“I have no idea what that means.”

“It’s about 17 miles an hour.”

“Is that all? It feels much faster.”

He squeezes my hands, smiling. “You look lovely, Anastasia. It’s good to see some

color in your cheeks . . . and not from blushing. You look like you do in José’s photos.”

I turn and kiss him.

“You know how to show a girl a good time, Mr. Grey.”

“We aim to please, Miss Steele.” He scoops my hair out of the way and kisses the back

of my neck, sending delicious tingles down my spine. “I like seeing you happy,” he mur-

murs and tightens his arms around me.

I gaze out over the wide blue water, wondering what I could possibly have done in the

past to have fortune smile and deliver this beautiful man to me.

Yes, you’re a lucky bitch,my subconscious snaps. But you have your work cut out with

him. He’s not going to want this vanilla crap forever . . . you’re going to have to compro-

mise.I glare mentally at her snarky, insolent face and rest my head against Christian’s

chest. But deep down I know my subconscious is right, but I banish the thoughts. I don’t

want to spoil my day.

An hour later, we are anchored in a small, secluded cove off Bainbridge Island. Mac has

gone ashore in the inflatable—for what, I don’t know—but I have my suspicions because

as soon as Mac starts the outboard engine, Christian grabs my hand and practically drags

me into his cabin, a man with a mission.

Now he stands before me, exuding his intoxicating sensuality as his deft fingers make

quick work of the straps on my lifejacket. He tosses it to one side and gazes intently down

at me, eyes dark, dilated.

I’m already lost and he’s barely touched me. He raises his hand to my face, and his

fingers move down my chin, the column of my throat, my sternum, searing me with his

touch, to the first button of my blue blouse.

“I want to see you,” he breathes and dexterously undoes the button. Bending, he plants

a soft kiss on my parted lips. I am panting and eager, aroused by the potent combination of

his captivating beauty, his raw sexuality in the confines of this cabin, and the gentle sway

of the boat. He stands back.

“Strip for me,” he whispers, eyes burning.

Oh my.I’m only too happy to comply. Not taking my eyes off his, I slowly undo each

button, savoring his scorching gaze. Oh, this is heady stuff. I can see his desire—it’s evi-

dent on his face . . . and elsewhere.

I let my shirt fall to the floor and reach for the button on my jeans.

“Stop,” he orders. “Sit.”

I sit down on the edge of the bed, and in one fluid movement he’s on his knees in front

of me, undoing the laces of first one and then the other sneaker, pulling each off, followed

by my socks. He picks up my left foot and raising it, plants a soft kiss on the pad of my big

toe, then grazes his teeth against it.

“Ah!” I moan as I feel the effect in my groin. He stands in one smooth move, holds his

hand out to me, and pulls me up off the bed.

“Continue,” he says and stands back to watch me.

I ease the zipper of my jeans down and hook my thumbs in the waistband as I sashay

then slide the denim down my legs. A soft smile plays on his lips, but his eyes remain dark.

And I don’t know if it’s because he made love to me this morning, and I mean really

made love to me, gently, sweetly, or if it was his impassioned declaration— yes . . . I do—

but I don’t feel embarrassed at all. I want to be sexy for this man. He deserves sexy—he

makes me feel sexy.

Okay, it’s new to me, but I’m learning under his expert tutelage. And then again, so

much is new to him, too. It balances the seesaw between us, a little, I think.

I am wearing some of my new underwear—a white lacy thong and matching bra—a

designer brand with a price tag to match. I step out of my jeans and stand there for him in

the lingerie he’s paid for, but I no longer feel cheap. I feel his.

Reaching behind I unhook my bra, sliding the straps down my arms, and drop it on top

of my blouse. Slowly, I slip my panties off, letting them fall to my ankles, and step out of

them, surprised by my grace.

Standing before him, I am naked and unashamed, and I know it’s because he loves

me. I no longer have to hide. He says nothing, just gazes at me. All I see is his desire, his

adoration even, and something else, the depth of his need—the depth of his love for me.

He reaches down, lifts the hem of his cream-colored sweater, and pulls it over his head,

followed by his T-shirt, revealing his chest, never taking his bold gray eyes off mine. His

shoes and socks follow before he grasps the button of his jeans.

Reaching over, I whisper, “Let me.”

His lips purse briefly into an oohshape, and he smiles. “Be my guest.”

I step toward him, slip my fearless fingers inside the waistband of his jeans, and tug so

he’s forced to take a step closer to me. He gasps involuntarily at my unexpected audacity

then smiles down at me. I undo the button, but before I unzip him I let my fingers wander,

tracing his erection through the soft denim. He flexes his hips into my palm and closes his

eyes briefly, relishing my touch.

“You’re getting so bold, Ana, so brave,” he whispers and clasps my face with both

hands, bending to kiss me deeply.

I put my hands on his hips—half on his cool skin and half on the low-slung waistband

of his jeans. “So are you,” I murmur against his lips as my thumbs rub slow circles on his

skin, and he smiles.

“Getting there.”

I move my hands to the front of his jeans and pull down the zipper. My intrepid fingers

move through his pubic hair to his erection, and I grasp him tightly.

He makes a low sound in his throat, his sweet breath washing over me, and he kisses

me again, lovingly. As my hand moves over him, around him, stroking him, squeezing him

tightly, he puts his arms around me, his right hand flat against the middle of my back and

his fingers spread. His left hand is in my hair, holding me to his mouth.

“Oh, I want you so much, baby,” he breathes, and steps back suddenly to remove his

jeans and boxers in one swift, agile move. He is a fine, fine sight in or out of clothes, every

single inch of him.

He is perfect. His beauty desecrated only by his scars, I think sadly. And they run so

much deeper than his skin.

“What’s wrong, Ana?” he murmurs and gently strokes my cheek with his knuckles.

“Nothing. Love me, now.”

He pulls me into his arms, kissing me, twisting his hands into my hair. Our tongues

entwined, he walks me backward to the bed and gently lowers me onto it, following me

down so that he’s lying by my side.

He runs his nose along my jawline as my hands move to his hair.

“Do you have any idea how exquisite your scent is, Ana? It’s irresistible.”

His words do what they always do—flame my blood, quicken my pulse—and he trails

his nose down my throat, across my breasts, kissing me reverentially as he does.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, as he takes one of my nipples in his mouth and

softly suckles.

I moan as my body bows off the bed.

“Let me hear you, baby.”

His hand trails down to my waist, and I glory in the feel of his touch, skin to skin—his

hungry mouth at my breasts and his skilled long fingers caressing and stroking me, cherish-

ing me. Moving over my hips, over my behind, and down my leg to my knee, and all this

time he’s kissing and sucking my breasts— oh my.

Grasping my knee, he suddenly hitches my leg up, curling it over his hips, making me