CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I can barely breathe. Do I want to hear this? Christian closes his eyes and swallows. When he opens them again, they are bright but diffident, full of disquieting memories.
“It was a hot summer day. I was working hard.” He snorts and shakes his head, suddenly amused. “It was backbreaking work shifting that rubble. I was on my own, and Ele—Mrs. Lincoln appeared out of nowhere and brought me some lemonade. We exchanged small talk, and I made some smart-ass remark … and she slapped me. She slapped me so hard.” Unconsciously, his hand moves to his face and he caresses his cheek, his eyes clouding at the memory. Holy shit!
“But then she kissed me. And when she finished, she slapped me again.” He blinks, seemingly still confounded even after all this time.
“I’d never been kissed before or hit like that.”
Oh. She pounced. On a kid.
“Do you want to hear this?” Christians asks.
Yes … No …
“Only if you want to tell me.” My voice is small as I lie facing him, my mind reeling.
“I’m trying to give you some context.”
I nod in what I hope is an encouraging manner. But I suspect I may look like a statue, frozen and wide-eyed with shock.
He frowns, his eyes searching mine, trying to gauge my reaction. Then he turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.
“Well, naturally, I was confused and angry and horny as hell. I mean, a hot older woman comes on to you like that—” He shakes his head as if he still can’t believe it.
“She went back into the house, leaving me in the backyard. She acted as if nothing had happened. I was at a total loss. So I went back to work, loading the rubble into the Dumpster. When I left that evening, she asked me to come back the next day. She didn’t mention what had happened. So the next day I went back. I couldn’t wait to see her again,” he whispers, as if it’s a dark confession … because frankly it is.
“She didn’t touch me when she kissed me,” he murmurs and turns his head to gaze at me. “You have to understand … my life was hell on earth. I was a walking hard-on, fifteen years old, tall for my age, hormones raging. The girls at school—” He stops, but I’ve got the picture: a scared, lonely, but attractive adolescent. My heart twists.
“I was angry, so fucking angry at everyone, at myself, my folks. I had no friends. My therapist at the time was a total asshole. My folks, they kept me on a tight leash; they didn’t understand.” He stares back up at the ceiling and runs a hand through his hair. I itch to run my fingers through his hair, too, but I stay still.
“I just couldn’t bear anyone to touch me. I couldn’t. Couldn’t bear anyone near me. I used to fight … fuck, did I fight. I got into some god-awful brawls. I was expelled from a couple of schools. But it was a way to let off steam. To tolerate some kind of physical contact.” He stops again. “Well, you get the idea. And when she kissed me, she only grabbed my face. She didn’t touch me.” His voice is barely audible.
She must have known. Perhaps Grace had told her. Oh, my poor Fifty. I have to fold my hands beneath my pillow and rest my head on it in order to resist the urge to hold him.
“Well, the next day I went back to the house, not knowing what to expect. And I’ll spare you the gory details, but there was more of the same. And that’s how our relationship started.”
Oh, fuck, this is painful to hear.
He shifts again onto his side so he’s facing me.
“And you know something, Ana? My world came into focus. Sharp and clear. Everything. It was exactly what I needed. She was a breath of fresh air. Making the decisions, taking all that shit away from me, letting me breathe.”
Holy shit.
“And even when it was over, my world stayed in focus because of her. And it stayed that way until I met you.”
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Tentatively, he smoothes a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
“You turned my world on its head.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they are raw. “My world was ordered, calm, and controlled, then you came into my life with your smart mouth, your innocence, your beauty, and your quiet temerity … and everything before you was just dull, empty, mediocre … it was nothing.”
Oh my.
“I fell in love,” he whispers.
I stop breathing. He caresses my cheek.
“So did I,” I murmur with the little breath I have left.
His eyes soften. “I know,” he mouths.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
Hallelujah! I smile shyly at him. “Finally,” I whisper.
He nods. “And it’s put everything into perspective for me. When I was younger, Elena was the center of my world. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her. And she did a lot for me. She stopped my drinking. Made me work hard at school … You know, she gave me a coping mechanism I hadn’t had before, allowed me to experience things that I never thought I could.”
“Touch,” I whisper.
He nods. “After a fashion.”
I frown, wondering what he means.
He hesitates at my reaction.
Tell me! I will him.
“If you grow up with a wholly negative self-image, thinking you’re some kind of reject, an unlovable savage, you think you deserve to be beaten.”
Christian … you are none of those things.
He pauses and runs his hand through his hair. “Ana, it’s much easier to wear your pain on the outside …” Again, it’s a confession.
Oh.
“She channeled my anger.” His mouth presses together in a bleak line. “Mostly inward—I realize that now. Dr. Flynn’s been on and on about this for some time. It was only recently that I saw our relationship for what it was. You know … on my birthday.”
I shudder as the unwelcome memory of Elena and Christian verbally eviscerating each other at Christian’s birthday party surfaces unwelcome in my mind.
“For her that side of our relationship was about sex and control and a lonely woman finding some kind of comfort with her boy toy.”
“But you like control,” I whisper.
“Yes. I do. I always will, Ana. It’s who I am. I surrendered it for a brief while. Let someone make all my decisions for me. I couldn’t do it myself—I wasn’t in a fit state. But through my submission to her, I found myself and found the strength to take charge of my life … take control and make my own decisions.”
“Become a Dom?”
“Yes.”
“Your decision?”
“Yes.”
“Dropping out of Harvard?”
“My decision, and it was the best decision I ever made. Until I met you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.” His lips quirk up in a soft smile. “The best decision I ever made was marrying you.”
Oh my. “Not starting your company?”
He shakes his head.
“Not learning to fly?”
He shakes his head. “You,” he mouths. He caresses my cheek with his knuckles. “She knew,” he whispers.
I frown. “She knew what?”
“That I was head over heels in love with you. She encouraged me to go down to Georgia to see you, and I’m glad she did. She thought you’d freak out and leave. Which you did.”
I pale. I’d rather not think about that.
“She thought I needed all the trappings of the lifestyle I enjoyed.”
“The Dom?” I whisper.
He nods. “It enabled me to keep everyone at arm’s length, gave me control, and kept me detached, or so I thought. I’m sure you’ve worked out why,” he adds softly.
“Your birth mom?”
“I didn’t want to be hurt again. And then you left me.” His words are barely audible. “And I was a mess.”
Oh no.
“I’ve avoided intimacy for so long—I don’t know how to do this.”
“You’re doing fine,” I murmur. I trace his lips with my index finger. He purses them into a kiss. You’re talking to me.
“Do you miss it?” I whisper.
“Miss it?”
“That lifestyle.”
“Yes, I do.”
Oh!
“But only insofar as I miss the control it brings. And frankly, your stupid stunt”—he stops—“that saved my sister,” he whispers, his words full of relief, awe, and disbelief. “That’s how I know.”
“Know?”
“Really know that you love me.”
I frown. “You do?”
“Yes. Because you risked so much … for me, for my family.”
My frown deepens. He reaches over and traces his finger over the middle of my brow above my nose.
“You have a V here when you frown,” he murmurs. “It’s very soft to kiss. I can behave so badly … and yet you’re still here.”
“Why are you surprised I’m still here? I told you I wasn’t going to leave you.”
“Because of the way I behaved when you told me you were pregnant.” He runs his finger down my cheek. “You were right. I am an adolescent.”
Oh shit … I did say that. My subconscious glares at me. His doctor said that!
“Christian, I said some awful things.” He puts his index finger over my lips.
“Hush. I deserved to hear them. Besides, this is my bedtime story.” He rolls onto his back again.
“When you told me you were pregnant—” He stops. “I’d thought it would be just you and me for a while. I’d considered children, but only in the abstract. I had this vague idea we’d have a child sometime in the future.”
Just one? No … Not an only child. Not like me. Perhaps now’s not the best time to bring that up.
“You are still so young, and I know you’re quietly ambitious.”
Ambitious? Me?
“Well, you pulled the rug out from under me. Christ, was that unexpected. Never in a million years, when I asked you what was wrong, did I expect you to be pregnant.” He sighs. “I was so mad. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad at everyone. And it took me back, that feeling of nothing being in my control. I had to get out. I went to see Flynn, but he was at some school parents’ evening.” Christian pauses and arches an eyebrow.
“Ironic,” I whisper. Christian smirks in agreement.
“So I walked and walked and walked, and I just … found myself at the salon. Elena was leaving. She was surprised to see me. And, truth be told, I was surprised to find myself there. She could tell I was mad and asked me if I wanted a drink.”
Oh shit. We’ve cut to the chase. My heart doubles in speed. Do I really want to know this? My subconscious glares at me, a plucked eyebrow raised in warning.
“We went to a quiet bar I know and had a bottle of wine. She apologized for the way she behaved the last time she saw us. She’s hurt that my mom will have nothing to do with her anymore—it’s narrowed her social circle—but she understands. We talked about the business, which is doing fine, in spite of the recession … I mentioned that you wanted kids.”
I frown. “I thought you let her know I was pregnant.”
He regards me, his face guileless. “No, I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
He shrugs. “I never got the chance.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I couldn’t find you the next morning, Ana. And when I did, you were so mad at me …”
Oh yes. “I was.”
“Anyway, at some point in the evening—about halfway through the second bottle—she leaned over to touch me. And I froze,” he whispers, throwing his arm over his eyes.
My scalp tingles. What’s this?
“She saw that I recoiled from her. It shocked both of us.” His voice is low, too low.
Christian, look at me! I tug at his arm and he lowers it, turning to gaze into my eyes. Shit. His face is pale, his eyes wide.
“What?” I breathe.
He frowns and swallows.
Oh … what isn’t he telling me? Do I want to know?
“She made a pass at me.” He’s shocked, I can tell.
All the breath is sucked from my body. I feel winded, and I think my heart has stopped. That fucking Bitch Troll!
“It was a moment, suspended in time. She saw my expression, and she realized how far she’d crossed the line. I said … no. I haven’t thought of her like that for years, and besides”—he swallows—“I love you. I told her, I love my wife.”
I gaze at him. I don’t know what to say.
“She backed right off. Apologized again, made it seem like a joke. I mean, she said she’s happy with Isaac and with the business and she doesn’t bear either of us any ill will. She said she missed my friendship, but she could see that my life was with you now. And how awkward that was, given what happened the last time we were all in the same room. I couldn’t have agreed with her more. We said our good-byes—our final good-byes. I said I wouldn’t see her again, and she went on her way.”
I swallow, fear gripping my heart. “Did you kiss?”
“No!” he snorts. “I couldn’t bear to be that close to her.”
Oh. Good.
“I was miserable. I wanted to come home to you. But … I knew I’d behaved badly. I stayed and finished the bottle, then started on the bourbon. While I was drinking, I remembered your saying to me some time ago, ‘If that was my son …’ And I got to thinking about Junior and about how Elena and I started. And it made me feel … uncomfortable. I’d never thought of it like that before.”
A memory blossoms in my mind—a whispered conversation from when I was half-conscious—Christian’s voice: “But seeing her finally put it all in perspective for me. You know … with the child. For the first time I felt … What we did … it was wrong.” He’d been speaking to Grace.
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“It’s over?”
“Yes. It’s been over since I laid eyes on you. I finally realized it that night and so did she.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
He frowns. “What for?”
“Being so angry the next day.”
He snorts. “Baby, I understand angry.” He pauses, then sighs. “You see, Ana, I want you to myself. I don’t want to share you. What we have, I’ve never had before. I want to be the center of your universe, for a while at least.”
Oh, Christian. “You are. That’s not going to change.”
He gives me an indulgent, sad, resigned smile. “Ana,” he whispers. “That’s just not true.”
Tears prick my eyes.
“How can it be?” he murmurs.
“Shit—don’t cry, Ana. Please, don’t cry.” He caresses my face.
“I’m sorry.” My lower lip trembles, and he brushes his thumb over it, soothing me.
“No, Ana, no. Don’t be sorry. You’ll have someone else to love as well. And you’re right. That’s how it should be.”
“Blip will love you, too. You’ll be the center of Blip’s—Junior’s world,” I whisper. “Children love their parents unconditionally, Christian. That’s how they come into the world. Programmed to love. All babies … even you. Think about that children’s book you liked when you were small. You still wanted your mom. You loved her.”
He furrows his brow and withdraws his hand, fisting it against his chin.
“No,” he whispers.
“Yes. You did.” My tears flow freely now. “Of course you did. It wasn’t an option. That’s why you’re so hurt.”
He stares at me, his expression raw.
“That’s why you’re able to love me,” I murmur. “Forgive her. She had her own world of pain to deal with. She was a shitty mother, and you loved her.”
He gazes at me, saying nothing, eyes haunted—by memories I can’t begin to fathom.
Oh, please don’t stop talking.
Eventually he says, “I used to brush her hair. She was pretty.”
“One look at you and no one would doubt that.”
“She was a shitty mother.” His voice is barely audible.
I nod and he closes his eyes. “I’m scared I’ll be a shitty father.”
I stroke his dear face. Oh, my Fifty, Fifty, Fifty. “Christian, do you think for one minute I’d let you be a shitty father?”
He opens his eyes and gazes at me for what feels like an eternity. He smiles as relief slowly illuminates his face. “No, I don’t think you would.” He caresses my face with the backs of his knuckles, gazing at me in wonder. “God, you’re strong, Mrs. Grey. I love you so much.” He kisses my forehead. “I didn’t know I could.”
“Oh, Christian,” I whisper, trying to contain my emotion.
“Now, that’s the end of your bedtime story.”
“That’s some bedside story …”
He smiles wistfully, but I think he’s relieved. “How’s your head?”
“My head?” Actually, it’s about to explode with all you’ve told me!
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Good. I think you should sleep now.”
Sleep! How can I sleep after all that?
“Sleep,” he says sternly. “You need it.”
I pout. “I have one question.”
“Oh? What?” He eyes me warily.
“Why have you suddenly become all … forthcoming, for want of a better word?”
He frowns.
“You’re telling me all this, when getting information out of you is normally a pretty harrowing and trying experience.”
“It is?”
“You know it is.”
“Why am I being forthcoming? I can’t say. Seeing you practically dead on the cold concrete, maybe. The fact I’m going to be a father. I don’t know. You said you wanted to know, and I don’t want Elena to come between us. She can’t. She’s the past, and I’ve said that to you so many times.”
“If she hadn’t made a pass at you … would you still be friends?”
“That’s more than one question.”
“Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.” I flush. “You’ve already volunteered more than I ever thought you would.”
His gaze softens. “No, I don’t think so, but she’s felt like unfinished business since my birthday. She stepped over the line, and I’m done. Please, believe me. I’m not going to see her again. You said she’s a hard limit for you. That’s a term I understand,” he says with quiet sincerity.
Okay. I’m going to let this go now. My subconscious sags into her armchair. Finally!
“Good night, Christian. Thank you for the enlightening bedtime story.” I lean over to kiss him, and our lips touch briefly, but he pulls back when I try to deepen the kiss.
“Don’t,” he whispers. “I am desperate to make love to you.”
“Then do.”
“No, you need to rest, and it’s late. Go to sleep.” He switches off the bedside light, plunging us into darkness.
“I love you unconditionally, Christian,” I murmur as I cuddle into his side.
“I know,” he whispers, and I sense his shy smile.
I wake with a start. Light is flooding the room, and Christian is not in bed. I glance at the clock and see it’s seven fifty-three. I take a deep breath and wince as my ribs smart, though not as badly as yesterday. I think I could go to work. Work—yes. I want to go to work.
It’s Monday, and I spent all of yesterday lounging about in bed. Christian let me go out only briefly to see Ray. Honestly, he’s still such a control freak. I smile fondly. My control freak. He’s been attentive and loving and chatty … and hands-off since I arrived home. I scowl. I am going to have to do something about this. My head doesn’t hurt, the pain around my ribs has eased—though, admittedly, laughing has to be undertaken with caution—but I’m frustrated. I think this is the longest I’ve gone without sex since … well, since the first time.
I think we’ve both recovered our equilibrium. Christian is much more relaxed; his long bedtime story seems to have laid some ghosts to rest, for him and for me. We’ll see.
I shower quickly, and once I’m dry, I browse carefully through my clothes. I want something sexy. Something that might galvanize Christian into action. Who would have thought such an insatiable man could actually exercise so much self-control? I don’t really want to dwell on how Christian learned such discipline over his body. We haven’t spoken of the Bitch Troll once since his confession. I hope we never do. To me she’s dead and buried.