by James, E L
Fuck.
She’s not impressed.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this mad. Not even over the vows, when she threatened to cancel the wedding.
Grey, what have you done?
My good humor evaporates, replaced by an anxiety I’ve not felt since before we got married. Warily, I get up, dump my laptop on the nightstand, and go in search of my furious wife.
She’s leaning on the rail at the bow, staring at the distant shore. It’s a beautiful evening and the Fair Lady, like the Queen of the Seas that she is, coasts effortlessly over the Mediterranean.
Ana looks desolate. It’s chastening.
“You’re mad at me,” I whisper.
“No shit, Sherlock!” she hisses, but she doesn’t turn to look at me.
“How mad?”
“Scale of one to ten, I think I’m at fifty. Apt, huh?”
Wow. “That mad.”
“Yes. Pushed-to-violence mad,” she seethes. Finally, she looks at me, her expression raw and angry…and I know she sees me. Sees me for who I am. You are one fucked-up son of a bitch. Her recrimination from months ago echoes in my head.
Hell. It’s been weeks since I’ve felt as shitty as this.
Flynn’s words float back to me: communicate and compromise.
Ana takes a deep breath and stands taller, squaring her shoulders. “Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall.”
“Well, you won’t take your top off again,” I grunt, and even to my own ears I sound like a petulant teen.
She glares at me. “I don’t like you leaving marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It’s a hard limit!” She spits at me like a cornered kitten.
“I don’t like you taking your clothes off in public. That’s a hard limit for me,” I counter.
I warned you, Ana.
“I think we’ve established that,” she continues in the same vein. “Look at me!” She tugs down her top, exposing the love-bites I’ve left on her. I count six. I didn’t know my plan would be quite so effective.
But I don’t want to fight.
I raise my hands, palms up in surrender. “Okay, I get it.”
Maybe I overreacted.
“Good!” she snaps.
I run my hand through my hair, feeling helpless.
I’m lost. What more can I do? “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.” I don’t want to fight. Ana. Please.
“You are such an adolescent sometimes.” Ana shakes her head, but she sounds more resigned than forthright. I take a step forward and tuck a loose tendril behind her ear.
“I know, I have a lot to learn.”
“We both do.” She sighs and slowly raises her hand and places it over my heart.
Ana.
I place my hand over hers and give her an apologetic smile. “I’ve just learned that you’ve got a good arm and a good aim, Mrs. Grey. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me.”
Her lips form a half smile and she arches a brow. “Target practice with Ray. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. Grey, and you’d do well to remember that.”
“I will endeavor to do that or ensure that all potential projectile objects are nailed down and that you don’t have access to a gun.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m resourceful.”
Oh, Ana. I don’t doubt it. “That you are,” I whisper, and releasing her hand, I fold her into my arms. Her hands move over my back and she returns my embrace. I plant my nose in her hair, inhaling her soothing scent. “Am I forgiven?” I ask, quietly.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” I respond.
“Ditto.”
We stand at the bow, the French Riviera passing us by, and we just…are.
For a moment, it’s the best feeling in the world.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Yes. Famished. All the, um, activity has given me an appetite. But I’m not dressed for dinner.”
“You look good to me, Anastasia. Besides, it’s our boat for the week. We can dress how we like. Think of it as dress-down Tuesday on the Côte d’Azur. Anyway, I thought we’d eat on deck.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
I reach under her chin and raise her lips to mine and kiss her. Slowly. Gently.
Forgive me, Ana.
She smiles and together we walk hand in hand back to where our dinner awaits.
“Why do you always braid my hair?” Ana asks as I’m about to tuck into my crème brûlée.
I frown, because the answer’s obvious. “I don’t want your hair catching in anything.” I’ve always done it. Hair and toys don’t mix. “Habit, I think, I add. And from nowhere a vision of a young woman singing an eighties pop song as she brushes out her long dark hair comes to mind. She turns and smiles at me, the dust motes circling in the air around her.
Hey, Maggot. Do you want to brush my hair?
And I’m back in a godforsaken slum in Detroit, a lifetime ago. Ana caresses my chin and runs a finger across my lips, bringing me back to the Fair Lady.
Why is the crack whore haunting me now?
“It doesn’t matter,” Ana whispers. “I don’t need to know. I was just curious.” She smiles and leans forward to kiss the corner of my lips. “I love you,” she whispers. “I’ll always love you, Christian.”
“And I you.” I’m thankful that she’s here to drag me back from the dark abyss of my early childhood.
“In spite of my disobedience?” She smirks, immediately lightening the mood.
I chuckle, feeling better. “Because of your disobedience, Anastasia.”
She bashes the caramelized sugar of her dessert with her spoon and scoops up a mouthful, and all thoughts of the crack whore fade.
Once Rebecca has cleared our plates, I offer Ana more rosé. She looks past me to check we’re alone, then leans toward me with a conspiratorial air. “What’s with the no-going-to-the-bathroom thing?” she asks.
Always curious. “You really want to know?”
“Do I?”
I smile. “The fuller your bladder, the more intense your orgasm, Ana.”
“Oh. I see.” A sweet blush colors her cheeks, and I know she’s embarrassed.
Don’t be, baby.
“Yes. Well…” She takes a swift gulp of wine.
“What do you want to do for the rest of the evening?” I ask, to move us on to a more comfortable topic. She raises her right shoulder in a shrug, a suggestive shrug, I think.
Again, Ana?
And I know I could make up for my transgression in bed. But I want more. “I know what I want to do.” I pick up my glass of wine and stand, holding out my hand to her. “Come.”
We move to the main salon and I guide her to the dresser, where my iPod is plugged into an impressive speaker. I select a song, something sweet and romantic for my girl. “Dance with me,” I ask, and sweep her into my arms.
“If you insist.”
“I insist, Mrs. Grey.”
Michael Bublé is singing the Lou Rawls classic “You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine.”
We start to move, Ana following my lead. I dip her low and she giggles. I right her, then spin her around beneath my arm. She laughs. “You dance so well.” Her voice is a little husky. “It’s like I can dance.”
I love dancing with you, baby.
Elena flits, unwelcome, into my mind, and while I’m grateful to her for teaching me to dance, I’m not happy that she’s in my head.
Don’t go there, Grey.
She’s history.
Let’s just enjoy this.
I dip Ana again, then kiss her when she’s upright once more.
“I’d miss your lov
e,” she whispers, echoing the lyrics.
“I’d more than miss your love,” I respond, and sing the next few lines softly in her ear. The song fades and we stop moving, and just gaze at each other.
I watch as her pupils grow larger and darker.
It’s magic. Our special alchemy bubbling between us.
“Come to bed with me,” I beg her.
Her coy smile brightens her face, and she places her hand on my heart. Beneath my chest, it starts hammering with my love for her—my wife—a beautiful woman who knows how to forgive me.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Mommy is pretty today. She laughs as she sits on her bed. It is sunny and lots of little dots float in the air around her like she’s a princess. Hey, Maggot, brush my hair. I pull the brush through her long hair. It is hard for me because of tangles. But Mommy likes it. She sings. What’s love got to do, got to do with it. She smiles her special smile. It is her smile for me. Only me. She shakes her hair so it is silky down her back. I stroke it. It smells of clean. She splits it into three snakes. And then she ties them together to make one bumpy snake. There, it’s out of the way, Maggot. She picks up her hairbrush. And she brushes my hair. No! Mommy. It hurts. Too many tangles. Don’t fight, Maggot. No! Mommy. I try to make her stop. There is a loud noise. A crash. He’s back. No! Where the fuck are you, bitch? Got a friend here. A friend with dough. Mommy stands and takes my hand and pushes me into her closet. I sit on her shoes. I am quiet. Like a mouse. I cover my ears and close my eyes. If I am small he won’t see me. The clothes smell of Mommy. I like the smell. I like being here. Away from him. He is shouting. Where is the little fucking runt? He has my hair and he pulls me out of the closet. He waves the hairbrush at Mommy. Don’t want this little prick spoiling the party. He slaps Mommy hard on her face with her hairbrush. Put your fucking hooker heels on and make it good for my friend, then you get your fix, bitch. Mommy looks at me and she has tears. Don’t cry, Mommy. Another man comes into the room. A big man with dirty coveralls. Blue coveralls. The big man smiles at Mommy. I am pulled into the other room. He pushes me onto the floor and I hurt my knees. He waves the hairbrush at me. Now, what am I going to do with you, you piece of shit? He smells bad. He smells of beer and he is smoking a cigarette.
I wake suddenly, fear clawing at my throat.
Where am I?
Gasping, I suck precious air into my lungs and try to steady my racing heart. It takes me a moment to orient myself.
I’m on the Fair Lady. With my fair lady. I look frantically to my right, and Ana is fast asleep in the shadows beside me.
Thank heavens.
I’m immediately calmed, just by the sight of her.
I take a deep, cleansing breath.
Why am I having nightmares?
Arguing with Ana?
I hate fighting with her.
Judging by the light that’s seeping through the curtains over the portholes, it’s early dawn. I should sleep some more. I cuddle up to Ana, and put my arm around her, breathing in her unique calming fragrance…and I drift.
It’s much lighter in the cabin when I wake later, with Ana still slumbering beside me. I watch her for a few moments, enjoying this quiet time.
Will she ever really know what she means to me?
I kiss her hair, get up, and slip on a pair of swim trunks. I’m going for a swim around the boat. Maybe I can shake the unease that lingers.
As I shave, I’m still rattled by my nightmare.
Why? I don’t get it.
I’ve had these dreams before.
Why am I so hung up on this one, now?
The bathroom door opens and Ana stands before me, a ray of light, and I mute my dark thoughts. “Good morning, Mrs. Grey.” I welcome her with a cheery smile.
“Good morning yourself.” She grins and leans against the wall, raising her chin, imitating me as I shave under my jaw. From the corner of my eye, I watch her as she mimics my actions.
“Enjoying the show?” I ask.
“One of my all-time favorites.”
She’s forgiven me.
I lean over and kiss her, grateful that she’s with me, and leave a small smudge of shaving foam on her face. “Shall I do this to you again?” I whisper, brandishing my razor, recalling the moment when I shaved her in our suite at Brown’s Hotel.
Ana purses her lips. “No. I’ll wax next time.”
“But that was fun.”
You beguiled me, Ana.
“For you maybe.” She pouts, but there’s a spark of amusement and perhaps carnal appreciation in her eyes.
I see you, Ana.
“I seem to recall the aftermath was very satisfying.” I continue shaving, but Ana’s gone very quiet. “Hey, I’m just teasing. Isn’t that what husbands who are hopelessly in love with their wives do?” I tip her chin up and scrutinize her expression. Perhaps she’s still mad at me.
She squares her shoulders.
Uh-oh.
“Sit,” she orders.
What?
She splays her hands on my naked chest and pushes me gently toward a stool in the bathroom.
Okay, I’ll play. I sit down and she takes my razor.
“Ana,” I warn. But she ignores me and leans down and kisses me.
“Head back,” she says against my lips.
When I hesitate, she cocks her head to one side. “Tit for tat, Mr. Grey.” And I know she’s provoking me. How can I walk away from a challenge when my wife never does?
“You know what you’re doing?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
Well, what’s she going to do, Grey?
Slit my throat?
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and raise my chin, offering myself to her. She slides her fingers into my hair and grips hard while I scrunch my eyes tighter. She’s standing so close to me. I can smell her. Sea. Sunshine. Sex. Sweetness. Ana.
It’s heady.
With the utmost tenderness she glides my razor from my neck to my chin, shaving me. I release the breath I was holding.
“Did you think I was going to hurt you?” I hear the tremor in her voice.
“I never know what you’re going to do, Ana, but no—not intentionally.”
Sliding the razor across my skin again, she says quietly, “I would never intentionally hurt you, Christian.” She sounds so sincere. Opening my eyes, I curl my arms around her as she shaves my cheek.
“I know,” I whisper.
She hurt me when she left, that one time.
And I deserved it. I hurt her.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch!
Grey, don’t go there.
I angle my cheek, making it easier for her to finish the job, and two strokes of the razor later, she’s completed her work. “All done, and not a drop of blood spilled.” She beams at me.
I run my hands up her leg and ease her onto my lap until she’s sitting astride me. “Can I take you somewhere today?”
“No sunbathing?” Ana’s tone is disingenuous, but I ignore it.
“No. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer something else.”
“Well, since you’ve covered me in hickeys and effectively put the kibosh on that, sure, why not?”
Hickeys? We’re not in high school!
“You never really had an adolescence—emotionally speaking. I think you’re experiencing it now.”
Hell.
Ignoring Flynn’s words and Ana’s reference to my bad behavior, I continue, “It’s a drive, but it’s worth a visit, from what I’ve read. My dad recommended we visit. It’s a hilltop village called Saint-Paul-de-Vence. There are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like.”
She presses her lips together and leans back to
study me.
“What?” I ask, alarmed at her expression.
“I know nothing about art, Christian.”
I shrug. “We’ll buy only what we like. This isn’t about investment.”
She looks a little less alarmed, but preoccupied nevertheless.
“What?” I ask again. “Look, I know we only got the architect’s drawings the other day—but there’s no harm in looking, and the town is an ancient, medieval place.”
Her expression remains the same.
“What now?” I ask. Fuck, Ana. Are you still angry about yesterday?
She shakes her head.
“Tell me,” I beg, but she gives nothing away. “You’re not still mad about what I did yesterday?” I can’t look her in the eye; instead, I bow my head and nuzzle between her breasts.
“No. I’m hungry,” she says.
“Why didn’t you say?” I ease her off my lap.
Ana and I fall under Saint-Paul-de-Vence’s spell. We wander the narrow, cobbled streets, breathing in the Gallic wonder of it all, followed from a discreet distance by Taylor and Philippe Ferreux. Ana is tucked under my arm, where she fits perfectly. “How did you know about this place?” she asks.
“Dad e-mailed me when we were in London. He and Mom came here back in the day.”
“It’s beautiful.” Ana waves her hand in homage to our spectacular surroundings.
We stop at a small gallery with some striking abstract art in the window and decide to venture in. I’m taken by some erotic photographs that are on display inside. They’re beautifully composed. “Not quite what I had in mind,” Ana says, her tone wry.
I grin down at her. “Me neither.” My hand finds hers as we study some still-life paintings, all vegetables and fruit. They’re good.
“I like those.” Ana points to some peppers. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment.” She giggles, her eyes alive with mischief and memories—of our reconciliation—maybe?
“I thought I managed that quite competently. I was just a bit slow, and anyway”—I embrace her and nuzzle her ear—“you were distracting me. Where would you put them?”
