The Pleasure Slave

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Your Pleasure Rests In The Pleasure Of Your Master

Julia cursed under her breath as she stomped to the car. Men were sooo unbelievably stubborn.

By ordering Tristan back inside the house without hunting Peter down and telling him the truth, she'd damaged Tristan's pride, treating him as a slave instead of a man. Yet her actions had been unavoidable. Allowing Peter to believe she had a live-in lover was not the best way to win his affections. Besides, she'd wanted to avoid all confrontation, thereby avoiding Peter's execution.

In Tristan's black mood, Peter might have accidentally said something to set him off. Tristan would have unsheathed his dagger, and Peter would have dropped to the ground in a fetal ball, crying for his mommy and sucking his thumb. Then Tristan would have killed him.

Julia snorted in disgust. Men were not a prize; they were an affliction. A disease upon society, and at the moment, she couldn't think of a single reason she had decided to seduce one.

She was better off alone.

Alone.

The word echoed in her mind over and over, chafing against her deepest dreams and desires until she succumbed to the truth. She didn't really want to be alone. She wanted romance, damn it, complete with moonlight and candles. Promises of love and forever. Soft, sweet music and wandering hands. Hot, gyrating bodies. She wanted to feel beautiful, admired and gloriously special.

Because Peter was as plain and shy as she was, he would know how it felt to want those things and would do everything in his power to give her what she craved. She knew it. Of course, she now had to defuse his fear of infuriating her "brother," which might prove difficult considering Tristan had practically hacked him in two with a mere glare.

Oh, lighten up, Julia. She'd built her business with nothing but her wits, and she could build a relationship with Peter doing the same. So what that her seduction had taken a wrong turn. So what that she couldn't see him or otherwise engage in any type of activity with him until her lessons with Tristan ended. She'd wait, and when the time was right, she'd smooth things over. Perhaps by then Peter would find her so irresistible he'd fall on his knees and beg her to date him.

Feeling lighter, freer, she hummed under her breath as she rooted through the trunk of her sedan. Minutes later, she found the package of black men's briefs, extra-large. Slipping the item under her arm, she sauntered into her house. Tristan lounged on the living-room couch and, even in his relaxed pose, he radiated authority and consuming fury.

Her light mood vanished. She gulped. "I found your briefs," she said, placing the package atop the coffee table.

Without glancing at her, he replied, "Thank you, master."

His steely tone cut like a knife, and shards of guilt uncoiled deep within her. "I didn't want to order you inside, Tristan, but you gave me no choice. You were angry, and I didn't want you to take your emotions out on Peter."

Nothing. No response.

"He's not as strong as you are," she continued, "and if you had hurt him, you would have been arrested."

When Tristan still didn't move or acknowledge her in any way, she struggled against a sharp ache in her chest. Had she caused irreparable damage to his pride? Had she ruined their growing friendship?

"Tristan, please say something."

"Is that a command?"

"No."

Only silence greeted her.

After a brief hesitation, she slipped from the room.

Tristan watched her go, hating his existence more at this moment than ever before. She'd dishonored him, embarrassed him and dismissed him. Circumstances he'd endured a thousands times before, but all the more potent now as they mingled with his need to possess and conquer.

He was letting himself care for her, and he knew better.

Curse him, he knew better! She might challenge him, draw him and anger him. She might confuse him with her illogical speech. And most times, she might simply captivate him. But none of those things mattered. He had to remain disciplined, had to keep himself distanced. One day she would die, or mayhap even lose his box, and he would continue on—on to another woman.

Every muscle in his body tensed. Relaxed. Tensed again. The thought of Julia alone, with no one to care for her, did not settle well within him.

Drawing in a deep breath, and catching a hint of Julia's sweet, lingering fragrance, he leaned forward and studied the portraits on the small table in front of him. In one, Julia perched next to a girl who was slightly older. While Julia's eyes were green, the other girl's were big and blue. Both looked so young, somber and defeated, and Julia did not resemble the spitfire he knew her to be. In another, the same two girls were splayed atop a bed of bright emerald foliage, their eyes sparkling and staring up toward the heavens, their lips lifted in sad, wistful smiles.

'Twas the same smile Julia wore before walking away from him moments ago.

He could not leave things as they were.

He knifed to his feet and followed the direction she had taken. What he planned to do with her, or to say to her, he didn't know.

He found her in the bathing chamber, preparing a bath. Water burst from a small opening, filling a white, oblong container. A long, blue robe covered her from shoulders to toes. Her hair was plaited high at her crown, and a few tendrils cascaded down her temples. She looked so tiny just then, so fragile.

Seeing her like this lanced him with a spear of tenderness. She was life and beauty. She was innocence, utterly and purely. Sometimes, like now, he felt unworthy of the merest glance from her. She deserved only happiness.

The last vestiges of his anger eased, and he shook his head in shock. How did she slay his riotous emotions so quickly? How did she make him feel so conflicted… and yet so content? He knew not the answers.

"I thank you for the underwear, Julia."

With a surprised gasp, she jerked her gaze to the doorway. To him. When their eyes met, her expression softened. "You're welcome," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I—"

"I know. And it is okay," he replied, borrowing one of her favorite words. He propped one shoulder against the door frame. Fragrant steam wafted through the small room, billowing around her like a loving caress.

As she watched him, she wet her lips with her tongue. Just as before, his breath caught. How tempting it was just then to push her against the coldness of the wall and fill her with the heat of his flesh, to drown the mounting silence of the room with the screams of her pleasure. And she would scream. He would make sure of it.

Tristan had to force himself to remain where he was. Control. He would control his reactions to her.

"After you bathe," he said, "I wish to go to this mall of yours." He missed the excitement and revelry only a market could provide, yet knew visiting such a place would bring memories of his friends, memories that made him long for impossible things. Yet he desired more time with Julia, wanted to make her smile again. Wanted to see her in the clothing he chose for her—but only because he had given her his word, he forced himself to add.

Her grin slipped. "How about we go tomorrow instead? It's been a really long day."

"And if tomorrow is a long day, as well?"

"Why don't I just close the store? We'll shop in the morning. That way I'm guaranteed to be perfectly rested."

Satisfied with that, he nodded. "At tomorrow's dawning, we shall venture to the mall."

When the door closed behind Tristan, Julia sank to the edge of the tub. She never, never closed her shop. Not for sickness. Or weather. Or a broken limb. That she even suggested such a thing was shocking.

Tristan had no idea of the magnitude of what she'd just done.

Did she?