Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (76 page)

“What does that mean?”

He runs both hands through his hair and closes his eyes briefly, as if he’s seeking divine guidance of some kind. He swallows.

“You and I don’t have any rules. I have never had a relationship without rules, and I never know where you’re going to touch me. It makes me nervous. Your touch completely—” He stops, searching for the words. “It just means more … so much more.”

More?
His answer is completely unexpected, throwing me, and there’s that little word with the big meaning hanging between us again.

My touch means … more. How am I supposed to resist when he says this stuff? Gray eyes search mine, watching, apprehensive.

Tentatively I reach out and apprehension shifts to alarm. Christian steps back and I drop my hand.

“Hard limit,” he whispers, a pained, panicked look on his face.

I can’t help but feel a crushing disappointment. “How would you feel if you couldn’t touch me?”

“Devastated and deprived,” he says immediately.

Oh, my Fifty Shades
. Shaking my head, I offer him a small, reassuring smile and he relaxes.

“You’ll have to tell me exactly why this is a hard limit, one day, please.”

“One day,” he murmurs and seems to snap out of his vulnerability in a nanosecond.

How can he switch so quickly? He’s the most capricious person I know.

“So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy.” His mouth twists as he contemplates this. “Because I know your bank account number?”

“Yes, that’s outrageous.”

“I do background checks on all my submissives. I’ll show you.” He turns and heads for his study.

I dutifully follow him, dazed. From a locked filing cabinet, he pulls a manila folder. Typed on the tab:
ANASTASIA ROSE STEELE
.

Holy fucking shit. I glare at him.

He shrugs apologetically. “You can keep it,” he says quietly.

“Well, gee, thanks,” I snap. I flick through the contents. He has a copy of my birth certificate, for heaven’s sake, my hard limits, the non-disclosure agreement, the contract—
Jeez
—my Social Security number, résumé, employment records.

“So, you knew I worked at Clayton’s?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t a coincidence. You didn’t just drop by?”

“No.”

I don’t know whether to be angry or flattered.

“This is fucked-up. You know that?”

“I don’t see it that way. What I do, I have to be careful.”

“But this is private.”

“I don’t misuse the information. Anyone can get hold of it if they have half a mind to, Anastasia. To have control—I need
information. It’s how I’ve always operated.” He gazes at me, his expression guarded and unreadable.

“You do misuse the information. You deposited twenty-four thousand dollars that I didn’t want into my account.”

His mouth presses in a hard line. “I told you. That’s what Taylor managed to get for your car. Unbelievable, I know, but there you go.”

“But the Audi …”

“Anastasia, do you have any idea how much money I make?”

I flush. “Why should I? I don’t need to know the bottom line of your bank account, Christian.”

His eyes soften. “I know. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

I gaze at him, shocked.
Love about me?

“Anastasia, I earn roughly one hundred thousand dollars an hour.”

My mouth drops open. That is an obscene amount of money.

“Twenty-four thousand dollars is nothing. The car, the Tess books, the clothes, they’re nothing.” His voice is soft.

I gaze at him. He really has no idea. Extraordinary.

“If you were me, how would you feel about all this … largesse coming your way?” I ask.

He stares at me blankly, and there it is, his problem in a nutshell—empathy or the lack thereof. The silence stretches between us.

Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, and he looks genuinely bemused.

My heart swells. This is it, the crux of his Fifty Shades, surely. He can’t put himself in my shoes. Well, now I know.

“It doesn’t feel great. I mean, you’re very generous, but it makes me uncomfortable. I have told you this enough times.”

He sighs. “I want to give you the world, Anastasia.”

“I just want you, Christian. Not all the add-ons.”

“They’re part of the deal. Part of what I am.”

Oh, this is going nowhere.

“Shall we eat?” I ask. This tension between us is draining.

He frowns. “Sure.”

“I’ll cook.”

“Good. Otherwise, there’s food in the fridge.”

“Mrs. Jones is off on the weekends? So you eat cold cuts most weekends?”

“No.”

“Oh?”

He sighs. “My submissives cook, Anastasia.”

“Oh, of course.” I flush. How could I be so stupid? I smile sweetly at him. “What would Sir like to eat?”

“Whatever Madam can find,” he says darkly.

INSPECTING THE IMPRESSIVE CONTENTS
of the fridge, I decide on a Spanish omelet. There are even cold potatoes—perfect. It’s quick and easy. Christian is still in his study, no doubt invading some poor, unsuspecting fool’s privacy and compiling information. The thought is unpleasant and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. My mind is reeling. He really knows no bounds.

I need music if I’m going to cook, and I’m going to cook non-submissively! I wander over to the iPod dock beside the fireplace and pick up Christian’s iPod. I bet there are more of Leila’s choices on here—I dread the very idea.

Where is she?
I wonder.
What does she want?

I shudder. What a legacy. I can’t wrap my head around it.

I scroll through the extensive list. I want something upbeat. Hmm, Beyoncé—doesn’t sound like Christian’s taste. “Crazy in Love.” Oh
yes
! How apt. I hit the “repeat” button and put it on loud.

I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the fridge, and take out the eggs. I crack them open and begin to whisk, dancing the whole time.

Raiding the fridge once more, I gather potatoes, ham, and—
yes
!—peas from the freezer. All of these will do. Finding a pan, I place it on the stove, put in a little olive oil, and go back to whisking.

No empathy
, I muse. Is this unique to Christian? Maybe all men are like this, baffled by women. I just don’t know. Perhaps it’s not such a revelation.

I wish Kate were home; she would know. She’s been in Barbados far too long. She should be back at the end of the week after her additional vacation with Elliot. I wonder if it’s still lust at first sight for them.

One of the things I love about you
.

I stop whisking. He said it. Does that mean there are other things? I smile for the first time since seeing Mrs. Robinson—a genuine, heartfelt, face-splitting smile.

Christian slips his arms around me, making me jump.

“Interesting choice of music,” he purrs as he kisses me below my ear. “Your hair smells good.” He nuzzles my hair and inhales deeply.

Desire uncurls in my belly.
No
. I shrug out of his embrace.

“I’m still mad at you.”

He frowns. “How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks, dragging a hand through his hair.

I shrug. “At least until I’ve eaten.”

His lips twitch with amusement. Turning, he picks up the remote control from the counter and switches off the music.

“Did you put that on your iPod?” I ask.

He shakes his head, his expression somber, and I know it was her—Ghost Girl.

“Don’t you think she was trying to tell you something back then?”

“Well, with hindsight, probably,” he says quietly.

QED. No empathy. My subconscious crosses her arms and smacks her lips in disgust.

“Why’s it still on there?”

“I quite like the song. But if it offends you, I’ll remove it.”

“No, it’s fine. I like to cook to music.”

“What would you like to hear?”

“Surprise me.”

He heads over to the iPod dock while I go back to my whisking.

Moments later the heavenly sweet, soulful voice of Nina Simone fills the room. It’s one of Ray’s favorites: “I Put a Spell on You.”

I flush, turning to gape at Christian. What is he trying to tell me? He put a spell on me a long time ago. Oh my … his look has changed, the levity gone, his eyes darker, intense.

I watch him, enthralled as slowly, like the predator he is, he stalks me in time to the slow sultry beat of the music. He’s barefoot, wearing just an untucked white shirt, jeans, and a smoldering look.

Nina sings “you’re mine” as Christian reaches me, his intention clear.

“Christian, please,” I whisper, the whisk redundant in my hand.

“Please what?”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This.”

He’s standing in front of me, gazing down at me.

“Are you sure?” he breathes and reaching over, he takes the whisk from my hand and places it back in the bowl with the eggs. My heart is in my mouth. I don’t want this—I do want this—badly. He’s so frustrating, so hot and desirable. I tear my gaze away from his spellbinding look.

“I want you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “I love and I hate, and I love arguing with you. It’s very new. I need to know that we’re okay. It’s the only way I know how.”

“My feelings for you haven’t changed,” I whisper.

His proximity is overwhelming, exhilarating. The familiar pull is there, all my synapses goading me toward him, my inner goddess at her most libidinous. Staring at the patch of hair in the V of his shirt, I bite my lip, helpless, driven by desire—I want to taste him there.

He’s so close, but he doesn’t touch me. His heat is warming my skin.

“I’m not going to touch you until you say yes,” he says softly. “But right now, after a really shitty morning, I want to bury myself in you and just forget everything but us.”

Oh my … Us
. A magical combination, a small, potent pronoun that clinches the deal. I raise my head to stare at his beautiful yet serious face.

“I’m going to touch your face,” I breathe, and see his surprise reflected briefly in his eyes before his acceptance registers.

Lifting my hand, I caress his cheek, and run my fingertips across his stubble. He closes his eyes and exhales, leaning his face into my touch.

He leans down slowly, and my lips automatically lift to meet his. He hovers over me.

“Yes or no, Anastasia?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

His mouth softly closes on mine, coaxing, coercing my lips apart as his arms enfold me, pulling me to him. His hand moves up my back, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of my head and tugging gently, while his other hand flattens on my behind, forcing me against him. I moan softly.

“Mr. Grey.” Taylor coughs, and Christian releases me immediately.

“Taylor,” he says, his voice frigid.

I whirl around to see an uncomfortable Taylor standing on the threshold of the great room. Christian and Taylor stare at each other, some unspoken communication passing between them.

“My study,” Christian snaps, and Taylor walks briskly across the room.

“Rain check,” Christian whispers to me before following Taylor out of the room.

I take a deep, steadying breath. Can I not resist him for one minute? I shake my head, disgusted at myself, grateful for Taylor’s interruption, embarrassing though it is.

I wonder what Taylor has had to interrupt in the past. What’s he seen? I don’t want to think about that. Lunch. I’ll make lunch.
I busy myself slicing potatoes. What does Taylor want? My mind races—is this about Leila?

Ten minutes later, they emerge, just as the omelet is ready. Christian looks preoccupied as he glances at me.

“I’ll brief them in ten,” he says to Taylor.

“We’ll be ready,” Taylor answers and leaves the great room.

I produce two warmed plates and place them on the kitchen island.

“Lunch?”

“Please,” Christian says as he perches on one of the barstools. Now he’s watching me carefully.

“Problem?”

“No.”

I scowl. He’s not telling me. I dish out lunch and sit down beside him, resigned to staying in the dark.

“This is good,” Christian murmurs appreciatively as he takes a bite. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you.”
I need to keep a clear head around you, Grey
.

It does taste good, even though I’m not that hungry. But I eat, knowing Christian will nag if I don’t. Eventually Christian disrupts our brooding silence and switches on the classical piece I heard earlier.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Canteloube,
Songs of the Auvergne
. This is called ‘Bailero.’ ”

“It’s lovely. What language is it?”

“It’s in old French—Occitan, in fact.”

“You speak French; do you understand it?” Memories of the flawless French he spoke at his parents’ dinner come to mind …

“Some words, yes.” Christian smiles, visibly relaxing. “My mother had a mantra: ‘musical instrument, foreign language, martial art.’ Elliot speaks Spanish; Mia and I speak French. Elliot plays guitar, I play piano, and Mia the cello.”

“Wow. And the martial arts?”

“Elliot does Judo. Mia put her foot down at age twelve and refused.” He smiles at the memory.

“I wish my mother had been that organized.”

“Dr. Grace is formidable when it comes to the accomplishments of her children.”

“She must be very proud of you. I would be.”

A dark thought flashes across Christian’s face, and he looks momentarily uncomfortable. He regards me warily, as if he’s in uncharted territory.

“Have you decided what you’ll wear this evening? Or do I need to come and pick something for you?” His tone is suddenly brusque.

Whoa!
He sounds angry.
Why?
What have I said?

“Um … not yet. Did you choose all those clothes?”

“No, Anastasia, I didn’t. I gave a list and your size to a personal shopper at Neiman Marcus. They should fit. Just so that you know, I have ordered additional security for this evening and the next few days. With Leila unpredictable and unaccounted for somewhere on the streets of Seattle, I think it’s a wise precaution. I don’t want you going out unaccompanied. Okay?”