WARNING! This chapter is rated M for sexual content. It depicts sex for hire between two slightly disturbed people. Although there is no violence or SM-type stuff, it is neither pretty nor romantic. If you think this chapter might disturb or offend you, please do not read it. And please do not flame me on that account since I did give fair warning.

TRISTAN'S CHOICE

CHAPTER THREE

Morgan's room, Tristan thought, was like the girl herself—spare, stark, and eerily serene, like a tomb. The warm, golden glow of the lamp she lit did nothing to soften the appearance of the bare stone walls and dull plank floor. Other whores—even slaves like her—had bright, erotic murals painted on their walls and ceilings. Other whores covered their windows and gaudy furnishings and floors with colorful silks and carpets woven in intricate designs. Morgan's room had only one rough mat by the door, and no windows.

A quick glance was all it took to reveal her meager possessions to him. A plain, double-wide bed stood in the far left corner, with a tarnished, unlit brazier a few paces away. A narrow table occupied the other corner, with the lamp, a water basin, viewing plate, hairbrush, and stick of kohl neatly arranged on top. Several lidded baskets were tucked beneath it. The only other furnishing in the room was a short, three-legged stool. Next to the door several pegs held a white linen shift, woolen cape, and simple homespun dress such as a peasant might wear.

Morgan's room could have belonged to a monk.

And yet Tristan found it strangely appealing. Its austerity suited his ascetic tastes and confirmed his earlier impressions of the girl.

Unlike the other whores' rooms he had visited, this one was not saturated with the thick, cloying smell of heavy perfume, cheap wine, and incense. Instead, a delicate floral scent had drifted toward him the moment he followed her inside and shut the door.

Tristan could actually breathe inside Morgan's room.

As she busied herself adjusting the coverlet on the bed, his eyes searched for the source of the scent and found it half-hidden on top of the lintel. A spray of lavender tied with a red ribbon. Tristan's brows lifted in genuine surprise.

Morgan was a Pagan, and not just any Pagan. If the spray of lavender turned out to be what he thought it was, little Morgan dabbled in spellcasting.

He wondered that none of her other customers had turned her in for witchery, but he figured that they were probably too drunk on lust and ale to have noticed anything at all.

But he had noticed, and she must have realized it. When they faced each other once again, he saw the wariness in her eyes, the slight stiffening of her body, and sought to reassure her.

"I am no Christian, Morgan," he said with a brief, ironic smile and careless shrug.

She visibly relaxed and gave him a shy smile in return, then took a tentative step toward him.

"Let me remove your long shirt," she said. Her voice was a velvet murmur, though she was by no means trying to be seductive.

Yet seduce him she did. At her words, Tristan felt a restless stirring in his blood, an instant tightening of his loins. With every slow, measured step she took, a new and unexpected rush of heat surged through his veins. The depth and speed of his arousal astonished him.

Tristan was cold and aloof by nature, and he did not like to be touched. He did not like putting himself in the hands of another. Indeed, he never particularly enjoyed coupling with the tavern whores. If the truth be told, he preferred—more often than not—to give himself release rather than bed a woman.

But now, with her solemn eyes fixed on his face, Tristan realized just how much he wanted this girl's hands on him. And not just her hands, but her mouth, and her tongue as well. He wanted her to touch and taste every inch of him.

He wanted to do the same to her.

He had known her for less than two hours, but some how, some way, Morgan had seeped under his skin. He did not question it; he did not need to. She was different from all the others. She was…like him.

As she drew closer, it occurred to him that he had not bathed in quite some time—three weeks at least, maybe longer. Tristan was not fastidious about his appearance or cleanliness—not like Lancelot and Galahad. He seldom bathed; he seldom felt the need to. He was a warrior and a scout—and he spent the better part of his days and nights far removed from the niceties of life. Far removed from anything civilized. Although he could no longer smell his own scent, he knew that he stunk of stale sweat and unwashed body, of horse and dung, and battle. And he experienced an unfamiliar pang of regret that she would be soiled by their coupling, even though she must have bedded far filthier men. Next time, he told himself—and it surprised him to realize that there would be a next time—he would bathe especially for her.

When she finally reached him, her gaze lowered to his shirt, so she did not see the softening expression on his face, the sudden tenderness in his eyes.

She really was a lovely, lovely girl.

The desire coiling in his gut became an almost desperate need, and he started to lift his arms to embrace her, just as she loosened the first toggle on his long shirt. Loosened the first toggle—and wrinkled her small nose in distaste.

It was a fleeting, involuntary gesture—and it was gone in the space of a breath—but Tristan's hawk-like eyes caught it, and his arms froze.

He knew he stunk; he knew his clothes were just as filthy as the rest of him. But her brief reaction angered him nonetheless, and curbed his newfound ardor.

Tristan's mouth tightened into a straight line. Instead of embracing her, his hands whipped up and grabbed her shoulders, biting into her fragile flesh. "No," he said, then he pushed her roughly away.

She had wrinkled her nose at him in distaste. He obviously disgusted her.

And Tristan no longer wanted her hands to touch him.

Oh, he still meant to have her, but whatever flicker of tenderness he had felt toward her was now extinguished. She was a whore, and she deserved to be treated no differently from the other whores he had bedded.

Morgan looked up at him in confusion, her palms held open in a question. She had no idea what she had done, he thought cynically. She had no idea what he had almost done before he understood what she was about. She was a whore, nothing more. He needed to remember that.

"No," he repeated, and stepped back, putting further distance between them so that she could no longer reach out and touch him.

"I want to watch you undress instead." His voice was quiet, yet held an undertone of cold contempt that brought a small frown to her face.

Morgan stared at him for a long moment, before nodding her head. "As you wish."

She carefully removed the pocket that contained his coin and placed it on the table. When she turned back, she did not meet his eyes as she slowly began to undo the brass buttons on the shoulders and sleeves of her outer tunic. She let the garment fall and puddle around her feet, then unlaced the matching chemise underneath, at the same slow, deliberate pace. Her mind, and her spirit, were a thousand leagues away from him now, and he did not care. He told himself it was better that way. Still, he could not stop his sharp intake of breath when she slipped the chemise off her shoulders, and gracefully freed herself from its long, fitted sleeves. For the length of a heartbeat, she held the cloth modestly over her body before dropping her hands. The undergarment joined the tunic on the floor, and Tristan's spurt of cold anger subsided.

Without sparing him a glance, Morgan stepped out of her shoes and bent over to retrieve her discarded garments. After neatly folding them, she placed them on the stool, and he got a quick look at her backside. A new fire ignited inside of Tristan's body.

As his eyes frankly assessed her, he admitted to himself that, whore or not, she was different from the others. Beneath the heavy folds of her red dress, Morgan was boyishly slim, with softly rounded breasts that beckoned to be caressed, and narrow hips that beckoned to be stroked. Her legs were long and coltish. And her skin…Her skin was pale and smooth and so translucent that he could see the faint tracery of veins on her breasts. Save for the fading imprint of his hands on her shoulders, she had no other marks that he could see. No bruises or blemishes, no scratches or scars—nothing at all to indicate that she bedded men for a living. No woman he ever knew had skin like that, no child. Only infants, from what he could recall of Bors' bastards. Morgan looked heartbreakingly young and innocent. Unused. He briefly wondered how old she was, and almost asked her, before ruthlessly quashing his curiosity.

Tristan wanted to bury himself inside of her, and that was all that mattered.

But he meant to get her ready first.

"I want to see you pleasure yourself," he told her, instantly drawing her gaze back to him. He nearly laughed at the shocked expression on her face. Poor little Morgan was used to the drunken louts at the tavern-—self-indulgent men with little imagination, and even less patience.

"I'm…I'm sorry…what?" she stammered.

"I said, I want to see you pleasure yourself," he repeated, carefully enunciating every word, as if he was speaking to a small child. "I want to watch you touch yourself."

Morgan gaped like a lackwit; her eyes unconsciously entreated him. And he responded with a smug, dangerous smile. He had disturbed her, just as she had disturbed him. Now that he had her attention, his relentless gaze roved up and down, and down and up, her naked body, before settling on her face again. His satisfaction increased tenfold when he noticed her heightened color.

"Do you understand what I am telling you to do?" he asked, in the same condescending tone. Part of him needed to humiliate her, but he was also genuinely concerned about her small size. He wanted her aroused before he entered her.

The tip of her pink tongue darted across her lips. "Yes," she whispered with a jerk of her head. Then she seemed to gather her courage and determination and in a louder voice said, "Very well."

Not for the first time that evening, Tristan admired how quickly she could regain her self-control.

She watched him with guarded eyes, as she raised her hands to her small breasts. Tristan's body clenched when she began to draw circles on the tender mounds with her fingers. Such delicate fingers on such delicate skin, going round and round in ever smaller circles until she was outlining, then caressing her nipples. He could see the pink tips pucker and harden into crested peaks under her gentle touch, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a groan.

Her hands slid slowly, sensuously, downward, tracing the gentle curves of her body. She kneaded her silken belly with both hands, back and forth as if it were bread dough, and playfully poked at her navel with her fingertips. Tristan almost forgot to breathe.

A soft blush now painted her body, and he recognized the first stirrings of her arousal. He stole a glance at her face, and was not surprised to see that her eyes had closed. Morgan had retreated into her own private world, and at his behest, had left him behind to watch...and need…and want. A muscle in Tristan's jaw began to tick uncontrollably, and his hands closed into fists to stop from touching her. The girl was going to be the death of him.

When her hands lowered further to rub her privates, he had to unlace the front of his pants to release his own engorged, throbbing manhood. She did not see him—her eyes remained shut. He licked his lips and watched, enthralled, as she played with her dark, springy curls and probed the tender folds with her fingers. It was not long before she had established a rhythm and her hips begin to rock softly. He grabbed himself beneath his shirt and stood spellbound. Despite his own urgent need, he enjoyed watching her be aroused. There was nothing lascivious about it, nothing overindulgent. She was young and beautiful and graceful. And he would have allowed her to go on for a while longer if not for the faint moan that escaped her lips.

He wanted Morgan wet and ready for him, but he did not want her to find release.

"Enough," he said, his voice sounding harsh even to his own ears, and her eyes flew open. She immediately dropped her hands. Her gaze skittered downward to his erection, clearly visible beneath his long shirt.

"What is your pleasure now?" she asked politely. She was being cautious, he noted, unwilling to make any move without his approval. But he did not think she was afraid—smart, brave girl. Tristan wanted her pliant, and biddable, but not cowering.

He walked up to her, his aroused shaft jutting outward through his clothes like a banner before pressing into her naked belly. When they stood but a hair's breadth apart, he searched her face, waiting for her to flinch or wrinkle her nose or otherwise do something to show her distaste at his close proximity. But she did nothing. She stood utterly still and simply stared back with wide, expectant eyes. Whatever anger he might have felt for her became a distant memory.

And yet…he did not want her to touch him. He did not want to bed her in the manner he might have, had she not shown her disgust earlier.

Poor, little Morgan…If she did not already, she would hate him before the night was through. And she would join the ranks of the other wenches and whores who studiously avoided him.

"I will show you my pleasure, girl," he told her, with a brief, tight smile that never reached his eyes.

His hands gripped her shoulders and slowly turned her around, his shaft slithering around her midriff until it came to rest near the small of her back. He used his body to gently propel her to the foot of the bed, and then one hand moved to the back of her neck and forced her to lean over. He pressed her head into the mattress and she was compelled to use her arms to brace herself, as his other hand snaked around her middle and lifted her hips toward him. Her knees came to rest on the edge of the bed, and he used his own knee to spread them apart. Tristan remained standing behind her.

By now she would know what he intended. But she did not complain. She did not resist.

Her braid lay flung across the mattress, exposing her slender back, and Tristan fought the urge to run his hand down the delicate ridges of her spine. He fought the urge to squeeze the baby-smooth cheeks of her bottom. Instead, he lifted his shirt and shoved his throbbing shaft into her slick, exposed flesh in one swift thrust, and began his primitive dance. Morgan was surprisingly tight for a whore and it drove him wild. Hot, all-consuming passion pounded the blood through his heart and body and head, as he withdrew and thrust into her womanhood again and again and again. If she gasped or cried out, he did not hear her over the roaring in his ears.

It was animal rutting, pure and simple, and Tristan knew that all the whores hated it. It demeaned them, made them into something less than what they already were. And so he was truly astounded when Morgan began to meet him thrust for thrust, when her hips began to buck up and down in rhythm with his. Out of its own volition he found his hand sliding down from her midriff to cup her privates. He pressed the heel of his palm into her pubic bone, and his fingers rubbed and tapped her most sensitive areas, even as he continued to pound into her, filling every inch of her womanhood.

Morgan moaned out loud with pleasure, and this time Tristan heard her. And his male ego swelled. He had never cared one whit what other whores felt—to him, they were little more than convenient bodies to be used and discarded. But suddenly, for reasons he did not fully understand, he needed to do right by her.

"I want…I want…" she panted, turning her head sideways so that he could now see her face.

Tristan increased the pressure of his fingers, rubbing her roughly. "Is this what you want?" he grunted, and watched fascinated as her lovely features twisted and contorted with lust. His own face was tight, beaded with perspiration, his body so tense it seemed to be made of steel. He could only take short, ragged breaths.

His was a raw act of possession, and hers of surrender, and they both rode the hot tide of passion together, consumed by aching need and mindless pleasure. Until at last, Tristan's release was at hand. He closed his eyes and let his senses take him. Fierce and violent, his climax suddenly burst upon him, tearing Morgan's name from his lips in a stark, primitive cry. A cry that was instantly met by Morgan's own scream as she convulsed beneath him. Wave after wave of fiery sensation swept over them, and through them, as savage tremors mercilessly shook their bodies, and slowly subsided.

Exhausted, Tristan collapsed on top of her, knocking her small body flat on the bed. He was mentally and physically spent. Had he really cried out her name? Tristan could hardly believe it. And had she truly experienced the "little death" along with him? Whore or not, he did not think she had faked it. What had just happened here?

Morgan whimpered beneath him, and he realized that his weight was hurting her. He quickly rolled over and onto his back. His clothes and his body were drenched in sweat.

He shook his hair from his eyes and turned his head to face her, a thousand questions roiling inside of him. But Morgan's own eyes were closed. She lay quietly on her stomach, her naked body moist and quivering. Was it from cold? Or was it an aftereffect of their coupling? Tristan reached over and folded the coverlet over her slight form. And still she did not look at him.

He studied her and wondered what she was feeling. What she was thinking. Then he nearly laughed at his stupidity.

She was a whore; she wasn't paid to think or feel. She was paid to be good in bed—and she was good. She was the best he had ever had.

Tristan reached over again. He captured a stray curl that had fallen over her cheek and tucked it behind her ear; then, because he could not help himself, he softly caressed the back of her head. And, finally, Morgan opened her eyes.

Those eyes did not belong to a whore.

They were wet with unshed tears, and wild with wonder and yearning and heartbreak—and a dozen other emotions he could not name. Emotions he had never felt, emotions he had no business feeling. Morgan's heart was laid bare before him—a fragile, beautiful offering—and he could not take it. He could not take it…

Her vulnerability made him vulnerable. And that he would not allow.

"Morgan, I cannot be what you need me to be," he told her gently, as his finger trailed first one and then another tear down her cheek. "I am not…"

She pressed her hand against his mouth and did not let him finish. "You are what you are, and I accept that. I expect nothing."

Tristan took hold of her hand and kissed it, like Lancelot had done a few hours earlier.

But Tristan's was not a kiss of seduction. His was a kiss of apology. A kiss of compassion—an emotion so alien to his nature that at first he did not recognize it for what it was.

A slender delicate thread had begun to form between them this evening, and Tristan was about to break it.

He released Morgan's hand and abruptly rose to his feet, stepping away from the bed—and from her. His back was rigid, inflexible. "I will hire you when I can," he told her coolly, as he finished tying the laces of his pants. He did not look at her again.

Before he left her stark, silent room, he tossed a few more coins on the floor...

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Among the ancient Celts, lavender was used in love spells and in magical charms to bring peace, joy, and healing to the home. The color red of the ribbon symbolized health, energy, strength, sexual potency, will power, and the ability to conquer fear.