Chapter Eight
　　Gia Matteo is a good-looking woman—a tall, good-looking woman. She
　　wears her short, salon-blond, perfectly layered and coiffed hair like a
　　sophisticated crown. She’s dressed in a pale gray pantsuit; the slacks and
　　fitted jacket hug her lush curves. Her clothes look expensive. At the base of
　　her throat, a solitary diamond glints, matching the singlecarat studs in her
　　ears. She is well groomed—one of those women who grew up with money
　　and breeding, though her breeding seems to be lacking this evening; her
　　pale blue blouse is undone too far. Like mine. I flush.
　　“Christian. Ana.” She beams, showing perfect white teeth, and holds out a
　　manicured hand to shake first Christian’s, then my hand. It means I have to
　　release Christian’s hand to reciprocate. She’s a fraction shorter than
　　Christian, but then she’s in killer heels.
　　“Gia,” Christian says politely. I smile coolly.
　　“You both look so well after your honeymoon,” she says smoothly, her brown
　　eyes gazing at Christian through long mascaraed lashes. Christian puts his
　　arm around me, holding me close.
　　“We had a wonderful time, thank you.” He brushes his lips against my temple,
　　taking me by surprise.
　　See . . . he’s mine. Annoying—infuriating, even—but mine. I grin up at him.
　　Right now I really love you, Christian Grey. I slip my hand around his waist
　　then into his rear pocket of his pants and squeeze his behind. Gia gives us a
　　thin smile.
　　“Have you managed to look over the plans?”
　　“We have,” I murmur. I gaze up at Christian, who grins down at me, one
　　eyebrow raised in wry amusement. Amused at what? My reaction to Gia or
　　me squeezing his butt?
　　“Please,” Christian says. “The plans are here.” He gestures toward the dining
　　table. Taking my hand, he leads me to it, Gia following in our wake. I finally
　　remember my manners.
　　“Would you like something to drink?” I ask. “A glass of wine?”
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　　“That would be lovely,” Gia says. “Dry white if you have it.”
　　Shit! Sauvignon blanc—that’s a dry white, isn’t it? Reluctantly leaving my
　　husband’s side, I head over to the kitchen. I hear the iPod hiss as Christian
　　switches off the music.
　　“Would you like some more wine, Christian?” I call.
　　“Please, baby,” he croons, grinning at me. Wow, he can be so swoonworthy
　　at times yet so aggravating at others.
　　Reaching up to open the cupboard, I’m aware his eyes are on me, and I’m
　　gripped by the uncanny feeling that Christian and I are putting on a show,
　　playing a game together—but this time we’re on the same side pitted
　　against Ms. Matteo. Does he know? Does he know that she’s attracted to
　　him and is being too obvious about it? It gives me a small rush of pleasure
　　when I realize maybe he’s trying to reassure me. Or maybe he’s just sending
　　a message loud and clear to this woman that he’s taken.
　　Mine. Yeah, bitch—mine. My inner goddess is wearing her gladiatrix outfit,
　　and she’s taking no prisoners. Smiling to myself I collect three glasses from
　　the cupboard, take the opened bottle of sauvignon blanc from the fridge, and
　　place them all on the breakfast bar. Gia is leaning over the table while
　　Christian stands beside her and points at something on the plans.
　　“I think Ana has some opinions on the glass wall, but generally we’re both
　　pleased with the ideas you’ve come up with.”
　　“Oh, I’m glad,” Gia gushes, obviously relieved, and as she says it she
　　reaches out to briefly touch his arm in a small, flirty gesture. Christian
　　immediately stiffens subtly . She doesn’t even seem to notice.
　　Leave him the fuck alone, lady. He doesn’t like to be touched. Stepping
　　casually aside so he’s out of her reach, Christian turns to me. “Thirsty here,”
　　he says.
　　“Coming right up.” He is playing the game. She makes him uncomfortable.
　　Why didn’t I see that before? That’s why I don’t like her. He’s used to how
　　women react to him. I’ve seen it often enough, and usually he thinks nothing
　　of it. Touching is something else. Well, Mrs. Grey to the rescue.
　　I hastily pour the wine, gather all three glasses in my hands and hurry back to
　　my knight in distress. Offering a glass to Gia, I deliberately position myself
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　　she accepts it. I hand the second to Christian, who takes it eagerly, his
　　expression one of amused gratitude.
　　“Cheers,” Christian says to us both, but looking at me. Gia and I raise our
　　glasses and answer in unison. I take a welcome sip of wine.
　　“Ana, you have some issues with the glass wall?” Gia asks.
　　“Yes. I love it—don’t get me wrong. But I was hoping that we could
　　incorporate it more sympathetically into the house. After all, I fell in love with
　　the house as it was, and I don’t want to make any radical changes.”
　　“I see.”
　　“I just want it to be more sympathetic. More in keeping with the original
　　house.” I glance up at Christian, who is gazing at me thoughtfully.
　　“No major renovations?” he murmurs.
　　“No.” I shake my head to emphasize my point.
　　“You like it as it is?”
　　“Mostly, yes. I always knew it just needed some TLC.”
　　Christian’s eyes glow warmly.
　　Gia glances at the pair of us, and her cheeks pink. “Okay,” she says.
　　“I think I get where you’re coming from, Ana. How about if we retain the glass
　　wall, but have it open out onto a larger deck that’s in keeping with the
　　Mediterranean style. We have the stone terrace there already. We can put in
　　pillars in matching stone, widely spaced so you’ll still have the view. Add a
　　glass roof, or tile it as per the rest of the house. It’ll also make a sheltered al
　　fresco dining and seated area.”
　　Got to give the woman her due . . . she’s good.
　　“Or instead of the deck, we could incorporate a wood color of your choice
　　into the glass doors—that might help to keep the Mediterranean spirit,” she
　　continues.
　　“Like the bright blue shutters in the South of France,” I murmur to Christian,
　　who is watching me intently. He takes a sip of wine and shrugs, very
　　noncommittal. Hmm. He doesn’t like that idea but he doesn’t overrule me,
　　shout me down or make me feel stupid. God, this man is a mass of
　　contradictions. His words from yesterday come to mind: “I want this house to
　　be the way you want. Whatever you want. It’s yours.” He wants me to be
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　　down I think I know this. It’s just—I stop myself. Don’t think about our
　　argument now. My subconscious glares at me. Gia is looking at Christian,
　　waiting for him to make the decision. I watch as her pupils dilate and her
　　glossed lips part. Her tongue darts quickly over her top lip before she takes a
　　sip of her wine. When I turn to Christian, he’s still looking at me—not at her at
　　all. Yes! My inner goddess fist pumps the air. I am going to have words with
　　Ms. Matteo.
　　“Ana, what do you want to do?” Christian murmurs, very clearly deferring to
　　me.
　　“I like the deck idea.”
　　“Me, too.”
　　I turn back to Gia. Hey, lady, look at me, not him. I’m the one making the
　　decisions on this. “I think I’d like to see revised drawings showing the bigger
　　deck and pillars that are in keeping with the house.”
　　Reluctantly, Gia drags her greedy eyes away from my husband and smiles
　　down at me. Does she think I’m not going to notice?
　　“Sure,” she acquiesces pleasantly. “Any other issues?”
　　Other than you eye-fucking my husband? “Christian wants to remodel the
　　master suite,” I murmur.
　　There’s a discreet cough from the entrance to the great room. We three turn
　　as one to find Taylor standing there.
　　“Taylor?” Christian asks.
　　“I need to confer with you on an urgent matter, Mr. Grey.”
　　Christian clasps my shoulders from behind and addresses Gia.
　　“Mrs. Grey is in charge of this project. She has absolute carte blanche.
　　Whatever she wants, it’s hers. I completely trust her instincts—she’s very
　　shrewd.” His voice alters subtly. In it I hear pride and a veiled warning—a
　　warning to Gia?
　　He trusts my instincts? Oh, this man’s exasperating. My instincts let him run
　　roughshod over my feelings this afternoon. I shake my head in frustration but
　　I’m grateful that he’s telling Miss Provocative-AndUnfortunately-Good-At-Her-
　　Job just who’s in charge. Reaching up, I caress his hand as it rests on my
　　shoulder.
　　“If you’ll excuse me.” Christian squeezes my shoulders before following
　　Taylor. I wonder idly what’s going on.
　　“So—the master suite?” Gia asks nervously.
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　　I gaze up at her, pausing for a moment to ensure that Christian and Taylor
　　are out of earshot. Then calling on all my inner strength and the fact that I’ve
　　been seriously piqued for the last five hours, I let her have it.
　　“You’re right to be nervous, Gia, because right now your work on this project
　　hangs in the balance. But I’m sure we’ll be fine as long as you keep your
　　hands off my husband.”
　　She gasps.
　　“Otherwise, you’re fired. Understand?” I enunciate each word clearly.
　　She blinks rapidly, utterly stunned. She cannot believe what I’ve said . I
　　cannot believe what I’ve just said. But I hold my ground, gazing impassively
　　into her widening brown eyes.
　　Don’t back down. Don’t back down! I’ve learned this maddening impassive
　　expression from Christian who does impassive like no one else. I know that
　　renovating the Greys’ main residence is a prestigious project for Gia’s
　　architectural firm—a resplendent feather in her cap. She can’t lose this
　　commission. And right now I don’t give a hoot that she’s Elliot’s friend.
　　“Ana—Mrs. Grey—I—I’m so sorry. I never—” She flushes, unsure what else
　　she can say.
　　“Let me be clear. My husband is not interested in you.”
　　“Of course,” she murmurs, the blood draining from her face.
　　“As I said, I just wanted to be clear.”
　　“Mrs. Grey, I sincerely apologize if you think . . . I have—” She stops, still
　　floundering for something to say.
　　“Good. As long as we understand each other, we’ll be fine. Now, I’ll let you
　　know what we have in mind for the master suite, then I’d like a run down on all
　　the materials you intend to use. As you know, Christian and I are determined
　　that this house should be ecologically sustainable, and I’d like to reassure
　　him as to where all the materials are coming from and what they are.”
　　“Of course,” she stutters, wide-eyed and frankly a little intimidated by me.
　　This is a first. My inner goddess runs around the arena, waving to the
　　frenzied crowd.
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　　“The master suite?” she prompts anxiously, her voice a breathless whisper.
　　Now that I have the upper hand, I feel myself relax for the first time since my
　　meeting with Christian this afternoon. I can do this. My inner goddess is
　　celebrating her inner bitch.
　　Christian joins us just as we are finishing up.
　　“All done?” he asks. He puts his arm around my waist and turns to Gia.
　　“Yes, Mr. Grey,” Gia smiles brightly, though her smile looks brittle.
　　“I’ll have the revised plans to you in a couple of days.”
　　“Excellent. You’re happy?” he asks me directly, his eyes warm and probing. I
　　nod and blush for some reason that I don’t understand.
　　“I’d better be going,” Gia says again too brightly. She offers her hand to me
　　first this time, then to Christian.
　　“Until next time, Gia,” I murmur.
　　“Yes, Mrs. Grey. Mr. Grey.”
　　Taylor appears at the entrance of the great room.
　　“Taylor will see you out.” My voice is loud enough for him to hear. Patting her
　　hair once more, she turns on her high heels and leaves the great room,
　　followed closely by Taylor.
　　“She was noticeably cooler,” Christian says, looking quizzically at me.
　　“Was she? I didn’t notice.” I shrug, trying to remain neutral. “What did Taylor
　　want?” I ask partly because I’m curious and partly because I want to change
　　the subject.
　　Frowning, Christian releases me and begins to roll up the plans on the table.
　　“It was about Hyde.”
　　“What about Hyde?” I whisper.
　　“It’s nothing to worry about, Ana.” Abandoning the plans, Christian draws me
　　into his arms. “It turns out he hasn’t been in his apartment for weeks, that’s
　　all.” He kisses my hair, then releases me and finishes his task.
　　Oh.
　　“So what did you decide on?” he asks, and I know it’s because he doesn’t
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　　“Only what you and I discussed. I think she likes you,” I say quietly.
　　He snorts. “Did you say something to her?” he asks and I flush. How does he
　　know? At a loss what to say, I stare down at my fingers.
　　“We were Christian and Ana when she arrived, and Mr. and Mrs. Grey when
　　she left.” His tone is dry.
　　“I may have said something,” I mumble. When I peek up at him he’s
　　regarding me warmly, and for an unguarded moment he looks . . . pleased.
　　He drops his gaze, shaking his head, and his expression changes.
　　“She’s only reacting to this face.” He sounds vaguely bitter, disgusted even.
　　Oh Fifty, no!
　　“What?” He’s bemused by my perplexed expression. His eyes grow wide in
　　alarm. “You’re not jealous, are you?” he asks, horrified. I flush and swallow,
　　then stare down at my knotted fingers. Am I?
　　“Ana, she’s a sexual predator. Not my type at all. How can you be jealous of
　　her? Of anyone? Nothing about her interests me.” When I glance up, he’s
　　gaping at me as if I’ve grown an additional limb. He runs a hand through his
　　hair. “It’s only you, Ana,” he says quietly. “It will only ever be you.”
　　Oh my. Abandoning the plans once more, Christian moves toward me and

　　clasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger.
　　“How can you think otherwise? Have I ever given you any indication that I
　　could be remotely interested in anyone else?” His eyes blaze as he stares
　　into mine.
　　“No,” I whisper. “I’m being silly. It’s just today . . . you . . .” All my conflicting
　　emotions from earlier resurfaces. How can I tell him how confused I am? I’ve
　　been confounded and frustrated by his behavior this afternoon in my office.
　　One minute he wants me to stay at home, the next he’s gifting me a
　　company. How am I supposed to keep up?
　　“What about me?”
　　“Oh, Christian”—my bottom lip trembles—“I’m trying to adapt to this new life
　　that I had never imagined for myself. Everything is being handed to me on a
　　plate—the job, you, my beautiful husband, who I never . . . I never knew I’d
　　love this way, this hard, this fast, this . . . indelibly.” I take a deep steadying
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　　“But you’re like a freight train, and I don’t want to get railroaded because the
　　girl you fell in love with will be crushed. And what’ll be left? All that would be
　　left is a vacuous social x-ray, flitting from charity function to charity function.” I
　　pause once more, struggling to find the words to convey how I feel. “And now
　　you want me to be a company CEO, which has never even been on my
　　radar. I’m bouncing between all these ideas, struggling. You want me at
　　home. You want me to run a company. It’s so confusing.” I stop, tears
　　threatening, and I force back a sob.
　　“You’ve got to let me make my own decisions, take my own risks, and make
　　my own mistakes, and let me learn from them. I need to walk before I can run,
　　Christian, don’t you see. I want some independence. That’s what my name
　　means to me.” There, that’s what I wanted to say this afternoon.
　　“You feel railroaded?” he whispers.
　　I nod.
　　He closes his eyes and runs his hand through his hair in agitation. “I just want
　　to give you the world, Ana, everything and anything you want. And save you
　　from it, too. Keep you safe. But I also want everyone to know you’re mine. I
　　panicked today when I got your email. Why didn’t you tell me about your
　　name?”
　　I flush. He has a point.
　　“I only thought about it while we were on our honeymoon, and well, I didn’t
　　want to burst the bubble, and I forgot about it. I only remembered yesterday
　　evening. And then Jack . . . you know, it was distracting. I’m sorry, I should
　　have told you or discussed it with you, but I could never seem to find the right
　　time.”
　　Christian’s intense gaze is unnerving. It’s as if he’s trying to will his way into
　　my skull, but he says nothing.
　　“Why did you panic?” I ask.
　　“I just don’t want you to slip through my fingers.”
　　“For heaven’s sake, I’m not going anywhere. When are you going to get that
　　through your incredibly thick skull? I. Love. You.” I wave my 154 | P a g e
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　　hand in the air like he does sometimes to emphasize my point. “More than . .
　　. eyesight, space, or liberty.”1
　　His eyes widen. “A daughter’s love?” He gives me an ironic smile.
　　“No,” I laugh, despite myself. “It’s the only quote that came to mind.”
　　“Mad King Lear?”
　　“Dear, dear Mad King Lear.” I reach up and caress his face, and he leans
　　into my touch, closing his eyes. “Would you change your name to Christian
　　Steele so everyone would know that you belong to me?”
　　Christian’s eyes fly open, and he gazes at me as if I’ve just said the world is
　　flat. He frowns. “Belong to you?” he murmurs, testing the words.
　　“Mine.”
　　“Yours,” he says, repeating the words we spoke in the playroom only
　　yesterday. “Yes, I would. If it meant that much to you.”
　　Oh my.
　　“Does it mean that much to you?”
　　“Yes.” He is unequivocal.
　　“Okay.” I will do this for him. Give him the reassurance he still needs.
　　“I thought you’d already agreed to this.”
　　“Yes I have, but now we’ve discussed it further, I’m happier with my decision.”
　　“Oh,” he mutters, surprised. Then he smiles his beautiful, boyish yes-I-amreally-
　　kinda-young smile, and he takes my breath away. Grabbing me by my
　　waist, he swings me around. I squeal and start to giggle, and I don’t know if
　　he’s just happy or relieved or . . . what?
　　“Mrs. Grey, do you know what this means to me?”
　　“I do now.”
　　He leans down and kisses me, his fingers moving into my hair, holding me in
　　place.
　　“It means seven shades of Sunday,” he murmurs against my lips, and he runs
　　his nose along mine.
　　“You think?” I lean back to gaze at him.
　　1 Craig, W.J., ed. “King Lear.” The Complete Works of William
　　Shakespeare. Scene 1, Act 1. New York: Random House Value Publishing:
　　1997. 155 | P a g e
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　　“Certain promises were made. An offer extended, a deal brokered,”
　　he whispers, his eyes sparkling with wicked delight.
　　“Um . . .” I am still reeling, trying to follow his mood.
　　“You reneging on me?” he asks uncertainly, and a speculative look crosses
　　his face. “I have an idea,” he adds.
　　Oh, what kinky fuckery is this?
　　“A really important matter to attend to,” he continues, suddenly all serious
　　once more. “Yes, Mrs. Grey. A matter of the gravest importance.”
　　Hang on—he’s laughing at me.
　　“What?” I breathe.
　　“I need you to cut my hair. Apparently it’s overlong, and my wife doesn’t like
　　it.”
　　“I can’t cut your hair!”
　　“Yes you can.” Christian grins and shakes his head so his overlong hair
　　covers his eyes.
　　“Well, if Mrs. Jones has a pudding bowl.” I giggle. He laughs. “Okay, good
　　point well made. I’ll get Franco to do it.”
　　What? No! Franco works for her? Maybe I could give him a trim. After all, I
　　cut Ray’s hair for years, and he never complained.
　　“Come.” I grab his hand. His eyes widen. I lead him all the way to our
　　bathroom where I release him and grab the white wooden chair that stands in
　　the corner. I place it in front of the sink. When I look at Christian, he’s gazing
　　at me with ill-disguised amusement, thumbs tucked in the front belt loops of
　　his pants but his eyes are smoking hot.
　　“Sit.” I gesture to the empty chair, trying to maintain the upper hand.
　　“Are you going to wash my hair?”
　　I nod. He arches one brow in surprise, and for a moment I think he’s going to
　　back down. “Okay.” Slowly he begins to undo each button of his white shirt,
　　starting with the one beneath his throat. Nimble, deft fingers move to each
　　button in turn until his shirt hangs open. Oh my . . . My inner goddess pauses
　　in her celebratory jaunt around the arena.
　　Christian holds out a cuff with an “undo this now” gesture, and his mouth
　　twitches in that challenging, sexy way he has. 156 | P a g e
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　　Oh, cufflinks. I take his proffered wrist and remove the first one, a platinum
　　disc with his initials engraved in a simple italic script—and then remove its
　　matching twin. As I finish I glance at him, and his amused expression is
　　gone, replaced by something hotter . . . much hotter. I reach up and push his
　　shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
　　“Ready?” I whisper.
　　“For whatever you want, Ana.”
　　My eyes stray from his eyes to his lips. Parted so that he can inhale more
　　deeply. Sculptured, chiseled, whatever, it is a beautiful mouth and he knows
　　exactly what to do with it. I find myself leaning up to kiss him.
　　“No,” he says and places both of his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t. If you do
　　that, I’ll never get my hair cut.”
　　Oh!
　　“I want this,” he continues. And his eyes are round and raw for some
　　inexplicable reason. It’s disarming.
　　“Why?” I whisper.
　　He stares at me for a beat, and his eyes grow wider. “Because it’ll make me
　　feel cherished.”
　　My heart practically lurches to a halt. Oh, Christian . . . my Fifty. And before I
　　know it I’ve circled him in my arms, and I kiss his chest before nuzzling my
　　cheek into his tickly chest hair.
　　“Ana. My Ana,” he whispers. He wraps his arms around me and we stand
　　immobile, holding each other in our bathroom. Oh, how I love to be in his
　　arms. Even if he is an overbearing, megalomaniac arse, he’s my
　　overbearing megalomaniac arse in need of a lifetime dose of TLC. I lean
　　back without releasing him.
　　“You really want me to do this?”
　　He nods and gives me his shy smile. I grin back at him and step out of his
　　embrace.
　　“Then sit,” I repeat.
　　He dutifully does, sitting with his back to the sink. I take off my shoes and kick
　　them over to where his shirt lies crumpled on the bathroom floor. From the
　　shower I retrieve his shampoo: Chanel. We bought it in France.
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　　“Would sir like this?” I hold it up in both hands like I’m selling it on QVC.
　　“Hand-delivered from the South of France. I like the smell of this . . . it smells
　　of you,” I add in a whisper, slipping out of my television presenter mode.
　　“Please.” He grins.
　　I grab a small towel off the towel warmer. Mrs. Jones sure knows how to
　　keep the towels super-soft.
　　“Lean forward,” I order and Christian complies. Draping the towel around his
　　shoulders, I then turn on the taps and fill the sink with a mix of warm water.
　　“Lean back.” Oh, I like being in charge. Christian leans back, but he’s too tall.
　　He shifts the seat forward then tilts back the entire chair until the top rests
　　against the sink. Perfect distance. He tips back his head. Bold eyes gaze up
　　at me, and I smile down at him. Taking one of the drinking glasses we keep
　　on the vanity, I dip it into the water and tip it over Christian’s head, soaking
　　his hair. I repeat the process, leaning over him.
　　“You smell so good, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and closes his eyes. As I
　　methodically wet his hair, I freely gaze at him. Holy cow. Will I ever tire of
　　this? Long dark lashes fan across his cheeks; his lips part a little, creating a
　　small, dark diamond shape, and he inhales softly. Hmm . . . how I long to
　　poke my tongue—
　　I splash water into his eyes. Shit! “Sorry!”
　　He grabs the corner of the towel and laughs as he wipes the water out of his
　　eyes.
　　“Hey, I know I’m an arse, but don’t drown me.”
　　I lean down and kiss his forehead, giggling. “Don’t tempt me.”
　　Reaching up, he curls his hand behind my head and shifts so that he
　　captures my lips with his. He kisses me briefly, making a low contented
　　sound in his throat. The noise connects to the muscles deep in my belly. It’s a
　　very seductive sound. He releases me and lies back obediently, gazing up at
　　me with expectation. For a moment he looks vulnerable, like a child. It tugs at
　　my heart.
　　I squirt some shampoo into my palm and massage it into his scalp,
　　beginning at his temples and working over the top of his head and down the
　　sides, circling my fingers rhythmically. He closes his eyes again and makes
　　that low humming sound again.
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　　“That feels good,” he says after a moment and relaxes beneath the firm touch
　　of my fingers.
　　“Yes it does.” I kiss his forehead once more.
　　“I like it when you scratch my scalp with your fingernails.” His eyes are still
　　closed but his expression one of blissful contentment—no trace of his
　　vulnerability remains. Jeez, how much his expression has changed, and I
　　take comfort knowing it’s me that’s done this.
　　“Head up,” I command and he obeys. Hmmm—a girl could get used to this. I
　　rub the suds into the back of his hair, scraping my nails into his scalp.
　　“Back.”
　　He leans back, and I rinse off the lather, using the glass. This time I manage
　　not to splash him.
　　“Once more?” I ask.
　　“Please.” His eyes flutter open and his serene gaze finds mine. I grin down at
　　him.
　　“Coming right up, Mr. Grey.”
　　I turn to the sink that Christian normally uses and fill it with warm water.
　　“For rinsing,” I say when his look turns quizzical. I repeat the process with the
　　shampoo, listening to his even deep breaths. Once he’s all lathered up, I take
　　another moment to appreciate the fine face of my husband. I cannot resist
　　him. Tenderly, I caress his cheek, and he opens his eyes, watching me
　　almost sleepily through his long lashes. Leaning forward I plant a soft, chaste
　　kiss on his lips. He smiles, closes his eyes, and breathes out a sigh of utter
　　contentment. Jeez. Who would have thought after our argument this afternoon
　　he could be this relaxed? Without sex? I lean right over him.
　　“Hmm,” he murmurs appreciatively as my breasts brush his face. Resisting
　　the urge to shimmy, I pull the plug so the sudsy water drains away. His hands
　　move to my hips and around to my behind.
　　“No fondling the help,” I murmur, feigning disapproval.
　　“Don’t forget I’m deaf,” he says, keeping his eyes closed, as he runs his
　　hands down past my behind and starts to hitch up my skirt. I swat his arm. I’m
　　enjoying playing hairdresser. He grins, big and boyish, like I’ve caught him
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　　I reach for the glass again, but this time use the water from the neighboring
　　sink to carefully rinse all the shampoo from his hair. I continue to lean over
　　him, and he keeps his hands on my backside, thrumming his fingers back
　　and forward, up and down . . . back and forth . . . hmm. I wiggle. He growls
　　low in his throat.
　　“There. All rinsed.”
　　“Good,” he declares. His fingers tighten on my behind, and all at once he sits
　　up, his soaked hair dripping all over him. He pulls me down onto his lap, his
　　hands moving from my behind up to the nape of my neck, then to my chin,
　　holding me in place. I gasp with surprise and his lips are on mine, his tongue
　　hot and hard in my mouth. My fingers curl around his wet hair, and drops of
　　water run down my arms; and as he deepens the kiss, his hair bathes my

　　face. His hand moves from my chin down to the top button of my blouse.
　　“Enough of this primping. I want to fuck you seven shades of Sunday, and we
　　can do it in here or in the bedroom. You decide.”
　　Christian’s eyes blaze into mine, hot and full of promise, his hair dripping
　　water onto us both. My mouth goes dry.
　　“What’s it to be, Anastasia?” he asks as he holds in his lap.
　　“You’re wet,” I respond.
　　He bends his head suddenly, running his dripping hair all down the front of
　　my blouse. I squeal and try to wriggle off him. He tightens his grip around me.
　　“Oh no you don’t, baby,” he murmurs. When he raises his head he’s grinning
　　salaciously at me, and I am Miss Wet Blouse 2011. My top is soaked and
　　totally see-through. I’m wet . . . everywhere.
　　“Love the view,” he murmurs and leans down to run his nose around and
　　around one wet nipple. I squirm.
　　“Answer me, Ana. Here or the bedroom?”
　　“Here,” I whisper frantically. To hell with the haircut—I’ll do it later. He smiles
　　slowly, his lips curling into a sensuous smile full of licentious promise.
　　“Good choice, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs against my lips. He releases my chin
　　and his hand moves to my knee. It glides smoothly up my leg, lifting my skirt
　　and skating over my skin, making me tingle. His lips trail soft kisses from the
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　　“Oh, what shall I do to you?” he whispers. His fingers halt at my stocking tops.
　　“I like these,” he says. He runs a finger underneath the top and skims it
　　around to my inner thigh. I gasp and squirm once more in his lap.
　　He groans, low in his throat. “If I’m going to fuck you seven shades of Sunday,
　　I want you to keep still.”
　　“Make me,” I challenge, my voice soft and breathy.
　　Christian inhales sharply. He narrows his eyes and regards me with a hot,
　　hooded expression.
　　“Oh, Mrs. Grey. You have only to ask.” His hand moves from my stocking tops
　　up to my panties. “Let’s pest you of these.” He tugs gently and I shift to help
　　him. His breath hisses through his teeth as I do.
　　“Keep still,” he grumbles.
　　“I’m helping,” I pout, and he seizes my lower lip gently between his teeth.
　　“Still,” he growls. He slides my panties down my legs and off. Tugging my
　　skirt up so that it’s bunched around my hips, he moves both hands to my
　　waist and lifts me. He still has my panties in his hand.
　　“Sit. Astride me,” he orders staring intently into my eyes. I shift, straddling
　　him, and regard him provocatively. Bring it on, Fifty!
　　“Mrs. Grey,” he warns “Are you goading me?” He gazes at me, amused but
　　aroused. It’s a seductive combination.
　　“Yes. What are you going to do about it?”
　　His eyes light up with salacious delight at my challenge, and I feel his arousal
　　beneath me. “Clasp your hands together behind your back.”
　　Oh! I comply obediently and, deftly, he binds my wrists together with my
　　panties. He fastens them tight.
　　“My panties? Mr. Grey, you have no shame,” I admonish.
　　“Not where you’re concerned, Mrs. Grey, but you know that.” His look is
　　intense and hot. Putting his hands around my waist, he shifts me so I am
　　sitting a little further back on his lap. Water still drips down his neck and over
　　his chest. I want to bend forward and lick the drips off, but it’s trickier now that
　　I am restrained.
　　Christian caresses both of my thighs and skims his hands down to my knees.
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　　legs, holding me in that position. His fingers move to the buttons of my
　　blouse.
　　“I don’t think we need this,” he says. He starts methodically undoing each
　　button on my clinging wet blouse, his eyes never leaving mine. They get
　　darker and darker as he finishes the task, taking his own sweet time about it.
　　My pulse quickens and my breathing shallows. I can’t believe it—he’s hardly
　　touched me, and I feel like this—hot, bothered . . . ready. I want to squirm. He
　　leaves my damp blouse hanging open and using both hands, he caresses
　　my face with his fingers, his thumb skimming across my bottom lip.
　　Suddenly, he thrusts his thumb into my mouth.
　　“Suck,” he orders in a whisper, stressing the S. I close my mouth around him
　　and do exactly that. Oh . . . I like this game. He tastes good. What else would
　　I like to suck? The muscles in my belly clench at the thought. His lips part
　　when I scrape my teeth and bite the soft pad of his thumb.
　　He groans and slowly extracts his wet thumb from my mouth and trails it
　　down my chin, down my throat, over my sternum. He hooks it into the cup of
　　my bra and yanks the cup down, freeing my breast. Christian’s gaze never
　　leaves mine. He’s watching each reaction that his touch elicits from me, and
　　I’m watching him. It’s hot. Consuming. Possessive. I love it. He mirrors his
　　actions with his other hand so both my breasts are free and, cupping them
　　gently, he skims each thumb over a nipple, circling slowly, teasing and
　　taunting each one so that they harden and distend beneath his skillful touch. I
　　try, I really try not to move, but my nipples are hotwired to my groin, so I moan
　　and throw my head back, closing my eyes and surrendering to the sweet,
　　sweet torture.
　　“Shh.” Christian’s soothing voice is at odds with the teasing, eventempo
　　rhythm of his wicked fingers. “Still, baby, still.” Releasing one breast, he
　　reaches up behind me and splays his hand around the nape of my neck.
　　Leaning forward, he takes my now bereft nipple into his mouth and sucks
　　hard, his wet hair tickling me. At the same time, his thumb stops skimming
　　across my other elongated nipple. Instead, he takes it between his thumb
　　and forefinger and tugs and twists it gently. 162 | P a g e
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　　“Ah! Christian!” I groan and buck forward on his lap. But he doesn’t stop. He
　　continues the slow, leisurely, agonizing tease. And my body is burning as the
　　pleasure takes a darker turn.
　　“Christian, please,” I whimper.
　　“Hmm,” he hums low in his chest. “I want you to come like this.”
　　My nipple gets a brief respite as his words caress my skin, and it’s like he’s
　　calling to a deep, dark part of my psyche that only he knows. When he
　　resumes with his teeth this time, the pleasure is almost intolerable. Moaning
　　loudly, I writhe on his lap, trying to find some precious friction against his
　　pants. I pull uselessly against my restraining panties, itching to touch him, but
　　I’m lost—lost in this treacherous sensation.
　　“Please,” I whisper, pleading, and pleasure flies through my body, from my
　　neck, right down to my legs, to my toes, tightening all in its wake.
　　“You have such beautiful breasts, Ana.” He groans. “One day I’ll fuck them.”
　　What? Gah! What the hell does that mean? Opening my eyes, I gape down
　　at him as he suckles me, my skin singing under his touch. I no longer feel my
　　sodden blouse, his wet hair . . . nothing except the burn. And it burns
　　deliciously hot and low, deep inside me, and all thought evaporates as my
　　body tightens and clenches . . . ready, reaching . . . pining for release. And he
　　doesn’t stop—teasing, pulling, driving me wild. I want . . . I want . . .
　　“Let go,” he breathes—and I do, loudly, my orgasm convulsing through my
　　body, and he stops his sweet torture and wraps his arms around me,
　　clutching me to him as my body spirals down from my climax. When I open
　　my eyes, he is gazing down at me where I rest against his chest.
　　“God, I love to watch you come, Ana.” His voice is full of wonder.
　　“That was . . .” Words fail me.
　　“I know.” He leans forward and kisses me, his hand still at the nape of my
　　neck, holding me just so, angling my head so he can kiss me deeply—with
　　love, with reverence.
　　I am lost in his kiss.
　　He pulls away to draw breath, his eyes the color of a tropical storm.
　　“Now I’m going to fuck you, hard,” he murmurs.
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　　Holy cow. Grabbing me around the waist, he lifts me from his thighs down to
　　the edge of his knees and reaches with his right hand for the button on the
　　waistband of his navy pants. He runs the fingers of his left hand up and down
　　my thigh, stopping at my stocking tops each time. He’s watching me intently.
　　We’re face to face and I’m helpless, trussed up in my bra and by my panties,
　　and this has to be one of the most intimate times we’ve had—me sitting on
　　his lap, staring into his beautiful gray eyes. It makes me feel wanton, but also
　　so connected to him—I am not embarrassed or shy. This is Christian, my
　　husband, my lover, my overbearing megalomaniac, my Fifty—the love of my
　　life. He reaches for his zipper, and my mouth goes dry as his erection
　　springs free.
　　He smirks. “You like?” he whispers.
　　“Hmm,” I murmur appreciatively. He wraps his hand around himself and
　　moves it up and down . . . Oh my. I gaze up at him through my lashes. Fuck,
　　he’s so sexy.
　　“You’re biting your lip, Mrs. Grey.”
　　“That’s because I’m hungry.”
　　“Hungry?” His mouth opens in surprise, and his eyes widen a fraction.
　　“Hmm . . .” I agree and lick my lips.
　　He gives me his enigmatic smile and bites his lower lip as he continues to
　　stroke himself. Why is the sight of my husband pleasuring himself such a
　　turn-on?
　　“I see. You should have eaten your dinner.” His tone is mocking and
　　censorious at once. “But maybe I can oblige.” He puts his hands on my waist.
　　“Stand,” he says softly, and I know what he’s going to do. I get to my feet, my
　　legs no longer shaking.
　　“Kneel.”
　　I do as I’m told and kneel down on the cool tiled floor of the bathroom. He
　　slides forward on the seat of the chair.
　　“Kiss me,” he utters holding his erection. I glance up at him, and he runs his
　　tongue over his top teeth. It’s arousing, very arousing, to see his desire, his
　　naked desire for me and my mouth. Leaning forward, my eyes on his, I kiss
　　the tip of his erection. I watch him inhale sharply and clench his teeth.
　　Christian cups the side of my head, and I run my tongue over the tip, tasting
　　the small bead of dew on the end. Hmm . . . 164 | P a g e
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　　he tastes good. His mouth drops open further as he gasps and I pounce,
　　pulling him into my mouth and sucking hard.
　　“Ah—” The air hisses through his teeth, and he flexes his hips forward,
　　thrusting into my mouth. But I don’t stop. Sheathing my teeth behind my lips, I
　　push down and then pull up on him. He moves both hands so that he fully
　　cups my head, burying his fingers in my hair and slowly eases himself in and
　　out of my mouth, his breathing quickening, growing harsher. I twirl my tongue
　　around his tip and push down again in perfect counterpoint to him.
　　around his tip and push down again in perfect counterpoint to him.
　　“Jesus, Ana.” He sighs and screws his eyes tightly. He’s lost and it’s heady,
　　his response to me. Me. My inner goddess could light up Escala, she’s so
　　thrilled. And very slowly I draw my lips back, so it’s just my teeth.
　　“Ah!” Christian stops moving. Leaning forward he grabs me and pulls me up
　　onto his lap.
　　“Enough!” he growls. Reaching behind me, he frees my hands with one tug
　　on my panties. I flex my wrists and stare from under my lashes into scorching
　　eyes that gaze back at me with love and longing and lust. And I realize it’s
　　me that wants to fuck him seven shades of Sunday. I want him badly. I want to
　　watch him come apart beneath me. I grab his erection and scoot over him.
　　Placing my other hand on his shoulder, very gently and slowly, I ease myself
　　onto him. He makes a guttural, feral noise deep in his throat and, reaching
　　up, pulls my blouse off and lets it fall to the floor. His hands move to my hips.
　　“Still,” he rasps, his hands digging into my flesh. “Please, let me savor this.
　　Savor you.”
　　I stop. Oh my . . . he feels so good inside me. He caresses my face, his eyes
　　wide and wild, his lips parted as he breathes. He flexes beneath me and I
　　moan, closing my eyes.
　　“This is my favorite place,” he whispers. “Inside you. Inside my wife.”
　　Oh fuck. Christian. I cannot hold back. My fingers glide into his wet hair, my
　　lips seek his, and I start to move. Up and down on my toes, savoring him,
　　savoring me. He groans loudly, and his hands are in my hair and around my
　　back, and his tongue invades my mouth greedily, taking all that I willingly
　　give. After all our arguing today, my frustration with him, his with me—we still
　　have this. We will always 165 | P a g e
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　　have this. I love him so much, it’s almost overwhelming. His hands move to
　　my backside and he controls me, moving me up and down, again and again,
　　at his pace—his hot, slick tempo.
　　“Ah,” I groan helplessly into his mouth as I’m carried away.
　　“Yes. Yes, Ana,” he hisses, and I rain kisses on his face, his chin, his jaw, his
　　neck. “Baby,” he breathes, capturing my mouth once more.
　　“Oh, Christian, I love you. I will always love you.” I’m breathless, wanting him
　　to know, wanting him to be sure of me after our battle of wills today.
　　He moans loudly and wraps his arms around me tightly as he climaxes with a
　　mournful sob, and it’s enough—enough to push me over the brink once more.
　　I clutch my arms around his head and let go, and I come around him, tears
　　springing to my eyes because I love him so.
　　“Hey,” he whispers, tipping my chin back and gazing at me with quiet
　　concern. “Why are you crying? Did I hurt you?”
　　“No,” I mutter reassuringly. He smoothes my hair off my face, wipes away a
　　lone tear with this thumb and tenderly kisses my lips. He is still inside me. He
　　shifts, and I wince as he pulls out of me.
　　“What’s wrong, Ana? Tell me.”
　　I sniff. “It’s just . . . it’s just sometimes I’m overwhelmed by how much I love
　　you,” I whisper. He blinks down at me.
　　“Oh.” Then he smiles his special shy smile—reserved for me, I think. “You
　　have the same effect on me,” he whispers, and kisses me once more. I smile
　　up at him, and inside my joy unfurls and stretches lazily.
　　“Do I?”
　　He smirks. “You know you do.”

　　“Sometimes I know. Not all the time.”
　　“Back at you, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers.
　　I grin and gently place feather-light kisses over his chest. I nuzzle his chest
　　hair. Christian caresses my hair and runs a hand down my back. He
　　unclasps my bra and pulls the strap down one arm. I shift, and he tugs the
　　strap down the other arm and drops my bra on the floor.
　　“Hmm. Skin on skin,” he murmurs appreciatively and folds me in his arms
　　again. He kisses my shoulder and runs his nose up to my ear.
　　“You smell like heaven, Mrs. Grey.”
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　　“So do you, Mr. Grey.” I nuzzle him again and inhale his Christian smell,
　　which is now mixed with the heady scent of sex. I could stay wrapped in his
　　arms like this, sated and happy, forever. It’s just what I need after a full day of
　　back-to-work, arguing, and bitch slapping. This is where I want to be, and in
　　spite of his control freakery, his megalomania, this is where I belong.
　　Christian buries his nose in my hair and inhales deeply. I let out a contented
　　sigh, and I feel his smile. And we sit, arms clasped around each other,
　　saying nothing. Eventually reality intrudes.
　　“It’s late,” Christian says, his fingers methodically stroking my back.
　　“Your hair still needs cutting.”
　　He chuckles. “That it does, Mrs. Grey. Do you have the energy to finish the
　　job you started?”
　　“For you, Mr. Grey, anything.” I kiss his chest once more and reluctantly
　　stand.
　　“Don’t go.” Grabbing my hips, he turns me around. He straightens then
　　undoes my skirt, letting it drop to the floor. He holds his hand out to me. I take
　　it and step out of my skirt. Now I am dressed solely in stockings and garter
　　belt.
　　“You are a mighty fine sight, Mrs. Grey.” He sits back in the chair and
　　crosses his arms, giving me a full and frank appraisal. I hold out my hands
　　and twirl for him.
　　“God, I’m a lucky son of a bitch,” he says admiringly.
　　“Yes, you are.”
　　He grins. “Put my shirt on and you can cut my hair. Like this, you’ll distract
　　me, and we’ll never get to bed.”
　　I can’t help my answering smile. Knowing that he’s watching my every move, I
　　sashay over to where we left my shoes and his shirt. Bending slowly, I reach
　　down, pick up his shirt, smell it— hmm—then shrug it on.
　　Christian blinks at me, his eyes round. He’s redone his fly and is watching
　　me intently.
　　“That’s quite a floor show, Mrs. Grey.”
　　“Do we have any scissors?” I ask innocently, batting my eyelashes.
　　“My study,” he croaks.
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　　“I’ll go search.” Leaving him, I walk into our bedroom and grab my comb from
　　the dressing table before heading to his study. As I enter the main corridor, I
　　notice the door to Taylor’s office is open. Mrs. Jones is standing just beyond
　　the door. I stop, rooted to the spot. Taylor is running his fingers down her face
　　and smiling sweetly at her. Then he leans down and kisses her.
　　Holy shit! Taylor and Mrs. Jones? I gape in astonishment—I mean, I thought
　　. . . well, I kind of suspected. But obviously they are together!
　　I flush, feeling like a voyeur, and manage to get my feet to move. I scamper
　　across the great room and into Christian’s study. Switching on the light, I
　　walk to his desk. Taylor and Mrs. Jones . . . Wow! I’m reeling. I always
　　thought Mrs. Jones was older than Taylor. Oh, I have to get my head around
　　this. I open the top drawer and am immediately distracted when I find a gun.
　　Christian has a gun!
　　A revolver. Holy fuck! I had no idea Christian owned a gun. I take it out, slip
　　the release and check the cylinder. It’s fully loaded, but light . . . too light. It
　　must be carbon fiber. What does Christian want with a gun? Jeez, I hope he
　　knows how to use it. Ray’s perpetual warnings about handguns run quickly
　　through my mind. His army training was never lost. These will kill you, Ana.
　　You need to know what you’re doing when you’re handling a firearm. I put
　　the gun back and find the scissors. Retrieving them quickly, I bolt back to
　　Christian, my head buzzing. Taylor and Mrs. Jones . . . the revolver . . . At the
　　entrance to the great room, I run into Taylor.
　　“Mrs. Grey, excuse me.” His face reddens as he quickly takes in my attire.
　　“Um, Taylor, hi . . . um. I’m cutting Christian’s hair!” I blurt out, embarrassed.
　　Taylor is as mortified as I am. He opens his mouth to say something then
　　closes it quickly and stands aside.
　　“After you, ma’am,” he says formally. I think I’m the color of my old Audi, the
　　submissive special. Jeez. Could this be more embarrassing?
　　“Thank you,” I mutter and dash down the hallway. Crap! Will I ever get used to
　　the fact that we’re not alone? I dash into the bathroom, breathless.
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　　“What’s wrong?” Christian is standing in front of the mirror, holding my shoes.
　　All of my scattered clothes are now neatly piled beside the sink.
　　“I just ran into Taylor.”
　　“Oh.” Christian frowns. “Dressed like that.”
　　Oh shit! “That’s not Taylor’s fault.”
　　Christian’s frown deepens. “No. But still.”
　　“I’m dressed.”
　　“Barely.”
　　“I don’t know who was more embarrassed, me or him.” I try my distraction
　　technique. “Did you know he and Gail are . . . well, together?”
　　Christian laughs. “Yes, of course I knew.”
　　“And you never told me?”
　　“I thought you knew, too.”
　　“No.”
　　“Ana, they’re adults. They live under the same roof. Both unattached. Both
　　attractive.”
　　I flush, feeling foolish for not having noticed.
　　“Well, if you put it like that . . . I just thought Gail was older than Taylor.” “She
　　is, but not by much.” He gazes at me, perplexed. “Some men like older
　　women—” He stops abruptly and his eyes widen. I scowl at him. “I know that,”
　　I snap.
　　Christian looks contrite. He smiles fondly at me. Yes! My distraction
　　technique successful! My subconscious rolls her eyes at me—but at what
　　cost? Now the unmentionable Mrs. Robinson is looming over us.
　　“That reminds me,” he says, brightly.
　　“What?” I mutter petulantly. Grabbing the chair, I turn it to face the mirror
　　above the sinks. “Sit,” I order. Christian regards me with indulgent
　　amusement, but does as he’s told and sits back down in the chair. I start to
　　comb through his now merely damp hair.
　　“I was thinking we could convert the rooms over the garages for them at the
　　new place,” Christian continues. “Make it a home. Then maybe Taylor’s
　　daughter could stay with him more often.” He watches me carefully in the
　　mirror.
　　“Why doesn’t she stay here?”
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　　“Taylor’s never asked me.”
　　“Perhaps you should offer. But we’d have to behave ourselves.”
　　Christian’s brow furrows. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
　　“Perhaps that’s why Taylor hasn’t asked. Have you met her?”
　　“Yes. She’s a sweet thing. Shy. Very pretty. I pay for her schooling.”
　　Oh! I stop combing and stare at him in the mirror.
　　“I had no idea.”
　　He shrugs. “Seemed the least I could do. Also, it means he won’t quit.”
　　“I’m sure he likes working for you.”
　　Christian stares at me blankly then shrugs. “I don’t know.”
　　“I think he’s very fond of you, Christian.” I resume combing and glance at him.
　　His eyes don’t leave mine.
　　“You think?”
　　“Yes. I do.”
　　He snorts, a dismissive yet content sound, as if he’s secretly pleased that his
　　staff may like him.
　　“Good. Will you talk to Gia about the rooms over the garage?”
　　“Yes, of course.” I don’t feel the same irritation I did before at the mention of
　　her name. My subconscious nods sagely at me. Yes . . . we done good
　　today. My inner goddess gloats. Now she’ll leave my husband alone and not
　　make him uncomfortable.
　　I am ready to cut Christian’s hair. “You sure about this? Your last chance to
　　bail.”
　　“Do your worst, Mrs. Grey. I don’t have to look at me, you do.”
　　I grin. “Christian, I could look at you all day.”
　　He shakes his head exasperated. “It’s just a pretty face, baby.”
　　“And behind it is a very pretty man.” I kiss his temple. “My man.”
　　He grins shyly.
　　Lifting the first lock, I comb it upward and snare it between my index and
　　middle finger. I put the comb in my mouth, take the scissors and make the
　　first snip, cutting an inch off the length. Christian closes his eyes and sits like
　　a statue, sighing contentedly as I continue. Occasionally he opens his eyes,
　　and I catch him watching me intently. He doesn’t touch me while I work, and
　　I’m grateful. His touch is . . . distracting.
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　　Fifteen minutes later, I’m done.
　　“Finished.” I’m pleased with the result. He looks as hot as ever, his hair still
　　floppy and sexy . . . just a bit shorter. Christian gazes at himself in the mirror,
　　looking pleasantly surprised. He grins. “Great job, Mrs. Grey.” He turns his
　　head from side to side and snakes his arm around me. Pulling me to him, he
　　kisses and nuzzles my belly.
　　“Thank you,” he says.
　　“My pleasure.” I bend and kiss him briefly.
　　“It’s late. Bed.” He gives my behind a playful slap.
　　“Ah! I should clean up in here.” There is hair all over the floor. Christian
　　frowns, as if the thought would never have occurred to him. “Okay, I’ll get the
　　broom,” he says wryly. “I don’t want you embarrassing the staff with your lack
　　of appropriate attire.”
　　“Do you know where the broom is?” I ask innocently. This stops Christian in
　　his tracks. “Um . . . no.”
　　I laugh. “I’ll go.”
　　\As I climb into bed and wait for Christian to join me, I reflect on how
　　differently this day could have ended. I was so mad at him earlier, and he
　　with me. How am I going to deal with this running-a-company nonsense? I
　　have no desire to run my own company. I am not him. I need to head this off
　　at the pass. Perhaps I should have a safe word for when he’s being
　　overbearing and domineering . . . for when he’s being an arse. I giggle.
　　Perhaps the safe word should be arse. I find the thought very appealing.
　　“What?” he says as he climbs into bed beside me wearing only his pajama
　　pants.
　　“Nothing. Just an idea.”
　　“What idea?” he asks, stretching out beside me.
　　Here goes nothing. “Christian, I don’t think I want to run a company.”
　　He props himself up on his elbow and gazes down at me. “Why do you say
　　that?”
　　“Because it’s not something that has ever appealed to me.”
　　“You’re more than capable, Anastasia.”
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　　“I like to read books, Christian. Running a company will take me away from
　　that.”
　　“You could be the creative head.”
　　I frown.
　　“You see,” he continues, “running a successful company is all about
　　embracing the talent of the inpiduals you have at your disposal. If that’s
　　where your talents and your interests lie, then you structure the company to
　　enable that.”
　　What?
　　“Don’t dismiss it out of hand, Anastasia. You’re a very capable woman. I
　　think you could do anything you wanted if you put your mind to it.”
　　Whoa? How can he possibly know that I’d be any good at this?
　　“I’m also worried it will take up too much of my time.”
　　Christian frowns.
　　“Time I could devote to you.” I deploy my secret weapon. His gaze darkens. “I
　　know what you’re doing,” he murmurs, amused.
　　Damn it!
　　“What?” I feign innocence.
　　“You’re trying to distract me from the issue at hand. You always do that. Just
　　don’t dismiss the idea, Ana. Think about it. That’s all I ask.”
　　He leans down and kisses me chastely, then skims his thumb down my
　　cheek. This argument is going to run and run. I smile up at him—and
　　something he said earlier today pops unbidden into my mind.
　　“Can I ask you something?” My voice is soft, tentative.
　　“Of course.”
　　“Earlier today you said if I was angry with you, I should take it out on you in
　　bed. What did you mean?”
　　He stills. “What did you think I meant?”
　　Holy shit . . . I should just say it. “That you wanted me to tie you up.”
　　His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Um . . . no. That’s not what I meant at all.”
　　“Oh.” I’m surprised by my slight twinge of disappointment.
　　“You want to tie me up?” he asks, obviously reading my expression correctly.
　　He sounds shocked. I blush.
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　　“Well . . .”
　　“Ana, I . . .” he stops, and something dark crosses his face.
　　“Christian,” I whisper, alarmed. I move so that I am lying on my side, propped
　　up on my elbow like him. Reaching over, I caress his face. His eyes are large
　　and fearful. He shakes his head sadly. Shit!
　　“Christian, stop. It doesn’t matter. I thought that’s what you meant.”
　　He takes my hand and places it on his pounding heart. Fuck! What is it?
　　“Ana, I don’t know how I’d feel about you touching me if I was restrained.”
　　My scalp prickles. It’s like he’s confessing something deep and dark.
　　“This is still too new.” His voice is low and raw.
　　Fuck. It was just a question . . . and I realize that he’s come a long way, but he
　　still has a long way to go. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty. Anxiety grips my heart. I lean
　　over and he freezes, but I plant a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.
　　“Christian, I got the wrong idea. Please don’t worry about it. Please don’t
　　think about it.” I kiss him. He closes his eyes and groans and reciprocates,
　　pushing me down into the mattress, his hands clasping my chin. And soon
　　we’re lost . . . lost in each other again.
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