I groan in response, undone.
With one hand, I hold her at the nape of her neck as we kiss. My free hand travels down her body, and I reacquaint myself with her curves: her breast, her waist, her ass, her thigh. She moans as my fingers find the hem of her dress and start tugging it higher. My goal is to pull it up, fuck her here. Make her mine, again.
The feel of her.
It’s intoxicating, and I want her like I’ve never wanted her before.
In the distance and through the fog of my lust, I hear a police siren wail.
No! No! Grey!
Not like this. Get a grip.
I pull back, gazing down at her, and I’m panting and mad as hell.
“You. Are. Mine!” I growl, and push myself away from her, as my reason returns. “For the love of God, Ana.” I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath and calm my raging body. I’m painfully hard for her right now.
Has anyone ever affected me like this? Ever?
Christ! I nearly fucked her in a back alley.
This is jealousy. This is what it feels like: my insides gutted and raw, my self-control absent. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.
“I’m sorry,” she says, hoarse.
“You should be. I know what you’re doing. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you.”
“No.” Her voice is soft and breathless. “He’s just a friend.” At least she sounds contrite, and it goes some way toward pacifying me.
“I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you…you bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It’s very…” Words fail me. I cannot find the vocabulary to describe how I feel. I’m out of control and at a loss. “Unsettling” is the best I can manage. “I like control, Ana, and around you, that just”—I stand and look down at her—“evaporates.”
Her eyes are wide with carnal promise, and her hair is mussed and sexy, falling to her breasts. I rub the back of my neck, thankful that I’ve recovered some semblance of self-control.
See how I am around you, Ana. See?
I run my hand through my hair, taking deep, thought-clearing breaths. I grab her hand. “Come, we need to talk.” Before I fuck you. “And you need to eat.”
There’s a restaurant close to the alley. It’s not what I would have chosen for a reunion, if that’s what this is, but it will suffice. I don’t have long, as Taylor will be arriving soon.
I open the door for her. “This place will have to do. We don’t have much time.” The restaurant looks like it caters to the gallery crowd, and maybe students. It’s ironic that the walls are painted the same color as my playroom, but I don’t dwell on the thought.
An obsequious waiter leads us to a secluded table; he’s all smiles for Anastasia. I glance at the chalkboard menu on the wall and decide to order before the waiter retreats, letting him know we’re tight for time. “So we’ll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever the chef has—and bring me the wine list.”
“Certainly, sir,” he says, and rushes off.
Ana purses her lips, annoyed.
What now?
“And if I don’t like steak?”
“Don’t start, Anastasia.”
“I am not a child, Christian.”
“Well, stop acting like one.”
“I’m a child because I don’t like steak?” She doesn’t hide her petulance.
No!
“For deliberately making me jealous. It’s a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend’s feelings, leading him on like that?”
Her cheeks pink and she examines her hands.
Yes. You should be embarrassed. You’re confusing him. Even I can see that.
Is that what she’s doing to me? Leading me on?
In the time we’ve been apart, maybe she’s finally recognized that she has power. Power over me.
The waiter returns with the wine list, giving me a chance to regain my cool. The selection is average: only one drinkable wine on the menu. I glance at Anastasia, who looks like she’s sulking. I know that look. Perhaps she wanted to select her own meal. And I can’t resist toying with her, aware that she has little knowledge of wine. “Would you like to choose the wine?” I ask and I know I sound sarcastic.
“You choose.” She presses her lips together.
Yeah. Don’t play games with me, baby.
“Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please,” I say to the waiter, who’s hovering.
“Er, we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir.”
“A bottle, then.” You stupid prick.
“Sir.” He retreats.
“You’re very grumpy,” she says, no doubt feeling sorry for the waiter.
“I wonder why that is?” I keep my expression neutral, but even to my own ears I’m now sounding childish.
“Well, it’s good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn’t you say?” She gives me a saccharine smile.
Oh, tit for tat, Miss Steele. She’s called me out again and I have to admire her nerve. I realize our bickering will get us nowhere.
And I’m being an ass.
Don’t blow this deal, Grey.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because she’s right.
“Apology accepted. And I’m pleased to inform you I haven’t decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate.”
“Since that was the last time you ate, I think that’s a moot point.”
“There’s that word again, ‘moot.’?”
“Moot,” I mouth. That word, indeed. I remember I last used it while discussing our arrangement on Saturday morning. The day my world fell apart.
Fuck. Don’t think about that. Man up, Grey. Tell her what you want.
“Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I’m a little nervous. I’ve told you I want you back, and you’ve said…nothing.” She bites her lip as the color drains from her face.
Oh no.
“I’ve missed you…really missed you, Christian,” she says, quietly. “The past few days have been…difficult.”
Difficult is an understatement.
She swallows and takes a steadying breath. This doesn’t sound good. Perhaps my behavior over the last hour has finally driven her away. I tense. Where’s she going with this?
“Nothing’s changed. I can’t be what you want me to be.” Her expression is bleak.
No. No. No.
“You are what I want you to be.” You are everything I want you to be.
“No, Christian, I’m not.”
Oh, baby, please believe me. “You’re upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you—so did you. Why didn’t you safe-word, Anastasia?”
She looks surprised, as if this isn’t something she’s considered.
“Answer me,” I urge.
This has haunted me. Why didn’t you safe-word, Ana?
She wilts in her seat. Sad. Defeated.
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
What?
WHAT?
I’m rendered speechless. I’ve been in hell because she didn’t safe-word. But before I recover, words tumble from her mouth. Soft, quiet, as if she’s in a confessional, as if she’s ashamed. “I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind.” Her look is raw, her shrug small and apologetic. “You know…I forgot.”