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-

ing into a healing orgasm that goes on and on and wrings me out and leaves me spent and

breathless.

Christian bends and kisses my shoulder then pulls out of me. Placing his arms around

me, he rests his head in the middle of my back, and we lie like this, both kneeling at the

bedside, for what? Seconds? Minutes even as our breathing calms. My bellyache has disap-

peared, and all I feel is a soothing, satisfying serenity.

Christian stirs and kisses my back. “I believe you owe me a dance, Miss Steele,” he

murmurs.

“Hmm,” I respond, savoring the absence of achiness and basking in the afterglow.

He sits back on his heels and pulls me off the bed onto his lap. “We don’t have long.

Come on.” He kisses my hair and forces me to stand.

I grumble but sit back down on the bed and collect my panties from the floor and scoop

them on. Lazily I walk to the chair to retrieve my dress. I note with dispassionate interest

that I did not remove my shoes during our illicit tryst. Christian is tying his bow tie, having

finished straightening himself and the bed.

As I slip my dress back on, I check out the photographs on the pin board. Christian as

a sullen teen was gorgeous even then: with Elliot and Mia on the ski slopes; on his own in

Paris, the Arc de Triompheserving as a giveaway background; in London; New York; the

Grand Canyon; Sydney Opera House; even the Great Wall of China. Master Grey was well

traveled at a young age.

There are ticket stubs to various concerts: U2, Metallica, The Verve, Sheryl Crow, the

New York Philharmonic performing Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet—what an eclectic mix!

And in the corner, there’s a passport-size photograph of a young woman. It’s in black and

white. She looks familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t place her. Not Mrs. Robinson, thank

heavens.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“No one of consequence,” he mutters as he slips on his jacket and straightens his bow

tie. “Shall I zip you up?”

“Please. Then why is she on your pin board?”

“An oversight on my part. How’s my tie?” He raises his chin like a small boy, and I

grin and straighten it for him.

“Now it’s perfect.”

“Like you,” he murmurs and grabs me, kissing me passionately. “Feeling better?”

“Much, thank you, Mr. Grey.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Steele.”

The guests are assembling on the dance floor. Christian grins at me—we’ve made it just in

time—and he leads me onto the checkered floor.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the first dance. Mr. and Dr. Grey, are you

ready?” Carrick nods in agreement, his arms around Grace.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the First Dance Auction, are you ready?” We all nod in

agreement. Mia is with someone I don’t recognize. I wonder what happened to Sean?

“Then we shall begin. Take it away, Sam!”

A young man strolls onto the stage amid warm applause, turns to the band behind him

and snaps his fingers. The familiar strains of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” fill the air.