Текст книги "Fifty Shades of Grey"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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ting in the driver’s seat.

“Hello, Taylor,” I say.

“Good evening, Miss Steele,” his voice is polite and professional. Christian climbs in

the other side and clasps my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze that I feel all the way though

my body.

“How was work?” he asks.

“Very long,” I reply, and my voice is husky, too low, and full of need.

“Yes, it’s been a long day for me too.” His tone is serious.

“What did you do?” I manage.

“I went hiking with Elliot.” His thumb strokes my knuckles, back and forth, and my

heart skips a beat as my breathing accelerates. How does he do this to me? He’s only

touching a very small area of my body, and the hormones are flying.

The drive to the heliport is short and, before I know it, we arrive. I wonder where the

fabled helicopter might be. We’re in a built-up area of the city and even I know helicopters

need space to take off and land. Taylor parks, climbs out, and opens my car door. Christian

is beside me in an instant and takes my hand again.

“Ready?” he asks. I nod and want to say for anything,but I can’t articulate the words

as I’m too nervous, too excited.

“Taylor.” He nods curtly at his driver, and we head into the building, straight to a set

of elevators. Elevator!The memory of our kiss this morning comes back to haunt me.

I have thought of nothing else all day. Daydreaming at the register at Clayton’s. Twice

Mr. Clayton had to shout my name to bring me back to Earth. To say I’ve been distracted

would be the understatement of the year. Christian glances down at me, a slight smile on

his lips. Ha! He’s thinking about it too.

“It’s only three floors,” he says dryly, his gray eyes dancing with amusement. He’s

telepathic surely. It’s spooky.

I try to keep my face impassive as we enter the elevator. The doors close, and it’s there,

the weird electrical attraction crackling between us, enslaving me. I close my eyes in a

vain attempt to ignore it. He tightens his grip on my hand, and five seconds later the doors

open on to the roof of the building. And there it is, a white helicopter with the name Grey

Enterprises Holdings Inc. written in blue with the company logo on the side. Surely this is

misuse of Company property.

He leads me to a small office where an old timer sits behind the desk.

“Here’s your flight plan, Mr. Grey. All external checks are done. It’s ready and waiting

sir. You’re free to go.”

“Thank you, Joe.” Christian smiles warmly at him.

Oh. Someone deserving of the polite treatment from Christian, perhaps he’s not an

employee. I stare at the old guy in awe.

“Let’s go,” Christian says, and we make our way toward the helicopter. When we’re

up close, it’s much bigger than I thought. I expected it to be a roadster version for two,

but it has at least seven seats. Christian opens the door and directs me to one of the seats

at the very front.

“Sit – don’t touch anything,” he orders as he clambers in behind me.

He shuts the door with a slam. I’m glad that the area is floodlit, otherwise I’d find it

difficult to see inside the small cockpit. I sit down in my allotted seat, and he crouches

beside me to strap me into the harness. It’s a four-point harness with all the straps con-

necting to one central buckle. He tightens both of the upper straps, so I can hardly move.

He’s so close and intent on what he’s doing. If I could only lean forward, my nose would

be in his hair. He smells, clean, fresh, heavenly, but I’m fastened securely into my seat and

effectively immobile. He glances up and smiles, like he’s enjoying his usual private joke,

his gray eyes heated. He’s so tantalizingly close. I hold my breath as he pulls at one of the

upper straps.

“You’re secure, no escaping,” he whispers, his eyes are scorching. “Breathe, Anasta-

sia,” he adds softly. Reaching up, he caresses my cheek, running his long fingers down to

my chin which he grasps between his thumb and forefinger. He leans forward and plants

a brief, chaste kiss on my lips, leaving me reeling, my insides clenching at the thrilling,

unexpected touch of his lips.

“I like this harness,” he whispers.

What?

He sits down beside me and buckles himself into his seat, then begins a protracted pro-

cedure of checking gauges and flipping switches and buttons from the mind-boggling array

of dials and lights and switches in front of me. Little lights wink and flash from various

dials, and the whole of the instrument panel lights up.

“Put your cans on,” he says, pointing to a set of headphones in front of me. I pop them

on, and the rotor blades start. They are deafening. He puts his headphones on and contin-

ues flipping various switches.

“I’m just going through all the pre-flight checks.” Christian’s disembodied voice is in

my ears through the headphones. I turn and grin at him.

“Do you know what you are doing?” I ask. He turns and smiles at me.

“I’ve been a fully qualified pilot for four years, Anastasia, you’re safe with me.” He

gives me a wolfish grin. “Well, while we’re flying,” he adds and winks at me.

Winking… Christian!

“Are you ready?”

I nod wide eyed.

“Okay, tower. PDX this is Charlie Tango Golf – Golf Echo Hotel, cleared for take-off.

Please confirm, over.”

“Charlie Tango – you are clear. PDX to call, proceed to one four thousand, heading

zero one zero, over. ”

“Roger tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out. Here we go,” he adds to me, and the

helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the air.

Portland disappears in front us as we head into US airspace, though my stomach re-

mains firmly in Oregon. Whoa! All the bright lights shrink until they are twinkling sweetly

below us. It’s like looking out from inside a fish bowl. Once we’re higher, there really is

nothing to see. It’s pitch black, not even the moon to shed any light on our journey. How

can he see where we’re going?

“Eerie isn’t it?” Christian’s voice is in my ears.

“How do you know you’re going the right way?”

“Here.” He points his long index finger at one of the gauges, and it shows an electronic

compass. “This is an EC135 Eurocopter. One of the safest in its class. It’s equipped for

night flight.” He glances and grins at me.

“There’s a helipad on top of the building I live in. That’s where we’re heading.”

Of course there’s a helipad where he lives. I am so out of my league here. His face

is softly illuminated by the lights on the instrument panel. He’s concentrating hard, and

he’s continually glancing at the various dials in front of him. I drink in his features from

beneath my lashes. He has a beautiful profile. Straight nose, square jawed – I’d like to

run my tongue along his jaw. He hasn’t shaved, and his stubble makes the prospect doubly

tempting. Hmm… I’d like to feel how rough it is beneath my tongue, my fingers, against

my face.

“When you fly at night, you fly blind. You have to trust the instrumentation,” he inter-

rupts my erotic reverie.

“How long will the flight be?” I manage breathlessly. I wasn’t thinking about sex at

all, no, no way.

“Less than an hour, the wind is in our favor.”

Hmm, less than an hour to Seattle… that’s not bad going, no wonder we’re flying.

I have less than an hour before the big reveal. All the muscles clench deep in my belly.

I have a serious case of butterflies. They are flourishing in my stomach. Holy shit, what

has he got in store for me?

“You okay, Anastasia?”

“Yes.” My answer is short, clipped, squeezed out through my nerves.

I think he smiles, but it’s difficult to tell in the darkness. Christian flicks yet another

switch.

“PDX this is Charlie Tango now at one four thousand, over.” He exchanges informa-

tion with air traffic control. It all sounds very professional to me. I think we’re moving

from Portland’s air space to Seattle International Airport’s.

“Understood Sea-Tac, standing by over and out.”

“Look, over there.” He points to a small pin-point of light in the far distance. “That’s

Seattle.”

“Do you always impress women this way? Come and fly in my helicopter?” I ask,

genuinely interested.

“I’ve never bought a girl up here, Anastasia. It’s another first for me.” His voice is

quiet, serious.

Oh, that was an unexpected answer. Another first? Oh the sleeping thing, perhaps?

“Are you impressed?”

“I’m awed, Christian.”

He smiles.

“Awed?” And for a brief moment, he’s his age again.

I nod.

“You’re just so… competent.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Steele,” he says politely. I think he’s pleased, but I’m not sure.

We ride into the dark night in silence for a while. The bright spot that is Seattle is

slowly getting bigger.

“Sea-Tac tower to Charlie Tango. Flight plan to Escala in place. Please proceed. And

standby. Over.”

“This is Charlie Tango, understood Sea-Tac. Standing by, over and out.”

“You obviously enjoy this,” I murmur.

“What?” He glances at me. He looks quizzical in the half-light of the instruments.

“Flying,” I reply.

“It requires control and concentration… how could I not love it? Though, my favorite

is soaring.”

“Soaring?”

“Yes. Gliding to the layperson. Gliders and helicopters – I fly them both.”

“Oh.” Expensive hobbies.I remember him telling me during the interview. I like read-

ing and occasionally going to the movies. I am out of my depth here.

“Charlie Tango come in please, over.” The disembodied voice of air traffic control

interrupts my reverie. Christian answers, sounding in control and confident.

Seattle is getting closer. We are on the very outskirts now. Wow! It looks absolutely

stunning. Seattle at night, from the sky…

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Christian murmurs.

I nod enthusiastically. It looks otherworldly – unreal – and I feel like I’m on a giant

film set, José’s favorite film maybe, ‘Bladerunner.’The memory of José’s attempted kiss

haunts me. I’m beginning to feel a bit cruel not calling him back. He can wait until tomor-

row… surely.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Christian mutters, and suddenly my blood is pound-

ing in my ears as my heartbeat accelerates and adrenaline spikes through my system. He

starts talking to air traffic control again, but I am no longer listening. Oh my… I think I’m

going to faint. My fate is in his hands.

We are now flying amongst the buildings, and up ahead I can see a tall skyscraper with

a helipad on top. The word Escala is painted in white on top of the building. It’s getting

nearer and nearer, bigger and bigger… like my anxiety. God, I hope I don’t let him down.

He’ll find me lacking in some way. I wish I’d listened to Kate and borrowed one of her

dresses, but I like my black jeans, and I’m wearing a soft mint green shirt and Kate’s black

jacket. I look smart enough. I grip the edge of my seat tighter and tighter. I can do this. I

can do this.I chant this mantra as the skyscraper looms below us.

The helicopter slows and hovers, and Christian sets it down on the helipad on top of the

building. My heart is in my mouth. I can’t decide if it’s from nervous anticipation, relief

that we’ve arrived alive, or fear that I will fail in some way. He switches the ignition off

and the rotor blades slow and quiet until all I hear is the sound of my own erratic breathing.

Christian takes his headphones off, and reaches across and pulls mine off too.

“We’re here,” he says softly.

His look is so intense, half in shadow and half in the bright white light from the land-

ing lights. Dark knight and white knight, it’s a fitting metaphor for Christian. He looks

strained. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are tight. He unfastens his seatbelt and reaches

over to unbuckle mine. His face is inches from mine.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that don’t you?” His

tone is so earnest, desperate even, his gray eyes impassioned. He takes me by surprise.

“I’d never do anything I didn’t want to do, Christian.” And as I say the words, I don’t

quite feel their conviction because at this moment in time – I’d probably do anything for

this man seated beside me. But this does the trick. He’s mollified.

He eyes me warily for a moment and somehow, even though he’s so tall, he manages

to ease his way gracefully to the door of the helicopter and open it. He jumps out, waiting

for me to follow, and takes my hand as I clamber down on to the helipad. It’s very windy

on top of the building, and I’m nervous about the fact that I’m standing at least thirty stories

high in an unenclosed space. Christian wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me tightly

against him.

“Come,” he shouts above the noise of the wind. He drags me over to an elevator shaft

and, after tapping a number into a keypad, the doors open. It’s warm inside and all mir-

rored glass. I can see Christian to infinity everywhere I look, and the wonderful thing is,

he’s holding me to infinity too. Christian taps another code into the keypad, then the doors

close and the elevator descends.

Moments later, we’re in an all-white foyer. In the middle is a round, dark wood table,

and on it is an unbelievably huge bunch of white flowers. On the walls there are paintings,

everywhere. He opens two double doors, and the white theme continues through the wide

corridor and directly opposite where a palatial room opens up. It’s the main living area,

double height. Huge is too small a word for it. The far wall is glass and leads on to a bal-

cony that overlooks Seattle.

To the right is an imposing ‘U’ shaped sofa that could sit ten adults comfortably. It fac-

es a state-of-the-art stainless steel – or maybe platinum for all I know – modern fireplace.

The fire is lit and flaming gently. On the left beside us, by the entryway, is the kitchen area.

All white with dark wood worktops and a large breakfast bar which seats six.

Near the kitchen area, in front of the glass wall, is a dining table surrounded by sixteen

chairs. And tucked in the corner is a full size, shiny black grand piano. Oh yes… he prob-

ably plays the piano too. There is art of all shapes and sizes on all the walls. In fact, this

apartment looks more like a gallery than a place to live.

“Can I take your jacket?” Christian asks. I shake my head. I’m still cold from the wind

on the helipad.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks. I blink at him. After last night! Is he trying to be

funny?For one second, I think about asking for a margarita – but I don’t have the nerve.

“I’m going to have a glass of white wine, would you like to join me?”

“Yes, please,” I murmur.

I am standing in this enormous room feeling out of place. I walk over to the glass wall,

and I realize that the lower half of the wall opens concertina-style on to the balcony. Se-

attle is lit up and lively in the background. I walk back to the kitchen area – it takes a few

seconds, it’s so far from the glass wall – and Christian is opening a bottle of wine. He’s

removed his jacket.

“Pouilly Fumé okay with you?”

“I know nothing about wine, Christian. I’m sure it will be fine.” My voice is soft and

hesitant. My heart is thumping. I want to run. This is seriously rich. Seriously over-the-

top Bill Gates style wealthy. What am I doing here? You know very well what you’re doing

here– my subconscious sneers at me. Yes, I want to be in Christian Grey’s bed.

“Here.” He hands me a glass of wine. Even the glasses are rich… heavy, contempo-

rary, crystal. I take a sip, and the wine is light, crisp, and delicious.

“You’re very quiet, and you’re not even blushing. In fact – I think this is the palest I’ve

ever seen you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “Are you hungry?”

I shake my head. Not for food.

“It’s a very big place you have here.”

“Big?”

“Big.”

“It’s big,” he agrees, and his eyes glow with amusement. I take another sip of wine.

“Do you play?” I point my chin at the piano.

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do. Is there anything you can’t do well?”

“Yes… a few things.” He takes a sip of his wine. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. I feel

them following me as I turn and glance around this vast room. Room is the wrong word.

It’s not a room – it’s a mission statement.

“Do you want to sit?”

I nod, and he takes my hand and leads me to the large off-white couch. As I sit, I’m

struck by the fact that I feel like Tess Durbeyfield looking at the new house that belongs to

the notorious Alec D’Urberville. The thought makes me smile.

“What’s so amusing?” He sits down beside me, turning to face me. He rests his head

on his right hand, his elbow propped on the back of the couch.

“Why did you give me Tess of the D’Urbervilles specifically?” I ask. Christian stares

at me for a moment. I think he’s surprised by my question.

“Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy.”

“Is that the only reason?” Even I can hear the disappointment in my voice. His mouth

presses into a hard line.

“It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel

Clare or debase you completely like Alec D’Urberville,” he murmurs, and his gray eyes

flash dark and dangerous.

“If there are only two choices, I’ll take the debasement.” I whisper, gazing at him. My

subconscious is staring at me in awe. He gasps.

“Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It’s very distracting. You don’t know what

you’re saying.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

He frowns.

“Yes. Would you excuse me a moment?” He disappears through a wide doorway on

the far side of the room. He’s gone for a couple of minutes and returns with a document.

“This is a non-disclosure agreement.” He shrugs and has the grace to look a little em-

barrassed. “My lawyer insists on it.” He hands it to me. I’m completely bemused. “If

you’re going for option two, debasement, you’ll need to sign this.”

“And if I don’t want to sign anything?”

“Then it’s Angel Clare high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway.”

“What does this agreement mean?”

“It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone.”

I stare at him in disbelief. Holy shit. It’s bad, really bad, and now I’m very curious to

know.

“Okay. I’ll sign.”

He hands me a pen.

“Aren’t you even going to read it?”

“No.”

He frowns.

“Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign,” he admonishes me.

“Christian, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn’t talk about us to anyone,

anyway. Even Kate. So it’s immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so

much to you, or your lawyer… whom youobviously talk to, then fine. I’ll sign.”

He gazes down at me, and he nods gravely.

“Fair point well made, Miss Steele.”

I lavishly sign on the dotted line of both copies and hand one back to him. Folding the

other, I place it my purse and take a large swig of my wine. I’m sounding so much braver

than I’m actually feeling.

“Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?” Holy shit. Did

I just say that?His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly.

“No, Anastasia it doesn’t. Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck… hard. Secondly, there’s

a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could

still run for the hills. Come, I want to show you my playroom.”

My mouth drops open. Fuck hard!Holy shit, that sounds so… hot. But why are we

looking at a playroom? I am mystified.

“You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask. He laughs, loudly.

“No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come.” He stands, holding out his hand. I let

him lead me back out to the corridor. On the right of the double doors, where we came in,

another door leads to a staircase. We go up to the second floor and turn right. Producing a

key from his pocket, he unlocks yet another door and takes a deep breath.

“You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on stand-by to take you whenever you want

to go, you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It’s fine whatever you decide.”

“Just open the damn door, Christian.”

He opens the door and stands back to let me in. I gaze at him once more. I so want to

know what’s in here. Taking a deep breath I walk in.

And it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish In-

quisition.

Holy fuck.

The first thing I notice is the smell; leather, wood, polish with a faint citrus scent. It’s very

pleasant, and the lighting is soft, subtle. In fact, I can’t see the source, but it’s around the

cornice in the room, emitting an ambient glow. The walls and ceiling are a deep, dark bur-

gundy, giving a womb-like effect to the spacious room, and the floor is old, old varnished

wood. There is a large wooden cross like an X fastened to the wall facing the door. It’s

made of high-polished mahogany, and there are restraining cuffs on each corner. Above it

is an expansive iron grid suspended from the ceiling, eight-foot square at least, and from it

hang all manner of ropes, chains, and glinting shackles. By the door, two long, polished,

ornately carved poles, like spindles from a banister but longer, hang like curtain rods across

the wall. From them swing a startling assortment of paddles, whips, riding crops, and

funny-looking feathery implements.

Beside the door stands a substantial mahogany chest of drawers, each drawer slim as if

designed to contain specimens in a crusty old museum. I wonder briefly what the drawers

actually dohold. Do I want to know?In the far corner is an oxblood leather padded bench, and fixed to the wall beside it is a wooden, polished rack that looks like a pool or billiard

cue holder, but on closer inspection, it holds canes of varying lengths and widths. There’s

a stout six-foot-long table in the opposite corner – polished wood with intricately carved

legs – and two matching stools underneath.

But what dominates the room is a bed. It’s bigger than king-size, an ornately carved

rococo four-poster with a flat top. It looks late nineteenth century. Under the canopy, I can

see more gleaming chains and cuffs. There is no bedding... just a mattress covered in red

leather and red satin cushions piled at one end.

At the foot of the bed, set apart a few feet, is a large oxblood chesterfield couch, just

stuck in the middle of the room facing the bed. An odd arrangement… to have a couch

facing the bed, and I smile to myself – I’ve picked on the couch as odd, when really it’s the

most mundane piece of furniture in the room. I glance up and stare at the ceiling. There are

karabiners all over the ceiling at odd intervals. I vaguely wonder what they’re for. Weirdly,

all the wood, dark walls, moody lighting, and oxblood leather makes the room kind of soft

and romantic… I know it’s anything but, this is Christian’s version of soft and romantic.

I turn, and he’s regarding me intently as I knew he would be, his expression completely

unreadable. I walk further into the room, and he follows me. The feathery thing has me

intrigued. I touch it hesitantly. It’s suede, like a small cat-of-nine-tails but bushier, and

there are very small plastic beads on the end.

“It’s called a flogger,” Christian’s voice is quiet and soft.

A flogger… hmm.I think I’m in shock. My subconscious has emigrated or been struck

dumb or simply keeled over and expired. I am numb. I can observe and absorb but not ar-

ticulate my feelings about all this, because I’m in shock. What is the appropriate response

to finding out a potential lover is a complete freaky sadist or masochist? Fear… yes… that

seems to be the over-riding feeling. I recognize it now. But weirdly not of him – I don’t

think he’d hurt me, well, not without my consent. So many questions cloud my mind.

Why? How? When? How often? Who? I walk toward the bed and run my hands down

one of the intricately carved posts. The post is very sturdy, the craftsmanship outstanding.

“Say something,” Christian commands, his voice deceptively soft.

“Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?”

His mouth quirks up, either amused or relieved.

“People?” He blinks a couple of times as he considers his answer. “I do this to women

who want me to.”

I don’t understand.

“If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?”

“Because I want to do this with you, very much.”

“Oh,” I gasp. Why?

I wander to the far corner of the room and pat the waist high padded bench and run my

fingers over the leather. He likes to hurt women.The thought depresses me.

“You’re a sadist?”

“I’m a Dominant.” His eyes are a scorching gray, intense.

“What does that mean?” I whisper.

“It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things.”

I frown at him as I try to assimilate this idea.

“Why would I do that?”

“To please me,” he whispers as he cocks his head to one side, and I see a ghost of a

smile.

Please him! He wants me to please him!I think my mouth drops open. Please Chris-

tian Grey.And I realize, in that moment, that yes, that’s exactly what I want to do. I want

him to be damned delighted with me. It’s a revelation.

“In very simple terms, I want you to want to please me,” he says softly. His voice is

hypnotic.

“How do I do that?” My mouth is dry, and I wish I had more wine. Okay, I understand

the pleasing bit, but I am puzzled by the soft-boudoir-Elizabethan-torture set up. Do I want

to know the answer?

“I have rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for your benefit and for

my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I shall reward you. If you don’t,

I shall punish you, and you will learn,” he whispers. I glance at the rack of canes as he

says this .

“And where does all this fit in?” I wave my hand in the general direction of the room.

“It’s all part of the incentive package. Both reward and punishment.”

“So you’ll get your kicks by exerting your will over me.”

“It’s about gaining your trust and your respect, so you’ll let me exert my will over you.

I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy, even in your submission. The more you submit, the

greater my joy – it’s a very simple equation.”

“Okay, and what do I get out of this?”

He shrugs and looks almost apologetic.

“Me,” he says simply.

Oh my.Christian rakes his hand through his hair as he gazes at me.

“You’re not giving anything away, Anastasia,” he murmurs, exasperated. “Let’s go

back downstairs where I can concentrate better. It’s very distracting having you in here.”

He holds his hand out to me, and now I’m hesitant to take it.

Kate had said he was dangerous, she was so right. How did she know?He’s danger-

ous to my health, because I know I’m going to say yes. And part of me doesn’t want to.

Part of me wants to run screaming from this room and all it represents. I am so out of my

depth here.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Anastasia.” His gray eyes implore, and I know he speaks

the truth. I take his hand, and he leads me out of the door.

“If you do this, let me show you.” Rather than going back downstairs, he turns right

out of the playroom,as he calls it, and down a corridor. We pass several doors until we

reach the one at the end. Beyond it is a bedroom with a large double bed, all in white…

everything, furniture, walls, bedding. It’s sterile and cold but with the most glorious view

of Seattle through the glass wall.

“This will be your room. You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you like in

here.”

“My room? You’re expecting me to move in?” I can’t hide the horror in my voice.

“Not full time. Just say, Friday evening through Sunday. We have to talk about all that,

negotiate. If you want to do this,” he adds, his voice quiet and hesitant.

“I’ll sleep here?”

“Yes.”

“Not with you.”

“No. I told you, I don’t sleep with anyone, except you, when you’re stupefied with

drink.” His eyes are reprimanding.

My mouth presses in a hard line. This is what I cannot reconcile. Kind, caring Chris-

tian, who rescues me from inebriation and holds me gently while I’m throwing up into the

azaleas, and the monster who possesses whips and chains in a special room.

“Where do you sleep?”

“My room is downstairs. Come, you must be hungry.”

“Weirdly, I seem to have lost my appetite,” I murmur petulantly.

“You must eat, Anastasia,” he admonishes and, taking my hand, leads me back down-

stairs.

Back in the impossibly big room, I am filled with deep trepidation. I am on the edge

of a precipice, and I have to decide whether or not to jump.

“I’m fully aware that this is a dark path I’m leading you down, Anastasia, which is

why I really want you to think about this. You must have some questions,” he says as he

wanders into the kitchen area, releasing my hand.

I do. But where to start?

“You’ve signed your NDA, you can ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer.”

I stand at the breakfast bar watching him as he opens the refrigerator and pulls out a

plate of different cheeses with two large bunches of green and red grapes. He sets the plate

down on the worktop and proceeds to cut up a French baguette.

“Sit.” He points to one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar, and I obey his command.

If I’m going to do this, I’m going to have to get used to it. I realize he’s been this bossy

since I met him.

“You mentioned paperwork.”

“Yes.”

“What paperwork?”

“Well, apart from the NDA, a contract saying what we will and won’t do. I need to

know your limits, and you need to know mine. This is consensual, Anastasia.”

“And if I don’t want to do this?”

“That’s fine,” he says carefully.

“But we won’t have any sort of relationship?” I ask.

“No.”

“Why?”

“This is the only sort of relationship I’m interesting in.”

“Why?”

He shrugs.

“It’s the way I am.”

“How did you become this way?”

“Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer. Why do some people

like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese? Mrs. Jones – my housekeeper

– has left this for supper.” He takes some large, white plates from a cupboard and places

one in front of me.

We’re talking about cheese… Holy crap.

“What are your rules that I have to follow?”

“I have them written down. We’ll go through them once we’ve eaten.”

Food. How can I eat now?

“I’m really not hungry,” I whisper.

“You will eat,” he says simply. Dominating Christian, it all becomes clear.“Would

you like another glass of wine?”

“Yes, please.”

He pours wine into my glass and comes to sit beside me. I take a hasty sip.

“Help yourself to food, Anastasia.”

I take a small bunch of grapes. This I can manage. He narrows his eyes.

“Have you been like this for a while?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Is it easy to find women who want to do this?”