Rolling in the bed, I rubbed a hand across my eyes. The sheets were cool and Tristan was gone. The partial open door and sounds of rushing water emanating from the bathroom gave me a clue as to where I could find him.

Wearing a shirt I'd slipped on last night, I stood in the doorway, watching him by the sink. The casual strokes of his razor across his face, the hiss of foam and water spiralling down the drain. The way the towel hung around his hips, skimming muscular calves. Were it not for the darkening streaks marring the sun-kissed skin I would have easily forgotten the events from last night.

My eyes lifted over the curve of his shoulder, met his in the mirror.  

Abashed, I pulled away from the doorframe, straightened. "Oh. Sorry."

Smiling, he tapped his razor against the bowl, cleaning off the blades and shut off the taps. "Don't be." Wiping at the stray lines of foam on his face with a towel, he turned around. "Sleep well?"

"Um. Yes." I smoothed a hand over my hair, pulled out the elastic band. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"I slept great." Walking towards me, Tristan scooped a hand around my waist, pressed his lips to my brow. "Woke up early for a swim. I would have asked you to join me but you looked like you needed the rest."

"Are we going to talk?" I asked, following him into the bedroom.

"About?" With his back to me, Tristan slipped into a pair of sweat pants.

"I don't think I need to highlight the key points, do I?"

He paused, drawing a t-shirt over his head. "You weren't supposed to see any of that."

I waited for more. But when more didn't come, and Tristan left the room, I decided enough was enough and it was time to get some actual answers, for a change.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a little voice warned against it.

You signed a contract, remember? No discussing personal matters. The past is off limits. 

Well, I thought mutinously, sue me. Tristan was already in the kitchen by the time I caught up with him, a loaf of brioche in one hand and a small pitcher of cream in the other.

"I famished," he said. "How about I whip up some French toast?"

"Tristan." His eyes snapped to me, silver bullets.

"Watch it," he said. "I know you're angry with me, and I know you're confused, but don't forget, Laura. There are rules and consequences for breaking them." Setting down the cream and bread on the counter, he bent into the fridge in search of eggs. When he straightened, I slipped my arms around his waist, pressed my cheek to his back—carefully, of course, and held on. He was tense, but gradually I felt the slackening of his muscles, the soft humming of his released breath. He stroked a hand over my arm braced around his belly and tipped his head back, golden strands tickling my brow.

"I didn't want you to see me that way," he said, his tone weary and thick. "I'm sorry if I scared you."

I rubbed my hands along the sides of his torso, sighed. "I was pissed at first," I admitted, smiling at the sound of his soft laugh.

"I know." He turned around, slipping his arms around me. "You had a look in your eyes when you first walked in that said only one word. Castration."

"The thought crossed my mind." He laughed again, kissed the tip of my nose. "Seeing you here with another woman—a gorgeous woman, absolutely lent itself to a few incendiary thoughts."

"I didn't think you'd stay, when I told you to leave. I'm glad you did. I'm glad you're here." His hands cupped my face, thumbs stroking over the apples of my cheek, a look in his eyes so endearing my heart kicked in response. 

"What calmed you down?"

I skimmed my teeth across my bottom lip. "Let's just say I didn't need to be bent over a couch again to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Ms. Pierce," his hands swept under my arms, hoisted me with such ease a giddy little flutter winged in my belly, "you're quickly becoming my favourite little protégée." He set me down on top of the island, the quartz cold against the bare skin of my thighs, contrasting against the warmth of his hands.

"Don't change the subject," I said, looping my arms around his shoulders, my eyes searching his face. "Tell me. Please. Who is Ailish?"

The mention of the name startled him and his reaction unsettled me. 

"I can't."

"Olivia said last night that she's a painful memory. And that you enlist her to inflict agony to mask that pain." Tristan's fingers tapped restlessly against my thighs before her answered.

"Olivia is a master of her craft. There are men who pay dearly for a moment of her time—rather important men who have fallen to their knees and begged for her. A powerful Sheikh, in particular, pays and pays handsomely for exclusive rights to her body." Releasing me, Tristan removed a knife from the block on the counter, began slicing into the thick loaf. "We were introduced through a mutual acquaintance almost eight years ago."

Half way through the loaf, he set it aside and fished out a shallow bowl from beneath the counter, cracked in a couple of eggs. "We don't sleep together."

"I know." I leaned forward, hands in my lap as Tristan whisked in cream and sugar into the eggs. "She told me, and if I'd had any doubts it was put to rest, after...seeing. She was too...gentle with you. Almost motherly in her concern."

Tristan smirked at that, rummaging in the bottom drawer of his fridge for a couple of rosy pink apples. "Motherly. A rather astute observation. She is the one who, more or less, introduced me to the limits of pain."

"So, you do like pain?"

Tristan's lips set in a grim line. "Yes, when done correctly. But last night wasn't about pleasure. It was punishment. For me."

"Why? Why would you feel you needed to punish yourself?" Finding a small round jar in his cabinet, Tristan slapped it shut, set the jar next to me.

"We outlined rules in our contract for a reason, Laura."

"I know," I said, stroking a finger across the back of his hand. "I just...give me something, okay? Last night—what I saw—I'm having trouble...processing. Understanding. And I want to. I need to."

Tristan grumbled wearily, but his features were softened with a smile. Moving, he cupped his hands behind my knees, braced himself between my thighs.

"You have questions," he said, yanking me forward so I was snug against him in all the right places.

"Yes." Mouth dry, I watched as his hand slipped down to a drawer, disappeared inside and soon returned holding a pair of scissors.

"Good. I've give you three. But if you want those answers, you're going to have to earn them." He brought those scissors to the hem of my shirt, forked them. "First one is going to cost you your shirt. The more complicated the question, the more payment will be required."

My heart kicked and heat spiked in my belly. I forgot how much I'd wanted him and how long it had been since he'd last fucked me.

"Okay," I said, biting my bottom lip.

"So," those scissors clamped down, biting into cotton, "your first question was who is Ailish?" Metal hissed through cloth in quick, ruthless strokes. I watched, riveted, as they travelled higher, higher. Little nips of cold steel against my skin as he reached the center of my cleavage, leaving only an inch of fabric. One final snip and the shirt split, bearing my naked breasts to his starving eyes.

"She is...was...my little sister." The scissors clattered when he cast them aside freeing his hands to cup me, his thumbs flicking and circling over the hardened tips of my nipples.     

"Sis...sister." I sucked in a breath, curling my toes at the delicious little quivers of pleasure from his hands alone. He released me and I held on to the groan as Tristan picked up the little round jar, unscrewed the lid.

"Butterscotch," he said, dipping a finger into the thick, caramel sauce. He brought that finger to my mouth and slipped into the moist, wet heat. Closing my eyes I sucked the length of it into my mouth, my tongue swirling around him, savouring that thick, firm digit and sweet, salivating sauce.

"Careful," he whispered, teeth nipping the side of my jaw. "You're giving me ideas." He brought that same finger to his mouth, sampled for himself. "Next question."

He dipped the tip of that finger back into the butterscotch, swirled it around.

"You said Ailish was your sister." I gulped as he brought that finger to my breast, circling the nipple.

"Hm." He lowered his head, his tongue flicking in a quick, teasing swipe. "What's your question?"

"What—ah—" I gasped when his mouth latched on, sucking me hard into his mouth. "What ha—happened...to...her?" A graze of teeth, a swirling twist of tongue.

"She died," he said. "Suicide."

Pleasure jolted through me, searing straight to my legs, so ripe, so strong I thought I might just come from that suction on my breast alone.

"Oh, God," I sighed, head tipped back and eyes rolling shut. Focus, I tried to tell myself, snap out of it. But how on Earth was I supposed to do that when the man had the mouth and hands of a God?

"Lie down," he instructed, fingers hooking in the sides of my panties. "Last question," Tristan growled, his mouth against the inside of my thigh. "Make it a good one." He inserted a finger into me, followed with a second and as they began to move, every muscle in my body set to vibrate.

"I—oh, god yes..."

"Laura," chuckling, Tristan bit into my thigh and I looked down at him, those wicked eyes of his watching me as he lowered.

"I...right. Okay." I groaned as his tongue traced along my seam, stroking up to apply pressure in sweet, teasing strokes. I melted into the quartz, my body arching for more. His fingers continued their assault with swift, decisive urgency, his mouth sucking me, devouring me. Stripping my thoughts clean.

My orgasm built, spiralling through me. A hurricane too wild to tame, too vast to control. Tristan's hand braced against my belly, anchoring me in place as his mouth continued to take and demand more.

There! There, there, there!

Rearing up, I came with a violence I couldn't control. My hands fisting in his hair as he took, and took. Pushing me farther with stroke after maddening stroke. His fingers withdrew from me first, his mouth second.

"Final question," he growled, dropping the waist of his sweat pants and used the moisture of my release on his hands to lubricate himself. "Ask, now."

Sister, he'd said, my thoughts hazy and muddled. Dead. Suicide. And...

"Olivia..." I managed as Tristan gathered me into his arms, bracing me against the counter with my legs wrapped around his waist. "Pain for punishment. Why?" He thrust the wide head of his shaft between my soaked lips, our moans shuddering through us both in unison.

I looped my arms around his neck, my feet pushing against the cabinets. His hips rolled against me, pushing him straight to hilt—slow and deep. The look in his face, an agonized portrait of restraint and regret.

"Because," he said. "She's dead, and it's my fault."