A/N: Ah, Truefeathers77, I missed the opportunity to say mouths have teeth! Love it. Though Ana is a bit overwhelmed by the man to be too witty with him. As for the diamond necklace, you caught me again. There was to be a paragraph about it and it was missed. That will have to be added into a previous chapter to make it right. Thanks for the observation. Now, for the rest of you: please don't hate me. The cliffhangers are not intentional; it's just that I need somewhere to break it off. If it's any consolation, I've been updating this story at the expense of my others. I'm a literature professor, by the way, and the new semester has begun. You guys will have to be patient with me.

Chapter 7

Crestfallen. That's the word to describe how I feel but how I mustn't appear to my date for the evening. God, I was so looking forward to being with Christian again. The man standing in front of me is so muscle-bound, he's practically missing a neck. His sandy hair is cut super short—a buzz cut—and he wears dark clothing. It's not as if he can ever be inconspicuous, though. Everything about the man screams Watch it! He's not bad looking, though, not bad at all. Irina said he was handsome and so he is. If I had to describe him in one word, I know just what it would be: masculine.

"Hello. I'm looking for Miss Steele? Ana Steele?"

"Yes, that's me. Henry, I presume?"

He looks baffled.

"Er, no. I'm Mr. uh, Henry's driver, among other things. He awaits you in the car."

I crane my neck to see over his shoulder. There's a sleek black Mercedes waiting in front. "Among other things?" I can't resist pumping him for information.

He shrugs apologetically. "Jack of all trades."

"Master of none?"

"Oh, well, I've mastered a few."

I give him my patented girl-next-door smile. "Well, as long as those few don't include ace serial killer, I'm okay with it. I just need to grab my purse."

I close the door on him, run to the kitchen and leave a note on the table for Kate. I don't feel too nervous because Irina vouched for the safety of this client and I still suspect—I let myself hope again—it's Christian Grey. It would be so like him to take up my second date so my commitment to Irina is satisfied plus he gets to yell at me for going out with a stranger. Win-win for him. I pull a chunk of my long hair out of the collar of my fuchsia sweater where it's caught, and exit the condo. The hot bodyguard is waiting patiently for me outside. "What did you say your name is?"

"I didn't." He offers me a toothy grin—nice teeth, too. "I'm Jason. Jason Taylor, at your service."

I give him a nice to meet you and follow him to the car. He opens the rear door and I bend to get in—and that's when I see him. Henry Chinaski is indeed Christian Grey and right now his eyes are fiery with emotion. Could be fury or it could be passion. My only problem is… I can't tell which one.

"Hi," I say shyly, testing the waters.

Grasping my hand and bringing it to his luscious lips, he drops a butterfly-soft kiss on my fingers… but says nothing.

I begin to squirm as his silence grows longer. "Um, I think I said hello?"

"Hello, Ms. Steele. How are you this fine evening?"

"I'm well. And yourself?"

"I'm feeling a tad out of sorts."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Are you?" He offers me the barest of smiles. "You see, I have a friend who continually disregards my sound advice on how to keep herself safe. I'm wondering now if she harbors disdain for my opinion or perhaps she's plagued by some kind of mental deficiency that makes it impossible for her to recognize dangerous situations."

Ooh, now he's down to calling me dumb? I don't think so. I shore up my spine and my chin rises into the clouds. "Oh? Well perhaps it's neither. Perhaps your friend… assuming that's what she is… believes your caution to be misplaced. Moreover, she might have known Henry Chinaski's true identity all along and so never had cause to worry."

He turns his head to look at me. Boy, is he ever gorgeous. I think I could gaze into those soulful eyes all day long: they mesmerize me. His voice, petal soft, breaks through my swoon. "And how exactly do you know, Ms. Steele, that you do not have cause to worry about danger from me?"

His question brings me up short—I have no smug answer for that one. None. Mainly because I'm operating on instinct. Well, instinct and reputation—my instinct and his reputation.… and those, I suppose, don't necessarily preclude him from doing something awful to me. No, he's got me there.

Seeing my conclusion on my face, no doubt, he smiles slightly and, still holding my hand, he caresses it gently with his thumb. "Did you recognize the name?"

"Not immediately though it was instantly familiar. Ultimately, I had to look it up."

"Have you ever read Bukowski?"

"In high school."

Releasing my hand, he bends toward me and secures my seatbelt—something I actually forgot to do. I seem to forget a lot when I'm near him. "You know, Ana, I think I could grow to like restraining you."

Oh, God. From his lips to my girly parts. I feel a rush of heat pool in my lower regions as my fevered brain conjures an image of me tied to those crossbars with Christian whipping my naked body. Why is that idea suddenly erotic instead of only scary? He notices my reaction, I think, for he leans in closer. "Kiss me, Ana."

I inch closer to him and close my eyes to kiss him. His lips are soft, his tongue insistent, and when I part my lips he invades… but gently. Oh, the man can kiss. I'm overwhelmed by him: every one of my senses is engaged. I smell his alluring scent; I taste his sweet, warm mouth; I hear his deep breaths, causing my own to grow deeper, but most of all, I feel him— his mouth, his touch, his intense, unbelievable heat. It's rising off his skin in waves like hot sand on a blistering day at the beach. As I'm about to break away to try to keep my wits from scrambling, his hand reaches behind my head and holds me in place while his tongue plunders my mouth. If I died right now, I'd go out happy.

When he finally ends the kiss sometime the following week—or so it feels—I study the perfect planes of his face. My heart sinks as I'm forced to accept the inevitability of my falling in love with Christian Grey. I also realize the kiss has changed, escalated, the tenor of our relationship and I need to know more about him.

There's one big question mark—at least on my end. He may have his own concerns about me. For my peace of mind, though, I want desperately to ask him about the leathersex room and his compulsion to partake of it… but Jason Taylor can hear every word we say, first of all. Second, the last time we barely grazed the subject and he took offense. Granted, I said it was reprehensible behavior or some such judgmental remark. How could he not take exception?

Since then I've done some research on BDSM and I've learned quite a bit. At the end of the day, it's just kinky sex and as long as it's consensual and no one gets seriously harmed, then there should be no issue. I regret passing judgment on Christian and I want to tell him so. I also want him to explain it to me. Now's not the best time, however. I wonder if we'll have any time alone tonight—if wishing would make it so, then indeed we would.

I feel bold enough to lean my face against his shoulder. I instantly feel him tense so I lift my head. "Is this okay?"

He offers me a sidelong glance, a gentle nod. The car is peacefully quiet.

"Are you really taking me to your parents' house?" I ask after a few minutes.

"Yes."

"Why?"

He's gazing out the window, his chin on his fist, and he sighs. "My family can be irritating at times. Though they've seen countless photos of me with a woman on my arm, it's not enough to appease them. Since I've never brought anyone home with me—well, it both frustrates and annoys them. Especially Elliot, who does not have a discriminating bone in his body and cannot comprehend anyone who does. I do believe he's fucked every female in Seattle north of eighteen and south of seventy."

I gasp at his crude language since I'd yet to hear any from his delectable mouth.

He grins. "Sorry, Ana. You see? My family brings out the worst in me."

"Do you like them?"

He looks at me strangely. "I love them. Very much so, especially my mother."

"Oh? I remember Elliot telling me you two were half-brothers."

"Yes."

He doesn't say any more by way of explanation and I don't push. In his own good time, he'll tell me, and I don't want to be pushy. Meantime, I'm planning on enjoying Christian tonight and who knows? I might end up really enjoying him. I feel ready and he's the one I want.

About twenty minutes later, the Mercedes swings into the open entrance of a gated estate. The area is incredibly beautiful and I look around the property, as much as possible from the car window. So Christian Grey grew up privileged. He's probably never known a moment of adversity in his entire life. Not that I'm in a position to complain. Sure, I've missed a few meals when I overspent my allowance or my school loan money was late in arriving… but basically I've had my every need seen to—just not on a level like this.

The approach to the house is extensive and looks like park grounds. When the house comes into view, I gasp. I had thought Irina's house impressive but this one is beyond even her villa. It appears to be a sprawling Georgian manor house, with a red-brick façade, shuttered windows (with real shutters that close up the window from heat and cold), a massive front door with an impressive blue slate staircase and entryway. The antique glass in the windows sparkle in the last vestiges of sunlight slanting toward the house.

Panic hijacks my body: my hands start to sweat and the rest of me feels chilled. "Who am I meeting tonight?"

He looks surprised by my question. "My parents. You've already met my brother and sister."

"No one else?"

He shakes his head. "I have a younger brother but he's away at boarding school so he won't be with us tonight."

"What's his name?"

"Zander."

"As in—"

"Alexander."

"How old is he?"

He rubs his eyebrow. I think it may be a nervous habit of his. "Sixteen, I think. Yes, sixteen." His eyes shift to mine as the car turns into the circular drive and rolls to a stop in front of the entrance. "Ready?"

I bob my head. For someone who likes to talk, I suddenly have nothing to say.

Once we exit the car, he holds me at arm's length and assesses me, head to toe. "You look very nice, Ana. You nailed the casual yet dressy requirement rather unerringly. Good job." He grins devilishly, a dimple emerging on one side of his face, "I must say you look good in pink."

Why is that funny, I think? Does he mean when I blush I look good? Or that he likes to make me blush? What else could be pink? With him, I always feel as if he's having fun at my expense but I'm operating in the dark. Oh well, I guess that's what they mean when they say ignorance is bliss. I put it out of my mind to concentrate on my terror.

We stand in front of the darkly gleaming mahogany doors. Through the sidelights, I can see warm Persian rugs and candlelight. Christian rings the bell and almost immediately the doors are opened by a woman dressed in black. I'm grateful for the quick response so I don't have time to angst over it. I try to remind myself that I'm his paid escort—not his girlfriend. But it feels as if we're dating and I'm meeting his parents for the first time.

"Master Christian. How very nice to see you again."

Christian smiles. "Thank you, Babette. This is my date, Ana Steele. Ana, Babette is a longtime family friend and employee."

I extend my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Babette. I love your name."

"Oh, thank you, my dear, and the pleasure is mine. Please come in."

She steps aside to allow us entry. Christian leads me through the entrance foyer into a large, sumptuously appointed room. It's done in light blues, beiges, and browns and, though beautiful, every piece of furniture seems to be chosen for comfort first, and aesthetics second. Standing in front of a lively fire in the prominent brick hearth is a tall man—superior build, dark hair but for salt and pepper at his temples, and a drink in his hand. He looks like he's doing an ad for top-shelf scotch.

"Dad, how'd it go?"

The man angles his face toward us, and I see Christian's resemblance to his father is astonishing. This is what Christian will look like in twenty-five years, give or take a few.

"Not too shabby, son. We got pretty much everything we asked for going into it."

"Excellent. I told you to stand firm. It's a buyer's market all the way."

"Yes, you were right, and your mother is ecstatic. Imagine, her very own island. She wants to name it and call it a country," he laughs, his eyes shining. Green eyes… not silvery blue like his son's. They're a very pale green, almost the color of grapes. Glancing at me with zeal, he asks his son, "So… will you introduce us or shall I resort to guessing whom this lovely young lady is and by what name she's called?"

Christian scowls. "Give me a chance. Dad, this is Ana Steele. Ana, my father, Carrick Grey."

The elder Mr. Grey takes two long-legged strides and is right before us. He extends his hand and I take it. "It's lovely to meet you, Ana. Thank you for visiting our home."

I smile and hope he doesn't feel my hand trembling. I'm so sickeningly nervous and I'm not exactly sure why. Because they're so wealthy? Or because I really like Christian? Or maybe a bit of both, with some other factors thrown in for good measure. Like how freakishly good-looking they all are. "Likewise. Thank you for having me."

"Where is everyone?" Christian asks, scanning the empty room.

"Your mother is in the kitchen with the staff going over the course order. Your sister is in her room and Elliot has not yet arrived. We are having other company as well.

"Oh? May I ask whom?"

"Carl Stinson, of course, since he did such a bang-up job of pushing through this real estate deal, and his significant other—I believe her name is Gina… er, I cannot recall her surname. Some long Italian name, I believe.

"Oh, and do you remember Rich Kavanagh? He and his family are coming."

In response to my look of surprise, Mr. Grey chuckled. "He told me that his daughter Kate's friend had recently become acquainted with you, Christian. I thought it would be nice for us all to get together. Rich and I used to collaborate quite often."

As if our conversation conjured them, the doorbell rings and I hear Kate's father's booming voice travel through the open parlor doors from the hallway. Knowing Kate will be with me makes me feel much more comfortable and I give her a huge hug when she comes into the room. In less than ten minutes, we're all seated and Babette sends in catering staff to serve drinks. Into this party, Elliot saunters ten minutes later, wearing beat-up jeans and a black jersey. His father doesn't seem to notice his inappropriate dress as Elliot, politely standing, nods and smiles at appropriate intervals while his father introduces him to everyone. He shows verve when he sees me (absolute glee) and when he meets Kate (absolute lust). I hear Christian mutter under his breath, "Will wonders never cease? A woman who got away."

After drinks are served, Grace comes in, marches straight to Christian and gives him an all-encompassing hug and then does the same to Elliot. Christian introduces me and then everyone gets introduced again. When Grace has met everyone, the room falls silent for a moment. Elliot chooses the moment to snicker. "So Christian, tell us where you and Ana met?"

I'm just taking a sip of my wine when he asks the question and the shock makes me gulp and aspirate the wine, and I choke. Christian claps me on the back, glowering at his brother. "We met at a party. Kate, have you recently moved to Seattle?"

"No, I've lived here all of my life," Kate answers innocently.

"Oh? I'm only surprised you haven't met my brother Elliot before. He does get around."

Kate just smiles but says nothing—her father is sitting next to her, for God's sake. Elliot turns beet red and flashes his brother a filthy look. It makes for an awkward moment.

Grace, however, is the perfect hostess. Without missing a beat, she begins to herd everyone into the dining room but holds back her two sons and I hear her say one sentence to them but I cannot make out too many words. Something about ten-year-olds… sniping… embarrassing other people… unacceptable. I head into the dining room ahead of them so as not to intrude on a private moment. After the maternal reprimand, both men hang their heads in disgrace and walk into the room thoroughly chastised. I can't help it: I burst out laughing when I see them and quickly cover my wayward mouth with my hand. Carrick looks over at me and winks. So they know their boys are always having at each other then? Christian wends his way around the huge antique refectory table and takes his seat beside me.

When Grace sits down, I take a moment to observe her. She's the kind of woman any young girl would want to emulate. Dark golden blond hair pulled up in a loose, casual knot, a long elegant neck and slender body, fairly tall at about 5'9, and an elegantly beautiful face. Her eyes sparkle with intelligence and kindness, and it's easy to see the love shining through as she looks at her boys—all three of the ones present. Just as I begin to cast my eyes about for Mia, she sashays into the room, smiling.

"Well, I suppose better late than never," her father remarks.

"Dad, I have a huge research paper to write. I needed to shut myself up in my room."

Carrick looks down the table. "Mia is finishing up her coursework for her Ph.D.

"Oh? What are you studying, Mia?" I'm intrigued how advanced her studies are.

"Political science with a specialty in foreign language. I'd like to go into diplomatic work."

"No one could be more diplomatic than Mia, after all," Grace comments indulgently. "Growing up surrounded by stubborn boys. Even our dog and cat were male."

"Yes, Mom. Thankfully, we had each other." Mia smiles up at her mother. Just as I described Jason Taylor—or just Taylor, as Christian refers to him—in one word, so too could I describe Mia in a word and it's vivacious. She seems to embrace everything she encounters in life, approaching everything—and everyone—with gusto. I remember hearing someone described that way once, and now that I've met Mia, I understand what the description means.

Course after course is served, professionally presented by three black-clad servers, two women and a man. It's like being in an upscale restaurant. All three servers are young and fresh-faced, and I do not appreciate how the two women are drooling over Christian. For God' sake, there are other handsome men present—why can't they choose another? But no, they both take every opportunity to come to our part of the table, and brush against Christian's arm, or giggle in his general direction. Bilious jealousy rushes up my throat like acid reflux and I take a sip of water to push it down. I need to get a hold of myself. I'm not his girlfriend; I'm a paid escort. Why can't I get that through my head?

My narrative self jumps in: it's because you like him, dummy. Too much. He'll break your heart if you're not careful. He's miles out of your league.

My narrative self is a total bitch.

Finally dinner comes to an end and Grace invites everyone to come into the music room. Lu Ma Ling, a Chinese exchange student who has been staying with the Greys for the last six months, will be playing the piano for the guests' enjoyment. Grace is so excited for everyone to hear how talented the girl is so she shepherds us all into the cherry-paneled room. After the shy young woman plays three pieces, Christian leans over and whispers in my ear. "Do you want a tour of the house?"

I nod, reluctant to make any sound at all while such beautiful playing is going on.

As soon as she finishes the current concerto, Christian stands and draws me up. We quietly exit the room.

Once we are out of earshot, he turns to me. "Are you having a good time, Ana?"

"Very much so. You seem sort of uncomfortable, however. Does it have anything to do with me?"

"Of course not. I always feel somewhat stressed when I'm with my parents. Expectations are always too damn high."

"Christian, you've certainly met their expectations—and then some. How could they help but be exceedingly proud of you. My God, look what you've accomplished"

He nods, looking distracted. After a moment, he snaps out of it and begins my tour.

"Well, you've seen much of the first floor. There's a family room in back, as well as a mudroom and an office. We'll head upstairs."

I hold his hand again to let him lead. God, I love holding his hand!

"This floor has four of the six bedroom suites, as well as the library, and the dressing room with laundry. Upstairs, are the two master suites."

"They take up the entire floor?"

He nods, smiling.

"Nice. Which one was your bedroom?"

"At the end of the hall. Come, I'll show you."

He leads me past three other doors. When we reach the end, he knocks first, then opens the door, allowing me to walk in first. Wow. It's a beautiful room, something one might see in a catalog for a boy's room. It's done in masculine tones of deep blue, a lighter blue and chocolate brown. There are a few posters on the walls but they're unusual for an American teenage boy: a soccer player—not football or baseball player, a shot of Kurt Cobain sitting on a stool with guitar in hand, and a poster of Buddha, interestingly enough. There's a saying in Japanese, I think, over the bed. The bed.

The bed is large—queen size—and it has a beautiful handmade quilt covering it. The quilt is made with every shade of blue possible, with bits of dark green and brown thrown in. One of the talents of a quiltmaker is surely the eye to put colors together and make them harmonize. At the foot of the bed is a neatly folded cashmere throw in an espresso brown. I know it's cashmere because I can't help touching it as I pass.

I gravitate toward the desk. Above it is a bulletin board with photos and other paraphernalia thumbtacked to it. I see a young Christian in various photos, a few of him with friends, a few alone. The ones of him as a small child are unusual in that he's not smiling in any of them. The photos of him as an older boy are much happier. Interesting.

As I'm poring over them, I feel his hands come around my waist and my body has an instant reaction to his touch: everything sharply contracts, among other things. I lean back against him and he whispers in my ear.

"I know you have limitations on your contract but I would very much like to exceed them tonight."

I say nothing but I try to let him know of my agreement by melting against him. As I do, I feel his rock-hard erection on my lower back and I get wet, very wet. I want him so badly.

One arm wraps around me, while the free one begins to travel upward. He reaches my breast and begins to play with it.

Another whisper. "Is this okay?"

I lean my head back into his chest and murmur, "Everything's okay."

A deep, sexy laugh is his only response and it pulls me in deeper. But surely he doesn't want to do this here, in his parents' home? We should go back to his place. He does have his own place, I'm assuming, though he's never mentioned it.

His insistent hand keeps touching my breasts in ways I've never imagined being touched and I want him to do more. The fabric between my body and his talented fingers is frustrating me. I'm not even sure I can wait until we leave—I'm in crisis mode at this point. What is on my mind right now, other than the obvious, is whether or not to tell him I've never been here before. But surely I must.

"Christian…"

He turns me around to face him. "I want you, Ana. I've wanted you since I first saw you in that blue gown."

"I want you, too, Christian. There's something I have to tell you first."

He isn't expecting that from me and his eyes turn wary. "What is it?"

I feel the blood now rushing to my face—I must be driving my body crazy. "It's… uh… it's just that I've never been here before." I force myself to look up at him and watch as confusion clouds his eyes.

"You've never… what? Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

I manage a small smile. "I don't know. Depends on what you think I'm saying."

"That you've never… you're a virgin?"

He said it; I didn't. I feel relief. "Yes." My voice sounds funny, breathy.

"May I ask why? Why you waited so long?"

So long? It's not like I'm forty. Inhaling deeply, I try to answer him. "I never met anyone who I wanted to…" I don't need to finish it.

"Have you now?"

"Yes," I answer without compunction.

"Here? Or shall we go to my place?"

"I'd feel more comfortable at your place."

He leans in to kiss me and the heat ratchets right up again, my knees start to buckle but his arm holds me up. He's clutching me to him and now he's against my belly and he's getting bigger, harder even, if that's possible. Can we wait? Finally, he tears himself away as if it were a struggle.

"Then we'll go to my place," he says, grabbing my hand and leading me to the door.