Crispin prowls through the dimly lit hallways like a predator, the muscles of his back rippling and flexing with each fluid stride. His fine ass strains against over-washed ripped tight Levi's. Holy bovine, he looks hot. Still, you'd think a billionaire could afford new jeans, but maybe all his money is tied up in investments. I mean, he can't even afford a shirt, poor guy.

Should I ask about how he intends to pay me or is that tacky for a first date? I mean first day.

No matter. I'm sure it'll work out. And I have better things to ponder than his finances. I'd rather fantasize about Crispin's other assets.

For example, I'd like to give his fine ass a closer inspection—perhaps on a cold metal veterinary exam table. My mouth waters as I imagine his hard glutes under my delicate, not overly long, lady fingers. But it turns out daydreaming about your new employer's ass while you're following close behind him is not wise, because when he suddenly stops, I slam into him.

And oops!

My hands somehow end up cupping his fine ass.

He spins, leaving my hands empty and bereft, his golden eyes blazing like twin moons. I bite my lip.

"Do not bite your lip," he scolds.

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to bite it instead," he says simply.

I gulp. "So that's what you're into? Biting?"

"You have no idea," he grins wickedly.

Oh my! A biter. "That's okay," I say calmly and encouragingly. "I've dealt with biters before. I think with some basic socialization training and repetitive positive reinforcement, we can "nip" that habit."

Crispin gives me the funniest look. Like maybe he thinks I'm some kind of crazy person who wandered unbiddenly into his lair.

"What?" I say, holding my hands out wide, palms flat, in a submissive position, proving I'm no threat. I mean, the biting thing could be interesting to explore, but I managed to apply my lipstick perfectly today and would hate to see it messed up.

"Nothing," Crispin says, at last, looking deeply into my eyes and rubbing his five-o-clock shadow. "You are very intriguing, Miss Jones."

"I've heard that before," I admit.

We've stopped beside an array of seven large rectangular paintings lining the hallway. I assume they must be expensive because from what I've heard, billionaires don't fuck around with cheap shit from Aaron Brothers. But I'm no expert. To me, the splotchy red paint on white canvases looks like blood splatters at a murder scene.

Mr. Shades notices me noticing his expensive art. "What do you think?" he asks, eyes solemn, as if he really cares about my opinion.

"Honestly?" I say.

"Of course."

"They look like something from a crime scene. And I mean that in only the nicest way," I amend my statement so as to not offend my future employer with the fine ass.

He gazes at me with those golden eyes again as if trying to dissect me and/or my art critique. "You have hidden depths, Miss Jones."

"Ani is fine," I croak. How does he know about my hidden depths? Are they sticking out? I check quickly, and nothing seems out of place. "But what do they mean? The paintings."

"They're a reminder," he says enigmatically and hotly. Then he steps closer to me, his auburn hair tickling against my clavicle, and takes a deep breath of my glossy brown hair.

I shiver. I seem to do that quite a lot around this man. He's my own personal cold front. "I washed it yesterday," I say defensively. "I had a final today and didn't have time this morning because I murdered my alarm clock. Long story."

Bella barks. Crispin backs away, eyes wide as if he'd been awakened from a dream. Damn, wish I'd washed my hair this morning. I vow never to kill another alarm clock. He kneels beside Bella and pats her head. "I agree," he says.

"What do you agree with?" I ask, super confused about the left turn in the conversation.

"Bella says we're going to be late for her appointment."

Oh, how adorable. Crispin is one of those people who likes to pretend he can talk to his dog. I roll my eyes when he's not looking and lean over to scratch Bella's head. "He is entertaining," I whisper confidingly into Bella's warm fuzzy ear.

"Why are you talking to my dog?" he growls.

"You talked to her. Why can't I?"

"Because you can't talk to dogs."

"And you can?"

His face reddens and his eyes intensify, burning with unspoken passion. Or maybe he's coming down with something. I cock my head, determined to get the metaphor right. Perhaps his eyes are more like twin suns now than moons. Or exploding suns. Novas? Supernovas? I don't know. Just like two really bright round things. "I've said too much already," Crispin says. "I cannot discuss any more with you until you've signed an NDA. My lawyer insists."

"What's an NDA?"

"It's a contract where you agree not to talk to anyone about anything you see here."

"Is that because you have a lot of deep dark secrets that would ruin your reputation and possibly end all life on earth if anyone found out?"

"Something like that."

"And you're going to tell me everything once I sign this NDA?" I say hopefully.

"Nope," he says firmly. "Never. Now, let's continue. We're nearly there."

I follow him, at a careful distance this time, my curiosity barely in check. If there's one thing Mr. Shades doesn't know about me, it's that I always get answers. I will uncover his secrets. For now, I'll let him assume I'm a mature adult who can accept being in the dark. Bit by bit, I will learn everything about Crispin Shades. Starting with what's in his training room.

***

After about a million more hours of walking, I'm pretty winded when we finally stop at an ordinary door with an elaborate lock. He withdraws a skeleton key from his pocket and watches me while he inserts it hard into the lock and pauses.

"What are you waiting for?" I ask, unable to contain my excitement. "I thought Bella was running late for her uh ... appointment."

"Just know that you can leave if you feel at all uncomfortable. I can call an Uber any time."

"No helicopter?" I say, slightly disappointed that he doesn't have a more impressive form of escape transport.

"It's out for a repair. Sorry."

"Learjet?"

"Not practical. Couldn't fit a landing strip on the roof."

Not that I'd go near the roof anyway. "Assuming you don't own a space shuttle?"

"Not yet. But I have time. I'm only twenty-eight."

Hm. I thought having your own rocket was the in thing for billionaires. "Isn't that rather young for a billionaire?"

"I think you're missing the point, Miss Jones," he says, avoiding my question. "What I'm trying to say is that if you are at all uncomfortable with what lies beyond that door, you may leave."

"Just open the damn door, Crispin."

He turns the key and pushes open the door. I let out a little cry.

***

And there you have it. Yet another installment of 50 Degrees of Shade. What secrets do you think our billionaire is keeping from the young, innocent Anesthesia Jones? What lies beyond that door? Answers soon!

I look forward, as always, to your hilarious comments.

***

This chapter is dedicated to one of my most loyal and dedicated readers. ravendra8, you're brilliant! xoxoxoxo