He responded with a satisfied hum. This time she didn’t hesitate; her legs parted, and he actually ripped her silk smalls.

Then—

He stroked her again, hard and gentle at once, and one finger pushed deep. The pulse that had started between her legs flooded her body, so that her blood throbbed in tune to the thrust of his finger.

Giles didn’t sound like a gentleman now. He was cursing under his breath, and the velvety purr of his voice was somehow as erotic as the rough caress of his finger. “Next time,” he breathed in her ear. “This time like this, Yasmin.”

She blinked at him, not understanding, and he bent his head to her lips. She began rocking against his hand, whimpering into his mouth.

“Now,” he growled into her lips. “Come for me, Mina. I want you to moan, make that sound in the back of your throat. I want to make you blissful. I have dreamed about fondling you.”

She thought of resisting—but what would be the point of that? Her body fell into the grip of need, wild joy arching through her, a sob breaking from her lips.

“Look at me,” he commanded. And, low and fierce, “I want to see your eyes. You’re so damned beautiful.”

She gasped, unable to answer, pleasure washing over her skin, sinking deep into her bones, her whole body instinctively curling upward toward him and clinging as she trembled and shook. Finally, Yasmin fell back.

“You cussed,” she whispered, a smile spreading over her face.

“I what?” Giles’s voice was dark and rough. He was standing, doing something to his clothing. She felt too languid and happy to pay attention.

“Cussed,” she repeated. “That’s American slang. You cursed. Could we do that every day when we’re married?”

Giles leaned over and nipped her lower lip. “Morning and night,” he growled. “Every damn minute of every day and night.”

She giggled.

“I adore your giggle.”

He was pulling up her skirts, rearranging them around her waist.

She was thinking about the strange idea that he liked her giggle . . . She would have thought her giggle was, to him, part and parcel of being a frivolous ninny. But no . . .

Then he was braced over her again. “May I, Yasmin?”

Make love?

She bent one knee so she was in the position matching her favorite naughty etching, the one she kept hidden in the lining of her jewelry box.

“Yes,” she whispered.

His hand landed on her knee. “You like it this way, dearest?”

Then he, well, part of him, touched her. Ran up her crease, and it felt so strange and good that Yasmin raised her head to look down.

He was large.

There was practically no relation to Hippolyte. Nor to her little toy.

Much larger.

“No worries,” Giles murmured. “I’m fully gloved.”

He was. The condom from her purse fit tightly over him.

His eyes followed hers, and one of his large hands smoothed the covering, holding himself tightly. “In French?”