The Pleasure Slave

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

You Are Always In Submission To Your Master Whether She Is Present Or Not

Tristan eased back on the velvety soft chaise, fingering his new dagger and staring up at the ceiling. In the center, lights dripped like forgotten tears, their essence draped by burgundy-and-cream-colored glass. A clatter of voices drifted from the talking box in front of him, and he heard the sound of children giggling and racing outside, just beyond the royal-blue stained window.

They were so happy out there. So free. They did not know how it felt to beg for one's desires.

But Julia did. She had begged him.

At the clothing store, she'd asked him to leave her alone, and when he refused, she had begged him.

Begged him.

He hated himself for it, because he knew all too well how it felt to grovel. When the words "I'm begging you" had left Julia's mouth, he'd wanted to rip out his heart and give the offending organ to her.

How many nights had he spent on his knees, hands clasped, tears streaming down his cheeks as he pleaded with his father for necessities? How many eves had his father taken him into town, tied him to a post, then whipped him until only thin strips of skin were left on his back? All for the sheer pleasure of hearing him cry for mercy?

Innumerable.

The pain of those years even overshadowed the pain of being a pleasure slave. He easily recalled the humiliation. The depravation. If he'd needed to eat, he begged. If he'd needed a blanket to warm his body, he begged. If he'd needed to rest, he begged.

There were days he would have willingly dropped to his knees, all for a simple show of affection from the father who was supposed to love him—affection he never received. As a small measure of revenge, he had learned to repress his body's reactions, never crying out, never showing weakness no matter what cruelty was inflicted. He'd simply channeled his energy into another direction. Seduction. At such a young age, he became a lover of great talents, learning the nuances of the female form, learning every secret place that brought a woman pleasure. In return, he found a short reprieve from the harsh reality that had been his life.

Then at sixteen spans, he met Roake, a boy of sixteen who had endured his own share of pain. The two of them struck out on their own. Together they practiced wielding a sword until their skill surpassed even that of their Great-Lord. They fought for their city, dispatching many rebel troops. And as a reward, Great-Lord Challann gave them land of their own.

Finally Tristan had a home he admired.

Then Zirra had placed him in bondage.

The salvation he had always found in a woman's arms ultimately became his downfall, he thought darkly; his sexual knowledge the bane of his existence, yet his only means of escape. How ironic. How cruel. During the first span of his curse, he had ceased thinking of sex as a pleasure, seeing it as a means to an end instead. Except with Julia. He didn't dread the thought of being with her. Nay, he yearned for her nakedness and touch with every ounce of his manhood, and neither escape nor obligation had anything to do with it.

Why did she continue to resist him?

He was beginning to think that all the knowledge in the galaxies could not win her devotion. And he so badly wanted to win her. She was a woman of surprising depth. Her smile held warmth and sunshine and such captivating beauty he was still awed by its majesty. Her anger held traces of fire and frost, and he often found himself longing to spark her ire simply to soothe her.

Sometimes she seemed a volatile mixture of emotions—need, fear, surety, doubt—as if she didn't truly know her own desires. He'd come to realize that she thought herself shy and plain and unworthy of anyone who was not. How had she ever become so deceived? To Tristan, she radiated kindness, generosity and compassion. Her inner beauty magnified her outer beauty, giving her such luminescence, such tranquility, that no other woman compared. She was precious, worth so much more than she could possibly imagine.

Tristan tangled a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched. He was beginning to realize love was not the monster he'd thought it to be. The moment the thought filled his mind, he blinked and shook his head. He even repeated the phrase out loud. "Love is not a monster."

Every muscle in his body tensed, waiting for him to deny the words, but he could not. Nay, he could not deny them, for he could at last see merits to the emotion. Knowing a woman's smile belonged solely to him… watching passion flare to life in her eyes… tasting her sweetness for the rest of his life.

He knew, though, that loving Julia would be so much worse than any torture he'd hitherto endured. Loving her meant losing her, for there would be no magic to bind them together, and he would hurtle back to his world without her, to never see her smile again, to never breathe in the lushness of her scent.

Nay, love was not a monster, but he still wanted no part of it.

He simply wanted Julia.

Passion lay buried underneath her prudish exterior; he knew it, a raw, primal passion that was so hot it required only one kiss to make her burn. His nerve endings sparked to life with the memory. What would it take for her to catch fire and burn again—for him and no other? What would it take to make her forget Peter?

His fist clenched the dagger so tightly the blade slashed into his skin and a trickle of blood flowed down the length of his arm. Peter must be forced from her mind. The puny man did not deserve Julia's radiance. 'Twas time Julia realized it.

I will give her another lesson, he thought, applauding himself for his own ingenuity. Lesson number two would be anticipation and, as her tutor, it was his duty, nay, his obligation, to make her study. Find her, his body shouted.

Following the scent of spices, he strode into the kitchen. The sight of Julia stopped him, held him ensnared. A jolt of tenderness crashed through him as he watched her pad from the stove to the sink and drain a pot of water, her expression one of intense concentration.

His mouth watered for her. "Is our meal ready?"

With a startled gasp, she whipped around. A spot of red sauce dotted her chin. "Everything will be done in about fifteen minutes."

He nodded, wondering what her chin would taste like if he licked the sauce away. The image left him hard and aching, his muscles bunched. Instead of closing the distance between them, locking his arms around her and crushing her lips with his own, he said, "I would like to bathe ere we eat."

"Oh." She placed the pot on the counter. Steam wafted up, a billowing cloud that momentarily shielded her features. "Can you wait until later?"

"Nay." He needed his body scrubbed clean—clean enough to eat off—for what he had planned.

"All right. Fine." She sighed. "You know where the bathroom is." Then she paused. "Do you know how to work a shower?"

"Aye." At least, he hoped he did. A few minutes later, he found that he did, indeed, know how to work the strange knobs. They were similar to those used for a Gillradian bathhouse. He adjusted the setting until water streamed down, pounding against the tub.

Tristan stripped and stepped into the center. The warm liquid caressed his sensitized skin like the hand of a lover. He was still hard, still ready, and as he stood underneath the spray, his arousal became a source of pain. He wanted Julia's hands on him, her fingers curled around his cock while her mouth sucked at his nipples. Then, when he could stand that torment no more, he wanted her mouth and hand to trade places, wanted to feel the hot wetness of her tongue stroke his swollen length over and over, again and again.

His hands fisted. If he did not halt these imaginings, his warrior's training would soon abandon him completely. He might pounce on her, hurt her, and he would no more hurt her than he would hurt himself. But her image refused to leave. Instead, his mind's eye stripped her down and had her stepping into the tub with him. Her smooth, pale skin glittered with moisture, her only color the delicious pink of her nipples and the dark patch of curls between her legs. His mind's eye had her gifting him with a secret little smile as she allowed her fingertips to swirl around his navel… then dip lower. His muscles constricted as a surge of pleasure ripped through him.

He could no more stop his next action than he could refuse to take another breath. With the fragrant steam billowing around him and the rivulets of water streaming down his chest, he reached down and clasped his shaft in his hand, picturing her hand there instead. He stroked himself, going from base to tip with a tight fist. He could almost feel her teeth scraping his nipples, could almost feel her lips sliding all over him. Only when he imagined that she moaned with the pleasure of touching him, did he find release.

A paltry substitute, he knew, yet it was effective all the same. He might not feel completely satisfied, but he was calm, once more in control.

Frowning, he emerged from the tub on a haze of mist. Using a thin strip of cloth, he strapped his dagger to his thigh. Then he wrapped a bigger cloth around his waist. A desire to see Julia, to hear her voice, filled him and he found himself striding back into the kitchen. Praise be to Elliea, it was time to begin her next lesson.

When he saw her sitting at the table, waiting, dishes and food in place on the tabletop, something in his chest constricted. How he wanted this woman. All of her. Her hands were folded in front of her and she wore an expression of dreamy relaxation.

"I am ready," he said, his tone leaving no doubt as to just what he was ready for.

Her lashes swept up and down as she blinked up at him. Her mouth drooped a bit and a distraught light entered her eyes. "Uh, Tristan—"

He cut off her words before they formed. "Everything looks and smells delicious, Julia."

She tore her gaze from his towel. "I hope you're hungry."

"I'm always hungry."

"That's good." Oh, yes, that's very good, Julia thought, sneaking another peek at Tristan's bronzed perfection. Droplets of water trickled from his hair, ran down his hard, sculpted chest and over the ridges of his abdomen. A plain white cloth shielded his upper thighs, waist and penis.

There. She'd actually used the word in association with him. Penis, penis, penis. The swell of victory gave way to a rise of longing. Her mouth suddenly felt dry and parched.

"Do you like lasagna?" she managed to squeak out.

"I would like anything you prepared." That naughty towel parted slightly as he slid into his chair.

Look away, Julia. No, enjoy. Damn it, look away. Finally she did. "Shouldn't you get dressed before we eat?" As she waited for his answer, her fingers twisted and shredded her napkin to ribbons. Her foot tapped against the table leg as she stifled the urge to wrap them around his waist.

"Nay," he said, not sparing her a glance. "This is appropriate attire for one's home, is it not?"

"I guess so." But how was she supposed to concentrate on dinner while she could very well imagine him sprawled out on the tabletop, a buffet of masculinity for her own personal enjoyment? I'll never be able to concentrate. Her appetite had taken a swift turn away from food, and to—she stole another quick glance and felt hot, so hot—to that.

He didn't seem to have a problem concentrating, however. Whistling under his breath, he piled his plate high with salad, breadsticks and pasta. His facial features were so relaxed she suspected he might fall asleep.

Throughout the meal, her unbidden gaze caressed his small brown nipples puckered from the cool air, then dipped lower. Lower still. She willed his towel to melt away so that she could ran her palms over his abdomen—and anything else she encountered along the way. She even willed his fingers on her body, perhaps unfastening her jeans, slipping them from her legs and tunneling beneath her panties. How delightful it would be to have such strength and heat spread all over her.

His knee brushed hers.

The innocent touch propelled spears of fire through her blood. She gasped.

"My apologies," he muttered, never even glancing her way.

"No problem," she managed.

When he did it yet again and again, and then again, Julia dropped her fork with a clank. She drew in a shaky breath. One. Two. Three. Her body countered with a mantra of its own. Sex. Sex. Sex. Every nerve within her suddenly screamed with sensation, and when she discovered that she was caressing a bread stick and Tristan was watching her, her face heated.

"You have no liking for the food?" he asked, all innocence.

"No. I mean, yes. It's fine." Did he know what he was doing to her? No, he couldn't, she thought. He was too busy eating the entire pan of lasagna. Concentrate, Julia. You are not a nymphomaniac— much as you might wish otherwise. Her hands trembled as she lifted the utensil and feigned interest in the food.

Twice she managed to steal another peak at him, and twice more he casually bumped her with his leg. He still looked completely relaxed, at ease, while desire kindled within her, embers ready to burst into flame. His damp skin beckoned for caring, gentle hands to wipe away every drop of moisture. His mouth cried out for hot, wet kisses.

She wanted him, was, in fact, just about to leap over the table and rip the towel from his body when the doorbell rang. Saved, she mentally clapped, dropping her fork and jumping to her feet.

"I'll be right back," she said. "We've got a visitor."

Her heart drumming erratically inside her chest, she tugged open the door. The frantic beat slowed, and she dragged in a much needed breath. Peter smiled when he spotted her.

"Hi, Julia," he said, his tone shy and hesitant, yet a panicked light flittered into his hazel eyes. "Your brother's not here, is he?"

"He's in the kitchen. Completely absorbed in his food," she added when Peter backed three hasty steps away.

His shoulders relaxed. He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and jingled change. "I noticed your car in the driveway and wondered if you'd like to—"

Tristan, who suddenly stood right behind her, barked, "We are busy." And shut the door in Peter's stunned, horrified face with more force than necessary.

Grimacing, Julia propped her forehead against the cherry wood with a thump. "That was so unbelievably rude."

"Was it not rude to interrupt our meal? Now, come." Tristan led her back to the table, a silent reminder that they would not discuss her neighbor.

She bit back a sigh and settled into her chair. How would she later explain this to Peter? How would she make him understand it was him she wanted? Liar, liar, her mind sang, before all thoughts and questions tapered to silence. Tristan touched her knee again, a deeper, more lingering caress, and whether he did it purposefully or accidentally, she still didn't know. And didn't care. Over and over, one part of his body connected with hers, launching erotic shivers down her spine.

When his fingertips brushed the underside of her calf, white-hot need crashed through her body like bolts of lightning. Raspy breaths she recognized as her own pounded in her ears. Beads of sweat popped onto her brow. If only he'd forget about the pasta in front of him and feast on her. Lord, when had she become such a sexual being who only considered pleasure? Another tremor raked her, small and deliciously decadent.

"Little dragon," he said languidly.

"Yes," she answered breathlessly. Oh, yes, yes, yes.

"Have you, perchance, found something you desire?"

"Yes." She forced herself to concentrate, to think of something plausible. "You took my bread stick. I want it back."

Light reflected off his eyes, making them twinkle with an emotion she couldn't quite name. Laughter? Passion? Mischief? "You have not eaten the one in front of you."

"Oh." She glanced down, saw her plate piled high with uneaten food. "I'm not that hungry."

He smiled a slow, sensual smile that held promise and knowledge, wickedness and allure. "Mayhap I can interest you in something else, a more appetizing morsel than a mere piece of bread."

"I'm not sure you can, but perhaps you should try," she said, dreading—praying—he might say something naughty.

A lengthy pause left her suspended on the edge of her chair.

"Mayhap I can interest you in… me."

Was the room suddenly hotter? Brighter? She tugged at the collar of her shirt and forced herself to remain seated, lest she throw herself at him. "I made dessert," she offered lamely. "Well, I didn't cook it. I just opened the box and set the bonbons on the counter."

"Bring them to me," he coaxed, his voice like soft, rich velvet.

Using dessert as a distraction, Julia straightened on unsteady legs, grabbed the tray of ice cream and set it on the table with a thud. More balanced now, she reclaimed her seat. He eyed the chocolate treats with unfettered delight, and she suddenly wished she'd smeared the things over her naked body.

I'm just a guan ren to him, she reminded herself. A means to an end he must pursue because that is his sole purpose in life. Seduction. To him, she was not special or pretty or even truly desirable. How pathetic she would be if she accepted such indifference and did not demand more for herself—or for him.

Never once taking his violet gaze from her, he lifted a bonbon and licked the center. "Let me feed you dessert," he said so silkily that she swallowed back a dreamy sigh.

Stay tough. Stay focused. "I'm not sure that would be wise, Tristan."

"I care not if such indulgence is wise. I care only about desire." His lids lowered in half-mast perusal, mentally stripping away her clothes and licking every inch of her. "If you cannot accept food from my hand, will you at least accept my kiss?"

Her heart rate quickened with excitement, and the arousal kindling within her burst into hot flames that licked her all over. Prickles of anticipation worked along her skin. Really, what would one more kiss hurt? Just one simple kiss? Nothing, that's what, her mind eagerly answered.

"One kiss?" she asked with breathless longing.

"Just one." He touched her again, this time deliberately, a simple coasting of his knuckles that set off a chain reaction of sensation. How did he do that? How did he make her feel like the most desirable woman he'd ever encountered? Oh, how she wanted him.

Wait! You want Peter.

Peter who?

"There is no room for thought here," Tristan said, as if he feared she would pull away. "We have defeated your propensity for issuing lectures. Now let us conquer your habit of thinking overly much."

Leaning over, he dipped his index finger into the center of the bonbon, then traced the vanilla cream around the outline of her lips; he stroked a path along the curve of her jaw, then dipped to her neck, touching so softly she felt the coolness of the ice cream rather than the actual touch. Julia shivered as the sweetness melted and spread over her skin. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Come to me," he breathed. His fingertip traveled downward, then around, anchoring at the base of her neck and drawing her forward until she half stood over the table. "I need you so desperately."

It was his words that finally broke her resistance. He needed her. Her! Without breaking contact, she managed to maneuver around the table's edge and close the remaining space between them. He stayed seated, so she peered down at him. His lips looked soft, and she was proud of herself for noticing because at the moment, his erection was pushing against her leg.

"Put your arms around me," he said oh so softly.

Her knees gave out, and she dropped to the cool wood floor, her body positioned between his knees, her face level with his sternum. Both of her hands crept up the taut muscles of his chest, savoring, lingering, then twining around his neck as he'd demanded.

The contact was electric. It felt sinful and erotic and she wanted the moment to last forever. He smelled so good, like soap and chocolate and vanilla. His arms descended to her waist, locking her in place, but such an action wasn't necessary. At the moment, there was no other place she would rather be, and this overly large, overly real man in her arms had long since replaced thoughts of Peter.

Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers, a breath away. "I can feel your body quivering, little dragon. Are you cold?"

She shook her head.

Featherlight, he kissed her cheek, a mere brush of lips to flesh. "Excited?"

"Yes." How could she deny it when her body felt so alive, so eager?

He licked the outline of her lips. "Do you want my mouth on yours?"

Somehow she managed to nod.

"Say it. Say the words."

"Yes, I think I do."

"Ah-ah-ah. No thinking, remember?"

Lost in a world of sensation, where inhibitions and embarrassment didn't belong, she let herself run free. She ached, yearned for him, and finally confessed. "I need your mouth, your lips and your tongue. Kiss me, Tristan. Kiss me."

He chuckled softly, a heady rumble that purred with barely suppressed power. "This is one command I will enjoy obeying." His tongue met hers, blending the chocolate with the vanilla. He thrust into her mouth, all sweetness and warmth, and Julia eagerly welcomed him.

Just as before, the moment he began to work her tongue, passion exploded within her. She moaned. Held him tighter. Tristan must have sensed her desperation because he gripped her from behind and lifted her onto his lap with one swift motion. They were chest to chest. Hardness to softness. Instinctively, she spread her legs, wrapping them under the chair's arms and around his waist. Even through the cotton fibers of his towel, the heat of his erection scorched her. He was thick and hard, and some wanton part of her wanted to take his entire length in her mouth, suck him from base to tip then down again.

I shouldn't be doing this, she thought. Not with him. I'll stop him in just… one… minute…

Oddly enough, she felt sexy and desirable and purely feminine, a heady mixture of power, and as these sensations combined, her head swam with confidence. Her fingers sank into his thick hair just as his palm eased under the bottom of her shirt, sliding up to brush the curve of her breast. His big hand cupped its weight and gently squeezed. He rolled the nipple between his fingers.

Then he moved. A simple sway of his hips.

The half crescents of her nails dug into his scalp. Intense, consuming pleasure shot from one corner of her body to the other. That, combined with years of deprivation, pushed her beyond control. She became famished for a touch, his touch, and clasped him wildly with her thighs, craving contact. Sweet contact.

As if he, too, were at his limit, Tristan continued to work his open mouth against hers, his tongue aggressive, his taste hot and masculine. He licked, nibbled, sucked, alternating between the three and devouring her one tasty bite at a time.

The kiss was wild and savage and made up for every school dance she'd never attended, every party she'd never been invited to and every night she'd cried because no one desired her. Right here, this moment, she was Aphrodite, pagan goddess of love and beauty, and men worshiped at her feet. Life and vitality beat through her veins.

"Tristan," she rasped. "I need more."

He tore his mouth away, panting, "Then more you shall have." He paused a moment, then, and gazed at her, just gazed at her. Savoring, perhaps? "Had I known how eagerly you would respond," he said, his tone hard, "I would have begun lesson two yestereve."

"Lesson?" she muttered, trying to recapture his lips with her own.

"Hmm, anticipation." The hot wetness of his tongue left a path of liquid fire along her collarbone before he claimed her lips again.

But bit by bit, small measures of sanity returned, clearing her passion-fogged senses. Old self-doubts and insecurities teased the periphery of her mind. Unsure, she loosened her hold on Tristan, forcing herself to concentrate on his words, and not his touch.

Everything came together at once. He'd kissed her as if her mouth held the oxygen he needed for life support because of a lesson. A stupid, stupid lesson. He didn't desire her, Julia Anderson. Not really. He'd simply been acting as her tutor. She'd realized that in the beginning, but easily let herself be convinced otherwise. Yet hearing the actual words from his mouth cut painfully.

A jumble of need and mortification, she shot from his lap, conscious now of the sticky chocolate sweetness on her skin. With swift, jerky movements, she shoved her hair from her face and glared down at him. "I changed my mind," she said, trying to sound confident and unaffected, yet not quite managing the feat. All of her residual doubts about why she should resist this man grew in intensity.

Reaching out, he attempted to gather her back into his embrace. She quickly sidestepped his arms.

"Come here," he said. "Your lesson is unfinished."

"I've learned all I need to know about anticipation," she said. Please, God, do not let my voice sound as shaky and desperate to Tristan as it does to me.

"There is so much more I can teach you," he uttered, now softening his tone, using each sexy timbre to the fullest.

"I'm not interested."

"That is an untruth, Julia. You are interested."

"You're wrong." She tried to stifle the hurt burning in her eyes. She wasn't angry with Tristan. No, she couldn't be angry with him. He'd only been doing what she'd asked him to do: teach her to seduce a man. Yet she'd let herself forget that fact, and she hated herself for her stupidity, hated the ache in her chest. "Very wrong."

"You are the one who is wrong, Julia," he said through clenched teeth. He propped his elbows on the armrests and folded his hands together. "You lie to yourself, and I would know why."

"I've merely had enough pleasure for one day, that's all."

He made a tsking sound with his tongue. "Never has a woman needed more, sweet. Twice now you have come apart because of a kiss. And never once did my fingers or my shaft enter your body. You want the pleasure I can give you. Admit it." —

Julia whirled, fleeing as fast as her feet could carry her. Where she headed, she didn't know. She only knew that if she didn't leave now, she might cave completely, give Tristan everything he wanted and forget everything she needed. How could he be so passionate one moment, and so frosty the next, as if he were two separate people?

"Julia," he called, racing after her. When he reached her, he gripped her shoulders and spun her to face him. His expression darkened with remorse, and he was once again the tender, fervent warrior she'd kissed. "I did not mean to hurt you."

Forcing a half smile, she looked past him, past the living-room window. "I'm fine. Really."

His strong, callused hands cupped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. "Every warrior knows the words 'I'm fine' from his woman are a death sentence. Tell me what I did wrong, and I will apologize."

"You did nothing wrong." Not purposefully, at least.

He was sorry he had hurt her, but he truly had no idea that he'd just ruined the best experience of her life. "Just tell me when you begin a lesson next time," she said softly. "I thought you really—" Her mouth closed with a snap. She absolutely did not want him to know she'd thought he had kissed her because he wanted to, because he found her attractive.

His brows knit together and his confusion intensified. "What does knowing about a lesson beforehand matter?"

"I have a right to know, that's all."

The fingers on her shoulders tensed, and his gaze slitted dangerously. "This is not about the lessons, is it? This is about Puny Peter. Did you think of him while I kissed you? Did you wish it was Peter touching you? Did you picture him in your mind, and when his image faded, you pulled away from me?"

"So what if I did?" she said, eyeing him with false bravado.

"As your instructor, I forbid you to think about Puny Peter."

"You are not the master of my thoughts. I govern who and what I think about."

"Is that so?" he asked, his tone dripping with deceptive calm.

"Yeah." Standing to her full five-foot-three height, she glared up at him. "That's so."

"Then what think you of this? I liked the way your nipples hardened against my palms. I liked the way you pressed your body deeper into mine. I liked the way you wrapped your legs around me, placing yourself firmly against my cock. I liked those things, Julia. I. Not Peter."

"I liked them, too," she admitted before she could halt the words. "I liked that you were the one doing them to me."

Everything about him softened. "Then tell me why you ran from the pleasure I gave you."

"I thought you really wanted me, okay?" she whispered. "I thought the lessons had nothing to do with our kiss." Staring down at her fingers, she gave a humorless laugh. "I guess it was stupid of me to hope you could give of yourself and not cater to the whims of a master, huh?"

"What is this?" The words exploded from his mouth. "You think I see your body as an obligation? Curse you, woman. Thoughts of you have fueled my dreams and kept me hard all night long. I crave you, and have not stopped craving you since I first appeared." He jerked her into the hard circle of his arms. "Just as you crave me."

"No, no. Not anymore." Deny him, whispered through her mind. If she didn't, she would once again give herself to him completely. He desired her, she conceded that much now. But was that really enough? She would forget her own dreams and neglect Peter. Already her resistance was waning. "No," she said again, more for her benefit than his.

"Peter is not here," Tristan growled. "He is not the one who can give you fulfillment. I am. Your body knows this and will always betray you."

The truth of those words danced through her, and for a moment, only a moment, she thought, why deny the inevitable? But self-preservation won. Get away while you still can. "Why don't you believe in love, Tristan?" she found herself asking instead.

He blinked. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his hands withdrew from her. "The emotion is simply not one I can allow myself to experience." Silence permeated the room. Their gazes remained locked. Finally she sighed and glanced away. Staying here with him and debating the finer points of love would not change his mind. He appeared too distant right now, too disgusted. "I've got to balance my accounts," she said, "so I'll be in my office. I don't know what time I'm going to bed, but you can stay up as late as you want." She forced herself to slip from his touch and walk away.

"When you go to your bedchamber," he called, his tone steely, "keep your door unlocked."

A tingle of alarm raced through her and she froze, her back to him.

"Why?"

"You agreed that I will sleep with you." Drawing on every ounce of inner strength she possessed, Julia whipped around and pinned him with her stare.

"The operative word here is sleep. And for your information, I didn't say exactly where you are to sleep, just that it's in my room. I'll make you a pallet on the floor."

His eyes narrowed. "You have me there, sweet. Next time I'll not leave any room for interpretation."

As Tristan lay on Julia's bedchamber floor, he stared up at the ceiling. He hated that their kiss had ended so abruptly. Yet mayhap that was for the best, he now realized. He'd almost lost control. He'd touched her, tasted her, and had wanted to give her everything he had to give. Julia was quickly destroying that innermost part of him, the part he kept buried.

The part of him that kept him sane.

A cold sweat broke out all over his body.