With easy grace, Christian taps the white ball so that it
glides across the table, kisses the black and oh-so-slowly
the black rolls, teeters on the edge, and finally drops into
the top right pocket of the billiard table.
Damn.
He stands, and his mouth twists in a triumphant I-soown-
you-Steele smile. Putting down his cue, he saunters
casually toward me, all tousled hair, jeans, and white Tshirt.
He doesn’t look like a CEO—he looks like a bad
boy from the wrong side of town. Holy cow, he’s so
fucking sexy.
“You’re not going to be a sore loser, are you?” he
murmurs, barely containing his grin.
“Depends how hard you spank me,” I whisper, holding
on to my cue for support. He takes my cue and puts it to
one side, hooks his finger into the top of my shirt, and pulls
me toward him.
“Well, let’s count your misdemeanors, Miss Steele.”
He counts on his long fingers. “One, making me jealous of
my own staff. Two, arguing with me about working. And
three, waving your delectable derriere at me for the last
twenty minutes.”
His eyes glow a soft gray with excitement, and leaning
down, he rubs his nose against mine. “I want you to take
your jeans and this very fetching shirt off. Now.” He plants
a feather-soft kiss on my lips, wanders nonchalantly over
to the door, and locks it.
Oh my.
When he turns and gazes at me, his eyes are burning. I
stand paralyzed like a complete zombie, my heart
pounding, my blood pumping, not actually able to move a
muscle. In my mind, all I can think is—this is for him—
the thought repeating like a mantra over and over again.
“Clothes, Anastasia. You appear to still be wearing
them. Take them off—or I will do it for you.”
“You do it.” I finally find my voice, and it sounds low
and heated. Christian grins.
“Oh, Miss Steele. It’s a dirty job, but I think I can rise
to the challenge.”
“You normally rise to most challenges, Mr. Grey.” I
raise an eyebrow at him, and he smirks.
“Why, Miss Steele, whatever do you mean?” On his
way over to me, he pauses at the small desk built into one
of the bookshelves. Reaching over, he picks up a twelveinch
Perspex ruler. He holds each end and flexes it, his
eyes not leaving mine.
Holy shit—his weapon of choice. My mouth goes
dry.
Suddenly, I’m hot and bothered and damp in all the
right places. Only Christian could turn me on with just a
look and the flex of a ruler. He slips it into the back pocket
of his jeans and ambles toward me, eyes dark and full of
promise. Without saying a word, he drops to his knees in
front of me and starts to undo my laces, quickly and
efficiently, dragging both my Converse and socks off. I
lean on the side of the billiard table so I don’t fall. Gazing
down at him as he undoes my laces, I marvel at the depth
of feeling that I have for this beautiful flawed man. I love
him.
He grabs my hips, slips his fingers into the waistband of
my jeans, and undoes the button and zipper. He peers up
through his long lashes, grinning his most salacious grin as
he slowly peels my jeans off. I step out of them, glad that
I’m wearing these pretty, pretty panties, and he grasps the
back of my legs and runs his nose along the apex of my
thighs. I practically melt.
“I want to be quite rough with you, Ana. You’ll have to
tell me to stop if it’s too much,” he breathes.
Oh my. He kisses me . . . there. I moan softly.
“Safe word?” I murmur.
“No, no safe word, just tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.
Understand?” He kisses me again, nuzzling me. Oh, that
feels good. He stands, his stare intense. “Answer me,” he
orders his voice velvet soft.
“Yes, yes, I understand.” I’m puzzled by his insistence.
“You’ve been dropping hints and giving me mixed
signals all day, Anastasia,” he says. “You said you were
worried I’d lost my edge. I’m not sure what you meant by
that, and I don’t know how serious you were, but we are
going to find out. I don’t want to go back into the
playroom yet, so we can try this now, but if you don’t like
it, you must promise to tell me.” A burning intensity born of
his anxiety replaces his earlier cockiness.
Whoa, please don’t be anxious, Christian. “I’ll tell
you. No safe word,” I reiterate to reassure him.
“We’re lovers, Anastasia. Lovers don’t need safe
words.” He frowns. “Do they?”
“I guess not,” I murmur. Jeez—how do I know? “I
promise.”
He searches my face for any clue that I might lack the
courage of my convictions, and I’m nervous but excited,
too. I’m much happier to do this, knowing that he loves
me. It’s very simple to me, and right now, I don’t want to
overthink it.
A slow smile stretches across his face, and he starts to
unbutton my shirt, his deft fingers making short work of it,
though he doesn’t take it off. He leans over and picks up
the cue.
Oh fuck, what’s he going to do with that ? A frisson
of fear runs through me.
“You play well, Miss Steele. I must say I’m surprised.
Why don’t you sink the black?”
My fear forgotten, I pout, wondering why the hell he
should be surprised—sexy, arrogant bastard. My inner
goddess is limbering up in the background, doing her floor
exercises—a great fat smile on her face.
I position the white ball. Christian strolls back around
the table and stands right behind me as I lean over to take
my shot. He places his hand on my right thigh and runs his
fingers up and down my leg, up to my behind and back
again, lightly stroking me.
“I am going to miss if you keep doing that,” I whisper,
closing my eyes and relishing the feel of his hands on me.
“I don’t care if you hit or miss, baby. I just wanted to
see you like this—partially dressed, stretched out on my
billiard table. Do you have any idea how hot you look at
the moment?”
I flush, and my inner goddess grabs a rose between her
teeth and starts to tango. Taking a deep breath, I try to
ignore him and line up my shot. It’s impossible. He
caresses my behind, over and over again.
“Top left,” I murmur, then hit the white ball. He smacks
me hard, squarely on my backside.
It’s so unexpected, I yelp. The white hits the black,
which bounces off the cushion wide of the pocket.
Christian caresses my behind again.
“Oh, I think you need to try that again,” he whispers.
“You should concentrate, Anastasia.”
I am panting now, excited by this game. He strolls to
the end of the table, sets up the black ball again, then runs
the white ball back down to me. He looks so carnal, dark
eyed with a lascivious smile. How could I ever resist this
man? I catch the ball and line it up, ready to strike again.
“Uh-uh,” he admonishes. “Just wait.” Oh, he just loves
prolonging the agony. He wanders back and stands behind
me again. I close my eyes once more as he strokes my left
thigh this time then fondles my backside again.
“Take aim,” he breathes.
I can’t help my moan as desire twists and turns inside
me. And I try, really try, to think about where I should hit
the black with the white. I shift slightly to my right, and he
follows me. I bend over the table once more. Using every
last vestige of inner strength—which has diminished
considerably since I know what will happen once I strike
the white ball—I take aim and hit the white again. Christian
smacks me once more, hard.
Ow! I miss again. “Oh no!” I groan.
“Once more, baby. And if you miss this time, I’m really
going to let you have it.”
What? Have what?
He sets up the black ball once more and walks,
achingly slow, back to me until he’s standing behind me,
caressing my backside once more.
“You can do it,” he coaxes.
Oh—not when you’re distracting me like this. I
push my behind back against his hand, and he smacks me
lightly.
“Eager, Miss Steele?” he murmurs.
Yes. I want you.
“Well, let’s get rid of these.” He gently slides my
panties down my thighs and off. I can’t see what he does
with them, but he leaves me feeling exposed as he plants a
soft kiss on each cheek.
“Take the shot, baby.”
I want to whimper, this is so not going to happen. I
know I am going to miss. I line up the white, hit it, and in
my impatience, miss the black completely. I wait for the
blow—but it doesn’t come. Instead he leans right over me,
flattening me against the table, takes the cue out of my
hand and rolls it to the side cushion. I can feel him, hard,
against my backside.
“You missed,” he says softly in my ear. My cheek is
pressed against the baize. “Put your hands flat on the
table.”
I do as he says.
“Good. I’m going to spank you now and next time,
maybe you won’t.” He shifts so he’s standing to my left
side, his erection against my hip.
I groan and my heart leaps into my mouth. My breath
comes in short pants and a hot, heavy excitement courses
through my veins. Gently, he caresses my behind and curls
his other hand around the nape of my neck, his fingers
fisting in my hair, his elbow at my back, holding me down.
I am completely helpless.
“Open your legs,” he murmurs and for a moment, I
hesitate. And he smacks me hard—with the ruler! The
noise is harsher than the sting, and it takes me by surprise.
I gasp, and he hits me again.
“Legs,” he orders. I open my legs, panting. The ruler
strikes again. Ow—it stings, but its crack across my skin
sounds worse than it feels.
I close my eyes and absorb the pain. It’s not too bad,
and Christian’s breathing becomes harsher. He hits me
again and again, and I moan. I am not sure how many
more strokes I can bear—but hearing him, knowing how
turned on he is, feeds my arousal and my willingness to
continue. I am crossing to the dark side, a place in my
psyche I don’t know well but have visited before in the
playroom—with the Tallis. The ruler strikes once more,
and I moan loudly, and Christian groans in response. He
hits me again—and again . . . and once more . . . harder
this time—and I wince.
“Stop.” The word is out of my mouth before I’m even
aware that I’ve said it. Christian drops the ruler
immediately and releases me.
“Enough?” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“I want to fuck you now,” he says, his voice strained.
“Yes,” I murmur with longing. He undoes his fly, as I
lie panting on the table, knowing that he’s going to be
rough.
I marvel once more at how I have managed—and yes,
enjoyed— what he’s done to me up to this point. It’s so
dark but so him.
He eases two fingers inside me and moves them in a
circular motion. The feeling is exquisite. Closing my eyes, I
revel in the sensation. I hear the telltale rip of foil, then he’s
standing behind me, between my legs, pushing them wider.
Slowly he sinks into me, filling me. I hear his groan of
pure pleasure, and it stirs my soul. He grasps my hips
firmly, eases out of me again, and this time slams back into
me, causing me to cry out. He stills for a moment.
“Again?” he asks softly.
“Yes . . . I’m fine. Lose yourself . . . take me with
you,” I murmur breathlessly.
He moans low in his throat, eases out of me once
more, then slams into me, and repeats this over and over
slowly, deliberately—a punishing, brutal, heavenly rhythm.
Oh fucking my . . . My insides begin to quicken. He
feels it, too, and increases the rhythm, pushing me, higher,
harder, faster—and I surrender, exploding around him—a
draining, soul-grabbing orgasm that leaves me spent and
exhausted.
I’m vaguely aware that Christian, too, is letting go,
calling my name, his fingers digging into my hips, and then
he stills and collapses on me. We sink to the floor, and he
cradles me in his arms.
“Thank you, baby,” he breathes, covering my upturned
face in soft feather-light kisses. I open my eyes and gaze
up at him, and he wraps his arms tighter around me.
“Your cheek is pink from the baize,” he murmurs,
rubbing my face tenderly. “How was that?” His eyes are
wide and cautious.
“Teeth-clenchingly good,” I mutter. “I like it rough,
Christian, and I like it gentle, too. I like that it’s with you.”
He closes his eyes and hugs me even tighter.
Jeez, I’m tired.
“You never fail, Ana. You are beautiful, bright,
challenging, fun, sexy, and I thank divine providence every
day that it was you that came to interview me and not
Katherine Kavanagh.” He kisses my hair. I smile and yawn
against his chest. “I’m wearing you out,” he continues.
“Come. Bath, then bed.”
We are both in Christian’s bath, facing each other chindeep
in foam, the sweet scent of jasmine enveloping us.
Christian is massaging my feet, one at a time. It feels so
good it should be illegal.
“Can I ask you something?” I murmur.
“Of course. Anything, Ana, you know that.”
I take a deep breath and sit up, flinching only slightly.
“Tomorrow—when I go to work—can Sawyer just
deliver me to the front door of the office then pick me up
at the end of the day? Please, Christian. Please,” I plead.
His hands still as his brow creases. “I thought we
agreed,” he grumbles.
“Please,” I beg.
“What about lunchtime?”
“I’ll make myself something to take from here so I
don’t have to go out, please.”
He kisses my instep. “I find it very difficult to say no to
you,” he mutters as if he senses this is a failing on his part.
“You won’t go out?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
I beam at him. “Thank you.” I lean up onto my knees,
sloshing water everywhere, and kiss him.
“You’re most welcome, Miss Steele. How’s your
behind?”
“Sore. But not too bad. The water is soothing.”
“I’m glad you told me to stop,” he says, gazing at me.
“So is my behind.”
He grins.
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