Grey (9 page)

“Here.” I point to the panel. I don't want to bore her talking about instrument flight rules, but the fact is it's
all
the equipment in front of me that guides us to our destination: the attitude indicator, the altimeter, the VSI, and of course the GPS. I tell her about
Charlie Tango,
and how she's equipped for night flight.

Ana looks at me, amazed.

“There's a helipad on top of the building I live in. That's where we're heading.”

I look back at the panel, checking all the data. This is what I love: the control, my safety and well-being reliant on my mastery of the technology in front of me. “When you fly at night, you fly blind. You have to trust the instrumentation,” I tell her.

“How long will the flight be?” she asks, a little breathless.

“Less than an hour—the wind is in our favor.” I glance at her again. “You okay, Anastasia?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice oddly abrupt.

Is she nervous? Or maybe she's regretting her decision to be here with me. The thought is unsettling. She hasn't given me a chance. I'm distracted by air-traffic control for a moment. Then, as we clear cloud cover, I see Seattle in the distance, a beacon blazing in the dark.

“Look, over there.” I direct Ana's attention to the bright lights.

“Do you always impress women this way? ‘Come and fly in my helicopter'?”

“I've never brought a girl up here, Anastasia. It's another first for me. Are you impressed?”

“I'm awed, Christian,” she whispers.

“Awed?” My smile is spontaneous. And I remember Grace, my mother, stroking my hair as I read out loud from
The Once and Future King.

“Christian, that was wonderful. I'm awed, darling boy.”

I was seven and had only recently started speaking.

“You're just so…competent,” Ana continues.

“Why, thank you, Miss Steele.” My face warms with pleasure at her unexpected praise. I hope she doesn't notice.

“You obviously enjoy this,” she says a little later.

“What?”

“Flying.”

“It requires control and concentration.” Two qualities I most enjoy. “How could I not love it? Though my favorite is soaring.”

“Soaring?”

“Yes. Gliding, to the layperson. Gliders and helicopters—I fly them both.”

Perhaps I should take her soaring?

Getting ahead of yourself, Grey
.

And since when do you take anyone soaring?

Since when do I bring anyone in
Charlie Tango
?

ATC refocuses me on the flight path, halting my rogue thoughts as we approach the outskirts of Seattle. We're close. And I'm closer to knowing whether this is a pipe dream or not. Ana is staring out the window, entranced.

I can't keep my eyes off her.

Please say yes.

“Looks good, doesn't it?” I ask, so that she'll turn and I can see her face. She does, with a huge cock-tightening grin. “We'll be there in a few minutes,” I add.

Suddenly the atmosphere in the cabin shifts and I have a more heightened awareness of her. Breathing deeply, I inhale her scent and sense the anticipation. Ana's. Mine.

As we descend I take
Charlie Tango
through the downtown area toward Escala, my home, and my heart rate increases. Ana starts fidgeting. She's nervous, too. I hope she doesn't flee.

As the helipad comes into view, I take another deep breath.

This is it.

We land smoothly and I power down, watching the rotor blades slow and come to a stop. All I can hear is the hiss of white noise over our headphones as we sit in silence. I remove my cans, then remove Ana's, too. “We're here,” I say quietly. Her face is pale in the glow of the landing lights, her eyes luminous.

Sweet Lord, she's beautiful.

I unbuckle my harness and reach over to undo hers.

She peers up at me. Trusting. Young. Sweet. Her delicious scent is almost my undoing.

Can I do this with her?

She's an adult.

She can make her own decisions.

And I want her to look at me this way once she knows me…knows what I'm capable of. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You know that, don't you?” She needs to understand this. I want her submission, but more than that I want her consent.

“I'd never do anything I didn't want to do, Christian.” She sounds sincere and I want to believe her. With those pacifying words ringing in my head, I climb out of my seat and open the door, then jump down onto the helipad. I take her hand as she exits the aircraft. The wind whips her hair around her face, and she looks anxious. I don't know if it's because she's here with me, alone, or if it's because we're thirty stories high. I know it's a giddy feeling being up here.

“Come.” Wrapping my arm around her to shield her from the wind, I guide her to the elevator.

We are both quiet as we make the short journey to the penthouse. She's wearing a pale green shirt beneath her black jacket. It suits her. I make a mental note to include blues and greens in the clothes I'll provide if she agrees to my terms. She should be better dressed. Her eyes meet mine in the elevator's mirrors as the doors open to my apartment.

She follows me through the foyer, across the corridor, and into
the living room. “Can I take your jacket?” I ask. Ana shakes her head and clutches the lapels to emphasize that she wants to keep her jacket on.

Okay.

“Would you like a drink?” I try a different approach and decide that I need a drink to steady my nerves.

Why am I so nervous?

Because I want her…

“I'm going to have a glass of white wine. Would you like to join me?”

“Yes, please,” she says.

In the kitchen I slip off my jacket and open the wine fridge. A sauvignon blanc would be a good icebreaker. Pulling out a serviceable Pouilly-Fumé, I watch Ana peer through the balcony doors at the view. When she turns and walks back toward the kitchen I ask if she'd be happy with the wine I've selected.

“I know nothing about wine, Christian. I'm sure it will be fine.” She sounds subdued.

Shit.
This isn't going well. Is she overwhelmed? Is that it?

I pour two glasses and walk to where she stands in the middle of my living room, looking every bit the sacrificial lamb. Gone is the disarming woman. She looks lost.

Like me…

“Here.” I hand her the glass, and she immediately takes a sip, closing her eyes in obvious appreciation of the wine. When she lowers the glass her lips are moist.

Good choice, Grey.

“You're very quiet, and you're not even blushing. In fact, I think this is the palest I've ever seen you, Anastasia. Are you hungry?”

She shakes her head and takes another sip. Maybe she's in need of some liquid courage, too. “It's a very big place you have here,” she says, her voice timid.

“Big?”

“Big.”

“It's big.” There's no arguing with that; it is more than ten thousand square feet.

“Do you play?” She looks at the piano.

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do. Is there anything you can't do well?”

“Yes…a few things.”

Cook.

Tell jokes.

Make free and easy conversation with a woman I'm attracted to.

Be touched…

“Do you want to sit?” I gesture toward the sofa. A brisk nod tells me that she does. Taking her hand, I lead her there, and she sits down, giving me an impish look.

“What's so amusing?” I ask, as I take a seat beside her.

“Why did you give me
Tess of the d'Urbervilles,
specifically?”

Oh. Where is this going?
“Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy.”

“Is that the only reason?”

I don't want to tell her that she has
my
first edition, and that it was a better choice than
Jude the Obscure.
“It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec d'Urberville.” My answer is truthful enough and has a certain irony to it. What I'm about to propose I suspect will be very far from her expectations.

“If there are only two choices, I'll take the debasement,” she whispers.

Damn. Isn't that what you want, Grey?

“Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It's very distracting. You don't know what you're saying.”

“That's why I'm here,” she says, her teeth leaving little indentations on a bottom lip moist with wine.

And there she is: disarming once more, surprising me at every turn. My cock concurs.

We are cutting to the chase on this deal, but before we explore the details, I need her to sign the NDA. I excuse myself and head into my study. The contract and NDA are ready on the printer.
Leaving the contract on my desk—I don't know if we'll ever get to it—I staple the NDA together and take it back to Ana.

“This is a nondisclosure agreement.” I place it on the coffee table in front of her. She looks confused and surprised. “My lawyer insists on it,” I add. “If you're going for option two, debasement, you'll need to sign this.”

“And if I don't want to sign anything?”

“Then it's Angel Clare high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway.” And I won't be able to touch you. I'll send you home with Stephan, and I will try my very best to forget you. My anxiety mushrooms; this deal could all go to shit.

“What does this agreement mean?”

“It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone.”

She searches my face and I don't know if she's confused or displeased.

This could go either way.

“Okay. I'll sign,” she says.

Well, that was easy.
I hand her my Mont Blanc and she places the pen at the signature line.

“Aren't you even going to read it?” I ask, suddenly annoyed.

“No.”

“Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign.”
How could she be so foolish?
Have her parents taught her nothing?

“Christian, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn't talk about us to anyone anyway. Even Kate. So it's immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer, whom
you
obviously talk to, then fine. I'll sign.”

She has an answer for everything. It's refreshing. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele,” I note dryly.

With a quick, disapproving glance, she signs.

And before I can begin my pitch, she asks, “Does this mean you're going to make love to me tonight, Christian?”

What?

Me?

Make love?

Oh, Grey, let's disabuse her of this straightaway.
“No, Anastasia, it doesn't. First, I don't make love. I fuck, hard.”

She gasps. That's made her think.

“Second, there's a lot more paperwork to do. And third, you don't yet know what you're in for. You could still run from here screaming! Come, I want to show you my playroom.”

She's nonplussed, the little
v
forming between her brows. “You want to play on your Xbox?”

I laugh out loud.

Oh, baby.

“No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no PlayStation. Come.” Standing, I offer her my hand, which she takes willingly. I lead her to the hallway and upstairs, where I stop outside the door to my playroom, my heart hammering in my chest.

This is it. Pay or play. Have I ever been this nervous?
Realizing my desires depend on the turn of this key, I unlock the door, and in that moment I need to reassure her. “You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on standby to take you whenever you want to go; you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It's fine, whatever you decide.”

“Just open the damn door, Christian,” she says with a mulish expression and her arms crossed.

This is the crossroads. I don't want her to run. But I've never felt this exposed. Even in Elena's hands…and I know it's because she knows nothing about the lifestyle.

I open the door and follow her into my playroom.

My safe place.

The only place where I'm truly myself.

Ana stands in the middle of the room, studying all the paraphernalia that is so much a part of my life: the floggers, the canes, the bed, the bench…She's silent, drinking it in, and all I hear is the deafening pounding of my heart as the blood rushes past my eardrums.

Now you know.

This is me.

She turns and gives me a piercing stare as I wait for her to say
something, but she prolongs my agony and walks farther into the room, forcing me to follow her.

Her fingers trail over a suede flogger, one of my favorites. I tell her what it's called, but she doesn't respond. She walks over to the bed, her hands exploring, her fingers running over one of the carved pillars.

“Say something,” I ask. Her silence is unbearable. I need to know if she's going to run.

“Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?”

Finally!

“People?” I want to snort. “I do this to women who want me to.”

She's willing to have a dialogue. There's hope.

She frowns. “If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?”

“Because I want to do this with you, very much.” Visions of her tied up in various positions around the room overwhelm my imagination; on the cross, on the bed, over the bench…

“Oh,” she says, and wanders to the bench. My eyes are drawn to her inquisitive fingers stroking the leather. Her touch is curious, slow, and sensual—is she even aware?