by E. L. James
“I need to confer with you on an urgent matter, Mr. Grey.”
Christian clasps my shoulders from behind and addresses Gia.
“Mrs. Grey is in charge of this project. She has absolute carte blanche. Whatever she wants, it’s hers. I completely trust her instincts. She’s very shrewd.” His voice alters subtly. In it I hear pride and a veiled warning—a warning to Gia?
He trusts my instincts? Oh, this man’s exasperating. My instincts let him run roughshod over my feelings this afternoon. I shake my head in frustration but I’m grateful that he’s telling Miss Provocative-And-Unfortunately-Good-At-Her-Job just who’s in charge. I caress his hand as it rests on my shoulder.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Christian squeezes my shoulders before following Taylor. I wonder idly what’s going on.
“So . . . the master suite?” Gia asks nervously.
I gaze up at her, pausing for a moment to ensure that Christian and Taylor are out of earshot. Then calling on all my inner strength and the fact that I’ve been seriously piqued for the last five hours, I let her have it.
“You’re right to be nervous, Gia, because right now your work on this project hangs in the balance. But I’m sure we’ll be fine as long as you keep your hands off my husband.”
She gasps.
“Otherwise, you’re fired. Understand?” I enunciate each word clearly.
She blinks rapidly, utterly stunned. She cannot believe what I’ve said. I cannot believe what I’ve just said. But I hold my ground, gazing impassively into her widening brown eyes.
Don’t back down. Don’t back down! I’ve learned this maddening impassive expression from Christian who does impassive like no one else. I know that renovating the Greys’ main residence is a prestigious project for Gia’s architectural firm—a resplendent feather in her cap. She can’t lose this commission. And right now I don’t give a hoot that she’s Elliot’s friend.
“Ana—Mrs. Grey . . . I-I’m so sorry. I never—” She flushes, unsure what else she can say.
“Let me be clear. My husband is not interested in you.”
“Of course,” she murmurs, the blood draining from her face.
“As I said, I just wanted to be clear.”
“Mrs. Grey, I sincerely apologize if you think . . . I have—” She stops, still floundering for something to say.
“Good. As long as we understand each other, we’ll be fine. Now, I’ll let you know what we have in mind for the master suite, then I’d like a run down on all the materials you intend to use. As you know, Christian and I are determined that this house should be ecologically sustainable, and I’d like to reassure him as to where all the materials are coming from and what they are.”
“Of c-course,” she stutters, wide-eyed and frankly a little intimidated by me. This is a first. My inner goddess runs around the arena, waving to the frenzied crowd.
Gia pats her hair into place, and I realize this is a nervous gesture.
“The master suite?” she prompts anxiously, her voice a breathless whisper. Now that I have the upper hand, I feel myself relax for the first time since my meeting with Christian this afternoon. I can do this. My inner goddess is celebrating her inner bitch.
Christian joins us just as we’re finishing up.
“All done?” he asks. He puts his arm around my waist and turns to Gia.
“Yes, Mr. Grey,” Gia smiles brightly, though her smile looks brittle. “I’ll have the revised plans to you in a couple of days.”
“Excellent. You’re happy?” he asks me directly, his eyes warm and probing. I nod and blush for some reason that I don’t understand.
“I’d better be going,” Gia says again too brightly. She offers her hand to me first this time, then to Christian.
“Until next time, Gia,” I murmur.
“Yes, Mrs. Grey. Mr. Grey.”
Taylor appears at the entrance of the great room.
“Taylor will see you out.” My voice is loud enough for him to hear. Patting her hair once more, she turns on her high heels and leaves the great room, followed closely by Taylor.
“She was noticeably cooler,” Christian says, looking quizzically at me.
“Was she? I didn’t notice.” I shrug, trying to remain neutral. “What did Taylor want?” I ask partly because I’m curious and partly because I want to change the subject.
Frowning, Christian releases me and begins to roll up the plans on the table. “It was about Hyde.”
“What about Hyde?” I whisper.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Ana.” Abandoning the plans, Christian draws me into his arms. “It turns out he hasn’t been in his apartment for weeks, that’s all.” He kisses my hair, then releases me and finishes his task.
“So what did you decide on?” he asks, and I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to pursue the Hyde line of inquiry.
“Only what you and I discussed. I think she likes you,” I say quietly.
He snorts. “Did you say something to her?” he asks and I flush. How does he know? At a loss what to say, I stare down at my fingers.
“We were Christian and Ana when she arrived, and Mr. and Mrs. Grey when she left.” His tone is dry.
“I may have said something,” I mumble. When I peek up at him, he’s regarding me warmly, and for an unguarded moment he looks . . . pleased. He drops his gaze, shaking his head, and his expression changes.
“She’s only reacting to this face.” He sounds vaguely bitter, disgusted even.
Oh, Fifty, no!
“What?” He’s bemused by my perplexed expression. His eyes grow wide in alarm. “You’re not jealous, are you?” he asks, horrified.
I blush and swallow, then stare down at my knotted fingers. Am I?
“Ana, she’s a sexual predator. Not my type at all. How can you be jealous of her? Of anyone? Nothing about her interests me.” When I glance up, he’s gaping at me as if I’ve grown an additional limb. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s only you, Ana,” he says quietly. “It will only ever be you.”
Oh my. Abandoning the plans once more, Christian moves toward me and clasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“How can you think otherwise? Have I ever given you any indication that I could be remotely interested in anyone else?” His eyes blaze as he stares into mine.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m being silly. It’s just today . . . you . . .” All my conflicting emotions from earlier resurfaces. How can I tell him how confused I am? I’ve been confounded and frustrated by his behavior this afternoon in my office. One minute he wants me to stay at home, the next he’s gifting me a company. How am I supposed to keep up?
“What about me?”
“Oh, Christian”—my bottom lip trembles—“I’m trying to adapt to this new life that I had never imagined for myself. Everything is being handed to me on a plate—the job, you, my beautiful husband, who I never . . . I never knew I’d love this way, this hard, this fast, this . . . indelibly.” I take a deep steadying breath, as his mouth drops open.
“But you’re like a freight train, and I don’t want to get railroaded because the girl you fell in love with will be crushed. And what’ll be left? All that would be left is a vacuous social x-ray, flitting from charity function to charity function.” I pause once more, struggling to find the words to convey how I feel. “And now you want me to be a company CEO, which has never even been on my radar. I’m bouncing between all these ideas, struggling. You want me at home. You want me to run a company. It’s so confusing.” I stop, tears threatening, and I force back a sob.
“You’ve got to let me make my own decisions, take my own risks, and make my own mistakes, and let me learn from them. I need to walk before I can run, Christian, don’t you see. I want some independence. That’s what my name means to me.” There, that’s what I wanted to say this afternoon.
“You feel railroaded?” he whispers.
I nod.
He closes his eyes and runs his hand through h
I flush. He has a point.
“I only thought about it while we were on our honeymoon, and well, I didn’t want to burst the bubble, and I forgot about it. I only remembered yesterday evening. And then Jack . . . you know, it was distracting. I’m sorry, I should have told you or discussed it with you, but I could never seem to find the right time.”
Christian’s intense gaze is unnerving. It’s as if he’s trying to will his way into my skull, but he says nothing.
“Why did you panic?” I ask.
“I just don’t want you to slip through my fingers.”
“For heaven’s sake, I’m not going anywhere. When are you going to get that through your incredibly thick skull? I. Love. You.” I wave my hand in the air like he does sometimes to emphasize my point. “More than . . . eyesight, space, or liberty.”1
His eyes widen. “A daughter’s love?” He gives me an ironic smile.
“No,” I laugh, despite myself. “It’s the only quote that came to mind.”
“Mad King Lear?”
“Dear, dear Mad King Lear.” I caress his face, and he leans into my touch, closing his eyes. “Would you change your name to Christian Steele so everyone would know that you belong to me?”
Christian’s eyes fly open, and he gazes at me as if I’ve just said the world is flat. He frowns. “Belong to you?” he murmurs, testing the words.
“Mine.”
“Yours,” he says, repeating the words we spoke in the playroom only yesterday. “Yes, I would. If it meant that much to you.”
Oh my.
“Does it mean that much to you?”
“Yes.” He is unequivocal.
“Okay.” I will do this for him. Give him the reassurance he still needs.
“I thought you’d already agreed to this.”
“Yes I have, but now we’ve discussed it further, I’m happier with my decision.”
“Oh,” he mutters, surprised. Then he smiles his beautiful, boyish yes-I-am-really-kinda-young smile, and he takes my breath away. Grabbing me by my waist, he swings me around. I squeal and start to giggle, and I don’t know if he’s just happy or relieved or . . . what?
“Mrs. Grey, do you know what this means to me?”
“I do now.”
He leans down and kisses me, his fingers moving into my hair, holding me in place.
“It means seven shades of Sunday,” he murmurs against my lips, and he runs his nose along mine.
“You think?” I lean back to gaze at him.
“Certain promises were made. An offer extended, a deal brokered,” he whispers, his eyes sparkling with wicked delight.
“Um . . .” I am still reeling, trying to follow his mood.
“You reneging on me?” he asks uncertainly, and a speculative look crosses his face. “I have an idea,” he adds.
Oh, what kinky fuckery is this?
“A really important matter to attend to,” he continues, suddenly all serious once more. “Yes, Mrs. Grey. A matter of the gravest importance.”
Hang on—he’s laughing at me.
“What?” I breathe.
“I need you to cut my hair. Apparently it’s overlong, and my wife doesn’t like it.”
“I can’t cut your hair!”
“Yes you can.” Christian grins and shakes his head so his overlong hair covers his eyes.
“Well, if Mrs. Jones has a pudding bowl.” I giggle.
He laughs. “Okay, good point well made. I’ll get Franco to do it.”
No! Franco works for her? Maybe I could give him a trim. After all, I cut Ray’s hair for years, and he never complained.
“Come.” I grab his hand. His eyes widen. I lead him all the way to our bathroom where I release him and grab the white wooden chair that stands in the corner. I place it in front of the sink. When I look at Christian, he’s gazing at me with ill-disguised amusement, thumbs tucked in the front belt loops of his pants but his eyes are smoking hot.
“Sit.” I gesture to the empty chair, trying to maintain the upper hand.
“Are you going to wash my hair?”
I nod. He arches one brow in surprise, and for a moment I think he’s going to back down. “Okay.” Slowly he begins to undo each button of his white shirt, starting with the one beneath his throat. Nimble, deft fingers move to each button in turn until his shirt hangs open.
Oh my . . . My inner goddess pauses in her celebratory jaunt around the arena.
Christian holds out a cuff with an “undo this now” gesture, and his mouth twitches in that challenging, sexy way he has.
Oh, cufflinks. I take his proffered wrist and remove the first one, a platinum disc with his initials engraved in a simple italic script—and then remove its matching twin. As I finish I glance at him, and his amused expression is gone, replaced by something hotter . . . much hotter. I reach up and push his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
“Ready?” I whisper.
“For whatever you want, Ana.”
My eyes stray from his eyes to his lips. Parted so that he can inhale more deeply. Sculptured, chiseled, whatever, it is a beautiful mouth and he knows exactly what to do with it. I find myself leaning up to kiss him.
“No,” he says and places both of his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t. If you do that, I’ll never get my hair cut.”
Oh!“I want this,” he continues. And his eyes are round and raw for some inexplicable reason. It’s disarming.
“Why?” I whisper.
He stares at me for a beat, and his eyes grow wider. “Because it’ll make me feel cherished.”
My heart practically lurches to a halt. Oh, Christian . . . my Fifty. And before I know it I’ve circled him in my arms, and I kiss his chest before nuzzling my cheek into his tickly chest hair.
“Ana. My Ana,” he whispers. He wraps his arms around me and we stand immobile, holding each other in our bathroom. Oh, how I love to be in his arms. Even if he is an overbearing, megalomaniac arse, he’s my overbearing megalomaniac arse in need of a lifetime dose of TLC. I lean back without releasing him.
“You really want me to do this?”
He nods and gives me his shy smile. I grin back at him and step out of his embrace.
“Then sit,” I repeat.
He dutifully does, sitting with his back to the sink. I take off my shoes and kick them over to where his shirt lies crumpled on the bathroom floor. From the shower I retrieve his Chanel shampoo. We bought it in France.
“Would sir like this?” I hold it up in both hands like I’m selling it on QVC. “Hand-delivered from the South of France. I like the smell of this . . . it smells of you,” I add in a whisper, slipping out of my television presenter mode.
“Please.” He grins.
I grab a small towel off the towel warmer. Mrs. Jones sure knows how to keep the towels super-soft.
“Lean forward,” I order and Christian complies. Draping the towel around his shoulders, I then turn on the taps and fill the sink with a mix of warm water.
“Lean back.” Oh, I like being in charge. Christian leans back, but he’s too tall. He shifts the seat forward then tilts back the entire chair until the top rests against the sink. Perfect distance. He tips back his head. Bold eyes gaze up at me, and I smile. Taking one of the drinking glasses we keep on the vanity, I dip it into the water and tip it over Christian’s head, soaking his hair. I repeat the process, leaning over him.
“You smell so good, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and closes his eyes.
As I methodically wet his hair, I freely gaze at him. Holy cow. Will I ever tire of this? Long dark lashes fan across his cheeks; his lips part a little, creating a small, dark diamond shape, and he inhales softly. Hmm . . . how I long to poke my tongue—
He grabs the corner of the towel and laughs as he wipes the water out of his eyes.
“Hey, I know I’m an arse, but don’t drown me.”
I lean down and kiss his forehead, giggling. “Don’t tempt me.”
He curls his hand behind my head and shifts so that he captures my lips with his. He kisses me briefly, making a low contented sound in his throat. The noise connects to the muscles deep in my belly. It’s a very seductive sound. He releases me and lies back obediently, gazing up at me with expectation. For a moment he looks vulnerable, like a child. It tugs at my heart.
I squirt some shampoo into my palm and massage it into his scalp, beginning at his temples and working over the top of his head and down the sides, circling my fingers rhythmically. He closes his eyes again and makes that low humming sound again.
“That feels good,” he says after a moment and relaxes beneath the firm touch of my fingers.
“Yes it does.” I kiss his forehead once more.
“I like it when you scratch my scalp with your fingernails.” His eyes are still closed, but his expression one of blissful contentment—no trace of his vulnerability remains. Jeez, how much his mood has changed, and I take comfort knowing it’s me that’s done this.
“Head up,” I command and he obeys. Hmm—a girl could get used to this. I rub the suds into the back of his hair, scraping my nails into his scalp.
“Back.”
He leans back, and I rinse off the lather, using the glass. This time I manage not to splash him.
“Once more?” I ask.
“Please.” His eyes flutter open and his serene gaze finds mine. I grin down at him.
“Coming right up, Mr. Grey.”
I turn to the sink that Christian normally uses and fill it with warm water.
“For rinsing,” I say when his look turns quizzical.
I repeat the process with the shampoo, listening to his even deep breaths. Once he’s all lathered up, I take another moment to appreciate the fine face of my husband. I cannot resist him. Tenderly, I caress his cheek, and he opens his eyes, watching me almost sleepily through his long lashes. Leaning forward I plant a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. He smiles, closes his eyes, and breathes out a sigh of utter contentment.
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