take this unexpected course.

I am excited already. Why does he affect me so? I slightly resent how easily I fall under

his spell. I know now that we won’t be spending the evening talking through all our issues

and recent events . . . but how can I resist him?

Checking my appearance in the mirror, I am bright-eyed and flushed with excitement.

Issues schmissues.

I take a deep breath and head back out into the club. I mean, it’s not as if I haven’t gone

panty less before. My inner goddess is draped in a pink feather boa and diamonds, strutting

her stuff in fuck-me shoes.

Christian stands politely when I return to the table, his expression unreadable. He looks

his usual perfect, cool, calm, and collected self. Of course, I now know differently.

“Sit beside me,” he says. I slide into the seat and he sits. “I’ve ordered for you. I hope

you don’t mind.” He hands me my half-finished glass of champagne, regarding me intently

and under his scrutiny, my blood heats anew. He rests his hands on his thighs. I tense and

part my legs slightly.

The waiter arrives with a dish of oysters on crushed ice. Oysters.The memory of the

two of us in the private dining room at the Heathman fills my mind. We were discussing his

contract. Oh boy. We’ve come a long way since then.

“I think you liked oysters last time you tried them.” His voice is low, seductive.

“Only time I’ve tried them.” I’m all breathy, my voice exposing me. His lips twitch

with a smile.

“Oh, Miss Steele—when will you learn?” he muses.

He takes an oyster from the dish and lifts his other hand from his thigh. I flinch in an-

ticipation, but he reaches for a slice of lemon.

“Learn what?” I ask. Jeez, my pulse is racing. His long, skilled fingers gently squeeze

the lemon over the shellfish.

“Eat,” he says, holding the shell close to my mouth. I part my lips, and he gently places

the shell on my bottom lip. “Tip your head back slowly,” he murmurs. I do as he asks and

the oyster slips down my throat. He doesn’t touch me, only the shell.

Christian helps himself to one, then feeds me another. We continue this tortuous rou-

tine until all twelve are gone. His skin never connects with mine. It’s driving me crazy.

“Still like oysters?” he asks as I swallow the final one.

I nod, flushed, craving his touch.

“Good.”

I squirm in my seat. Why is this so hot?

He puts his hand casually on his own thigh again, and I melt. Now. Please. Touch me.

My inner goddess is on her knees, naked except for her panties—begging. He runs his hand

up and down his thigh, lifts it, then places it back where it was.

The waiter tops up our champagne glasses and whisks away our plates. Moments later

he’s back with our entrée, sea bass— I don’t believe it—served with asparagus, sautéed

potatoes, and a hollandaise sauce.

“A favorite of yours, Mr. Grey?”

“Most definitely, Miss Steele. Though I believe it was cod at the Heathman.” His hand

moves up and down his thigh. My breathing spikes, but still he doesn’t touch me. It’s so

frustrating. I try to concentrate on our conversation.

“I seem to remember we were in a private dining room then, discussing contracts.”

“Happy days,” he says, smirking. “This time I hope to get to fuck you.” He moves his

hand to pick up his knife.

Gah!

He takes a bite out of his sea bass. He’s doing this on purpose.

“Don’t count on it,” I mutter with a pout and he glances at me, amused. “Speaking of

contracts,” I add. “The NDA.”

“Tear it up,” he says simply.

Whoa.

“What? Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure I’m not going to run to the Seattle Times with an exposé?” I tease.

He laughs and it’s a wonderful sound. He looks so young.

“No. I trust you. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Oh. I grin shyly at him. “Ditto,” I breathe.

His eyes light up. “I’m very glad you’re wearing a dress,” he murmurs. And bam—de-

sire courses through my already overheated blood.

“Why haven’t you touched me, then?” I hiss.

“Missing my touch?” he asks grinning. He’s amused . . . the bastard.

“Yes,” I seethe.

“Eat,” he orders.

“You’re not going to touch me, are you?”

“No.” He shakes his head.

What? I gasp out loud.

“Just imagine how you’ll feel when we’re home,” he whispers. “I can’t wait to get you

home.”

“It will be your fault if I combust here on the seventy-sixth floor,” I mutter through

gritted teeth.

“Oh, Anastasia. We’d find a way to put the fire out,” he says, grinning salaciously at

me. Fuming, I dig into my sea bass, and my inner goddess narrows her eyes in quiet, devi-

ous contemplation. We can play this game, too. I learned the basics during our meal at the

Heathman. I take a bite out of my sea bass. It is melt-in-the-mouth delicious. I close my

eyes, savoring the taste. When I open them, I begin my seduction of Christian Grey, very

slowly hitching my skirt up, exposing more of my thighs.

Christian pauses momentarily, a forkful of fish suspended midair.

Touch me.

After a beat, he resumes eating. I take another bite of sea bass, ignoring him. Then,

putting down my knife, I run my fingers up the inside of my lower thigh, lightly tapping

my skin with my fingertips. It’s distracting even to me, especially as I am craving his touch.

Christian pauses once more.

“I know what you’re doing.” His voice is low and husky.

“I know that you know, Mr. Grey,” I reply softly. “That’s the point.” I pick up an as-

paragus stalk, gaze sideways at him from beneath my lashes, then dip the asparagus into

the hollandaise sauce, swirling the tip round and round.

“You’re not turning the tables on me, Miss Steele.” Smirking he reaches over and takes

the spear from me—amazingly and annoyingly managing not to touch me again. No, this

isn’t right—this is not going according to plan. Gah!

“Open your mouth,” he commands.

I am losing this battle of wills. I glance up at him again, and his eyes blaze bright gray.

Parting my lips a fraction I run my tongue across my lower lip. Christian smiles and his

eyes darken further.

“Wider,” he breathes, his lips parting so that I can see his tongue. I groan inwardly and

bite my bottom lip, then do as he asks.

I hear his sharp intake of breath—he’s not so immune. Good, I am finally getting to

him. My inner goddess fist-pumps the air above her chaise longue.

Keeping my eyes locked on his, I take the spear in my mouth, and suck, gently . . .

delicately . . . on the end. The hollandaise sauce is mouthwatering. I bite down, moaning

quietly in appreciation.

Christian closes his eyes. Yes!When he opens them again, his pupils have dilated. The

effect on me is immediate. I groan and reach out to touch his thigh. To my surprise, he uses

his other hand to grab my wrist.

“Oh, no you don’t, Miss Steele,” he murmurs softly. Raising my hand to his mouth, he

gently brushes my knuckles with his lips, and I squirm. Finally! More, please.

“Don’t touch,” he scolds me quietly, and places my hand back on my knee. It’s so frus-

trating—this brief unsatisfactory contact.

“You don’t play fair.” I pout.

“I know.” He picks up his champagne glass to propose a toast, and I mirror his actions.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Miss Steele.” We clink glasses and I blush.

“Yes, kind of unexpected,” I mutter. He frowns as if some unpleasant thought has

crossed his mind.

“Eat,” he orders. “I am not taking you home until you’ve finished your meal, and then