Wick’s hand was caressing her generous, lush breast, and couldn’t think very clearly. Philippa’s head fell back against the pillow as he brushed past her nipple and a small moan broke from her lips, so it seemed she wasn’t exactly clearheaded either. “Is this tiddle-taddling?” he asked, rubbing that sweet raspberry with his thumb.

Another strangled moan, a tiny pulse of air, flew from her throat. “No,” she said with a gasp. Then: “You don’t know what it is, do you? I should have known only Rodney would try to engage in something so distasteful.”

It struck Wick that bedding his beloved was the most delightful, funny, and passionate activity he had ever engaged in. He kissed her again, letting his fingers wander, marking what made Philippa arch her back, instinctively falling into a position to give . . . and take.

Slowly, slowly he inched her nightgown all the way above her breasts. She didn’t seem to notice until he replaced one of the hands that was caressing her breast with his mouth—well, she noticed that. And he stayed there, learning her secrets, tasting her sweetness. Savoring her. Every startled gasp made laughter and desire double in his chest.

“Lovely Philippa,” he murmured, sometime later, “is this tiddle-taddling?” And just to make sure she knew what he was talking about, he leaned down and gave her other breast a kiss, the kind that claimed, that was a little rough and a little wild.

“No!” she gasped and then, “Oh, Wick, that feels wonderful.”

Her hands reached out, rather blindly, toward him. “Does it feel the same for you?”

Once they had established to both their satisfaction that, yes, it did feel just as good for him, Wick was flat on his back with Philippa lying along his side, one of her legs entwined with his.

“Philippa,” he said, dimly hearing the hoarseness in his voice. “May I remove your nightgown now?”

She looked at him, her eyes shining. “If I kiss you here, Wick, your whole body jerks in response. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Quite,” he managed, and whipped her billowing nightgown over her head. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, awestruck.

Philippa followed Wick’s gaze down her body. The moonlight had turned her limbs to alabaster; she tried to imagine herself as he saw her. But she would rather look at him.

“Just one thing,” she said trying to gather her thoughts. “What I said before . . .”

But his hands were at her waist and his mouth closed over her breast and she lost the sentence, the words, the thought altogether.

“Yes?” he asked.

All the secret parts of her were throbbing, which was such an odd sensation that . . . still, she needed to make the point. “It’s just one of Rodney’s daft perversions,” she said, tugging his shoulders. “He called it diddling, but I know you won’t do such a thing.”