Finally, he kissed her. It wasn’t a mere peck upon the lips. This was something entirely different. A slow, sensuous exploration that demanded a passionate response.

A kiss was rather like a sonata. There was an exposition, wherein the duke stated his purpose: namely, to drive her insane with desire. And then there was a development, wherein she responded passionately, opening her lips to his exploration, moaning softly as his tongue stroked inside her mouth, awakening the most delightful sensations. An interlude of gathering tension, increasing tempo . . . followed by a recapitulation, wherein the duke repeated the elements of the exposition, kissing her with soft, lingering strokes, until it was as though she’d been looking at separate elements of a landscape, a hill, a tree, a sky, and now . . . now she’d reached the summit and could see the entirety and grandeur of the scene.

His hands migrated to her waist, clasping her tightly, triggering a melting sensation, a lovely ache of awareness inside her body, and inside her heart.

He slid the yellow cashmere shawl she wore down from her shoulders and it pooled on the carpet.

One of his hands moved higher, his thumb brushing over her nipple.

He set the tempo, teaching her the way of it, the melody of it, the lilt and sway, lips teasing, nibbling, and then tongue sliding inside, smooth and legato.

Her body reacted with a trill of grace notes up her spine, her heart beating the percussion, accompanied by a rush of heat inside her belly, and a pulse between her thighs.

She was actually kissing Westbury. Not some fictional duke she’d conjured in her mind. West. The one in her arms, the one she was learning, firm lips and questing hands.

She wasn’t submitting to him, she was studying his hedonistic language, the language of tongues, sighs, and moans . . . taking the simple, ageless theme he taught her and embellishing it into endless variations.

He moved his lips away from hers, kissing the hollow of her neck, his touch like the brush of fingers on piano keys.

“Viola,” he whispered against her neck, his low voice vibrating in her ear. “You taste so sweet.”

Her mind wanted to impose some kind of order on this moment but there was only delicious sensation like the first bite of a profiterole, piercing the thin skin of the dough to uncover the sweet cream beneath and sinking your teeth through it and the sweetness melting on your tongue.

Or the ringing of a bell quavering in the air and you wanted to hold on to it but it faded away.

She would savor this moment, store the memory for later, when she was old and gray.

She mustn’t think that she was special, or that the kiss meant anything to him. He kissed her because he was Wicked Westbury and that’s what he did with willing partners.