Page 42 of The Rakehell of Roth
Good Lord, he was thick and long, pulsing against her even through the layers of his clothing. She fisted him, gently squeezing and running her fingers along his thick staff to the tip. One fingertip traced the rounded crown, a bead of wetness soaking through the black fabric. A choked noise reached her ears and she shot him an innocent glance.
“Did you say something, my lord?” she murmured, drawing the gazes of both men. She froze, her hand in place, her thumb drawing tiny circles over him. His girth jerked in her palm, more fluid dampening her skin. Winter’s face could be hewn from rock, though his eyes burned…with lust and the promise of retribution.
“No,” he croaked.
The gentleman on the other side of the table wore a diverted expression, and Isobel felt a beat of alarm. Oh God, he didn’t guess what she was doing, did he?
“I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll leave you to your…dinner,” he said with an amused twinkle in his eye, and walked off. Isobel felt a blush take over her entire body at the intonation of the last word. She refused to entertain any shame, however.
A heavy palm covered hers. “Just what do you think you are doing, Isobel?”
“You did say I could do whatever I desired,” she replied saucily, with much more confidence than she felt. “Do you not like it?”
“Does it feel like I don’t like it?” he growled.
She lifted her gaze to his, taking in his clenched jaw. “No.”
…
That was because her innocent touch had nearly made him spill in his pants like a schoolboy. Christ, the boldness of her. Fisting his shaft while Westmore was standing there with that knowing smirk on his face. It wasn’t hard to deduce what was going on under the table, if not from Winter’s own monosyllabic responses to the rigid cast of his features. But he hadn’t wanted to stop her—it had felt too good.
Even now, his cock begged for release. He wassoclose to spending in his trousers, held back only by pure will. He’d watched her the entire night so far, unable to take his eyes away. She’d taken in everything with unvarnished delight, consumed every bite of her meal with such pleasure that he’d been rapt. And unbearably, excruciatingly aroused.
He hadn’t sported an erection in this club in years, and not for lack of opportunity. Sex and vice were rampant, just not for him. And then she’d touched him, working his weeping cock with a combination of inexperience and eagerness that nearly undid him. If Westmore hadn’t been standing there, irritating the fuck out of him, he would have launched his own fingers up her skirts to return the favor.
God, this woman. What would she be like in the throes of passion? He thought back to their first and only coupling, which had been an experience he’d been unable to forget. Clearly, one time had ruined him for any other. But now he wanted her in every position imaginable—under him, above him, and every scandalous way in between. His staff swelled even more beneath their palms, causing an erotic exhale to leave her lips.
Damn, he wanted to fuck them both out of their misery.
No,no. He had to stay the course. Bedding her would be a mistake.
His cock would have to accept its sorry fate.
Winter cleared his throat and slid out of the seat. He felt her eyes dart to the prominent,unsatisfiedbulge in his trousers, a blush staining her cheeks, but he made no move to cover up. It was just as well the wet spot from his excitement blended into the dark fabric, but his raging condition washerdoing, after all. Instead of looking away as he expected her to do, his audacious little wife lifted her chin and looked her fill. Yet again, he found himself at a loss for words.
Whowasthis woman?
Before either of them could speak, her gaze was drawn to the far end of the room where a raised stage sat. Lights were extinguished by efficient servants, drawing everyone’s eyes to the front. “Goodness, isn’t that your man of affairs?” she asked.
“Matteo, yes. He’s the master of the evening,” Winter answered, his throat thick with lust.
“What’s he doing?”
“Watch,” Winter said.
Matteo took the stage and welcomed the guests. “The bidding for one hour of Lady Darcy’s time will start at a hundred pounds. She is an expert in flogging, both performing and receiving. Dedicated to her passion, Lady Darcy is willing to…”
Isobel froze, her eyes blasting to his, though not with surprise at the woman’s name, which matched hers. “What is this?” she whispered.
“Exactly what it looks like. An auction.”
“But…it’s…she’s…” she trailed off, her eyes flicking back to the woman who now held a crop in her capable hands. The bidding had already increased to several hundred pounds. This Lady Darcy was in high demand. Twin flags of color lit his wife’s cheeks.
Winter’s mouth curled. “Do you wish to participate?” Her gaze panned from the stage back to him. “Tell me, kitten, would you offer yourself up for auction wearing nothing but a switch and a smile?”
So many emotions crossed her beautifully expressive face, it was fascinating to watch. Panic, alarm, intrigue, lust, shyness, resolve. But her reply… Her reply was pure seduction.
“With the right incentive, why not?”
