Have you now?” I whisper. My mouth goes drier still, my heart pounding in my chest. Why’s he dressed like this? What does it mean? Is he still sulking?
“I have.” His voice is kitten soft, but he’s smirking as he strolls closer to me.
He looks hot—his jeans hanging that way from his hips. Oh no, I’m not going to be distracted by Mr. Sex-on-Legs. I try to gauge his mood as he stalks toward me. Angry? Playful? Lustful? Gah! It’s impossible to tell.
“I like your jeans,” I murmur. He grins a disarming wolfish grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Shit—he’s still mad. He’s wearing these to distract me. He halts in front of me, and I’m seared by his intensity. He gazes down, wide unreadable eyes burning into mine. I swallow.
“I understand you have issues, Mrs. Grey,” he says silkily, and he pulls something from the back pocket of his jeans. I can’t tear my gaze from his, but hear him unfold a piece of paper. He holds it up, and glancing briefly in its direction, I recognize my e-mail. My gaze returns to his, as his eyes blaze bright with anger.
“Yes, I have issues,” I whisper, feeling breathless. I need distance if we’re going to discuss this. But before I can step back, he leans down and runs his nose along mine. My eyes flutter to a close as I welcome his unexpected, gentle touch.
“So do I,” he whispers against my skin, and I open my eyes at his words. He straightens and gazes intently at me once more.
“I think I’m familiar with your issues, Christian.” My voice is wry, and he narrows his eyes, suppressing the amusement that sparks there momentarily. Are we going to fight? I take a precautionary step back. I must physically distance myself from him—from his smell, his look, his distracting body in those hot jeans. He frowns as I move away.
“Why did you fly back from New York?” I whisper. Let’s get this over and done with.
“You know why.” His tone carries a warning ring.
“Because I went out with Kate?”
“Because you went back on your word, and you defied me, putting yourself at unnecessary risk.”
“Went back on my word? Is that how you see it?” I gasp, ignoring the rest of his sentence.
“Yes.”
Holy crap. Talk about overreaction! I start to roll my eyes but stop when he scowls at me. “Christian, I changed my mind,” I explain slowly, patiently, as if he’s a child. “I’m a woman. We’re renowned for it. That’s what we do.”
He blinks at me as if he doesn’t comprehend this.
“If I had thought for one minute that you would cancel your business trip …” Words fail me. I realize I don’t know what to say. I am momentarily catapulted back to the argument over our vows. I never promised to obey you, Christian. But I hold my tongue, because deep down I’m glad he came back. In spite of his fury, I’m glad he’s here in one piece, angry and smoldering in front of me.
“You changed your mind?” He can’t hide his contemptuous disbelief.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think to call me?” He glares at me, incredulous, before continuing. “What’s more, you left the security detail short here and put Ryan at risk.”
Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.
“I should have called, but I didn’t want to worry you. If I had, I’m sure you would have forbidden me to go, and I’ve missed Kate. I wanted to see her. Besides, it kept me out of the way when Jack was here. Ryan shouldn’t have let him in.” This is so confusing. If Ryan hadn’t, Jack would still be at large.
Christian’s eyes gleam wildly, then shut, his face tightening as if in pain. Oh no. He shakes his head, and before I know it he has folded me in his arms, pulling me hard against him.
“Oh, Ana,” he whispers as he tightens his hold on me so that I can barely breathe. “If something were to happen to you—” His voice is barely a whisper.
“It didn’t,” I manage to say.
“But it could have. I’ve died a thousand deaths today thinking about what might have happened. I was so mad, Ana. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad at everyone. I can’t remember being this angry … except—” He stops again.
“Except?” I prompt.
“Once in your old apartment. When Leila was there.”
Oh. I don’t want to think about that.
“You were so cold this morning,” I murmur. My voice cracks on the last word as I remember the hideous feeling of rejection in the shower. His hands move to the nape of my neck, loosening their grip on me, and I take a deep breath. He pulls my head back.
“I don’t know how to deal with this anger. I don’t think I want to hurt you,” he says, his eyes wide and wary. “This morning, I wanted to punish you, badly, and—” He stops, lost for words I think, or too afraid to say them.
“You were worried you’d hurt me?” I finish his sentence for him, not believing that he’d hurt me for a minute, but relieved, too. A small vicious part of me feared it was because he didn’t want me anymore.
“I didn’t trust myself,” he says quietly.
“Christian, I know you’d never hurt me. Not physically, anyway.” I clasp his head between my hands.
“Do you?” he asks, and there’s skepticism in his voice.
“Yes. I knew what you said was an empty, idle threat. I know you’re not going to beat the shit out of me.”
“I wanted to.”
“No you didn’t. You just thought you did.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” he murmurs.
“Think about it,” I urge, wrapping my arms around him once more and nuzzling his chest through the black T-shirt. “About how you felt when I left. You’ve told me often enough what that did to you. How it altered your view of the world, of me. I know what you’ve given up for me. Think about how you felt about the cuff marks on our honeymoon.”
He stills, and I know he’s processing this information. I tighten my arms around him, my hands on his back, feeling his taut, toned muscles beneath his T-shirt. Gradually he relaxes as the tension slowly ebbs away.
Is this what’s been worrying him? That he’ll hurt me? Why do I have more faith in him than he has in himself? I don’t understand; surely we’ve moved on. He’s normally so strong, so in control, but without that, he’s lost. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty—I’m sorry. He kisses my hair, I turn my face up to his, and his lips find mine, searching, taking, giving, begging—for what, I don’t know. I just want to feel his mouth on mine, and I return his kiss passionately.
“You have such faith in me,” he whispers after he breaks away.
“I do.” He strokes my face with the backs of his knuckles and the tip of his thumb, gazing intently into my eyes. His anger has gone. My Fifty is back from wherever he’s been. It’s good to see him. I glance up and smile shyly.
“Besides,” I whisper, “you don’t have the paperwork.”
His mouth drops open in amused shock, and he clutches me to his chest again.
“You’re right. I don’t.” He laughs.
We stand in the middle of the great room, locked in our embrace, just holding each other.
“Come to bed,” he whispers, after heaven knows how long.
Oh my …
“Christian, we need to talk.”
“Later,” he urges softly.
“Christian, please. Talk to me.”
“You know. You keep me in the dark.”
“I want to protect you.”
“I’m not a child.”
“I am fully aware of that, Mrs. Grey.” He runs his hands down my body and cups my backside. Flexing his hips, he presses his growing erection into me.
“Christian!” I scold. “Talk to me.”
He sighs once more with exasperation. “What do you want to know?” His voice is resigned as he releases me. I balk—I didn’t mean you had to let me go. Taking my hand, he reaches down to pick up my e-mail from the floor.
“Lots of things,” I mutter, as I let him lead me to the couch.
“Sit,” he orders. Some things never change, I muse, doing as I’m told. Christian sits beside me, and leaning forward, puts his head in his hands.
Oh no. Is this too hard for him? Then he sits up, rakes both hands through his hair, and turns to me, at once expectant and reconciled to his fate.
“Ask me,” he says simply.
Oh. Well, that was easier than I thought. “Why the additional security for your family?”
“Hyde was a threat to them.”
“How do you know?”
“From his computer. It held personal details about me and the rest of my family. Especially Carrick.”
“Carrick? Why him?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s go to bed.”
“Christian, tell me!”
“Tell you what?”
“You are so … exasperating.”
“So are you.” He glares.
“You didn’t ramp up the security when you first found out there was information about your family on the computer. So what happened? Why now?”
Christian narrows his eyes at me.
“I didn’t know he was going to attempt to burn down my building, or—” He stops. “We thought it was an unwelcome obsession, but you know”—he shrugs—“when you’re in the public eye, people are interested. It was random stuff: news reports on me from when I was at Harvard—my rowing, my career. Reports on Carrick—following his career, following my mom’s career—and to some extent, Elliot and Mia.”
How strange.
“You said or,” I prompt.
“Or what?”
“You said, ‘attempt to burn down my building, or …’ Like you were going to say something else.”
“Are you hungry?”
What? I frown at him, and my stomach rumbles.
“Did you eat today?” His voice is sterner and his eyes frost.
I’m betrayed by my flush.
“As I thought.” His voice is clipped. “You know how I feel about you not eating. Come,” he says. He stands and holds out his hand. “Let me feed you.” And he shifts again … this time his voice full of sensual promise.
“Feed me?” I whisper, as everything south of my navel liquefies. Hell. This is such a typically mercurial diversion from what we’ve been discussing. Is that it? Is that all I’m getting out of him for now? Leading me over to the kitchen, Christian grabs a barstool and hefts it around to the other side of the island.
“Sit,” he says.
“Where’s Mrs. Jones?” I ask, noticing her absence for the first time as I perch on the stool.
“I’ve given her and Taylor the night off.”
Oh.
“Why?”
He gazes at me for a beat, and his arrogant amusement is back. “Because I can.”
“So you’re going to cook?” My voice betrays my incredulity.
“Oh, ye of little faith, Mrs. Grey. Close your eyes.”
Wow. I thought we were going to have a full-on fight, and here we are, playing in the kitchen.
“Close them,” he orders.
I roll them first, then oblige.
“Hmm. Not good enough,” he mutters. I open one eye and see him take a plum-colored silk scarf out of the back pocket of his jeans. It matches my dress. Holy cow. I look quizzically at him. When did he get that?
“Close,” he orders again. “No peeking.”
“You’re going to blindfold me?” I mutter, shocked. All of a sudden I’m breathless.
“Yes.”
“Christian—” He places a finger upon my lips, silencing me.
I want to talk.
“We’ll talk later. I want you to eat now. You said you were hungry.” He lightly kisses my lips. The silk of the scarf is soft against my eyelids as he ties it securely at the back of my head.
“Can you see?” he asks.
“No,” I mutter, figuratively rolling my eyes. He chuckles softly.
“I can tell when you’re rolling your eyes … and you know how that makes me feel.”
I purse my lips. “Can we just get this over and done with?” I snap.
“Such impatience, Mrs. Grey. So eager to talk.” His tone is playful.
“Yes!”
“I must feed you first,” he says and brushes his lips over my temple, calming me instantly.
Okay … have it your way. I resign myself to my fate and listen to his movements around the kitchen. The fridge door opens, and Christian places various dishes on the countertop behind me. He pads over to the microwave, pops something in, and turns it on. My curiosity is piqued. I hear the toaster lever drop, the turn of the control, and the quiet tick of the timer. Hmm—toast?
“Yes. I am eager to talk,” I murmur, distracted. An assortment of exotic, spicy aromas fills the kitchen, and I shift in my chair.
“Be still, Anastasia.” He’s close to me again. “I want you to behave …,” he whispers.
Oh my.
“And don’t bite your lip.” Gently he tugs my bottom lip free of my teeth, and I can’t help my smile.
Next, I hear the sharp pop of a cork being drawn from a bottle and the gentle glug of wine being poured into a glass. Then a moment of silence followed by a quiet click and the soft hiss of white noise from the surround-sound speakers as they come to life. A loud twang of a guitar begins a song I don’t know. Christian turns the volume down to background level. A man starts to sing, his voice deep, low, and sexy.
“A drink first, I think,” Christian whispers, diverting me from the song. “Head back.” I tip my head back. “Farther,” he prompts.
I oblige, and his lips are on mine. Cool crisp wine flows into my mouth. I swallow reflexively. Oh my. Memories flood back of not so long ago—me trussed up on my bed in Vancouver before I graduated with a hot, angry Christian not appreciating my e-mail. Hmm … have times changed? Not much. Except now I recognize the wine, Christian’s favorite—a Sancerre.
“Hmm,” I murmur in appreciation.
“You like the wine?” he whispers, his breath warm on my cheek. I’m bathed in his proximity, his vitality, the heat radiating from his body, even though he doesn’t touch me.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“More?”
“I always want more, with you.”
I almost hear his grin. It makes me grin, too. “Mrs. Grey, are you flirting with me?”
“Yes.”
His wedding ring clinks against the glass as he takes another sip of wine. Now that is a sexy sound. This time he pulls my head right back, cradling me. He kisses me once more, and greedily I swallow the wine he gives me. He smiles as he kisses me again. “Hungry?”
“I think we’ve already established that, Mr. Grey.”
The troubadour on the iPod is singing about wicked games. Hmm … How apt.
The microwave pings, and Christian releases me. I sit upright. The food smells spicy: garlic, mint, oregano, rosemary, and lamb, I think. The door to the microwave opens, and the appetizing smell grows stronger.
“Shit! Christ!” Christian curses, and a dish clatters onto the countertop.
Oh Fifty! “You okay?”
“Yes!” he snaps, his voice tight. A moment later, he’s standing beside me once more.
“I just burned myself. Here.” He eases his index finger into my mouth. “Maybe you could suck it better.”
“Oh.” Clasping his hand, I draw his finger slowly from my mouth. “There, there,” I soothe, and leaning forward I blow, cooling his finger, then kiss it gently twice. He stops breathing. I reinsert it into my mouth and suck gently. He inhales sharply, and the sound travels straight to my groin. He tastes as delicious as ever, and I realize that this is his game—the slow seduction of his wife. I thought he was mad, and now …? This man, my husband, is so confusing. But this is how I like him. Playful. Fun. Sexy as hell. He’s given me some answers, but I’m greedy. I want more, but I want to play, too. After the anxiety and tension of today, and the nightmare of last night with Jack, this is a welcome diversion.
“What are you thinking?” Christian murmurs, stopping my thoughts in their tracks as he pulls his finger out of my mouth.
“How mercurial you are.”
He stills beside me. “Fifty Shades, baby,” he says eventually and plants a tender kiss at the corner of my mouth.
“My Fifty Shades,” I whisper. Grabbing his T-shirt, I pull him back to me.
“Oh no you don’t, Mrs. Grey. No touching … not yet.” He takes my hand, pries it off his T-shirt, and kisses each finger in turn.
“Sit up,” he commands.
I pout.
“I will spank you if you pout. Now open wide.”
Oh shit. I open my mouth, and he pops in a forkful of spicy hot lamb covered in a cool, minty, yogurt sauce. Mmm. I chew.
“You like?”
“Yes.”
He makes an appreciative noise, and I know he’s eating and enjoying, too.
“More?”
I nod. He gives me another forkful, and I chew it enthusiastically. He puts the fork down and he tears … bread, I think.
“Open,” he orders.
This time it’s pita bread and hummus. I realize Mrs. Jones—or maybe even Christian—has been shopping at the delicatessen I discovered about five weeks ago only two blocks from Escala. I chew gratefully. Christian in a playful mood increases my appetite.
“More?” he asks.
I nod. “More of everything. Please. I’m starving.”
I hear his delighted grin. Slowly and patiently he feeds me, occasionally kissing a morsel of food from the corner of my mouth or wiping it off with his fingers. Intermittently, he offers me a sip of wine in his unique way.
“Open wide, then bite,” he murmurs. I follow his command. Hmm—one of my favorites, stuffed vine leaves. Even cold they are delicious, though I prefer them heated up, but I don’t want to risk Christian burning himself again. He feeds it to me slowly, and when I’ve finished I lick his fingers clean.
“More?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
I shake my head. I’m full.
“Good,” he whispers against my ear, “because it’s time for my favorite course. You.” He scoops me up in his arms, surprising me so much I squeal.
“Can I take the blindfold off?”
“No.”
I almost pout, then remember his threat and think better of it.
“Playroom,” he murmurs.
Oh—I don’t know if that’s a good idea.
“You up for the challenge?” he asks. And because he’s used the word challenge, I can’t say no.
“Bring it on,” I murmur, desire and something that I don’t want to name thrumming through my body. He carries me through the door, then up the stairs to the second floor.
“I think you’ve lost weight,” he mutters disapprovingly. I have? Good. I remember his comment when we arrived back from our honeymoon, and how much it smarted. Jeez—was that just a week ago?