"What? Really?" She glances around the bar, too.

"Ana, what is it? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I glance nervously around the bar but cannot see him.

I have neglected to mention Christian's stalker tendencies to my mom.

"It's Christian, he's here."

He arrives at our table, gazing at me warily. He's dressed in customary white linen shirt and jeans.

I see him. My heart leaps, beginning a juddering thumping beat as he makes his way toward us. He's really here -- for me. My inner goddess leaps up cheering from her chaise longue. Moving smoothly through the crowd, his hair glints burnished copper and red under the recessed halogens. His bright gray eyes are shining with -- anger? Tension? His mouth is set in a grim line, jaw tense. Oh holy shit… no. I am so mad at him right now, and here he is. How can I be angry with him in front of my mother?

"Hi," he replies, and leaning down, he kisses my cheek, taking me by surprise.

"Hi," I squeak, unable to hide my shock and awe at seeing him here in the flesh.

He turns to greet my mom. "Mrs. Adams, I am delighted to meet you."

He smiles knowingly at her, his gray eyes twinkling. I narrow my eyes at them both.

"Christian, this is my mother, Carla." My ingrained manners take over.

"What are you doing here?" My question sounds more brittle than I mean, and his smile disappears, his expression now guarded. I am thrilled to see him, but completely thrown off balance, my anger about Mrs. Robinson simmering through my veins. I don't know if I want to shout at him or throw myself into his arms -- but I don't think he'd like either -- and I want to know how long he has been watching us. I'm also a little anxious about the e-mail I just sent him.

How does he know her name? He gives her the heart-stopping, Christian Grey patented, full-blown-no-prisoners-taken smile. She doesn't have a hope. My mother's lower jaw practically hits the table. Jeez, get a grip Mom. She takes his proffered hand and they shake. My mother hasn't replied. Oh, complete dumbfounded speechlessness is genetic -- I had no idea.

"Christian," she manages finally, breathlessly.

"I came to see you, of course." He gazes down at me impassively. Oh, what is he thinking? "I'm staying in this hotel."

"You're staying here?" I sound like a sophomore on amphetamines, too high-pitched even for my own ears.

Crap -- is he mad? Maybe the Mrs. Robinson comments? Or the fact that I am on my third, soon to be fourth, Cosmo?

My mother is glancing anxiously at the two of us. "Won't you join us for a drink, Christian?" She waves to the waiter who is at her side in a nanosecond.

"I'll have a gin and tonic," Christian says. "Hendricks if you have it or Bombay Sapphire. Cucumber with the Hendricks, lime with the Bombay."

"Well, yesterday you said you wished I was here." He pauses trying to gauge my reaction. "We aim to please, Miss Steele." His voice is quiet with no trace of humor.

Holy hell… only Christian could make a meal out of ordering a drink.

"Please pull up a chair, Christian."

"And two more Cosmos, please," I add, looking anxiously at Christian. I am drinking with my mother -- no way can he be angry about that.

Christian pulls a nearby chair over and sits gracefully down beside me.

"Thank you, Mrs. Adams."

"So you just happen to be staying in the hotel where we're drinking?" I ask, trying hard to keep my tone light. "Or, you just happen to be drinking in the hotel where I'm staying," Christian replies. "I just finished dinner, came in here, and saw you. I was distracted thinking about your most recent e-mail, and I glance up and there you are. Quite a coincidence, eh?" He cocks his head to one side, and I see a trace of a smile. Thank heavens -- we may be able to save the evening after all.

"Did you buy that top?" He nods at my brand new green silk camisole. "The color suits you. And you've caught some sun. You look lovely."

I flush, speechless at his compliment.

"Well, I was going to pay you a visit tomorrow. But here you are."

He reaches over, takes my hand, and squeezes it gently, running his thumb across my knuckles to and fro… and I feel the familiar pull. The electric charge zapping beneath my skin under the gentle pressure from his thumb, firing into my bloodstream and pulsing around my body, heating everything in its path. It's been over two days since I saw him. Oh my… I want him. My breath hitches. I blink at him, smiling shyly, and see a smile play on his beautiful, sculptured lips.

"My mother and I were shopping this morning and on the beach this afternoon. We decided on a few cocktails this evening," I mutter, feeling that I owe him some sort of explanation.

I glance quickly at Mom who is staring at Christian… yes staring! Stop it, Mom. As if he's some exotic creature, never seen before. I mean, I know I've never had a boyfriend, and Christian only qualifies as such for ease of reference -- but is it so unbelievable that I could attract a man? This man? Yes, frankly -- look at him -- my subconscious snaps. Oh, shut up! Who invited you to the party? I scowl at my mom -- but she doesn't seem to notice.

"I don't want to interrupt the time you have with your mother. I'll have a quick drink and then retire. I have work to do," he states earnestly.

"Really?" He raises an eyebrow at me, an amused expression on his face, and I flush again.

"Christian, it's lovely to meet you finally," Mom interjects, finally finding her voice. "Ana has spoken very fondly of you."

"I thought I'd surprise you. But as ever, Anastasia, you surprise me by being here."

He smiles at her.

The waiter arrives with our drinks.

"Hendricks, sir," he says with a triumphant flourish.

"Thank you," Christian murmurs in acknowledgement.

"Until Friday, Mrs. Adams."

I sip my latest Cosmo nervously.

Jeez, he wants to do this now?

"Excellent. If you two will excuse me, I need to visit the powder room."

Mom… you've just been. I look at her desperately as she stands and walks off, leaving us alone together.

Christian blanches. "That's very judgmental. It wasn't like that," he whispers, shocked. He releases my hand.

"Will you have dinner with us tomorrow evening? And please, call me Carla."

"So, you're mad at me for having dinner with an old friend." Christian turns his burning, wary gaze to me, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing each knuckle gently.

"Yes," I murmur as my heated blood courses through me.

"I'd be delighted to, Carla."

"Our sexual relationship was over long ago, Anastasia," he whispers. "I don't want anyone but you. Haven't you worked that out yet?"

I blink at him. "I think of her as a child molester, Christian." I hold my breath waiting for his reaction.

"How long are you in Georgia, Christian?" Mom asks.

Judgmental?

He frowns at me, bewildered. I continue.

"Oh, how was it then?" I ask. The Cosmos are making me brave.

"She took advantage of a vulnerable fifteen-year-old boy. If you had been a fifteen-year-old girl and Mrs. Robinson was a Mr. Robinson, tempting you into a BDSM lifestyle, that would have been okay? If it was Mia, say?"

I glare at him.

"Okay, it didn't feel like that to me," he continues quietly. "She was a force for good. What I needed."

"Anastasia, your mother will be back shortly. I'm not comfortable talking about this now. Later, maybe. If you don't want me here, I have a plane on stand-by at Hilton Head. I can go."

He's angry with me… no.

"I don't understand." It's my turn to look bewildered.

He gasps and scowls at me. "Ana, it wasn't like that."

"No -- don't go. Please. I'm thrilled you're here. I'm just trying to make you understand. I'm angry that as soon as I left, you had dinner with her. Think about how you are when I get anywhere near José. José is a good friend. I have never had a sexual relationship with him. Whereas you and her…" I trail off, unwilling to take that thought further.

"Why did your relationship finish?"

"Can we talk about this some other time -- somewhere more private?" he growls.

Holy shit!

"Yes, and angry about what she did to you."

"I don't think of her that way. I never have. Now that's enough!" he snaps.

"Yes, we're business partners. The sex is over between us. It has been for years."

His mouth narrows and his eyes gleam. "Her husband found out."

"I don't think you'll ever convince me that she's not some kind of pedophile."

"Anastasia, she helped me. That's all I'll say about that. And as for your jealousy, put yourself in my shoes. I haven't had to justify my actions to anyone in the last seven years. Not one person. I do as I wish, Anastasia. I like my autonomy. I didn't go and see Mrs. Robinson to upset you. I went because every now and then we have dinner. She's a friend and a business partner."

He gazes at me, assessing my expression.

"You're jealous?" He stares at me, dumbfounded, and his eyes soften slightly, warming.

Business partner? Holy crap. This is news.

"Did you love her?"

"Beautiful name for a beautiful girl," Christian murmurs, shaking her outstretched hands, and she actually simpers.

"Fine, Mom."

Christian sips his drink, watching me closely, his expression guarded. What is he thinking? Did he love her? I think if he did, I will lose it, big time.

"Well ladies, I shall leave you to your evening."

"Oh, it's so nice to hear someone use your full name."

"How are you two getting on?" My mother has returned, unseen by either of us.

Damned control-freak bastard. My anger returns in full force. I slump into my chair and turn to face my mother.

I plaster a fake smile on my face as both Christian and I lean back hastily… guiltily. She gazes at me.

"Please put these drinks on my tab, room number 612. I'll call on you in the morning, Anastasia. Until tomorrow, Carla."

Oh Mom, -- et tu, Bruté? I stand, gazing up at him, imploring him to answer my question, and he kisses my cheek chastely.

No… no… he can't leave me hanging like this.

"Laters, baby," he whispers in my ear. Then he's gone.

"I can't. I came here to see you."

"Well, strike me down with a feather, Ana. He's a catch. I don't know what's going on between you two though. I think you need to talk to each other. Phew -- the UST in here, it's unbearable." She fans herself theatrically.

"MOM!"

"Go talk to him."

I flush. I haven't told her about his private plane.

"Ana, you came here because you're confused about that boy. It's obvious you two are crazy about each other. You need to talk to him. He's just flown three-thousand-odd miles to see you, for heaven's sake. And you know how awful it is to fly."

"He has his own plane," I mumble, embarrassed, and it's only two and a half thousand miles, Mom.

Why am I embarrassed? Her eyebrows shoot up.

"Wow," she mutters. "Ana, there's something going on between you two. I've been trying to fathom it since you arrived here. But the only way you are going to sort the problem, whatever it is, is to talk it through with him. You can do all the thinking you like -- but until you actually talk, you're not going to get anywhere."

"What?" she snaps at me.

"No!"

"I know darling. And he with you."

I gape at her and tears prick the corner of my eyes.

"Ana, darling. Don't cry."

I flush stars and stripes red. Jeez, Mom.

"Yes, Ana. Hell -- what do you need? A neon sign flashing on his forehead?"

"I think I'm in love with him," I mutter.

"Ana, honey, you've always had a tendency to over-analyze everything. Go with your gut. What does that tell you, sweetheart?"

I squirm under her gaze. I want to go and I don't.

"I don't care how rich you are, you don't drop everything and get in your private plane to cross a whole continent just for afternoon tea. Go to him! This is a beautiful location, very romantic. It's also neutral territory."

"I don't think he loves me."

"Darling, don't feel you have to come back with me. I want you happy -- and right now I think the key to your happiness is upstairs in room 612. If you need to come home later, the key is under the yucca plant on the front porch. If you stay -- well… you're a big girl now. Just be safe."

I stare at my fingers.

I frown at my mother.

I knock timidly on room 612 and wait. Christian opens the door. He's on his cell. He blinks at me in complete surprise, then holds the door open wide and beckons me into his room.

"That's my girl, Ana." She grins.

"All the redundancy packages concluded?… And the cost?…" Christian whistles between his teeth. "Sheesh… that was one expensive mistake… And Lucas?…"

I glance around the room. He's in a suite, like the one at the Heathman. The furnishings here are ultramodern, very now. All muted dark purples and golds with bronze starbursts on the walls. Christian walks over to a dark wood unit and pulls open a door to reveal a minibar. He indicates that I should help myself, then wanders into the bedroom. I assume it's so I can no longer hear his conversation. I shrug. He didn't stop his call when I entered his study that time. I hear water running… he's filling a bath. I help myself to an orange juice. He ambles back into the room.

"Let's finish our Cosmos first."

"Have Andrea send me the schematics. Barney said he'd cracked the problem…" Christian laughs. "No, Friday… There's a plot of land here that I'm interested in… Yeah, get Bill to call… No, tomorrow… I want to see what Georgia will offer if we move in." Christian doesn't take his eyes off me. Handing me a glass, he points to an ice bucket.

"You didn't answer my question," I murmur.

"You're quite the green-eyed goddess, Anastasia. Who would have thought?"

He takes a deep breath.

"I've just told you."

He folds his arms and leans against the wall, and a small smile plays upon his lips.

Okay… my turn to talk.

"If their incentives are attractive enough… I think we should consider it, though I'm not sure about the damned heat here… I agree Detroit has its advantages, too, and it's cooler…" His face darkens momentarily. Why? "Get Bill to call. Tomorrow… Not too early." He hangs up and stares at me, his face unreadable, and the silence stretches between us.

"No. I didn't love her." He frowns at me, amused yet puzzled.

"What are you doing here, Anastasia?"

"No. I didn't," he says quietly, his gray eyes wide and cautious.

"No, you didn't answer my question or no, you didn't love her?"

I can't believe I'm holding my breath. I sag like an old cloth sack as I release it. Well, thank heavens for that. How would I feel if he actually loved the witch?

"Well, now that you do, are you coming or going?"

"Oh, I think you would, and I think you do -- often."

"I really did want to know," I whisper as a defense.

His BlackBerry buzzes, distracting us both, and he switches it off without glancing to see who it is. My breath hitches. I know where this is going… but we're supposed to talk. He takes a step toward me wearing his sexy predatory look.

"I want you, Anastasia. Now. And you want me. That's why you're here."

"Are you making fun of me, Mr. Grey?"

"Please stop biting your lip. You're in my room, I haven't set eyes on you for nearly three days, and I've flown a long way to see you." His tone has changed to soft, sensual.

"I wouldn't dare." He shakes his head solemnly, but he has a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Oh, I hope so." He gazes down at me. "You were so mad at me," he breathes.

He smirks as I give him back the words he's said to me before. His eyes darken.

"Coming," I murmur, staring anxiously up at him.

I flush as he comes to a halt in front of me.

"Are you bleeding?" He continues to kiss me.

"No." I flush. Jeez…

He stops and looks down at me.

"Yes," I whisper, embarrassed.

Holy Fuck. Does nothing slip by him?

He runs the tips of fingers down my cheek. Oh my, his proximity, his delicious Christian smell. We're supposed to be talking, but my heart is pounding, my blood singing as it courses through my body, desire pooling, unfurling… everywhere. Christian bends and runs his nose along my shoulder and up to the base of my ear, his fingers slipping into my hair.

"There's so much I want to say."

"Later."

"I want you," he breathes.

"Did you take your pill?"

"Yes."

"Yes." How mortifying is this?

He plants a soft kiss under my earlobe while his fingers tighten in my hair. Pulling my head back, he exposes my throat to his lips. His teeth skim my chin, and he kisses my throat.

"Do you have cramps?"

"We should talk," I whisper.

"I don't remember anyone but my family ever being mad at me. I like it."

I moan and reach up and grasp his arms.

"Me, too."

Oh?

"Let's go have a bath."

He takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom. It's dominated by a super-king-size bed with elaborate drapes. But we don't stop there. He takes me into the bathroom which is two rooms, all aquamarines and white limestone. It's huge. In the second room a sunken bath, big enough for four people with stone steps that lead into it is slowly filling with water. Steam rises gently above the foam, and I notice a stone seat all the way round. Candles flicker to the side. Wow… he's done all this while on the phone.

I blink at him, fish into my jeans pocket, and pull out a hair elastic.

"Do you have a hair tie?"

"Put your hair up," he orders softly. I do as he asks.

It's warm and sultry beside the bath and my camisole starts to stick. He leans over and shuts off the faucet. Leading me back into the first part of the bathroom, he stands behind me as we face the wall-sized mirror above the two glass sinks.

"Lift up your arms," he breathes. I do as I'm told, and he lifts my camisole over my head so that I'm topless standing in front of him. Not taking his eyes off mine, he reaches around and undoes the top button on my jeans and the zipper.

Grasping the edge of the sink, I do just that. I am now naked, staring at myself, and he's kneeling behind me. He kisses and then softly bites my behind, making me gasp. He stands and stares at me once more in the mirror. I try hard to stay still, ignoring my natural inclination to cover myself. He splays his hand across my belly, the span of his hand almost reaching from hip to hip.

"I'm going to have you in the bathroom, Anastasia."

Leaning down, he kisses my neck. I move my head to one side and give him easier access. Hooking his thumbs into my jeans, he slowly slides them down my legs, sinking down behind me as he pulls them and my panties to the floor.

"Look at you. You are so beautiful," he murmurs. "See how you feel." He clasps both my hands in his, his palms against the backs of my hands, his fingers in between mine so 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 toward 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.

"Step out of your jeans."

"Look at you glow, Anastasia," he whispers as he trails kisses and soft bites along my shoulder. I groan. Suddenly he lets go.

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 arousing 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, widening 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.

"Carry on," he orders, and stands back watching me.

"Oh yes… please," I breathe.

"You'd rather I do this?" His gray gaze scorches mine in the mirror.

I rub myself. No. I want 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.

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 erection 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 me in place.

"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.

His breathing is ragged, matching mine.

He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string -- what?! -- and 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, feeling 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.

"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 playroom, so I'm bending down.

"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.

"I'm bleeding," I murmur.

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.

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 wondering if I will ever get enough of him?

"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.

I remember that I have my period.

He tenses slightly. "Does it bother you?" he asks softly.

"Doesn't bother me," he breathes.

"I noticed." I can't keep the dryness out of my voice.

He smirks. "Good. Let's have a bath."

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 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 overreacting -- wild hope blossoms in my chest, hope that I am wrong.

"Your scars," I whisper. "They're not from chicken pox."

"What is it?" Christian's face is wide-eyed with alarm.

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.

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

I flush, chastened, and stare down at my fingers, and I know, I know that someone stubbed cigarettes out on Christian. I feel sick.

He's standing there, naked, gloriously naked, with my blood on him… and we're finally 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.

"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."

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

"I would probably have gone the way of my birth mother, had it not been for Mrs. Robinson."

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. Christian and I stare at each other, but I am not backing down. Eventually, after what seems like a millennium, he shakes his head, and he smirks.

"She loved me in a way I found… acceptable," he adds with a shrug.

Oh! I blink at him. Crack addict or whore? Possibly both?

What the hell does that mean?

"Yes." He stares intently at me. "She distracted me from the destructive path I found myself following. It's very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you're not perfect."

"Acceptable?" I whisper.

Oh no. My mouth dries as I digest his words. He gazes as me, his expression unfathomable. He's not going to tell me any more. How frustrating. Inside, I'm reeling -- he sounds so full of self-loathing. And Mrs. Robinson loved him. Holy shit… does she still? I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach.

"I do trust you, but I do want to know you better, and whenever I try to talk to you, you distract me. There's so much I want to know."

"Does she still love you?"

"I don't think so, not like that." He frowns as if he hasn't thought about the idea. "I keep telling you it was a long time ago. It's in the past. I couldn't change it even if I wanted to, which I don't. She saved me from myself." He's exasperated and runs a wet hand through his hair. "I've never discussed this with anyone." He pauses. "Except Dr. Flynn, of course. And the only reason I'm talking about this now, to you, is because I want you to trust me."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Anastasia. What do you want to know? What do I have to do?" His eyes blaze, and though he doesn't raise his voice, I know he's trying to rein in his temper.

I glance quickly down at my hands, clear beneath the water as the bubbles have started to disperse.

"I'm just trying to understand; you're such an enigma. Unlike anyone I've met before. I'm glad you're telling me what I want to know."

"Please don't be angry with me," I whisper.

"I am not angry with you, Anastasia. I'm just not used to this kind of talking -- this probing. I only have this with Dr. Flynn and with-" He stops and frowns.

"With her. Mrs. Robinson. You talk to her?" I prompt, trying to rein in my own temper.

He shifts in the bath so that he's facing me, causing the water to lap over the sides onto the floor. He places his arm around my shoulders, resting on the ledge of the bath.

Jeez -- maybe it's the Cosmopolitans making me brave, but suddenly I cannot bear the distance between us. I move through the water to his side and lean against him so we're touching, skin to skin. He tenses and eyes me warily, as if I might bite. Well, that's a turnaround. My inner goddess gazes at him in quiet, surprised speculation.

"Yes, I do."

"What about?"

"Anastasia -- enough," he snaps back sternly, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes." Gray eyes watch me carefully.

"I've never met anyone like you, Anastasia."

I bite my bottom lip, trying to curb the sudden rush of anger that surfaces.

"Why do you talk about me?" I endeavor not to sound whiney and petulant, but I don't succeed. I know I should stop. I am pushing him too hard. My subconscious has her Edvard Munch face on again.

I'm skating on thin ice, and I'm heading into danger. "Or I'll put you across my knee. I have no sexual or romantic interest in her whatsoever. She's a dear, valued friend and a business partner. That's all. We have a past, a shared history, which was monumentally beneficial for me, though it fucked up her marriage -- but that side of our relationship is over."

"What does that mean? Anyone who just didn't automatically sign your paperwork, no questions asked?"

"And you take advice from Mrs. Pedo?" I snap. The hold on my temper is more tentative than I thought.

He shakes his head. "I need advice."

"Persistent aren't you?" he murmurs, a trace of irritation in his voice. "Life, the universe -- business. Anastasia, Mrs. R and I go way back. We can discuss anything."

"Me?" I whisper.

And I know that's it. I cannot ask him any further questions about her because he will lose it with me.

"Good." He gives me a genuine, relieved smile. "I'm pleased I'm here, too -- in spite of your interrogation. So, while it's acceptable to grill me, you think you can claim some kind of diplomatic immunity just because I've flown all this way to see you? I'm not buying it, Miss Steele. I want to know how you feel."

"Are you done?" he snaps.

"No," he growls. "I've told you this."

"And your parents never found out?"

"For now."

"I was going to respond. But now you're here."

"Right -- my turn," he mutters, and his glare turns steely, speculative. "You haven't responded to my e-mail."

"You'd rather I wasn't?" he breathes, his expression impassive again.

He takes a deep breath and visibly relaxes in front of me, like a great weight is lifted from his shoulders or something.

I flush. Oh, I hate the spotlight on me, and it seems he's going to get angry every time we have a discussion. I shake my head. Perhaps that's how he feels about my questions; he's not used to being challenged. The thought is revelatory, distracting, and unnerving.

"No, I'm pleased," I murmur.

Jeez -- another part I just can't understand. She was married as well. How did they get away with it for so long?

"I told you. I am pleased you're here. Thank you for coming all this way," I say feebly.

"No. I think I want some answers first before we do any more."

Oh no…

I sigh, resigned. "What do you want to know?"

More? There's that word again. And he wants answers… answers to what? I don't have a secret past -- I don't have a harrowing childhood. What could he possibly want to know about me that he doesn't already know?

"It's my pleasure, Miss Steele." His eyes shine as he leans down and kisses me gently. I feel myself responding automatically. The water is still warm, the bathroom still steamy. He stops and pulls back, gazing down at me.

"I don't think I can do it for an extended period of time. A whole weekend being someone I'm not." I flush and stare at my hands.

He tips my chin up, and he's smirking at me, amused.

"Well, how you feel about our would-be arrangement, for starters."

I blink at him. Truth or dare time -- my subconscious and inner goddess glance nervously at one another. Hell, let's go for truth.

"Are you laughing at me?"

I stare at him, shocked, then I burst out laughing -- and he joins me.

"Was it that bad when I spanked you the first time?"

"You're not a great submissive," he breathes as he holds my chin, his eyes dancing with humor.

He leans down and kisses me softly, briefly.

And part of me feels slightly affronted and challenged.

He snorts. "Maybe. Perhaps I should be stricter with you." He cocks his head to one side and gives me an artful smile.

I swallow. Jeez, no. But at the same time, my muscles clench deliciously deep inside. It is his way of showing that he cares. Perhaps the only way he can show he cares -- I realize that. He's staring at me, gauging my reaction.

"No, I don't think you could either."

"Maybe I don't have a good teacher."

"Yes, but in a good way," he says with a small smile.

I gaze back at him, blinking. Was it that bad? I remember feeling confused by my reaction. It hurt, but not that much in retrospect. He's said over and over again it's more in my head. And the second time… Well, that was good… hot.

"So it's a form of therapy?"

"But at what personal cost? I'm tied up in knots here."

"But, here's the thing -- one moment you say 'don't defy me', the next you say you like to be challenged. That's a very fine line to tread successfully."

"You can always safe-word, Anastasia. Don't forget that. And, as long as you follow the rules, which fulfill a deep need in me for control and to keep you safe, then perhaps we can find a way forward."

"I remember feeling the same. Takes a while to get your head around it."

This I can understand. This will help.

"I like you tied up in knots," he smirks.

"It's more the idea of it?" he prompts.

"Because it satisfies a need in me that wasn't met in my formative years."

"I've not thought of it like that, but yes, I suppose it is."

"I can see that. But you seem to be doing fine so far."

"Why do you need to control me?"

Holy hell. This was when he was a kid.

He gazes at me for a moment, then frowns.

"No, not really," I whisper.

"I suppose. Feeling pleasure, when one isn't supposed to."

"That's not what I meant!" I splash him in exasperation.

He gazes down at me, arching an eyebrow. "Did you just splash me?"

"Yes." Holy shit… that look.

"I'm going to have you now," he whispers and lifts me so that I'm hovering over him. "Ready?" he breathes.

He clasps his hands on either side of my head and kisses me. Deeply. Possessing my mouth. Angling my head… controlling me. I moan against his lips. This is what he likes. This is what he's so good at. Everything ignites inside me and my fingers are in his hair, holding him to me, and I'm kissing him back and saying I want you, too, the only way I know how. He groans, shifting me so I'm astride him, kneeling over him, his erection beneath me. He pulls back and looks at me, his eyes hooded, glowing and lustful. I drop my hands to grab on to the edge of the bath but he grips both my wrists and pulls my hands behind my back, holding them together in one hand.

"Oh, Miss Steele." He grabs me and pulls me onto his lap, sloshing water all over the floor. "I think we've done enough talking for now."

"Yes," I whisper, and he eases me on to him, slowly, exquisitely slowly… filling me… watching me as he takes me.

Clasping the bath ledge, I move up and then down slowly, opening my eyes to gaze at him. He's watching me, his mouth open slightly, his breathing halted, stilted -- his tongue between his teeth. He looks so… hot. We're wet and slippery and moving against each other. I lean down and kiss him. He closes his eyes. Tentatively, I bring my hands up to his head and run my fingers through his hair, not taking my lips from his mouth. This is allowed. He likes this. I like this. And we move together. I tug his hair, tipping his head back and deepen the kiss, riding him -- faster, picking up the rhythm. I moan against his mouth. He starts to lift me faster, faster… holding my hips. Kissing me back. We are wet mouths and tongues, tangled hair, and moving hips. All sensation… all consuming again. I am close… I am starting to recognize this delicious tightening… quickening. And the water… it's swirling around us, our own whirlpool, a stirring vortex as our movements become more frantic… sloshing everywhere, mirroring what's happening inside me… and I just don't care.

I groan, closing my eyes, and I revel in the sensation, the stretching fullness. He flexes his hips, and I gasp, leaning forward, resting my forehead against his.

"Don't touch me," he pleads, and releasing my wrists, he grabs my hips.

"Please let my hands go," I whisper.

"Ana, baby!" he cries, and it's a wild invocation, stirring and touching the depths of my soul.

And I come, my orgasm ripping through me, a turbulent, passionate apogee that devours me whole. And suddenly Christian crushes me to him… his arms wrapped around my back as he finds his release.

"That's right, baby," he breathes.

I love this man. I love his passion, the effect I have on him. I love that he's flown so far to see me. I love that he cares about me… he cares. It's so unexpected, so fulfilling. He is mine, and I am his.

We lie staring at each other, gray eyes into blue, face to face, in the super king bed, both hugging our pillows on our fronts. Naked. Not touching. Just looking and admiring, covered by the sheet.

"Do you want to sleep?" Christian asks, his voice soft. He is beautiful; the mix of colors in his hair vivid against the white Egyptian cotton pillowcase, gray eyes, smoldering, expressive. He looks concerned.

"No. I'm not tired." I feel strangely energized. It's been so good to talk -- I don't want to stop.

"What about me?"

His lips quirk up, his eyes shining with incredulity. "Not exactly."

"Oh." Holy shit… there's more… How? I gape at him. "Vanilla?"

"No. You are my one vanilla conquest," he shakes his head, still grinning at me.

"So I am number seventeen."

"I was referring to the number of women in my playroom. I thought that's what you meant. You didn't ask me how many women I'd had sex with."

"What's your favorite film?"

"What stuff?"

"Talk."

"Number of women you've um… had sex with."

His grin is infectious.

He smiles. "About what?"

Why does he find this funny? And why am I grinning back at him like an idiot?

"And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele."

"I can't give you a number. I didn't put notches in the bedpost or anything."

"You said fifteen," My confusion is obvious.

He frowns at me not comprehending. "Seventeen?"

"You."

He grins. "Today, it's The Piano."

"Stuff."

"What do you want to do?" he asks.

"Of course. Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt you can play? So many accomplishments, Mr. Grey."

"That's nothing to be proud of," I mutter haughtily. "And you're right… I am deeply shocked. And cross that I can't shock you."

"You wore my underwear."

"What are we talking -- tens, hundreds… thousands?" My eyes grow wilder as the numbers get larger.

"Yes."

"Funny peculiar or funny ha ha?"

"I can't. You're funny."

"All submissives in training, when I was training. There are places in and around Seattle that one can go and practice. Learn to do what I do," he says.

"A bit of both I think." His words mirror mine.

He leans across and kisses the tip of my nose. "This will shock you, Anastasia. Ready?"

"That's a damned cheek, coming from you."

"Tens. We're in the tens, for pity's sake."

What?

"Oh." I blink at him.

I nod, wide-eyed, still with the stupid grin on my face.

"Yep, I've paid for sex, Anastasia."

"All submissives?"

"Did that shock you?"

"Yes." My inner goddess pole-vaults over the fifteen-foot bar.

"Stop grinning at me," I scold him mildly, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

"Did that shock you?"

"It seems I can only shock you in the underwear department."

"Christian."

"Did that shock you?"

"Yes."

"Okay," I agree, shyly.

"The fact that I like it shocks me."

"Well, I may let you do it again."

"You say my name."

I grin.

"Yes. I'll go to the Red Room of Pain again."

"Okay?"

He leans across and kisses me gently on my lips.

"You told me you were a virgin. That's the biggest shock I've ever had."

"Oh, I do hope so, Miss Steele. This weekend?"

And in this quiet moment as I close my eyes, spent and sated, I think I'm in the eye of the storm. And in spite of all he's said, and what he hasn't said, I don't think I have ever been so happy.

I raise an eyebrow and stifle a yawn at the same time.

Jeez, the bar's moved to sixteen feet.

He grins. "I want to do something tomorrow." His eyes glow with excitement.

"A surprise. For you." His voice is low and soft.

"Yep."

"That shocks you?"

"Yes, your face was a picture, a Kodak moment." I giggle.

"Am I boring you, Miss Steele?" His tone is sardonic.

"What?"

"You let me work you over with a riding crop."

"Never."

"Sleep," he commands, then switches off the light.

"You didn't wear your panties to meet my parents."