Текст книги "Fifty shades darker"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

I flush. There isa hostile takeover from a man who has more money than sense and is

a stalker par excellence.

“I’m just a lowly assistant, Mr. Eccles. I wouldn’t know about these things.”

Christian says nothing and smiles blandly at Eccles.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The master of ceremonies, wearing an impressive black and

white harlequin mask, interrupts us. “Please take your seats. Dinner is served.”

Christian takes my hand, and we follow the chattering crowd to the large marquee.

The interior is stunning. Three enormous, shallow chandeliers throw rainbow-colored

sparkles over the ivory silk lining of the ceiling and walls. There must be at least thirty

tables, and they remind me of the private dining room at the Heathman—crystal glasses,

crisp white linen covering the tables and chairs, and in the center, an exquisite display of

pale pink peonies gathered around a silver candelabra. Wrapped in gossamer silk beside it

is a basket of goodies.

Christian consults the seating plan and leads me to a table in the center. Mia and Grace

are already in situ, deep in conversation with a young man I don’t know. Grace is wear-

ing a shimmering mint green gown with a Venetian mask to match. She looks radiant, not

stressed at all, and she greets me warmly.

“Ana, how delightful to see you again! And looking so beautiful, too.”

“Mother,” Christian greets her stiffly and kisses her on both cheeks.

“Oh, Christian, so formal!” she scolds him teasingly.

Grace’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan, join us at our table. They seem exuberant

and youthful, though it’s difficult to tell beneath their matching bronze masks. They are

delighted to see Christian.

“Grandmother, Grandfather, may I introduce Anastasia Steele?”

Mrs. Trevelyan is all over me like a rash. “Oh, he’s finally found someone, how won-

derful and so pretty! Well I do hope you make an honest man of him,” she gushes, shaking

my hand.

Holy cow. I thank the heavens for my mask.

“Mother, don’t embarrass Ana.” Grace comes to my rescue.

“Ignore the silly old coot, m’dear.” Mr. Trevelyan shakes my hand. “She thinks be-

cause she’s so old, she has a God-given right to say whatever nonsense pops into that

woolly head of hers.”

“Ana, this is my date, Sean.” Mia shyly introduces her young man. He gives me a

wicked grin, and his brown eyes dance with amusement as we shake hands.

“Pleased to meet you, Sean.”

Christian shakes Sean’s hand as he regards him shrewdly. Don’t tell me that poor Mia

suffers from her overbearing brother, too. I smile at Mia in sympathy.

Lance and Janine, Grace’s friends, are the last couple at our table, but there is still no

sign of Mr. Grey.

Abruptly, there’s the hiss of a microphone, and Mr. Grey’s voice booms over the PA

system, causing the babble of voices to die down. Carrick stands on a small stage at one

end of the marquee, wearing an impressive, gold, Punchinello mask.

“Welcome, ladies and gentleman, to our annual charity ball. I hope that you enjoy what

we have laid out for you tonight and that you’ll dig deep into your pockets to support the

fantastic work that our team does with Coping Together. As you know, it’s a cause that is

very close to my wife’s heart, and mine.”

I peek nervously at Christian, who is staring impassively, I think, at the stage. He

glances at me and smirks.

“I’ll hand you over now to our master of ceremonies. Please be seated, and enjoy,”

Carrick finishes.

Polite applause follows, then the babble in the tent starts again. I am seated between

Christian and his grandfather. I admire the small white place card with fine silver calligra-

phy that bears my name as a waiter lights the candelabra with a long taper. Carrick joins us,

kissing me on both cheeks, surprising me.

“Good to see you again, Ana,” he murmurs. He really looks very striking in his extraor-

dinary gold mask.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please nominate a table head,” the MC calls out.

“Ooo—me, me!” says Mia immediately, bouncing enthusiastically in her seat.

“In the center of the table you will find an envelope,” the MC continues. “Would ev-

eryone find, beg, borrow, or steal a bill of the highest denomination you can manage, write

your name on it, and place it inside the envelope. Table heads, please guard these envelopes

carefully. We will need them later.”

Holy crap.I haven’t brought any money with me. How stupid—it’s a charity event!

Fishing out his wallet, Christian produces two hundred-dollar bills.

“Here,” he says.

What?

“I’ll pay you back,” I whisper.

His mouth twists slightly, and I know he’s not happy, but he doesn’t comment. I sign

my name using his fountain pen—it’s black, with a white flower motif on the cap—and

Mia passes the envelope round.

In front of me I find another card inscribed with silver calligraphy—our menu.

Well, that accounts for the number of crystal glasses in every size that crowd my

place setting. Our waiter is back, offering wine and water. Behind me, the sides of the tent

through which we entered are being closed, while at the front, two servers pull back the

canvas, revealing the sunset over Seattle and Meydenbauer Bay.

It’s an absolutely breathtaking view, the twinkling lights of Seattle in the distance and

the orange, dusky calm of the bay reflecting the opal sky. Wow. It’s so calm and peaceful.

Ten servers, each holding a plate, come to stand between us. On a silent cue, they serve

us our starters in complete synchronization, then vanish again. The salmon looks delicious,

and I realize I am famished.

“Hungry?” Christian murmurs so only I can hear. I know he’s not referring to the food,

and the muscles deep in my belly respond.

“Very,” I whisper, boldly meeting his gaze, and Christian’s lips part as he inhales.

Ha! See . . . two can play at this game.

Christian’s grandfather engages me in conversation immediately. He’s a wonderful old

man, so proud of his daughter and three children.

It is weird to think of Christian as a child. The memory of his burn scars come unbid-

den to my mind, but I quickly quash it. I don’t want to think about that now, though ironi-

cally, it’s the reason behind this party.

I wish Kate was here with Elliot. She would fit in so well—the sheer number of forks

and knives laid out before her wouldn’t daunt Kate—she would command the table. I

imagine her duking it out with Mia over who should be table head. The thought makes me

smile.

The conversation at the table ebbs and flows. Mia is entertaining, as usual, and quite

eclipses poor Sean, who mostly stays quiet like me. Christian’s grandmother is the most

vocal. She, too, has a biting sense of humor, usually at the expense of her husband. I begin

to feel a little sorry for Mr. Trevelyan.

Christian and Lance talk animatedly about a device Christian’s company is develop-

ing, inspired by Schumacher’s principle Small is Beautiful. It’s hard to keep up. Christian

seems intent on empowering impoverished communities all over the world with wind-up

technology—devices that need no electricity or batteries and minimal maintenance.

Watching him in full flow is astonishing. He’s passionate and committed to improving

the lives of the less fortunate. Through his telecommunications company, he’s intent on

being first to market with a wind-up mobile phone.

Whoa. I had no idea. I mean I knew about his passion about feeding the world, but

this . . .

Lance seems unable to comprehend Christian’s plan to give the technology away and

not patent it. I wonder vaguely how Christian made all his money if he’s so willing to give

it all away.

Throughout dinner a steady stream of men in smartly tailored dinner jackets and dark

masks stop by the table, keen to meet Christian, shake his hand, and exchange pleasantries.

He introduces me to some but not others. I’m intrigued to know how and why he makes

the distinction.

During one such conversation, Mia leans across and smiles.

“Ana, will you help in the auction?”

“Of course,” I respond only too willing.

By the time dessert is served, night has fallen, and I’m really uncomfortable. I need to

get rid of the balls. Before I can excuse myself, the master of ceremonies appears at our

table, and with him—if I’m not mistaken—is Miss European Pigtails.

What’s her name? Hansel, Gretel . . . Gretchen.

She’s masked of course, but I know it’s her when her gaze doesn’t move beyond Chris-

tian. She blushes, and selfishly I’m beyond pleased that Christian doesn’t acknowledge her

at all.The MC asks for our envelope and with a very practiced and eloquent flourish, asks

Grace to pull out the winning bill. It’s Sean’s, and the silk-wrapped basket is awarded to

him.I applaud politely, but I’m finding it impossible to concentrate on any more of the

proceedings.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur to Christian.

He looks at me intently.

“Do you need the powder room?”

I nod.

“I’ll show you,” he says darkly.

When I stand, all the other men round the table stand with me. Oh, such manners.

“No, Christian! You’re not taking Ana—I will.”

Mia is on her feet before Christian can protest. His jaw tenses, I know he’s not pleased.

Quite frankly, neither am I. I have . . . needs.I shrug apologetically at him, and he sits down

quickly, resigned.

On our return, I feel a little better, though the relief of removing the balls has not been

as instantaneous as I’d hoped. They’re now stashed safely in my clutch purse.

Why did I think I could last the whole evening? I am still yearning—perhaps I can per-

suade Christian to take me to the boathouse later. I flush at the thought and glance at him

as I take my seat. He stares at me, the ghost of a smile crossing his lips.

Phew . . . he’s no longer mad at a missed opportunity, though maybe I am.I feel

frustrated—irritable even. Christian squeezes my hand, and we both listen attentively to

Carrick, who is back on stage talking about Coping Together. Christian passes me another

card—a list of the auction prizes. I scan them quickly.

Holy shit. I blink up at Christian.

“You own property in Aspen?” I hiss. The auction is underway, and I have to keep my

voice down.

He nods, surprised at my outburst and irritated, I think. He puts his finger to his lips

to silence me.

“Do you have property elsewhere?” I whisper.He nods again and inclines his head to

one side in a warning.

The whole room erupts with cheering and applause; one of the prizes has gone for

twelve thousand dollars.

“I’ll tell you later,” Christian says quietly. “I wanted to come with you,” he adds rather

sulkily.

Well, you didn’t. I pout and I realize that I’m still querulous, and no doubt, it’s the

frustrating effect of the balls. My mood darkens after seeing Mrs. Robinson on the list of

generous donors.

I glance around the marquee to see if I can spot her, but I can’t see her telltale hair.

Surely Christian would have warned me if she was invited tonight. I sit and stew, applaud-

ing when necessary, as each lot is sold for astonishing amounts of money.

The bidding moves to Christian’s place in Aspen and reaches twenty thousand dollars.

“Going once, going twice,” the MC calls.

And I don’t know what possesses me, but I suddenly hear my own voice ringing out

clearly over the throng.

“Twenty-four thousand dollars!”

Every mask at the table turns to me in shocked amazement, the biggest reaction of all

coming from beside me. I hear his sharp intake of breath and feel his wrath washing over

me like a tidal wave.

“Twenty-four thousand dollars, to the lovely lady in silver, going once, going twice . . .

Sold!”

Holy shit, did I really just do that? It must be the alcohol. I’ve had champagne plus four

glasses of four different wines. I glance up at Christian who’s busy applauding.

Crap, he’s going to be so angry, and we’ve been getting on so well. My subconscious

has finally decided to make an appearance, and she’s wearing her Edvard Munch Scream

face.Christian leans over to me, a large fake smile plastered across his face. He kisses my

cheek and then moves closer to whisper in my ear in a very cold, controlled voice.

“I don’t know whether to worship at your feet or spank the living shit out of you.”

Oh, I know what I want right now. I gaze up at him, blinking through my mask. I just

wish I could read what’s in his eyes.

“I’ll take option two, please,” I whisper frantically as the applause dies down. His lips

part as he inhales sharply. Oh that chiseled mouth—I want it on me, now.I ache for him. He

gives me a radiant sincere smile that leaves me breathless.

“Suffering, are you? We’ll have to see what we can do about that,” he murmurs as he

runs his fingers along my jaw.

His touch resonates deep, deep inside where that ache has spawned and grown. I want

to jump him right here, right now, but we sit back to watch the auction of the next lot.

I can barely sit still. Christian drapes an arm around my shoulders, his thumb rhyth-

mically stroking my back, sending delicious tingles down my spine. His free hand clasps

mine, bringing it to his lips, then letting it rest on his lap.

Slowly and surreptitiously, so I don’t realize his game until it’s too late, he eases my

hand up his leg and against his erection. I gasp, and my eyes dart in panic around the table,

but all eyes are fixed on the stage. Thank heavens for my mask.

Taking full advantage, I slowly caress him, letting my fingers explore. Christian keeps

his hand over mine, hiding my bold fingers, while his thumb skates softly over the nape

of my neck. His mouth opens as he gasps softly, and it’s the only reaction I can see to my

inexperienced touch. But it means so much. He wants me. Everything south of my navel

contracts. This is becoming unbearable.

A week by Lake Adriana in Montana is the final lot for auction. Of course Mr. and Dr.

Grey have a house in Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am barely aware of

it. I feel him growing beneath my fingers, and it makes me feel so powerful.

“Sold, for one hundred ten thousand dollars!” the MC declares victoriously. The whole

room bursts into applause, and reluctantly I follow as does Christian, ruining our fun.

He turns to me and his lips twitch. “Ready?” he mouths over the rapturous cheering.

“Yes,” I mouth back

“Ana!” Mia calls. “It’s time!”

What? No. Not again!“Time for what?”

“The First Dance Auction. Come on!” She stands and holds out her hand.

I glance at Christian who is, I think, scowling at Mia, and I don’t know whether to

laugh or cry, but it’s laughter that wins. I succumb to a cathartic bubble of schoolgirl gig-

gles, as we are thwarted once more by the tall, pink powerhouse that is Mia Grey. Christian

peers at me, and after a beat, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“The first dance will be with me, okay? And it won’t be on the dance floor,” he mur-

murs lasciviously into my ear. My giggles subside as anticipation fans the flames of my

need. Oh, yes!My inner goddess performs a perfect triple Salchow in her ice skates.

“I look forward to it.” I lean over and plant a soft, chaste kiss on his mouth. Glancing

around, I realize that our fellow guests at the table are astonished. Of course, they’ve never

seen Christian with a date before.

He smiles broadly at me. And he looks . . . happy. Wow.

“Come on, Ana,” Mia nags. Taking her outstretched hand, I follow her onto the stage

where ten more young women have assembled, and I note with vague unease that Lily is

one of them.

“Gentlemen, the highlight of the evening!” the MC booms over the babble of voices.

“The moment you’ve all been waiting for! These twelve lovely ladies have all agreed to

auction their first dance to the highest bidder!”

Oh no.I blush from head to toe. I hadn’t realized what this meant. How humiliating!

“It’s for a good cause,” Mia hisses at me, sensing my discomfort. “Besides, Christian

will win.” She rolls her eyes. “I can’t imagine him letting anyone outbid him. He hasn’t

taken his eyes off you all evening.”

Yes, focus on the good cause, and Christian is bound to win. Let’s face it, he’s not short

of a dime or two.

But it means spending more money on you!my subconscious snarls at me. But I don’t

want to dance with anyone else—I can’t dance with anyone else—and it’s not spending

money on me, he’s donating it to the charity. Like the twenty-four thousand dollars he’s

already spent?My subconscious narrows her eyes.

Shit. I seem to have gotten away with my impulsive bid. Why am I arguing with my-

self?“Now, gentlemen, pray gather round, and take a good look at what could be yours for

the first dance. Twelve comely and compliant wenches.”

Jeez!I feel like I’m in a meat market. I watch, horrified, as at least twenty men make

their way to the stage area, Christian included, moving with easy grace between the tables

and pausing to say a few hellos on the way. Once the bidders are assembled, the MC begins.

“Ladies and gentlemen, in the tradition of the masquerade we shall maintain the mys-

tery behind the masks and stick to first names only. First up we have the lovely Jada.”

Jada is giggling like a schoolgirl, too. Maybe I won’t be so out of place. She’s dressed

head to foot in navy taffeta with a matching mask. Two young men step forward expec-

tantly. Lucky Jada.

“Jada speaks fluent Japanese, is a qualified fighter pilot, and an Olympic gymnast . . .

hmm.” The MC winks. “Gentleman, what am I bid?”

Jada gapes, astounded at the MC; obviously, he’s talking complete garbage. She grins

shyly back at the two contenders.

“A thousand bucks!” one calls.

Very quickly the bidding escalates to five thousand dollars.

“Going once . . . going twice . . . sold!” the MC declares loudly, “to the gentleman in

the mask!” And of course all the men are wearing masks so there are hoots of laughter, ap-

plause, and cheering. Jada beams at her purchaser and quickly exits the stage.

“See? This is fun!” whispers Mia. “I hope Christian wins you, though . . . We don’t

want a brawl,” she adds.

“Brawl?” I answer horrified.

“Oh yes. He was very hot-headed when he was younger.” She shudders.

Christian brawling? Refined, sophisticated, likes-Tudor-choral-music Christian? I

can’t see it. The MC distracts me with his next introduction—a young woman in red, with

long jet-black hair.

“Gentlemen, may I present the wonderful Mariah. What are we going to do about

Mariah? She’s an experienced matador, plays the cello to concert standard, and she’s a

champion pole-vaulter . . . how about that, gentlemen? What am I bid, please, for a dance

with the delightful Mariah?”

Mariah glares at the MC and someone yells, very loudly, “Three thousand dollars!” It’s

a masked man with blond hair and beard.

There is one counter-bid, but Mariah sells for four thousand dollars.

Christian is watching me like a hawk. Brawler Trevelyan-Grey—who would have

known?

“How long ago?” I ask Mia.

She glances at me, nonplussed.

“How long ago was Christian brawling?”

“Early teens. Drove my parents crazy, coming home with cut lips and black eyes. He

was expelled from two schools. He inflicted some serious damage on his opponents.”

I gape at her.

“Hasn’t he told you?” She sighs. “He got quite a bad rep among my friends. He was

really persona non gratafor a few years. But it stopped when he was about fifteen or six-

teen.” She shrugs.

Holy fuck.Another piece of the jigsaw falls into place.

“So, what am I bid for the gorgeous Jill?”

“Four thousand dollars,” a deep voice calls from the left side. Jill squeals in delight.

I stop paying attention to the auction. So Christian was in that kind of trouble at school,

fighting. I wonder why. I stare at him. Lily is watching us closely.

“And now, allow me to introduce the beautiful Ana.”

Oh shit, that’s me.I glance nervously at Mia, and she shoos me center stage. Fortu-

nately, I don’t fall over, but stand embarrassed as hell on display for everyone. When I look

at Christian, he’s smirking at me. The bastard.

“Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks fluent Mandarin, and is keen on

yoga . . . well, gentlemen—” Before he can even finish his sentence Christian interrupts

him, glaring at the MC through his mask.

“Ten thousand dollars.” I hear Lily’s gasp of disbelief behind me.

Oh fuck.

“Fifteen.”

What? We all turn as one to a tall, impeccably dressed man standing to the left of the

stage. I blink at Fifty. Shit, what will he make of this? But he’s scratching his chin and

giving the stranger an ironic smile. It’s obvious Christian knows him. The stranger nods

politely at Christian.

“Well, gentlemen! We have high rollers in the house this evening.” The MC’s excite-

ment emanates through his harlequin mask as he turns to beam at Christian. This is a great

show, but it’s at my expense. I want to wail.

“Twenty,” counters Christian quietly.

The babble of the crowd has died. Everyone is staring at me, Christian, and Mr. Mys-

terious by the stage.

“Twenty-five,” the stranger says.

Could this be any more embarrassing?

Christian stares at him impassively, but he’s amused. All eyes are on Christian. What’s

he going to do? My heart is in my mouth. I feel sick.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” he says his voice ringing clear and loud through the

marquee.

“What the fuck?” Lily hisses audibly behind me, and a general gasp of dismay and

amusement ripples through the crowd. The stranger holds his hands up in defeat, laughing,

and Christian smirks at him. From the corner of my eye, I can see Mia bouncing up and

down with glee. My subconscious is gazing at Christian, utterly gobsmacked.

“One-hundred thousand dollars for the lovely Ana! Going once . . . going twice . . .”

The MC stares at the stranger who shakes his head with mock regret and bows chivalrously.

“Sold!” the MC cries out triumphantly.

In a deafening round of applause and cheering, Christian steps forward to take my hand

and help me from the stage. He gazes at me with an amused grin as I make my way down,

kisses the back of my hand then tucks it into the crook of his arm, and leads me toward the

marquee’s exit.

“Who was that?” I ask.

He gazes down at me. “Someone you can meet later. Right now, I want to show you

something. We have about thirty minutes until the First Dance Auction finishes. Then we

have to be back on the dance floor so that I can enjoy that dance I’ve paid for.”

“A very expensive dance,” I mutter disapprovingly.

“I’m sure it’ll be worth every single cent.” He smiles down at me wickedly. Oh, he has

a glorious smile, and the ache is back, blossoming in my body.

We’re out on the lawn. I thought we would be heading to the boathouse, but disappoint-

ingly we seem to be heading for the dance floor where the big band is now setting up. There

are at least twenty musicians, and a few guests are milling about, furtively smoking—but

since most of the action is back in the marquee, we don’t attract too much attention.

Christian leads me to the rear of the house and opens a French window leading into

a large comfortable sitting room that I’ve not seen before. He walks through the deserted

hall toward the sweeping staircase with its elegant, polished wooden balustrade. Taking my

hand from the crook of his arm, he leads me up to the second floor and up another flight of

stairs to the third. Opening a white door, he ushers me into one of the bedrooms.

“This was my room,” he says quietly, standing by the door and locking it behind him.

It’s large, stark, and sparsely furnished. The walls are white as is the furniture; a spa-

cious double bed, a desk and chair, shelves crammed with books and lined with various

trophies for kickboxing by the look of them. The walls are hung with movie posters: The

Matrix, Fight Club, The Truman Show, and two framed posters featuring kick boxers. One

is named Guiseppe DeNatale—I’ve never heard of him.

But what catches my eye is the white pin board above the desk, studded with a myriad

of photographs, Mariners pennants, and ticket stubs. It’s a slice of young Christian. My

eyes come back to the magnificent, beautiful man now standing in the center of the room.

He looks at me darkly, brooding and sexy.

“I’ve never brought a girl in here,” he murmurs.

“Never?” I whisper.

He shakes his head.

I swallow convulsively, and the ache that has been bothering me for the last couple of

hours is roaring now, raw and wanting. Seeing him standing there on the royal blue carpet

in that mask . . . it’s beyond erotic. I want him. Now. Any way I can get him. I have to resist

launching myself at him and ripping his clothes off. He waltzes over to me slowly.

“We don’t have long, Anastasia, and the way I’m feeling right this moment, we won’t

need long. Turn round. Let me get you out of that dress.”

I turn and stare at the door, grateful that he’s locked it. Bending down he whispers

softly in my ear, “Keep the mask on.”

I groan as my body clenches in response. He’s not even touched me yet.

He grasps the top of my dress, his fingers sliding against my skin, and the touch re-

verberates through my body. In one swift move, he opens the zipper. Holding my dress,

he helps me to step out of it, then turns and drapes it artfully over the back of a chair. Re-

moving his jacket, he places it over my dress. He pauses, and stares at me for a moment,

drinking me in. I’m in the basque and matching panties, and I revel in his sensuous gaze.

“You know, Anastasia,” he says softly as he stalks toward me, undoing his bow tie so

it hangs from either side of his neck, then undoing the top three buttons of his shirt. “I was

so mad when you bought my auction lot. All manner of ideas ran through my head. I had to

remind myself that punishment is off the menu. But then you volunteered.” He gazes down

at me through his mask. “Why did you do that?” he whispers.

“Volunteer? I don’t know. Frustration . . . too much alcohol . . . worthy cause,” I mutter

meekly, shrugging. Maybe to get his attention?

I needed him then. I need him more now. The ache is worse, and I know he can soothe

it, calm this roaring, salivating beast in me with the beast in him. His mouth presses into a

line, and he slowly licks his upper lip. I want that tongue on me.

“I vowed to myself I would not spank you again, even if you begged me.”

“Please,” I beg.

“But then I realized, you’re probably very uncomfortable at the moment, and it’s not

something you’re used to.” He smirks at me knowingly, arrogant bastard, but I don’t care

because he’s absolutely right.

“Yes,” I breathe.

“So, there might be a certain . . . latitude. If I do this, you must promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“You will safe word if you need to, and I will just make love to you, okay?”

“Yes.” I’m panting. I want his hands on me.

He swallows, then takes my hand, and moves toward the bed. Throwing the duvet

aside, he sits down, grabs a pillow, and places it beside him. He gazes up at me standing

beside him and suddenly tugs hard on my hand so that I fall across his lap. He shifts slightly

so my body is resting on the bed, my chest on the pillow, my face to one side. Leaning over,

he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and runs his fingers through the plume of feathers on

my mask.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he murmurs.

Oh!He removes his bow tie and uses it to quickly bind my wrists so that my hands are

tied behind me, resting in the small of my back.

“You really want this, Anastasia?”

I close my eyes. This is the first time since I met him that I really want this. I need it.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Why?” he asks softly as he caresses my behind with his palm.

I groan as soon as his hand makes contact with my skin. I don’t know why . . . You tell

me not to overthink. After a day like today—arguing about the money, Leila, Mrs. Robin-

son, the dossier on me, the roadmap, this lavish party, the masks, the alcohol, the silver

balls, the auction . . . I want this.

“Do I need a reason?”

“No, baby, you don’t,” he says. “I’m just trying to understand you.” His left hand curls

round my waist, holding me in place as his palm leaves my behind and lands hard, just

above the junction of my thighs. The pain connects directly with the ache in my belly

Oh man . . .I moan loudly. He hits me again, in exactly the same place. I groan again.

“Two,” he murmurs. “We’ll go with twelve.”

Oh my!This feels different than the last time—so carnal, so . . . necessary. He caresses

my behind with his long-fingered hands, and I’m helpless, trussed up and pressed into the

mattress, at his mercy, and of my own free will. He hits me again, slightly to the side, and

again, to the other side, then pauses as he slowly peels my panties down and pulls them off.

He gently trails his palm across my behind again before continuing my spanking—each

stinging smack taking the edge off my need—or fueling it—I don’t know. I surrender my-

self to the rhythm of blows, absorbing each one, savoring each one.

“Twelve,” he murmurs his voice low and harsh. He caresses my behind again and trails

his fingers down toward my sex and slowly sinks two fingers inside me, moving them in a

circle, round and round and round, torturing me.

I moan loudly as my body takes over, and I come and come, convulsing around his

fingers. It’s so intense, unexpected, and quick.

“That’s right, baby,” he murmurs appreciatively. He unties my wrists, keeping his fin-

gers inside me as I lie panting and spent over him.

“I’ve not finished with you yet, Anastasia,” he says and shifts without removing his

fingers. He eases my knees on to the floor so that now I’m leaning over the bed. He kneels

on the floor behind me and undoes his zipper. He slides his fingers out of me, and I hear

the familiar tear of a foil packet. “Open your legs,” he growls and I comply. He strokes my

behind and eases into me.

“This is going to be quick, baby,” he murmurs and grabbing my hips, he eases out then

slams into me.

“Ah!” I cry out but the fullness is heavenly. He’s hitting the bellyache square on, again

and again, eradicating it with each sharp, sweet thrust. The feeling is mind-blowing, just

what I need. I push back to meet him, thrust for thrust.

“Ana, no,” he grunts, trying to still me. But I want him too much, and I grind against

him, matching him thrust for thrust.

“Ana, shit,” he hisses as he comes, and the tortured sound sets me off again, spiral-