A/N: You guys are incredible. Thank you so much for the kind words yet again! I hope you are all pleased with what I've decided for this chapter. Again, I am taking this slow for a reason. Just stick with me and I promise not to disappoint. Your reviews alone made me want to put out another chapter today :)
"Ana," he breathes. Like I've physically wounded him. As if I have ripped his heart out. It's agonizing. 'Sounds familiar, don't it?' my subconscious reminds me.
"Fuck," I breathe. I lean against the door, torn. I look through the peephole. There's that face again. His hurt face. It's contorted into a mix of hurt and agony, if that's possible. He has no poker face, that's for sure.
I turn the knob.
"Christian," I breathe. He closes the distance between us as if his life depends on it.
"Ana, oh God, Ana," His arms around me make me freeze. I'm stuck in this spot, in this moment. He quietly sobs into my neck.
"I saw you in the rain and you looked so hurt. Before you say anything, that's Ros. My number two. I'm taking some time off of GEH and she's stepping in for me. Please don't think I would, could ever…" he trails.
I don't change my stance. As hurt as I was, I was running away from him as much as I was the situation. Even if he'd been alone, I would have ran. First, um, rain. Second, it's my fifty. After not hearing from him, even though I'm still torn about whether or not I want to, it made this a little easier. It was as if he finally respected what I wanted. And was giving me space. We desperately need that. Even now.
I step out of his embrace. I'm stuck inside my head right now and don't even know what to say, what I could say.
He caresses my face, and for the first time I notice I'm crying. Why? Why now? Why infront of him? FUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
I swat his arm away. I look him square in the eye. And I say nothing. I am speechless or catatonic or something. Why the hell can't I form words. Being around him makes me a mess. Makes me happy, sad, angry, uncomfortable.
"Please, Anastasia. I love you," My heart sinks. Of course I want to hear this. I need to hear this. I still think I was the one in love, and he was was just enjoying the kinky fuckery and only playing along to pacify me.
I open my mouth. And nothing. WHAT THE HOLY HELL?! I want to tell him to leave. I want him to claim me, profess that I'm his, and never leave the bedroom. I want to smack his heartbroken face. Apparently I want a lot. I just stand there. Speechless, like an idiot. I'm mad at myself for letting him, I'm mad at him for making me feel this way. And I need his touch. I feel like a starved man staring at a buffet.
"Ana say something. Are you okay? You look, so...different. I'm worried about you,"
Oh that just pisses me off. I'm doing the best I can here, asshole. It's not like you didn't help to get me here. I can blame him all I want, but I'm the one to blame. I'm the one not strong enough, yet. But strong enough for what? His fifty shades of fucked up or my life without him.
He grabs my upper arms and shakes me, as if trying to jolt me awake. I'm right here, I hear you. My mind screams it. Maybe I should speak. But, I'm afraid of what I'll say. I want him surrounding me, to get lost in him and us. The thought also frightens me. I've become something I don't like.
We are both soaking wet from the "timely" downpour. See, this is what happens when I exercise. Damnit. I take his duster off him and put it on the back of the chair at the table in the kitchen. I come back and offer him a towel. Never saying anything. 'Speak, BITCH'.
I open my mouth as I hand them the towel. But nothing comes out. I close it immediately. I turn around and go to my room and pull out a clean pair of sweats and a tank. I come back to an obviously equally speechless fifty. His face is a mixture of shock and hope. I didn't know that was possible. No poker for fifty. I can see right through it. I want him to feel the hurt I felt getting whipped like a sub. Like property. Like I was just something, not someone. Like I, Anastasia Steele, didn't matter.
He takes the towel and begins to dry his hair. He keeps looking at me. Is it pity? Fuck your pity. Maybe it's sorrow. Or anger. Who the hell knows. He's fucked up. 'Pot, kettle' I'm reminded.
He extends his hand, with the now damp towel and I reach for it. But, instead, he drops it gently grabbing my wrist and pulling me to him. Enveloping me, crushing me to him. He kisses me. It's a fevered, full of need. As if this kiss means more than anything in the world right now. And I'm sinking. Sinking into him. Letting him take me away from my contradicting thoughts. No see-saw here. Just pure need. And for him.
He brushes my hair back, as if out of habit, but it's not as long as he had liked. He cups my neck and sticks his tongue in my mouth, reclaiming me. Acting as if nothing has happened. And for a moment, I get lost in it. In him. I partake, but for only a moment.
I push him away and try to catch my breath. Breathless, I smack him. Hard. He looks at me, shocked and confused. I step toward him and grab around him, for the door handle. He steps aside and silently, as if wounded, leaves. I shut the door, quickly. Before I change my mind. I have to do this. I have to be strong. If for nothing else but me. I lean back against the door and slide to the floor. It only takes a minute before the tears begin. It's like the dam has broken. And I'm screwed.
