THURSDAY, JUNE 9, 2011
I sit. Waiting. My heart is thumping. It’s 5:36 and I stare through the privacy glass of my Audi at the front door of her building. I know I’m early, but I’ve been looking forward to this moment all day.
I’m going to see her.
I shift in my seat in the rear of the car. The atmosphere feels stifling, and though I’m trying to remain calm, the anticipation and anxiety are knotting my stomach and pressing down on my chest. Taylor sits in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead, wordless, looking his usual composed self, while I can barely breathe. It’s irritating.
Damn it. Where is she?
She’s inside—inside Seattle Independent Publishing. Set back beyond a wide, open sidewalk, the building is shabby and in need of renovation; the company’s name is etched haphazardly in the glass, and the frosted effect on the window is peeling. The business behind those closed doors could be an insurance company or an accounting firm—they’re not displaying their wares. Well, that’s something I can rectify when I take control. SIP is mine. Almost. I’ve signed the revised heads of agreement.
Taylor clears his throat and his eyes dart to mine in the rearview mirror. “I’ll wait outside, sir,” he says, surprising me, and he climbs out of the car before I can stop him.
Maybe he’s more affected by my tension than I thought. Am I that obvious? Maybe he’s tense. But why? Maybe it’s because he’s had to deal with my ever-changing moods this past week, and I know I’ve not been easy.
But today has been different. Hopeful. It’s the first productive day I’ve had since she left me, or so it feels. My optimism has driven me through my meetings with enthusiasm. Ten hours until I see her. Nine. Eight. Seven…My patience has been tested by the clock as it ticks closer to my reunion with Miss Anastasia Steele.
And now that I’m sitting here, alone and waiting, the determination and confidence I’ve enjoyed all day are evaporating.
Perhaps she’s changed her mind.
Will it be a reunion? Or am I just the free ride to Portland?
I check my watch again.
5:38.
Shit. Why does time move so slowly?
I contemplate sending her an e-mail to let her know I’m outside, but as I fumble for my phone, I realize I don’t want to take my eyes off the front door. Leaning back, I run through her recent e-mails in my mind. I know them by heart, all of them friendly and concise but without a hint that she’s been missing me.
Maybe I am the free ride.
I dismiss the thought and stare at the doorway, willing her to appear.
Anastasia Steele, I’m waiting.
The door opens and my heart soars into overdrive but then quickly stutters with disappointment. It’s not her.
Damn.
She has always kept me waiting. A humorless smile tugs at my lips: waiting at Clayton’s, at The Heathman after the photo shoot, and again when I sent her the Thomas Hardy books.
Tess…
I wonder if she still has them. She wanted to give them back to me; she wanted to give them to a charity.
I don’t want anything that will remind me of you.
The image of Ana leaving surfaces in my mind’s eye: her sad, ashen face stricken with hurt and confusion. The memory is unwelcome. Painful.
I made her that miserable. I took everything too far, too quickly. And it fills me with a despair that has become all too familiar since she left. Closing my eyes, I try to center myself, but I’m confronted by my deepest, darkest fear: she’s met someone else. She’s sharing her little white bed and her beautiful body with some fucking stranger.
Damn it, Grey. Stay positive.
Don’t go there. All is not lost. You’ll be seeing her shortly. Your plans are in place. You are going to win her back. Opening my eyes, I stare at the front door through the window, my mood now as dark as the Audi’s tinted glass. More people leave the building, but still no Ana.
Where is she?
Taylor is pacing outside and glancing toward the front door. Christ, he looks as nervous as I feel. What the hell is it to him?
My watch says 5:43. She’ll be out in a moment. I take a deep breath and tug at my cuffs, then try to straighten my tie, only to find I’m not wearing one. Hell. Raking my hand through my hair, I try to dismiss my doubts, but they continue to plague me. Am I just a free ride to her? Will she have missed me? Will she want me back? Is there someone else? I have no idea. This is worse than waiting for her in the Marble Bar, and the irony is not lost on me. I thought that was the biggest deal I’d ever negotiate with her and that didn’t turn out the way I expected. Nothing turns out as I expect with Miss Anastasia Steele. Panic knots my stomach once more. Today, I have to negotiate a bigger deal.
I want her back.
She said she loved me…
My heart rate spikes in response to the adrenaline that floods my body.
No. No. Don’t think about that. She can’t feel that way about me.
Calm down, Grey. Focus.
I glance once more at the entrance to Seattle Independent Publishing and she’s there, walking toward me.
Fuck.
Ana.
Shock sucks the breath from my body like a kick to the solar plexus. Beneath a black jacket she’s wearing one of my favorite dresses, the purple one, and black high-heeled boots. Her hair, burnished by the early-evening sun, sways in the breeze as she moves. But it’s not her clothing or her hair that holds my attention. Her face is pale, almost translucent. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, and she’s thinner.
Thinner.
Guilt lances through me.
Christ.
She’s suffered, too.
My concern at her appearance turns to anger.
No. Fury.
She hasn’t been eating. She’s lost, what, five or six pounds in the last few days? She glances at some random guy behind her and he gives her a broad smile. He’s a good-looking son of a bitch, full of himself. Asshole. Their carefree exchange only fuels my rage. He watches her with blatant male appreciation as she walks toward the car, and my wrath increases with each of her steps.
Taylor opens the door and offers her his hand to help her climb inside. And suddenly she is sitting beside me.
“When did you last eat?” I snap, struggling to keep my composure. Her blue eyes peer up at me, stripping me bare and leaving me as raw as they did the first time I met her.
“Hello, Christian. Yes, it’s nice to see you, too,” she says.
What. The. Fuck.
“I don’t want your smart mouth now. Answer me.”
She stares at her hands in her lap, so that I’ve no idea what she’s thinking, then trots out some lame excuse about eating a yogurt and a banana.
That’s not eating!
I try, really try, to keep a rein on my temper.
“When did you last have a real meal?” I press her, but she ignores me, looking out the window. Taylor pulls away from the curb, and Ana waves to the prick who followed her out of the building.
“Who’s that?”
“My boss.”
So that’s Jack Hyde. I recall the employee details I flipped through this morning: from Detroit, scholarship to Princeton, worked his way up at a publishing firm in New York but has moved on every few years, working his way across the country. He never retains an assistant—they don’t last more than three months. He’s on my watch list, and I’ll have my security adviser Welch find out more.
Focus on the matter at hand, Grey.
“Well? Your last meal?”
“Christian, that really is none of your concern,” she whispers.
“Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me.” Don’t write me off, Anastasia. Please.
I’m the free ride.
She sighs in frustration and rolls her eyes to piss me off. And I see it—a soft smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. She’s trying not to laugh. She’s trying not to laugh at me. After all the heartache I’ve suffered, it’s so refreshing that it cracks through my anger. It’s so Ana. I find myself mirroring her, and I try to mask my smile.
“Well?” My tone is much gentler.
“Pasta alla Vongole, last Friday,” she answers, her voice subdued.
Jesus H. Christ, she’s not eaten since our last meal together! I want to pull her across my knee, right now, here in the back of the SUV—but I know I can’t ever touch her like that again.
What do I do with her?
She looks down, examining her hands, her face paler and sadder than it was before. And I drink her in, trying to fathom what to do. An unwelcome emotion blooms in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me but I push it aside. As I study her it becomes achingly clear that my biggest fear is unfounded. I know she didn’t get drunk and meet someone. Looking at how she is now, I know she’s been on her own, tucked up in her bed, weeping her heart out. The thought is at once comforting and distressing. I’m responsible for her misery.
Me.
I’m the monster. I did this to her. How can I ever win her back?
“I see.” The words feel inadequate. My task suddenly feels too daunting. She will never want me back.
Get a grip, Grey.
I damp down my fear and make a plea. “You look like you’ve lost at least five pounds, possibly more since then. Please eat, Anastasia.” I’m helpless. What else can I say?
She sits still, lost in her own thoughts, staring straight ahead, and I have time to study her profile. She’s as elfin and sweet and as beautiful as I remember. I want to reach out and stroke her cheek. Feel how soft her skin is…check that she’s real. I turn my body toward her, itching to touch her.
“How are you?” I ask, because I want to hear her voice.
“If I told you I was fine, I’d be lying.”
Damn. I’m right. She’s been suffering—and it’s all my fault. But her words give me a modicum of hope. Perhaps she’s missed me. Maybe? Encouraged, I cling to that thought. “Me, too. I miss you.” I reach for her hand because I can’t live another minute without touching her. Her hand feels small and ice-cold engulfed in the warmth of mine.
“Christian. I—” She stops, her voice cracking, but she doesn’t pull her hand from mine.
“Ana, please. We need to talk.”
“Christian. I…please. I’ve cried so much,” she whispers, and her words, and the sight of her fighting back tears, pierce what’s left of my heart.
“Oh, baby, no.” I tug her hand and before she can protest I lift her into my lap, circling her with my arms.
Oh, the feel of her.
“I’ve missed you so much, Anastasia.” She’s too light, too fragile, and I want to shout in frustration, but instead I bury my nose in her hair, overwhelmed by her intoxicating scent. It’s reminiscent of happier times: An orchard in the fall. Laughter at home. Bright eyes, full of humor and mischief…and desire. My sweet, sweet Ana.
Mine.
At first, she’s stiff with resistance, but after a beat she relaxes against me, her head resting on my shoulder. Emboldened, I take a risk and, closing my eyes, I kiss her hair. She doesn’t struggle out of my hold, and it’s a relief. I’ve yearned for this woman. But I must be careful. I don’t want her to bolt again. I hold her, enjoying the feel of her in my arms and this simple moment of tranquility.
But it’s a brief interlude—Taylor reaches the Seattle downtown helipad in record time.
“Come.” With reluctance, I lift her off my lap. “We’re here.”
Perplexed eyes search mine.
“Helipad—on the top of this building.” How did she think we were getting to Portland? It would take at least three hours to drive. Taylor opens her door and I climb out on my side.
“I should give you back your handkerchief,” she says to Taylor with a coy smile.
“Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes.”
What the hell is going on between them?
“Nine?” I interrupt, not just to remind him what time he’ll pick us up in Portland, but to stop him from talking to Ana.
“Yes, sir,” he says quietly.
Damn right. She’s my girl. Handkerchiefs are my business, not his.
Flashes of her vomiting on the ground, me holding back her hair, run through my head. I gave her my handkerchief then. I never got it back. And later that night I watched her sleep beside me. Perhaps she still has it. Perhaps she still uses it.
Stop. Now. Grey.
Taking her hand—the chill has gone, but her hand is still cool—I lead her into the building. As we reach the elevator, I recall our encounter at The Heathman. That first kiss.
Yeah. That first kiss.
The thought wakes my body.
But the doors open, distracting me, and reluctantly I release her to usher her inside.
The elevator is small, and we’re no longer touching. But I sense her.
All of her.
Here. Now.
Shit. I swallow.
Is it because she’s so near? Darkening eyes look up at mine.
Oh, Ana.
Her proximity is arousing. She inhales sharply and looks at the floor.
“I feel it, too.” I reach for her hand again and caress her knuckles with my thumb. She looks up at me, her fathomless eyes clouding with desire.
Fuck. I want her.
She bites her lip.
“Please don’t bite your lip, Anastasia.” My voice is low, full of longing. Will I always want her like this? I want to kiss her, press her into the elevator wall like I did during our first kiss. I want to fuck her here, and make her mine again. She blinks, her lips gently parted, and I suppress a groan. How does she do this? Derail me with a look? I am used to control—and I’m practically drooling over her because her teeth are pressing into her lip. “You know what it does to me.” And right now, baby, I want to take you in this elevator, but I don’t think you’ll let me.
The doors slide open and the rush of cold air brings me back to the now. We’re on the roof, and although the day has been warm, the wind has picked up. Anastasia shivers beside me. I wrap my arm around her and she huddles in to my side. She feels too slight, but her petite frame fits perfectly under my arm.
See? We fit together so well, Ana.
We head out onto the helipad toward Charlie Tango. The rotors are slowly spinning—she’s ready for liftoff. Stephan, my pilot, runs toward us. We shake hands, and I keep Anastasia tucked under my arm.
“Ready to go, sir. She’s all yours!” he roars above the sound of the helicopter engines.
“All checks done?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll collect her around eight thirty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Taylor’s waiting for you out front.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grey. Safe flight to Portland. Ma’am.” He salutes Anastasia and heads to the waiting elevator. We duck down under the rotors and I open the door, taking her hand to help her climb aboard.
As I strap her into the seat, her breath hitches. The sound travels straight to my groin. I cinch the straps extra-tight, trying to ignore my body’s reaction to her.
“This should keep you in your place.” The thought runs through my head, and I realize I’ve said it out loud. “I must say, I like this harness on you. Don’t touch anything.”
She flushes. Finally, some color stains her face—and I can’t resist. I run the back of my index finger down her cheek, tracing the line of her blush.
Lord, I want this woman.
She scowls, and I know it’s because she can’t move. I hand her some headphones, take my seat, and buckle up.
I run through my preflight checks. All instruments are in the green with no advisory lights. I roll the throttles to “fly,” set the transponder code, and confirm that the anticollision light is on. It all looks good. I don my headphones, switch on the radios, and check the rotor rpm.
When I turn to Ana, she’s watching me intently. “Ready, baby?”
“Yes.” She’s wide-eyed and excited. I can’t help my wolfish grin as I radio the tower to make sure that they’re awake and listening.
Once I have permission to take off, I check the oil temperature and the rest of the gauges. They’re all in normal operating range, so I increase the collective, and Charlie Tango, elegant bird that she is, rises smoothly into the sky.
Oh, I love this.
Feeling a little more confident as we gain altitude, I glance at Miss Steele beside me.
Time to dazzle her.
Showtime, Grey.
“We’ve chased the dawn, Anastasia. Now the dusk.” I smile, and I’m rewarded with a shy smile that illuminates her face. Hope stirs in my chest. I have her here when I thought all was lost and she seems happier now than when she walked out of her office. I might just be the free ride, but I’m going to try and enjoy every damn minute of this flight with her.
Dr. Flynn would be proud.
I’m in the moment. And I’m optimistic.
I can do this. I can win her back.
Baby steps, Grey. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
“As well as the evening sun, there’s more to see this time,” I say, interrupting the silence. “Escala’s over there. Boeing there—and you can just see the Space Needle.”
Curious as ever, she cranes her slim neck to look. “I’ve never been,” she says.
“I’ll take you. We can eat there.”
“Christian, we broke up.” I hear the dismay in her voice.
That is not what I want to hear, but I try not to overreact. “I know. I can still take you there. And feed you.” I give her a pointed look and she blushes a lovely pale rose.
“It’s very beautiful up here. Thank you.” She changes the subject.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” I play along—and she’s right, I never get tired of the view from up here.
“Impressive that you can do this.”
Her compliment surprises me. “Flattery from you, Miss Steele? But I’m a man of many talents.”
“I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Grey,” she responds tartly, and I suppress a smirk imagining what she’s referring to. This is what I’ve missed: her impertinence, disarming me at every turn.
Keep her talking, Grey. “How’s the new job?”
“Good, thank you. Interesting.”
“What’s your boss like?”
“Oh. He’s okay.” She sounds less than enthusiastic about Jack Hyde. Has he tried anything with her?
“What’s wrong?” I want to know—has that prick done anything inappropriate? I will fire his ass if he has.
“Aside from the obvious, nothing.”
“The obvious?”
“Oh, Christian, you really are very obtuse sometimes,” she says with playful disdain.
“Obtuse? Me? I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Miss Steele.”
“Well, don’t, then,” she quips, pleased with herself. I like that she mocks and teases me. She has the ability to make me feel two feet tall or ten feet tall with just a look or a smile—it’s refreshing, and unlike anything I’ve known before.
“I’ve missed your smart mouth, Anastasia.” An image of her on her knees in front of me pops into my mind and I shift in my seat.
Shit. Concentrate, Grey. She looks away, concealing her smile, and stares down at the suburbs passing beneath us while I check the heading. All is well; we’re on track for Portland.
She’s quiet, and I steal the occasional glance at her. Her face is lit with curiosity and wonder as she gazes out at the landscape below and the opal sky. Her cheeks are soft and glowing in the evening light. And in spite of her pallor and the dark circles beneath her eyes—evidence of the suffering I’ve caused her—she’s stunning. How could I have let her walk out of my life?
What was I thinking?
While we race above the clouds in our bubble, high in the sky, my optimism grows and the turmoil of the last week recedes. Slowly, I begin to relax, enjoying a serenity I’ve not felt since she left. I could get used to this. I’d forgotten how content I feel in her company. And it’s refreshing to see my world through her eyes.
But as we near our destination my confidence falters. I hope to God that my plan works. I need to take her somewhere private. To dinner, maybe. Damn it. I should have booked a table somewhere. She needs feeding. If I get her to dinner, I’ll just need to find the right words. These last few days have shown me that I need someone—I need her. I want her, but will she have me? Can I convince her to give me a second chance?
Time will tell, Grey—just take it easy. Don’t frighten her off again.
WE LAND ON PORTLAND’S downtown helipad fifteen minutes later. As I bring Charlie Tango’s engines to idle and switch off the transponder, fuel, and radios, the uncertainty I’ve felt since I resolved to win her back resurfaces. I need to tell her how I feel, and that’s going to be hard—because I don’t understand my feelings toward her. I know that I’ve missed her, that I’ve been miserable without her, and that I’m willing to try a relationship her way. But will it be enough for her? Will it be enough for me?
Talk to her, Grey.
Once I’ve unbuckled my harness I lean across to undo hers and catch a trace of her sweet fragrance. As ever, she smells good. Her eyes meet mine in a furtive glance—revealing an inappropriate thought? What exactly is she thinking? As usual I’d love to know, but have no idea.
“Good trip, Miss Steele?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey.”
“Well, let’s go see the boy’s photos.” I open the door, jump down, and hold my hand out for her.
Joe, the manager of the helipad, is waiting to greet us. He’s an antique: a veteran of the Korean War, but still as spry and acute as a man in his fifties. Nothing escapes his notice. His eyes light up as he gives me a craggy smile.
“Joe, keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along around eight or nine.”
“Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am. Your car’s waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator’s out of order. You’ll need to use the stairs.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
As we head for the emergency stairwell, I eye Anastasia’s high-heeled boots and remember her less-than-dignified fall into my office.
“Good thing for you this is only three floors—in those heels.” I hide my smile.
“Don’t you like the boots?” she asks, looking down at her feet. A pleasing vision of them hooked over my shoulders springs to mind.
“I like them very much, Anastasia.” I hope my expression doesn’t betray my lascivious thoughts. “Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and breaking your neck.” I’m thankful that the elevator is out of order—it gives me a plausible excuse to hold her. Putting my arm around her waist, I pull her to my side and we descend the stairs.
In the car on the way to the gallery my anxiety doubles; we’re attending the opening of an exhibition by her so-called friend. The man who, last time I saw him, was trying to push his tongue into her mouth. Perhaps over the last few days they’ve talked. Perhaps this is a long-anticipated rendezvous between them.
Hell, I hadn’t considered that before. I sure hope it’s not.
“José is just a friend,” Ana explains.
What? She knows what I’m thinking? Am I that obvious? Since when?
Since she stripped me of all my armor and I discovered that I needed her.
She stares at me and my stomach tightens. “Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”
“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat.” She sounds less than sincere.
“I mean it.”
“Do you, now?” Her voice is laced with sarcasm, and I almost have to sit on my hands.
Fuck this.
It’s time to declare myself.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you back, and I want you healthy.” I’m honored with her shocked, all-eyes look.
“But nothing’s changed.” Her expression shifts to a frown.
Oh, Ana, it has—there’s been a seismic shift in me.
We pull up at the gallery and I have no time to explain before the show. “Let’s talk on the way back. We’re here.”
Before she can say she’s not interested, I exit the car, walk around to her side, and open the door. She looks mad as she climbs out.
“Why do you do that?” she exclaims, exasperated.
“Do what?” Shit—what’s this?
“Say something like that and then just stop.”
That’s it—that’s why you’re mad?
“Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’s do this and then talk. I don’t particularly want a scene in the street.”
She presses her lips together in a petulant pout, then gives me a begrudging “Okay.”
Taking her hand, I move swiftly into the gallery, and she scrambles behind me.
The space is brightly lit and airy. It’s one of those converted warehouses that are fashionable at the moment—all wood floors and brick walls. Portland’s cognoscenti sip cheap wine and chat in hushed tones while they admire the exhibition.
A young woman greets us. “Good evening, and welcome to José Rodriguez’s show.” She stares at me.
It’s only skin deep, sweetheart. Look elsewhere.
She’s flustered but seems to recover when she spies Anastasia. “Oh, it’s you, Ana. We’ll want your take on all this, too.” She hands her a brochure and points us toward the makeshift bar. Ana’s brow furrows, and that little v that I love forms above her nose. I want to kiss it, like I’ve done before.
“You know her?” I ask. She shakes her head and her frown deepens. I shrug. Well, this is Portland. “What would you like to drink?”
“I’ll have a glass of white wine, thank you.”
As I head for the bar I hear an exuberant shout. “Ana!”
Turning, I see that that boy has his arms wrapped around my girl.
Hell.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Ana closes her eyes, and for one horrible moment I think she’s going to burst into tears. But she remains composed as he holds her at arm’s length, appraising her.
Yeah, she’s that thin because of me.
I fight back my guilt—though it seems she’s trying to reassure him. For his part, he looks really fucking interested in her. Too interested. Anger flares in my chest. She says he’s just a friend, but it’s obvious he doesn’t feel that way. He wants more.
Back off, buddy, she’s mine.
“The work here is impressive, don’t you think?” A balding young man in a loud shirt sidetracks me.
“I’ve not looked around yet,” I answer, and turn to the barman. “Is this all you have?”
“Yep. Red or white?” he says, sounding disinterested.
“Two glasses of white wine,” I grunt.
“I think you’ll be impressed. Rodriguez has a unique eye,” the irritating prick with the irritating shirt tells me. Tuning him out, I glance at Ana. She’s staring at me, her eyes large and luminous. My blood thickens and it’s impossible to look away. She’s a beacon in the crowd and I’m lost in her gaze. She looks sensational. Her hair frames her face and falls in a lush cascade to curl at her breasts. Her dress, looser than I remember, still hugs her curves. She might have worn it deliberately. She knows it’s my favorite. Doesn’t she? Hot dress, hot boots…
Fuck—control yourself, Grey.
Rodriguez asks Ana a question and she’s forced to break eye contact with me. I sense she’s reluctant to do so, which is pleasing. But damn it, that boy’s all perfect teeth, broad shoulders, and sharp suit. He’s a good-looking son of a bitch, for a dope smoker, I’ll give him that. She nods at something he says and gives him a warm, carefree smile.
I’d like her to smile like that at me. He leans down and kisses her cheek. Fucker.
I glare at the bartender.
Hurry up, man. He’s taking an eternity to pour the wine, incompetent fool.
Finally, he’s finished. I grab the glasses, cold-shoulder the young man beside me who’s talking about another photographer or some such crap, and head back to Ana.
At least Rodriguez has left her alone. She’s lost in thought, contemplating one of his photographs. It’s a landscape, a lake, and not without merit, I suppose. She glances up at me with a guarded expression as I hand her a glass. I take a quick sip from mine. Christ, it’s disgusting, a warm over-oaked chardonnay.
“Does it come up to scratch?” She sounds amused, but I have no idea what she’s referring to—the exhibition, the building? “The wine,” she clarifies.
“No. Rarely does at these kinds of events.” I change the subject. “The boy’s quite talented, isn’t he?”
“Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?” Her pride in his work is obvious. It irks me. She admires him and takes an interest in his success because she cares about him. She cares about him too much. An ugly emotion with a bitter sting rises in my chest. It’s jealousy, a new feeling, one that I’ve only ever felt around her—and I don’t like it.
“Christian Grey?” A guy dressed like a vagrant thrusts a camera in my face, interrupting my dark thoughts. “Can I have a picture, sir?”
Damned paparazzi. I want to tell him to fuck off but decide to be polite. I don’t want Sam, my publicity guy, dealing with a press complaint.
“Sure.” I reach out and pull Ana to my side. I want everyone to know she’s mine; if she’ll have me.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Grey.
The photographer takes a few snaps. “Mr. Grey, thank you.” At least he sounds appreciative. “Miss…?” he asks, wanting to know her name.
“Ana Steele,” she answers, shyly.
“Thank you, Miss Steele.” He slithers off and Anastasia steps out of my grasp. I’m disappointed to let her go and fist my hands to resist the urge to touch her again.
She peers at me. “I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet. There aren’t any. That’s why Kate thought you were gay.”
“That explains your inappropriate question.” I can’t help smiling as I remember her awkwardness at our first meeting: her lack of interview skills, her questions. Are you gay, Mr. Grey? And my annoyance.
That seems so long ago. I shake my head and continue. “No—I don’t do dates, Anastasia, only with you. But you know that.”
And I’d like many, many more.
“So you never took your”—she lowers her voice and glances over her shoulder to check that no one’s listening—“subs out?” She blanches at the word, embarrassed.
“Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know.” Those occasional trips were just a distraction, maybe a reward for good submissive behavior. The one woman I’ve wanted to share more with…is Ana. “Just you, Anastasia,” I whisper, and I want to plead my case, ask her about my proposition, see how she feels, and if she’ll take me back.
However, the gallery is too public a setting. Her cheeks turn that delicious pink that I love, and she stares down at her hands. I hope it’s because she likes what I’m saying, but I can’t be sure. I need to get her out of here and on her own. Then we can talk seriously and eat. The sooner we’ve seen the boy’s work, the sooner we can leave.
“Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let’s look around.” I hold out my hand, and to my delight, she takes it.
We stroll through the gallery, stopping briefly at each photograph. Though I resent the boy and the feelings he inspires in Ana, I have to admit he’s quite good. We turn the corner—and stop.
There she is. Seven full-blown portraits of Anastasia Steele. She looks jaw-droppingly beautiful, natural, and relaxed—laughing, scowling, pouting, pensive, amused, and in one of them, wistful and sad. As I scrutinize the detail in each photograph, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wants to be much more than her friend. “Seems I’m not the only one,” I mutter. The photographs are his homage to her—his love letters—and they’re all over the gallery walls for any random asshole to ogle.
Ana is staring at them in stunned silence, as surprised as I am to see them. Well, there’s no way anyone else is having these. I want the pictures. I hope they’re for sale.
“Excuse me.” I abandon Ana for a moment and head to the reception desk.
“May I help you?” the woman who greeted us when we arrived asks.
Ignoring her fluttering eyelashes and provocative, overly red smile, I inquire, “The seven portraits you have hanging at the back, are they for sale?”
A look of disappointment flits across her face but resolves into a broad smile. “The Anastasia collection? Stunning work.”
Stunning model.
“Of course they’re for sale. Let me check the prices,” she gushes.
“I want them all.” And I reach for my wallet.
“All of them?” She sounds surprised.
“Yes.” Irritating woman.
“The collection is fourteen thousand dollars.”
“I’d like them delivered as soon as possible.”
“But they’re due to hang for the duration of the exhibition,” she says.
Unacceptable.
I give her my full-kilowatt smile, and she adds, flustered, “But I’m sure we can arrange something.” She fumbles with my credit card as she swipes it.
When I return to Ana, I find a blond dude chatting with her, trying his luck. “These photographs are terrific,” he says. I place a territorial hand on her elbow and give him my best fuck-off-now glare. “You’re a lucky guy,” he adds, taking a step back.
“That I am,” I answer, dismissing him as I usher Ana over to the wall.
“Did you just buy one of these?” Ana nods toward the portraits.
“One of these?” I scoff. One? Are you serious?
“You bought more than one?”
“I bought them all, Anastasia.” And I know I sound condescending, but the thought of someone else owning and enjoying these photographs is out of the question. Her lips part in astonishment, and I try not to let it distract me. “I don’t want some stranger ogling you in the privacy of their home.”
“You’d rather it was you?” she counters.
Her response, though unexpected, is entertaining; she’s admonishing me. “Frankly, yes,” I respond in kind.
“Pervert,” she mouths, and bites her lip, I suspect to suppress a laugh.
Lord, she’s challenging and funny and right. “Can’t argue with that assessment, Anastasia.”
“I’d discuss it further with you, but I’ve signed an NDA.” With a haughty look, she turns to study the pictures once more.
And she’s doing it again: laughing at me and trivializing my lifestyle. Christ, I’d like to put her in her place—preferably under me or on her knees. I lean in closer and whisper in her ear, “What I’d like to do to your smart mouth.”
“You’re very rude.” She’s scandalized, her expression prim, while the tips of her ears turn a fetching pink.
Oh, baby, that’s old news.
I glance back at the pictures. “You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don’t see you like that very often.”
She examines her fingers once more, hesitating as if she’s contemplating what to say. I don’t know what she’s thinking, so, reaching forward, I tilt her head up. She gasps as my fingers make contact with her chin.
Again, that sound; I feel it in my groin.
“I want you that relaxed with me.” I sound hopeful.
Damn it. Too hopeful.
“You have to stop intimidating me if you want that,” she retorts, surprising me with her depth of feeling.
“You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel!” I snap back.
Shit, are we doing this here, now? I want to do this in private. She clears her throat and draws herself up to full height.
“Christian, you wanted me as a submissive,” she says, keeping her voice down. “That’s where the problem lies. It’s in the definition of a submissive—you e-mailed it to me once.” She pauses, glaring at me. “I think the synonyms were, and I quote, ‘compliant, pliant, amenable, passive, tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.’ I wasn’t supposed to look at you. Not talk to you, unless you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?”
We need to discuss this in private! Why is she doing this here?
“It’s very confusing being with you,” she continues, in full flow. “You don’t want me to defy you, but then you like my ‘smart mouth.’ You want obedience except when you don’t so that you can punish me. I just don’t know which way is up when I’m with you.”
Okay, I can see that could be confusing—however, I do not want to discuss it here. We need to leave.
“Good point well made, as usual, Miss Steele.” My tone is arctic. “Come, let’s go eat.”
“We’ve only been here for half an hour.”
“You’ve seen the photos. You’ve spoken to the boy.”
“His name is José,” she asserts, louder this time.
“You’ve spoken to José—the man who, if I am not mistaken, was trying to push his tongue into your mouth the last time I met him, while you were drunk and ill.” I grit my teeth.
“He’s never hit me,” she retaliates with fury in her eyes.
What the hell? She does want to do this now.
I can’t believe it. She fucking asked me how bad it could get! Anger erupts like Mount St. Helens deep in my chest. “That’s a low blow, Anastasia.” I’m seething. Her face reddens, and I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment or anger. I run my hands through my hair to prevent myself from grabbing her and dragging her outside so we can continue this discussion in private. I take a deep breath.
“I’m taking you for something to eat. You’re fading away in front of me. Find the boy, say good-bye.” My tone is clipped as I struggle to control my temper, but she doesn’t move.
“Please, can we stay longer?”
“No. Go. Now. Say good-bye.” I manage not to shout. I recognize that stubborn, mulish set to her mouth. She’s mad as hell, and in spite of all I’ve been through over the last few days, I don’t give a shit. We are leaving if I have to pick her up and carry her. She gives me a withering look and turns with a sharp spin, her hair flying so that it hits my shoulder. She stalks off to find him.
As she moves away I struggle to recover my equilibrium. What is it about her that presses all my buttons? I want to scold her, spank her, and fuck her. Here. Now. And in that order.
I scan the room. The boy—no, Rodriguez—is standing with a flock of female admirers. He notices Ana, and, forgetting his fans, he greets her like she’s the center of his whole goddamn universe. He listens intently to everything she has to say, then sweeps her into his arms, spinning her around.
Get your fat paws off my girl.
She glances at me, then weaves her hands into his hair and presses her cheek to his and whispers something in his ear. They continue talking. Close. His arms around her. And he’s basking in her fucking light.
Before I’m even aware that I’m doing it, I’m striding over, ready to rip him limb from limb. Fortunately for him, he releases her as I approach.
“Don’t be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr. Grey, good evening,” the boy mumbles, sheepish and a little intimidated.
“Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive. I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle. Anastasia?” I take her hand.
“Bye, José. Congratulations again.” She leans away from me, gives Rodriguez a tender kiss on his reddening cheek, and I’m going to have a coronary. It takes all my self-control not to haul her over my shoulder. Instead I drag her by the hand to the front door and out onto the street. She’s stumbling behind me, trying to keep up, but I don’t care.
Right now. I just want to—
There’s an alley. I hurry us into it, and before I know what I’m doing I’ve pressed her against the wall. I grab her face between my hands, pinning her body with mine as rage and desire mix in a heady, explosive cocktail. I capture her lips with mine and our teeth clash, but then my tongue is in her mouth. She tastes of cheap wine and delicious, sweet, sweet Ana.
Oh, this mouth.
I have missed this mouth.
She ignites around me. Her fingers are in my hair, pulling hard. She moans into my mouth, giving me more access, and she’s kissing me back, her passion unleashed, her tongue entwined with mine. Tasting. Taking. Giving.
Her hunger is unexpected. Desire bursts through my body, like a forest fire licking through dry tinder. I’m so aroused—I want her now, here, in this alley. And what I’d intended as a punishing I-own-you kiss becomes something else.
She wants this, too.
She’s missed this, too.
And it’s more than arousing.
I groan in response, undone.
With one hand, I hold her at the nape of her neck as we kiss. My free hand travels down her body, and I reacquaint myself with her curves: her breast, her waist, her ass, her thigh. She moans as my fingers find the hem of her dress and start tugging it higher. My goal is to pull it up, fuck her here. Make her mine, again.
The feel of her.
It’s intoxicating, and I want her like I’ve never wanted her before.
In the distance and through the fog of my lust, I hear a police siren wail.
No! No! Grey!
Not like this. Get a grip.
I pull back, gazing down at her, and I’m panting and mad as hell.
“You. Are. Mine!” I growl, and push myself away from her, as my reason returns. “For the love of God, Ana.” I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath and calm my raging body. I’m painfully hard for her right now.
Has anyone ever affected me like this? Ever?
Christ! I nearly fucked her in a back alley.
This is jealousy. This is what it feels like: my insides gutted and raw, my self-control absent. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.
“I’m sorry,” she says, hoarse.
“You should be. I know what you’re doing. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you.”
“No.” Her voice is soft and breathless. “He’s just a friend.” At least she sounds contrite, and it goes some way toward pacifying me.
“I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you…you bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It’s very…” Words fail me. I cannot find the vocabulary to describe how I feel. I’m out of control and at a loss. “Unsettling” is the best I can manage. “I like control, Ana, and around you, that just”—I stand and look down at her—“evaporates.”
Her eyes are wide with carnal promise, and her hair is mussed and sexy, falling to her breasts. I rub the back of my neck, thankful that I’ve recovered some semblance of self-control.
See how I am around you, Ana. See?
I run my hand through my hair, taking deep, thought-clearing breaths. I grab her hand. “Come, we need to talk.” Before I fuck you. “And you need to eat.”
There’s a restaurant close to the alley. It’s not what I would have chosen for a reunion, if that’s what this is, but it will suffice. I don’t have long, as Taylor will be arriving soon.
I open the door for her. “This place will have to do. We don’t have much time.” The restaurant looks like it caters to the gallery crowd, and maybe students. It’s ironic that the walls are painted the same color as my playroom, but I don’t dwell on the thought.
An obsequious waiter leads us to a secluded table; he’s all smiles for Anastasia. I glance at the chalkboard menu on the wall and decide to order before the waiter retreats, letting him know we’re tight for time. “So we’ll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever the chef has—and bring me the wine list.”
“Certainly, sir,” he says, and rushes off.
Ana purses her lips, annoyed.
What now?
“And if I don’t like steak?”
“Don’t start, Anastasia.”
“I am not a child, Christian.”
“Well, stop acting like one.”
“I’m a child because I don’t like steak?” She doesn’t hide her petulance.
No!
“For deliberately making me jealous. It’s a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend’s feelings, leading him on like that?”
Her cheeks pink and she examines her hands.
Yes. You should be embarrassed. You’re confusing him. Even I can see that.
Is that what she’s doing to me? Leading me on?
In the time we’ve been apart, maybe she’s finally recognized that she has power. Power over me.
The waiter returns with the wine list, giving me a chance to regain my cool. The selection is average: only one drinkable wine on the menu. I glance at Anastasia, who looks like she’s sulking. I know that look. Perhaps she wanted to select her own meal. And I can’t resist toying with her, aware that she has little knowledge of wine. “Would you like to choose the wine?” I ask and I know I sound sarcastic.
“You choose.” She presses her lips together.
Yeah. Don’t play games with me, baby.
“Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please,” I say to the waiter, who’s hovering.
“Er, we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir.”
“A bottle, then.” You stupid prick.
“Sir.” He retreats.
“You’re very grumpy,” she says, no doubt feeling sorry for the waiter.
“I wonder why that is?” I keep my expression neutral, but even to my own ears I’m now sounding childish.
“Well, it’s good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn’t you say?” She gives me a saccharine smile.
Oh, tit for tat, Miss Steele. She’s called me out again and I have to admire her nerve. I realize our bickering will get us nowhere.
And I’m being an ass.
Don’t blow this deal, Grey.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because she’s right.
“Apology accepted. And I’m pleased to inform you I haven’t decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate.”
“Since that was the last time you ate, I think that’s a moot point.”
“There’s that word again, ‘moot.’ ”
“Moot,” I mouth. That word, indeed. I remember I last used it while discussing our arrangement on Saturday morning. The day my world fell apart.
Fuck. Don’t think about that. Man up, Grey. Tell her what you want.
“Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I’m a little nervous. I’ve told you I want you back, and you’ve said…nothing.” She bites her lip as the color drains from her face.
Oh no.
“I’ve missed you…really missed you, Christian,” she says, quietly. “The past few days have been…difficult.”
Difficult is an understatement.
She swallows and takes a steadying breath. This doesn’t sound good. Perhaps my behavior over the last hour has finally driven her away. I tense. Where’s she going with this?
“Nothing’s changed. I can’t be what you want me to be.” Her expression is bleak.
No. No. No.
“You are what I want you to be.” You are everything I want you to be.
“No, Christian, I’m not.”
Oh, baby, please believe me. “You’re upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you—so did you. Why didn’t you safe-word, Anastasia?”
She looks surprised, as if this isn’t something she’s considered.
“Answer me,” I urge.
This has haunted me. Why didn’t you safe-word, Ana?
She wilts in her seat. Sad. Defeated.
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
What?
WHAT?
I’m rendered speechless. I’ve been in hell because she didn’t safe-word. But before I recover, words tumble from her mouth. Soft, quiet, as if she’s in a confessional, as if she’s ashamed. “I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind.” Her look is raw, her shrug small and apologetic. “You know…I forgot.”
What the hell?
“You forgot!” I’m dismayed. We’ve been through all this shit because she forgot?
I can’t believe it. I clutch the table for something to anchor me to the now as I let this alarming information register.
Did I remind her of her safe words? Christ. I can’t remember. The e-mail that she sent me the first time I spanked her comes to mind.
She didn’t stop me then.
I’m an idiot.
I should have reminded her.
Wait. She knows she has safe words. I remember telling her more than once.
“We don’t have a signed contract, Anastasia. But we’ve discussed limits. And I want to reiterate we have safe words, okay?”
She blinks a couple times but remains mute.
“What are they?” I demand.
She hesitates.
“What are the safe words, Anastasia?”
“Yellow.”
“And?”
“Red.”
“Remember those.”
She raises an eyebrow in obvious scorn and is about to say something.
“Don’t start with your smart mouth in here, Miss Steele. Or I will fuck it with you on your knees. Do you understand?”
“How can I trust you? Ever?” If she can’t be honest with me, what hope do we have? She can’t tell me what she thinks I want to hear. What kind of relationship is that? My spirits sink. This is the problem in dealing with someone who isn’t in the lifestyle. She doesn’t get it.
I should never have chased her.
The waiter arrives with the wine as we stare with incredulity at each other.
Maybe I should have done a better job of explaining it to her.
Damn it, Grey. Eliminate the negative.
Yes. It’s irrelevant now. I’m going to try a relationship her way, if she’ll let me.
The irritating prick takes too much time opening the bottle. Jesus. Is he trying to entertain us? Or is it just Ana he wants to impress? He finally pops the cork and pours a taste for me. I take a quick sip. It needs to breathe, but it’s passable.
“That’s fine.” Now go. Please. He fills our glasses and leaves.
Ana and I haven’t taken our eyes off each other. Each trying to discern what the other is thinking. She’s the first to look away, and she takes a sip of wine, closing her eyes as if seeking inspiration. When she opens them, I see her despair. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Sorry for what?” Hell. Is she done with me? Is there no hope?
“Not using the safe word,” she says.
Oh, thank God. I thought it was over.
“We might have avoided all this suffering,” I mutter in response, and also in an attempt to hide my relief.
“You look fine.” There’s a tremor in her voice.
“Appearances can be deceptive. I’m not fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. I’m in perpetual night here.”
Her gasp is just audible.
How did she think I’d feel? She left me when I’d almost begged her to stay. “You said you’d never leave, yet the going gets tough and you’re out the door.”
“When did I say I’d never leave?”
“In your sleep.” Before we went soaring. “It was the most comforting thing I’d heard in so long, Anastasia. It made me relax.”
She inhales sharply. Her open and honest compassion is written all over her lovely face as she reaches for her wine. This is my chance.
Ask her, Grey.
Ask her the one question I haven’t allowed myself to think about because I know I’ll dread her answer, whatever it is. But I’m curious. I need to know.
“You said you loved me,” I whisper, almost choking on the words. She can’t feel that way about me still. Can she? “Is that now in the past tense?”
“No, Christian, it’s not,” she says, as if in the confessional again. I’m unprepared for the relief that rushes through me. But it’s relief mixed with fear. It’s a confounding combination because I know she shouldn’t love a monster.
“Good,” I mumble, confused. I want to stop thinking about that right now, and with impeccable timing, the waiter returns with our meal.
“Eat,” I demand. The woman needs feeding.
She examines the contents of her plate with distaste.
“So help me God, Anastasia, if you don’t eat, I will take you across my knee here in this restaurant. And it will have nothing to do with my sexual gratification. Eat!”
“Okay. I’ll eat. Stow your twitching palm, please.” She’s trying for humor—but I’m not laughing. She’s wasting away. She picks up her cutlery with stubborn reluctance but she takes one bite, closes her eyes, and licks her lips in satisfaction. The sight of her tongue is enough to provoke a response from my body—already in a heightened state from our kiss in the alley.
Hell, not again! I stop my response in its tracks. There’ll be time for that later, if she says yes. She takes another bite and another and I know she’ll continue eating. I’m grateful for the diversion that our food has provided. Slicing into my steak, I take a bite. It’s not bad.
We continue to eat, watching each other but saying nothing.
She hasn’t told me to fuck off. This is good. And as I study her I realize how much I’m enjoying just being in her company. Okay, so I’m tied up in all kinds of conflicting emotions…but she’s here. She’s with me and she’s eating. I’m hopeful we can make my proposition work. Her reaction to the kiss in the alley was…visceral. She still wants me. I know I could have fucked her there and she wouldn’t have stopped me.
She interrupts my reverie. “Do you know who’s singing?” Over the restaurant sound system, a young woman with a soft lyrical voice can be heard. I don’t know who she is, but we both agree she’s good.
Listening to this singer reminds me that I have the iPad for Ana. I hope that she lets me give it to her, and that she likes it. In addition to the music I uploaded yesterday, I spent some time this morning adding more features—photographs of the glider on my desk and of the two of us at her graduation ceremony and a few apps, too. It’s my apology, and I’m optimistic that the simple message I’ve had engraved on the back conveys my sentiment. I hope she doesn’t think it’s too cheesy. I just need to give it to her first, but I don’t know if we’ll get to that point. I suppress my sigh because she’s always been difficult about accepting gifts from me.
“What?” she asks. She knows I’m up to something, and not for the first time I wonder if she can read my mind.
I shake my head. “Eat up.”
Bright blue eyes regard me. “I can’t manage any more. Have I eaten enough for Sir?”
Is she deliberately trying to goad me? I scrutinize her face, but she seems genuine, and she’s eaten more than half of what was on her plate. If she hasn’t eaten anything over the last few days she’s probably had enough to eat this evening.
“I’m really full,” she reiterates.
As if on cue, my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, signaling a message. It will be from Taylor, he’s probably close to the gallery by now. I glance at my watch.
“We have to go shortly. Taylor’s here, and you have to be up for work in the morning.” I hadn’t considered that before. She’s working now—she needs sleep. I may have to revise my plans and my body’s expectations. The thought of deferring my desire displeases me.
Ana reminds me that I need to be up for work, too.
“I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia. At least you’ve eaten something.”
“Aren’t we going back via Charlie Tango?”
“No, I thought I might have a drink—Taylor will pick us up. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself—for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?” And I can put my proposition to her.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Stage three of the campaign has not gone as smoothly as I anticipated.
She’s made me jealous.
I’ve lost control.
Yes. As usual, she’s derailed me. But I can turn this around and close the deal in the car.
Don’t give up, Grey.
Summoning the waiter, I ask for the check, then call Taylor. He answers on the second ring.
“Mr. Grey.”
“We’re at Le Picotin, Southwest Third Avenue,” I inform him and hang up.
“You’re very brusque with Taylor…In fact, with most people.”
“I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia.”
“You haven’t gotten to the point this evening. Nothing’s changed, Christian.”
Touché, Miss Steele.
Tell her. Tell her, now, Grey.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“This started with a proposition.”
“A different proposition,” I clarify.
She’s a little skeptical, I think, but maybe she’s curious, too. The waiter returns and I give him my card, but I keep my attention on Ana. Well, at least she’s intrigued.
Good.
My heart rate accelerates. I hope she goes for this…or I really will be lost. The waiter hands me the credit card slip to sign. I enter an obscene tip and sign my name with a flourish. The waiter seems excessively grateful. And it’s still irritating.
My phone buzzes and I scan the text. Taylor’s arrived. The waiter gives me my card back and disappears.
“Come. Taylor’s outside.”
We both stand and I take her hand. “I don’t want to lose you, Anastasia,” I murmur, and raise her hand and brush my lips against her knuckles. Her breathing accelerates.
Oh, that sound.
I glance at her face. Her lips are parted, cheeks pink and eyes wide. The sight fills me with hope and desire. I stifle my impulses and lead her through the restaurant and outside, where Taylor is waiting at the curb in the Q7. It occurs to me that Ana might be reluctant to talk if he’s in front.
I have an idea. Opening the rear door, I usher her in, and walk around to the driver’s side. Taylor gets out to open the door for me.
“Good evening, Taylor. Do you have your iPod and headphones?”
“Yes, sir, never leave home without them.”
“Great. Use them on the way home.”
“Of course, sir.”
“What will you listen to?”
“Puccini, sir.”
“Tosca?”
“La Bohème.”
“Good choice.” I smile. As ever, he surprises me. I’d always assumed his musical tastes leaned toward country and rock. Taking a deep breath, I climb into the car. I’m about to negotiate the deal of my life.
I want her back.
Taylor presses play on the car’s sound system and the stirring notes from Rachmaninov swell quietly in the background. He regards me for a second in the mirror and pulls out into the light evening traffic.
Anastasia is watching me when I turn to face her. “As I was saying, Anastasia, I have a proposition for you.”
She looks anxiously at Taylor, as I knew she would.
“Taylor can’t hear you.”
“What?” She looks perplexed.
“Taylor,” I call. Taylor doesn’t respond. I call him again, then lean over and tap his shoulder. He removes an earbud.
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you, Taylor. It’s okay—resume your listening.”
“Sir.”
“Happy now? He’s listening to his iPod. Puccini. Forget he’s here. I do.”
“Did you deliberately ask him to do that?”
“Yes.”
She blinks in surprise. “Okay…your proposition,” she says, hesitant and apprehensive.
I’m nervous, too, baby. Here goes. Don’t blow this, Grey.
How to begin?
I take a deep breath. “Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship, with no kinky fuckery at all?”
“Kinky fuckery?” she squeaks in disbelief.
“Kinky fuckery.”
“I can’t believe you said that.” She looks anxiously at Taylor again.
“Well, I did. Answer me.”
“I like your kinky fuckery,” she whispers.
Oh, baby, so do I.
I’m relieved. Step one…okay. Keep cool, Grey.
“That’s what I thought. So what don’t you like?”
She’s silent for a moment, and I know she’s scrutinizing me in the light and shadows of the intermittent street lamps. “The threat of cruel and unusual punishment,” she says.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you have all those—” She stops, glancing at Taylor once more, and her voice lowers. “Things in your playroom, the canes, and whips, and they frighten the living daylights out of me. I don’t want you to use them on me.”
This, I have worked out for myself.
“Okay, so no whips or canes. Or belts, for that matter,” I add, unable to keep the irony out of my voice.
“Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?” she asks.
“Not as such. I’m just trying to understand you—get a clearer picture of what you do and don’t like.”
“Fundamentally, Christian, it’s your joy in inflicting pain that’s difficult for me to handle. And the idea that you’ll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line.”
Hell. She knows me. She has seen the monster. I’m not going there, or I will blow this deal. I ignore her first comment and concentrate on her second point. “But it’s not arbitrary—the rules are written down.”
“I don’t want a set of rules.”
“None at all?”
Fuck—she might touch me. How can I protect myself from that? And suppose she does something stupid that puts herself at risk?
“No rules,” she states, shaking her head for emphasis.
Okay, million-dollar question.
“But you don’t mind if I spank you?”
“Spank me with what?”
“This.” I hold up my hand.
She shifts in her seat, and a silent, sweet joy unfurls deep in my gut. Oh, baby, I love it when you squirm.
“No, not really. Especially with those silver balls…”
My cock stirs at the thought. Damn. I cross my legs. “Yes, that was fun.”
“More than fun,” she adds.
“So you can deal with some pain.” I can’t keep the hope out of my voice.
“Yes, I suppose.” She shrugs.
Okay. So we may be able to structure a relationship around this.
Deep breath, Grey, give her the terms.
“Anastasia, I want to start again. Do the vanilla thing and then maybe, once you trust me more—and I trust you to be honest and to communicate with me—we could move on and do some of the things that I like to do.”
That’s it.
Fuck. My heart rate escalates; blood thrums through my body, pounding past my eardrums as I wait for her reaction. My well-being hangs in the balance. And she says…nothing! She stares at me as we pass under a streetlight and I see her clearly. She’s assessing me. Her eyes still impossibly large in her beautiful, thinner, sadder face.
Oh, Ana.
“But what about punishments?” she says finally.
I close my eyes. It’s not a no. “No punishments. None.”
“And the rules?”
“No rules.”
“None at all? But you have needs…” Her voice trails off.
“I need you more, Anastasia. These last few days have been hell. All my instincts tell me to let you go, tell me I don’t deserve you. “Those photos the boy took—I can see how he sees you. You look untroubled and beautiful, not that you’re not beautiful now, but here you sit. I see your pain. It’s so hard knowing that I’m the one who has made you feel this way.”
It’s killing me, Ana.
“But I’m a selfish man. I’ve wanted you since you fell into my office. You are exquisite, honest, warm, strong, witty, beguilingly innocent; the list is endless. I am in awe of you. I want you, and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twisting in my dark soul.”
Fuck. Flowery, Grey! Real flowery.
I’m like a man possessed. I’m going to scare her off.
“Christian, why do you think you have a dark soul?” she cries out, totally surprising me. “I would never say that. Sad maybe, but you’re a good man. I can see that—you’re generous, you’re kind, and you’ve never lied to me. And I haven’t tried very hard. Last Saturday was such a shock to my system. It was my wake-up call. I realized that you’d been easy on me, and that I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be. Then, after I left, it dawned on me that the physical pain you inflicted was not as bad as the pain of losing you. I do want to please you, but it’s hard.”
“You please me all the time.” When will she understand this? “How often do I have to tell you that?”
“I never know what you’re thinking.”
She doesn’t? Baby, you read me like one of your books; except I’m not the hero. I’ll never be the hero.
“Sometimes you’re so closed off, like an island state,” she continues. “You intimidate me. That’s why I keep quiet. I don’t know which way your mood is going to go. It swings from north to south and back again in a nanosecond. It’s confusing and you won’t let me touch you, and I want so much to show you how much I love you.”
Anxiety bursts in my chest and my heart starts hammering. She said it again; the three potent words I cannot bear. And touching. No. No. No. She can’t touch me. But before I can respond, before the darkness takes hold, she unfastens her seatbelt and crawls across the seat and into my lap, ambushing me. She places her hands on either side of my head, staring into my eyes, and I stop breathing.
“I love you, Christian Grey,” she says. “And you’re prepared to do all this for me. I’m the one who is undeserving. And I’m just sorry that I can’t do all those things for you. Maybe with time—I don’t know—but yes, I accept your proposition. Where do I sign?” She curls her arms around my neck and hugs me, her warm cheek against mine.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
Anxiety turns to joy. It expands in my chest, lighting me up from head to toe, spreading warmth in its wake. She’s going to try. I get her back. I don’t deserve her, but I get her back. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tightly, burying my nose in her fragrant hair, as relief and a kaleidoscope of colorful emotions fill the void that I’ve carried inside me since she left.
“Oh, Ana,” I whisper, and I hold her, too dazed and too…replete to say anything else. She snuggles into my arms, her head on my shoulder, and we listen to the Rachmaninov. I go over her words.
She loves me.
I test the phrase in my head and what’s left of my heart, and swallow the knot of fear that forms in my throat as those words ring through me.
I can do this.
I can live with this.
I must. I need to protect her and her vulnerable heart.
I take a deep breath.
I can do this.
Except the touching. I can’t do that. I have to make her understand—manage her expectations. Gently I stroke her back. “Touching is a hard limit for me, Anastasia.”
“I know. I wish I understood why.” Her breath tickles my neck.
Shall I tell her? Why would she want to know this shit? My shit? Maybe I can hint at it, give her a clue.
“I had a horrific childhood. One of the crack whore’s pimps…”
“There you are, you little shit.”
No. No. No. Not the burn.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
“She can’t hear you, you fucking maggot.” He grabs my hair and pulls me out from under the kitchen table.
“Ow. Ow. Ow.”
He’s smoking. The smell. Cigarettes. It’s a dirty smell. Like old and nasty. He’s dirty. Like trash. Like drains. He drinks brown licker. From a bottle.
“And even if she could, she doesn’t give a fuck,” he shouts. He always shouts.
His hand hits me across my face. And again. And again. No. No.
I fight him. But he laughs. And takes a puff. The end of the cigarette shines bright red and orange.
“The burn,” he says.
No. No.
The pain. The pain. The pain. The smell.
Burn. Burn. Burn.
Pain. No. No. No.
I howl.
Howl.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
He laughs and laughs. He has two teeth gone.
I shudder as my memories and nightmares float together like smoke from his discarded cigarette, fogging my brain, dragging me back to a time of fear and impotence.
I tell Ana I remember it all and she tightens her hold on me. Her cheek on my neck. Her soft, warm skin against mine, bringing me back to the now.
“Was she abusive? Your mother?” Ana’s voice is hoarse.
“Not that I remember. She was neglectful. She didn’t protect me from her pimp.”
She was a sad excuse and he was a sick fuck.
“I think it was me who looked after her. When she finally killed herself, it took four days for someone to raise the alarm and find us. I remember that.” I close my eyes and see vague, muted images of my mother slumped on the floor, me covering her with my blanket and curling up beside her.
Anastasia gasps. “That’s pretty fucked up.”
“Fifty shades.”
She kisses my neck, a soft, tender press of her lips onto my skin. And I know it’s not pity she’s offering. It’s comfort; maybe even understanding. My sweet, compassionate Ana.
I tighten my hold on her and kiss her hair as she nestles in my arms.
Baby, it was a long time ago.
My exhaustion catches up with me. Several sleepless nights plagued with nightmares have taken their toll. I’m tired. I want to stop thinking. She’s my dreamcatcher. I never had nightmares when she was sleeping at my side. Leaning back, I close my eyes, saying nothing, because I have nothing more to say. I listen to the music, and when it’s finished, to her soft, even breathing. She’s asleep. She’s weary. Like me. I realize I can’t spend the night with her. She’ll get no sleep if I do. I hold her, enjoying her weight on me, honored that she can sleep on me. I can’t help my self-satisfied grin. I’ve done it. I’ve won her back. Now all I have to do is keep her, which will be challenging enough.
My first vanilla relationship—who would have thought? Closing my eyes, I imagine the look on Elena’s face when I tell her. She’ll have plenty to say, she always has…
I can tell by the way you’re standing that you have something to tell me.
I dare a quick peek at Elena as her scarlet lips curl into a smile and she crosses her arms, flogger in hand.
Yes, Ma’am.
You may speak.
I have a place at Harvard.
Her eyes flash.
Ma’am, I add quickly, and stare down at my toes.
I see. She walks around me as I stand naked in her basement. The chill spring air caresses my skin, but it’s the anticipation of what’s to come that makes each of my hair follicles stand on end. That, and the smell of her expensive perfume. My body begins to respond.
She laughs. Control! she snaps, and the flogger bites across my thighs. And I try, really try, to bring my body to heel.
Though perhaps you should be rewarded for good behavior, she purrs. And she hits me again, across my chest this time, but soft, more playful. It’s quite the achievement to get into Harvard, my dear, dear pet. The flogger flies again, stinging my ass, and my legs quiver in response.
Hold still, she warns. And I stand straight, waiting for the next blow. So you’ll leave me, she whispers, and the flogger strikes my back.
My eyes spring open and I glance at her in alarm.
No. Never.
Eyes down, she commands.
And I stare at my feet as panic overwhelms me.
You’ll leave me and find some young college girl.
No. No.
She grabs my face, her nails biting into my skin.
You will. Her ice-blue eyes burn into mine, scarlet lips twisted in a snarl.
Never, Ma’am.
She laughs and pushes me away and raises her hand.
But the blow never comes.
When I open my eyes, Ana stands before me. She caresses my cheek and smiles. I love you, she says.
I wake, momentarily disoriented, my heart thudding like a klaxon, and I don’t know if it’s fear or excitement. I’m in the back of the Q7 and Ana is curled up asleep in my lap.
Ana.
She’s mine once more. And for a moment I feel giddy. A stupid grin splits my face and I shake my head. Have I ever felt like this? I’m excited for the future. I’m excited to see where our relationship will go. What new things we’ll try. There are so many possibilities.
I kiss her hair and rest my chin on her head. When I glance out of the window I notice that we’ve reached Seattle. Taylor’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.
“Are we heading to Escala, sir?”
“No, Miss Steele’s.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle. “We’ll be there in five minutes,” he says.
Whoa. We’re nearly home.
“Thank you, Taylor.” I’ve slept longer than I thought possible in the back of a car. I wonder what time it is, but I don’t want to move my arm to check my watch as I’m holding her. I gaze down at my sleeping beauty. Her lips are gently parted, her dark lashes fanned out, shadowing her face. And I remember watching her sleep at The Heathman, that first time. She looked so peaceful then; she looks peaceful now. I’m reluctant to disturb her.
“Wake up, baby.” I kiss her hair. Her eyelashes flutter and she opens her eyes. “Hey,” I murmur in greeting.
“Sorry,” she mumbles as she sits up.
“I could watch you sleep forever, Ana.” No need to apologize.
“Did I say anything?” She looks worried.
“No,” I reassure her. “We’re nearly at your place.”
“We’re not going to yours?” She sounds surprised.
“No.”
She sits up straight and glares at me. “Why not?”
“Because you have work tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Her pout says all I need to know about her disappointment. I want to laugh out loud.
“Why, did you have something in mind?” I tease her.
She squirms in my lap.
Ow.
I still her with my hands.
“Well, maybe,” she says, looking anywhere but at me and sounding a little shy. I can’t help my laugh. She’s courageous in so many ways, and yet still so coy in others. And as I watch her, I realize that I’ve got to get her to open up about sex. If we’re going to be honest with each other, she has to tell me how she feels. Tell me what she needs. I want her to be confident enough to express her desires. All of them.
“Anastasia, I am not going to touch you again, not until you beg me to.”
“What!” She sounds a little upset.
“So that you’ll start communicating with me. Next time we make love, you’re going to have to tell me exactly what you want in fine detail.”
That will give you something to think about, Miss Steele.
I lift her off my lap when Taylor pulls up at the curb beside her apartment. I climb out of the car, walk to her door, and open it for her. She looks sleepy and adorable as she struggles out of the car.
“I have something for you.”
This is it. Will she accept my gift? This is the final stage of my campaign to win her back. Opening the trunk, I grab the gift box that contains her Mac, her phone, and an iPad. She looks from the box to me with suspicion. “Open it when you get inside.”
“You’re not coming in?”
“No, Anastasia.” As much as I’d like to. We both need to sleep.
“So when will I see you?”
“Tomorrow?”
“My boss wants me to go for a drink with him tomorrow.”
What the hell does that fucker want? I must chase Welch for his report on Hyde. There’s something off about him that isn’t reflected in his employee records. I don’t trust him one bit. “Does he, now?” I try to sound nonchalant.
“To celebrate my first week,” she says, quickly.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“I could pick you up from there.”
“Okay. I’ll e-mail or text you.”
“Good.”
We walk to the lobby door together and I watch, amused, as she rummages around in her purse for her keys. She unlocks the door and turns to say good-bye—and I can’t resist her any longer. Leaning down, I cup her chin in my fingers. I want to kiss her hard, but I hold back and trace soft kisses from her temple to her mouth. She moans and the sweet sound travels straight to my cock.
“Until tomorrow,” I say, failing to keep the desire out of my voice.
“Good night, Christian,” she whispers, and her longing echoes my own.
Oh, baby. Tomorrow. Not now.
“In you go,” I order, and it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done: letting her leave knowing that she’s mine for the taking. My body ignores my noble gesture and stiffens in anticipation. I shake my head, amazed as ever by my lust for Ana.
“Laters, baby,” I call after her and, turning toward the street I head to the car, determined not to look back. Once I’m inside the car, I allow myself to look. She’s still there, standing on the doorstep, watching me.
Good.
Go to bed, Ana, I will her. As if she hears me, she closes the door, and Taylor starts the car to head home to Escala.
I lean back in my seat.
What a difference a day makes.
I grin. She’s mine, once more.
I imagine her in her apartment, opening the box. Will she be pissed? Or will she be delighted?
She’ll be pissed.
She never took kindly to gifts.
Shit. Was it a step too far?
Taylor heads into the garage at Escala and we pull into the vacant parking space next to Ana’s A3. “Taylor, will you deliver Miss Steele’s Audi to her place tomorrow?” I hope she will accept the car, too.
“Yes, Mr. Grey.”
I leave him in the garage, doing whatever he does, and head for the elevator. Once inside, I check my phone to see if she has anything to say about the gifts. Just as the elevator doors open and I step into my apartment, there’s an e-mail.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: iPad
Date: June 9 2011 23:56
To: Christian Grey
You’ve made me cry again.
I love the iPad.
I love the songs.
I love the British Library app.
I love you.
Thank you.
Good night.
Ana xx
I grin at the screen. Happy tears, great!
She loves it.
She loves me.