“Between my thighs.”

“That can be arranged.”

He set to work, teasing her already sensitive flesh. She reached her peak swiftly this time, the pleasure rippling out from his tongue and lifting her hips off the bed.

She lay, languid and spent, wrung out by pleasure, as he moved up her body and notched his hard, heavy erection between her thighs.

There was no gentle nudge this time. He entered her in one smooth, glorious motion. He was so in control of his body.

And yet, she controlled him, didn’t she? He’d been drifting off to sleep and a few small movements of her hips had made him hard for her again.

The two Wests, the one she’d invented in her mind and the one who’d wasted his life, began to merge and mingle, as their bodies were mingling.

He wasn’t wholly wicked. Nor wholly good.

And neither was she. They could be both at the same time.

“Viola,” he moaned. He moved with more urgency. She wound her legs more tightly around him, holding on as he pressed her deeper into the bed.

He reached around and broke the clasp of her legs, using his palms to hold her thighs against the bed. A few more long, hot strokes and he shuddered . . . then stilled, collapsing against her, covering her completely.

He gathered her into his arms. She moved closer, seeking his warmth, feeling a little awkward and shy about what they’d just done. The earthiness of it. Twice in one night. Who knew?

There was a new closeness, a new intimacy in his embrace. Their bodies had been joined and now it seemed to her that their hearts had learned to beat in time.

Light crept in through the curtains. They only had a few more stolen moments before they must go back. They’d have to arrive separately. No one could know what had happened here tonight. Not even her best friends. If anyone had seen her in the gaming hell . . . but she hadn’t recognized anyone.

Tonight she’d staked her claim on West’s body . . . and on his heart. She didn’t expect him to change overnight. She didn’t expect the reasons they couldn’t be together to suddenly disappear.

She didn’t know what this meant. All she knew was that she’d done this for herself.

Because she felt powerful. And free.

And more than slightly wicked.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

When Viola came downstairs the next morning after a few fitful hours of sleep in her bed at the dower house, she went directly to the music conservatory. It looked as though a cyclone had hit. Staff paper was strewn across the carpets, fixed to the walls with nails, and covered every other surface. Her father sat at the pianoforte, working out a melody.

His hair stood on end and his face was ashen, but he looked happy.