From her first night spent in Pomeroy Castle, Philippa had lain awake in bed and imagined Wick’s kisses. They wouldn’t be like Rodney’s slavering invasions, she had decided. And yet—she couldn’t imagine what they would be like. What if he thrust his tongue into her mouth, the way Rodney had? Any tongue in her mouth, other than her own, would be disgusting. She knew it.

But now Wick kissed her lightly, just a brush of his lips. A jerk of fire went straight down her body, through her middle. She raised her arms and wound them around his neck. His lips were firm and not at all wet—so how on earth could such a simple motion make her feel so hot and needy?

For a few moments, she couldn’t help wondering when he was going to push his tongue between her lips, and what she would feel if he did. But instead, he simply stood there in the dark nursery, his head bent to hers, his mouth brushing hers, over and over. Gradually she forgot her worries; besides, her attention was caught by his hands, roaming over her back, sliding lower, shaping her. Soon enough she could think of nothing but the mesmerizing sensation of his touch; it made her feel quite odd. She shivered and tried to move closer to his warmth.

His lips slipped from hers and dusted along the line of her jaw, down the curve of her neck, leaving a little trail of fire everywhere they touched.

He smelled so good, Philippa thought in a daze. What must he taste like? Impulsively, she opened her mouth and tasted him, her tongue sneaking out to touch the hard line of his jaw.

A rough sound came from Wick’s lips, and he turned his face to hers. “Darling,” he said, his voice a husky thread in the silence.

Philippa pressed even closer, molding her body to his muscles. She was dimly aware that his hair had fallen from its ribbon, and she reached up, running her fingers through the loose strands. The touch felt almost as intimate as kissing.

His tongue ran along her lips, and then he breathed, “Kiss me back, Philippa. Please.” She opened her mouth. It was as natural as breathing, as turning one’s face up to the sunshine. Wick’s kiss wasn’t about invasion. It was about the taste of him, and the taste of her, and the way their bodies were trembling against each other.

A groan tore from his throat, then he was kissing her harder than Rodney ever had done, so ruthlessly that she could only hold on, helpless in the firestorm that shot down her legs.