Walking hand in hand up Vine Street, turning right on First Avenue, Anastasia followed his guiding hand as Christian led them to their breakfast destination. Noticing his gaze upon her, warm eyes looked up into gray eyes staring down, twinkling with curiosity as she swung his hand in a light, carefree manner.
"This feels so normal," he told her. "I love it."
Normal with my man.
She squeezed his hand, "And yet, you are anything but normal. I think Dr. Flynn would agree, too—one doctor to another." She giggled before taking in Seattle's fresh air, adding, "It's a beautiful day."
"It is," Christian hummed contently.
The brunette closed her eyes briefly, turning her face to the invitingly warm, morning sun, hair glistening from illuminating rays. He pulled her closer to his side and pressed his lips against her temple, speaking softly, "Come, I know a great place for brunch."
The aroma of fresh bread filled their nostrils as Christian opened the door for his girl—a nice café a couple blocks from Anastasia's condominium filled with photographs and paintings all over the walls.
"I love it here already," the brunette said happily, taking a seat down at the table. "The art on the walls—they're lovely."
"They support a different artist every month in this restaurant," he explained. "It just so happens that my favorite artist is being presented again. Jennifer Trouton has a way of looking at things in such an artistic perspective."
"She certainly does," she agreed, staring at each photographs and paintings on the walls around, scanning and analyzing each of them. "Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," she breathed, mesmerized by the art.
A warm hand brought her attention and gaze back at Christian, smiling at him as she squeezed onto it. Her cheeks flushed and warmed at the sight of him. His eyes were soft and kind, staring deeply and curiously into the gold irises. "Yes," he finally said in agreement.
Christian never stopped holding her hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb as they held their menus with one hand. Anastasia snuck a few glimpses of her man staring at her, both grinning childishly behind their menus. He chuckled as she giggled; never breaking the contact of holding each other's hands.
…
"I'll get this, thank you," Anastasia announced, immediately swiping and snatching the tab for breakfast.
He scowled at her and folded his arms. He was having a nice time until what she did.
"You have to be quick around here, Grey." The surgeon made a quick gratitude to the God above for her gifted, quick hands.
"You're right, I do," Christian grumbled sourly, but she believed he was teasing.
"Don't look so upset. I can afford this without you having to worry at my expense—pun intended. I can pay…" She made a quick glance at the check, finding the total, "…twenty-two dollars and sixty-seven scents for breakfast."
Like the petulant, man-child she believed him to be, he grudgingly muttered, "Thank you."
In the back of her mind, she feared the financial retaliations to come. Oh god, what if he buys me something else. "Where to now?" She asked, hoping to distract herself.
"You mentioned wanting a haircut?" He furrowed his brows as he examined her dark, glossy mane.
Her eyes widened in remembrance, "Oh yes!" She ran her fingers through her hair locks, staring at the length and her ends before showing it to him. "See? Look at it!"
"You look lovely to me," Christian said kindly with a small smile. "You always do."
She flushed to his comment, blinking and staring down at her fingers laced together and folded on the table. "Well, your family's function is this evening. I just want to look nice."
"Remember, it's black tie," he noted.
That fancy? Distressed by the sound of the event, she shook her head at the thought and asked, "Where will it be?"
"At my parents' house. They have a marquee and everything. You know, the works."
"What's the charity for?"
Christian rubbed his hands down his thighs, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "It's a drug rehab program for parents with young kids called Coping Together."
"Lovely. Sounds like a good cause," Anastasia responded compassionately and softly. Fancy occasion with fancy rich people is intimidating, but being with his family isn't so bad. Especially if it's for a good cause. She was excited to spend a nice night with him, and she couldn't ask for more. She figured she'd enjoy herself and assume the best, knowing she'd be alright with him by her side.
"Come on. Let's leave." He stood, effectively ending the topic of their conversation and holding out his hand. Taking his into hers, he tightened his fingers around hers.
Whether it was overprotectiveness or the symbolic gesture of being hers, the brunette smiled at his demonstrative, public displays of affection. He led her out of the restaurant and walked down the street, and although they had left the café, the fragrant air of coffee and freshly baked bread followed them underneath the warm, shining sun.
It truly is a beautiful day. "Where are you taking me?" She stroked her fingers against his knuckles.
"It's a surprise."
I hate your surprises, sometimes. More so recently than before. They walked for two blocks, and the store fronts became more exclusive and designer—high-end and luxurious. It's a part of the town Anastasia didn't have time or didn't think to explore. Small fashion boutiques came into her sights, making her disbelieved how close the shops were to her new home. She made a mental note in her head to remember the location of certain stores that pulled her attention and style, putting on her future to-do list of buying more clothes for work.
Christian suddenly stopped outside a large, slick-looking beauty salon—Esclava. "Here we are," he stated, opening the door for her. Entering the salon, the entire interior and design of the place was white and leathery. A young blonde woman in a matching white uniform sat at the stark white reception desk, glancing up as the two of them enter.
"Good morning, Mr. Grey," the receptionist greeted brightly, color rising onto her cheeks as she batted her eyelashes at him. Ah, the charms of the Christian Grey effect. Never gets old. Curious as to how she knew him, Anastasia figured that he must be a regular at the fancy salon.
"Hello, Greta," he responded politely, an undertone of slight disinterest.
"Is this the usual, sir?" Greta asked politely, rubbing her coated pink lips from lipstick together.
Shock flashed into his eyes and Christian nervously glanced at his girl beside him, answering immediately, "No."
The usual? Her eyes closed as his words triggered her eidetic memory, pages of his contract flashing into her mind: "The Submissive will keep herself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The Submissive will visit a beauty salon of the Dominant's choosing at times to be decided by the Dominant, and undergo whatever treatments the Dominant sees fit. All costs will be met by the Dominant." When opening her eyes, her mood changed and her nostrils flared. The usual…
"Miss Steele will let you know what she wants," he added.
Anastasia took a step back and pulled her hand out of his, raising her hand in the air and in front of him. She took a moment to pause before turning her back to the receptionist, sighing deeply through her nose before hissing quietly at him, "Why here? Why did you bring me here?" She was offended for being brought there, questioning his move and deciding if it were bold or stupid.
"I own this place, and three more like it," he blinked.
Okay… It's still a little strange to me. "You own it?" His nonchalance calmed her behavior down a bit.
"Yes. It's a sideline. Anyway—whatever you want, you can have it here, on the house. All sorts of massage: Swedish, shiatsu, hot stones, reflexology, seaweed baths, facials, all that stuff women like—everything. It's done here." He waved his long-fingered hand dismissively.
"All that stuff women like?" This man is really asking for it. She rolled her eyes and huffed out in exasperating frustration.
Gray eyes flashed and glared at her. "My hand still twitches, Miss Steele."
"Well, don't insult me. I never cared for that stuff. And why insult me to begin with by bringing here?" She crossed her arms.
"I'm sorry," he sighed and frowned. "You said you wanted a haircut, and that's what I wanted to give you. It wasn't my intention to make you feel that way."
Calm down, Steele. Maybe he didn't think much about it. Anastasia rubbed her eyes and combed her hair back with her fingers, creating the façade of a kind smile, "I'd like a haircut, please." She wished to leave as quickly as she could and wanted to get her task done with.
Greta puckered her pink lips together as she checked on the computer screen. "Franco is free in five minutes if you'll have him?"
"Franco's fine," Christian said reassuringly to her, coming back to his side and placing his arm around her. He wanted her back in his arms, all while the surgeon was trying to wrap the idea of her dominant CEO owning a chain of beauty salons.
Waiting patiently for her turn of a haircut, Anastasia felt his body tense against hers. When she peeked up at him, she had seen that his face was blanched—something caught his eyes. She blinked and followed the direction of his gaze, hazel eyes falling upon a sleek platinum blonde across the salon. She appeared from a closing door behind her, speaking to one of the hair stylists.
The platinum blonde lady was tall, tanned, well-groomed, and in her late thirties or forties—it was difficult for the surgeon to tell under the makeup and the high-maintenance up-keeping. She was wearing the same uniform as Greta but was dressed in black. She was undoubtedly beautiful and stunning, hair shining like a halo, styled and cut in a sharp bob. When her back turned around, she caught sight of Christian and smiled warmly at him—a dazzling, white-teeth smile of warming recognition.
Who is—
"Excuse me," Christian mumbled hurriedly, disrupting her train of thought.
He strode quickly through the salon, past the hair stylists all in white, past the apprentices at the sink, and over to her. They were too far away for Anastasia to eavesdrop nosily on their conversation. The lady greeted him with obvious affection, kissing both of his cheeks as her hands rubbing and caressed the back of his head intimately. The surgeon's blood boiled at the sight, but she remained calm, watching the two of them chat animatedly.
Anastasia couldn't take her eyes off the platinum blonde, especially her arms all over him, seeing them rest at the sides of his arms.
"Miss Steele?" Greta spoke, trying to get her attention.
"One moment, please," the brunette said to the receptionist, watching Christian in fascination but the other woman in jealous suspicion. Her façade remained intact, wondering curiously of their relationship and the identity of who that lady was.
The lady holding Christian turned and gazed at Anastasia, sharing the same dazzling smile as if she knew her. She was stunning and beautiful, and the brunette couldn't help but smile politely back.
As Anastasia turned her eyes back to Christian, she saw that he was upset. He was gesturing with his hands and looked as though he were reasoning with the platinum blonde lady. She's holding her hands up in acquisition, while her white smile remained. Her answer and attitude relieved him and he smiled happily at her. Clearly they know each other well. Have they worked together for long? Maybe she's the manager?
There was a familiarity to the appearance of Platinum Blonde, despite Anastasia not knowing her. Deep down in the surgeon's instincts, she knew that lady somehow, but her subconscious thoughts weren't forthcoming to her conscious mind.
"Greta, who is Mr. Grey speaking with?" The nonchalance in her voice didn't match the underlying feelings of worry inside.
The receptionist turned around and was more than happy to share. "Oh, that's Mrs. Lincoln! Elena Lincoln—she owns the place with Mr. Grey."
Mrs. Robinson, the name whispered in her ear. A crashing wave flooded Anastasia's insides at the sound of her name. Blood heated and boiled at her skin while her scalped prickled, muscles twitching at the evil thought of her. Putting a face to the name made it worst and her body flamed inside, her mental consciousness vomiting profusely and hideously. Through and through all the torment and the anger, her façade was kept, and she remained blank-face.
Mrs. Lincoln? I thought she was divorced. Never mind about that, why do I even care? Even when Anastasia was rhetorically asking herself that question, she knew why she cared. She didn't want Mrs. Robinson having the chance to steal the man she loved. She didn't want her to ruin or corrupt him again, to break him.
While Greta was staring at them with Anastasia—going on and on about the history of the salon—the two girls watched Christian and Elena deep in their discussion. Christian was talking rapidly to a worried, nodding, and grimacing Elena who then shook her head. She watched the older blonde reach out and rubbed his arm soothingly, as a means of solace, biting her lip. With another nod, her gaze glanced back at the surgeon, offering a small, reassuring smile.
It was a kind expression, but the sights of her face burned Anastasia to the core. She murmured something appearing conspicuous to Christian, and his head whipped immediately to his girl. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were wary, turning back to the platinum blonde.
I can't take this anymore. This is ridiculous. "Cancel my appointment with Franco, Greta," Anastasia nodded her head and left the salon, a bell alarming everybody of her exit.
Christian could be heard bolting out the salon while Anastasia sat on a bench facing the opposite direction of his exit. When he found her, he stood in front, out of breath with an unruly head of hair. Looking up, the brunette had seen a face of immense worry, relief, and anxiety.
A frown showed on his face, along with crazy eyes of wariness and fear clouding his expression. "Are you okay? Greta says you canceled your haircut appointment."
"You didn't want to introduce me?" Anastasia's tone was brief, cold, and distant.
His mouth dropped open, disbelieved and in shock. His look of nervous guilt came afterwards, like a child in trouble waiting for his reprimanding. "But I thought—"
"For a bright man, sometimes…" The brunette interrupted him, but her voice drifted, words failing her. "I'd like to go home now, please." She stood up, weary of her morning. Never a dull day with Mr. Grey.
"Why?"
"You know why," she muttered dryly with exasperation.
"I'm sorry, Ana. I didn't know she'd be here. She's never here. She's opened a new branch at the Bravern Center, and that's where she's normally based. Someone was sick today." Christian spoke quickly and defensively, a myriad of excuses and claims rushing from his lips as he explained himself.
Anastasia was aware it wasn't completely his fault, but the coincidences of her anger were like a domino effect. Speechless and not wanting to ignite the spark of her insides into an explosion, she turned her heel slowly and walked home, suppressing the impulse to get away from him. Christian had been walking and following her wordlessly beside her while the young surgeon tried mulling the events of what had happened.
Newer questions and the hunger for information filled the void of her thoughts, and she was determined to have them each of them answered. Reeling in her anger, she commented calmly, adjusting her tone, "You used to take your subs there, clearly with 'the usual.'"
"Yes," Christian said quietly, his tone clipped. "Some of them, yes."
"Was Leila one of them?" Why does that even matter?
"Yes."
She tried for small talk. "The place looks very new."
"It's been refurbished recently."
"I see."
After a few moments, Anastasia said, "So, Mrs. Robinson met all your subs." Small talk didn't work.
"Yes."
"Did they know about her?"
"No, none of them did. Only you."
"But I'm not your sub."
"No, you most definitely are not."
Comprehending his agreeing comment as a statement of mocking or patronization, the brunette whipped her head to his face and glared at him. His eyes were wide and fearful, beautifully sculptured lips pressed into a hard, uncompromising line. "This is utterly…wrong. You are aware of this, right?" Her voice was low.
"Yes, I'm sorry." A look of contrition was expressed on his guilty face, frowning and speaking quietly.
"I want just want to get a haircut, preferably somewhere you haven't fucked either the staff or the clientele," she snapped with a hoarse voice.
Christian flinched, as if the words bit him or slapped him on the wrist.
Fuck. "Sorry," she muttered, "but if you'll excuse me."
"You're not running, are you?" He asked immediately, as he went back into panic mode. Gray eyes crazed and in a frenzy again.
"No!" Anastasia shouted in exasperation. God, I don't have time for this. Well, I do, I just don't want to. "I just want a damn haircut. A place where I could just close my eyes, have someone wash my hair, and not have to thinking about the heavy baggage of your life and past that accompanies you everywhere you go."
He ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath before offering quietly, "I could have Franco come to the apartment, or your place."
"She's very attractive." As the words came out of her mouth, her insides combusted to the disgusting, undeniable truth.
He blinked, "Yes, she is."
"Is she still married?"
"No. She divorced about five years ago."
I saw the way she touched you. "Why aren't you with her?"
"Because that's over between us," he answered with a creasing brow before glaring. "I told you this." His cellphone began vibrating in his pocket and he held up his finger, fishing for the device out of his jacket pocket.
"Welch," he snapped and listened.
Anastasia rubbed her eyes and ran her fingers in her hair, massaging her scalp and head as she tried to relax from her issues and problems. They were standing in the middle of Second Avenue, and she ignored the conversation he was having with his employee, staring at the green larch sapling in front of her. People were bustling past them, lost in their errands and activities during the Saturday morning.
The brunette beside the beautiful, gray-eyed man was jealous. She felt hot, ugly, irrational jealousy, and she hated every second of that itchy feeling. Is that how you feel when I am with someone else? Many emotions ran within Anastasia and she wasn't sure which one to pinpoint and stick with. She was shocked how quickly her mood, behavior, and day could suddenly shift by the thought of his ex-mistress—in a snap of a finger and a blink of an eye. She compared herself to a monster, wreaking havoc upon anyone and anything that stood in her way, and she wanted desperately to just sink back to her calm, normal self. She willed her body to do so, bringing it to a halt as she breathed in deeply.
As she continued watching people walk past her, busy with their own lives, she wondered if their lives were as complicated as hers. She was sure they had their own personal drama but she wondered if they included situations of stalker, suicidal ex-submissives, or beautiful cougar ex-mistresses, or a person who has no concept or respect of privacy or under United States law.
"Killed in a car crash? When?" Christian interrupted her reverie.
Reeling in her attention, Anastasia listened more closely.
"That's twice that bastard's not been forthcoming. He must know. Does he have no feelings for her whatsoever?" Leila. Christian shook his head in disgust. "This is beginning to make sense… no… explains why, but not where." He glanced around the streets of where they were as if searching for something, resulting in her doing the same and mirroring his actions. She didn't see anything out of the ordinary—shoppers, traffic, and trees.
"She's here," he continued in a mutter. "She's watching us… Yes… No. Two or four, twenty-four seven… I haven't broached that yet." His face turned directly at her.
Broached?... What haven't you told me now? Anastasia frowned, watching and listening intently as he regarded her warily.
Christian suddenly paled, almost a sickly, anemic color. "What…" His eyes widened. "I see. When?... That recently? But how?... No background checks?... I see. Email me the name, address, and photos if you have them… twenty-four seven, from this afternoon. Liaise with Taylor." Ending the calling, Christian hung up.
They stared back at each other, blinking.
Okay? "Well?" Anastasia asked, exasperated that she even had to.
"That was Welch."
"I know. I heard you call his name when you answered. Who is he?"
"My security advisor."
She crossed her arms, "Okay. So, what happened?"
"Leila left her husband about three months ago and ran off with a guy who was killed in a car accident four weeks ago," he answered.
"My god…" She opened her mouth from the news and frowned. Poor girl. I should've followed my gut and went after her…
"The asshole shrink should have found that out," he continued angrily. "Grief, that's what this is. Come." He held out his hand, and she automatically placed it into his.
"Hold on," Anastasia shook her head and slipped her hand out of his grip. "Wait a minute. We were in the middle of discussion, about us. About her, your Mrs. Robinson."
Christian's face hardened, "She's not my Mrs. Robinson. We can talk about it at my place."
"But wait—"
"No! No more waiting. Let's go, Anastasia!" He snapped at her, bringing out his hand.
Aware that she was going to sound like a petulant child, she refused, "I don't want to go back home or to your place! I want to go get my haircut." If I could just focus on one thing. God, there are so many.
He pulled his phone out from his pocket once again and dialed a number. "Greta, Christian Grey. I want Franco at my place in an hour. Ask Mrs. Lincoln… Good." He placed his phone pocket. "He's coming at one."
Her eyes fluttered, opening her mouth to protest but being shut down as he continued, "Anastasia, Leila is obviously suffering a psychotic break. I don't know if it's you or me she's after, or what lengths she's prepared to go to. We'll go to your place, pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we've tracked her down."
"Why am I doing that?" She shook her head and knitted her brows in confusion.
"So I can keep you safe," Christian said as a matter-of-fact.
You wouldn't need to do that by making me move in with you temporarily. "But—"
He glared down at her, "You are coming back to my apartment if I have to drag you there by your hair."
Anastasia's jaw opened as she gaped at him, beyond disbelieved. Debating on challenging his efforts and calling his bluff, she went with reassuring him with reason and logic, "Christian, I think you're overreacting and overthinking this entire situation."
"I don't. We can continue our discussion back at my place. Come."
Folding her arms and continuing to shake her head in disbelief, she glared at him with a knitting brow, "No, Christian. I'm not going."
"You can walk or I can carry you. I don't mind either way, Anastasia."
"You wouldn't dare." She narrowed her eyes and scowled at him, inadvertently challenging him.
Christian half-smiled at her, an expression that didn't reach the kindness of his gray eyes. "Oh, baby, we both know that if you throw down the gauntlet, I'll be only too happy to pick it up."
As they continued glaring at another, the brunette turned her face away and shook her head, pressing her tongue against her cheek. I can't look at you, right now. With that, his arms abruptly swept down, lifting her as he clasped onto her thighs. She gasped and grunted from the swift move, hanging on his shoulder.
What the fuck! Anastasia yelped trying to push him off her. "Christian!" She screamed, "Put me down!"
Her cheeks flushed as people passing by watched her bounce on his shoulder, humiliated as her dignity and integrity began plummeting with each passing glance. He strode along Second Avenue, ignoring the protests of the girl he was carrying and the people staring. He swatted her behind with his free hand as he held onto her.
Anastasia huffed out in aggravation, "Okay! Fine, FINE! I'll walk!"
Christian set her back down on the ground, but before he could even stand up straight, her dark hair whipped his face as she stormed off in the direction of her home. Seething in her clothes, she paced herself quickly to her condo, combing her hair and straightening her clothes after his audacious move. Within seconds, he was at her side again, but she continued ignoring him.
Making her way back home, she made an angry, mental list of her frustrations:
1. Shoulder carrying—incredibly inappropriate and unacceptable for anyone over the age of six.
2. Taking me to a salon that you own with the ex-mistress that defiled and corrupted your childhood as well as your future relationships—How stupid are you?
3. Taking me to a salon where your ex-submissives had their work done—Again, stupid.
4. Not realizing or taking into consideration the stupidity of the second and third reasons—Why do you make it so hard for yourself? You're supposed to be bright.
5. Having crazy ex-submissives. Can I still blame him for that? Because of my current state of distress and anger, I think I am.
6. Feeling the need to excessively protect me—This is borderline controlling my life at this point, which isn't part of the deal. More importantly, we don't have or agreed on a deal.
7. Buying the car. Buying the clothes. Buying Grey-Sloan—You obviously have more money than logic and sense.
8. Insisting I stay with you when—
Wait. I'm going to your house for you to protect me? From Leila? What makes her more dangerous than what she already is?
Gold eyes widened as the revelation occurred to her. Stopping in her place, Christian halted with her. "What happened with Leila?" Anastasia demanded.
"What do you mean?" Christian knitted his brows. "I told you."
"No, you haven't. There's something else that…" She paused, figuring out what to say. "You didn't insist that I go to your place yesterday after that phone call with your security advisor, Welch. So, what happened? What's changed?"
He shifted in place uncomfortably, and before she could open her mouth to snap at him for a demanding answer, he revealed, "She managed to obtain a concealed weapons permit yesterday."
She wants to shoot herself? Her face was normal until she let herself process the information. Her eyes went up to him immediately, blinking, as the color from her face paled as white as snow. Leila wants to kill Christian?... No… NO. Her eyes uncontrollably welled up, though she wasn't sad. She was angry and concerned, just as she was worried and scared. She flexed her jaw before whispering, "She can buy a gun now."
"Ana." His voice was soft as he called to her, full with concern. He placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her close to him. "I don't think she'll do anything stupid but—I just don't want to take that risk with you." His hand cupped her cheek, stroking her cheekbone reassuringly with his thumb, ready for any falling tears.
"No…" She shook her head. "No, not me, Christian," she breathed in from her mouth more quickly, placing her hand on top of his caressing hand while the other held his face, "What about you?" Her voice was lost in anguish as he frowned down at her, unsure of what to say.
She pulled her body immediately into his arms and buried her head into his chest, holding onto him closely and tightly while repressing her need to hyperventilate as she slowed down her breathing, letting her senses fill of his intoxicating smell.
Although Anastasia was crossing the line of his hard limit—placing herself in the foreign territory he didn't want her to be in—Christian didn't let go as he crushed her into his body. He held her, caressing her head into his arms as his face buried into hair.
"Let's get back," Christian murmured, kissing her hair.
Everything she felt before seemed silly and foolish at that point—fury, anger, jealousy, all the unnecessary feelings she didn't need nor want to feel had dissipated. The idea and the thought of someone coming to go after Christian were overbearing and unbearable.
Sated and comforted in his arms, Anastasia lay on his chest with a determination and a promise. No. I won't let her take you.
I won't let anything else happen to you. Not anymore.
…
"Anastasia, do you have everything you need?" Christian asked, leaning against the door.
The surgeon gaze at her small case, scanning her packed weekend bag of her essentials: toiletries, three outfits to wear that could be interchangeably moved around depending on the weather, her keys, her white coat, her name badge from the hospital, her pager, her iPad, and her phone. She didn't know how long she'd be staying with Christian. Knowing him, she was positive he'd keep her guarded and in his protection for a while.
Double-checking her items, she nodded, "That's everything."
He gave her a small, indulgent smile, coming to her side and taking her case before they headed out the door together. As they walked down the steps of her house, they headed to the curbside, finding the very same, red Audi from the day she was given the vehicle. Paranoid by thoughts of someone watching them, Anastasia disregarded her feelings towards the car and headed to the driver's side as Christian opened the passenger's door.
"Are you getting in?" His brows knitted in confusion.
"Oh, I thought I was driving."
"No," he stated, opening the passenger's door wider, "I'll drive."
According to the impassive look on his face, Christian's patience was running thin, and she knew better than to challenge his limits by making a simple protest of wanting to drive. She ran her fingers through her hair and casted her eyes down, heading to the open door on the other side and getting in. They were both uneasy. During that moment, he seemed more overwhelmed and stressed compared to her, and she didn't want to add to his pain.
Leila—a pale brunette with dark brown eyes who had the uncanny resemblance of the young surgeon—might have a concealed firearm. Both of them were unsure of the stalker's reason for wanting one; the unknown answers to those questions disturbed them even more so.
As Christian set off into traffic, she released the leash of her curiosity. "Were all your submissives brunette?"
He frowned at the question, making a quick side glance at her. "Yes," he muttered with uncertainty, testing the waters of his answer as he analyzed the reason for her inquiry.
"I was just curious."
"Always are," he said dryly with a sarcastic smirk. Light humor shined through the darkness of his dark face of seriousness and distress, reverting back to its ways within a millisecond as he continued, "I told you before. I prefer brunettes."
"You told me before that Mrs. Robinson trained as a submissive for you after being your dominant mistress. She isn't brunette."
"That's probably why," he muttered. "She put me off blondes forever."
"Are you kidding? Is that a joke?" Anastasia gasped. What'd she do to him?
"Yes, I'm kidding," Christian replied with a shaking head, exasperated.
Maybe, it's just not a thing to worry or think about. He likes brunettes. It's just a preference and a taste. Right? The surgeon looked out the car window, watching their car drive past pedestrians while Anastasia spied brunette heads everywhere, scanning each person's head and face. None of them were Leila.
"Tell me more about her."
"What do you want to know?" His brows furrowed, and the tone in his voice tried warding her curiosity to stay clear and away.
Start off with something easy. "Your business arrangement with her. How does that work?"
He visibly relaxed, which gave her the signal that it was a topic he didn't mind discussing. "I am a silent partner. I'm not particularly interested in the beauty business, but she's built it into a successful venture. I just invested and helped get her started."
"Why?"
"I owed it to her."
"What makes you say that?" The brunette wondered if it was part of a sick, perverse deal in their contracts.
"When I dropped out of Harvard, she lent me a hundred grand to start my business."
So, Mrs. Robinson was rich to begin with. I guess I can cross gold-digger off the list.
The mention of the Ivy League university brought Anastasia back to her interviews with representatives at different hospitals—Massachusetts General Hospital being one of them. If I took that attending's job at Mayo…or Mass Gen…or John Hopkins…or any other hospital than Grey-Sloan…I wouldn't be here with Christian, right now. She swallowed, shutting her eyes and clearing her mind of "what ifs" in the alternate universe of never coming back to him.
Let's just move on... "You dropped out of college?"
"It wasn't my thing. I did two years. Unfortunately, my parents were not so understanding," he further explained.
Trying to picture Mr. Grey and Dr. Grace Trevelyan disapproving was something she couldn't imagine. Her one time with them—the dinner at his parents' place—dissuaded her from those possibilities. She mentally defended them, making the optimistic judgement that what his parents felt was the result of them caring a deep amount for him.
"I'm sure they were just looking out for you, but you clearly seem to have done well. What was your major when attending Harvard?"
"Politics and Economics."
Unsurprising. Then again, so are mine. "So, she was rich, then?" She murmured.
"She was a bored trophy wife, Anastasia. Her husband was wealthy—big in timber." After verifying her correct assumptions, he smirked at his dirty innuendo before continuing, "He wouldn't let her work. You know, he was controlling. Some men are like that." Christian shed some light into the car, freeing the heavy weights of stress of their shoulders as he shared a sideways grin.
Anastasia exaggeratingly gasped loudly, "You don't say! A controlling man? I've never heard or seen such a thing. You must be making this up Mr. Grey." The brunette smiled, enjoying her opportunity to tease with him as she squeezed as much sarcasm into her sentences as best as she could.
His grin only grew to her enthusiasm, encouraging her to continue with more questions. "She lent you her husband's money?"
He nodded, a small mischievous smile appearing on his lips.
"That sounds terrible." Her mouth twisted as she chewed the inside of her lip.
"He got his own back," he answered darkly, a sudden shift in his expression and eyes taking a turn as he gripped on the steering wheel, pulling into the underground garage at Escala.
Oh? "How?"
Not wanting to finish the rest of his story, Christian shuddered in disgust as he recalled the sour memories of his past. Most things and memories in your past seem dark and cruel. Are all of them like that? Dismissing and ignoring her question with a shaking head, he stated, "Come—Franco will be here shortly."
…
Riding the elevator, Christian peered down at Anastasia. "Still mad at me?" His voice already knew the answer in his matter-of-factly tone.
"I'm feeling a lot of things right now," she frowned, ignoring his gaze and staring straight ahead while tightening her grip around the strap of her purse hanging along her shoulder.
He nodded. "Okay," he said, staring straight ahead with the girl beside him.
Taylor was waiting for the both of them as they arrived in the foyer, instinctively coming to Anastasia's side and grabbing her case.
"Has Welch been in touch?" Christian asked his bodyguard.
"Yes, sir."
"And?"
"Everything's been arranged for you."
"Excellent." His voice was clipped but still revealed his satisfied appreciation. "How's your daughter?"
Wait, what?
"She's fine, thank you, sir."
"Good. We have a hairdresser arriving at one—Franco De Luca."
"Miss Steele," Taylor greeted politely with a single nod.
"Taylor," Anastasia smiled weakly, "I'm sorry I haven't had the proper chance to formally greet and see you with everything that's been going on."
Confused by her apology, the bodyguard shook his head with a knitted brow, "It's no problem, Miss Steele."
With a half-smile shifting into a shy one, she added, "After all this time, I should probably give you back your handkerchief." She giggled, "I still have it. It's back at home."
"Keep it, Miss Steele," Taylor insisted, "with my best wishes."
Christian's nose flared, staring quizzically from his bodyguard to his girl. Taylor's face gave away nothing as he remained impassive and quiet while Anastasia ignored her man's tempered jealousy.
"You have a daughter?" She asked, delighted by the thought.
"Yes, ma'am." Taylor's eyes dilated and glimmered, showing his love and care for his child in his quiet look.
"How old is she?"
"She's seven." Clarifying the confused look on her face, he went on, "She lives with her mother."
"Oh, I see," Anastasia smiled, eyes reflecting compassion. Taylor as a father. The surgeon knew his daughter was in good hands.
Taylor smiled at her kindly, an expression his boss rarely.
Christian cleared his throat subtly and gazed at them impatiently, bothered by his bodyguard and Anastasia's fond moment. He made his way to the kitchen and asked, "Are you hungry?"
"No, thank you." She glanced around at her surroundings, after she watched Taylor carry her case into the dominant's bedroom. I haven't been in this apartment in what seems like forever. And yet the memory of me leaving him feels like just yesterday. When gold eyes fell on him and met with gray, his face was unreadable as it always was.
Deciding not to argue he stated, "I have to make a few calls. Make yourself at home."
Anastasia nodded, walking up the stairs to the submissive's bedroom as she watched him disappear into his study. Taking a deep breath before entering the room, she opened the door and placed her bag on the bed, walking towards the walk-in closet.
Black tie event. So something fancy. Just play dress-up for one night. It's for a good cause, for his parents, and for him.
Flipping on the switch to turn on the lights, the wardrobe showcased that a closet full of clothes—all brand new with price tags still attached. She ran her fingers through the material, soft to the touch of her fingers and found her way to the dresses—three long evening dresses, three cocktail dresses, and three more for everyday wear. All this must have cost a fortune.
Swallowing slowly, Anastasia checked the price on one of the evening dresses: $2,998. Her eyes widened to the numbers, pushing the dress away from her and sinking to the ground. I can pay for the dress. Hell—Christian would never let me do that.
She sighed out deeply, staring at all the clothes surrounding her. She had fallen for a beautiful and wealthy prince, and although he was ludicrous at certain times, the man she loved had done nothing but shower and worship her with compliments, luxury, and pleasure. Are you feeling bad because you ought to? Or do you genuinely feel bad for him having to buy all these clothes? Buying everything?
Footsteps treaded quickly into the room before Christian appeared in the door way with a frown. "There you are. I thought you'd run off." The relief in his voice was evident and obvious.
"After going through all the efforts of getting me here?" She asked rhetorically with a half-smiled. "Where would I even run to?"
With gray eyes cast down, he said lowly by the memory, "You've done it before."
When Anastasia looked up, his eyes and face were clouded with darkness, concerning her and making her heart break at the sight. His body shuddered and his head shook, pushing away the memory before asking, "Can I come in?"
It's so on and off with this one. "It's your closet," she said, gesturing to her surroundings.
Frowning again, he sat in front of her, cross-legged and facing her. "Why're you hiding in here?"
"I'm not hiding. I'm…" She paused and shrugged, "…taking this all in."
"They're just clothes. If you don't like them, I'll send them back." Christian's hand looked like he was reaching out to touch her, but balled his hand into a fist and placed it against his side. "None of this matters—the car, the clothes, the money. None of it," he shook his head. "Especially not without you… Is it so bad or so wrong that I want to give you the best of everything? Of anything?"
Dazed and out of words to answer, she thought to herself, It's a kind gesture. A very kind and generous one. OVERLY generous one, but still kind. Maybe I should stop beating him up about this. Or myself? I don't even know anymore. There's so much on my mind; today has been a lot already, and it isn't dark out yet.
"You're a lot to take on. You know that, right?" Anastasia propped her elbow on her thigh and leaned on her fist, smiling weakly.
He blinked at her, scratching his stubbly chin. As he pondered her teasing comment, his fingers rubbing against his chin made her want to touch him. "I know," he murmured, "I'm trying."
"You're very trying."
"As are you, Miss Steele," he smiled softly.
"Why are you doing this?" She asked, gesturing her hand between the space of their bodies.
His eyes widened fractionally and his wary look returned. "You know why."
Do I? "I don't think I do—not if I don't understand correctly anyway."
Christian ran a hand through his fingers, deep within his thoughts as he searched for the inspiration within his words. "You are one frustrating female."
Anastasia wanted him to understand her side, even if she considered his words of being "one frustrating female." She began, "You can have a nice brunette submissive—any girl in the world offering herself for that role to be yours. One who would never question a thing you said or disobeyed any of your orders. One who would speak or stare when she was given permission."
"You're a beautiful man and—"
He rolled his eyes and scowled in disgust, "It's just a pretty face."
"It is!" She exclaimed, making his eyes widen. "It's a very pretty face attached to a perfect body. You are not wrong at all in that case." The brunette scoffed and shook her head, "However, you're more than that, too. I've told you this before. You're exceptionally hard-working and ambitious. You're funny and kind when you aren't so serious. And of course, you're rich. A castle to rule over with many other castles you could also buy—if you wanted to—as you rule over your empire of a company."
She chuckled at her figurative exaggeration before taking a breather. "You can have anything and everything you want in this world, whoever you want in this world and however you wanted them." She looked back into his gray eyes, "So, why me? After all the effort and struggles—the obstacles I put up while having to go through some of my own—why me, Christian? I don't understand."
Christian didn't move or speak; he simply stared. "You make me look at the world differently, Anastasia. You don't want me for my money, for anything of what's mine," he said softly. "When I met you, you helped me. In the beginning, when you took me out of my crashed car, you helped me. You give me… hope."
"Of?" Her brows furrowed.
He shrugged. "More," he answered with a low and quiet voice. "And you're right. I am used to women doing exactly what I say, when I say, doing exactly what I want with how I wanted. It gets old quickly. There's something about you, Anastasia… something that calls to me on some deep level I still have a hard time understanding myself. It's a siren's call. I can't resist you, and I don't want to lose you." He reached forward and took her hand, "Don't run please—have a little faith in me and a little patience. Please."
Moments like those—Christian wearing his heart on his sleeve—showed so much vulnerability. He couldn't live without her, just like she couldn't live without him. It became one of the last moments she had ever doubted herself of being worthy of his affection and hopefully his love, whenever the time came.
His expression was beseeching her, and she gave him a compassionate, sweet smile—a look that pushed the darkness away and made him whole again, bringing him into the light. Leaning on her knees, she bent forward and placed a gently kiss on his lips, barely touching which teased and tickled his mouth.
"Okay," Anastasia murmured against him. "Faith and patience, I can live with that."
"Good. Because Franco is here," he smiled.
They made their way downstairs hand in hand, both knowing the exhausting argument and the little, tedious problems were done with. It was just him and her, once again.
Franco was a small, dark, and flamboyant hairdresser. "Such beautiful hair!" He exclaimed with a loud Italian accent, an accent that made Anastasia question if it were real.
The brunette blinked at her hairdresser before giggling with a shaking head. Oh boy. Here we go.
…
With a glossy, healthy mane, Anastasia entered Christian's study, watching him plowing through spreadsheets and papers with an immersive look on his serious face. Soft, classical music drifted through the great room, a woman singing passionately and pouring her soul into the song.
Her movement was caught in the corner of his eyes, making Christian glance up and smile.
"See! I tell you he likes it," Franco enthused.
"Hi," Anastasia smiled sheepishly as she walked towards him.
"You look lovely, Ana," he said appreciatively, a compliment that gave color to his girl's cheeks, strolling over to her and kissing the temple of her head.
"My work 'ere is done" the hairdresser exclaimed.
"Thank you, Franco," Christian replied.
Franco quickly turned to his client and grasped her by the shoulders, pulling Anastasia into an overwhelming bear hug before kissing both her cheeks. "Never let anyone else be cutting your hair, bellissima Anastasia!"
She laughed gently, embarrassed by his actions and words but more humored and amused by the look on Christian's face after being kissed. Christian eagerly showed him out the foyer door before coming back to her side.
"I'm glad you kept it long," he admitted. Gray eyes were bright, running a strand between his fingers. "So soft," he murmured, inhaling her scent as he pressed his face into her hair. "Are you still mad at me?"
"I kind of always am in some way, I won't lie," Anastasia chuckled, biting her lip and rolling her eyes afterwards. "Why? Did you want the list?"
"There's a list?" Christian asked, bemused.
"Quite the long one," she teased.
Taking it seriously, he wrapped his arms around her, caressing her back gently. "Can we discuss it in bed?"
"No!" She pouted at him childishly.
"Over lunch then," he offered, releasing a salacious grin. "I'm hungry, and not just for food."
"Hmph." The brunette turned her head away, "I won't let you dazzle me with your sexpertise, Mr. Grey."
Stifling a smile, Christian said, "Alright, Miss Steele, what is bothering you specifically? Spit it out?"
"What's bothering me?" She stepped out of his arms and let her list begin, "Well, there is the dumb fact that you took me to some place where your ex-mistress works—the very place where you took all your former lovers to get groomed and cleaned like some makeover ritual. Then, there's manhandling me on the street in public, which was incredibly wrong and inappropriate. Your constant need to protect me is also another thing on the list because it affects me more than you think; in the end, I feel like you're taking over my life and the last time you did that I broke apart. But to cap everything all off, you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!" Checking off each issue off her list, her voice had risen to a crescendo at the last problem.
Anastasia thought she wasn't angry anymore, but the one thing—the one person—that couldn't escape from her mind was the same woman that kept the hearth of her anger sparked alive. She was disgusted and angered to learn about the cougar in Christian's life the first time he shared his past with her, that he claimed Mrs. Robinson made some significantly monumental change in his life. It irked her. It infuriated her. However, she was getting better at dousing the flames of her maddening anger for the woman—or at least getting better at hiding them.
Christian raised his eyebrows as all the good, light humor vanished from his expression. "That's quite a list. But just to clarify, she's not my Mrs. Robinson."
"You're not listening to me," she huffed and frowned. A voice full of her, she stressed her repeated, truest problem, "She can touch you."
He pursed his lips, "She knows where."
"What do you mean 'she knows where?' Why haven't you shown me then? Why can't I know?" Her frustrations and jealousy got to the best of her emotions and the tone of her voice. You make it so impossible hard for me to love you. I want to show you, and you never let me.
He ran both hands through his hair and closed his eyes briefly, praying to find the right words. He took a deep breath and swallowed, "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 stopped and took a break in his sentence, deciding to cut his explanation altogether when he couldn't explain himself. "Your touch just means more…so much more."
More? The familiarity of that word was precious to Anastasia, and it was apparently the same for Christian. It was an unexpected answer that confused her and threw her off guard, but she knew how much that specific, little word meant to the both of them. My touch means more. How am I supposed to resist touching you now when you tell me these things? His gray eyes searched deeply into her golden-brown irises, watching and pleading her to understand while fear expressed itself on his face.
She lifted her hand carefully, tentatively reaching forward. His apprehension immediately shifted to alarm, causing him to step back with determined instinct. She dropped her hand, hiding her disappointment and her failed attempt of affection and compassion—the one thing she couldn't do.
"Hard limit," he whispered urgently, reminding her of his repeated words, time and time again. A pained and panicked look had stricken his face.
The young surgeon was disappointed, not entirely at him but the reality of their difficult situation they couldn't seem to get past. "How would you feel if you couldn't touch me?" She assumed what his answer might be, trying to make a point.
"Devastated and deprived," Christian responded immediately, balling his hands into a fist as his sides.
Anastasia bent her head back, running her fingers through her hair before shaking it as her shoulders sagged. She offered him a small, reassuring smile watching his face and body shift from worry to relax. We'll be okay. Faith and patience just like you said, Grey. "You'll have to tell me exactly why this is a hard limit one day. Please."
"One day," he murmured, snapping out of his vulnerable state of mind. His mood swings changed left and right; it was hard for her to keep up. He was the most capricious person she knew, more so than the patients she'd encountered in a psychiatric ward.
"So, the rest of your list. My controlling behavior. You knew about this, even from the beginning." Yeah, I know. His mouth twisted, contemplating his honesty, "I need to know things to protect you, Ana. From where you work to where you live—something even as little as your bank account number."
"You WHAT?" She opened her mouth. My bank account number?! What else does he know?!
Christian blinked, a guarded expression cast on his face yet again. "I do background checks on all my submissives. I'll show you." He turned and headed for his study.
What the fu—That's not even an excuse! I was never your submissive to begin with and you didn't even know me then! Anastasia exhaled loudly, following dutifully behind him with fuming aggravation and determination.
From a locked filing cabinet, Christian pulled out a manila folder, with her name typed on the tab: Anastasia Rose Steele.
Heat emanated from her body, staring angrily and quietly at the file and then back at him. Shrugging apologetically, he said quietly, "You can keep—"
Anastasia snatched the file from his hands, interrupting his sentence and rummaging through her documents and papers. She reached in and took out the contents in the folder, flipped through them and placing it on his desk: a copy of her birth certificate, her hard limits, the nondisclosure agreement, the contract, her social security number, her resume, and her employment records, as well as a typed out biography of all her information, neatly organized on paper:
DOB: Dec. 27, 1997, Lake Placid, NY
Address: 50 Woodson Park, Apartment 202, Seattle, WA 98888
Mobile No.: 415-322-6563
Social Security No.: 987-65-4320
Banking Details: Wells Fargo Bank, Seattle, WA 98888
Acct No.: 309361: $37,768.16 balance
Occupation: Cardiothoracic Surgical Resident, Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital
SAT Score: 2400
ACT Score: 36
MCAT Score: 528
GPA: 4.0
Prior Education: High School – Homeschooled, 2011
B.S. in Biology and Chemistry – Stanford University, 2014
Ph.D. in Epidemiology and Clinical Research – Stanford University, 2016
M.D. in Surgery – Stanford University, 2016
Father(s): Franklin A. Lambert; DOB: Sept. 1 1969; Deceased: January 25, 1998
Raymond W. Steele; DOB: August 03, 1967; Deceased: August 16, 2004
Mother: Carla May Wilks Steele; DOB: July 18 1970 m. Raymond Steele June 6, 1990; Deceased: August 16, 2004
Political Affiliations: None Found
Religious Affiliations: None Found
Sexual Orientation: Not Known
Relationships: None Indicated at Present
"So, you knew from the beginning that I was a surgical resident at Grey-Sloan?" Anastasia's cold, unwavering and withering look, nostrils flaring and making her gaze more intense.
"Yes."
"So, it wasn't a coincidence then when you found me. You didn't need to pick up your head CT scans from the day of your accident?" Her voice grew more aggravated.
"No."
The surgeon wasn't sure if she should feel angry or flattered. "Do you know how wrong and fucked-up this is?"
"I don't see it that way," Christian said. "What I do, I have to be careful."
"At my expense of you invading my privacy? Illegally obtaining information that you should not have in the first place?" Her tone was scolding and reprimanding, trying to make him understand his errors.
"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 gazed at her, his expression guarded and unreadable.
The nerve on this guy. That's not a valid excuse at all. "Just because you can do it, doesn't make it right. And just because you feel the need to have control doesn't make it right, either." She shook her head, "Also, you do misuse this information. It now explains your need to give me gifts or buy the hospital, or finding me."
His mouth pressed in a hard line, challenging her with a question. "Anastasia, do you have any idea how much money I make?"
Clearly, you do—holding information about my bank account. Who does that? Flushing embarrassingly to his inquiry, she rolled her eyes. "Why does that matter? I don't need to know the bottom line of your bank account, Christian. I just don't care."
His eyes softened, cocking his head to the side as he admired and marveled her features. "I know. That's one of the things I love about you."
Her world stopped spinning, gazing at him shocked. Love about me?
"Anastasia, I earn roughly one-hundred thousand dollars an hour," he continued.
An hour? Her mouth dropped open, lips forming in the shape of an o. She remained quiet, processing the number and doing quick math in her head, calculating his salary in a day. In a week. In a month. In a year.
"Buying my share of the hospital—a share of a hundred million dollars is nothing. The car, the clothes, the apartment—they're nothing." His voice was soft, trying to reassure her.
Anastasia gazed at him and blinked once. Does he really have no idea what he just… Extraordinary. Getting back to the subject, she blinked a couple more times and went back on track. "Say you were me. How would you feel about this? The invasion of privacy, the largesse coming your way?" She asked.
Christian stared blankly at her. The silence stretched between them as she waited for his response, an answer he couldn't find himself relating to. Finally, he shrugged. "I don't know," he replied, looking genuinely bemused.
Her heart swelled. To her, he was like a child that couldn't understand the simple complexity of the situation. Explaining carefully, she said, "It doesn't feel all that great to be honest. I know that your heart is in the right place, and you wouldn't do anything to hurt me." She sighed and organized all the files and documents back into the manila folder, "You're also very generous, but all of this makes me uncomfortable."
She shook the folder in her hand and dropped it on the desk, "This makes me uncomfortable. I've mentioned this enough times in the past."
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, sighing afterwards. "I just want to give you the world, Anastasia."
"You do, Christian." Anastasia spoke softly with safekeeping comfort, "I just want you. Only you. Not all the add-ons."
"They're part of the deal. Part of what I am."
Oh, this is getting us nowhere. I think I'm the one that's going to have to back down on this one.
Surrendering to the arguing, scolding and tension of their day, she asked, "Shall we eat?"
Christian frowned, "Sure."
"I'll cook us something." Since you can't.
"Good," he nodded. "Otherwise there's good in the fridge."
"If Mrs. Jones is off on the weekends, how do you even feed yourself? Do you just order in? Or eat cold cuts?" They walked out of his study together, exiting the room.
"No," he vaguely and simply responded.
"No, what?"
He sighed, "My submissives cook for me, Anastasia."
She chuckled and flushed, "Of course." What was I even thinking? It's not like a man-child should learn to cook for himself. Teasing him, she asked jokingly, "What would you do without me, Mr. Grey?"
"That's not something I enjoy thinking about, Miss Steele," he admitted honestly and lowly.
"It was rhetorical question." She shook her head and smiled sweetly, "So, what would Sir like to eat for lunch?"
He smirked, responding darkly, "Whatever Madam can find."
After entering his kitchen and rummaging through the dominant's massive fridge, the brunette decided on a Spanish omelet with cold potatoes, a quick and easy recipe to whip up. Christian went back into his study after leaving his girl to her duties. He's probably invading another person's privacy and compiling their information onto a sheet of paper to "be careful." She knew he had no boundaries to his unreasonable desires, ambitious enough to let irrationality takeover his mindset.
Before cooking, Anastasia wandered over to the iPod dock beside the fireplace, picking up Christian's iPod. She wanted music to accompany her while cooking, needing a mood booster to lift the tension and bad energy away. Knowing that his music player was tainted with Leila's tastes, she scrolled through an extensive list of songs. She didn't want something soothing and relaxed.
Beyoncé? What is Miss Queen Bee doing in here? "Crazy in Love" blared onto the speakers of the apartment's sound system, the beats and melody to the music lifting her mood and setting a smile on her face. She giggled and turned the volume up just a bit, strolling back to the kitchen to begin lunch.
She found and grabbed a bowl, opened the fridge, and took out the eggs, cracking each one and whisking them into the bowl as her body swayed to the music. Raiding the fridge once again, she grabbed for the potatoes, ham, and green beans—a perfect medley of food to eat for lunch. Finding a pan, she placed it on the stove and heated it up with light oil before heading back to her bowl of whisked eggs, continuing to whisk and dance away.
"It's one of the things I love about you." His words from earlier rang and whispered in her ears sweetly, making her stomach bloom and her heart expand. She stopped whisking, biting down a smile. Are there other things he loves about me? She grinned happily to herself, staring down into her beaten eggs. It was the first genuinely heart-felt smile since her encounter of Mrs. Robinson.
Christian slipped his arms around her, making her jump from her thoughts. "Interesting choice of music," he purred as he kissed below her ear. "Mmm… your hair smells good," he hummed gently, nuzzling his face into her hair as he inhaled deeply.
His touch melted against her skin; desire unfurling in her belly. No. The brunette shimmied and shrugged out of his embracing arms.
"How long are you going to be mad at me?" He frowned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He wanted to touch her and kiss her; among other things he eagerly restrained himself from doing.
"Maybe until I've eaten, Christian." I'm not mad at you. I just don't like knowing that you can touch me, and I can't touch you.
Beautifully sculptured lips twitched with amusement to her answer. Turning, he picked up the remote from the counter and switched off the music. Too much Beyoncé for you?
"I'm guessing you didn't put that on your iPod?"
He nodded his head, his expression somber, letting her know of her correct assumption—Leila, the stalker submissive.
"Don't you think she was trying to tell you something back then?" Her head turned around slightly, putting a hold to her whisking as she inquired him.
"Well, with hindsight, probably," he answered quietly.
"Why's it still on there?"
"I quite like the song. But if it offends you, I'll remove it."
"No, it's okay. I like the song, too," she explained. "I like cooking to music."
"What would you like to hear?" He offered, hoping to continue giving her what she wanted.
She smiled to herself, "Enlighten me."
He smirked at her choice of words and the challenge, heading over to the iPod dock as she went back to whisking. Moments later, the heavenly soulful voice of Nina Simone filled the room. "I Put A Spell on You" creeped into the speakers, serenading her. Looking up from her bowl, Anastasia turned her head towards him in result to the song choice, knitting her brows as she stared at him. She flushed, staring at the dark, intense look on his face.
Enthralled by his expression and presence, Christian stalked towards, a wolf to his prey. He made his way to her in the pace of the slow, sultry melody of Simone's song. He was barefoot, wearing an untucked and slightly-unbuttoned white shirt, jeans, and a smoldering look.
Nina sang, "You're mine." On cue, he reached his girl, intentions becoming clearer as each arm entrapped her in place, between his arms.
"Christian, please," she whispered, staring down at her bowl. Don't.
"Please what?" He asked lightly.
"Don't do this."
"Do what?"
"You know what," she answered quietly and begrudgingly.
Christian stood in front of her, arms flexed against the edges of the counter as he gripped onto it tightly, letting the veins bulge from his arms. He tensed in front of her. "Are you sure?" He breathed, reaching over and taking the whisk from her hands. He placed it in the bowl with the eggs, remaining eye contact with her as his gray eyes burned into her soul. He closed his eyes and took a deep inhale, breathing her in as the color on her cheeks persisted.
Indecisive of her wants, needs, and desires, Anastasia's breathing hitched and shook. Her heart was in her mouth, watching his hot and arousing expression fill her body and senses. He was incredibly close, and she had to break away from his penetratingly spellbinding look. He's frustratingly too much right now.
"I want you, Anastasia," he murmured, almost as if it were a plea. "I love and I hate, and I love arguing with you. It's very new to me." His hot breath tickled her face while his body emanated a burning heat that made her want him even more. "I need to know that we're okay. It's the only way I know how."
His close proximity was tempting and overwhelming, burdening her with a weight of senses that only he possessed. His scent was just as intoxicating, making her mouth water and wanting to breathe him in, run her tongue against every inch of his skin—his lips, his tongue, his neck, his chest, his length. The familiar pull between their bodies was hard to go unnoticed.
She tried resisting, backing away from his irresistible body and face as she leaned back against the counter, resting her body on it; however, his face and body followed with her, coming back into her bubble—her space—and letting it fill of him again. His heat was warming her skin, and she imagined their clothes being stripped off due to warmth. She stood quietly and speechlessly, drinking him in as far as she could from him as she bit her lip and stared
"I'm not going to touch you until you say yes," Christian said softly, trying to suppress a groan from her desirable looks. "But right now, after a really shitty morning. I want to bury myself in you and just forget everything but us."
Us. A myriad of unfurling emotions began coming out of her. The pronoun itself awakened her body, raising her head to stare at his beautiful yet serious face again.
His head tilted fractionally to the side, admiring her features and the warmth in her gold eyes while his soothing voice continued, "Just you and me… Only you and me… Remember?"
I remember. "I'm going to touch your face," Anastasia breathed. The sound of her own voice shocked her, forgetting what it sounded like from all that was happening to her. Surprise reflected briefly in his eyes before his acceptance registered, allowing her to continue.
Lifting her hand carefully, she caressed his cheek, slowly running her fingertips across his stubble. His eyes closed and he exhaled, letting himself experience and luxuriate the feel of her delicate hand as he leaned into her touch.
Christian leaned down slowly while Anastasia instinctively lifted her face to meet up with his, lip automatically pressed against each other, barely touch. He hovered over her and whispered, "Yes or no, Anastasia?" His lips teased and tickled her as they moved through his words.
"Yes." Her words came out no more than an audible sigh, allowing him access to what was always his.
He lowered his lips onto hers, his mouth softly closing onto her plump lips. He coaxed and coerced them to open with his brushing lip, tasting her lips gently. When her mouth opened, he reminded himself of what she tasted like, devouring her sweet scent and taste as his arms wrapped around her tightly, pulling her body into his. As his body folded her into his arms, she let her tongue relish his. Christian. His hand moved up her back, fingers tangling in at the back of her head and tugging gently while his other hand flattened on her behind. He pushed her up onto him, forcing her against his as she moaned softly into his mouth. The intense passion was slow, but it was scorching hot.
"Mr. Grey," Taylor coughed, and Christian immediately released her.
Anastasia whirled herself around in an instant, gasping from the sound of the bodyguard's voice as her fingers went to her lips. She touched them, wet from his seduction before licking her lips.
"Taylor," Christian said with a voice frigid through gritted teeth.
They were staring at each other, an unspoken communication passing between them. "My study," he snapped at Taylor, making him briskly walk across the room.
"Rain check," Christian whispered desperately, rubbing the corner of her mouth with his thumb before following out the room.
She took a deep, steadying breath, listening to her shake in response to what happened. Jesus. Get a hold of yourself, Steele. She ran her fingers through her recently cut hair, smoothing through the strands until she reached her neck, massaging and rubbing it gently from behind. Her eyes blinked rapidly before she focused with making lunch, readying the potatoes and cutting them.
Is this about Leila? Her mind raced anxiously to the thought, wanting to eavesdrop and listen in.
Ten minutes later, the two of them emerged from the study just as their lunch was ready and prepared. Christian looked preoccupied and wary as he returned and glanced at her, but she ignored his intensely gray eyes, picking up the finished plates.
"I'll let brief them in ten," he said to his bodyguard.
"We'll be ready," Taylor answered and left the great room.
Anastasia produced the plates onto the kitchen island, setting them beside their seat before she sat. "Lunch?"
"Please," Christian said, perching on one of the bar stool as he watched her carefully.
"Is everything okay?"
"Yes." Liar.
Her subconscious internally scowled at him as she took a bite out of her lunch with him. "This is good," Christian murmured appreciatively, taking another bite. "Would you like a glass of wine?"
"No, thank you." I'd like to keep a clear head around you.
Although the brunette's appetite was gone, she agreed that it did taste as good as she'd hope. Knowing not to upset Christian or make him nag, she continued eating. Minutes of uninterrupted silence passed and, eventually, he disrupted their brooding quietness by switching on the classical piece she heard earlier after finishing her haircut.
"What's this?" Anastasia asked.
"Canteloube, Songs of the Auvergne. This is called 'Bailero.'"
"It's lovely. What language is this in?" Her eyes blinked as she took a moment to translate any of the words she could familiarize herself with.
"It's in old French—Occitan, in fact," he said."
"You speak French. Do you understand the lyrics?" Memories of Christian's flawless French at his parents' dinner party came to mind.
"Some words, yes." Christian smiled, 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."
They're all perfect children. "Wow, that's really impressive," she exclaimed. "And for martial arts?"
"Elliot does Judo. Mia put her foot down at the age of twelve and refused." He smirked at the memory.
"You're lucky. I wish I had a mother that had organized all those things for me."
"Dr. Grace is formidable when it comes to the accomplishments of her children."
"Well, she must be very proud of you. I know I would be," Anastasia smiled warmly.
A dark though flashed across Christian's face, and he looked momentarily uncomfortable. What did I do now? He regarded her warily as if he was 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 was suddenly brusque.
She blinked, confused at him. He sounded upset or angry. Did I do something? What I say? "I haven't chosen what to wear yet. I was interrupted during that decision, but I will later. Did you choose all those clothes?"
"No, Anastasia, I didn't. I have a list and sent your size to a personal shopper at Neiman Marcus. They should fit," he responded.
Of course you did.
And then, within a split second, he became more serious. "Just so 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?"
What happened? Is something wrong? Not wanting to make him more distressed or upset, the brunette chose to keep in her curiosity. She didn't want to insult or question his judgment. "Okay," she said, nodding.
"Good. I'm going to brief them. I shouldn't be long."
"Oh, they're here?" She turned, peeking through his shoulder to see if she could spot any of them. Where are they?
"Yes."
Collecting his plate, Christian placed it in the sink and disappeared from the room. Anastasia followed the same actions, handwashing their plates before setting them aside on the drying rack. He's so moody sometimes. I can't keep up.
Heading back upstairs and into the bedroom with the "Anastasia Rose Steele" manila file in hand, the brunette tossed the folder on the vanity table before walking back into the humongous closet. She pulled out the three long evening dresses.
Now, which one to wear…
I'm sure you don't mind me posting too soon. I just had so much more to write and say and I wanted to share it all with you and keep going.
I hoped you all enjoyed my chapter! Let me know what you think as usual and there will be more coming soon!~