I struggle into my black jacket and place my small shoulder bag over my head so it sits at

my hip. I’m ready to go, once I’ve seen Kate.

“She’s on the dance floor,” I touch Christian’s arm and lean up and shout in his ear,

brushing his hair with my nose, smelling his clean, fresh smell. Oh my.All those forbid-

den, unfamiliar feelings that I have tried to deny surface and run amok through my drained

body. I flush, and somewhere deep, deep down my muscles clench deliciously.

He rolls his eyes at me and takes my hand again and leads me to the bar. He’s served

immediately, no waiting for Mr. Control-Freak Grey. Does everything come so easily to

him? I can’t hear what he orders. He hands me a very large glass of iced water.

“Drink,” he shouts his order at me.

The moving lights are twisting and turning in time to the music casting strange colored

light and shadows all over the bar and the clientele. He’s alternately green, blue, white, and

a demonic red. He’s watching me intently. I take a tentative sip.

“All of it,” he shouts.

He’s so overbearing. He runs his hand through his unruly hair. He looks frustrated,

angry. What is his problem? Apart from a silly drunk girl ringing him in the middle of the

night so he thinks she needs rescuing. And it turns out she does from her over amorous

friend. Then seeing her being violently ill at his feet. Oh Ana… are you ever going to live

this down?My subconscious is figuratively tutting and glaring at me over her half moon

specs. I sway slightly, and he puts his hand on my shoulder to steady me. I do as I’m told

and drink the entire glass. It makes me feel queasy. Taking the glass from me, he places it

on the bar. I notice through a blur what he’s wearing; a loose white linen shirt, snug jeans,

black Converse sneakers, and a dark pinstriped jacket. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top,

and I see a sprinkling of hair in the gap. In my groggy frame of mind, he looks yummy.

He takes my hand once more. Holy cow– he’s leading me onto the dance floor. Shit.

I do not dance. He can sense my reluctance, and under the colored lights, I can see his

amused, slightly sardonic smile. He gives my hand a sharp tug, and I’m in his arms again,

and he starts to move, taking me with him. Boy, he can dance, and I can’t believe that I’m

following him step for step. Maybe it’s because I’m drunk that I can keep up. He’s hold-

ing me tight against him, his body against mine… if he wasn’t clutching me so tightly, I’m

sure I would swoon at his feet. In the back of my mind, my mother’s often-recited warning

comes to me: Never trust a man who can dance.

He moves us through the crowded throng of dancers to the other side of the dance floor,

and we are beside Kate and Elliot, Christian’s brother. The music is pounding away, loud

and leery, outside and inside my head. I gasp. Kate is making her moves.She’s dancing

her ass off, and she only ever does that if she likes someone. Really likes someone. It

means there’ll be three of us for breakfast tomorrow morning. Kate!

Christian leans over and shouts in Elliot’s ear. I cannot hear what he says. Elliot is

tall with wide shoulders, curly blonde hair, and light, wickedly gleaming eyes. I can’t tell

the color under the pulsating heat of the flashing lights. Elliot grins, and pulls Kate into

his arms, where she is more than happy to be… Kate!Even in my inebriated state, I am

shocked. She’s only just met him. She nods at whatever Elliot says and grins at me and

waves. Christian propels us off the dance floor in double quick time.

But I never got to talk to her. Is she okay? I can see where things are heading for her

and him. I need to do the safe sex lecture.In the back of my mind, I hope she reads one of

the posters on the back of the toilet doors. My thoughts crash through my brain, fighting

the drunk, fuzzy feeling. It’s so warm in here, so loud, so colorful – too bright. My head

begins to swim, oh no… and I can feel the floor coming up to meet my face or so it feels.

The last thing I hear before I pass out in Christian Grey’s arms is his harsh epithet.

“Fuck!”

It’s very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm, in this bed. Hmm… I

open my eyes, and for a moment, I’m tranquil and serene, enjoying the strange unfamiliar

surroundings. I have no idea where I am. The headboard behind me is in the shape of

a massive sun. It’s oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and plushly furnished in

browns and golds and beige. I have seen it before. Where? My befuddled brain struggles

through its recent visual memories. Holy crap. I’m in the Heathman hotel… in a suite. I

have stood in a room similar to this with Kate. This looks bigger. Oh shit. I’m in Christian

Grey’s suite. How did I get here?

Fractured memories of the previous night come slowly back to haunt me. The drink-

ing, oh no the drinking,the phone call, oh no the phone call,the vomiting, oh no the vomiting.José and then Christian. Oh no.I cringe inwardly. I don’t remember coming here.

I’m wearing my t-shirt, bra, and panties. No socks. No jeans. Holy shit.

I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and two tablets. Advil.

Control freak that he is, he thinks of everything. I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I

don’t feel that bad, probably much better than I deserve. The orange juice tastes divine.

It’s thirst quenching and refreshing. Nothing beats freshly squeezed orange juice for reviv-

ing an arid mouth.

There’s a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can’t seem to find

my voice. He opens the door anyway and strolls in.

Holy hell, he’s been working out. He’s in gray sweat pants that hang, in that way, off

his hips and a gray singlet, which is dark with sweat, like his hair. Christian Grey’s sweat,

the notion does odd things to me.I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two-

year old, if I close my eyes then I’m not really here.

“Good morning Anastasia. How are you feeling?”

Oh no.

“Better than I deserve,” I mumble.

I peek up at him. He places a large shopping bag on a chair and grasps each end of the

towel that he has around his neck. He’s staring at me, gray eyes dark, and as usual, I have

no idea what he’s thinking. He hides his thoughts and feelings so well.

“How did I get here?” My voice is small, contrite.

He comes and sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s close enough for me to touch, for

me to smell. Oh my… sweat and body wash and Christian, it’s a heady cocktail - so much

better than a margarita, and now I can speak from experience.

“After you passed out, I didn’t want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you

all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here,” he says phlegmatically.

“Did you put me to bed?”

“Yes.” His face is impassive.

“Did I throw up again?” My voice is quieter.

“No.”

“Did you undress me?” I whisper.

“Yes.” He quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.

“We didn’t,” I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can’t complete the

question. I stare at my hands.

“Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sen-

tient and receptive,” he says dryly.

“I’m so sorry.”

His mouth lifts slightly in a wry smile.

“It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I’ll forget in a while.”