Wick moved so his body was poised above hers and God save her, the only thing she wanted was that large body to rest on top of hers. She finally understood why women played the strumpet: it was because they caught a glimpse of a man like this one.

“Wick,” she whispered, throwing the last of any remaining maidenly caution to the winds, “come to me . . . please?”

“I thought it was tiddling that you didn’t like,” Wick said, his eyes glinting with an unholy mixture of laughter and lust. “Now I find you don’t like diddling either?”

Philippa rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

A strong hand suddenly laid a scorching path up her leg, easing them apart, skating onto the inner flesh of her thigh. Philippa gasped. “That’s exactly where Rodney . . . you mustn’t!”

“I won’t,” Wick said tenderly, dropping another kiss on the corner of her mouth. “I’ll never do something so ham-handed that Rodney partook in it . . . not unless you beg me to, of course.”

And with that, he took her mouth in such a devouring kiss that at first Philippa hardly noticed the hand stroking her legs apart, dancing close to her most secret—but notice she did. She tore her mouth away, and said, “Wick, no.”

“I would never,” he said, his eyes innocent. “On the Continent, we disdain diddling. We do this instead.” And without pausing for a response, he pulled open her legs with strong hands, slid down, and before she could even conceive of such a thing, put his mouth—there.

Philippa didn’t even think of refusing. In fact, she couldn’t think at all. Her capacity for rational thought did not reemerge until after she found herself shaking from head to foot, trying to fathom how a scorching wave had burst over her head and dragged her down into its fiery depths.

Wick was there, grinning down at her . . . nudging her.

Her eyes widened. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he said, husky and sweet. “Take me, Philippa. Because I’m the one who loves you, and because you love me. Make me yours.”

She knew instinctively that this kind of ownership had nothing to do with ha’pennies, or even kisses. And when he was deep inside her, hers weren’t the only eyes shining with errant tears.

“You’re mine,” she whispered.

Wick cradled her face in his. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” she whispered back, rather surprised. “It did with Rodney, and there’s so much more of you. But it feels . . .” She wiggled a little. “It feels good.”

“Ah,” he said, with such a wealth of satisfaction in his voice that she started to smile, but then he drew back, slowly, and just as slowly, thrust forward, and the smile flew from her mind, along with everything but the wild pleasure, the ravishing feeling that had her arching to meet him, crying out with each stroke.