"You'd rather it was you?" she counters.
Her response, though unexpected, is entertaining; she's admonishing me. "Frankly, yes," I respond in kind.
"Pervert," she mouths, and bites her lip, I suspect to suppress a laugh.
Lord, she's challenging and funny and right. "Can't argue with that assessment, Anastasia."
"I'd discuss it further with you, but I've signed an NDA." With a haughty look, she turns to study the pictures once more.
And she's doing it again: laughing at me and trivializing my lifestyle. Christ, I'd like to put her in her place--preferably under me or on her knees. I lean in closer and whisper in her ear, "What I'd like to do to your smart mouth."
"You're very rude." She's scandalized, her expression prim, while the tips of her ears turn a fetching pink.
Oh, baby, that's old news.
I glance back at the pictures. "You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don't see you like that very often."
She examines her fingers once more, hesitating as if she's contemplating what to say. I don't know what she's thinking, so, reaching forward, I tilt her head up. She gasps as my fingers make contact with her chin.
Again, that sound; I feel it in my groin.
"I want you that relaxed with me." I sound hopeful.
Damn it. Too hopeful.
"You have to stop intimidating me if you want that," she retorts, surprising me with her depth of feeling.
"You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel!" I snap back.
Shit, are we doing this here, now? I want to do this in private. She clears her throat and draws herself up to full height.
"Christian, you wanted me as a submissive," she says, keeping her voice down. "That's where the problem lies. It's in the definition of a submissive--you e-mailed it to me once." She pauses, glaring at me. "I think the synonyms were, and I quote, 'compliant, pliant, amenable, passive, tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.' I wasn't supposed to look at you. Not talk to you, unless you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?"
We need to discuss this in private! Why is she doing this here?
"It's very confusing being with you," she continues, in full flow. "You don't want me to defy you, but then you like my 'smart mouth.' You want obedience except when you don't so that you can punish me. I just don't know which way is up when I'm with you."
Okay, I can see that could be confusing--however, I do not want to discuss it here. We need to leave.
"Good point well made, as usual, Miss Steele." My tone is arctic. "Come, let's go eat."
"We've only been here for half an hour."
"You've seen the photos. You've spoken to the boy."
"His name is Jose," she asserts, louder this time.
"You've spoken to Jose--the man who, if I am not mistaken, was trying to push his tongue into your mouth the last time I met him, while you were drunk and ill." I grit my teeth.
"He's never hit me," she retaliates with fury in her eyes.
What the hell? She does want to do this now.
I can't believe it. She fucking asked me how bad it could get! Anger erupts like Mount St. Helens deep in my chest. "That's a low blow, Anastasia." I'm seething. Her face reddens, and I don't know if it's from embarrassment or anger. I run my hands through my hair to prevent myself from grabbing her and dragging her outside so we can continue this discussion in private. I take a deep breath.
"I'm taking you for something to eat. You're fading away in front of me. Find the boy, say good-bye." My tone is clipped as I struggle to control my temper, but she doesn't move.
"Please, can we stay longer?"
"No. Go. Now. Say good-bye." I manage not to shout. I recognize that stubborn, mulish set to her mouth. She's mad as hell, and in spite of all I've been through over the last few days, I don't give a shit. We are leaving if I have to pick her up and carry her. She gives me a withering look and turns with a sharp spin, her hair flying so that it hits my shoulder. She stalks off to find him.
As she moves away I struggle to recover my equilibrium. What is it about her that presses all my buttons? I want to scold her, spank her, and fuck her. Here. Now. And in that order.
I scan the room. The boy--no, Rodriguez--is standing with a flock of female admirers. He notices Ana, and, forgetting his fans, he greets her like she's the center of his whole goddamn universe. He listens intently to everything she has to say, then sweeps her into his arms, spinning her around.
Get your fat paws off my girl.
She glances at me, then weaves her hands into his hair and presses her cheek to his and whispers something in his ear. They continue talking. Close. His arms around her. And he's basking in her fucking light.
Before I'm even aware that I'm doing it, I'm striding over, ready to rip him limb from limb. Fortunately for him, he releases her as I approach.
"Don't be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr. Grey, good evening," the boy mumbles, sheepish and a little intimidated.
"Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive. I'm sorry we can't stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle. Anastasia?" I take her hand.
"Bye, Jose. Congratulations again." She leans away from me, gives Rodriguez a tender kiss on his reddening cheek, and I'm going to have a coronary. It takes all my self-control not to haul her over my shoulder. Instead I drag her by the hand to the front door and out onto the street. She's stumbling behind me, trying to keep up, but I don't care.
Right now. I just want to--
There's an alley. I hurry us into it, and before I know what I'm doing I've pressed her against the wall. I grab her face between my hands, pinning her body with mine as rage and desire mix in a heady, explosive cocktail. I capture her lips with mine and our teeth clash, but then my tongue is in her mouth. She tastes of cheap wine and delicious, sweet, sweet Ana.
Oh, this mouth.
I have missed this mouth.
She ignites around me. Her fingers are in my hair, pulling hard. She moans into my mouth, giving me more access, and she's kissing me back, her passion unleashed, her tongue entwined with mine. Tasting. Taking. Giving.
Her hunger is unexpected. Desire bursts through my body, like a forest fire licking through dry tinder. I'm so aroused--I want her now, here, in this alley. And what I'd intended as a punishing I-own-you kiss becomes something else.
She wants this, too.
She's missed this, too.
And it's more than arousing.
I groan in response, undone.
With one hand, I hold her at the nape of her neck as we kiss. My free hand travels down her body, and I reacquaint myself with her curves: her breast, her waist, her ass, her thigh. She moans as my fingers find the hem of her dress and start tugging it higher. My goal is to pull it up, fuck her here. Make her mine, again.
The feel of her.
It's intoxicating, and I want her like I've never wanted her before.
In the distance and through the fog of my lust, I hear a police siren wail.
No! No! Grey!
Not like this. Get a grip.
I pull back, gazing down at her, and I'm panting and mad as hell.
"You. Are. Mine!" I growl, and push myself away from her, as my reason returns. "For the love of God, Ana." I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath and calm my raging body. I'm painfully hard for her right now.
Has anyone ever affected me like this? Ever?
Christ! I nearly fucked her in a back alley.
This is jealousy. This is what it feels like: my insides gutted and raw, my self-control absent. I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.
"I'm sorry," she says, hoarse.
"You should be. I know what you're doing. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you."
"No." Her voice is soft and breathless. "He's just a friend." At least she sounds contrite, and it goes some way toward pacifying me.
"I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any
extreme emotion. Yet you...you bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It's very..." Words fail me. I cannot find the vocabulary to describe how I feel. I'm out of control and at a loss. "Unsettling" is the best I can manage. "I like control, Ana, and around you, that just"--I stand and look down at her--"evaporates."
Her eyes are wide with carnal promise, and her hair is mussed and sexy, falling to her breasts. I rub the back of my neck, thankful that I've recovered some semblance of self-control.
See how I am around you, Ana. See?
I run my hand through my hair, taking deep, thought-clearing breaths. I grab her hand. "Come, we need to talk." Before I fuck you. "And you need to eat."
There's a restaurant close to the alley. It's not what I would have chosen for a reunion, if that's what this is, but it will suffice. I don't have long, as Taylor will be arriving soon.
I open the door for her. "This place will have to do. We don't have much time." The restaurant looks like it caters to the gallery crowd, and maybe students. It's ironic that the walls are painted the same color as my playroom, but I don't dwell on the thought.
An obsequious waiter leads us to a secluded table; he's all smiles for Anastasia. I glance at the chalkboard menu on the wall and decide to order before the waiter retreats, letting him know we're tight for time. "So we'll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, bearnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever the chef has--and bring me the wine list."
"Certainly, sir," he says, and rushes off.
Ana purses her lips, annoyed.
What now?
"And if I don't like steak?"
"Don't start, Anastasia."
"I am not a child, Christian."
"Well, stop acting like one."
"I'm a child because I don't like steak?" She doesn't hide her petulance.
No!
"For deliberately making me jealous. It's a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend's feelings, leading him on like that?"
Her cheeks pink and she examines her hands.
Yes. You should be embarrassed. You're confusing him. Even I can see that.
Is that what she's doing to me? Leading me on?
In the time we've been apart, maybe she's finally recognized that she has power. Power over me.
The waiter returns with the wine list, giving me a chance to regain my cool. The selection is average: only one drinkable wine on the menu. I glance at Anastasia, who looks like she's sulking. I know that look. Perhaps she wanted to select her own meal. And I can't resist toying with her, aware that she has little knowledge of wine. "Would you like to choose the wine?" I ask and I know I sound sarcastic.
"You choose." She presses her lips together.
Yeah. Don't play games with me, baby.
"Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please," I say to the waiter, who's hovering.
"Er, we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir."
"A bottle, then." You stupid prick.
"Sir." He retreats.
"You're very grumpy," she says, no doubt feeling sorry for the waiter.
"I wonder why that is?" I keep my expression neutral, but even to my own ears I'm now sounding childish.
"Well, it's good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn't you say?" She gives me a saccharine smile.
Oh, tit for tat, Miss Steele. She's called me out again and I have to admire her nerve. I realize our bickering will get us nowhere.
And I'm being an ass.
Don't blow this deal, Grey.
"I'm sorry," I say, because she's right.
"Apology accepted. And I'm pleased to inform you I haven't decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate."
"Since that was the last time you ate, I think that's a moot point."
"There's that word again, 'moot.' "
"Moot," I mouth. That word, indeed. I remember I last used it while discussing our arrangement on Saturday morning. The day my world fell apart.
Fuck. Don't think about that. Man up, Grey. Tell her what you want.
"Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I'm a little nervous. I've told you I want you back, and you've said...nothing." She bites her lip as the color drains from her face.
Oh no.
"I've missed you...really missed you, Christian," she says, quietly. "The past few days have been...difficult."
Difficult is an understatement.
She swallows and takes a steadying breath. This doesn't sound good. Perhaps my behavior over the last hour has finally driven her away. I tense. Where's she going with this?
"Nothing's changed. I can't be what you want me to be." Her expression is bleak.
No. No. No.
"You are what I want you to be." You are everything I want you to be.
"No, Christian, I'm not."
Oh, baby, please believe me. "You're upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you--so did you. Why didn't you safe-word, Anastasia?"
She looks surprised, as if this isn't something she's considered.
"Answer me," I urge.
This has haunted me. Why didn't you safe-word, Ana?
She wilts in her seat. Sad. Defeated.
"I don't know," she whispers.
What?
WHAT?
I'm rendered speechless. I've been in hell because she didn't safe-word. But before I recover, words tumble from her mouth. Soft, quiet, as if she's in a confessional, as if she's ashamed. "I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind." Her look is raw, her shrug small and apologetic. "You know...I forgot."
What the hell?
"You forgot!" I'm dismayed. We've been through all this shit because she forgot?
I can't believe it. I clutch the table for something to anchor me to the now as I let this alarming information register.
Did I remind her of her safe words? Christ. I can't remember. The e-mail that she sent me the first time I spanked her comes to mind.
She didn't stop me then.
I'm an idiot.
I should have reminded her.
Wait. She knows she has safe words. I remember telling her more than once.
"We don't have a signed contract, Anastasia. But we've discussed limits. And I want to reiterate we have safe words, okay?"
She blinks a couple times but remains mute.
"What are they?" I demand.
She hesitates.
"What are the safe words, Anastasia?"
"Yellow."
"And?"
"Red."
"Remember those."
She raises an eyebrow in obvious scorn and is about to say something.
"Don't start with your smart mouth in here, Miss Steele. Or I will fuck it with you on your knees. Do you understand?"
"How can I trust you? Ever?" If she can't be honest with me, what hope do we have? She can't tell me what she thinks I want to hear. What kind of relationship is that? My spirits sink. This is the problem in dealing with someone who isn't in the lifestyle. She doesn't get it.
I should never have chased her.
The waiter arrives with the wine as we stare with incredulity at each other.
Maybe I should have done a better job of explaining it to her.
Damn it, Grey. Eliminate the negative.
Yes. It's irrelevant now. I'm going to try a relationship her way, if she'll let me.
The irritating prick takes too much time opening the bottle. Jesus. Is he trying to entertain us? Or is it just Ana he wants to impress? He finally pops the cork and pours a taste for me. I take a quick sip. It needs to breathe, but it's passable.
"That's fine." Now go. Please. He fills our glasses and leaves.
Ana and I haven't taken our eyes off each other. Each trying to discern what the other is thinking. She's the first to look away, and she takes a sip of wine, closing her eyes as if seeking inspiration. Wh
en she opens them, I see her despair. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Sorry for what?" Hell. Is she done with me? Is there no hope?
"Not using the safe word," she says.
Oh, thank God. I thought it was over.
"We might have avoided all this suffering," I mutter in response, and also in an attempt to hide my relief.
"You look fine." There's a tremor in her voice.
"Appearances can be deceptive. I'm not fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. I'm in perpetual night here."
Her gasp is just audible.
How did she think I'd feel? She left me when I'd almost begged her to stay. "You said you'd never leave, yet the going gets tough and you're out the door."
"When did I say I'd never leave?"
"In your sleep." Before we went soaring. "It was the most comforting thing I'd heard in so long, Anastasia. It made me relax."
She inhales sharply. Her open and honest compassion is written all over her lovely face as she reaches for her wine. This is my chance.
Ask her, Grey.
Ask her the one question I haven't allowed myself to think about because I know I'll dread her answer, whatever it is. But I'm curious. I need to know.
"You said you loved me," I whisper, almost choking on the words. She can't feel that way about me still. Can she? "Is that now in the past tense?"
"No, Christian, it's not," she says, as if in the confessional again. I'm unprepared for the relief that rushes through me. But it's relief mixed with fear. It's a confounding combination because I know she shouldn't love a monster.
"Good," I mumble, confused. I want to stop thinking about that right now, and with impeccable timing, the waiter returns with our meal.
"Eat," I demand. The woman needs feeding.
She examines the contents of her plate with distaste.
"So help me God, Anastasia, if you don't eat, I will take you across my knee here in this restaurant. And it will have nothing to do with my sexual gratification. Eat!"
"Okay. I'll eat. Stow your twitching palm, please." She's trying for humor--but I'm not laughing. She's wasting away. She picks up her cutlery with stubborn reluctance but she takes one bite, closes her eyes, and licks her lips in satisfaction. The sight of her tongue is enough to provoke a response from my body--already in a heightened state from our kiss in the alley.
Hell, not again! I stop my response in its tracks. There'll be time for that later, if she says yes. She takes another bite and another and I know she'll continue eating. I'm grateful for the diversion that our food has provided. Slicing into my steak, I take a bite. It's not bad.