“I can,” he whispered, his fingers slipping over her intimate folds. His touch was infernally knowing, light, and teasing, maddening. Then he shifted the angle of his hand, so his thumb was pressing, right there, and he gave her a hint of relief with the tip of his finger inside her body.

“Westhaven,” she panted, “…dear God, what are you…?”

But his free hand had parted her night clothes enough to find a nipple and apply a gentle, pulsing pressure to it. That was all it took, just the start of attention to a breast, a bit of his finger, some pressure from his thumb, and her body seized in great, clutching spasms of pleasure.

She came silently, her body bucking against him for long fraught moments in complete abandon. When it was over, she hung limp and winded against him, shuddering as aftershocks wracked her, her cheek pressed over his heart.

Westhaven wanted nothing more than to plunge his raging erection into her wet heat and thrust like a mad bull, but his instincts suggested the moment wasn’t right. There had been too much ignorance in Anna’s responses, too little ability to anticipate and manage her own reactions.