“You’re very brusque with Taylor, in fact, with most people.”
“I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia.”
“You haven’t gotten to the point this evening. Nothing’s changed, Christian.”
“I have a proposition for you.”
“This started with a proposition.”
“A different proposition.”
The waiter returns, and Christian hands over his credit card without checking the bill. He gazes at me speculatively while the waiter swipes his card. Christian’s phone buzzes once, and he peers at it.
He has a proposition? What now? A couple of scenarios run through my mind: kidnap, working for him. No, nothing makes sense. Christian finishes paying.
“Come. Taylor’s outside.”
We stand and he takes my hand.
“I don’t want to lose you, Anastasia.” He kisses my knuckles tenderly, and the touch of his lips on my skin resonates throughout my body.
Outside the Audi is waiting. Christian opens my door. Climbing in, I sink into the plush leather. He heads to the driver’s side, Taylor steps out of the car and they talk briefly. This isn’t their usual protocol. I’m curious. What are they talking about? Moments later, they both climb in, and I glance at Christian who’s wearing his impassive face as he stares ahead.
I allow myself a brief moment to examine his godlike profile: straight nose, sculptured full lips, hair falling deliciously over his forehead. This divine man is surely not meant for me.
Soft music suddenly fills the rear of the car, an orchestral piece that I don’t know, and Taylor pulls into the light traffic, heading for the I-5 and Seattle.
Christian shifts to face me. “As I was saying, Anastasia, I have a proposition for you.”
I glance nervously at Taylor.
“Taylor can’t hear you,” Christian reassures me.
“How?”
“Taylor,” Christian calls. Taylor doesn’t respond. He calls again, still no response. Christian leans over and taps his shoulder. Taylor removes an ear bud I hadn’t noticed.
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you, Taylor. It’s okay; resume your listening.”
“Sir.”
“Happy now? He’s listening to his iPod. Puccini. Forget he’s here. I do.”
“Did you deliberately ask him to do that?”
“Yes.”
Oh. “Okay, your proposition?”
Christian looks suddenly determined and businesslike. Holy shit. We’re negotiating a deal. I listen attentively.
“Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?”
My mouth drops open. “Kinky fuckery?” I squeak.
“Kinky fuckery.”
“I can’t believe you said that.” I glance nervously at Taylor.
“Well, I did. Answer me,” he says calmly.
I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplication begging me.
“I like your kinky fuckery,” I whisper.
“That’s what I thought. So what don’t you like?”
Not being able to touch you. You enjoying my pain, the bite of the belt . . .
“The threat of cruel and unusual punishment.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you have all those canes and whips and stuff in your playroom, and they frighten the living daylights out of me. I don’t want you to use them on me.”
“Okay, so no whips or canes—or belts, for that matter,” he says sardonically.
I gaze at him puzzled. “Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?”
“Not as such, I’m just trying to understand you, get a clearer picture of what you do and don’t like.”
“Fundamentally, Christian, it’s your joy in inflicting pain on me that’s difficult for me to handle. And the idea that you’ll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line.”
“But it’s not arbitrary; the rules are written down.”
“I don’t want a set of rules.”
“None at all?”
“No rules.” I shake my head, but my heart is in my mouth. Where is he going with this?
“But you don’t mind if I spank you?”
“Spank me with what?”
“This.” He holds up his hand.
I squirm uncomfortably. “No, not really. Especially with those silver balls . . .” Thank heavens it’s dark, my face is flaming and my voice trails off as I recall that night. Yeah . . . I’d do that again.
He smirks at me. “Yes, that was fun.”
“More than fun,” I mutter.
“So you can deal with some pain.”
I shrug. “Yes, I suppose.” Oh, where is he going with this? My anxiety level has shot up several magnitudes on the Richter scale.
He strokes his chin, deep in thought. “Anastasia, I want to start again. Do the vanilla thing and then maybe, once you trust me more and I trust you to be honest and to communicate with me, we could move on and do some of the things that I like to do.”
I stare at him, stunned, with no thoughts in my head at all—like a computer crash. He gazes at me anxiously, but I can’t see