No, she won’t forget me. Women always remember the first man they fucked, don’t they? I’ll always hold a place in her memory, for that alone. But I don’t want to be a memory: I want to stay in her mind. I need to stay in her mind. What can I do?

There’s a knock at the door and Andrea appears. “Coffee and croissants for you, Mr. Grey.”

“Come in.”

As she scurries over to my desk her eyes dart to the glider, but wisely she holds her tongue. She places breakfast on my desk.

Black coffee. Well done, Andrea. “Thanks.”

“I’ve left messages for Welch, Barney, and Bastille. Flynn is calling back in five.”

“Good. I want you to cancel any social engagements I have this week. No lunches, nothing in the evening. Get Barney on the phone and find me the number of a good florist.”

She scribbles furiously on her notepad.

“Sir, we use Arcadia’s Roses. Would you like me to send flowers for you?”

“No, give me the number. I’ll do it myself. That’s all.”

She nods and leaves promptly, as if she can’t get out of my office fast enough. A few moments later the phone buzzes. It’s Barney.

“Barney, I need you to make me a stand for a model glider.”

BETWEEN MEETINGS I CALL the florist and order two dozen white roses for Ana, to be delivered to her home this evening. That way she won’t be embarrassed or inconvenienced at work.

And she won’t be able to forget me.

“Would you like a message with the flowers, sir?” the florist asks.

A message for Ana?

What to say?

Come back. I’m sorry. I won’t hit you again.

The words pop unbidden into my head, making me frown.

“Um…something like, ‘Congratulations on your first day at work. I hope it went well.’  ” I spy the glider on my desk. “ ‘And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful. It has pride of place on my desk. Christian.’  ”

The florist reads it back to me.

Damn, it doesn’t express what I want to say to her at all.

“Will that be all, Mr. Grey?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir, and have a nice day.”

I look daggers at the phone. Nice day my ass.

“HEY, MAN, WHAT’S EATING you?” Claude gets up from the floor, where I’ve just knocked him flat on his lean, mean rear end. “You’re on fire this afternoon, Grey.” He rises slowly, with the grace of a big cat reassessing its prey. We are sparring alone in the basement gym at Grey House.

“I’m pissed off,” I hiss.

His expression is cool as we circle each other.

“Not a good idea to enter the ring if your thoughts are elsewhere,” Claude says, amused, but not taking his eyes off me.

“I’m finding it helps.”

“More on your left. Protect your right. Hand up, Grey.”

He swings and hits me on my shoulder, almost knocking me off balance.

“Concentrate, Grey. None of your boardroom bullshit in here. Or is it a girl? Some fine piece of ass finally cramping your cool.” He sneers, goading me. It works: I middle-kick to his side and drop-punch once, then twice, and he staggers back, dreadlocks flying.

“Mind your own fucking business, Bastille.”

“Whoa, we have found the source of the pain,” Claude crows in triumph. He swings suddenly, but I anticipate his action and block him, thrusting up with a punch and a swift kick. He jumps back this time, impressed.

“Whatever shit’s happening in your privileged little world, Grey, it’s working. Bring it on.”

Oh, he is going down. I lunge at him.

THE TRAFFIC IS LIGHT on the way home.

“Taylor, can we make a detour?”

“Where to, sir?”

“Can you drive past Miss Steele’s apartment?”

“Yes, sir.”

I’ve got used to this ache. It seems to be ever-present, like tinnitus. In meetings it’s muted and less obtrusive; it’s only when I’m alone with my thoughts that it flares up and rages inside me. How long does this last?

As we approach her apartment, my heartbeat spikes.

Perhaps I’ll see her.

The possibility is thrilling and unsettling. And I realize that I have thought of nothing but her since she left. Her absence is my constant companion.

“Drive slow,” I instruct Taylor as we near her building.

The lights are on.

She’s home!

I hope she’s alone, and missing me.

Has she received my flowers?

I want to check my phone to see if she’s sent me a message, but I can’t drag my gaze away from her apartment; I don’t want to miss seeing her. Is she well? Is she thinking about me? I wonder how her first day at work went.

“Again, sir?” Taylor asks, as we slowly cruise past, and the apartment disappears from view.

“No.” I exhale; I hadn’t realized I’d stopped breathing. As we head back to Escala I sift through my e-mails and texts, hoping for something from her…but there’s nothing. There’s a text from Elena.

You okay?

I ignore it.

IT’S QUIET IN MY apartment; I’d not really noticed before. Anastasia’s absence has accentuated the silence.

Taking a sip of cognac, I wander listlessly into my library. It’s ironic I never showed her this room, given her love of literature. I expect to find some solace in here because the room holds no memories of us. I survey all my books, neatly shelved and cataloged, and my eyes stray to the billiard table. Does she play billiards? I don’t suppose she does.

An image of her spread-eagled over the green baize springs to my mind. There may not be any memories in here, but my mind is more than capable, and more than willing, to create vivid erotic images of the lovely Miss Steele.

I can’t bear it.

I take another swig of cognac and head out of the room.

TUESDAY, JUNE 7, 2011

We’re fucking. Fucking hard. Against the bathroom door. She’s mine. I bury myself in her, again and again. Glorying in her: the feel of her, her smell, her taste. Fisting my hand in her hair, holding her in place. Holding her ass. Her legs wrapped around my waist. She cannot move; she’s pinioned by me. Wrapped around me like silk. Her hands pulling my hair. Oh yes. I’m home, she’s home. This is the place I want to be…inside her…

She. Is. Mine. Her muscles are tightening as she comes, clenching around me, her head back. Come for me! She cries out and I follow…oh yes, my sweet, sweet Anastasia. She smiles, sleepy, sated—and oh so sexy. She stands and gazes at me, that playful smile on her lips, then pushes me away and walks backward, saying nothing. I grab her and we’re in the playroom. I’m holding her down over the bench. I raise my arm to punish her, belt in hand…and she disappears. She’s by the door. Her face white, shocked and sad, and she’s silently drifting away…The door has disappeared, and she won’t stop. She holds out her hands in entreaty. Join me, she whispers, but she’s moving backward, getting fainter…disappearing before my eyes…vanishing…she’s gone. No! I shout. No! But I have no voice. I have nothing. I’m mute. Mute…again.

I wake, confused.

Shit—it’s a dream. Another vivid dream.

Different, though.

Hell! I’m a sticky mess. Briefly I feel that long-forgotten but familiar sense of fear and exhilaration—but Elena doesn’t own me now.

Jesus H. Christ, I’ve come for Team USA. This hasn’t happened to me since I was, what? Fifteen, sixteen?

I lie back in the darkness, disgusted with myself. I drag my T-shirt off and wipe myself down. There’s semen everywhere. I find myself smirking in the darkness, despite the dull ache of loss. The erotic dream was worth it. The rest of it…fucking hell. I turn over and go back to sleep.