that my fingers are splayed. He places my hands on my belly. “Feel how soft your skin is.”

His voice is soft and low. He moves my hands in a slow circle then upwards towards my

breasts. “Feel how full your breasts are.” He holds my hands so that they cup my breasts.

He gently strokes my nipples with his thumbs over and over.

I moan between parted lips and arch my back so my breasts fill my palms. He squeezes

my nipples between our thumbs, pulling gently so that they elongate further. I watch in

fascination at the wanton creature writhing in front of me. Oh this feels good.I groan and

close my eyes, no longer wanting to see that libidinous woman in the mirror falling apart

under her own hands… his hands… feeling my skin as he would, experiencing how arous-

ing it is – just his touch, and his calm, soft, commands.

“That’s right, baby,” he murmurs.

He guides my hands down the sides of my body, past my waist to my hips, and across

to my pubic hair. He slides his leg in between mine, pushing my feet further apart, wid-

ening my stance, and runs my hands over my sex, one hand at a time in turn, setting up a

rhythm. It is so erotic. Truly I am a marionette and he is the master puppeteer.

“Look at you glow, Anastasia,” he whispers as he trails kisses and soft bites along my

shoulder. I groan. Suddenly he lets go.

“Carry on,” he orders, and stands back watching me.

I rub myself. No.I want him, him to do it. It doesn’t feel the same. I’m lost without

him. He pulls his shirt over his head and quickly takes off his jeans.

“You’d rather I do this?” His gray gaze scorches mine in the mirror.

“Oh yes… please,” I breathe.

He wraps his arms around me again and takes my hands once more, continuing the

sensual caress across my sex, over my clitoris. His chest hair scrapes against me, his erec-

tion presses against me. Oh soon… please.He bites the nape of my neck, and I close my

eyes, enjoying the myriad of sensations; my neck, my groin… the feel of him behind me.

He stops abruptly and spins me around, circling my wrists with one hand, imprisoning my

hands behind me, and pulling at my ponytail with the other. I am flush against him, and he

kisses me wildly, ravaging my mouth with his. Holding, h me in place.

His breathing is ragged, matching mine.

“When did you start your period, Anastasia?” he asks out of the blue, gazing down at

me. “Err... yesterday,” I mumble in my highly aroused state.

“Good.” He releases me and turns me around.

“Hold on to the sink,” he orders and pulls my hips back again, like he did in the play-

room, so I’m bending down.

He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string… what!And… a gently pulls

my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet. Holy fuck.Sweet mother of all… Jeez.

And then he’s inside me… ah! Skin against skin… moving slowly at first… easily, testing

me, pushing me… oh my.I grip on to the sink, panting, forcing myself back on him, feel-

ing him inside me. Oh the sweet agony… his hands clasp my hips. He sets a punishing

rhythm – in, out, and he reaches around and finds my clitoris, massaging me… oh jeez. I

can feel myself quicken.

“That’s right, baby,” he rasps as he grinds into me, angling his hips, and it’s enough to

send me flying, flying high.

Whoa… and I come, loudly, gripping for dear life onto the sink as I spiral down through

my orgasm, everything spinning and clenching at once. He follows, clasping me tightly,

his front on my back as he climaxes and calls my name like it’s a litany or a prayer.

“Oh, Ana!”His breathing is ragged in my ear, in perfect synergy with mine. “Oh,

baby, will I ever get enough of you?” he whispers.

Will it always be like this? So overwhelming, so all-consuming, so bewildering and

beguiling. I wanted to talk, but now I’m spent and dazed from his lovemaking and wonder-

ing if Iwill ever get enough of him?

We sink slowly to the floor, and he wraps his arms around me, imprisoning me. I am

curled on his lap, my head against his chest, as we both calm. Very subtly, I inhale his

sweet, intoxicating Christian scent. I must not nuzzle. I must not nuzzle.I repeat the mantra in my head – though I am so tempted to do so. I want to lift my hand and draw patterns

in his chest hair with my fingertips… but I resist, knowing that he’ll hate it if I do. We are

both quiet, lost in our thoughts. I am lost in him… lost to him.

I remember that I have my period.

“I’m bleeding,” I murmur.

“Doesn’t bother me,” he breathes.

“I noticed.” I can’t keep the dryness out of my voice.

He tenses slightly.

“Does it bother you?” he asks softly.

Does it bother me? Maybe it should… should it? No, it doesn’t. I lean back and look

up at him, and he gazes down at me, his eyes a soft cloudy gray.

“No, not at all.”

He smirks.

“Good. Let’s have a bath.”

He uncurls from around me, placing me on the floor as he makes to stand. As he does,

I notice again the small, round, white scars on his chest. They are not chicken pox, I muse

absentmindedly. Grace said he was hardly affected. Holy shit… they must be burns.

Burns from what? I blanch at the realization, shock and revulsion coursing through me.

From cigarettes? Mrs. Robinson, his birth mother, who? Who did this to him? Maybe

there’s a reasonable explanation, and I’m over-reacting – wild hope blossoms in my chest

– hope that I am wrong.

“What is it?” Christian’s face is wide-eyed with alarm.

“Your scars,” I whisper. “They’re not from chicken pox.”

I watch as in a split second he closes down, his stance changing from relaxed, calm,

and at ease, to defensive – angry, even. He frowns, his face darkening, and his mouth

presses into a thin, hard line.

“No, they’re not,” he snaps, but he does not elaborate further. He stands, holds his

hand out for me, and hauls me to my feet.

“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is colder and scolding as he lets go of my hand.

I flush, chastened, and stare down at my fingers, and I know, I know that someone

stubbed cigarettes out on Christian. I feel sick.

“Did she do that?” I whisper before I can stop myself.

He says nothing, so I’m forced to look at him. He’s glaring at me.

“She? Mrs. Robinson? She’s not an animal, Anastasia. Of course she didn’t. I don’t

understand why you feel you have to demonize her.”

He’s standing there, naked, gloriously naked, with my blood on him… and we’re fi-

nally having this conversation. And I’m naked too – neither of us has anywhere to hide,

except perhaps the bath. I take a deep breath, move past him, and step down into the water.

It is deliciously warm, soothing, and deep. I melt into the fragrant foam and stare up at

him, hiding among the bubbles.

“I just wonder what you would be like if you hadn’t met her. If she hadn’t introduced

you to your… um, lifestyle.”

He sighs and steps down into the bath opposite me, his jaw clenched with tension, his

eyes frosty. As he gracefully submerges his body beneath the water, he’s careful not to

touch me. Jeez – have I made him that mad?

He stares impassively at me, his face unreadable, saying nothing. Again the silence

stretches between us, but I hold my counsel. It’s your turn Grey – I am not caving this time.

My subconscious is nervous, anxiously biting her nails – this could go either way. Chris-

tian and I stare at each other, but I am not backing down. Eventually, after what seems like