Grey (37 page)

“Christian, stop teasing,” Grace chastises me in her usual manner.

“Mom.” I give her a quick peck. Thank you for inviting Ana. It's been a revelation.

Ana says good-bye to my dad, and we head to the Audi, where Taylor waits, holding the rear passenger door open for her.

“Well, it seems my family likes you, too,” I observe when I've joined Ana in the back. Her eyes reflect the light from my parents' porch, but I can't tell what she's thinking. Shadows shroud her face as Taylor drives smoothly out onto the road.

I catch her staring at me under the flicker of a street lamp. She's anxious. Something's wrong.

“What?” I ask.

She is quiet at first, and when she speaks there's an emptiness in her voice. “I think that you felt trapped into bringing me to meet your parents. If Elliot hadn't asked Kate, you'd never have asked me.”

Damn.
She doesn't understand. It was a first for me. I was nervous. Surely she knows by now that if I didn't want her here, she wouldn't be here. As we pass from light to shadow under the street lamps, she looks distant and upset.

Grey, this will not do.

“Anastasia, I'm delighted that you've met my parents. Why are you so filled with self-doubt? It never ceases to amaze me. You're such a strong, self-contained young woman, but you have such negative thoughts about yourself. If I hadn't wanted you to meet them, you wouldn't be here. Is that how you were feeling the whole time you were there?” I shake my head, reach for her hand, and give it another reassuring squeeze.

She glances nervously at Taylor.

“Don't worry about Taylor. Talk to me.”

“Yes. I thought that,” she says quietly. “And another thing, I only mentioned Georgia because Kate was talking about Barbados. I haven't made up my mind.”

“Do you want to go and see your mother?”

“Yes.”

My anxiety surfaces. Does she want out? If she goes to Georgia, her mother might persuade her to find someone more…suitable, someone who, like her mother, believes in romance.

I have an idea. She's met my folks; I've met Ray; perhaps I should meet her mother, the incurable romantic. Charm her.

“Can I come with you?” I ask, knowing that she'll say no.

“Um, I don't think that's a good idea,” she answers, surprised by my question.

“Why not?”

“I was hoping for a break from all this…intensity. To try to think things through.”

Shit. She does want to leave me.

“I'm too intense?”

She laughs. “That's putting it mildly!”

Damn, I love making her laugh, even if it is at my expense; and I'm relieved she's kept her sense of humor. Perhaps she doesn't want to leave me after all. “Are you laughing at me, Miss Steele?” I tease.

“I wouldn't dare, Mr. Grey.”

“I think you dare, and I think you do laugh at me, frequently.”

“You are quite funny.”

“Funny?”

“Oh yes.”

She's making fun of me. It's novel. “Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?”

“Oh, a lot of one and some of the other.”

“Which way more?”

“I'll leave you to figure that out.”

I sigh. “I'm not sure if I can figure anything out around you.” My tone is dry. “What do you need to think about in Georgia?”

“Us.”

Fuck.
“You said you'd try,” I gently remind her.

“I know.”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“Possibly.”

It's worse than I feared. “Why?”

She stares at me in silence. “Why, Anastasia?” I persist. She shrugs, her mouth turned down, and I hope she'll find her hand in mine reassuring. “Talk to me. I don't want to lose you. This last week—”

Has been the best in my life.

“I still want more,” she breathes.

Oh no, not this again. What does she need me to say?

“I know. I'll try.” I clasp her chin. “For you, Anastasia, I will try.”

I've just taken you to meet my parents, for heaven's sake.

Suddenly she unbuckles her seatbelt, and before I know it she's scrambled into my lap.

What the hell?

I sit immobile as her arms slip around my head, and her lips find mine, and coax a kiss from me before the darkness has a chance to stir. My hands slide up her back until I'm cradling her head and returning her passion, exploring her sweet, sweet mouth, trying to find answers…Her unexpected affection is utterly disarming. And new. And confusing. I thought she wanted to leave, and now she's in my lap and turning me on, again.

I've never…never…
Don't go, Ana.

“Stay with me tonight. If you go away, I won't see you all week. Please,” I whisper.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “And I'll try, too. I'll sign your contract.”

Oh, baby.

“Sign after Georgia. Think about it. Think about it hard.” I want her to do this willingly—I don't want to force this on her. Well, part of me doesn't. The rational part.

“I will,” she says, and nestles against me.

This woman has me tied up in knots.

Ironic, Grey.

And I want to laugh because I'm relieved and happy, but I hold her, breathing in her redolent and comforting scent.

“You really should wear your seatbelt,” I scold, but I don't want her to move. She stays wrapped in my embrace, her body slowly
relaxing against mine. The darkness inside me is quiet, contained, and I'm confused by my warring emotions. What do I want out of her? What do I need out of her?

This is not how we should be progressing, but I like her in my arms; I like cradling her like this. I kiss her hair, and lean back and enjoy the ride into Seattle.

Taylor stops outside the entrance to Escala. “We're home,” I whisper to Ana. I'm reluctant to release her, but I lift her onto her seat. Taylor opens her door and she joins me at the entrance to the building.

A shiver runs through her.

“Why don't you have a jacket?” I ask as I slip mine off and drape it over her shoulders.

“It's in my new car,” she says, yawning.

“Tired, Miss Steele?”

“Yes, Mr. Grey. I've been prevailed upon in ways I never thought possible today.”

“Well, if you're really unlucky, I may prevail upon you some more.”
If I get lucky.

She leans against the wall of the elevator as we travel up to the penthouse. Under my jacket she looks slim and small and sexy. If she wasn't wearing her underwear I could take her in here… I reach up and free her lip from her teeth. “One day I will fuck you in this elevator, Anastasia, but right now you're tired—so I think we should stick to a bed.” I bend down and gently take her bottom lip in my teeth. Her breath catches and she returns the gesture with her teeth and my upper lip.

I feel it in my groin.

I want to take her to bed and lose myself in her. After our conversation in the car I just want to be sure she's mine. When we exit the elevator I offer her a drink, but she declines.

“Good. Let's go to bed.”

She looks surprised. “You're going to settle for plain old vanilla?”

“Nothing plain or old about vanilla. It's a very intriguing flavor.”

“Since when?”

“Since last Saturday. Why? Were you hoping for something more exotic?”

“Oh no. I've had enough exotic for one day.”

“Sure? We cater for all tastes here—at least thirty-one flavors.” I give her a lascivious look.

“I've noticed.” She raises one fine eyebrow.

“Come on, Miss Steele, you have a big day tomorrow. Sooner you're in bed, sooner you'll be fucked, and sooner you can sleep.”

“Mr. Grey, you are a born romantic.”

“Miss Steele, you have a smart mouth. I may have to subdue it some way. Come.”

Yeah. I can think of one way.

Closing the door of my bedroom, I feel lighter than I did in the car. She's still here. “Hands in the air,” I order, and she does as she's told. I grip the hem of her dress and in one smooth move pull it up and over her body to reveal the beautiful woman beneath.

“Ta-da!” I'm a magician. Ana giggles and gives me a round of applause. I bow, enjoying the game, before placing her dress on my chair.

“And for your next trick?” she asks, eyes glittering.

“Oh, my dear Miss Steele. Get into my bed, and I'll show you.”

“Do you think that for once I should play hard to get?” she teases, tilting her head to one side so her hair tumbles over her shoulder.

A new game. This is interesting.

“Well, the door's closed. Not sure how you're going to avoid me. I think it's a done deal.”

“But I'm a good negotiator,” she says, her voice soft but determined.

“So am I.”

Okay, what's going on here? Is she reluctant? Too tired? What? “Don't you want to fuck?” I ask, confused.

“No,” she whispers.

“Oh.” Well, that's disappointing.

She swallows, then says in a small voice, “I want you to make love to me.”

I stare at her, bemused.

What exactly does she mean?

Make love? We do. We have. It's just another term for fucking.

She studies me, her expression grave.
Hell.
Is this her idea of more? All the hearts-and-flowers shit, is that what she means? But we're just talking semantics, surely? This is semantics. “Ana, I—” What does she want from me? “I thought we did.”

“I want to touch you.”

Fuck.
No. I step back as the darkness closes around my ribs.

“Please,” she whispers.

No.
No.
Haven't I made it clear?

I can't bear to be touched. I can't.

Ever.

“Oh no, Miss Steele, you've had enough concessions from me this evening. And I'm saying no.”

“No?” she queries.

“No.”

And for a moment I want to send her home, or upstairs—anywhere away from me. Not here.

Don't touch me.

She's watching me warily and I think about the fact that she's leaving tomorrow and I won't see her for a while. I sigh. I don't have the energy for this. “Look, you're tired, I'm tired. Let's just go to bed.”

“So touching is a hard limit for you?”

“Yes. This is old news.” I can't keep the exasperation out of my voice.

“Please tell me why.”

I don't want to go there. This is not a conversation I want to have. Ever. “Oh, Anastasia, please. Just drop it for now.”

Her face falls. “It's important to me,” she says, a hesitant plea in her voice.

“Fuck this,” I mutter to myself. At the chest of drawers I pull out a T-shirt and throw it to her. “Put that on and get into bed.” Why am I even letting her sleep with me? But it's a rhetorical
question: deep down I know the answer. It's because I sleep better with her.

She's my dream catcher.

She keeps my nightmares at bay.

She turns away from me and removes her bra, then slips on the T-shirt.

What did I say to her in the playroom this afternoon? She shouldn't hide her body from me.

“I need the bathroom,” she says.

“Now you're asking permission?”

“Er…no.”

“Anastasia, you know where the bathroom is. Today, at this point in our strange arrangement, you don't need my permission to use it.” I unbutton my shirt and slip it off, and she dashes past me out of the bedroom as I try to contain my temper.

What's gotten into her?

One evening at my parents' and she's expecting serenades and sunsets and fucking walks in the rain. That's not what I'm about. I've told her this. I don't do romance. I sigh heavily as I remove my pants.

But she wants more. She wants all that romantic shit.

Fuck.

In my closet I throw my pants into the laundry basket and pull on my PJ bottoms, and then wander back into my bedroom.

This isn't going to work, Grey.

But I want it to work.

You should let her go.

No.
I can make this work. Somehow.

The radio alarm reads 11:46. Time for bed. I check my phone for any urgent e-mails. There's nothing. I give the bathroom door a brisk knock.

“Come in,” Ana garbles. She's brushing her teeth, literally foaming at the mouth—with my toothbrush. She spits into the sink as I stand beside her, and we stare at each other in the mirror. Her eyes are bright with mischief and humor. She rinses off the toothbrush
and without a word hands it to me. I put it in my mouth and she looks pleased with herself.

And just like that, all the tension from our previous exchange evaporates.

“Do feel free to borrow my toothbrush,” I say sardonically.

“Thank you, Sir.” She beams, and for a moment I think she's going to curtsey, but she leaves me to brush my teeth.

When I reenter the bedroom she's stretched out under the covers. She should be stretched out under me. “You know this is not how I saw tonight panning out.” I sound sullen.

“Imagine if I said to you that you couldn't touch me,” she says, as argumentative as ever.

She's not going to let this go. I sit down on the bed. “Anastasia, I've told you. Fifty shades. I had a rough start in life—you don't want that shit in your head. Why would you?”

No one should have this shit in their head!

“Because I want to know you better.”

“You know me well enough.”

“How can you say that?” She sits up and kneels facing me, earnest and eager.

Ana. Ana. Ana. Let it go. For fuck's sake.

“You're rolling your eyes,” she says. “Last time I did that, I ended up over your knee.”