“You can’t go. Ana, I love you!”

“I love you, too, Christian, it’s just—”

“No . . . no!” he says in desperation and puts both hands on his head. “Christian . . .”

“No,” he breathes, his eyes wide with panic, and suddenly he drops to his knees in front of me, head bowed, long-fingered hands spread out on his thighs. He takes a deep breath and doesn’t move. What? 

“Christian, what are you doing?”

He continues to stare down, not looking at me. 

“Christian! What are you doing?”

My voice is high-pitched. He doesn’t move. 

“Christian, look at me!” I command in panic. His head sweeps up without hesitation, and he regards me passively with his cool gray gaze—he’s almost serene . . . expectant.

Holy Fuck . . . Christian. The submissive.”