NOTE FROM RIOTTORI: I'VE RECEIVED A FEW QUESTIONS ABOUT THE 'OTHER' CONTRACT OF ALICE'S THAT CHRISTIAN ALLUDES TO. I'M AFRAID IT'S AN UNSIGNED SUB/DOM CONTRACT. (I CAN ACTUALLY HEAR SOME OF YOU GASP!) SORRY :(

NOW ON WITH THE STORY...

I am getting ready for my date with James. I am meeting him at the restaurant though. Not at home. I don't want him to pick me up from the house I shared with my husband, my family. It feels wrong, like deceit. The voice is angry with me for this decision. It thinks I'm being weak again, its favorite criticism of me. At the moment, we're not talking. It has furled itself up, a rose closing for the night.

I have picked my outfit carefully and I dress, my expensive lingerie like armor. He may not get to see it, but I'll know I'm wearing it. I need to know I can look like this, I need to know I do. My self-esteem has been systematically eroded over the past eight years – my husband's lies and infidelity crashing against it, grinding it down to nothing. Don't just blame him. You did it to yourself. The voice likes to hit when I'm low. I ignore it and fasten the clasp on my bra.

I have bought a new dress. It wraps around my body, ridiculously expensive and ridiculously flimsy-looking. The fabric is sparked through with silver thread and when I move it catches the light. It makes me as vital as the moon. I smile at my reflection as I wind a silver necklace around my neck, spray perfume behind my ears, run a hand through my hair, which snakes into neat waves.

I'm ready.

Oh yeah? The voice is snarky and I know what it's going to say. So why have you spent the whole time getting ready thinking about your husband? Imagining you're getting ready for a date with him?

(C's POV)

I smash my hand down hard on the fragile glass coffee-table. It splinters and cracks but doesn't break completely. I am engulfed in anger, rage at its purest red. I don't know what to do with myself.

I get up, pace the suite, a tiger, caged. As I pace and pace and pace, something happens, something changes. I feel the mercury drip inside. The endless grey I had been feeling for the past few weeks since she left me has been replaced with a new color. All I see is red, all I feel is rage. I like it better this way. Much, much better. As the new sensation chases out the old, floods my system, I start to calm. And when I am really in control, I pick my phone up and dial a number. "Get back here, now."

He meets me in the suite and I can tell that he has run all the way back. His ragged breathing makes me feel powerful, like my old self. I hold the photos out to him, my wife's image smudging under my thumb.

"Find out who he is. I'd like to know the name of the man who is fucking my wife."

James leads me to my car after dinner, his hand in mine. He had reached for it when we left the restaurant and I let him take it. It feels strange – not unpleasant, just new, novel. It doesn't feel like my husband's hand.

We reach the driver's side and I can feel him clasp my hand harder. It causes my heart to beat more rapidly. He pulls me into him, against him, like the start of the Tango, a highly dangerous dance. His eyes burn into mine as he looks at me, they have been burning into mine all evening, deepening in color with each glance. His other hand makes an upward stroke and tilts my face to his. I close my eyes and wait for the kiss, the first foreign kiss in two decades. Funny, I'd always thought Christian would be the last person I'd kiss.

His lips brush mine. It's not really a kiss, more a hint of one. It is slow and soft and tantalisingly sweet. "Anastasia," he whispers against my mouth. "You are so beautiful."

The muscles in my stomach clench at his words and I am absolutely overwhelmed. The feeling inspires me to make a move, for my lips to meet his again. Good girl,the voice coaxes. His tongue teases mine as he meets and matches my rising urgency. All my emotion is channeled through my tongue, focused on my mouth and its movement on his.

He breaks away, and looks down at me, surprise evident in his eyes, need affecting his breathing. "Anastasia," he says, again. It sounds like a question. Not tonight. That's my voice guiding me now. This is enough for now. The other voice scoffs and skulks away. It will sulk all night now.

"I have to go," I say. "I'm sorry. Call me." From the near-feral look in his eye, I know he will. He opens the car door for me but blocks my entry. He reaches for me again, draws me closer, won't let me go. I allow him one more hot, hard kiss. It's as much for him as for me.

As I drive away, I taste him on my lower lip, my own tongue running over where his had been. It tastes good; it tastes like revenge.

NOTE FROM RIOTTORI: THAT'S FOR ALL OF YOU WHO WANT ANA TO HAVE SOME FUN, TOO. I THINK SHE'S SPENT ENOUGH TIME BEING PASSIVE AND SUBMISSIVE, DON'T YOU? ;)