"Aye, my lord," she murmured hoarsely, answering several of his questions at once. A new shine of welling tears, humiliation as she was forced to admit things to this grandfatherly old man that she would have told to no one, not ever, given her preference, made her eyes bright as she looked up at him. "I had had no man, until your son... but he had me. Is that what you would have as well? Or my mouth, as he did?"<br/><br/>Then her throat constricted, allowing her no more words while her gaze dipped toward his lap, then upward again... and one hand lifted, trembling, to rest upon his lordships knee, and her eyes slid closed. Many a time, in stolen afternoons with Owen, she had sat by his side, his arm familiar and strong around her waist, and he'd urged her to place her hand upon his knee. She'd done so, and with her fingertips had traced small and drifting shapes, spirals and sigils that meant nothing but for the pleased groans they gained her from her lover - and it was such patterns that she began to trace now, against the sensitive skin on the inside of his knee, at the very bottom of his silken-covered thigh.