by E. L. James
Okay … my turn to talk.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I murmur.
“No. I didn’t,” he says quietly, his gray eyes wide and cautious.
“No, you didn’t answer my question, or no, you didn’t love her?”
He folds his arms and leans against the wall, and a small smile plays upon his lips.
“What are you doing here, Anastasia?”
“I’ve just told you.”
He takes a deep breath.
“No. I didn’t love her.” He frowns at me, amused yet puzzled.
I can’t believe I’m holding my breath. I sag like an old cloth sack as I release it. Well, thank heavens for that. How would I feel if he actually loved the witch?
“You’re quite the green-eyed goddess, Anastasia. Who would have thought?”
“Are you making fun of me, Mr. Grey?”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He shakes his head solemnly, but he has a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Oh, I think you would, and I think you do—often.”
He smirks as I give him back the words he’s said to me before. His eyes darken.
“Please stop biting your lip. You’re in my room, I haven’t set eyes on you for nearly three days, and I’ve flown a long way to see you.” His tone has changed to soft, sensual.
His BlackBerry buzzes, distracting us both, and he switches it off without glancing to see who it is. My breath hitches. I know where this is going … but we’re supposed to talk. He takes a step toward me wearing his sexy predatory look.
“I want you, Anastasia. Now. And you want me. That’s why you’re here.”
“I really did want to know,” I whisper as a defense.
“Well, now that you do, are you coming or going?”
I flush as he comes to a halt in front of me.
“Coming,” I murmur, staring anxiously up at him.
“Oh, I hope so.” He gazes down at me. “You were so mad at me,” he breathes.
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember anyone but my family ever being mad at me. I like it.”
He runs the tips of fingers down my cheek. Oh my, his proximity, his delicious Christian smell. We’re supposed to be talking, but my heart is pounding, my blood singing as it courses through my body, desire pooling, unfurling … everywhere. Christian bends and runs his nose along my shoulder and up to the base of my ear, his fingers slipping into my hair.
“We should talk,” I whisper.
“Later.”
“There’s so much I want to say.”
“Me, too.”
He plants a soft kiss under my earlobe while his fingers tighten in my hair. Pulling my head back, he exposes my throat to his lips. His teeth skim my chin, and he kisses my throat.
“I want you,” he breathes.
I moan and reach up and grasp his arms.
“Are you bleeding?” He continues to kiss me.
Holy fuck. Does nothing slip by him?
“Yes,” I whisper, embarrassed.
“Do you have cramps?”
“No.” I flush. Jeez …
He stops and looks down at me.
“Did you take your pill?”
“Yes.” How mortifying is this?
“Let’s go have a bath.”
Oh?
He takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom. It’s dominated by a super-king-sized bed with elaborate drapes. But we don’t stop there. He takes me into the bathroom, which is two rooms, all aquamarines and white limestone. It’s huge. In the second room a sunken bath, big enough for four people with stone steps that lead into it, is slowly filling with water. Steam rises gently above the foam, and I notice a stone bench that runs all the way around the bath. Candles flicker to the side. Wow … he’s done all this while on the phone.
“Do you have a hair tie?”
I blink at him, fish into my jeans pocket, and pull out a hair elastic.
“Put your hair up,” he orders softly. I do as he asks.
It’s warm and sultry beside the bath, and my camisole starts to stick. He leans over and shuts off the faucet. Leading me back into the first part of the bathroom, he stands behind me as we face the wall-sized mirror above the two glass sinks.
“Take your sandals off,” he murmurs and I oblige quickly dropping them to the sandstone floor.
“Lift up your arms,” he breathes. I do as I’m told, and he lifts my camisole over my head so that I’m topless standing in front of him. Not taking his eyes off mine, he reaches around and undoes the top button on my jeans and the zipper.
“I’m going to have you in the bathroom, Anastasia.”
Leaning down, he kisses my neck. I move my head to one side to give him easier access. Hooking his thumbs into my jeans, he slowly slides them down my legs, sinking down behind me as he pulls them and my panties to the floor.
“Step out of your jeans.”
Grasping the edge of the sink, I do just that. I am now naked, staring at myself, and he’s kneeling behind me. He kisses and then softly bites my behind, making me gasp. He stands and stares at me once more in the mirror. I try hard to stay still, ignoring my natural inclination to cover myself. He splays his hand across my belly, the span of his hand almost reaching from hip to hip.
“Look at you. You are so beautiful,” he murmurs. “See how you feel.” He clasps both my hands in his, his palms against the backs of my hands, his fingers in between mine so that my fingers are splayed. He places my hands on my belly. “Feel how soft your skin is.” His voice is soft and low. He moves my hands in a slow circle, then upward toward my breasts. “Feel how full your breasts are.” He holds my hands so that they cup my breasts. He gently strokes my nipples with his thumbs over and over.
I moan between parted lips and arch my back so my breasts fill my palms. He squeezes my nipples between our thumbs, pulling gently so that they elongate further. I watch in fascination at the wanton creature writhing in front of me. Oh, this feels good. I groan and close my eyes, no longer wanting to see that libidinous woman in the mirror falling apart under her own hands … his hands … feeling my skin as he would, experiencing how arousing it is—just his touch and his calm, soft commands. “That’s right, baby,” he murmurs.
He guides my hands down the sides of my body, past my waist to my hips, and across to my pubic hair. He slides his leg in between mine, pushing my feet farther apart, widening my stance, and runs my hands over my sex, one hand at a time in turn, setting up a rhythm. It is so erotic. Truly I am a marionette and he is the master puppeteer.
“Look at you glow, Anastasia,” he whispers as he trails kisses and soft bites along my shoulder. I groan. Suddenly he lets go.
“Carry on,” he orders, and stands back watching me.
I rub myself. No. I want him to do it. It doesn’t feel the same. I’m lost without him. He pulls his shirt over his head and quickly takes off his jeans.
“You’d rather I do this?” His gray gaze scorches mine in the mirror.
“Oh yes … please,” I breathe.
He wraps his arms around me again and takes my hands once more, continuing the sensual caress across my sex, over my clitoris. His chest hair scrapes against me, his erection presses against me. Oh, soon … please. He bites the nape of my neck, and I close my eyes, enjoying the myriad sensations: my neck, my groin … the feel of him behind me. He stops abruptly and spins me around, circling my wrists with one hand, imprisoning my hands behind me, and pulling at my ponytail with the other. I am flush against him, and he kisses me wildly, ravaging my mouth with his. Holding me in place.
His breathing is ragged, matching mine.
“When did you start your period, Anastasia?” he asks out of the blue, gazing down at me.
“Er … yesterday,” I mumble in my highly aroused state.
“Good.” He releases me and turns me around.
“Hold on to the sink,” he orders, and drags my hips back again, like he did in the playroom, so I’m bending down.<
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He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string—what?!—and gently takes my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet. Holy fuck. Sweet mother of all … Jeez. And then he’s inside me … ah! Skin against skin … moving slowly at first … easily, testing me, pushing me … oh my. I grip on to the sink, panting, forcing myself back on him, feeling him inside me. Oh, the sweet agony … his hands clasp my hips. He sets a punishing rhythm—in, out, and he reaches around and finds my clitoris, massaging me … oh jeez. I can feel myself quicken.
“That’s right, baby,” he rasps as he grinds into me, angling his hips, and it’s enough to send me flying, flying high.
Whoa … and I come, loudly, gripping for dear life onto the sink as I spiral down through my orgasm, everything spinning and clenching at once. He follows, clasping me tightly, his front on my back as he climaxes and calls my name like it’s a litany or a prayer.
“Oh, Ana!” His breathing is ragged in my ear, in perfect synergy with mine. “Oh, baby, will I ever get enough of you?” he whispers.
We sink slowly to the floor, and he wraps his arms around me, imprisoning me. Will it always be like this? So overwhelming, so all-consuming, so bewildering and beguiling. I wanted to talk, but now I’m spent and dazed from his lovemaking and wondering if I will ever get enough of him?
I am curled on his lap, my head against his chest, as we both calm. Very subtly, I inhale his sweet, intoxicating Christian scent. I must not nuzzle. I must not nuzzle. I repeat the mantra in my head—though I am so tempted to do so. I want to lift my hand and draw patterns in his chest hair with my fingertips … but I resist, knowing that he’ll hate it if I do. We are both quiet, lost in our thoughts. I am lost in him … lost to him.
I remember that I have my period.
“I’m bleeding,” I murmur.
“Doesn’t bother me,” he breathes.
“I noticed.” I can’t keep the dryness out of my voice.
He tenses. “Does it bother you?” he asks softly.
Does it bother me? Maybe it should … should it? No, it doesn’t. I lean back and look up at him, and he gazes down at me, his eyes a soft cloudy gray.
“No, not at all.”
He smirks. “Good. Let’s have a bath.”
He uncurls from around me, placing me on the floor as he makes to stand. As he does, I notice again the small, round white scars on his chest. They are not chicken pox, I muse absentmindedly. Grace said he was hardly affected. Holy shit … they must be burns. Burns from what? I blanch at the realization, shock and revulsion coursing through me. From cigarettes? Mrs. Robinson, his birth mother, who? Who did this to him? Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation, and I’m overreacting—wild hope blossoms in my chest, hope that I am wrong.
“What is it?” Christian’s face is wide-eyed with alarm.
“Your scars,” I whisper. “They’re not from chicken pox.”
I watch as in a split second he closes down, his stance changing from relaxed, calm, and at ease to defensive—angry even. He frowns, his face darkening, and his mouth presses into a thin, hard line.
“No, they’re not,” he snaps, but he does not elaborate further. He stands, holds his hand out for me, and hauls me to my feet.
“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is colder and scolding as he lets go of my hand.
I flush, chastened, and stare down at my fingers, and I know, I know that someone stubbed cigarettes out on Christian. I feel sick.
“Did she do that?” I whisper before I can stop myself.
He says nothing, so I’m forced to look at him. He’s glaring at me.
“She? Mrs. Robinson? She’s not an animal, Anastasia. Of course she didn’t. I don’t understand why you feel you have to demonize her.”
He’s standing there, naked, gloriously naked, with my blood on him … and we’re finally having this conversation. And I’m naked, too—neither of us has anywhere to hide, except perhaps the bath. I take a deep breath, move past him, and step down into the water. It is deliciously warm, soothing, and deep. I melt into the fragrant foam and stare up at him, hiding among the bubbles.
“I just wonder what you would be like if you hadn’t met her. If she hadn’t introduced you to your … um, lifestyle.”
He sighs and steps down into the bath opposite me, his jaw clenched with tension, his eyes frosty. As he gracefully submerges his body beneath the water, he’s careful not to touch me. Jeez—have I made him that mad?
He stares impassively at me, his face unreadable, saying nothing. Again the silence stretches between us, but I hold my counsel. It’s your turn, Grey—I am not caving this time. My subconscious is nervous, anxiously biting her nails—this could go either way. Christian and I stare at each other, but I am not backing down. Eventually, after what seems like a millennium, he shakes his head, and he smirks.
“I would probably have gone the way of my birth mother, had it not been for Mrs. Robinson.”
Oh! I blink at him. Crack addict or whore? Possibly both?
“She loved me in a way I found … acceptable,” he adds with a shrug.
What the hell does that mean?
“Acceptable?” I whisper.
“Yes.” He stares intently at me. “She distracted me from the destructive path I found myself following. It’s very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you’re not perfect.”
Oh no. My mouth dries as I digest his words. He gazes at me, his expression unfathomable. He’s not going to tell me any more. How frustrating. Inside, I’m reeling—he sounds so full of self-loathing.
And Mrs. Robinson loved him. Holy shit … does she still? I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach.
“Does she still love you?”
“I don’t think so, not like that.” He frowns as if he hasn’t thought about the idea. “I keep telling you it was a long time ago. It’s in the past. I couldn’t change it even if I wanted to, which I don’t. She saved me from myself.” He’s exasperated and runs a wet hand through his hair. “I’ve never discussed this with anyone.” He pauses. “Except Dr. Flynn, of course. And the only reason I’m talking about this now, to you, is because I want you to trust me.”
“I do trust you, but I do want to know you better, and whenever I try to talk to you, you distract me. There’s so much I want to know.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Anastasia. What do you want to know? What do I have to do?” His eyes blaze, and though he doesn’t raise his voice, I know he’s trying to rein in his temper.
I glance down at my hands, clear beneath the water as the bubbles have started to disperse.
“I’m just trying to understand; you’re such an enigma. Unlike anyone I’ve met before. I’m glad you’re telling me what I want to know.”
Jeez—maybe it’s the Cosmopolitans making me brave, but suddenly I cannot bear the distance between us. I move through the water to his side and lean against him so we’re touching, skin to skin. He tenses and eyes me warily, as if I might bite. Well, that’s a turnaround. My inner goddess gazes at him in quiet, surprised speculation.
“Please don’t be angry with me,” I whisper.
“I am not angry with you, Anastasia. I’m just not used to this kind of talking—this probing. I only have this with Dr. Flynn and with—” He stops and frowns.
“With her. Mrs. Robinson. You talk to her?” I prompt, trying to rein in my own temper.
“Yes, I do.”
“What about?”
He shifts in the bath so that he’s facing me, causing the water to lap over the sides onto the floor. He places his arm around my shoulders, resting on the ledge of the bath.
“Persistent aren’t you?” he murmurs, a trace of irritation in his voice. “Life, the universe—business. Anastasia, Mrs. R and I go way back. We can discuss anything.”
“Me?” I whisper.
“Yes.” Gray eyes watch me carefully.
I bite my bottom lip, trying to curb the sudden rush of anger that surfaces.
“Why do you talk about me?” I endeavor not to sound whiney and petulant, but I don’t succeed. I know I should stop. I am pushing him too hard. My subconscious has her Munch’s Scream face on again.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Anastasia.”
“What does that mean? Anyone who just didn’t automatically sign your paperwork, no questions asked?”
He shakes his head. “I need advice.”
“And you take advice from Mrs. Pedo?” I snap. The hold on my temper is more tentative than I thought.
“Anastasia—enough,” he snaps back sternly, his eyes narrowing.
I’m skating on thin ice, and I’m heading into danger. “Or I’ll put you across my knee. I have no sexual or romantic interest in her whatsoever. She’s a dear, valued friend and a business partner. That’s all. We have a past, a shared history, which was monumentally beneficial for me, though it fucked up her marriage—but that side of our relationship is over.”
Jeez—another part I just can’t understand. She was married as well. How did they get away with it for so long?
“And your parents never found out?”
“No,” he growls. “I’ve told you this.”
And I know that’s it. I cannot ask him any further questions about her because he will lose it with me.
“Are you done?” he snaps.
“For now.”
He takes a deep breath and visibly relaxes in front of me, like a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders or something.
“Right—my turn,” he mutters, and his glare turns steely, speculative. “You haven’t responded to my e-mail.”
I flush. Oh, I hate the spotlight on me, and it seems he’s going to get angry every time we have a discussion. I shake my head. Perhaps that’s how he feels about my questions; he’s not used to being challenged. The thought is revelatory, distracting, and unnerving.
“I was going to respond. But now you’re here.”
“You’d rather I wasn’t?” he breathes, his expression impassive again.
“No, I’m pleased,” I murmur.
“Good.” He gives me a genuine, relieved smile. “I’m pleased I’m here, too—in spite of your interrogation. So, while it’s acceptable to grill me, you think you can claim some kind of diplomatic immunity just because I’ve flown all this way to see you? I’m not buying it, Miss Steele. I want to know how you feel.”
