by E. L. James
“You are not allowed out of here alone. You understand?” he snaps.
“Okay.” Jeez—keep your hair on. But his attitude makes me smile. I want to hug myself—this man, all domineering and short with me, I know. I marvel that I would have found it so threatening only a week or so ago when he spoke to me this way. But now I understand him so much better. This is his coping mechanism. He’s stressed about Leila, he loves me, and he wants to protect me.
“What’s so funny?” he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his expression.
“You are.”
“Me? Miss Steele? Why am I funny?” he pouts.
Christian pouting is … hot.
“Don’t pout.”
“Why?” He’s even more amused.
“Because it has the same effect on me as I have on you when I do this.” I bite my lip deliberately.
He raises his eyebrows, surprised and pleased at the same time. “Really?” He pouts again and leans down to give me a swift chaste kiss.
I raise my lips to meet his, and in the nanosecond when our lips touch, the nature of the kiss changes—wildfire spreading through my veins from this intimate point of contact, driving me to him.
Suddenly, my fingers are curling in his hair as he grabs me and pushes me against the elevator wall, his hands framing my face, holding me to his lips as our tongues thrash against each other. And I don’t know if it’s the confines of the elevator making everything much more real, but I feel his need, his anxiety, his passion.
Holy shit. I want him, here, now.
The elevator pings to a halt, the doors slide open, and Christian drags his face from mine, his hips still pinning me to the wall, his erection digging into me.
“Whoa,” he murmurs panting.
“Whoa,” I mirror him, dragging a welcome breath into my lungs.
He gazes at me, eyes blazing. “What you do to me, Ana.” He traces my lower lip with his thumb.
Out of the corner of my eye, Taylor steps backward so he’s no longer in my line of sight. I reach up and kiss Christian at the corner of his beautifully sculptured mouth.
“What you do to me, Christian.”
He steps back and takes my hand, his eyes darker now, hooded. “Come,” he orders.
Taylor is still in the foyer, waiting discreetly for us.
“Good evening, Taylor,” Christian says cordially.
“Mr. Grey, Miss Steele.”
“I was Mrs. Taylor yesterday.” I grin at Taylor, who flushes.
“That has a nice ring to it, Miss Steele,” Taylor says matter-of-factly.
“I thought so, too.”
Christian tightens his hold on my hand, scowling. “If you two have quite finished, I’d like a debriefing.” He glares at Taylor, who now looks uncomfortable, and I cringe inwardly. I have overstepped the mark.
“Sorry,” I mouth at Taylor, who shrugs and smiles kindly before I turn to follow Christian.
“I’ll be with you shortly. I just want a word with Miss Steele,” Christian says to Taylor, and I know I’m in trouble.
Christian leads me into his bedroom and closes the door.
“Don’t flirt with the staff, Anastasia,” he scolds.
I open my mouth to defend myself—then close it again, then open it. “I wasn’t flirting. I was being friendly—there is a difference.”
“Don’t be friendly with the staff or flirt with them. I don’t like it.”
Oh. Good-bye, carefree Christian. “I’m sorry,” I mutter and stare down at my fingers. He hasn’t made me feel like a child all day. Reaching down he cups my chin, pulling my head up to meet his eyes.
“You know how jealous I am,” he whispers.
“You have no reason to be jealous, Christian. You own me body and soul.”
He blinks as if he’s finding this fact hard to process. He leans down and kisses me quickly, but with none of the passion we experienced a moment ago in the elevator.
“I won’t be long. Make yourself at home,” he says sulkily and turns, leaving me standing in his bedroom, dazed and confused.
Why on earth would he be jealous of Taylor? I shake my head in disbelief.
Glancing at the alarm clock, I notice it’s just after eight. I decide to get my clothes ready for work tomorrow. I head upstairs to my room and open the walk-in closet. It’s empty. All the clothes have gone. Oh no! Christian has taken me at my word and disposed of the clothes. Shit.
My subconscious glares at me. Well, that would be you and your big mouth.
Why did he take me at my word? My mother’s advice comes back to haunt me: “Men are so literal, darling.” I pout, staring at the empty space. There were some lovely clothes, too, like the silver dress I wore to the ball.
I wander disconsolately into the bedroom. Wait a minute—what is going on? The iPad is gone. Where’s my Mac? Oh no. My first uncharitable thought is that Leila may have stolen them.
I fly back downstairs and back into Christian’s bedroom. On the bedside table are my Mac, my iPad, and my backpack. It’s all here.
I open the walk-in closet door. My clothes are here—all of them—sharing space with Christian’s clothes. When did this happen? Why does he never warn me before he does things like this?
I turn, and he’s standing in the doorway.
“Oh, they managed the move,” he mutters, distracted.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. His face is grim.
“Taylor thinks Leila was getting in through the emergency stairwell. She must have had a key. All the locks have been changed now. Taylor’s team has done a sweep of every room in the apartment. She’s not here.” He stops and runs a hand through his hair. “I wish I knew where she was. She’s evading all our attempts to find her when she needs help.” He frowns, and my earlier pique vanishes. I put my arms around him. Folding me into his embrace, he kisses my hair.
“What will you do when you find her?” I ask.
“Dr. Flynn has a place.”
“What about her husband?”
“He’s washed his hands of her.” Christian’s tone is bitter. “Her family is in Connecticut. I think she’s very much on her own out there.”
“That’s sad.”
“Are you okay with all your stuff being here? I want you to share my room,” he murmurs.
Whoa, quick change of direction.
“Yes.”
“I want you sleeping with me. I don’t have nightmares when you’re with me.”
“You have nightmares?”
“Yes.”
I tighten my hold around him. More baggage. My heart contracts for this man.
“I was just getting my clothes ready for work tomorrow,” I mutter.
“Work!” Christian exclaims as if it’s a dirty word, and he releases me, glaring.
“Yes, work,” I reply, confused by his reaction.
He stares at me with complete incomprehension. “But Leila—she’s out there,” he pauses. “I don’t want you to go to work.”
What? “That’s ridiculous, Christian. I have to go to work.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I have a new job, which I enjoy. Of course I have to go to work.” What does he mean?
“No, you don’t,” he repeats, emphatically.
“Do you think I am going to stay here twiddling my thumbs while you’re off being Master of the Universe?”
“Frankly … yes.”
Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty … give me strength.
“Christian, I need to go to work.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes. I. Do.” I say it slowly as if he’s a child.
He scowls at me. “It’s not safe.”
“Christian … I need to work for a living, and I’ll be fine.”
“No, you don’t need to work for a living—and how do you know you’ll be fine?” He’s almost shouting.
What does he mean? He’s going to support me? Oh, this is beyond ridiculous—I’ve known him for what—five weeks?
He’s angr
y now, his eyes stormy and flashing, but I don’t give a shit.
“For heaven’s sake, Christian, Leila was standing at the end of your bed, and she didn’t harm me, and yes, I do need to work. I don’t want to be beholden to you. I have my student loans to pay.”
His mouth presses into a grim line, as I place my hands on my hips. I am not budging on this. Who the fuck does he think he is?
“I don’t want you going to work.”
“It’s not up to you, Christian. This is not your decision to make.”
He runs his hand through his hair as he stares at me. Seconds, minutes tick by as we glare at each other.
“Sawyer will come with you.”
“Christian, that’s not necessary. You’re being irrational.”
“Irrational?” he growls. “Either he comes with you, or I will be really irrational and keep you here.”
He wouldn’t, would he? “How, exactly?”
“Oh, I’d find a way, Anastasia. Don’t push me.”
“Okay!” I concede, holding up both my hands, placating him. Holy fuck—Fifty is back with a vengeance.
We stand, scowling at each other.
“Okay—Sawyer can come with me if it makes you feel better.” I concede rolling my eyes. Christian narrows his and takes a menacing step in my direction. I immediately step back. He stops and takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and runs both his hands through his hair. Oh no. Fifty is well and truly wound up.
“Shall I give you a tour?”
A tour? Are you kidding me? “Okay,” I mutter warily. Another change of tack—Mr. Mercurial is back in town. He holds out his hand and when I take it, he squeezes mine softly.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t. I was just getting ready to run,” I quip.
“Run?” Christian eyes widen.
“I’m joking!” Oh, jeez.
He leads me out of the closet, and I take a moment to calm down. Adrenaline is still coursing through my body. A fight with Fifty is not to be undertaken lightly.
He gives me a tour of the apartment, showing me the various rooms. Along with the playroom and three spare bedrooms upstairs, I’m intrigued to find that Taylor and Mrs. Jones have a wing to themselves—a kitchen, spacious living area, and a bedroom each. Mrs. Jones has not yet returned from visiting her sister who lives in Portland.
Downstairs, the room that catches my eye is opposite his study—a TV room with a too-large plasma screen and assorted games consoles. It’s cozy.
“So, you do have an Xbox?” I smirk.
“Yes, but I’m crap at it. Elliot always beats me. That was funny, when you thought I meant this room was my playroom.” He grins down at me, his conniption forgotten. Thank heavens he’s recovered his good mood.
“I’m glad you find me amusing, Mr. Grey,” I respond haughtily.
“That you are, Miss Steele—when you’re not being exasperating, of course.”
“I’m usually exasperating when you’re being unreasonable.”
“Me? Unreasonable?”
“Yes, Mr. Grey. Unreasonable could be your middle name.”
“I don’t have a middle name.”
“Unreasonable would suit, then.”
“I think that’s a matter of opinion, Miss Steele.”
“I would be interested in Dr. Flynn’s professional opinion.”
Christian smirks.
“I thought Trevelyan was your middle name.”
“No. Surname. Trevelyan-Grey.”
“But you don’t use it.”
“It’s too long. Come,” he commands. I follow him out of the TV room through the great room to the main corridor past the utility room and an impressive wine cellar and into Taylor’s own large, well-equipped office. Taylor stands when we enter. There’s room in here for a meeting table that seats six. Above one desk is a bank of monitors. I had no idea the apartment had CCTV. It appears to monitor the balcony, stairwell, service elevator, and foyer.
“Hi, Taylor. I’m just giving Anastasia a tour.”
Taylor nods but doesn’t smile. I wonder if he’s been told off, too, and why is he still working? When I smile at him, he nods politely. Christian grabs my hand once more and leads me to the library.
“And, of course, you’ve been in here.” Christian opens the door. I spy the green baize of the billiard table.
“Shall we play?” I ask.
Christian smiles, surprised. “Okay. Have you played before?”
“A few times,” I lie, and he narrows his eyes, cocking his head to one side.
“You’re a hopeless liar, Anastasia. Either you’ve never played before or—”
I lick my lips. “Frightened of a little competition?”
“Frightened of a little girl like you?” Christian scoffs good-naturedly.
“A wager, Mr. Grey.”
“You’re that confident, Miss Steele?” He smirks, amused and incredulous at once. “What would you like to wager?”
“If I win, you’ll take me back into the playroom.”
He gazes at me as if he can’t quite comprehend what I’ve said. “And if I win?” he asks after several shell-shocked beats.
“Then it’s your choice.”
His mouth twists as he contemplates his answer. “Okay, deal.” He smirks. “Do you want to play pool, English snooker, or carom billiards?”
“Pool, please. I don’t know the others.”
From a cupboard beneath one of the bookshelves, Christian takes out a large leather case. Inside the pool balls are nested in velvet. Quickly and efficiently, he racks the balls on the baize. I don’t think I’ve ever played pool on such a large table before. Christian hands me a cue and some chalk.
“Would you like to break?” He feigns politeness. He’s enjoying himself—he thinks he’s going to win.
“Okay.” I chalk the end of my cue and blow the excess chalk off—staring up at Christian through my lashes. His eyes darken as I do.
I line up on the white ball and with a swift clean stroke, hit the center ball of the triangle square on with such force that a striped ball spins and plunges into the top right pocket. I’ve scattered the rest of the balls.
“I choose stripes,” I say innocently, smiling coyly at Christian. His mouth twists in amusement.
“Be my guest,” he says politely.
I proceed to pocket the next three balls in quick succession. Inside myself I’m dancing. At this moment I am so grateful to José for teaching me to play pool and play it well. Christian watches impassively, giving nothing away, but his amusement seems to ebb. I miss the green stripe by a hairbreadth.
“You know, Anastasia, I could stand here and watch you leaning and stretching across this billiard table all day,” he says appreciatively.
I flush. Thank heavens I am wearing my jeans. He smirks. He’s trying to put me off my game, the bastard. He pulls his cream sweater over his head, tosses it onto the back of a chair, and grins at me, as he saunters over to take his first shot.
He bends low over the table. My mouth goes dry. Oh, I see what he means. Christian in tight jeans and white T-shirt, bending, like that … is something to behold. I quite lose my train of thought. He sinks four solids rapidly, then fouls by sinking the white.
“A very elementary mistake, Mr. Grey,” I tease.
He smirks. “Ah, Miss Steele, I am but a foolish mortal. Your turn, I believe.” He waves at the table.
“You’re not trying to lose, are you?”
“Oh no. For what I have in mind as the prize, I want to win, Anastasia.” He shrugs casually. “But then, I always want to win.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Right, then … I’m so glad I’m wearing my blue blouse, which is pleasingly low-cut. I stalk around the table, bending low at every available opportunity—giving Christian an eyeful of my behind and my cleavage whenever I can. Two can play at that game. I glance at him.
“I know what you’re doing,” he whispers, his eyes dark.
> I tilt my head coquettishly to one side, gently fondling my cue, running my hand up and down it slowly. “Oh. I am just deciding where to take my next shot,” I murmur distractedly.
Leaning across, I hit the orange stripe into a better position. I then stand directly in front of Christian and take the rest from underneath the table. I line up my next shot, leaning right over the table. I hear Christian’s sharp intake of breath, and of course, I miss. Shit.
He comes to stand behind me while I am still bent over the table and places his hand on my backside. Hmm …
“Are you waving this around to taunt me, Miss Steele?” And he smacks me, hard.
I gasp. “Yes,” I mutter, because it’s true.
“Be careful what you wish for, baby.”
I rub my behind as he wanders to the other end of the table, leans over, and takes his shot. He hits the red ball, and it shoots into the left side pocket. He aims for the yellow, top right, and it just misses. I grin.
“Red Room, here we come,” I taunt him.
He merely raises an eyebrow and directs me to continue. I make quick work of the green stripe and by some fluke, manage to knock in the final orange stripe.
“Name your pocket,” Christian murmurs, and it’s as if he’s talking about something else, something dark and naughty.
“Top left-hand.” I take aim over the black, hit it, but miss. It skirts wide. Damn.
Christian smiles a wicked grin as he leans over the table and makes short work of the two remaining solids. I am practically panting, watching him, his lithe body stretching over the table. He stands and chalks his cue, his eyes burning into me.
“If I win …”
Oh yes?
“I am going to spank you, then fuck you over this billiard table.”
Holy shit. Every single muscle south of my navel clenches hard.
“Top right,” he murmurs, pointing to the black, and bends to take the shot.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
With easy grace, Christian taps the white ball so that it glides across the table, kisses the black, and oh-so-slowly the black rolls, teeters on the edge, and finally drops into the top right pocket of the billiard table.
Damn.
He stands, and his mouth twists in a triumphant I-so-own-you-Steele smile. Putting down his cue, he saunters casually toward me, all tousled hair, jeans, and white T-shirt. He doesn’t look like a CEO—he looks like a bad boy from the wrong side of town. Holy cow, he’s so fucking sexy.
