They sat at the table by the window sipping tea and eating toast. Sam dusted the crumbs from his fingers on his napkin, drained his cup, and sat resolute.
“I really do need to talk to you.”
“By all means.” The words were automatic. Polite, ingrained, but what Tristan really wanted to do was scream and say no and refuse to listen, take him back to bed and f**k him senseless again. He had hoped against hope that their activities through the night might have swayed him, might have made him want to stay.
“You have done so much for me; I could never repay you.”
“I am not asking for repayment. I don’t want repayment.”
“I know.” Sam rubbed at a spot on his breeches and kept his eyes down. “If I live here I will be as trapped as when I was in the brothel,” he began.
Had he slapped him Trista
