“You think?” His voice is soft. He’s lying beside me, fully clothed, his head propped up on his elbow, and I am only wearing my bra.

“Why don’t you like to be touched?”

“I just don’t.” He reaches over and plants a soft kiss on my forehead. “So, that e-mail was your idea of a joke.”

I smile apologetically at him and shrug.

“I see. So you are still considering my proposition?”

“Your indecent proposal … yes, I am. I have issues though.”

He grins down at me as if relieved.

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“I was going to e-mail them to you, but you kind of interrupted me.”

“Coitus interruptus.”

“See, I knew you had a sense of humor somewhere in there.” I smile.

“Only certain things are funny, Anastasia. I thought you were saying no, no discussion at all.” His voice drops.

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t made up my mind. Will you collar me?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You have been doing your research. I don’t know, Anastasia. I’ve never collared anyone.”

Oh … should I be surprised by this? I know so little about the scene … I don’t know.

“Were you collared?” I whisper.

“Yes.”

“By Mrs. Robinson?”

“Mrs. Robinson!” He laughs loudly, freely, and he looks so young and carefree, his head thrown back, his laughter infectious.

I grin back at him.

“I’ll tell her you said that; she’ll love it.”

“You still talk to her regularly?” I can’t keep the shock out of my voice.

“Yes.” He’s serious now.

Oh … and part of me is suddenly insanely jealous—I’m disturbed by the depth of my feeling.

“I see.” My voice is tight. “So you have someone you can discuss your alternative lifestyle with, but I’m not allowed.”

He frowns.

“I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it like that. Mrs. Robinson was part of that lifestyle. I told you, she’s a good friend now. If you’d like, I can introduce you to one of my former subs. You could talk to her.”

What? Is he deliberately trying to upset me?

“Is this your idea of a joke?

“No, Anastasia.” He’s bemused as he shakes his head.

“No—I’ll do this on my own, thank you very much,” I snap at him, pulling the duvet up to my chin.

He stares at me, at sea, surprised.

“Anastasia, I …” He’s lost for words. A first, I think. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended. I’m appalled.”

“Appalled?”

“I don’t want to talk to one of your ex-girlfriends … slave … sub … whatever you call them.”

“Anastasia Steele—are you jealous?”

I flush, crimson.

“Are you staying?”

“I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow at the Heathman. Besides, I told you, I don’t sleep with girlfriends, slaves, subs, or anyone. Friday and Saturday were exceptions. It won’t happen again.” I can hear the resolve behind his soft, husky voice.

I purse my lips at him.

“Well, I’m tired now.”

“Are you kicking me out?” He raises his eyebrows, amused and a little dismayed.

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s another first.” He eyes me speculatively. “So nothing you want to discuss now? About the contract.”

“No.” I reply petulantly.

“God, I’d like to give you a good hiding. You’d feel a lot better, and so would I.”

“You can’t say things like that … I haven’t signed anything yet.”

“A man can dream, Anastasia.” He leans over me and grasps my chin. “Wednesday?” he murmurs, and he kisses me lightly on my lips.

“Wednesday,” I agree. “I’ll see you out. If you give me a minute.” I sit up and grab my T-shirt, pushing him out of the way. Reluctantly, he gets up off the bed.

“Please pass me my sweatpants.”

He collects them from the floor and hands them to me.

“Yes, ma’am.” He’s trying unsuccessfully to hide his smile.

I narrow my eyes at him as I slip the pants on. My hair is a mess, and I know I’ll have to face the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition after he’s gone. Grabbing a hair tie, I walk to my bedroom door, opening it to check for Kate. She is not in the living room. I think I can hear her on the phone in her room. Christian follows me out. During the short walk from bedroom to front door, my thoughts and feelings ebb and flow, transforming. I’m no longer angry with him, I feel suddenly unbearably shy. I don’t want him to go. For the first time, I’m wishing he was normal—wanting a normal relationship that doesn’t need a ten-page agreement, a flogger, and carabiners in his playroom ceiling.

I open the door for him and stare down at my hands. This is the first time I have ever had sex in my home, and as sex goes, I think it was pretty damn fine. But now I feel like a receptacle—an empty vessel to be filled at his whim. My subconscious shakes her head. You wanted to run to the Heathman for sex—you had it express delivered. She crosses her arms and taps her foot with a what-are-you-complaining-about look on her face. Christian stops in the doorway and clasps my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. His brow creases.

“You okay?” he asks tenderly as his thumb lightly caresses my bottom lip.

“Yes,” I reply, though in all honesty I’m just not sure. I feel a paradigm shift. I know that if I do this thing with him, I will get hurt. He’s not capable, interested, or willing to offer me any more … and I want more. Much more. The surge of jealousy I felt only moments ago tells me that I have deeper feelings for him than I have admitted to myself.

“Wednesday,” he confirms, and he leans forward and kisses me softly. Something changes while he’s kissing me; his lips grow more urgent against mine, his hand moves up from my chin and he’s holding the side of my head, his other hand on the other side. His breathing accelerates. He deepens the kiss, leaning into me. I put my hands on his arms. I want to run them through his hair, but I resist, knowing that he won’t like it. He leans his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his voice strained.

“Anastasia,” he whispers. “What are you doing to me?”

“I could say the same to you,” I whisper back.

Taking a deep breath, he kisses my forehead and leaves. He strolls purposefully down the path toward his car as he runs his hand through his hair. Glancing up as he opens his car door, he smiles his breathtaking smile. My answering smile is weak, completely dazzled by him, and I’m reminded once more of Icarus soaring too close to the sun. I close the front door as he climbs into his sports car. I have an overwhelming urge to cry; a sad and lonely melancholy grips and tightens around my heart. Dashing back to my bedroom, I close the door and lean against it, trying to rationalize my feelings. I can’t. Sliding to the floor, I put my head in my hands as my tears begin to flow.

Kate knocks gently.

“Ana?” she whispers. I open the door. She takes one look at me and throws her arms around me.

“What’s wrong? What did that creepy good-looking bastard do?”

“Oh, Kate, nothing I didn’t want him to.”

She pulls me to my bed and we sit.

“You have dreadful sex hair.”

In spite of my poignant sadness, I laugh.

“It was good sex, not dreadful at all.”

Kate smiles.

“That’s better. Why are you crying? You never cry.” She retrieves my brush from the side table and, sitting behind me, very slowly starts brushing out the knots.

“I just don’t think our relationship is going to go anywhere.” I stare down at my fingers.

“I thought you said you were going to see him on Wednesday?”

“I am. That was our original plan.”

“So, why did he turn up here today?”

“I sent him an e-mail.”

“Asking him to drop by?”

“No, saying I didn’t want to see him anymore.”

“And he turns up? Ana, that’s genius.”

“Actually, it was a joke.”

“Oh. Now I’m really confused.”

Patiently, I explain the essence of my e-mail without giving anything away.

“So you thought he’d reply by e-mail.”

“Yes.”

“But instead he turns up here.”

“Yes.”

“I’d say he’s completely smitten with you.”

I frown. Christian smitten with me? Hardly. He’s just looking for a new toy—a convenient new toy that he can bed and do unspeakable things to. My heart tightens painfully. This is the reality.

“He came here to fuck me, that’s all.”

“Who said romance was dead?” she whispers, horrified. I’ve shocked Kate. I didn’t think that was possible. I shrug apologetically.

“He uses sex as a weapon.”

“Fuck you into submission?” She shakes her head disapprovingly. I blink rapidly at her, and I feel the blush as it spreads across my face. Oh … spot on, Katherine Kavanagh, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist.

“Ana, I don’t understand, you just let him make love to you?”

“No, Kate, we don’t make love—we fuck—Christian’s terminology. He doesn’t do the love thing.”

“I knew there was something weird about him. He has commitment issues.”

I nod, as if in agreement. Inwardly, I pine. Oh, Kate … I wish I could tell you everything, everything about this strange, sad, kinky guy, and you could tell me to forget about him. Stop me from being a fool.

“I guess it’s all a little overwhelming,” I murmur. That’s the understatement of the year.

Because I don’t want to talk about Christian anymore, I ask her about Elliot. Katherine’s whole demeanor changes at the mere mention of his name. She lights up from within, beaming at me.

“He’s coming over early Saturday to help load up.” She hugs the hairbrush—boy, has she got it bad—and I feel a familiar faint stab of envy. Kate has found herself a normal man, and she looks so happy.

I turn and hug her.

“Oh, I meant to say. Your dad called while you were … er, occupied. Apparently Bob has sustained some injury, so your mom and he can’t make graduation. But your dad will be here Thursday. He wants you to call.”

“Oh … my mom never called me. Is Bob okay?”

“Yes. Call her in the morning. It’s late now.”

“Thanks, Kate. I’m okay now. I’ll call Ray in the morning, too. I think I’ll just turn in.”

She smiles, but her eyes crinkle at the corners with concern.

After she’s gone, I sit and read the contract again, making more notes as I go. When I’ve finished, I fire up the laptop, ready to respond.

There’s an e-mail from Christian in my inbox.

Oh … shouty capitals! I switch off. How can he intimidate me when he’s six miles away? I shake my head. My heart still heavy, I climb into bed and fall instantly into a deep but troubled sleep.