Flight. Translated by Stuart Gilbert.
New Jersey: Prentice Hall, June 1932. (First published in 1931 under the
original title of Vol de nuit.)
With easy grace, Christian taps the white ball so that it
glides across the table, kisses the black and oh-so-slowly
the black rolls, teeters on the edge, and finally drops into
the top right pocket of the billiard table.
Damn.
He stands, and his mouth twists in a triumphant I-soown-
you-Steele smile. Putting down his cue, he saunters
casually toward me, all tousled hair, jeans, and white Tshirt.
He doesn’t look like a CEO—he looks like a bad
boy from the wrong side of town. Holy cow, he’s so
fucking sexy.
“You’re not going to be a sore loser, are you?” he
murmurs, barely containing his grin.
“Depends how hard you spank me,” I whisper, holding
on to my cue for support. He takes my cue and puts it to
one side, hooks his finger into the top of my shirt, and pulls
me toward him.
“Well, let’s count your misdemeanors, Miss Steele.”
He counts on his long fingers. “One, making me jealous of
my own staff. Two, arguing with me about working. And
three, wa一ving your delectable derriere at me for the last
twenty minutes.”
His eyes glow a soft gray with excitement, and leaning
down, he rubs his nose against mine. “I want you to take
your jeans and this very fetching shirt off. Now.” He plants
a feather-soft kiss on my lips, wanders nonchalantly over
to the door, and locks it.
Oh my.
When he turns and gazes at me, his eyes are burning. I
stand paralyzed like a complete zombie, my heart
pounding, my blood pumping, not actually able to move a
muscle. In my mind, all I can think is—this is for him—
the thought repeating like a mantra over and over again.
“Clothes, Anastasia. You appear to still be wearing
them. Take them off—or I will do it for you.”
“You do it.” I finally find my voice, and it sounds low
and heated. Christian grins.
“Oh, Miss Steele. It’s a dirty job, but I think I can rise
to the challenge.”
“You normally rise to most cha
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