e being without
Christian, ever.
“Let me love you,” he says hoarsely.
“Yes,” I answer, and turning, he hauls me into his arms,
his lips seeking mine, beseeching me, worshipping me,
cherishing me . . . loving me.
He trails his fingers up and down my spine as we gaze at
each other, basking in our postcoital bliss, replete. We lie
together, me on my front hugging my pillow, he on his side,
and I am treasuring his tender touch. I know that right now
he needs to touch me. I am a balm for him, a source of
solace, and how could I deny him that? I feel exactly the
same about him.
“So you can be gentle,” I murmur.
“Hmm . . . so it would seem, Miss Steele.”
I grin. “You weren’t particularly the first time we . . .
um, did this.”
“No?” He smirks. “When, I robbed you of your
virtue.”
“I don’t think you robbed me,” I mutter haughtily
—Jeez, I’m not a helpless maiden. “I think my virtue
was offered up pretty freely and willingly. I wanted you,
too, and if I remember correctly, I rather enjoyed myself.”
I smile shyly at him, biting my lip.
“So did I if I recall, Miss Steele. We aim to please,” he
drawls and his face softens, serious. “And it means you’re
mine, completely.” All trace of humor has vanished as he
gazes at me.
“Yes, I am,” I murmur back at him. “I wanted to ask
you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Go ahead.”
“Your biological father . . . do you know who he
was?” This thought has been bugging me.
His brow creases, and then he shakes his head. “I ha一ve
no idea. Wasn’t the sa一vage who was her pimp, which is
good.”
“How do you know?”
“Something my dad . . . something Carrick said to
me.”
I gaze at my Fifty expectantly, waiting. He smirks at
me.
“So hungry for information, Anastasia,” he sighs,
shaking his head. “The pimp discovered the crack whore’s
body and phoned it in to the authorities. Took him four
days to make the discovery though. He shut the door
when he left . . . left me with her . . . her body.” His eyes
cloud at the memory.
I inhale sharply. Poor baby boy—the horror
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