book 2 of my steam punk trilogy The Toymakers Guild. This series has elements of both erotica and romance. In particular, The Journeyman’s Trial focuses on the deepening relationship between my heroine Gillian Smith and her fellow journeyman in the Guild, Rafe Wystock.

Blurb

If she builds it, will they come?

Technically brilliant and thoroughly wanton, Gillian Smith has found her vocation: designing innovative erotic devices for the Toymakers Guild. Lust is a lubricant to creativity at Randerley Hall. But what happens when two Toymakers fall in love?

If you like intelligent, lusty women and kinky steam punk sex toys, pick up a copy of The Journeyman’s Trial.

Series Blurb

Defying the repressive morality of the Victorian era, the Toymakers Guild uses advanced technology to fabricate bespoke sexual artifacts for the discrete pleasure of select clients. Its members are not only brilliant engineers but also sexual renegades seeking freedom from the prudish society that surrounds them. These are their stories.

The Hook

The obviously deserted cottage scarcely looked waterproof. However, a stout padlock secured the warped plank door, which yielded to Rafe’s key. The hinges groaned as it opened, revealing not the damp, musty, vermin-infested interior she’d expected, but a snug, neat space with clear signs of human occupation. To the left stood two rush-bottomed chairs and a rough pine table, flanked by a set of shelves holding pots and bowls. On the right there was a wooden bedstead covered with a red wool blanket, a tin trunk at its foot. Rush matting covered the packed earth floor. The far wall boasted a stone hearth. Though cold now, it held charred remains that looked recent. And wonder of wonders, several split logs sat piled to one side, along with a basket of apparently dry twigs for tinder.

Gillian stumbled into the dim room, falling to her knees in front of the grate. Though her hands shook with cold, she managed to prop one of the logs up against the wrought iron and stuff some of the tinder underneath. She found a covered terracotta jar of matches tucked into a natural alcove on one side of the chimney. Her teeth chattered as she tried to get one to light. After a dozen failed attempts, she tore off her gloves and tossed them aside. Finally she succeeded in igniting the twigs. A tiny flame strained upward, licking the underside of the log.

Wearied by her efforts and still racked by shivering, she half-collapsed in front of the hearth, watching the flickering red-gold filaments twine, merge and grow.

“Oh, well done, Jill! A fire’s exactly what we need!” Chill, damp air swept into the cottage as Rafe pulled open the door, then subsided as he shut it behind him. “Are you all right, then?”

He knelt by her side. His garments were as soaked as her own, but somehow he seemed to radiate warmth.

“I – I’m – so cold...” She wanted to throw her arms around him, to clutch him to her chest and bask in his heat, but she didn’t have the energy.

“Better get these off.” Without ceremony or hesitation, he started unbuttoning her jacket.

His touch shocked her out of her lethargy. “Wa – wait! What are you doing?”

He swept his damp hair off his forehead and smiled. “You’re drenched. You’re shivering so hard you can hardly talk. If you don’t shed those wet clothes, you’ll catch a fever or worse.”

“I – we – we scarcely know each other...” She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself. The sodden wool of her sleeves almost froze her palms.

“Gillian – we’re both members of the Guild. I can’t believe you’re pleading modesty!”

Indeed, what was wrong with her? Since she’d come to Randerley, she’d been naked, or nearly, more times than she could count. Why was she acting so weak, so cowardly, so ordinary?

“I – I don’t know – I...” Tears shimmered on her eyelashes.

“Hey there!” He stroked the wet tangles covering her head with a hand so gentle it made her chest hurt. “Don’t cry, Jill. You’re a bricky tart, just exhausted, that’s all. Look – tell you what, I’ll go first.”

Rising to his feet, Rafe shrugged off his overcoat and top coat, letting them fall to the floor. His vest and shirt soon followed. Before she had time to figure out how she felt about the whole situation, he stood bare-chested before the fire, which now burned merrily.

His lean, subtly muscled torso narrowed from sturdy shoulders to a slender waist. Aside from a sparse dark fuzz between his brownish nipples and a more pronounced trail disappearing below his belt, he was nearly hairless. His pale skin gleamed in the firelight, seeming whiter than her own. A livid scar made a shocking contrast, stretching from his ribs on the right almost to his navel.

Gillian bolted upright. “My God, what happened to you?”

“The one sword I didn’t manage to avoid, back in Kandahar.” He gave a wry grin. “I was lucky to survive.”