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returns and I give him my card, but I keep my attention on Ana. Well, at least she’s intrigued.
    Good.
    My heart rate accelerates. I hope she goes for this…or I really will be lost. The waiter hands me the credit card slip to sign. I enter an obscene tip and sign my name with a flourish. The waiter seems excessively grateful. And it’s still irritating.
    My phone buzzes and I scan the text. Taylor’s arrived. The waiter gives me my card back and disappears.
    “Come. Taylor’s outside.”
    We both stand and I take her hand. “I don’t want to lose you, Anastasia,” I murmur, and raise her hand and brush my lips against her knuckles. Her breathing accelerates.
    Oh, that sound.
    I glance at her face. Her lips are parted, cheeks pink and eyes wide. The sight fills me with hope and desire. I stifle my impulses and lead her through the restaurant and outside, where Taylor is waiting at the curb in the Q7. It occurs to me that Ana might be reluctant to talk if he’s in front.
    I have an idea. Opening the rear door, I usher her in, and walk around to the driver’s side. Taylor gets out to open the door for me.
    “Good evening, Taylor. Do you have your iPod and headphones?”
    “Yes, sir, never leave home without them.”
    “Great. Use them on the way home.”
    “Of course, sir.”
    “What will you listen to?”
    “Puccini, sir.”
    “Tosca?”
    “La Bohème.”
    “Good choice.” I smile. As ever, he surprises me. I’d always assumed his musical tastes leaned toward country and rock. Taking a deep breath, I climb into the car. I’m about to negotiate the deal of my life.
    I want her back.
    Taylor presses play on the car’s sound system and the stirring notes from Rachmaninov swell quietly in the background. He regards me for a second in the mirror and pulls out into the light evening traffic.
    Anastasia is watching me when I turn to face her. “As I was saying, Anastasia, I have a proposition for you.”
    She looks anxiously at Taylor, as I knew she would.
    “Taylor can’t hear you.”
    “What?” She looks perplexed.
    “Taylor,” I call. Taylor doesn’t respond. I call him again, then lean over and tap his shoulder. He removes an earbud.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Thank you, Taylor. It’s okay—resume your listening.”
    “Sir.”
    “Happy now? He’s listening to his iPod. Puccini. Forget he’s here. I do.”
    “Did you deliberately ask him to do that?”
    “Yes.”
    She blinks in surprise. “Okay…your proposition,” she says, hesitant and apprehensive.
    I’m nervous, too, baby. Here goes.
Don’t blow this, Grey.
    How to begin?
    I take a deep breath. “Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship, with no kinky fuckery at all?”
    “Kinky fuckery?” she squeaks in disbelief.
    “Kinky fuckery.”
    “I can’t believe you said that.” She looks anxiously at Taylor again.
    “Well, I did. Answer me.”
    “I like your kinky fuckery,” she whispers.
    Oh, baby, so do I.
    I’m relieved. Step one…okay.
Keep cool, Grey.
    “That’s what I thought. So what don’t you like?”
    She’s silent for a moment, and I know she’s scrutinizing me in the light and shadows of the intermittent street lamps. “The threat of cruel and unusual punishment,” she says.
    “What does that mean?”
    “Well, you have all those—” She stops, glancing at Taylor once more, and her voice lowers. “Things in your playroom, the canes, and whips, and they frighten the living daylights out of me. I don’t want you to use them on me.”
    This, I have worked out for myself.
    “Okay, so no whips or canes. Or belts, for that matter,” I add, unable to keep the irony out of my voice.
    “Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?” she asks.
    “Not as such. I’m just trying to understand you—get a clearer picture of what you do and don’t like.”
    “Fundamentally, Christian, it’s your joy in inflicting pain that’s difficult for me to handle. And the idea that