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The other dancers move outward like a ripple in a pond, clearing space around us, keeping a safe distance. Blond Giant scrambles to his feet as Elliot joins us.

Oh no! Kate is with me, gaping at all of us. Elliot grasps Christian’s arm as Ethan appears, too.

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“Take it easy, okay? Didn’t mean any harm.” Blond Giant holds his hands up in defeat, beating a hasty retreat. Christian’s eyes follow him off the dance floor.

He does not look at me.

The song changes from the explicit lyrics of “Sexy Bitch” to a pulsing techno dance number where a woman sings with an impassioned voice. Elliot looks down at me, then across at Christian, and releasing Christian, pulls Kate into a dance. I put my arms around Christian’s neck until he finally makes eye contact, his eyes still blazing—primal and feral. A glimpse of a brawling adolescent. Holy shit.

He scrutinizes my face. “Are you okay?” he asks finally.

“Yes.” I rub my palm, trying to dispel the sting, and bring my hands down to his chest. My hand is throbbing. I have never slapped anyone before. What possessed me? Touching me wasn’t the worst crime against humanity. Was it?

Yet deep down I know why I hit him. It’s because I instinctively knew how Christian would react seeing some stranger pawing me. I knew he’d lose his precious self-control. And the thought that some stupid nobody could derail my husband, my love, well, it makes me mad. Really mad.

“Do you want to sit down?” Christian asks over the pulsing beat.

Oh, come back to me, please.

“No. Dance with me.”

He looks at me impassively, saying nothing.

Touch me . . . the woman sings.

“Dance with me.” He’s still mad. “Dance. Christian, please.” I take his hands.

Christian glares after the guy, but I start to move against him, weaving myself around him.

The throng of dancers has circled us once more, although there’s now a two-foot exclusion zone around us.

“You hit him?” Christian asks, standing stock-still. I take his fisted hands.

“Of course I did. I thought it was you, but his hands were hairier. Please dance with me.”

As Christian gazes at me, the fire in his eyes slowly changes, evolves into something else, something darker, something hotter. Suddenly, he grabs my wrists and pulls me flush against him, pinning my hands behind my back.

“You wanna dance? Let’s dance,” he growls close to my ear, and as he rolls his hips around into me, I can do nothing but follow, his hands holding mine against my backside.

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Oh . . . Christian can move, really move. He keeps me close, not letting me go, but his hands gradually relax on mine, freeing me. My hands creep around, up his arms, feeling his bunched muscles through his jacket, up to his shoulders. He presses me against him, and I follow his moves as he slowly, sensually dances with me in time to the pulsing beat of the club music.

The moment he grabs my hand and spins me first one way, then the other, I know he’s back with me. I grin. He grins.

We dance together and it’s liberating—fun. His anger forgotten, or suppressed, he whirls me around with consummate skill in our small space on the dance floor, never letting go. He makes me graceful, that’s his skill. He makes me sexy, because that’s what he is. He makes me feel loved, because in spite of his fifty shades, he has a wealth of love to give. Watching him now, enjoying himself . . . one could be forgiven for thinking he doesn’t have a care in the world.

But I know his love is clouded with issues of overprotectiveness and control, but it doesn’t make me love him any less.

I am breathless when the song morphs to another.

“Can we sit?” I gasp.

“Sure.” He leads me off the dance floor.

“You’ve made me rather hot and sweaty,” I whisper as we return to the table.

He pulls me into his arms. “I like you hot and sweaty. Though I prefer to make you hot and sweaty in private,” he purrs, and a lascivious smile tugs at his lips.

As I sit, it’s as if the incident on the dance floor never happened. I’m vaguely surprised we haven’t been thrown out. I glance around the bar. No one is looking at us, and I can’t see Blond Giant. Maybe he left, or maybe he’s been thrown out.

Kate and Elliot are being indecent on the dance floor, Ethan and Mia less so. I take another sip of champagne.

“Here.” Christian puts another glass of water before me and regards me intently. His expression is expectant— drink it. Drink it now.

I do as I’m told. Besides, I’m thirsty.

He lifts a bottle of Peroni from the ice bucket on the table and takes a long drink.

“What if there had been press here?” I ask.

Christian knows immediately that I’m referring to him knocking Blond Giant on his ass.

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“I have expensive lawyers,” he says coolly, all at once arrogance personified.

I frown at him. “But you’re not above the law, Christian. I did have the situation under control.”

His eyes frost. “No one touches what’s mine,” he says with chilling finality, as if I’m missing the obvious.

Oh . . . I take another sip of my champagne. All of a sudden I feel overwhelmed. The music is loud, pounding, my head and feet are aching, and I feel woozy.He grasps my hand. “Come, let’s go. I want to get you home,” he says.

Kate and Elliot join us.

“You going?” Kate asks and her voice is hopeful.

“Yes,” Christian says.

“Good, we’ll come with you.”

As we wait at the coat check for Christian to retrieve my trench coat, Kate quizzes me.

“What happened with that guy on the dance floor?”

“He was feeling me up.”

“I opened my eyes and you’d hit him.”

I shrug. “Well, I knew Christian would go thermonuclear, and that could potentially ruin your evening.” I haven’t really processed how I feel about Christian’s behavior. I was worried that it would be worse.

“Our evening,” she clarifies. “He is rather hot-headed, isn’t he?” Kate adds dryly, staring at Christian as he collects my coat.

I snort and smile. “You could say that.”

“I think you handle him well.”

“Handle?” I frown. Do I handle Christian?

“Here.” Christian holds my coat open for me so that I can put it on.

“Wake up, Ana.” Christian is shaking me gently. We’ve arrived back at the house.

Reluctantly I open my eyes and stagger from the minivan. Kate and Elliot have disappeared, and Taylor is standing patiently beside the vehicle.

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“Do I need to carry you?” Christian asks.

I shake my head.

“I’ll fetch Miss Grey and Mr. Kavanagh,” Taylor says.

Christian nods then leads me to the front door. My feet are throbbing, and I stumble after him. At the front door he bends down, grasps my ankle, and gently pries off first one shoe, then the other. Oh, the relief. He straightens and gazes down at me, holding my Manolos.

“Better?” he asks, amused.

I nod.

“I had delightful visions of these around my ears,” he murmurs, staring down wistfully at my shoes. He shakes his head and, taking my hand once more, leads me through the darkened house, and up the stairs to our bedroom.

“You’re wrecked, aren’t you?” he says softly, staring down at me.

I nod. He starts to unbuckle the belt on my trench coat.

“I’ll do it,” I mutter, making a halfhearted attempt to brush him off.

“Let me.”

I sigh. I had no idea I was this tired.

“It’s the altitude. You’re not used to it. And the drinking, of course.” He smirks, divests me of my coat, and throws it on one of the bedroom chairs. Taking my hand, he leads me into the bathroom. Why are we going in here?