Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (91 page)

“I’d love that. We can christen the bedroom again and again.”

He leans forward and kisses me under my ear. “Hmm … I look forward to it, Anastasia,” he whispers, making every single hair follicle on my body stand to attention.

How does he do that?

“Come, the apartment is clean. We can go back.”

“What about our things at the hotel?”

“Taylor has collected them already.”

Oh! When?

“Earlier today, after he did a sweep of
The Grace
with his team.” Christian answers my unspoken question.

“Does that poor man ever sleep?”

“He sleeps.” Christian quirks an eyebrow at me, puzzled. “He’s just doing his job, Anastasia, which he’s very good at. Jason is a real find.”

“Jason?”

“Jason Taylor.”

I thought Taylor was his first name. Jason. It suits him—solid, reliable. For some reason it makes me smile.

“You’re fond of Taylor,” Christian says, eyeing me with speculation.

“I suppose I am.” His question derails me. He frowns. “I’m not attracted to him, if that’s why you’re frowning. Stop.”

Christian is almost pouting—sulky.

Jeez, he’s such a child sometimes
. “I think Taylor looks after you very well. That’s why I like him. He seems kind, reliable, and loyal. He has an avuncular appeal to me.”

“Avuncular?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, avuncular.” Christian is testing the word and meaning. I laugh.

“Oh, Christian, grow up, for heaven’s sake.”

His mouth drops open, surprised by my outburst, but then he frowns as if considering my statement. “I’m trying,” he says eventually.

“That you are. Very.” I answer softly but then roll my eyes at him.

“What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at me, Anastasia.” He grins.

I smirk at him. “Well, if you behave yourself, maybe we can relive some of those memories.”

His mouth twists with humor. “Behave myself?” He raises his eyebrows. “Really, Miss Steele—what makes you think I want to relive them?”

“Probably the way your eyes lit up like Christmas when I said that.”

“You know me so well already,” he says dryly.

“I’d like to know you better.”

He smiles softly. “And I you, Anastasia.”

“THANKS, MAC.” CHRISTIAN SHAKES
McConnell’s hand and steps on the dock.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Grey, and good-bye. Ana, great to meet you.”

I shake his hand shyly. He must know what Christian and I were up to on the boat while he went ashore.

“Good day, Mac, and thank you.”

He grins at me and winks, making me flush. Christian takes my hand, and we walk up the dock to the marina’s promenade.

“Where’s Mac from?” I ask, curious about his accent.

“Ireland … Northern Ireland,” Christian corrects himself.

“Is he your friend?”

“Mac? He works for me. Helped build
The Grace
.”

“Do you have many friends?”

He frowns. “Not really. Doing what I do … I don’t cultivate friendships. There’s only—” He stops, his frown deepening, and I know he was going to mention Mrs. Robinson.

“Hungry?” he asks, trying to change the subject.

I nod. Actually, I’m famished.

“We’ll eat where I left the car. Come.”

NEXT TO SP’S IS
a small Italian bistro called Bee’s. It reminds me of the place in Portland—a few tables and booths, the decor very crisp and modern, with a large black-and-white photograph of a turn-of-the-century fiesta serving as a mural.

Christian and I are seated in a booth, poring over the menu and sipping a delicious light Frascati. When I glance up from the menu, having made my choice, Christian is gazing at me speculatively.

“What?” I ask.

“You look lovely, Anastasia. The outdoors agrees with you.”

I flush. “I feel rather windburned, to tell the truth. But I had a lovely afternoon. A perfect afternoon. Thank you.”

He smiles, his eyes warm. “My pleasure,” he murmurs.

“Can I ask you something?” I decide on a fact-finding mission.

“Anything, Anastasia. You know that.” He cocks his head to one side, looking delicious.

“You don’t seem to have many friends. Why is that?”

He shrugs and frowns. “I told you, I don’t really have time. I have business associates—though that’s very different from friendships, I suppose. I have my family and that’s it. Apart from Elena.”

I ignore the mention of the bitch-troll. “No male friends your own age that you can go out with and let off steam?”

“You know how I like to let off steam, Anastasia.” Christian’s mouth twists. “And I’ve been working, building up the business.” He looks puzzled. “That’s all I do—except sail and fly occasionally.”

“Not even in college?”

“Not really.”

“Just Elena, then?”

He nods, his expression wary.

“Must be lonely.”

His lips curl in a small wistful smile. “What would you like to eat?” he asks, changing the subject again.

“I’m going for the risotto.”

“Good choice.” Christian summons the waiter, putting an end to that conversation.

After we’ve placed our order, I shift uncomfortably in my seat, staring at my knotted fingers. If he’s in a talking mood, I need to take advantage.

I have to talk to him about his expectations, about his, um … needs.

“Anastasia, what’s wrong? Tell me.”

I glance up into his concerned face.

“Tell me,” he says more forcefully, and his concern evolves into what? Fear? Anger?

I take a deep breath. “I’m just worried that this isn’t enough for you. You know, to let off steam.”

His jaw tenses and his eyes harden. “Have I given you any indication that this isn’t enough?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think that?”

“I know what you’re like. What you … um … need,” I stutter.

He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with long fingers.

“What do I have to do?” His voice is ominously soft, as if he’s angry, and my heart sinks.

“No, you misunderstand—you have been amazing, and I know it’s just been a few days, but I hope I’m not forcing you to be someone you’re not.”

“I’m still me, Anastasia—in all my fifty shades of fucked-upness. Yes, I have to fight the urge to be controlling … but that’s my nature, how I’ve dealt with my life. Yes, I expect you to
behave a certain way, and when you don’t it’s both challenging and refreshing. We still do what I like to do. You let me spank you after your outrageous bid yesterday.” He smiles fondly at the memory. “I enjoy punishing you. I don’t think the urge will ever go … but I’m trying, and it’s not as hard as I thought it would be.”

I squirm and flush, remembering our illicit tryst in his childhood bedroom. “I didn’t mind that,” I whisper, smiling shyly.

“I know.” His lips curl in a reluctant smile. “Neither did I. But let me tell you, Anastasia, this is all new to me and these last few days have been the best in my life. I don’t want to change anything.”

Oh!

“They’ve been the best in my life, too, without exception,” I murmur and his smile broadens. My inner goddess nods frantically in agreement—and nudges me hard.
Okay, okay
.

“So, you don’t want to take me into your playroom?”

He swallows and pales, all trace of humor gone. “No, I don’t.”

“Why not?” I whisper. This is not the answer I expected.

And yes, there it is—that little pinch of disappointment. My inner goddess stomps off pouting, her arms crossed like an angry toddler’s.

“The last time we were in there you left me,” he says quietly. “I will shy away from anything that could make you leave me again. I was devastated when you left. I explained that. I never want to feel like that again. I’ve told you how I feel about you.” His gray eyes are wide and intense with his sincerity.

“But it hardly seems fair. It can’t be very relaxing for you—to be constantly concerned about how I feel. You’ve made all these changes for me, and I … I think I should reciprocate in some way. I don’t know—maybe … try … some role-playing games,” I stutter, my face as crimson as the walls of the playroom.

Why is this so hard to talk about? I have done all manner of kinky fuckery with this man, things I hadn’t even heard of a few weeks ago, things that I would never have thought possible, yet the hardest of all is talking to him.

“Ana, you do reciprocate, more than you know. Please, please don’t feel like this.”

Gone is carefree Christian. His eyes are wider now with alarm, and it’s gut-wrenching. “Baby, it’s only been one weekend,” he continues. “Give us some time. I thought a great deal about us last week when you left. We need time. You need to trust me, and I you. Maybe in time we can indulge, but I like how you are now. I like seeing you this happy, this relaxed and carefree, knowing that I had something to do with it. I have never—” He stops and runs his hand through his hair. “We have to walk before we can run.” Suddenly he smirks.

“What’s so funny?”

“Flynn. He says that all the time. I never thought I’d be quoting him.”

“A Flynnism.”

Christian laughs. “Exactly.”

The waiter arrives with our starters and bruschetta, and our conversation changes tack as Christian relaxes.

But when the unreasonably large plates are placed before us, I can’t help think how I have thought of Christian today—relaxed, happy, and carefree. At least he’s laughing now, at ease again.

I breathe an inward sigh of relief as he starts quizzing me about places I’ve been. This is a short discussion, since I have never been anywhere except the continental United States. Christian, on the other hand, has traveled the world. We slip into an easier, happier conversation, talking about all the places he’s visited.

AFTER OUR TASTY AND
filling meal, Christian drives back to Escala, with Eva Cassidy’s gentle sweet voice singing over the speakers. It allows me a peaceful interlude in which to think. I have had a mind-blowing day: Dr. Greene; our shower; Christian’s admission; making love at the hotel and on the boat; buying the car. Even Christian himself has been so different. It’s as if he’s letting go of something or rediscovering something—I don’t know which.

Who knew he could be so sweet? Did he?

When I glance at him, he, too, looks lost in thought. It strikes me then that he never really had an adolescence—a normal one, anyway. I shake my head.

My mind drifts back to the ball and dancing with Dr. Flynn and Christian’s fear that Flynn had told me all about him. Christian is still hiding something from me. How can we move on if he feels that way?

He thinks I might leave if I know him. He thinks that I might leave if he’s himself.
Oh, this man is so complicated
.

As we get closer to his home, he starts radiating tension until it becomes palpable. He scans the sidewalks and side alleys, his eyes darting everywhere, and I know he’s looking for Leila. I start looking, too. Every young brunette is a suspect, but we don’t see her.

When he pulls into the garage, his mouth is set in a tense, grim line. I wonder why we’ve come back here if he’s going to be so wary and uptight. Sawyer is in the garage, patrolling. The defiled Audi is gone. He comes to open my door as Christian pulls in beside the SUV.

“Hello, Sawyer,” I murmur my greeting.

“Miss Steele.” He nods. “Mr. Grey.”

“No sign?” Christian asks.

“No, sir.”

Christian nods, grasps my hand, and heads for the elevator. I know his brain is working overtime—he’s distracted. Once we’re inside he turns to me.

“You are not allowed out of here alone. You understand?” he snaps.

“Okay.”
Jeez—keep your hair on
. But his attitude makes me smile. I want to hug myself—this man, all domineering and short with me, I know. I marvel that I would have found it so threatening only a week or so ago when he spoke to me this way. But now I understand him so much better. This is his coping mechanism. He’s stressed about Leila, he loves me, and he wants to protect me.

“What’s so funny?” he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his expression.

“You are.”

“Me? Miss Steele? Why am I funny?” he pouts.

Christian pouting is … hot.

“Don’t pout.”

“Why?” He’s even more amused.

“Because it has the same effect on me as I have on you when I do this.” I bite my lip deliberately.

He raises his eyebrows, surprised and pleased at the same time. “Really?” He pouts again and leans down to give me a swift chaste kiss.

I raise my lips to meet his, and in the nanosecond when our lips touch, the nature of the kiss changes—wildfire spreading through my veins from this intimate point of contact, driving me to him.

Suddenly, my fingers are curling in his hair as he grabs me and pushes me against the elevator wall, his hands framing my face, holding me to his lips as our tongues thrash against each other. And I don’t know if it’s the confines of the elevator making everything much more real, but I feel his need, his anxiety, his passion.

Holy shit
. I want him, here, now.

The elevator pings to a halt, the doors slide open, and Christian drags his face from mine, his hips still pinning me to the wall, his erection digging into me.

“Whoa,” he murmurs panting.

“Whoa,” I mirror him, dragging a welcome breath into my lungs.

He gazes at me, eyes blazing. “What you do to me, Ana.” He traces my lower lip with his thumb.

Out of the corner of my eye, Taylor steps backward so he’s no longer in my line of sight. I reach up and kiss Christian at the corner of his beautifully sculptured mouth.

“What you do to me, Christian.”

He steps back and takes my hand, his eyes darker now, hooded. “Come,” he orders.

Taylor is still in the foyer, waiting discreetly for us.

“Good evening, Taylor,” Christian says cordially.

“Mr. Grey, Miss Steele.”

“I was Mrs. Taylor yesterday.” I grin at Taylor, who flushes.

“That has a nice ring to it, Miss Steele,” Taylor says matter-of-factly.

“I thought so, too.”