Page 63 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Gobble you.” Her tongue slipped out to lick dry lips, and his eyes burned silver. Good Lord, if he kept looking at her like that, she was going to make a fool of herself.
His eyes might have set her on fire, but he stayed put and shook his head. “Said she didn’t seduce married men.”
Isobel blinked. “Wait, this was recent?”
“She was last year’s winner.”
It shouldn’t have been possible, but parts of her grew hotter and wetter. The scintillating thought that Winter might still look like that, only in the flesh beneath his clothes, was virtually impossiblenotto latch on to. And now, all she could think about was seeing him sprawled careless and indolent for her greedy perusal.
“I have to admit,” she said, gaze panning between him and the portrait. “I never thought I’d be jealous of an old lady.”
“Are you?”
She nodded. “Categorically. But I think it’s time we remedy that, don’t you?”
Consumed by a burst of lust that made her knees weak, Isobel moved away from the voluptuous portrait. She set down her whiskey and prowled over to the desk where her husband stood, not stopping until she was wedged between his long legs.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a low rasp.
She took his drink and drained the rest, licking her lips with a smack that made him inhale sharply. “Claiming my hard-won prize.”
“Hard-won? Withmymoney?” Winter laughed, the vibrations from his body rumbling into her, though he held himself like a statue. His hands now gripped the edges of the desk with such force that his knuckles went white. She smiled. Glad to see she wasn’t alone in her ungovernable reactions where he was concerned. Isobel resisted the urge to rub herself against him like a cat.
“I assure you, it’s my own money.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where did you get it?”
Isobel couldn’t tell him about Lady Darcy, not without Clarissa’s approval. Or the fact that they’d made quite a fortune from the popular periodicals, which would account for the five thousand pounds she’d so easily squandered for one night with her marquess.
It was time to collect. Time to bring her husband to heel.
Instead of answering, she pushed to her toes and sealed her mouth to his.
Chapter Seventeen
Dearest Friend, if you wish to learn about marital congress, also known as sex, tupping, fucking, prigging, basket making, rutting, rogering, strapping, or swiving, among others, go listen to a bawdy song. They are filthy but instructive.
– Lady Darcy
The silken press of her lips made Winter come unhinged.
One palm slid up her waistcoat-covered back, the other cupped her thigh beneath the tantalizing curve of her buttock, both holding her firmly in place. Thosefuckingtrousers! They had made him wild with arousal to see those long, shapely legs so indecently outlined in that black fabric. He’d been sporting a mongrel of an erection the moment she’d taken off that hat and his brain had made the connection between voice and body.
The minute she had walked into the salon downstairs and he’d felt that first visceral, unmistakable tug, he’d known who she was. The bloody cheek of her! He should have put her over his knee the moment they were alone, but alas, she was in charge. Those were the rules, after all, and the time to say anything to the contrary was long past.
He was hers.
Officially bought and paid for.
Isobel moaned into his mouth, her lips parting and that tiny pink tongue creeping forward for a taste. It recoiled wildly when it touched the tip of his and then crept back for more. And still, Winter didn’t take control, letting her set the pace. He sat there and endured her sensual explorations until his skin felt like it was going to burst at the seams. Winter groaned as her teeth scraped his lip. He could taste the brandy on her tongue and a tart sweetness that was all her own. It made him want to taste her elsewhere.
Without warning, she pushed off of him, her pink mouth swollen and her light blue eyes hot with desire. “Let’s make this last, shall we?” Her voice was husky and made his groin tighten even more.
He swallowed. “What, exactly?”
“Torture,” she tossed over her shoulder with a saucy grin.
Hell, if she wasn’t right. He was fit to bursting. Adjusting his painful erection with the heel of one hand, his needy eyes tracked her progress about the room, watching as she perused the items on a built-in bookshelf lining the wall near the entrance door to his office. He couldn’t think of what rested on those shelves, all his brain could focus on was the sinuous arch of her bottom atop those long legs, the fabric stretching tauntingly with every step.
