Page 41 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Are they…? Do they choose to do this?”
“Of course. And everyone who works here is compensated handsomely. Anything goes as long as it’s consensual.” His gaze tracked hers. “Jorge has worked here since its opening.”
“What are they going to do?” she blurted, her cheeks flaming hot.
Winter lounged back in his seat. “Whatever they want. Now, please, enjoy the meal.”
Dinner was efficiently served by more of the stunning footmen. Isobel ate and moaned as the exquisite flavors danced in her mouth—cream of turtle soup, followed by braised beef loin in wine, roasted pheasant, and a delicate fish in a beurre-blanc sauce. Isobel tried a little of everything, another sound of pleasure escaping her lips at first taste of the rich dessert served at the end. Dear God, she’d died and gone to heaven.
She glanced up. Winter’s eyes were glued to hers, his sharp cheekbones flushed, probably from the wine he’d consumed. “Good?” he rasped.
“Divine.”
“The chocolate is imported from Spain. It’s an aphrodisiac to enhance sexual pleasure.”
Isobel nearly choked on her mouthful. She’d had drinking chocolate before, but this was something else. A rich, layered torte that melted on her tongue and tasted like carnality on a plate. Who knew that food could be so sensual?
Or perhaps it was the searing look in her husband’s eyes as she licked a stray crumb from her lip. The growl that ripped from him went straight to her lady parts. Wanting to torture him just a little, she scooped the last bite and raised her fork to his lips.
“If that is truly its purpose, perhaps you should have some as well.”
Watching her, he accepted it, opening his mouth and curling his tongue around the tines. The tension between them shot through the roof. Her chest tightened and her nipples pebbled against her dress. But Isobel wasn’t the only one affected. Winter’s eyes were so dark with need, his pupils had nearly swallowed the gray irises.
“So, besides fare fit for the devil himself, what else is here?” she asked, wiping her mouth with her napkin.
“Whatever one desires.”
Isobel swallowed, the words lost in her tight throat as he angled his body toward her. The moment was interrupted, thankfully, when a masked gentleman stopped and claimed Winter’s attention. Air flooded her lungs as though they’d been held prisoner.
“Sorry to interrupt, Roth,” the man said. “Just a quick matter of the auction. Apologies.”
An irritated Winter glanced at her. “This won’t take a moment, Isobel.”
“Please,” she murmured.
They clearly knew each other. The man seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she could not place him. As her eyes wandered over the other diners and the footmen, a wicked idea came to her.
Time to take back the reins.
Removing her glove, she slid the hand resting on her lap beneath the table to Winter’s knee. The embroidered tablecloth hid the movement from view. The only outward sign that he’d noticed her daring act was a slight intake of breath. He kept his attention focused on the gentleman. Heartbeat thundering in her ears, she inched up his rock-hard thigh, marveling at the muscle she felt there. He was not a man prone to laziness, if evidenced by his corded strength.
But his deliciously muscular thighs were not the goal.
That prize rested at the top of them. According to Lady Darcy’s detailed instructions—knees, thighs, groin—in that order. Save the trophy for last. Men liked to be teased, but nottoomuch. A firm handhold was best.
Isobel bit her lip—she could barely muster up the courage to inch upward, much less worry about grip. She was attempting to stage an epic seduction when she had no blasted idea what she was doing. She’d never touched a manthere.
It’s a body part, she told herself,like a knee.
Gathering her courage, she resumed her exploration, freezing when her marauding fingertips encountered the rock-hard ridge in the crotch of his trousers. Isobel nearly choked on her inhale. It was nothing like a knee at all! She steeled herself and inched forward, knuckles sliding along its impressive length. Her husband put the male organs on display in Rowlandson’s lewd drawings to utter shame. Her mouth went dry as her fingers learned his shape.
Giving her wine a nonchalant sip with her free hand, she peered up at the men who were still in quiet discussion. Winter gave no sign that he was affected by her tentative exploration.
Time to change that. Step two: grasp firmly.
She filled her palm with him and did just that.
It was then that he lifted his own glass with a shaking hand and drained the contents, though he did not pull away or put a stop to her attentions. A gratified smile took over her lips.
