“She turned almost all the way around then and smiled at him, her cheeks flushed in the warmth of the fire, her pink lips curved sensuously, her hair falling like a red-gold waterfall over her shoulder. She might've been painted by Botticelli, a Venus emerging from the sea.
"Yes, snails," she replied teasingly, oblivious to his thoughts. "Snails are delicious. One pokes them out of their shell with a little prick."
He felt a tightening in his loins at the innocent remark. How could she not know the other meaning to the word?
He muttered under his breath before he could censor himself, "I'd think a large prick would be preferred.”