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五十度灰英文版 - Part II 6
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  The white-suited servers move effortlessly through the
  growing crowd of guests with bottles of champagne,
  topping off my glass with worrying regularity. I must not
  drink too much. I must not drink too much, I repeat to
  myself, but I’m beginning to feel light-headed, and I don’t
  know if it’s the champagne, the charged atmosphere of
  know if it’s the champagne, the charged atmosphere of
  mystery and excitement created by the masks, or the
  secret silver balls. The dull ache below my waist is
  becoming impossible to ignore.
  “So you work at SIP?” asks a balding gentleman in a
  half-bear—or is it a dog?—mask. “Heard rumors of a
  hostile takeover.”
  I flush. There is a hostile takeover from a man who has
  more money than sense and is a stalker par excellence.
  “I’m just a lowly assistant, Mr. Eccles. I wouldn’t
  know about these things.”
  Christian says nothing and smiles blandly at Eccles.
  “Ladies and gentlemen!” The master of ceremonies,
  wearing an impressive black and white harlequin mask,
  interrupts us. “Please take your seats. Dinner is served.”
  Christian takes my hand, and we follow the chattering
  crowd to the large marquee.
  The interior is stunning. Three enormous, shallow
  chandeliers throw rainbow-colored sparkles over the ivory
  silk lining of the ceiling and walls. There must be at least
  thirty tables, and they remind me of the private dining room
  at the Heathman—crystal glasses, crisp white linen
  covering the tables and chairs, and in the center, an
  exquisite display of pale pink peonies gathered around a
  silver candelabra. Wrapped in gossamer silk beside it is a
  basket of goodies.
  Christian consults the seating plan and leads me to a
  table in the center. Mia and Grace are already in situ, deep
  in conversation with a young man I don’t know. Grace is
  wearing a shimmering mint green gown with a Venetian
  mask to match. She looks radiant, not stressed at all, and
  she greets me warmly.
  “Ana, how delightful to see you again! And looking so
  beautiful, too.”
  “Mother,” Christian greets her stiffly and kisses her on
  both cheeks.
  “Oh, Christian, so formal!” she scolds him teasingly.
  Grace’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan, join us at
  our table. They seem exuberant and youthful, though it’s
  difficult to tell beneath their matching bronze masks. They
  difficult to tell beneath their matching bronze masks. They
  are delighted to see Christian.
  “Grandmother, Grandfather, may I introduce Anastasia
  Steele?”
  Mrs. Trevelyan is all over me like a rash. “Oh, he’s
  finally found someone, how wonderful and so pretty! Well
  I do hope you make an honest man of him,” she gushes,
  shaking my hand.
  Holy cow. I thank the heavens for my mask.
  “Mother, don’t embarrass Ana.” Grace comes to my
  rescue.
  “Ignore the silly old coot, m’dear.” Mr. Trevelyan
  shakes my hand. “She thinks because she’s so old, she has
  a God-given right to say whatever nonsense pops into that
  woolly head of hers.”
  “Ana, this is my date, Sean.” Mia shyly introduces her
  young man. He gives me a wicked grin, and his brown
  eyes dance with amusement as we shake hands.
  “Pleased to meet you, Sean.”
  Christian shakes Sean’s hand as he regards him
  Christian shakes Sean’s hand as he regards him
  shrewdly. Don’t tell me that poor Mia suffers from her
  overbearing brother, too. I smile at Mia in sympathy.
  Lance and Janine, Grace’s friends, are the last couple
  at our table, but there is still no sign of Mr. Grey.
  Abruptly, there’s the hiss of a microphone, and Mr.
  Grey’s voice booms over the PA system, causing the
  babble of voices to die down. Carrick stands on a small
  stage at one end of the marquee, wearing an impressive,
  gold, Punchinello mask.
  “Welcome, ladies and gentleman, to our annual charity
  ball. I hope that you enjoy what we have laid out for you
  tonight and that you’ll dig deep into your pockets to
  support the fantastic work that our team does with Coping
  Together. As you know, it’s a cause that is very close to
  my wife’s heart, and mine.”
  I peek nervously at Christian, who is staring
  impassively, I think, at the stage. He glances at me and
  smirks.
  “I’ll hand you over now to our master of ceremonies.
  Please be seated, and enjoy,” Carrick finishes.
  Polite applause follows, then the babble in the tent
  starts again. I am seated between Christian and his
  grandfather. I admire the small white place card with fine
  silver calligraphy that bears my name as a waiter lights the
  candelabra with a long taper. Carrick joins us, kissing me
  on both cheeks, surprising me.
  “Good to see you again, Ana,” he murmurs. He really
  looks very striking in his extraordinary gold mask.
  “Ladies and gentlemen, please nominate a table head,”
  the MC calls out.
  “Ooo—me, me!” says Mia immediately, bouncing
  enthusiastically in her seat.
  “In the center of the table you will find an envelope,”
  the MC continues. “Would everyone find, beg, borrow, or
  steal a bill of the highest denomination you can manage,
  write your name on it, and place it inside the envelope.
  Table heads, please guard these envelopes carefully. We
  will need them later.”
  Holy crap. I haven’t brought any money with me.
  Holy crap. I haven’t brought any money with me.
  How stupid—it’s a charity event!
  Fishing out his wallet, Christian produces two hundreddollar
  bills.
  “Here,” he says.
  What?
  “I’ll pay you back,” I whisper.
  His mouth twists slightly, and I know he’s not happy,
  but he doesn’t comment. I sign my name using his fountain
  pen—it’s black, with a white flower motif on the cap—
  and Mia passes the envelope round.
  In front of me I find another card inscribed with silver
  calligraphy—our menu.
  ~~~~~~~~~~
  A Masked Ball in aid of Coping Together
  Menu
  Salmon Tartare with Crème Fraiche and Cucumber
  on Toasted Brioche
  Alban Estate Roussanne 2006
  Alban Estate Roussanne 2006
  Roasted Muscovy Duck Breast
  Creamy Sunchoke Purée, Thyme Roasted Bing
  Cherries, Foie Gras
  Chateauneuf-du-Pape Vieilles Vignes 2006 Domaine
  de la Janasse
  Sugared Crusted Walnut Chiffon
  Candied figs, Sabayon, Maple Ice Cream
  Vin de Constance 2004 Klein Constantia
  Selection of Local Cheeses and Breads
  Alban Estate Grenache 2006
  Coffee and Petits Fours
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  Well, that accounts for the number of crystal glasses in
  Well, that accounts for the number of crystal glasses in
  every size that crowd my place setting. Our waiter is back,
  offering wine and water. Behind me, the sides of the tent
  through which we entered are being closed, while at the
  front, two servers pull back the canvas, revealing the
  sunset over Seattle and Meydenbauer Bay.
  It’s an absolutely breathtaking view, the twinkling lights
  of Seattle in the distance and the orange, dusky calm of the
  bay reflecting the opal sky. Wow. It’s so calm and
  peaceful.
  Ten servers, each holding a plate, come to stand
  between us. On a silent cue, they serve us our starters in
  complete synchronization, then vanish again. The salmon
  looks delicious, and I realize I am famished.
  “Hungry?” Christian murmurs so only I can hear. I
  know he’s not referring to the food, and the muscles deep
  in my belly respond.
  “Very,” I whisper, boldly meeting his gaze, and
  Christian’s lips part as he inhales.
  Ha! See . . . two can play at this game.
  Christian’s grandfather engages me in conversation
  immediately. He’s a wonderful old man, so proud of his
  daughter and three children.
  It is weird to think of Christian as a child. The memory
  of his burn scars come unbidden to my mind, but I quickly
  quash it. I don’t want to think about that now, though
  ironically, it’s the reason behind this party.
  I wish Kate was here with Elliot. She would fit in so
  well—the sheer number of forks and knives laid out before
  her wouldn’t daunt Kate—she would command the table.
  I imagine her duking it out with Mia over who should be
  table head. The thought makes me smile.
  The conversation at the table ebbs and flows. Mia is
  entertaining, as usual, and quite eclipses poor Sean, who
  mostly stays quiet like me. Christian’s grandmother is the
  most vocal. She, too, has a biting sense of humor, usually
  at the expense of her husband. I begin to feel a little sorry
  for Mr. Trevelyan.
  Christian and Lance talk animatedly about a device
  Christian’s company is developing, inspired by
  Christian’s company is developing, inspired by
  Schumacher’s principle Small is Beautiful. It’s hard to
  keep up. Christian seems intent on empowering
  impoverished communities all over the world with wind-up
  technology—devices that need no electricity or batteries
  and minimal maintenance.
  Watching him in full flow is astonishing. He’s
  passionate and committed to improving the lives of the less
  fortunate. Through his telecommunications company, he’s
  intent on being first to market with a wind-up mobile
  phone.
  Whoa. I had no idea. I mean I knew about his passion
  about feeding the world, but this . . .
  Lance seems unable to comprehend Christian’s plan to
  give the technology away and not patent it. I wonder
  vaguely how Christian made all his money if he’s so willing
  to give it all away.
  Throughout dinner a steady stream of men in smartly
  tailored dinner jackets and dark masks stop by the table,
  keen to meet Christian, shake his hand, and exchange
  keen to meet Christian, shake his hand, and exchange
  pleasantries. He introduces me to some but not others. I’m
  intrigued to know how and why he makes the distinction.
  During one such conversation, Mia leans across and
  smiles.
  “Ana, will you help in the auction?”
  “Of course,” I respond only too willing.
  By the time dessert is served, night has fallen, and I’m
  really uncomfortable. I need to get rid of the balls. Before I
  can excuse myself, the master of ceremonies appears at
  our table, and with him—if I’m not mistaken—is Miss
  European Pigtails.
  What’s her name? Hansel, Gretel . . . Gretchen.
  She’s masked of course, but I know it’s her when her
  gaze doesn’t move beyond Christian. She blushes, and
  selfishly I’m beyond pleased that Christian doesn’t
  acknowledge her at all.
  The MC asks for our envelope and with a very
  practiced and eloquent flourish, asks Grace to pull out the
  winning bill. It’s Sean’s, and the silk-wrapped basket is
  awarded to him.
  I applaud politely, but I’m finding it impossible to
  concentrate on any more of the proceedings.
  “If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur to Christian.
  He looks at me intently.
  “Do you need the powder room?”
  I nod.
  “I’ll show you,” he says darkly.
  When I stand, all the other men round the table stand
  with me. Oh, such manners.
  “No, Christian! You’re not taking Ana—I will.”
  Mia is on her feet before Christian can protest. His jaw
  tenses, I know he’s not pleased. Quite frankly, neither am
  I. I have . . . needs. I shrug apologetically at him, and he
  sits down quickly, resigned.
  On our return, I feel a little better, though the relief of
  removing the balls has not been as instantaneous as I’d
  hoped. They’re now stashed safely in my clutch purse.
  Why did I think I could last the whole evening? I am
  still yearning—perhaps I can persuade Christian to take
  still yearning—perhaps I can persuade Christian to take
  me to the boathouse later. I flush at the thought and glance
  at him as I take my seat. He stares at me, the ghost of a
  smile crossing his lips.
  Phew . . . he’s no longer mad at a missed
  opportunity, though maybe I am. I feel frustrated—
  irritable even. Christian squeezes my hand, and we both
  listen attentively to Carrick, who is back on stage talking
  about Coping Together. Christian passes me another card
  —a list of the auction prizes. I scan them quickly.
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  Auction Gifts And Gracious Donors for Coping
  Together
  Signed Baseball Bat from the Mariners – Dr. Emily

  Mainwaring
  Gucci Purse, Wallet & Keyring – Andrea
  Washington
  One Day Voucher for Two at Esclava, Braeburn
  Center – Elena Lincoln
  Center – Elena Lincoln
  Landscape and Garden Design – Gia Matteo
  Coco De Mer Coffret & Perfume Beauty Selection –
  Elizabeth Austin
  Venetian Mirror – Mr. and Mrs. J. Bailey
  Two Cases of Wine of Your Choice from Alban
  Estates – Alban Estates
  2 VIP Tickets for XTY in Concert – Mrs. L. Yesyov
  Race Day at Daytona – EMC Britt Inc.
  Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen First Edition – Dr.
  A. F. M. Lace-Field
  Drive an Aston Martin DB7 for a day – Mr. & Mrs.
  L. W. Nora
  Oil Painting Into the Blue by J. Trouton – Kelly
  Trouton
  Gliding Lesson – Seattle Soarers Club
  Weekend Break for Two at the Heathman, Portland
  – The Heathman
  One weekend stay in Aspen, Colorado (Sleeps 6) –
  Mr. C. Grey
  One Week Stay Aboard the SusieCue Yacht (6
  berths) Moored in St Lucia – Dr. & Mrs. Larin
  One Week at Lake Adriana, MONTANA (sleeps 8)
  – Mr. & Dr. Grey
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  Holy shit. I blink up at Christian.
  “You own property in Aspen?” I hiss. The auction is
  underway, and I have to keep my voice down.
  He nods, surprised at my outburst and irritated, I
  think. He puts his finger to his lips to silence me.
  “Do you have property elsewhere?” I whisper.
  He nods again and inclines his head to one side in a
  warning.
  The whole room erupts with cheering and applause;
  one of the prizes has gone for twelve thousand dollars.
  “I’ll tell you later,” Christian says quietly. “I wanted to
  come with you,” he adds rather sulkily.
  come with you,” he adds rather sulkily.
  Well, you didn’t. I pout and I realize that I’m still
  querulous, and no doubt, it’s the frustrating effect of the
  balls. My mood darkens after seeing Mrs. Robinson on
  the list of generous donors.
  I glance around the marquee to see if I can spot her,
  but I can’t see her telltale hair. Surely Christian would have
  warned me if she was invited tonight. I sit and stew,
  applauding when necessary, as each lot is sold for
  astonishing amounts of money.
  The bidding moves to Christian’s place in Aspen and
  reaches twenty thousand dollars.
  “Going once, going twice,” the MC calls.
  And I don’t know what possesses me, but I suddenly
  hear my own voice ringing out clearly over the throng.
  “Twenty-four thousand dollars!”
  Every mask at the table turns to me in shocked
  amazement, the biggest reaction of all coming from beside
  me. I hear his sharp intake of breath and feel his wrath
  washing over me like a tidal wave.
  washing over me like a tidal wave.
  “Twenty-four thousand dollars, to the lovely lady in
  silver, going once, going twice . . . Sold!”
  Holy shit, did I really just do that? It must be the alcohol.
  I’ve had champagne plus four glasses of four different
  wines. I glance up at Christian who’s busy applauding.
  Crap, he’s going to be so angry, and we’ve been getting
  on so well. My subconscious has finally decided to make
  an appearance, and she’s wearing her Edvard Munch
  Scream face.
  Christian leans over to me, a large fake smile plastered
  across his face. He kisses my cheek and then moves
  closer to whisper in my ear in a very cold, controlled
  voice.
  “I don’t know whether to worship at your feet or
  spank the living shit out of you.”
  Oh, I know what I want right now. I gaze up at him,
  blinking through my mask. I just wish I could read what’s
  in his eyes.
  “I’ll take option two, please,” I whisper frantically as
  the applause dies down. His lips part as he inhales sharply.
  Oh that chiseled mouth—I want it on me, now. I ache
  Oh that chiseled mouth—I want it on me, now. I ache
  for him. He gives me a radiant sincere smile that leaves me
  breathless.
  “Suffering, are you? We’ll have to see what we can do
  about that,” he murmurs as he runs his fingers along my
  jaw.
  His touch resonates deep, deep inside where that ache
  has spawned and grown. I want to jump him right here,
  right now, but we sit back to watch the auction of the next
  lot.
  I can barely sit still. Christian drapes an arm around my
  shoulders, his thumb rhythmically stroking my back,
  sending delicious tingles down my spine. His free hand
  clasps mine, bringing it to his lips, then letting it rest on his
  lap.
  Slowly and surreptitiously, so I don’t realize his game
  until it’s too late, he eases my hand up his leg and against
  his erection. I gasp, and my eyes dart in panic around the
  table, but all eyes are fixed on the stage. Thank heavens
  for my mask.
  Taking full advantage, I slowly caress him, letting my
  fingers explore. Christian keeps his hand over mine, hiding
  my bold fingers, while his thumb skates softly over the
  nape of my neck. His mouth opens as he gasps softly, and
  it’s the only reaction I can see to my inexperienced touch.
  But it means so much. He wants me. Everything south of
  my navel contracts. This is becoming unbearable.
  A week by Lake Adriana in Montana is the final lot for
  auction. Of course Mr. and Dr. Grey have a house in
  Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am
  Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am
  barely aware of it. I feel him growing beneath my fingers,
  and it makes me feel so powerful.
  “Sold, for one hundred ten thousand dollars!” the MC
  declares victoriously. The whole room bursts into
  applause, and reluctantly I follow as does Christian, ruining
  our fun.
  He turns to me and his lips twitch. “Ready?” he mouths
  over the rapturous cheering.
  “Yes,” I mouth back
  “Ana!” Mia calls. “It’s time!”
  What? No. Not again! “Time for what?”
  “The First Dance Auction. Come on!” She stands and
  holds out her hand.
  I glance at Christian who is, I think, scowling at Mia,
  and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but it’s laughter
  that wins. I succumb to a cathartic bubble of schoolgirl
  giggles, as we are thwarted once more by the tall, pink
  powerhouse that is Mia Grey. Christian peers at me, and
  after a beat, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.
  “The first dance will be with me, okay? And it won’t
  be on the dance floor,” he murmurs lasciviously into my
  ear. My giggles subside as anticipation fans the flames of
  my need. Oh, yes! My inner goddess performs a perfect
  triple Salchow in her ice skates.
  “I look forward to it.” I lean over and plant a soft,
  chaste kiss on his mouth. Glancing around, I realize that
  our fellow guests at the table are astonished. Of course,
  they’ve never seen Christian with a date before.
  He smiles broadly at me. And he looks . . . happy.
  He smiles broadly at me. And he looks . . . happy.
  Wow.
  “Come on, Ana,” Mia nags. Taking her outstretched
  hand, I follow her onto the stage where ten more young
  women have assembled, and I note with vague unease that
  Lily is one of them.
  “Gentlemen, the highlight of the evening!” the MC
  booms over the babble of voices. “The moment you’ve all
  been waiting for! These twelve lovely ladies have all
  agreed to auction their first dance to the highest bidder!”
  Oh no. I blush from head to toe. I hadn’t realized what
  this meant. How humiliating!
  “It’s for a good cause,” Mia hisses at me, sensing my
  discomfort. “Besides, Christian will win.” She rolls her
  eyes. “I can’t imagine him letting anyone outbid him. He
  hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening.”
  Yes, focus on the good cause, and Christian is bound
  to win. Let’s face it, he’s not short of a dime or two.
  But it means spending more money on you! my
  subconscious snarls at me. But I don’t want to dance with
  anyone else—I can’t dance with anyone else—and it’s not
  spending money on me, he’s donating it to the charity.
  Like the twenty-four thousand dollars he’s already
  spent? My subconscious narrows her eyes.
  Shit. I seem to have gotten away with my impulsive
  bid. Why am I arguing with myself?
  “Now, gentlemen, pray gather round, and take a good
  look at what could be yours for the first dance. Twelve
  comely and compliant wenches.”
  Jeez! I feel like I’m in a meat market. I watch,
  Jeez! I feel like I’m in a meat market. I watch,
  horrified, as at least twenty men make their way to the
  stage area, Christian included, moving with easy grace
  between the tables and pausing to say a few hellos on the
  way. Once the bidders are assembled, the MC begins.
  “Ladies and gentlemen, in the tradition of the
  masquerade we shall maintain the mystery behind the
  masks and stick to first names only. First up we have the
  lovely Jada.”
  Jada is giggling like a schoolgirl, too. Maybe I won’t
  be so out of place. She’s dressed head to foot in navy
  taffeta with a matching mask. Two young men step
  forward expectantly. Lucky Jada.
  “Jada speaks fluent Japanese, is a qualified fighter
  pilot, and an Olympic gymnast . . . hmm.” The MC winks.
  “Gentleman, what am I bid?”
  Jada gapes, astounded at the MC; obviously, he’s
  talking complete garbage. She grins shyly back at the two
  contenders.
  “A thousand bucks!” one calls.
  Very quickly the bidding escalates to five thousand
  dollars.
  “Going once . . . going twice . . . sold!” the MC
  declares loudly, “to the gentleman in the mask!” And of
  course all the men are wearing masks so there are hoots of
  laughter, applause, and cheering. Jada beams at her
  purchaser and quickly exits the stage.
  “See? This is fun!” whispers Mia. “I hope Christian
  wins you, though . . . We don’t want a brawl,” she adds.
  “Brawl?” I answer horrified.
  “Brawl?” I answer horrified.
  “Oh yes. He was very hot-headed when he was
  younger.” She shudders.
  Christian brawling? Refined, sophisticated, likes-
  Tudor-choral-music Christian? I can’t see it. The MC
  distracts me with his next introduction—a young woman in
  red, with long jet-black hair.
  “Gentlemen, may I present the wonderful Mariah.
  What are we going to do about Mariah? She’s an
  experienced matador, plays the cello to concert standard,
  and she’s a champion pole-vaulter . . . how about that,
  gentlemen? What am I bid, please, for a dance with the
  delightful Mariah?”
  Mariah glares at the MC and someone yells, very
  loudly, “Three thousand dollars!” It’s a masked man with
  blond hair and beard.
  There is one counter-bid, but Mariah sells for four
  thousand dollars.
  Christian is watching me like a hawk. Brawler
  Trevelyan-Grey—who would have known?
  “How long ago?” I ask Mia.
  She glances at me, nonplussed.
  “How long ago was Christian brawling?”
  “Early teens. Drove my parents crazy, coming home
  with cut lips and black eyes. He was expelled from two
  schools. He inflicted some serious damage on his
  opponents.”
  I gape at her.
  “Hasn’t he told you?” She sighs. “He got quite a bad
  rep among my friends. He was really persona non grata
  rep among my friends. He was really persona non grata
  for a few years. But it stopped when he was about fifteen
  or sixteen.” She shrugs.
  Holy fuck. Another piece of the jigsaw falls into place.
  “So, what am I bid for the gorgeous Jill?”
  “Four thousand dollars,” a deep voice calls from the
  left side. Jill squeals in delight.
  I stop paying attention to the auction. So Christian was
  in that kind of trouble at school, fighting. I wonder why. I
  stare at him. Lily is watching us closely.
  “And now, allow me to introduce the beautiful Ana.”
  Oh shit, that’s me. I glance nervously at Mia, and she
  shoos me center stage. Fortunately, I don’t fall over, but
  stand embarrassed as hell on display for everyone. When I
  look at Christian, he’s smirking at me. The bastard.
  “Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks
  fluent Mandarin, and is keen on yoga . . . well, gentlemen
  —” Before he can even finish his sentence Christian
  interrupts him, glaring at the MC through his mask.

  “Ten thousand dollars.” I hear Lily’s gasp of disbelief
  behind me.
  Oh fuck.
  “Fifteen.”
  What? We all turn as one to a tall, impeccably dressed
  man standing to the left of the stage. I blink at Fifty. Shit,
  what will he make of this? But he’s scratching his chin and
  giving the stranger an ironic smile. It’s obvious Christian
  knows him. The stranger nods politely at Christian.
  “Well, gentlemen! We have high rollers in the house
  this evening.” The MC’s excitement emanates through his
  harlequin mask as he turns to beam at Christian. This is a
  great show, but it’s at my expense. I want to wail.
  “Twenty,” counters Christian quietly.
  The babble of the crowd has died. Everyone is staring
  at me, Christian, and Mr. Mysterious by the stage.
  “Twenty-five,” the stranger says.
  Could this be any more embarrassing?
  Christian stares at him impassively, but he’s amused.
  All eyes are on Christian. What’s he going to do? My
  heart is in my mouth. I feel sick.
  “One hundred thousand dollars,” he says his voice
  ringing clear and loud through the marquee.
  “What the fuck?” Lily hisses audibly behind me, and a
  general gasp of dismay and amusement ripples through the
  crowd. The stranger holds his hands up in defeat, laughing,
  and Christian smirks at him. From the corner of my eye, I
  can see Mia bouncing up and down with glee. My
  subconscious is gazing at Christian, utterly gobsmacked.
  “One-hundred thousand dollars for the lovely Ana!
  Going once . . . going twice . . .” The MC stares at the
  stranger who shakes his head with mock regret and bows
  chivalrously.
  “Sold!” the MC cries out triumphantly.
  In a deafening round of applause and cheering,
  Christian steps forward to take my hand and help me from
  the stage. He gazes at me with an amused grin as I make
  my way down, kisses the back of my hand then tucks it
  into the crook of his arm, and leads me toward the
  marquee’s exit.
  “Who was that?” I ask.
  He gazes down at me. “Someone you can meet later.
  Right now, I want to show you something. We have about
  thirty minutes until the First Dance Auction finishes. Then
  we have to be back on the dance floor so that I can enjoy
  that dance I’ve paid for.”
  “A very expensive dance,” I mutter disapprovingly.
  “I’m sure it’ll be worth every single cent.” He smiles
  down at me wickedly. Oh, he has a glorious smile, and the
  ache is back, blossoming in my body.
  We’re out on the lawn. I thought we would be heading
  to the boathouse, but disappointingly we seem to be
  heading for the dance floor where the big band is now
  setting up. There are at least twenty musicians, and a few
  guests are milling about, furtively smoking—but since most
  of the action is back in the marquee, we don’t attract too
  much attention.
  Christian leads me to the rear of the house and opens a
  French window leading into a large comfortable sitting
  room that I’ve not seen before. He walks through the
  deserted hall toward the sweeping staircase with its
  elegant, polished wooden balustrade. Taking my hand
  from the crook of his arm, he leads me up to the second
  floor and up another flight of stairs to the third. Opening a
  white door, he ushers me into one of the bedrooms.
  “This was my room,” he says quietly, standing by the
  door and locking it behind him.
  It’s large, stark, and sparsely furnished. The walls are
  white as is the furniture; a spacious double bed, a desk
  and chair, shelves crammed with books and lined with
  various trophies for kickboxing by the look of them. The
  walls are hung with movie posters: The Matrix, Fight
  Club, The Truman Show, and two framed posters
  featuring kick boxers. One is named Guiseppe DeNatale
  —I’ve never heard of him.
  But what catches my eye is the white pin board above
  the desk, studded with a myriad of photographs, Mariners
  pennants, and ticket stubs. It’s a slice of young Christian.
  My eyes come back to the magnificent, beautiful man now
  standing in the center of the room. He looks at me darkly,
  brooding and sexy.
  “I’ve never brought a girl in here,” he murmurs.
  “Never?” I whisper.
  He shakes his head.
  I swallow convulsively, and the ache that has been
  bothering me for the last couple of hours is roaring now,
  raw and wanting. Seeing him standing there on the royal
  blue carpet in that mask . . . it’s beyond erotic. I want him.
  Now. Any way I can get him. I have to resist launching
  myself at him and ripping his clothes off. He waltzes over
  to me slowly.
  “We don’t have long, Anastasia, and the way I’m
  feeling right this moment, we won’t need long. Turn round.
  Let me get you out of that dress.”
  I turn and stare at the door, grateful that he’s locked it.
  Bending down he whispers softly in my ear, “Keep the
  mask on.”
  mask on.”
  I groan as my body clenches in response. He’s not
  even touched me yet.
  He grasps the top of my dress, his fingers sliding
  against my skin, and the touch reverberates through my
  body. In one swift move, he opens the zipper. Holding my
  dress, he helps me to step out of it, then turns and drapes
  it artfully over the back of a chair. Removing his jacket, he
  places it over my dress. He pauses, and stares at me for a
  moment, drinking me in. I’m in the basque and matching
  panties, and I revel in his sensuous gaze.
  “You know, Anastasia,” he says softly as he stalks
  toward me, undoing his bow tie so it hangs from either side
  of his neck, then undoing the top three buttons of his shirt.
  “I was so mad when you bought my auction lot. All
  manner of ideas ran through my head. I had to remind
  myself that punishment is off the menu. But then you
  volunteered.” He gazes down at me through his mask.
  “Why did you do that?” he whispers.
  “Volunteer? I don’t know. Frustration . . . too much
  alcohol . . . worthy cause,” I mutter meekly, shrugging.
  Maybe to get his attention?
  I needed him then. I need him more now. The ache is
  worse, and I know he can soothe it, calm this roaring,
  salivating beast in me with the beast in him. His mouth
  presses into a line, and he slowly licks his upper lip. I want
  that tongue on me.
  “I vowed to myself I would not spank you again, even
  if you begged me.”
  “Please,” I beg.
  “Please,” I beg.
  “But then I realized, you’re probably very
  uncomfortable at the moment, and it’s not something
  you’re used to.” He smirks at me knowingly, arrogant
  bastard, but I don’t care because he’s absolutely right.
  “Yes,” I breathe.
  “So, there might be a certain . . . latitude. If I do this,
  you must promise me one thing.”
  “Anything.”
  “You will safe word if you need to, and I will just make
  love to you, okay?”
  “Yes.” I’m panting. I want his hands on me.
  He swallows, then takes my hand, and moves toward
  the bed. Throwing the duvet aside, he sits down, grabs a
  pillow, and places it beside him. He gazes up at me
  standing beside him and suddenly tugs hard on my hand so
  that I fall across his lap. He shifts slightly so my body is
  resting on the bed, my chest on the pillow, my face to one
  side. Leaning over, he sweeps my hair over my shoulder
  and runs his fingers through the plume of feathers on my
  mask.
  “Put your hands behind your back,” he murmurs.
  Oh! He removes his bow tie and uses it to quickly bind
  my wrists so that my hands are tied behind me, resting in
  the small of my back.
  “You really want this, Anastasia?”
  I close my eyes. This is the first time since I met him
  that I really want this. I need it.
  “Yes,” I whisper.
  “Why?” he asks softly as he caresses my behind with
  “Why?” he asks softly as he caresses my behind with
  his palm.
  I groan as soon as his hand makes contact with my
  skin. I don’t know why . . . You tell me not to
  overthink. After a day like today—arguing about the
  money, Leila, Mrs. Robinson, the dossier on me, the
  roadmap, this lavish party, the masks, the alcohol, the
  silver balls, the auction . . . I want this.
  “Do I need a reason?”
  “No, baby, you don’t,” he says. “I’m just trying to
  understand you.” His left hand curls round my waist,
  holding me in place as his palm leaves my behind and lands
  hard, just above the junction of my thighs. The pain
  connects directly with the ache in my belly
  Oh man . . . I moan loudly. He hits me again, in
  exactly the same place. I groan again.
  “Two,” he murmurs. “We’ll go with twelve.”
  Oh my! This feels different than the last time—so
  carnal, so . . . necessary. He caresses my behind with his
  long-fingered hands, and I’m helpless, trussed up and
  pressed into the mattress, at his mercy, and of my own
  free will. He hits me again, slightly to the side, and again, to
  the other side, then pauses as he slowly peels my panties
  down and pulls them off. He gently trails his palm across
  my behind again before continuing my spanking—each
  stinging smack taking the edge off my need—or fueling it
  —I don’t know. I surrender myself to the rhythm of
  blows, absorbing each one, savoring each one.
  “Twelve,” he murmurs his voice low and harsh. He
  caresses my behind again and trails his fingers down
  caresses my behind again and trails his fingers down
  toward my sex and slowly sinks two fingers inside me,
  moving them in a circle, round and round and round,
  torturing me.
  I moan loudly as my body takes over, and I come and
  come, convulsing around his fingers. It’s so intense,
  unexpected, and quick.
  “That’s right, baby,” he murmurs appreciatively. He
  unties my wrists, keeping his fingers inside me as I lie
  panting and spent over him.
  “I’ve not finished with you yet, Anastasia,” he says and
  shifts without removing his fingers. He eases my knees on
  to the floor so that now I’m leaning over the bed. He
  kneels on the floor behind me and undoes his zipper. He
  slides his fingers out of me, and I hear the familiar tear of a
  foil packet. “Open your legs,” he growls and I comply. He
  strokes my behind and eases into me.
  “This is going to be quick, baby,” he murmurs and
  grabbing my hips, he eases out then slams into me.
  “Ah!” I cry out but the fullness is heavenly. He’s hitting
  the bellyache square on, again and again, eradicating it
  with each sharp, sweet thrust. The feeling is mind-blowing,
  just what I need. I push back to meet him, thrust for thrust.
  “Ana, no,” he grunts, trying to still me. But I want him
  too much, and I grind against him, matching him thrust for
  thrust.
  “Ana, shit,” he hisses as he comes, and the tortured
  sound sets me off again, spiraling into a healing orgasm that
  goes on and on and wrings me out and leaves me spent
  and breathless.
  and breathless.
  Christian bends and kisses my shoulder then pulls out
  of me. Placing his arms around me, he rests his head in the
  middle of my back, and we lie like this, both kneeling at
  the bedside, for what? Seconds? Minutes even as our
  breathing calms. My bellyache has disappeared, and all I
  feel is a soothing, satisfying serenity.
  Christian stirs and kisses my back. “I believe you owe
  me a dance, Miss Steele,” he murmurs.
  “Hmm,” I respond, savoring the absence of achiness
  and basking in the afterglow.
  He sits back on his heels and pulls me off the bed onto
  his lap. “We don’t have long. Come on.” He kisses my
  hair and forces me to stand.
  I grumble but sit back down on the bed and collect my
  panties from the floor and scoop them on. Lazily I walk to
  the chair to retrieve my dress. I note with dispassionate
  interest that I did not remove my shoes during our illicit
  tryst. Christian is tying his bow tie, having finished
  straightening himself and the bed.
  As I slip my dress back on, I check out the
  photographs on the pin board. Christian as a sullen teen
  was gorgeous even then: with Elliot and Mia on the ski
  slopes; on his own in Paris, the Arc de Triomphe serving
  as a giveaway background; in London; New York; the

  Grand Canyon; Sydney Opera House; even the Great
  Wall of China. Master Grey was well traveled at a young
  age.
  There are ticket stubs to various concerts: U2,
  Metallica, The Verve, Sheryl Crow, the New York
  Metallica, The Verve, Sheryl Crow, the New York
  Philharmonic performing Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet—
  what an eclectic mix! And in the corner, there’s a
  passport-size photograph of a young woman. It’s in black
  and white. She looks familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t
  place her. Not Mrs. Robinson, thank heavens.
  “Who’s this?” I ask.
  “No one of consequence,” he mutters as he slips on his
  jacket and straightens his bow tie. “Shall I zip you up?”
  “Please. Then why is she on your pin board?”
  “An oversight on my part. How’s my tie?” He raises
  his chin like a small boy, and I grin and straighten it for
  him.
  “Now it’s perfect.”
  “Like you,” he murmurs and grabs me, kissing me
  passionately. “Feeling better?”
  “Much, thank you, Mr. Grey.”
  “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Steele.”
  The guests are assembling on the dance floor. Christian
  grins at me—we’ve made it just in time—and he leads me
  onto the checkered floor.
  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the first
  dance. Mr. and Dr. Grey, are you ready?” Carrick nods in
  agreement, his arms around Grace.
  “Ladies and gentlemen of the First Dance Auction, are
  you ready?” We all nod in agreement. Mia is with
  someone I don’t recognize. I wonder what happened to
  Sean?
  “Then we shall begin. Take it away, Sam!”
  A young man strolls onto the stage amid warm
  applause, turns to the band behind him and snaps his
  fingers. The familiar strains of “I’ve Got You Under My
  Skin” fill the air.
  Christian smiles down at me, takes me in his arms, and
  starts to move. Oh, he dances so well, making it easy to
  follow. We grin at each other like idiots as he whirls me
  around the dance floor.
  “I love this song,” Christian murmurs, gazing down at
  me. “Seems very fitting.” He’s no longer grinning, but
  serious.
  “You’re under my skin, too,” I respond. “Or you were
  in your bedroom.”
  He purses his lips but he’s unable to hide his
  amusement.
  “Miss Steele,” he admonishes me teasingly, “I had no
  idea you could be so crude.”
  “Mr. Grey, neither did I. I think it’s all my recent
  experiences. They’ve been an education.”
  “For both of us.” Christian is serious again, and it could
  just be the two of us and the band. We are in our own
  private bubble.
  As the song finishes we both applaud. Sam the singer
  bows graciously and introduces his band.
  “May I cut in?”
  I recognize the man who bid on me at the auction.
  Christian grudgingly lets me go, but he’s amused, too.
  “Be my guest. Anastasia, this is John Flynn. John,
  Anastasia.”
  Shit!
  Christian smirks at me and wanders off to one side of
  the dance floor.
  “How do you do, Anastasia?” Dr. Flynn says
  smoothly, and I realize he’s British.
  “Hello,” I stutter.
  The band strikes up another song, and Dr. Flynn pulls
  me into his arms. He’s much younger than I imagined,
  though I can’t see his face. He’s wearing a mask similar to
  Christian’s. He’s tall, but not as tall as Christian, and he
  doesn’t move with Christian’s easy grace.
  What do I say to him? Why is Christian so fucked-up?
  Why did he bid on me? It’s the only thing I want to ask
  him, but somehow that seems rude.
  “I’m glad to finally meet you, Anastasia. Are you
  enjoying yourself?” he asks.
  “I was,” I whisper.
  “Oh. I hope I’m not responsible for your change of
  heart.” He gives me a brief, warm smile that puts me a little
  more at ease.
  “Doctor Flynn, you’re the shrink. You tell me.”
  He grins. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? The shrink bit?”
  I giggle. “I’m worried what I might reveal, so I’m a
  little self-conscious and intimidated. And really I only want
  to ask you about Christian.”
  He smiles. “First, this is a party so I’m not on duty,” he
  whispers conspiratorially. “And second, I really can’t talk
  whispers conspiratorially. “And second, I really can’t talk
  to you about Christian. Besides,” he teases, “we’d need
  until Christmas.”
  I gasp in shock.
  “That’s a doctor’s joke, Anastasia.”
  I flush, embarrassed, and then feel slightly resentful.
  He’s making a joke at Christian’s expense. “You’ve just
  confirmed what I’ve been saying to Christian . . . that
  you’re an expensive charlatan,” I admonish him.
  Dr. Flynn snorts with laughter. “You could be onto
  something there.”
  “You’re British?”
  “Yes. Originally from London.”
  “How did you find yourself here?”
  “Happy circumstance.”
  “You don’t give much away, do you?”
  “There’s not much to give away. I’m really a very dull
  person.”
  “That’s very self-deprecating.”
  “It’s a British trait. Part of our national character.”
  “Oh.”
  “And I could accuse you of the same, Anastasia.”
  “That I’m a dull person, too, Dr. Flynn?”
  He snorts. “No, Anastasia, that you don’t give much
  away.”
  “There’s not much to give away.” I smile.
  “I sincerely doubt that.” He unexpectedly frowns.
  I flush, but the music finishes and Christian is once
  more by my side. Dr. Flynn releases me.
  “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia.” He gives
  “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia.” He gives
  me his warm smile again, and I feel that I’ve passed some
  kind of hidden test.
  “John.” Christian nods at him.
  “Christian.” Dr. Flynn returns his nod, turns on his heel,
  and disappears through the crowd.
  Christian pulls me into his arms for the next dance.
  “He’s much younger than I expected,” I murmur to
  him. “And terribly indiscreet.”
  Christian cocks his head to one side. “Indiscreet?”
  “Oh yes, he told me everything,” I tease.
  Christian tenses. “Well, in that case, I’ll get your bag.
  I’m sure you want nothing more to do with me,” he says
  softly.
  I stop. “He didn’t tell me anything!” My voice fills with
  panic.
  Christian blinks before relief floods his face. He pulls
  me into his arms again. “Then let’s enjoy this dance.” He
  beams down, reassuring me, then spins me round.
  Why would he think that I’d want to leave? It makes
  no sense.
  We dance for two more numbers, and I realize I need
  the restroom.
  “I won’t be long.”
  As I make my way to the powder room, I remember I
  have left my purse on the dinner table, so I head down to
  the marquee. When I enter, it’s still lit but quite deserted,
  except for a couple at the other end, who really ought to
  get a room! I reach for my bag.
  “Anastasia?”
  “Anastasia?”
  A soft voice startles me, and I turn to see a woman
  dressed in a long, tight, black velvet gown. Her mask is
  unique. It covers her face to her nose but also covers her
  hair. It’s stunning with elaborate gold filigree.
  “I’m so glad you’re on your own,” she says softly.
  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you all evening.”
  “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are.”
  She pulls the mask from her face and releases her hair.
  Shit! It’s Mrs. Robinson.
  “I’m sorry, I startled you.”
  I gape at her. Holy cow—what the fuck does this
  woman want?
  I don’t know what the social conventions are for
  meeting known molesters of children. She’s smiling
  sweetly and gesturing for me to sit at the table. And
  because I am lacking any sphere of reference, I do as she
  asks out of stunned politeness, grateful that I am still
  wearing my mask.
  “I’ll be brief, Anastasia. I know what you think of
  me . . . Christian’s told me.”
  I gaze at her impassively, giving nothing away, but I’m
  pleased that she knows. It saves me telling her, and she’s
  cutting to the chase. Part of me is beyond intrigued as to
  what she could have to say.
  She pauses, glancing over my shoulder. “Taylor’s
  watching us.”
  I peek around to see him scanning the tent by the
  doorway. Sawyer is with him. They are looking anywhere
  but at us.
  but at us.
  “Look, we don’t have long,” she says hurriedly. “It
  must be obvious to you that Christian is in love with you. I
  have never seen him like this, ever.” She emphasizes the
  last word.
  What? Loves me? No. Why is she telling me? To
  reassure me? I don’t understand.
  “He won’t tell you because he probably doesn’t realize
  it himself, notwithstanding what I’ve said to him, but that’s
  Christian. He’s not very attuned to any positive feelings
  and emotions he may have. He dwells far too much on the
  negative. But then you’ve probably worked that out for
  yourself. He doesn’t think he’s worthy.”
  I am reeling. Christian loves me? He hasn’t said it,
  and this woman has told him that’s how he feels? How
  bizarre.
  A hundred images dance through my head: the iPad,
  the gliding, flying to see me, all his actions, his
  possessiveness, one hundred thousand dollars for a dance.
  Is this love?
  And hearing it from this woman, having her confirm it
  for me is, frankly, unwelcome. I’d rather hear it from him.
  My heart constricts. He feels unworthy? Why?
  “I’ve never seen him so happy, and it’s obvious that
  you have feelings for him, too.” A brief smile flits across
  her lips. “That’s great, and I wish you both the best of
  everything. But what I wanted to say is if you hurt him
  again, I will find you, lady, and it won’t be pleasant when I
  do.”
  She stares at me, ice-cold blue eyes boring into my
  She stares at me, ice-cold blue eyes boring into my
  skull, trying to get under my mask. Her threat is so
  astonishing, so off the wall that an involuntary, disbelieving
  giggle escapes me. Of all the things she could say to me,
  this is the least expected.
  “You think this is funny, Anastasia?” she splutters in
  dismay. “You didn’t see him last Saturday.”
  My face falls and darkens. The thought of Christian
  unhappy is not a palatable one, and last Saturday I left
  him. He must have gone to her. The idea makes me
  queasy. Why am I sitting here listening to this shit from her
  of all people? I slowly rise, gazing at her intently.
  “I’m laughing at your audacity, Mrs. Lincoln. Christian
  and I have nothing to do with you. And if I do leave him
  and you come looking for me, I’ll be waiting—don’t doubt
  it. And maybe I’ll give you a taste of your own medicine
  on behalf of the fifteen-year-old child you molested and
  probably fucked-up even more than he already was.”
  Her mouth falls open.
  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have better things to do
  than waste my time with you.” I turn on my heel,
  adrenaline and anger coursing through my body, and stalk
  toward the entrance of the tent where Taylor is standing
  just as Christian arrives, looking flustered and worried.
  “There you are,” he mutters, then frowns when he sees
  Elena.
  I stride past him, saying nothing, giving him the
  opportunity to choose—her or me. He makes the right
  choice.
  “Ana,” he calls. I stop and face him as he catches up
  “Ana,” he calls. I stop and face him as he catches up
  with me. “What’s wrong?” He gazes down at me, concern
  etched on his face.
  “Why don’t you ask your ex?” I hiss acidly.
  His mouth twists and his eyes frost. “I’m asking you,”
  he says, his voice soft but with an undertone of something
  far more menacing.
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作者:佚名
章节:8 人气:0
摘要:第一章“你们尽力从这窄门进来吧。”——《路加福音》第13章24节。我这里讲的一段经历,别人可能会写成一部书,而我倾尽全力去度过,耗掉了自己的特质,就只能极其简单地记下我的回忆。这些往事有时显得支离破碎,但我绝不想虚构点儿什么来补缀或通连:气力花在涂饰上,反而会妨害我讲述时所期望得到的最后的乐趣。 [点击阅读]
笑面人
作者:佚名
章节:15 人气:0
摘要:维克多-雨果于一八○二年二月二十六日诞生在法国东部伯桑松城。雨果的父亲,西吉斯贝尔-雨果,本是法国东部南锡一个木工的儿子,法国大革命时他是共和国军队的上尉,曾参加过意大利和西班牙战争,在拿破仑时期晋升为将级军官。雨果从童年起就在不停的旅游中度过,他的父亲西吉斯贝尔-雨果把妻子和孩子从一个驻扎地带到另一个驻扎地。 [点击阅读]
第三个女郎
作者:佚名
章节:25 人气:0
摘要:赫邱里?白罗坐在早餐桌上。右手边放着一杯热气腾腾的巧克力,他一直嗜好甜食,就着这杯热巧克力喝的是一块小甜面包,配巧克最好吃了。他满意地点了点头。他跑了几家铺子才买了来的;是一家丹麦点心店,可绝对比附近那家号称法国面包房要好不知多少倍,那家根本是唬人的。他总算解了馋,肚子是惬意多了。他心中也是很安逸,或许太平静了一点。他已经完成了他的“文学巨著”,是一部评析侦探小说大师的写作。 [点击阅读]
第二十二条军规
作者:佚名
章节:51 人气:0
摘要:约瑟夫·海勒(1923—1999)美国黑色*幽默派及荒诞派代表作家,出生于纽约市布鲁克林一个俄裔犹太人家庭。第二次世界大战期间曾任空军中尉。战后进大学学习,1948年毕业于纽约大学,获文学学士学位。1949年在哥伦比亚大学获文学硕士学位后,得到富布赖特研究基金赴英国牛津大学深造一年。1950到1952年在宾夕法尼亚州立大学等校任教。 [点击阅读]
第八日的蝉
作者:佚名
章节:57 人气:0
摘要:握住门把。手心如握寒冰。那种冰冷,仿佛在宣告已无退路。希和子知道平日上午八点十分左右,这间屋子会有大约二十分钟没锁门。她知道只有婴儿被留在屋里,无人在家。就在刚才,希和子躲在自动贩卖机后面目送妻子与丈夫一同出门。希和子毫不犹豫,转动冰冷的门把。门一开,烤焦的面包皮皮、油、廉价粉底、柔软精、尼古丁、湿抹布……那些混杂在一起的味道扑面而来,稍微缓和了室外的寒意。 [点击阅读]