The Heir

“Westhaven.” She arched her hips tentatively, only to have him go still.

“No,” he ground out. “You damned let me, for once in your stubborn life, take care of you, A

She liked his cursing and his foul language and the way he was so stern with her, but mostly, she liked the feel of him inching carefully into her body.

And then she didn’t quite like it as much.

“Hold onto me,” Westhaven urged. “Hold onto me but relax, A

And again met resistance.

He slid a hand under A

“It will go easier now,” he assured her, moving much more gently. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

He had hurt her, A

“I like this,” she said, pleased and breathless and bothered. “Don’t stop, Westhaven. I do like this.”

“Move with me now, A

A

“That’s it,” he whispered a few moments later. “Move like that, and… A

She was a quick study, able to move with him and send her hand wandering up his side to find his nipple, as well. Her thumb feathered across his puckered flesh in the same deliberate rhythm as he made with his cock, then she applied more pressure, actually rubbing him in a small, gratifyingly erotic circle.

“A

“You either.” She traced her tongue over his other nipple. “For the love of God, don’t you dare stop.”

She tried to quicken their rhythm, but he held firm to the more deliberate pace.

“Westhaven, please…” she wailed softly. “Gayle…”

His name, spoken in that hot, pleading tone, had the effect she’d hoped. He let the tempo increase until she was shaking and keening beneath him in the throes of her pleasure. Still he didn’t stop but bent his head, took her nipple into his mouth, and drew strongly on her. She flailed her hips desperately against him, whispering his name over and over against his chest, her legs locked around his flanks.

He lifted his head, anchored a hand under her buttocks, and A

“You,” Westhaven rasped long moments later. “Sweet, ever-loving, merciful, abiding Christ.”

He made it to his feet, carefully extricating his softening cock from A

“Spread your legs for me.” She complied, unable to deny him in that moment any intimacy he wanted. Dear God, the things he had made her feel… The cloth was cool and soothing, and yet knowing he wielded it made it arousing, too.

“Take your time,” she murmured. “No need to rush.”

“Naughty.” He smiled approvingly. “But you’ll likely be sore, so no more marzipan for you this morning.”

“And you won’t be sore?”

“As to that”—he tossed the wet cloth over the rim of the basin—“I very well might be. You have much to answer for.”

“Much.”

“A

“Do you need to hear the words?” She met his eyes, feeling sadness crowd out contentment.

“The words?” Guardedness crept up on the tenderness in his eyes.

“Oh, very well,” A

“I am not mortified,” he whispered, burying his face against her neck. “I am… awed. Beyond words. You honor me, A

He should say more, he knew, but his heart was pounding again, and she could probably feel that, so tightly was he clutching her to him. He should say that he loved her, for he certainly did, but he could not speak, could not contain with words the emotions rioting through him.

“Westhaven?” A

“No,” he said, feeling—merciful God—tears thicken in his throat as he held her even tighter. “I am not exactly well. I am…fucked silly.”

And he meant it in every possible way.

“I tell you that was her,” Stull hissed. “I know my girls, Helmsley, and that’s my little Morgan.”

“It has been more than two years since you’ve seen your little Morgan,” Helmsley said with as much patience as he could muster. “Women change in those years, change radically. Besides, it can’t be her. That girl was laughing and shouting and talking with her swain so the whole park could hear her. Morgan can’t do any of those things.”

“It’s her,” Stull insisted. “I bet you if we follow her and that callow buffoon on her arm, we will find my A

“You are more than welcome to go haring off in this heat after a girl who obviously is not my sister, though I will grant you a certain resemblance. Morgan’s hair was not so light, though, and I do not think Morgan was as tall as that girl.”

“You said it yourself,” Stull shot back, “women between the ages of fifteen and eighteen will change, delightfully so to my way of thinking.”

“So go on. If you’re so convinced that’s Morgan, trot along. Confirm your hunch.”

Stull gave him the mean look a grossly fat boy will often show when taunted then sighed.

“It is too hot,” Stull conceded. “If she’s in the area, she’ll be back here. The park is the only decent air to be had in this miserable city. I’m parched—what say we find us a flagon or two of summer ale and perhaps the wenches that happily serve it?”

“A pint or two sounds just the thing,” Helmsley said, knowing Stull, true to his two consistent virtues, would pay for it. “And perhaps we can find someone to watch for your girls in the park. I still have their miniatures.”

“Good idea. Put the common man to work and let us do the thinking. What was the name of that i

“The Happy Pig,” Helmsley sighed. It would be The Happy Pig. “I’m sure we can find a couple of sharp eyes there, maybe more than a couple.”

For A