The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,71

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. Those fucking trousers! 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.

It was indecent and wicked, but his mouth watered with the need to sink his teeth into either of those perfect handfuls. God but she tempted him—with that pert, bitable rear, her tiny waist, and those perfect peach-like breasts that he also couldn’t wait to get into his mouth. His cock jerked convulsively against his palm in enthusiastic agreement.

Christ.

If he wasn’t careful, it wouldn’t take much to spend in his trousers like a sodding greenhorn. Just watching her was a study in arousal. He shoved his hand down harder on the falls of his breeches, a raw growl rumbling through him at the intense sensation. Isobel’s eyes met his from where she stood, concern in them.

“Are you well, Roth?”

“Quite,” he bit out.

Her gaze fell to his palm-covered groin, and a blush stained her cheeks as if she was remembering the last time her hand rested over him. Then his vulgar words in the carriage. Winter let out a breath. She had to be a complete innocent if she wasn’t aware of the effect she had on him. Then again, she was an innocent. He’d been the only one to have her. Unless she’d had a secret lover, which he highly doubted because Ludlow would have flung that in his face by now.

Pushing off the edge of the desk, he moved toward the relative safety and privacy of his chair. At least his inability to control his overexcited body would be hidden from view. Distracting himself with moving around some account ledgers on his desk, he didn’t immediately see the thin book she’d removed from the shelf until it was much too late.

“Don’t, that’s not—” he began and then stopped when she opened the first plate of erotic illustrations, her cheeks flaming the color of poppies.

He knew exactly what she would see. Etchings upon etchings of Thomas Rowlandson’s more risqué works. It was an art collection. Depraved and utterly filthy art, but it’d been a gift from Westmore when they’d opened the darker side of The Silver Scythe. The drawings they’d passed in the corridor by the very same artist her first time at the club would be tame compared to these,