Holy Fuck . . . Christian. The submissive.
Christian on his knees at my feet, holding me with his
steady gray gaze, is the most chilling and sobering sight I
ha一ve ever seen—more so than Leila and her gun. The
vague alcoholic fuzziness I’m suffering from evaporates in
an instant and is replaced by a prickling scalp and a
creeping sense of doom as the blood drains from my face.
I inhale sharply with shock. No. No, this is wrong, so
wrong and so disturbing.
“Christian, please, don’t do this. I don’t want this.”
He continues to regard me passively, not moving,
He continues to regard me passively, not moving,
saying nothing.
Oh fuck. My poor Fifty. My heart squeezes and
twists. What the hell ha一ve I done to him? Tears prick my
eyes.
“Why are you doing this? Talk to me,” I whisper.
He blinks once.
“What would you like me to say?” he says softly,
blandly, and for a moment I’m relieved that he’s talking,
but not like this—no. No.
Tears begin to ooze down my cheeks, and suddenly it
is too much to see him in the same prostrate position as the
pathetic creature that was Leila. The image of a powerful
man who’s really still a little boy, who was horrifically
abused and neglected, who feels unworthy of love from his
perfect family and his much-less-than perfect girlfriend . . .
my lost boy . . . it’s heartbreaking.
Compassion, loss, and despair all swell in my heart,
and I feel a choking sense of desperation. I am going to
ha一ve to fight to bring him back, to bring back my Fifty.
ha一ve to fight to bring him back, to bring back my Fifty.
The thought of me dominating anyone is appalling. The
thought of dominating Christian is nauseating. It would
make me like her—the woman who did this to him.
I shudder at that thought, fighting the bile in my throat.
No way can I do that. No way do I want that.
As my thoughts clear, I can see only one way. Not
taking my eyes off his, I sink to my knees in front of him.
The wooden floor is hard against my shins, and I dash
my tears away roughly w
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