At His Command

AT HIS COMMAND - Chapter Eight

I wake to the sound of rain hammering against the window.

I stretch and grin, feeling unusually refreshed. Probably because of the rhythm of the downpour, and the fact that the apartment's nearly soundproof from street noise. Back home, I'm woken by either a jackhammer or a horn every morning, and usually both in ear-splitting tandem.

Plus, this bed is the most comfortable, sensual thing I've ever slept on. I flip the featherlight duvet off my body and go to the window. I can barely make out Central Park because of the driving rain. My stomach growls audibly.

After using the bathroom — Tristan has stocked it with expensive soaps and lotions — I pause at the desk. No, I still don't have the urge to fire up my computer, but I trace the cover of one of the many black leather notebooks.

More curious than anything, I sit in the chair and open the notebook, feeling the buttery pages. There's a pen nearby, and I pick it up. I'll bet the feel of the ink on this paper is so smooth...

I put the tip to the page and the words come out. Haltingly. One by one, then all at once.

He

refused

to

fuck me on our first night together.

Whoa. I've written a sentence. I blink, as if it couldn't have come from my hand. My stomach growls insistently. Almost scared by what I've scrawled, I set the pen down and slam the notebook shut.

I glance at my phone, which I'd left on the desk. It's only six in the morning, and yet I feel refreshed. Eating's my only desire right now. Surely Tristan won't be awake, and I'd never demand that he get up and make me breakfast.

Opening the door, I figure I'll look for the kitchen and grab something quick. Take it back to my room. A yogurt, if he has one, or fruit. I don't need to put on a robe since he'll never see me. I'm wearing a nightdress, one that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

It's an ivory nightshirt. The tag says it's from La Perla, and with its sumptuous silk and delicate tulle sleeves, makes me feel like a princess. It's also nearly sheer, but that won't matter.

Barefoot, I tiptoe down the hall, trying to figure out where the kitchen would be. In all, I count nine rooms, or at least nine doors. Everything's so silent here, it's as if each step of my bare toes echoes and bounces off the art hanging in the hallway. How uncomfortable.

At the end, I locate the kitchen.

And scream.

There's Tristan standing next to the expensive looking stove, cracking eggs into a pan.

Ozzy, who is lolling on the floor, barks once.

"Oh, God, you two scared me!" I cry. "What are you doing up?"

"Making breakfast for you and the pupper." He grins. Dammit, why does he have to look so handsome in his dark blue sweatpants and a grey t-shirt? And why did he have to say the word pupper in his hot, adorable accent?

His gaze settles on my chest. A warm, prickly feeling spreads through my body.

Obviously, the sleep shirt is more see through than I thought, because my nipples are practically poking through.

"Please, sit." He gestures to a small, round, marble-topped sitting area in the corner. There's a bowl of cut berries in the middle, and my stomach growls again. "You're starving."

I slink over to the table, and my hunger wins over because within a minute, I spear a strawberry. Then another. He serves me scrambled eggs and I gratefully accept. They're delicious and buttery. I don't even spill on my nightie, that's how magical and perfect everything is.