Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

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.”
    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