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I turn away from him listening acutely—my ears suddenly sensitive to the slightest sound. He’s good at this—building my expectations, stoking my desire . . . making me wait. I hear him put my shoes down and, I think, my clothes on the chest, followed by the telltale clatter of his shoes as they drop to the floor, one at a time. Hmm . . . love barefoot Christian. A moment later, I hear him pull open a drawer.

Toys! Oh, I love, love, love this anticipation. The drawer closes and my breathing spikes. How can the sound of a drawer render me a quivering mess? It makes no sense. The subtle hiss of the sound system coming to life tells me it’s 115/551

going to be a musical interlude. A lone piano starts, muted and soft, and mournful chords fill the room. It’s not a tune I know. The piano is joined by an electric guitar. What is this? A man’s voice speaks and I can just make out the words, something about not being frightened of dying.

Christian pads leisurely toward me, his bare feet slapping on the wooden floor. I sense him behind me as a woman starts to sing . . . wail . . . sing?

“Rough, you say, Mrs. Grey?” he breathes in my left ear.

“Hmm.”

“You must tell me to stop if it’s too much. If you say stop, I will stop immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I need your promise.”

I inhale sharply. Shit, what is he going to do? “I promise,” I murmur breathless, recalling his words from earlier: I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m more than happy to play.

“Good girl.” Leaning down, he plants a kiss on my naked shoulder then hooks a finger beneath my bra strap and traces a line across my back beneath the strap. I want to moan. How does he make the slightest touch so erotic?

“Take it off,” he whispers at my ear, and hurriedly I oblige and let my bra fall to the floor.

His hands skim down my back, and he hooks both of his thumbs into my panties and slides them down my legs.

“Step,” he orders. Once more I do as I’m told, stepping out of my panties. He plants a kiss on my backside and stands.

“I am going to blindfold you so that everything will be more intense.” He slips an airline eye mask over my eyes, and my world is plunged into the darkness. The woman singing moans incoherently . . . a haunting, heartfelt melody.

“Bend down and lie flat on the table.” His words are softly spoken. “Now.” Without hesitation, I bend over the side of the table and rest my torso on the highly polished wood, my face flush against the hard surface. It’s cool against my skin and it smells vaguely of beeswax with a citrus tang.

“Stretch your arms up and hold on to the edge.” Okay . . . Reaching forward, I clutch the far edge of the table. It’s quite wide, so my arms are fully extended.

“If you let go, I will spank you. Do you understand?” 116/551

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to spank you, Anastasia?”

Everything south of my waist tightens deliciously. I realize I’ve wanted this since he threatened me during lunch, and neither the car chase nor our subsequent intimate encounter has sated this need.

“Yes.” My voice is a hoarse whisper.

“Why?”

Oh . . . do I have to have a reason? Jeez. I shrug.

“Tell me,” he coaxes.

“Um . . .”

And from out of nowhere he smacks me hard.

“Ah!” I cry out.

“Hush now.”

He gently rubs my behind where he’s hit me. Then he leans over me, his hips digging into my backside, plants a kiss between my shoulder blades and trails kisses across my back. He’s taken his shirt off, so his chest hair tickles my back, and his erection presses against me through the rough fabric of his jeans.

“Open your legs,” he orders.

I move my legs apart.

“Wider.”

I groan and spread my legs wider.

“Good girl,” he breathes. He traces his finger down my back, along the crack between my buttocks, and over my anus, which shrinks at his touch.

“We’re going to have with some fun with this,” he whispers.

Fuck!

His finger continues down over my perineum and slowly slides into me.

“I see you’re very wet, Anastasia. From earlier or from now?” I groan and he eases his finger in and out of me, over and over. I push back on his hand, relishing the intrusion.

“Oh, Ana, I think it’s both. I think you love being here, like this. Mine.” I do—oh, I do. He withdraws his finger and smacks me hard once more.

“Tell me,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and urgent.

“Yes, I do,” I whimper.

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He smacks me hard once more so I cry out, then sticks two fingers inside me.

He withdraws them immediately, spreading the moisture up over and around my anus.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, breathless. Oh my . . . is he going to fuck my ass?

“It’s not what you think,” he murmurs reassuringly. “I told you, one step at time with this, baby.” I hear the quiet spurt of some liquid, presumably from a tube, then his fingers are massaging me there again. Lubricating me . . . there! I squirm as my fear collides with my excitement of the unknown. He smacks me once more, lower, so he hits my sex. I groan. It feels . . . so good.

“Keep still,” he says. “And don’t let go.”

“Ah.”

“This is lube.” He spreads some more on me. I try not to wriggle beneath him, but my heart is pounding, my pulse haywire, as desire and anxiety pump through me.

“I have wanted to do this to you for some time now, Ana.” I groan. And I feel something cool, metallically cool, run down my spine.

“I have a small present for you here,” Christian whispers.

An image from our show-and-tell springs to mind. Holy cow . A butt plug.

Christian runs it down the parting between my buttocks.

Oh my.

“I am going to push this inside you, very slowly.” I gasp, anticipation and anxiety charging through me.

“Will it hurt?”

“No, baby. It’s small. Once it’s inside you, I’m going to fuck you real hard.” I practically convulse. Bending over me, he kisses me once more between my shoulder blades.

“Ready?” he whispers.

Ready? Am I ready for this?

“Yes,” I mutter quietly, my mouth dry. He runs another finger down past my ass and perineum and slips it inside me. Fuck, it’s his thumb. He cups my sex and his fingers gently caress my clitoris. I moan . . . it feels . . . good. And gently, while his fingers and thumb work their magic, he pushes the cold plug slowly into me.

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“Ah!” I groan loudly at the unfamiliar sensation, my muscles protesting at the intrusion. He circles his thumb inside me and pushes the plug harder, and it slips in easily, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m so turned on or if he’s distracted me with his expert fingers, but my body seems to accept it. It’s heavy . . . and strange . . . there!

“Oh, baby.”

And I can feel it . . . where his thumb swirls inside me . . . and the plug presses against . . . oh, ah . . . He slowly twists the plug, eliciting a long drawn-out moan from me.

“Christian,” I mumble, his name a garbled mantra, as I adjust to the sensation.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. He runs his free hand down my side until it reaches my hip. Slowly he withdraws his thumb, and I hear the telltale sound of his zipper opening. Grasping my other hip, he pulls me back and parts my legs further, his foot pushing against mine. “Don’t let go of the table, Ana,” he warns.

“No,” I gasp.

“Something rough? Tell me if I’m too rough. Understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper, and he slams into me and pulls me onto him at the same time, jolting the plug forward, deeper . . .