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-