“Just because I have a stupid damn grin on my face doesn’t mean I’m not mad as hell at you,” I mutter breathlessly, trying to suppress my high-school-cheerleader giggling. Though I was never cheerleader—the bitter thought crosses my mind.
He leans in, and I think he’s going to kiss me but he doesn’t. He nuzzles my hair and inhales deeply.
“As ever, Miss Steele, you are unexpected.” He leans back gazing at me, his eyes dancing with humor. “So are you going to invite me in, or am I to be sent packing for exercising my democratic right as an American citizen, entrepreneur, and consumer to purchase whatever I damn well please?”
“Have you spoken to Dr. Flynn about this?”
He laughs. “Are you going to let me in or not, Anastasia?”
I try for a grudging look—biting my lip helps—but I’m smiling as I open the door. Christian turns and waves to Taylor, and the Audi pulls away.
IT’S ODD HAVING CHRISTIAN Grey in the apartment. The place feels too small for him.
I am still mad at him—his stalking knows no bounds, and it dawns on me that this is how he knew about the e-mail being monitored at SIP. He probably knows more about SIP than I do. The thought is unsavory.
What can I do? Why does he have this need to keep me safe? I am a grown-up—sort of—for heaven’s sake. What can I do to reassure him?
I gaze at his face as he paces the room like a caged predator, and my anger subsides. Seeing him here in my space when I thought we were over is heartwarming. More than heartwarming, I love him, and my heart swells with a nervous, heady elation. He glances around, assessing his surroundings.
“Nice place,” he says.
“Kate’s parents bought it for her.”
He nods distractedly, and his bold gray eyes come to rest on mine, staring at me.
“Er … would you like a drink?” I mutter, flushing with nerves.
“No thank you, Anastasia.” His eyes darken.
Why am I so nervous?
“What would you like to do, Anastasia?” he asks softly as he walks toward me, all feral and hot. “I know what I want to do,” he adds in a low voice.
I back up until I bump against the concrete kitchen island.
“I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.” He smiles a lopsided apologetic smile and I melt … Well, maybe not so mad.
“Would you like something to eat?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “Yes. You,” he murmurs. Everything south of my waistline clenches. I’m seduced by his voice alone, but that look, that hungry I-want-you-now look—oh my.
He’s standing in front of me, not quite touching, staring down into my eyes and bathing me in the heat that’s radiating off his body. I’m stiflingly hot, flustered, and my legs are like jelly as dark desire courses through me. I want him.
“Have you eaten today?” he murmurs.
“I had a sandwich at lunch,” I whisper. I don’t want to talk food.
He narrows his eyes. “You need to eat.”
“I’m really not hungry right now … for food.”
“What are you hungry for, Miss Steele?”
“I think you know, Mr. Grey.”
He leans down, and again I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t.
“Do you want me to kiss you, Anastasia?” he whispers softly in my ear.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that. I told you I am not going to touch you until you beg me and tell me what to do.”
I am lost; he’s not playing fair.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Please what?”
“Touch me.”
“Where, baby?”
He is so tantalizingly close, his scent intoxicating. I reach up, and immediately he steps back.
“No, no,” he chides, his eyes suddenly wide and alarmed.
“What?” No … come back.
“No.” He shakes his head.
“Not at all?” I can’t keep the longing out of my voice.
He looks at me uncertainly, and I’m emboldened by his hesitation. I step toward him, and he steps back, holding up his hands in defense, but smiling.
“Look, Ana.” It’s a warning, and he runs his hand through his hair, exasperated.
“Sometimes you don’t mind,” I observe plaintively. “Perhaps I should find a marker pen, and we could map out the no-go areas.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a bad idea. Where’s your bedroom?”
I nod in the direction. Is he deliberately changing the subject?
“Have you been taking your pill?”
Oh shit. My pill.
His face falls at my expression.
“No,” I squeak.
“I see,” he says, and his lips press into a thin line. “Come, let’s have something to eat.”
“I thought we were going to bed! I want to go to bed with you.”
“I know, baby.” He smiles, and suddenly darting toward me, he grabs my wrists and pulls me into his arms so that his body is pressed against mine.
“You need to eat and so do I,” he murmurs, burning eyes gazing down at me. “Besides … anticipation is the key to seduction, and right now, I’m really into delayed gratification.”
Huh, since when?
“I’m seduced and I want my gratification now. I’ll beg, please.” I sound whiny.
He smiles at me tenderly. “Eat. You’re too slender.” He kisses my forehead and releases me.
This is a game, part of some evil plan. I scowl at him.
“I’m still mad that you bought SIP, and now I am mad at you because you’re making me wait.” I pout.
“You are one angry little madam, aren’t you? You’ll feel better after a good meal.”
“I know what I’ll feel better after.”
“Anastasia Steele, I’m shocked.” His tone is gently mocking.
“Stop teasing me. You don’t fight fair.”
He stifles his grin by biting his lower lip. He looks simply adorable … playful Christian toying with my libido. If only my seduction skills were better, I’d know what to do, but not being able to touch him does hamper me.
My inner goddess narrows her eyes and looks thoughtful. We need to work on this.
As Christian and I gaze at each other—me hot, bothered and yearning and him, relaxed and amused at my expense—I realize I have no food in the apartment.
“I could cook something—except we’ll have to go shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“For groceries.”
“You have no food here?” His expression hardens.
I shake my head. Crap, he looks quite angry.
“Let’s go shopping, then,” he says sternly as he turns on his heel and heads for the door, opening it wide for me.
“WHEN WAS THE LAST time you were in a supermarket?”
Christian looks out of place, but he follows me dutifully, holding a shopping basket.
“I can’t remember.”
“Does Mrs. Jones do all the shopping?”
“I think Taylor helps her. I’m not sure.”
“Are you happy with a stir-fry? It’s quick.”
“Stir-fry sounds good.” Christian grins, no doubt figuring out my ulterior motive for a speedy meal.
“Have they worked for you long?”
“Taylor, four years, I think. Mrs. Jones, about the same. Why didn’t you have any food in the apartment?”
“You know why,” I murmur, flushing.
“It was you who left me,” he mutters disapprovingly.
“I know,” I reply in a small voice, not wanting that reminder.
We reach the checkout and silently stand in line.
If I hadn’t left, would he have offered the vanilla alternative? I wonder idly.
“Do you have anything to drink?” He pulls me back to the present.
“Beer … I think.”
“I’ll get some wine.”
Oh dear. I’m not sure what sort of wine is available in Ernie’s Supermarket. Christian remerges empty-handed, grimacing with a look of disgust.
“There’s a good liquor store next door,” I say quickly.
“I’ll see what they have.”
Maybe we should just go to his place; then we wouldn’t have all this hassle. I watch as he strolls purposefully and with easy grace out of the door. Two women coming in stop and stare. Oh yes, eye my Fifty Shades, I think despondently.
I want the memory of him in my bed, but he’s playing hard to get. Maybe I should, too. My inner goddess nods frantically in agreement. And as I stand in line, we come up with a plan. Hmm …
CHRISTIAN CARRIES THE GROCERY bags into the apartment. He’s carried them as we’ve walked back to the apartment from the store. He looks odd. Not his usual CEO demeanor at all.
“You look very—domestic.”
“No one has ever accused me of that before,” he says dryly. He places the bags on the kitchen island. As I start to unload them, he takes out a bottle of white wine and searches for a corkscrew.
“This place is still new to me. I think the opener is in that drawer there.” I point with my chin.
This feels so … normal. Two people, getting to know each other, having a meal. Yet it’s so strange. The fear that I’d always felt in his presence has gone. We’ve already done so much together, I blush just thinking about it, and yet I hardly know him.
“What are you thinking about?” Christian interrupts my reverie as he shrugs out of his pinstripe jacket and places it on the couch.
“How little I know you.”
His eyes soften. “You know me better than anyone.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” Mrs. Robinson comes unbidden, and very unwelcome, into my mind.
“It is, Anastasia. I’m a very, very private person.”
He hands me a glass of white wine.
“Cheers,” he says.
“Cheers,” I respond taking a sip as he puts the bottle in the fridge.
“Can I help you with that?” he asks.
“No, it’s fine … sit.”
“I’d like to help.” His expression is sincere.
“You can chop the vegetables.”
“I don’t cook,” he says, regarding the knife I hand him with suspicion.
“I imagine you don’t need to.” I place a chopping board and some red peppers in front of him. He stares down at them in confusion.
“You’ve never chopped a vegetable?”
“No.”
I smirk at him.
“Are you smirking at me?”
“It appears this is something that I can do and you can’t. Let’s face it, Christian, I think this is a first. Here, I’ll show you.”
I brush up against him and he steps back. My inner goddess sits up and takes notice.
“Like this.” I slice the red pepper, careful to remove the seeds.
“Looks simple enough.”
“You shouldn’t have any trouble with it,” I mutter ironically.
He gazes at me impassively for a moment then sets about his task as I continue to prepare the diced chicken. He starts to slice, carefully, slowly. Oh my, we’ll be here all night.
I wash my hands and hunt for the wok, the oil, and the other ingredients I need, repeatedly brushing against him—my hip, my arm, my back, my hands. Small, seemingly innocent touches. He stills each time I do.
“I know what you’re doing, Anastasia,” he murmurs darkly, still preparing the first pepper.
“I think it’s called cooking,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes. Grabbing another knife, I join him at the chopping board, peeling and slicing garlic, shallots, and French beans, continually bumping against him.
“You’re quite good at this,” he mutters as he starts on his second red pepper.
“Chopping?” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Years of practice.” I brush against him again, this time with my behind. He stills once more.
“If you do that again, Anastasia, I am going to take you on the kitchen floor.”
Oh wow. It’s working. “You’ll have to beg me first.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe.”
He puts down his knife and saunters slowly over to me, his eyes burning. Leaning past me, he switches the gas off. The oil in the wok quiets almost immediately.
“I think we’ll eat later,” he says. “Put the chicken in the fridge.”
This is not a sentence I had ever expected to hear from Christian Grey, and only he can make it sound hot, really hot. I pick up the bowl of diced chicken, rather shakily place a plate on top of it, and stow it in the fridge. When I turn back, he’s beside me.
“So you’re going to beg?” I whisper, bravely gazing into his darkening eyes.
“No, Anastasia.” He shakes his head. “No begging.” His voice is soft, seductive.
And we stand staring at each other, drinking each other in—the atmosphere charging between us, almost crackling, neither saying anything, just looking. I bite my lip as desire for this man seizes me with a vengeance, igniting my blood, shallowing my breath, pooling below my waist. I see my reactions reflected in his stance, in his eyes.
In a beat, he grabs me by my hips and pulls me to him as my hands reach for his hair and his mouth claims me. He pushes me against the fridge, and I hear the vague protesting rattle of bottles and jars from within as his tongue finds mine. I moan into his mouth and one of his hands moves into my hair, pulling my head back as we kiss savagely.
“What do you want, Anastasia?” he breathes.
“You,” I gasp.
“Where?”
“Bed.”
He breaks free, scoops me into his arms, and carries me quickly and seemingly without any strain into my bedroom. Setting me on my feet beside my bed, he leans down and switches on my bedside lamp. He glances quickly around the room and hastily closes the pale cream curtains.
“Now what?” he says softly.
“Make love to me.”
“How?”
Jeez.
“You have got to tell me, baby.”
Holy crap. “Undress me.” I am panting already.
He smiles and hooks his index finger into my open shirt, pulling me toward him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and without taking his blazing eyes off mine, slowly starts to unbutton my shirt.
Tentatively I put my hands on his arms to steady myself. He doesn’t complain. His arms are a safe area. When he’s finished with the buttons, he pulls my shirt over my shoulders, and I let go of him to let the shirt fall to the floor. He reaches down to the waistband of my jeans, pops the button, and pulls down the zipper.
“Tell me what you want, Anastasia.” His eyes smolder and his lips part as he takes quick shallow breaths.
“Kiss me from here to here,” I whisper trailing my finger from the base of my ear, down my throat. He smoothes my hair out of the line of fire and bends, leaving sweet soft kisses along the path my finger took and then back again.
“My jeans and panties,” I murmur, and he smiles against my throat before he drops to his knees in front of me. Oh, I feel so powerful. Hooking his thumbs into my jeans, he gently pulls them and my panties down my legs. I step out of my flats and my clothes so that I’m left wearing only my bra. He stops and looks up at me expectantly, but he doesn’t get up.
“What now, Anastasia?”
“Kiss me,” I whisper.
“Where?”
“You know where.”
“Where?”
Oh, he’s taking no prisoners. Embarrassed, I quickly point at the apex of my thighs, and he grins wickedly. I close my eyes, mortified, but at the same time beyond aroused.
“Oh, with pleasure,” he chuckles. He kisses me and unleashes his tongue, his joy-inspiring expert tongue. I groan and fist my hands into his hair. He doesn’t stop, his tongue circling my clitoris, driving me insane, on and on, around and around. Ahhh … it’s only been … how long …? Oh …
“Christian, please,” I beg. I don’t want to come standing up. I don’t have the strength.
“Make love to me.”
“I am,” he murmurs, gently blowing against me.
“No. I want you inside me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please.”
He doesn’t stop his sweet, exquisite torture. I moan loudly.
“Christian … please.”
He stands and gazes down at me, and his lips glisten with the evidence of my arousal.
It’s so hot …
“Well?” he asks.
“Well what?” I pant, staring up at him in frantic need.
“I’m still dressed.”
I gape at him in confusion.
Undress him? Yes, I can do this. I reach for his shirt and he steps back.
“Oh no,” he admonishes. Shit, he means his jeans.
Oh, and this gives me an idea. My inner goddess cheers loudly to the rafters, and I drop to my knees in front of him. Rather clumsily and with shaking fingers, I undo his waistband and fly, then yank down his jeans and boxers, and he springs free. Wow.
I peek up at him through my lashes, and he’s gazing at me with … what? Trepidation? Awe? Surprise?
He steps out of his jeans and pulls off his socks, and I take hold of him in my hand and squeeze tightly, pushing my hand back like he’s shown me before. He groans and tenses, and his breath hisses through clenched teeth. Very tentatively, I put him in my mouth and suck—hard. Mmm, he tastes good.
“Ahh. Ana … whoa, gently.”
He cups my head tenderly, and I push him deeper into my mouth, pressing my lips together as tightly as I can, sheathing my teeth, and sucking hard.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
Oh, that’s a good, inspiring, sexy sound, so I do it again, pulling his length deeper, swirling my tongue around the end. Hmm … I feel like Aphrodite.
“Ana, that’s enough. No more.”
I do it again—Beg, Grey, beg—and again.
“Ana, you’ve made your point,” he grunts through gritted teeth. “I do not want to come in your mouth.”
I do it once more, and he bends down, grasps me by my shoulders, hauls me to my feet, and tosses me on the bed. Dragging his shirt over his head, he then reaches down to his discarded jeans, and like a good Boy Scout, produces a foil packet. He’s panting, like me.
“Take your bra off,” he orders.
I sit up and do as I’m told.
“Lie down. I want to look at you.”
I lie down, gazing up at him as he slowly rolls the condom on. I want him so badly. He stares down at me and licks his lips.
“You are a fine sight, Anastasia Steele.” He bends over the bed and slowly crawls up and over me, kissing me as he goes. He kisses each of my breasts and teases my nipples in turn, while I groan and writhe beneath him, and he doesn’t stop.
No … Stop. I want you.
“Christian, please.”
“Please what?” he murmurs between my breasts. “I want you inside me.”
“Do you now?”
“Please.”
Gazing at me, he pushes my legs apart with his and moves so that he’s hovering above me. Without taking his eyes off mine, he sinks into me at a deliciously slow pace.
I close my eyes, relishing the fullness, the exquisite feeling of his possession, instinctively tilting my pelvis up to meet him, to join with him, groaning loudly. He eases back and very slowly fills me again. My fingers find their way into his silken unruly hair, and he oh-so-slowly moves in and out again.
“Faster, Christian, faster … please.”
He gazes down at me in triumph and kisses me hard, then really starts to move—a punishing, relentless … oh fuck—and I know it will not be long. He sets a pounding rhythm. I start to quicken, my legs tensing beneath him.
“Come on, baby,” he gasps. “Give it to me.”
His words are my undoing, and I explode, magnificently, mind-numbingly, into a million pieces around him, and he follows, calling out my name.
“Ana! Oh fuck, Ana!” He collapses on top of me, his head buried in my neck.