laugh!
　　laugh!
　　“Yes.” I struggle to maintain my look of moral outrage.
　　“An arse?” Christian says again. This time his lips
　　twitch with a repressed smile.
　　“Don’t make me laugh when I am mad at you!” I
　　shout.
　　And he smiles, a dazzling, full-toothed, all-Americanboy
　　smile, and I can’t help it. I am grinning and laughing,
　　too. How could I not be affected by the joy I see in his
　　smile?
　　“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-schoolcheerleader
　　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 and gazes 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 email
　　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 beautiful 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.
　　Oh crap. 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.”
　　My inner goddess is writhing on her chaise longue. 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.”
　　Oh no!
　　“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
　　gray 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 whiney. My inner goddess is beside
　　herself.
　　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.”
　　“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?”
　　“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, really.”
　　He gazes at me and 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 am 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.
　　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 day.
　　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 beautiful 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 round 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 pumps 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.
　　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,
　　round and round. 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.
　　“Please what, Anastasia?”
　　“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.
　　Holy cow . . .
　　Holy cow . . .
　　“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.”
　　“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
　　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—holy cow, 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.
　　As sanity returns, I open my eyes and gaze up into the face
　　of the man I love. Christian’s expression is soft, tender. He
　　strokes his nose against mine, bearing his weight on his
　　elbows, his hands holding mine by the side of my head.
　　Sadly, I suspect that’s so I don’t touch him. He plants a
　　gentle kiss on my lips as he eases himself out of me.
　　“I’ve missed this,” he breathes.
　　“Me too,” I whisper.
　　He takes hold of my chin and kisses me hard. A
　　passionate, beseeching kiss, asking for what? I don’t
　　passionate, beseeching kiss, asking for what? I don’t
　　know. It leaves me breathless.
　　“Don’t leave me again,” he implores, looking deep into
　　my eyes, his face serious.
　　“Okay,” I whisper and smile at him. His answering
　　smile is dazzling; relief, elation, and boyish delight
　　combined into one enchanting look that would melt the
　　coldest of hearts. “Thank you for the iPad.”
　　“You are most welcome, Anastasia.”
　　“What’s your favorite song on there?”
　　“Now that would be telling.” He grins. “Come cook
　　me some food, wench. I’m famished,” he adds, sitting up
　　suddenly and dragging me with him.
　　“Wench?” I giggle.
　　“Wench. Food, now, please.”
　　“Since you ask so nicely, sire, I’ll get right on to it.”
　　As I scramble out of bed, I dislodge my pillow,
　　revealing the deflated helicopter balloon underneath.
　　Christian reaches for it and gazes up at me, puzzled.
　　“That’s my balloon,” I say, feeling proprietary as I
　　“That’s my balloon,” I say, feeling proprietary as I
　　reach for my robe and wrap it round myself. Oh jeez . . .
　　why did he have to find that?
　　“In your bed?” he murmurs.
　　“Yes,” I flush. “It’s been keeping me company.”
　　“Lucky Charlie Tango,” he says, in surprise.
　　Yes, I’m sentimental, Grey, because I love you.
　　“My balloon,” I say again and turn on my heel and
　　head out to the kitchen, leaving him grinning from ear to
　　ear.
　　Christian and I sit on Kate’s persian rug, eating stir-fry
　　chicken and noodles from white china bowls with
　　chopsticks and sipping chilled white Pinot Grigio. Christian
　　leans against the couch, his long legs stretched out in front
　　of him. He’s wearing his jeans and his shirt with his justfucked
　　hair, and that’s all. The Buena Vista Social Club
　　croons softly in the background from Christian’s iPod.
　　“This is good,” he says appreciatively as he digs into
　　his food.
　　I sit cross-legged beside him, eating greedily, beyond
　　hungry, and admire his naked feet.
　　“I usually do all the cooking. Kate isn’t a great cook.”
　　“Did you your mother teach you?”
　　“Not really,” I scoff. “By the time I was interested in
　　learning, my mom was living with Husband Number Three
　　in Mansfield, Texas. And Ray, well, he would’ve lived on
　　toast and takeout if it wasn’t for me.”

　　Christian gazes down at me. “You didn’t stay in Texas
　　with your mom?”
　　“No. Steve, her husband and I, we didn’t get along.
　　And I missed Ray. Her marriage to Steve didn’t last long.
　　She came to her senses, I think. She never talks about
　　him,” I add quietly. I think that’s a dark part of her life,
　　which we’ve never discussed.
　　“So you came back to Washington to live with your
　　stepfather.”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Sounds like you looked after him,” he says softly.
　　“Sounds like you looked after him,” he says softly.
　　“I suppose.” I shrug.
　　“You’re used to taking care of people.”
　　The edge in his voice attracts my attention, and I
　　glance up at him.
　　“What is it?” I ask, startled by his wary expression.
　　“I want to take care of you.” His luminous eyes glow
　　with some unnamed emotion.
　　My heart rate spikes.
　　“I’ve noticed,” I whisper. “You just go about it in a
　　strange way.”
　　His brow creases. “It’s the only way I know how,” he
　　says quietly.
　　“I’m still mad at you for buying SIP.”
　　He smiles. “I know but you being mad, baby, wouldn’t
　　stop me.”
　　“What am I going to say to my work colleagues, to
　　Jack?”
　　He narrows his eyes. “That fucker better watch
　　himself.”
　　himself.”
　　“Christian!” I admonish. “He’s my boss.”
　　Christian’s mouth presses into a hard line. He looks
　　like a recalcitrant schoolboy.
　　“Don’t tell them,” he says.
　　“Don’t tell them what?”
　　“That I own it. The heads of agreement was signed
　　yesterday. The news is embargoed for four weeks while
　　the management at SIP makes some changes.”
　　“Oh . . . will I be out of a job?” I ask, alarmed.
　　“I sincerely doubt it,” Christian says wryly, trying to
　　stifle his smile.
　　I scowl. “If I leave and find another job, will you buy
　　that company, too?”
　　“You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” His
　　expression alters, wary once more.
　　“Possibly. I’m not sure you’ve given me a great deal of
　　choice.”
　　“Yes, I will buy that company, too.” He is adamant.
　　I scowl at him again. I am in a no-win situation here.
　　“Don’t you think you’re being a tad overprotective?”
　　“Yes. I am fully aware of how this looks.”
　　“Paging Dr. Flynn,” I murmur.
　　He puts down his empty bowl and gazes at me
　　impassively. I sigh. I don’t want to fight. Standing up, I
　　reach for his bowl.
　　“Would you like dessert?”
　　“Now you’re talking!” he says, giving me a lascivious
　　grin.
　　“Not me.” Why not me? My inner goddess wakes
　　from her doze and sits upright, all ears. “We have ice
　　cream. Vanilla.” I snicker.
　　“Really?” Christian’s grin gets bigger. “I think we could
　　do something with that.”
　　What? I stare at him dumbfounded as he gracefully
　　gets to his feet.
　　“Can I stay?” he asks.
　　“What do you mean?”
　　“The night.”
　　“I assumed that you were.” I flush.
　　“I assumed that you were.” I flush.
　　“Good. Where’s the ice cream?”
　　“In the oven.” I smile sweetly at him.
　　He cocks his head to one side, sighs, and shakes his
　　head at me. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Miss
　　Steele.” His eyes glitter.
　　Oh shit. What’s he planning?
　　“I could still take you across my knee.”
　　I place the bowls in the sink. “Do you have those silver
　　ball things?”
　　He pats his hands down his chest, belly, and the
　　pockets of his jeans. “Funnily enough, I don’t carry a
　　spare set around with me. Not much call for them in the
　　office.”
　　“I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Grey, and I thought you
　　said that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit.”
　　“Well, Anastasia, my new motto is if you can’t beat
　　‘em, join ‘em.”
　　I gape at him—I can’t believe he’s just said that —
　　and he looks sickeningly pleased with himself as he grins at
　　and he looks sickeningly pleased with himself as he grins at
　　me. Turning, he opens the freezer and takes out the carton
　　of Ben & Jerry’s finest vanilla.
　　“This will do just fine.” He looks up at me, eyes dark.
　　“Ben & Jerry’s & Ana.” He says each word slowly,
　　enunciating every syllable clearly.
　　Oh fucking my. I think my lower jaw is on the floor.
　　He opens the cutlery drawer and grabs a spoon. When he
　　looks up, his are eyes hooded, and his tongue skims his
　　top teeth. Oh, that tongue.
　　I feel winded. Desire, dark, sleek, and wanton runs hot
　　through my veins. We’re going to have fun, with food.
　　“I hope you’re warm,” he whispers. “I’m going to cool
　　you down with this. Come.” He holds out his hand, and I
　　place mine in his.
　　In my bedroom he places the ice cream on my bedside
　　table, pulls the duvet off the bed, and removes both the
　　pillows, placing them all in a pile on the floor.
　　“You have a change of sheets, don’t you?”
　　I nod, watching him, fascinated. He holds up Charlie
　　Tango.
　　“Don’t mess with my balloon,” I warn.
　　His lips quirk upward in half a smile. “Wouldn’t dream
　　of it, baby, but I do want to mess with you and these
　　sheets.”
　　My body practically convulses.
　　“I want to tie you up.”
　　Oh. “Okay,” I whisper.
　　“Just your hands. To the bed. I need you still.”
　　“Okay,” I whisper again, incapable of anything more.
　　He strolls over to me, not taking his eyes off mine.
　　“We’ll use this.” He takes hold of my robe sash and
　　with delicious, teasing slowness, releases the bow, and
　　gently pulls it free of the garment.
　　My robe falls open while I stand paralyzed under his
　　heated gaze. After a moment, he pushes the robe off my
　　shoulders. It falls and pools at my feet so that I’m standing
　　naked before him. He strokes my face with the backs of
　　his knuckles, and his touch resonates in the depths of my
　　groin. Bending, he kisses my lips briefly.
　　groin. Bending, he kisses my lips briefly.
　　“Lie on the bed, face up,” he murmurs, his eyes
　　darkening, burning into mine.
　　I do as I’m told. My room is shrouded in darkness
　　except for the soft, insipid light from my lamp.
　　Normally, I hate energy-saving bulbs—they are so dim
　　—but being naked here, with Christian, I’m grateful for the
　　muted light. He stands by the bed gazing down at me.
　　“I could look at you all day, Anastasia,” he says, and
　　with that crawls on to the bed, up my body, and straddles
　　me.
　　“Arms above your head,” he commands.
　　I comply and he fastens the end of my robe sash round
　　my left wrist and threads the end through the metal bars at
　　the head of my bed. He pulls it tight so my left arm is
　　flexed above me. He then secures my right hand, tying the
　　sash tightly.
　　When I’m tied-up, staring at him, he visibly relaxes. He
　　likes me tethered. I can’t touch him this way. It occurs to
　　me that none of his subs would have touched him either—
　　me that none of his subs would have touched him either—
　　and what’s more, they would never have the opportunity
　　to. He would have always been in control and at a
　　distance. That’s why he likes his rules.
　　He climbs off me and bends to give me a quick peck
　　on the lips. Then he stands and lifts his shirt over his head.
　　He undoes his jeans and drops them to the floor.
　　He is gloriously naked. My inner goddess is doing a
　　triple axel dismount off the uneven bars, and abruptly my
　　mouth is dry. He really is beyond beautiful. He has a
　　physique drawn on classical lines: broad muscular
　　shoulders, narrow hips, the inverted triangle. He obviously
　　works out. I could look at him all day. He moves to the
　　end of the bed and grasps my ankles, pulling me swiftly
　　and sharply downward so that my arms are stretched out
　　and unable to move.
　　“That’s better,” he mutters.
　　Picking up the tub of ice cream, he climbs smoothly
　　back onto the bed to straddle me once more. Very slowly,
　　he peels off the lid of the tub and dips the spoon in.
　　“Hmm . . . it’s still quite hard,” he says with a raised
　　brow. Scooping out a spoonful of the vanilla, he pops it
　　into his mouth. “Delicious,” he murmurs, licking his lips.
　　“Amazing how good plain old vanilla can taste.” He gazes
　　down at me and smirks. “Want some?” he teases.
　　He looks so freaking hot, young and carefree—sitting
　　on me and eating from a tub of ice cream—eyes bright,
　　face luminous. Oh what the hell is he going to do to me?
　　As if I can’t tell. I nod, shyly.
　　He scoops out another spoonful and offers me the
　　spoon, so I open my mouth, then he quickly pops it in his
　　mouth again.
　　“This is too good to share,” he says, smiling wickedly.
　　“Hey,” I start in protest.
　　“Why, Miss Steele, do you like your vanilla?”
　　“Yes,” I say more forcefully than I mean and try in vain
　　to buck him off.
　　He laughs. “Getting feisty, are we? I wouldn’t do that if
　　I were you.”
　　“Ice cream,” I plead.
　　“Ice cream,” I plead.
　　“Well, as you’ve pleased me so much today, Miss
　　Steele.” He relents and offers me another spoonful. This
　　time he lets me eat it.
　　I want to giggle. He’s really enjoying himself, and his
　　good humor is infectious. He scoops another spoonful and
　　feeds me some more, then he does it again. Okay,
　　enough.
　　“Hmm, well, this is one way to ensure you eat—forcefeed
　　you. I could get used to this.”
　　Taking another spoonful, he offers me more. This time
　　I keep my mouth shut and shake my head, and he lets it
　　slowly melt on the spoon so that the melted ice cream
　　drips, onto my throat, onto my chest. He dips down and
　　very slowly licks it off. My body lights up with longing.
　　“Mmm. Tastes even better off you, Miss Steele.”
　　I pull against my restraints and the bed creaks
　　ominously, but I don’t care—I’m burning with desire, it’s
　　consuming me. He takes another spoonful and lets the ice
　　cream dribble onto my breasts. Then with the back of the
　　cream dribble onto my breasts. Then with the back of the
　　spoon, he spreads it over each breast and nipple.
　　Oh . . . it’s cold. Each nipple peaks and hardens
　　beneath the cool of the vanilla.
　　“Cold?” Christian asks softly and bends to lick and
　　suckle all the ice cream off me once more, his mouth hot
　　compared to the cool of the ice.
　　Oh my. It’s torture. As it starts to melt, the ice cream
　　runs off me in rivulets on to the bed. His lips continue their
　　slow torture, sucking hard, nuzzling, softly—Oh please!—
　　I’m panting.
　　“Want some?” And before I can confirm or deny his
　　offer, his tongue is in my mouth, and it’s cold and skilled
　　and tastes of Christian and vanilla. Delicious.
　　And just as I am getting used to the sensation, he sits
　　up again and trails a spoonful of ice cream down the center
　　of my body, across my stomach, and into my navel where
　　he deposits a large dollop of ice cream. Oh, this is chillier
　　than before, but weirdly it burns.
　　“Now, you’ve done this before.” Christian’s eyes
　　shine. “You’re going to have to stay still, or there will be
　　ice cream all over the bed.” He kisses each of my breasts
　　and sucks each of my nipples hard, then follows the line of
　　ice cream down my body, sucking and licking as he goes.
　　And I try, I try to stay still despite the heady
　　combination of cold and his inflaming touch. But my hips
　　start to move involuntarily, gyrating to their own rhythm,
　　caught up in his cool vanilla spell. He shifts lower and
　　starts eating the ice cream in my belly, swirling his tongue
　　into and around my navel.
　　I moan. Holy cow. It’s cold, it’s hot, it’s tantalizing,
　　but he doesn’t stop. He trails the ice cream further down
　　my body, into my pubic hair, on to my clitoris. I cry out,
　　loudly.

　　“Hush now,” Christian says softly as his magical tongue
　　sets to work lapping up the vanilla, and now I’m keening
　　quietly.
　　“Oh . . . please . . . Christian.”
　　“I know, baby, I know,” he breathes as his tongue
　　works its magic. He doesn’t stop, just doesn’t stop, and
　　works its magic. He doesn’t stop, just doesn’t stop, and
　　my body is climbing—higher, higher. He slips one finger
　　inside me, then another and he moves them with agonizing
　　slowness in and out.
　　“Just here,” he murmurs, and he rhythmically strokes
　　the front wall of my vagina while he continues the exquisite,
　　relentless licking and sucking. Holy fucking cow.
　　I erupt unexpectedly into a mind-blowing orgasm that
　　stuns all my senses, obliterating all that’s happening outside
　　of my body as I writhe and groan. Jeez, that was so
　　quick.
　　I am vaguely aware that he has stopped his
　　ministrations. He’s hovering over me, sliding on a condom,
　　and then he’s inside me, hard and fast.
　　“Oh yes!” He groans as he slams into me. He’s sticky
　　—the residual melted ice cream spreading between us. It’s
　　a strangely distracting sensation, but one I can’t dwell on
　　for more than a few seconds as Christian suddenly pulls
　　out of me and flips me over.
　　“This way,” he murmurs and abruptly is inside me once
　　“This way,” he murmurs and abruptly is inside me once
　　more, but he doesn’t start his usual punishing rhythm
　　straight away. He leans over, releases my hands, and pulls
　　me upright so I am practically sitting on him. His hands
　　move up to my breasts, and he palms them both, tugging
　　gently on my nipples. I groan, tossing my head back
　　against his shoulder. He nuzzles my neck, biting down, as
　　he flexes his hips, deliciously slowly, filling me again and
　　again.
　　“Do you know how much you mean to me?” he
　　breathes against my ear.
　　“No,” I gasp.
　　He smiles against my neck, and his fingers curl around
　　my jaw and throat, holding me fast for a moment.
　　“Yes, you do. I’m not going to let you go.”
　　I groan as he picks up speed.
　　“You are mine, Anastasia.”
　　“Yes, yours,” I pant.
　　“I take care of what’s mine,” he hisses and bites my
　　ear.
　　I cry out.
　　“That’s right, baby, I want to hear you.” He snakes
　　one hand around my waist while his other hand grasps my
　　hip, and he pushes into me harder, making me cry out
　　again. And the punishing rhythm starts. His breathing
　　grows harsher and harsher, ragged, matching mine. I feel
　　the familiar quickening deep inside. Jeez again!
　　I am just sensation. This is what he does to me—takes
　　my body and possesses it wholly so that I think of nothing
　　but him. His magic is powerful, intoxicating. I’m a butterfly
　　caught in his net, unable and unwilling to escape. I’m
　　his . . . totally his.
　　“Come on, baby,” he growls through gritted teeth and
　　on cue, like the sorcerer’s apprentice I am, I let go, and
　　we find our release together.
　　I am lying curled up in his arms on sticky sheets. His front
　　is pressed to my back, his nose in my hair.
　　“What I feel for you frightens me,” I whisper.
　　He stills. “Me too, baby,” he says quietly.
　　“What if you leave me?” The thought is horrific.
　　“I’m not going anywhere. I don’t think I could ever
　　have my fill of you, Anastasia.”
　　I turn and gaze at him. His expression is serious,
　　sincere. I lean over and kiss him gently. He smiles and
　　reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ear.
　　“I’ve never felt the way I felt when you left, Anastasia.
　　I would move heaven and earth to avoid feeling like that
　　again.” He sounds so sad, dazed even.
　　I kiss him again. I want to lighten our mood somehow,
　　but Christian does it for me.
　　“Will you come with me to my father’s summer party
　　tomorrow? It’s an annual charity thing. I said I’d go.”
　　I smile, feeling suddenly shy.
　　“Of course I’ll come.” Oh shit. I have nothing to wear.
　　“What?”
　　“Nothing.”
　　“Tell me,” he insists.
　　“Tell me,” he insists.
　　“I have nothing to wear.”
　　Christian looks momentarily uncomfortable.
　　“Don’t be mad, but I still have all those clothes for you
　　at home. I am sure there are a couple of dresses in there.”
　　I purse my lips. “Do you, now?” I mutter, my voice
　　sardonic. I don’t want to fight with him tonight. I need a
　　shower.
　　The girl who looks like me is standing outside SIP. Hang
　　on—she is me. I am pale and unwashed, and all my
　　clothes are too big; I’m staring at her, and she’s wearing
　　my clothes—happy, healthy.
　　“What do you have that I don’t?” I ask her.
　　“Who are you?”
　　“I’m nobody . . . Who are you? Are you nobody,
　　too . . . ?”
　　“Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell, they’d banish us,
　　you know . . .” She smiles, a slow, evil grimace that
　　you know . . .” She smiles, a slow, evil grimace that
　　spreads across her face, and it’s so chilling that I start to
　　scream.
　　“Jesus, Ana!” Christian is shaking me awake.
　　I am so disorientated. I’m at home . . . in the
　　dark . . . in bed with Christian. I shake my head, trying
　　to clear my mind.
　　“Baby, are you okay? You were having a bad dream.”
　　“Oh.”
　　He switches on the lamp so we’re bathed in its dim
　　light. He gazes down at me, his face etched with concern.
　　“The girl,” I whisper.
　　“What is it? What girl?” he asks soothingly.
　　“There was a girl outside SIP when I left this evening.
　　She looked like me . . . but not really.”
　　Christian stills, and as the light from the bedside lamp
　　warms up, I see his face is ashen.
　　“When was this?” he whispers, dismayed. He sits up,
　　staring down at me.
　　“When I left this afternoon. Do you know who she is?”
　　“Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair.
　　“Who?”
　　His mouth presses into a hard line, but he says nothing.
　　“Who?” I press.
　　“It’s Leila.”
　　I swallow. The ex-sub! I remember Christian talking
　　about her before we went gliding. Suddenly, he’s radiating
　　tension. Something is going on.
　　“The girl who put ‘Toxic’ on your iPod?”
　　He glances at me anxiously.
　　“Yes,” he says. “Did she say anything?”
　　“She said, ‘what do you have that I don’t have?’ and
　　when I asked who she was, she said, ‘nobody.’ ”
　　Christian closes his eyes as if in pain. Oh no. What’s
　　happened? What does she mean to him?
　　My scalp prickles as adrenaline spikes through my
　　body. What if she means a lot to him? Perhaps he
　　misses her? I know so little about his past . . . um,
　　misses her? I know so little about his past . . . um,
　　relationships. She must have had a contract, and she
　　would have done what he wanted, given him what he
　　needed gladly.
　　Oh no—when I can’t. The thought makes me
　　nauseous.
　　Climbing out of bed, Christian drags on his jeans and
　　heads into the main room. A glance at my alarm clock
　　shows it’s five in the morning. I roll out of bed, putting his
　　white shirt on, and follow him.
　　Holy shit, he’s on the phone.
　　“Yes, outside SIP, yesterday . . . early evening,” he
　　says quietly. He turns to me as I move toward the kitchen
　　and asks me directly, “What time exactly?”
　　“About ten to six?” I mumble. Who on earth is he
　　calling at this hour? What’s Leila done? He relays the
　　information to whoever’s on the line, not taking his eyes off
　　me, his expression dark and earnest.
　　“Find out how . . . Yes . . . I wouldn’t have said so,
　　but then I wouldn’t have thought she could do this.” He
　　but then I wouldn’t have thought she could do this.” He
　　closes his eyes as if he’s in pain. “I don’t know how that
　　will go down . . . Yes, I’ll talk to her . . . Yes . . . I
　　know . . . Follow it up and let me know. Just find her,
　　Welch—she’s in trouble. Find her.” He hangs up.
　　“Do you want some tea?” I ask. Tea, Ray’s answer to
　　every crisis and the only thing he does well in the kitchen. I
　　fill the kettle with water.
　　“Actually, I’d like to go back to bed.” His look tells
　　me that it’s not to sleep.
　　“Well, I need some tea. Would you like to join me for
　　a cup?” I want to know what’s going on. I will not be
　　sidetracked by sex.
　　He runs his hand through his hair in exasperation. “Yes,
　　please,” he says, but I can tell he’s irritated.
　　I put the kettle on the stove and busy myself with
　　teacups and the teapot. My anxiety level has shot to
　　DEFCON ONE. Is he going to tell me the problem? Or am I
　　going to have to dig?
　　I sense his eyes on me—sense his uncertainty, and his
　　I sense his eyes on me—sense his uncertainty, and his
　　anger is palpable. I glance up, and his eyes glitter with
　　apprehension.
　　“What is it?” I ask softly.
　　He shakes his head.
　　“You’re not going to tell me?”
　　He sighs and closes his eyes. “No.”
　　“Why?”
　　“Because it shouldn’t concern you. I don’t want you
　　tangled up in this.”
　　“It shouldn’t concern me, but it does. She found me
　　and accosted me outside my office. How does she know
　　about me? How does she know where I work? I think I
　　have a right to know what’s going on.”
　　He runs a hand through his hair again, radiating
　　frustration as if waging some internal battle.
　　“Please?” I ask softly.
　　His mouth sets into a hard line, and he rolls his eyes at
　　me.
　　“Okay,” he says, resigned. “I have no idea how she
　　found you. Maybe the photograph of us in Portland, I
　　don’t know.” He sighs again, and I sense his frustration is
　　directed at himself.
　　I wait patiently, pouring boiling water into the teapot as
　　he paces back and forth. After a beat he continues.
　　“While I was with you in Georgia, Leila turned up at
　　my apartment unannounced and made a scene in front of
　　Gail.”
　　“Gail?”
　　“Mrs. Jones.”
　　“What do you mean, ‘made a scene’?”
　　He glares at me, appraising.
　　“Tell me. You’re keeping something back.” My tone is
　　more forceful than I feel.
　　He blinks at me, surprised. “Ana, I—” he stops.
　　“Please?”
　　He sighs in defeat. “She made a haphazard attempt to
　　open a vein.”
　　“Oh no!” That explains the bandage on her wrist.
　　“Gail got her to hospital. But Leila discharged herself
　　“Gail got her to hospital. But Leila discharged herself
　　before I could get there.”
　　Crap. What does this mean? Suicidal? Why?
　　“The shrink who saw her called it a typical cry for help.
　　He didn’t believe her to be truly at risk—one step from
　　suicidal ideation, he called it. But I’m not convinced. I’ve
　　been trying to track her down since then to get her some
　　help.”
　　“Did she say anything to Mrs. Jones?”
　　He gazes at me. He looks really uncomfortable.
　　“Not much,” he says eventually, but I know he’s not
　　telling me everything.
　　I distract myself with pouring tea into teacups. So Leila
　　wants back into Christian’s life and chooses a suicide
　　attempt to attract his attention? Whoa . . . scary. But
　　effective. Christian left Georgia to be at her side, but she
　　disappears before he gets there? How odd.
　　“You can’t find her? What about her family?”
　　“They don’t know where she is. Neither does her
　　husband.”
　　husband.”
　　“Husband?”
　　“Yes,” he says distractedly, “she’s been married for
　　about two years.”
　　What? “So she was with you while she was married?”
　　Holy fuck. He really has no boundaries.
　　“No! Good God, no. She was with me nearly three
　　years ago. Then she left and married this guy shortly
　　afterward.”