"Is there a problem, Miss Jones?" His eyebrows knit together, and his body stiffens like an erect penis.

Hmmm.

Not so much an erect penis. Something less cheerful. I tap my jaw, deep in thought.

I can't seem to think of anything stiff and unhappy because I'm so close to Crispin's musky aura, that my inner goddess refuses to provide me with any decent metaphors. I warn her that she won't be allowed to do any salsas, merengues, or sambas until she gets her fucking act together, but she sticks out her tongue at me and says I'd be nowhere without her.

What a bitch.

Am I right?

Mr. Shades claps his large hands in front of my face. "Earth to Miss Jones. Earth to Miss Jones."

I really must stop the internal monologuing. Yeah, I may have gotten the job but keeping it will require me to pay attention to my new boss. Men hate being ignored, i.e., not the absolute center of attention. I ought to save the inner commentary for times I'm alone or in a group setting where no one will notice.

But Crispin is so ... firm, and rigid, and well ... crisp, that it's hard to concentrate on his words. I watch the movement of his luscious mouth, with its quirked lips and overlarge canines, and I'm lost.

And then there's the matter of the enormous room spread out before me. What a shock!

The walls and ceiling are painted a deep, dark, hot pink. The floor is concrete-stained with a blush finish. The room contains a full-on, American Kennel Club agility course with tunnels, seesaws, jumps, rings, planks. Dozens of dog toy baskets.

At the far corner is a grooming area with a claw-footed tub, mountains of pink towels, a blow-drying station, a massage table, and a big-screen television tuned into what could best be described as doggie porn. Beautiful long-coated dogs running through green, wildflower-dotted fields in slow motion, accompanied by soothing classical music.

It smells like vanilla, probably from the dozens of candles flickering in the massage region. Unattended candles honestly seem like a fire hazard.

Disappointment roils in my stomach.

Any rational person would assume a billionaire's secret lair—a lair locked with an ornate skeleton key no less—would be a BDSM sex palace with whips in twelve sizes, straps, feathers, leather doohickies, and the odd rusty shackle. Or perhaps a fantasy grotto filled with French champagne. Or an indoor bowling alley at the least. But lucky me, I meet the one billionaire with a dog training room.

A Doggie Disneyland.

A pink room of shame.

Something bops me on the head, and I startle. A hot dog plush toy drops to the floor. Bella scoops it up and races toward the neat line of fuchsia toy bins against the far wall, deposits it inside, and sits. Wow. "Excuse me, but are you quite all right, Miss Jones?"

Oops. "Sorry, I was just ... um ... appreciating the general splendor."

There he goes knitting his eyebrows again. The guy knits them a lot. This makes me wonder if eyebrows can also crochet.

He holds up a cell phone. "So, I should cancel the Uber?"

I shake my head. When did he have time to call an Uber? I've been standing here the whole time. It's as if his long fingers move so quickly the average person cannot follow the movements. "No, I'm fine. Really."

"You screamed."

"Oh, that. I was a little ... um ... surprised by the color palate."

"Is that your stomach roiling?" he says. How could he possibly know? Does he have magical powers? Could it be that Clarissa lied to me, and he is a vampire after all? Am I stuck in some fictional fantasy world? Do I even exist?

"If you're sure you're okay, I'll cancel the Uber. But could you please stop your existential inner monologue? It's very distracting." He glowers at me, and it's so hot!

I gasp. "Can you read my mind?"

Crispin laughs, deep and throaty.

Deep throaty?

"Not at all. I have ears. And I'm very good at reading people's scents."

Really, why didn't I shower this morning? Will the suffering for one tiny alarm clock mishap never cease? I surreptitiously sniff my armpits.

Bella returns with a pink rubber ball in her mouth. She drops it at our feet and kneels beside the door.

Naked.

What a good idea.

Maybe if I do that, Crispin will be pleased. I find myself wanting to surrender myself to him. To give him all my power. At least until I've got the ring on my finger. Am I right, ladies?

I bite my lip and reach behind my back to the top of the dress, struggling with the zipper. Damn, sexily unzipping a back zipper is impossible. I must look like a crazy person trying to escape from a straitjacket. "Could you give me a hand?" I ask smolderingly.

The button at the top of Crispin's jeans pops open revealing a golden-red arrow of hair pointing down to what must be glorious man parts. I bite my lip. What do they look like? What would they feel like inside me?

"Shouldn't have had that second footlong," Crispin says.

Did he say 'footlong?' Because I volunteer as tribute to help Crispin with his personal footlong. Which I'm assuming is an accurate length given the size of his index finger. Although, many say that owning the biggest skyscraper in the city might be indicative of a man's overcompensation in this arena, but I'm an optimist.

He rebuttons his fly. What? No! Unbutton that thing!  "Stop biting your lip. What do you need help with Miss Jones?"

"My zipper." Due to my extreme politeness, I do not mention that this is rather obvious.

You know what he does next. He knits his brows. Am I confounding the man? "You want me to help you in what way with your zipper?"

"Have you never been with a woman before, Mr. Shades? Do you prefer men?"

"Where did you hear that?" he snaps.

"Nowhere. It's just weird that you haven't ripped off my clothes yet. What kind of a hot billionaire just stands there complaining about indigestion when a young woman is begging him to unzip her dress? Is it because you prefer the black and white version of the dress?" I think about his blonde assistant and a wave of jealousy crashes over me.

"Sorry?"

"Your assistant had this dress in black and white. Do you like her better? Is it because she's blonde? Because her hair stays in place? She's sophisticated? I know I am not beautiful, but if you were a gentleman, you would tell me I am beautiful. You would caress my chin. Kiss me deeply, your expert tongue exploring my mouth. And without breaking the kiss, you would take one hand, gently brush my nape, while placing seductive kisses down my neck. Goosebumps would then erupt down my arms.

"Then you would ever so slowly unzip the dress. Slip it off my body. But because you cannot wait another second to possess me, you rip off my panties and command me to sit on my knees, hands folded demurely in my lap, maybe blindfold me. And then do unspeakable things to my body."

"This is a dog training room," he says simply. As if it's obvious. As if I've misunderstood his intentions all along. "I think you've misunderstood."

"But you said I started tonight," I protest.

"You start with my assistant, Raquel, showing you how to care for Bella when I'm away on a business trip. Raquel?" he howls.

From a hidden door beyond the tub, in walks beautiful, perfect Raquel, with her ridiculously long legs in the black and white dress, which is definitely better than the red one. "Yes, sir?" she says as if she's used to obeying Crispin. Can I pull her perfect blonde hair out of her head strand by strand, or would that result in jail time?

"Can you please show Miss Jones the ropes?"

Now he mentions ropes?

But the big question is, what kind? Synthetic, natural filament, twine, or cable cord?

***

And there you have it! Another episode of 50 DEGREES OF SHADE! Hope you had more fun in Crispin's pink room of shame than Anesthesia. Poor thing.

Now I will leave you with another vote bribe. Look at those eyes. How can you resist?

This chapter is dedicated to AmiTheDarkLady, one of the amazing authors responsible for 50 DEGREES OF SHADE even happening. She writes super-sexy stories and you should all go check out her work!