Shit. This isn’t going well. Is she overwhelmed? Is that it?

I pour two glasses and walk to where she stands in the middle of my living room, looking every bit the sacrificial lamb. Gone is the disarming woman. She looks lost.

Like me…

“Here.” I hand her the glass, and she immediately takes a sip, closing her eyes in obvious appreciation of the wine. When she lowers the glass her lips are moist.

Good choice, Grey.

“You’re very quiet, and you’re not even blushing. In fact, I think this is the palest I’ve ever seen you, Anastasia. Are you hungry?”

She shakes her head and takes another sip. Maybe she’s in need of some liquid courage, too. “It’s a very big place you have here,” she says, her voice timid.

“Big?”

“Big.”

“It’s big.” There’s no arguing with that; it is more than ten thousand square feet.

“Do you play?” She looks at the piano.

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do. Is there anything you can’t do well?”

“Yes…a few things.”

Cook.

Tell jokes.

Make free and easy conversation with a woman I’m attracted to.

Be touched…

“Do you want to sit?” I gesture toward the sofa. A brisk nod tells me that she does. Taking her hand, I lead her there, and she sits down, giving me an impish look.

“What’s so amusing?” I ask, as I take a seat beside her.

“Why did you give me Tess of the d’Urbervilles, specifically?”

Oh. Where is this going? “Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy.”

“Is that the only reason?”

I don’t want to tell her that she has my first edition, and that it was a better choice than Jude the Obscure. “It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec d’Urberville.” My answer is truthful enough and has a certain irony to it. What I’m about to propose I suspect will be very far from her expectations.

“If there are only two choices, I’ll take the debasement,” she whispers.

Damn. Isn’t that what you want, Grey?

“Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It’s very distracting. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“That’s why I’m here,” she says, her teeth leaving little indentations on a bottom lip moist with wine.

And there she is: disarming once more, surprising me at every turn. My cock concurs.

We are cutting to the chase on this deal, but before we explore the details, I need her to sign the NDA. I excuse myself and head into my study. The contract and NDA are ready on the printer. Leaving the contract on my desk—I don’t know if we’ll ever get to it—I staple the NDA together and take it back to Ana.

“This is a nondisclosure agreement.” I place it on the coffee table in front of her. She looks confused and surprised. “My lawyer insists on it,” I add. “If you’re going for option two, debasement, you’ll need to sign this.”

“And if I don’t want to sign anything?”

“Then it’s Angel Clare high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway.” And I won’t be able to touch you. I’ll send you home with Stephan, and I will try my very best to forget you. My anxiety mushrooms; this deal could all go to shit.

“What does this agreement mean?”

“It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone.”

She searches my face and I don’t know if she’s confused or displeased.

This could go either way.

“Okay. I’ll sign,” she says.

Well, that was easy. I hand her my Mont Blanc and she places the pen at the signature line.

“Aren’t you even going to read it?” I ask, suddenly annoyed.

“No.”

“Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign.” How could she be so foolish? Have her parents taught her nothing?

“Christian, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn’t talk about us to anyone anyway. Even Kate. So it’s immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer, whom you obviously talk to, then fine. I’ll sign.”

She has an answer for everything. It’s refreshing. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele,” I note dryly.

With a quick, disapproving glance, she signs.

And before I can begin my pitch, she asks, “Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?”

What?

Me?

Make love?

Oh, Grey, let’s disabuse her of this straightaway. “No, Anastasia, it doesn’t. First, I don’t make love. I fuck, hard.”

She gasps. That’s made her think.

“Second, there’s a lot more paperwork to do. And third, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could still run from here screaming! Come, I want to show you my playroom.”

She’s nonplussed, the little v forming between her brows. “You want to play on your Xbox?”

I laugh out loud.

Oh, baby.

“No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no PlayStation. Come.” Standing, I offer her my hand, which she takes willingly. I lead her to the hallway and upstairs, where I stop outside the door to my playroom, my heart hammering in my chest.

This is it. Pay or play. Have I ever been this nervous? Realizing my desires depend on the turn of this key, I unlock the door, and in that moment I need to reassure her. “You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on standby to take you whenever you want to go; you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It’s fine, whatever you decide.”

“Just open the damn door, Christian,” she says with a mulish expression and her arms crossed.

This is the crossroads. I don’t want her to run. But I’ve never felt this exposed. Even in Elena’s hands…and I know it’s because she knows nothing about the lifestyle.

I open the door and follow her into my playroom.

My safe place.

The only place where I’m truly myself.

Ana stands in the middle of the room, studying all the paraphernalia that is so much a part of my life: the floggers, the canes, the bed, the bench…She’s silent, drinking it in, and all I hear is the deafening pounding of my heart as the blood rushes past my eardrums.

Now you know.

This is me.

She turns and gives me a piercing stare as I wait for her to say something, but she prolongs my agony and walks farther into the room, forcing me to follow her.

Her fingers trail over a suede flogger, one of my favorites. I tell her what it’s called, but she doesn’t respond. She walks over to the bed, her hands exploring, her fingers running over one of the carved pillars.

“Say something,” I ask. Her silence is unbearable. I need to know if she’s going to run.

“Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?”

Finally!

“People?” I want to snort. “I do this to women who want me to.”

She’s willing to have a dialogue. There’s hope.

She frowns. “If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?”

“Because I want to do this with you, very much.” Visions of her tied up in various positions around the room overwhelm my imagination; on the cross, on the bed, over the bench…

“Oh,” she says, and wanders to the bench. My eyes are drawn to her inquisitive fingers stroking the leather. Her touch is curious, slow, and sensual—is she even aware?

“You’re a sadist?” she says, startling me.

Fuck. She sees me.

“I’m a Dominant,” I say quickly, hoping to move the conversation on.

“What does that mean?” she inquires, shocked, I think.

“It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To please me,” I whisper. This is what I need from you. “In very simple terms, I want you to want to please me.”

“How do I do that?” she breathes.

“I have rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for your benefit and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I shall reward you. If you don’t, I shall punish you, and you will learn.”