His breathing is ragged, matching mine.
“Err, yesterday,” I mumble in my highly aroused state. “Why?”
“Oh jeez,” I say, not really sure why, other than it seems to be one of my typically insipid colloquialisms. “But Fifty Shades Of Grey, the first film in our trilogy of deeply erotic and not at all pedestrian BDSM antics, hasn’t even been released yet!”
“Oh, Anastasia, my little unimaginative representation of milquetoast, undercooked female characters,” he said, firmly spanking my rear with a ping pong paddle or something. “Haven’t you been following our advance tickets sales? We’re already Fandango’s fastest-selling R-rated movie ever.”
“Oh crap!” I exclaim—again, kind of my go-to move. I find that whether I’m being tied up, being violently made love to, or negotiating contracts in a state of ardor, it’s a pretty safe move. Which is good, because safe is definitely the key word for our upcoming movie adaptation. Hmmm, maybe “key” could, in turn, be our “safe” word. I’m creative like that.
“Were a lot of those tickets in the Midwest, too, Christian?” I’m trembling now. I seem to do that a lot, without much prompting.
“They certainly were,” he purrs. “Now come here. We still have another week to kill before Fifty Shades Of Grey opens February 13. That’s a lot of incredibly repetitious sex we could squeeze in. Or, you know, 16 percent of the time could be filled with that.”
He reaches between my legs. Sweet Mother of all… Jeez.
