Ophelia shook off her troubling thoughts and remnants of pleasure, more confused than ever, and let Tristan help her off of the desk.
“I believe I am,” she replied, hoping her voice didn’t sound as troubled as her thoughts.
This was a littletête à tête,nothing more,she told herself as she walked on trembling legs back to her canvas. It was interesting…even fun. But it was over. She drew on a smirk as Tristan took his usual place behind her.
“You are still going to watch me, I presume?” She asked, pulling a fresh canvas onto her easel.
Behind her, she heard Tristan chuckle.
“Don’t I always?”
“Wonderful,” Tristan praised as Ophelia cleaned her brushes.
He walked around the painting, inspecting it from different angles.
“The mask you put on her is excellent. It covers her features while leaving her ecstasy bare.”
Though Ophelia felt herself growing addicted to his praise, she only offered a wry smirk as she busied herself with her brushes. She was not going to tell him how much his tongue had inspired the painting, or how her body still felt residual trembles from their little fight for control…or how she already wanted more.
“Well, I am glad it pleases you,” she said briskly.
She didn’t have to look back at him to know that he had shifted his gaze to her; inspecting her just as intensely as he had been inspecting her work.
“Were our ‘liberties’ taken too far?” He asked.
The question was blunt and abrupt, drawing Ophelia into stillness for a moment.
“No,” she said as she continued cleaning her brushes.
“Ophelia, be honest,” he demanded.
She felt his hands smooth down her shoulders and she had to fight the way her body immediately wanted to give in to his touch.
“I am being honest,” she said decidedly.
“There is little left that I get to decide for myself and if you think that I would let you sway my choices then you think too highly of yourself,” she stated matter-of-factly. She then forced herself to let out a laugh, though empty it was.
“Though of course you are Lord Perfect, so I am surenotthinking highly of yourself would be impossible for you.”
A tense moment of silence passed between them, and for a moment, Ophelia worried she went too far. Then she heard Tristan snicker, and though he was still behind her, she could envision the way he was shaking his head.
“Glad we are back to that,” he stated dryly, referring to their bickering.
He walked around her then, coming into her view, and went to his desk.
“Your payment for tonight’s work,” he said, holding out a red envelope.
Ophelia reached for the money, but hesitated before she wrapped her fingers around the full envelope.
“Is that the only service I am being paid for?” She asked.
Tristan’s eyes darkened as he looked at her, his frown set firmly into place.
“For if it is not, then perhaps I should give some of the money back. There was an equal provision of services for both of us,” she said coldly.
Her own words irked her. She was not sure why she was so suddenly feeling hurt. There had been no force. No coercion. Yet she was mad at Tristan, far more than she ever had been before. And she did not understand why.
“Your jesting goes a step too far,” Tristan replied, his deep voice full of warning. “I have nothing against women of the night, as you well know, but you are much more than that and I wouldnevertreat you as such.”
