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skimpy slip and straight into the wet fevered heat of her pussy.
    “Stroke me, Starr,” she whispered, commanding softly, “Touch me. Make me come.” Her body spoke too, reinforcing her words as she rocked her aching clit on him, making a firm pleasure-giving fulcrum out of the side of his outstretched hand. Using her mind-pictures shamelessly, she worked her loins to and fro, her fantasy self jiggling the tiny nub of her clitoris and laughing in exultation as her moisture welled from within her and trickled out over the whole of Starr’s hand and wrist.
    Adjusting herself forward she pressed her bare thigh against the slick shaft of his cock, then reached up to flip down the spaghetti straps of her slip and make her swollen breasts bare. Taking them one in each hand she began to squeeze and knead in time to the rhythm of her jerking hips. She was putting on a show for him. Just for him. Darryl had vanished. Her lewd performance was purely for the beautiful man on the bed. To pleasure him. To honor him. To breach the stern defenses he’d built around a generous, loving heart.
    Enflamed by emotion as well as by lust, she saw her servant-lover catch the same fire. Thrashing on the bed, he moved his body around with a frenzy that was as far away from his usual iron control as night was from day. His eyes locked with hers and he worked his lean hips and rubbed his sticky shaft against her. Then finally—with a resigned groan of surrender—he took his flesh in his own fingers and began to jerk himself in frantic time to Hettie’s own rhythm.
    Within a few moments he sobbed, arced up from the sheets and pure white semen pulsed out onto Hettie’s bare thigh. Thick heavy spurts of it anointed her. Its heat, and the rich, pungent aroma of it as it trickled across her skin, were too much for the hunger of her senses. She gave a great animal-like cry, pumped her hips in a blur then came hard and fast and wet against his hand.
    As orgasm consumed her, both in dream and reality, Hettie’s eyes flew open, and she turned—in bemused and mortified embarrassment—to meet Darryl’s calm, fascinated and utterly level stare.
    Her face pink, Hettie struggled to find something to say. She experienced a huge rush of relief when her traveling companion suddenly turned and pointed out of the car window.
    “Is this your house?” His soft voice gave no hint that he’d just watched her come. She could only nod, befuddled that the journey was already over and they were stationary in front of 17 Pengilley Gardens, the large London house that Piers had left her. Still stunned from her climax, and from knowing Darryl had seen and understood what’d happened, she felt incapable of coordinating or speaking. She could only thank her lucky stars—or more properly Starr—when the tall blond opened the car door and helped her out onto the pavement. She’d never leaned harder on his arm, nor felt more confused by her feelings.
    “Are you all right, Ma’am?” he inquired politely.
    “Yes, I’m—”
    No, she wasn’t. When she tried to walk, she felt dizzy and swayed, and within seconds there were two strong men holding her up.
    Like some kind of sprite, Darryl had darted around from the other side of the car, and was vying with Starr for the task of supporting the swooning damsel. If she hadn’t felt so flustered, Hettie would have laughed. Two knights for one fair lady, not a bad ratio. Not bad at all.
    This thought revived her, but as she mounted the shallow steps—with her honor guard still at her side—and the black-painted front door swung open, Hettie knew she needed time to think. This was all too much for her, not what she’d expected, and she needed time to organize her thoughts and understand her own emotions and desires.
    Darryl was a beautiful man and sexually desirable, not just an unwanted houseguest to be coped with. And yet even when she’d found herself fantasizing about him, the cool image of Starr had effortlessly