"Black cod, rare," I say to the mustachioed server taking my order and my thoughts immediately go to the rarest delicacy of all currently being unsheathed in the ladies room just paces away. I imagine Ana's panties sliding over the swell of her ass, skimming her thighs and catching at her ankles, before she collects them for me. She'll return with my delectable little fistful and find the exact replica of our first sexually charged dinner together spread out before her, while I imagine her spread out before me.
I must have that black cod.
"No black cod, sir," the server says, staring ahead like a Marx brother who's a fucking tragedy.
I shut the menu I'm perusing and glare into his beady little watchers. "I'm sorry, but that sounded like a negative conclusion to my positive expectation."
"Uhh... yes, I suppose," he says. He looks confused. By life.
"Why?" I ask.
"Wasn't the fresh catch today, sir." He shrugs. The way his shoulders fly up to his ears makes him my mortal enemy.
"What was?" I ask.
"White bass," he affirms.
"Why would I want white bass over black cod?" Why does that sound like a line in a fisherman porno?
I'm oddly disturbed that that could actually be a thing. And that this idiot with his skunk fur 'stache could star in it.
Gives crab catching a whole new meaning.
"I don't know, sir. It's available." He shrugs again and my hand nearly flies to the butter knife to give him a forcible shave. But instead of assaulting his upper lip with dairy spreading equipment, I pick up my BlackBerry to assault the keys instead.
"Hold on," I say as I rush a text to Taylor: How fast can you deliver two portions of top grade black cod to this kitchen?
He replies quickly: Sir?
What the hell kind of response is that?
Oh wait. I guess I typed too fast, because I look again and see that autocorrect changed cod to cock and kitchen to kitten.
I text back: Butt dial.
Though, I'm not sure that was a solid reply.
I debate if I want to have heads roll in the kitten over this, but I don't want to prolong getting Ana home—especially with everything out there in the open down in paradise south. Black cod isn't worth blue balls.
"Fine, bass," I bite. "But, prepare it like cod."
"The chef's funny about changes."
"Well, I'm fucking hilarious with my magic trick of the disappearing employment," I spit back.
"Of course, sir." He clears his throat and straightens. "Will that be all?"
"Uh, no," I say. Is this idiot for real? "What do you think I want—just two hunks of cod on a platter and call it a night?"
"Bass," he corrects.
I glare at the fucker. "I'm getting laughingly close to a full blown magic show."
"Of course, sir, I just thought—"
I lean in, with menacing authority. "I own this place and I'm on a date. I always get side dishes."
"Yes, sir."
"Asparagus—large stalks, cut long," I continue. "I don't want those wimpy tips, either. I want girth and weight."
"Mile high never has wimpy tips," he says. I give him the once over and a head shake in reply. He could be the poster child for tips that wimp.
"Extra hollandaise," I add.
"How much extra?"
"If I see the girth and weight, I'm channeling Houdini."
"Yes, sir."
"And roasted potatoes. Not baked, not mashed, not riced out of the chef's asshole—roasted. Olive oil, rosemary— are you writing this down?"
"I have a good memory," he says. I give him a look. "I'm writing this down." He does as he's told.
"Send an oyster selection out first. A dozen, both coasts. Large, briny and creamy."
"Of course," he says and I wave him away. Like a gnat, it takes a few swats.
My phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket, half expecting emergency business or more parental dick exposure stories from Elliot, but no. It's Elena.
Why the hell is she calling me again? Probably because I won't return her calls.
I actually feel like I'm hiding from her. Like when those religious groups come to your door with their pressed-collared suits and glossy pamphlets that tell you you're going straight to hell without a sizable donation and your soul. You peek at them through a part in the blinds and pretend you're not home. You don't tell them to go away straight to their faces. No, there's still some part of you that believes God will strike you down if you do.
I don't listen to the message. I shut the phone off and return it to my pocket.
The telling tip-tap of Louboutins kissing tile pulls me to attention. I watch as Ana makes her way back. God, her legs are long in that skirt. I want to lick the arches of her feet, and her calves, and run my tongue up her inner thigh until I taste the promised land. She must read my mind, because she's blushing and fighting a giggle. Or, maybe it's just being pantiless, though she wasn't laughing at my parents' dinner table. Whatever the case, it's the adorable diversion I need to forget everything but her.
"Well, the lady has returned," I say with wicked glee, eyes fixed on the crumpled lace escaping between her fingers. "A gift for me?"
The smirk/eye-roll synchronicity she produces is trophy worthy as she leans over, her cleavage right in my face. She looks left and then right, and once she's certain no one's looking, she places the panties in my palm.
"Good girl," I whisper, scrunching the lace up in my fingers and fighting the urge to near suffocate myself with their erotic perfume.
I resist. For now.
Ooh, they're damp...
Come and sit by me," I say, fisting the panties into my pocket. Sit by me and come is more like it.
Oh, but not just yet...
Pulling her skirt down snug against her thighs, she sits and scoots in next to me. Once settled, she lets go of the hemline and parts her knees just enough to tell me she wants my attention, but she's still a lady.
She thinks it's going to be that easy?
My dick is arguing her case to my zipper, but I maintain my resolve.
The oysters arrive. Big, juicy ones—all brine and cream and nautical naughty— spread out on a bed of ice that makes me want to devour something else that's now uncovered and on the half shell under the table.
"I recall you liked oysters that time we had them," I say, motioning to the assortment. They really do resemble pussies. Then again, with the current situation that's just been uncovered, I'm probably seeing the world through vagina vision glasses.
"The only time I've tried them." She chews on her lip, cutting her eyes from the tray and up to me.
"Oh Miss Steele, when will you learn." I lift one from the crushed ice, prepare it—manipulating the sliced lemon with long and purposeful strokes and twists, so it's dripping over the meat—and hold it up for Ana to taste.
"Tilt your head back and suck, remember?" I say and she gives me a soft nod. "You're very good at that, I recall."
"And I swallow everything, right?" She stretches the words out long and with a deep throated purr.
"Right," I say in a graveled whisper, still focused on length and depth. "Let it slide down your throat, baby." With measure, I place the hand not holding the oyster onto my thigh. She watches my fingers move back and forth over material ever so slightly, and I can feel her telepathically willing them to lift and find the throbbing heat at the center of her now even more parted legs.
"Do you think you can handle such a big mouthful?" I ask, continuing my torment.
"Try me." She licks her lips, almost in slow motion. The tip of her tongue luxuriating in the taste of her kiss.
Her mind games are actually starting to work, as I feel my fingers dig into my thigh to prevent them from lifting and thrusting a boy scout salute straight inside of her parted way.
She tilts her head back, ever so slightly, inviting me with the soft opening of her lips to do as I please with her mouth.
Fuck. I think my nails are drawing blood on my thigh.
I place the rim of the shell between her lips, the jagged edge pressing against the soft pink flesh. She puckers and sucks, her head thrown back as the contents of the shell slide smoothly down her throat.
Holy shit.
"You can take the shell away now," she says. It takes me a moment or two to translate the English she's speaking to my brain, as Sex-lish is it's primary language at the moment. I suppose I should remove the shell from her lips, and collect my jaw and slobber from the floor, but only one appendage is responding.
Get it together, Grey.
"Perhaps I'll have a taste." I smile, harrowingly holding my composure as I adjust that responding appendage.
"Of what?" she asks, and her front teeth find her bottom lip, purposefully teasing me.
Well, two can play at that game, sweetheart.
With a smile, I turn my attention from her lips to the deep sea vaginas cradled on the ice before me. I prepare an exceptionally fleshy one so it's overflowing with lemon and sitting in a pool of it's own salt water. I suck some of the liquid back and use my tongue to collect the spill off the edges. She's breathy and gaping as she watches me suck and swallow, and if I know my girl, which I so do, she's close to coming and I haven't even touched her yet.
Hell, I'm close to it and I haven't even touched me.
Talk about your transcendental orgasms.
"Still like oysters?" I ask.
"Only yours," she says.
"Damn straight only mine."
We continue this swallowing contest until the tray is clear and my dick referees that she's won and she can collect her prize in the John.
I actually consider it.
Our meals arrive only two seconds prior to an out of order sign being placed on the ladies room door.
"It's like déjà vu," Ana says, looking down at the plate just set before her. "A favorite meal of yours, Mr. Grey?" She smiles.
"Indeed." I smirk.
Good, the chef's done well. She doesn't know it's really bass.
"Though, last time at the Heathman wasn't it cod?" she asks.
"Yes," I grumble.
"We were discussing contracts before," she says and I stop the collection of my silverware.
"Yes," I say with that grim realization. I can't fathom now that I ever wanted her to apply ink to those terms. No cuddling or laughter or an evening out like this one. It would all be this elaborately concocted dark secret. Each one of them was. As was my whole life.
"Before was a long time ago," I say.
"Forever," she says, and she rewards me with her smile.
"I like forever better than before," I say.
"Me, too," she says and her fingers gently touch my hand.
"Well, this time, I really hope I get to fuck you," I say.
"I wouldn't be too presumptive, Mr. Grey. I may get to you first." She picks up her fork to dine.
"We'll see." I grin as I pick up my own.
Game on, Miss Steele.
"Did you sign a contract?" she asks. "I mean, with Mrs. Robinson."
Shit. Back to Elena.
"Yes, way back when I did," I say. She knows this. Why is she asking me?
"Right away, I mean." I can tell she's chewing and testing the words before she uses them. "Did she really make you sign something like that at fifteen?"
"I needed structure," I say. "I told you, I was out of control. My rehabilitation required defined boundaries and I needed to be sure no one would ever touch me unexpectedly." Even as the words leave my lips I realize how shit they are. "I mean, I didn't know it would like this, between us, back then."
"Is that where you got my contract—and the others? Did you just copy hers?"
"Not verbatim, but in the spirit, yes. She helped me draw it up." I take my own bite of potato. "Why?"
"Just curious," she says and then takes a sip of champagne as she gazes pensively out onto downtown Seattle.
"I like you curious," I try and tease.
"That wasn't in the contract," she returns.
"It wasn't. And you were a terrible submissive." I smile. "And that's why we're here right now."
I hadn't thought about it before, as it was just commonplace, but Elena did draw up that initial paperwork. I agreed on what I liked and disliked, but much of what I knew was tied up—figuratively and literally—in what she and I did together. I liked all of it, or I thought I did. It was just... all I ever knew.
And a chilling realization sweeps over me. This is the first relationship, of any significant kind, that she didn't have any part in.
Well, except for Taylor.
"About the NDA—" Ana says.
"Tear it up," I say.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'll destroy mine tonight."
"But, then I could talk."
"You could," I say. "But, I trust you not to. Like Flynn says, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt."
"Me, too," she says with a smile. "Fuck the paperwork?"
"Yes. Well, except for a marriage certificate," I say, painfully hopeful. "Wait, I know. We could actually fuck on the NDA and completely destroy the paperwork together that way."
"I like that idea."
"I'm so glad you're wearing a dress." I raise a lascivious brow.
"Really? Why haven't you touched me then?" She saws through a potato and then stabs at it with her fork.
Carbohydrate massacre.
I like this.
"Missing my touch, are you?" I smirk and wipe the edges of my mouth with my napkin.
"Yes," she says. Another saw, another stab.
"Eat." I point to her plate. Playing around with your food used to be a cardinal sin with the submissives. Although, rules are made to be broken now, and from the looks of that fork in that potato, she's not playing around.
"You're not going to touch me, are you?" she asks.
"No."
"No?"
"No." I pop a potato in my mouth.
"Why not?"
"Just imagine how you'll feel when we get home." I lean in and whisper in her ear, making sure my breath warms her skin, "I can't wait to get you home."
"What if I spontaneously combust right here on the seventy-sixth floor?" she breathes.
"Oh Anastasia, we'd find a way to put that fire out."
Just when I think I've got her where I want her, she looks at me, far too long for good intentions, and then takes a forkful of potato, sucking it clean from the prongs. Her tongue pressing against those points nearly does me in.
"You like potatoes, do you?" I ask and she responds with a soft, satisfied moan.
She puts the knife down and runs her fingers over her sweet milky thigh.
This was my idea of a fun game? I claimed to be a sadist, but I think I'm leaning masochist these days.
"I know what you're doing," I say. I try to keep calm and carry on, but all I can think about is lapping up that sweet milk.
"I know that you know, Mr. Grey. That's the whole point." She takes a stalk of the absolutely drenched asparagus—kudos to the chef on that— and sucks the tip, driving it in and out of her puckered pout until it's clean. She then devours it.
"You're not turning the tables on me, Miss Steele." I take a stalk and run it over her lips so the goopy, buttery mess dribbles down her chin. I'm not sure how this is stopping her table-turning maneuvers, but fuck it's hot.
"Open your mouth," I order. Her lips part and I guide the tip in. She closes around it, her tongue slurping up the oozy, buttery cream in between the bobbing deep-throating action. Strange, I actually feel like I'm vicariously having a blow job through a stalk of a summer dinner vegetable.
"Delicious," she says and her hand moves dangerously close to my thigh.
"Don't touch," I say, lifting her fingers and putting her palm down on her knee.
"You don't play fair," she says.
"I know." I grin and pick up my champagne flute to propose a toast. "Congratulations on your new job."
"Thank you. It was rather unexpected," she says.
We clink.
"All the best things are." I look down to her still far too full plate. "Eat."
"I'm not hungry. Well, not for food." She runs her hands over her lap and moistens her lips with her tongue.
"Ana—"
"I just want to go home and make love," she says with a soft whimper.
"So do I, and we will. Eat up."
"I can't."
"Ana, you've lost far too much weight since I've met you."
"You don't find me attractive like this?"
"What? No, of course I do. It's not about how you look. I want you healthy."
"Fine," she says with a sigh, and takes a nibble of fish.
"Tell me about this Ethan Kavanagh fellow," I say.
"Fellow?" She looks at me like I'm a head of cabbage who thinks he's romaine.
"That blonde boy that has no home or job, whom you've set up with my sister."
"He's Kate's brother," she says, like that's supposed to be his defense. "I told you, he's just staying at the apartment until he gets school settled."
"Isn't he like thirty? Shouldn't he have this figured out?"
"No, he's only two years older than me. He's going to be a psychologist." She takes a sip of champagne. "He's like my good-friend-in-law."
"How good is good?" And why is she proposing legalities on the matter?
"Well..." She takes a bite of bass, in thought. "When I was sick sophomore year and he was visiting, he brought me chicken soup and we watched season four of Sex and the City together."
"Wait, you watched an entire span of a show about horny metropolitan women wielding dildos with him?"
"I think there was more to the show than dildos, but yeah. Just as friends."
"No man watches Sex and the City unless he wants in your panties. Especially with a virgin!" What kind of sick twisted fuck is this? And what's he got planned with Mia?!
"Christian, I had the flu. I had projectile phlegm."
"That's nothing to predators."
She shakes her head and amusedly returns to her bass. I pull out my phone, acting like I'm checking on business, and text Mia: Sex and the City is forbidden!
She replies immediately: Thanks for the info, President Snow. It's accompanied by a photo of a cosmo drunk Sarah Jessica Parker shooting the finger.
How'd she find that so fast?
And who the hell is President Snow?
I shake my head and put the phone back in my pocket.
"I know their father," I say, taking a sip of water, still pissed at this whole dildo flu episode.
"Eamon?" Ana asks.
"Yes, we've done a few deals together. He's quite the successful businessman." Mother Kavanagh must've thrown the apples about a mile from the tree. I'd love to share with Ana how Elliot was caught with his dick mid jack-off by Daddy K, but I'll save that for the next story hour.
"Yes, I suppose," she says, crinkling her nose like she's smelled skunk.
"What does that mean?"
"He's great at business. It's just... I don't want to speak badly about him, but I don't think he's faithful to Kate's mom."
"Well, it wouldn't surprise me. That's what these powerful men do." The smaller the dick, the more shallow holes it's been in.
"Oh." She casts her eyes downward to her plate.
"I know these guys, Ana. It's a power trip. They get bored. They need newness and excitement. The chase. Most are on their third marriage to some bottle blonde with fake tits by the time they're fifty."
"Is that what you want?"
"Blondes aren't my thing, you know that."
"No, I mean... The newness? The excitement?"
"What?" I look at her and see she's actually worried about this. "No, I wasn't talking about me. All I want is you."
"Maybe not now, because we're new and exciting, but you may get bored."
"I won't. Trust me."
"How can you be so sure how you'll feel in five or ten years?"
"Ana, do you really want to know my deepest, most hidden fantasy?" I take her hand and stroke the back of it with my thumb.
"Yes," she whispers, eyeing me warily.
"I want to leave work at five on a regular, ordinary Tuesday and walk through the door of my house, where my wife is waiting to eat with me the same meatloaf we have every Tuesday. And the same meatloaf I know we will have every Tuesday for the rest of our lives."
She sits there, quietly contemplative for a moment. "You really like meatloaf?" she asks.
I shake my head. "Ana, I've had far too many experiences of not knowing what's coming next. Unpredictability. Excitement, if you can call it that. I want the comfort of knowing with absolute certainty that it's meatloaf on Tuesday with my wife."
She smiles. "I do make a mean meatloaf." She twists her mouth in a grin. "But are you saying that if I was a food I'd be meatloaf?"
"I'm saying that you are prime grade, gourmet, orgasmic meatloaf."
"Orgasmic meatloaf." She smiles. "Sounds like a dish."
"Oh, it is."
Speaking of orgasms...
I dust a few bread crumbs off the napkin in my lap, purposefully making my fingers come dangerously close to her thigh.
She shifts on her seat as if trying to gain friction against the cushion.
"We're not going until you finish every bite." I nod to her still too food heavy plate and pull my hand away. "Trust me, I can wait."
She gives me a wicked glance and then picks up her knife and fork. Digging into the bass, she takes a large bite, closing her eyes and moaning it's deliciousness as she chews.
Fuck me.
"This is heaven," she pants as she slides another stalk between her lips, first sucking it dry, then taking it down. She then proceeds to demonstratively suck the remnants off of each fingertip that I so want to suck off for her.
"Good?" I groan. My ability to wait has been critically impaired.
"Yesssss," she pants.
This Harry Met Sally act continues on for about five torturous minutes. I swear if I was listening to this I'd think she was being fingered under the table.
Why isn't this currently happening?!
"I'm all finished," she says, feigning innocence, as she pushes her plate away.
"Good girl," I growl.
"Now what?"
"Now, we get the hell out of here." I lean in to whisper seductively in her ear, "I believe you have certain expectations that I intend to fulfill to the best of my ability."
"Don't we need to pay?" she asks.
"I own this place." I grin. I'm a smug bastard, I know.
"Goodbye, Mr. Grey," that hostess says as I rush Ana by, heading straight for the elevator. "Come again soon!"
"Oh, that's the plan," I say and smirk down to Ana, who bursts out into a giggle.
The elevator doors part and I usher Ana inside, pushing the button for the ground floor. A gaggle of well-boozed club goers meander through and stand in front of us. I make sure Ana and I are secluded in a corner against the back wall.
Ana stares ahead, clueless as to what's about to over-come her. I love taking her by surprise.
Sinatra muzak plays overhead as the doors seal us inside. I clear my throat and slowly kneel to the floor, until I'm eye level with Ana's thigh.
I have seventy-six floors to have her begging for my dick.
Ana, along with some random woman who keeps swaying from foot-to-foot, glances down at me on the floor. I work with my shoelaces. They don't seem to notice I untied one before tying it again. Their attention is stolen away by the ping announcing the seventy-forth floor.
Once the eyes of our car-mates fix ahead, I slowly run a finger up the back edge of her high heel, to the dip behind her ankle. She shifts and looks down at me. I mouth a shush and she stills.
My fingers travel up the back of her calf and up her thigh. I can feel her shiver as her skin pimples beneath my tips. I stroke the crevice where her ass meets her thigh, until I travel west and reach water.
"Always so ready, Miss Steele," I whisper in her ear as my now dripping fingers continue their play between her folds.
She softly hums both her appreciation and her torment as I strum her clit, feeling it swell and pulsate beneath my touch. She squirms when I dip one finger, then two inside of her, so I snug my other arm around her waist to still her.
"Don't come," I whisper in her ear as I hold myself knuckle deep inside of her. I roll my fingers around, stretching her and exploring. I know I've found her g-spot when her body jolts against me.
She mewls and grinds down on my hand as I add another finger and we find floor forty-four.
Fuck, I hadn't been paying attention, obviously, but this car is packed with drunks.
At least they're too inebriated to notice anything. Although, I'm wondering why so many people just got on. Isn't floor forty-four a medical supplies company?
"That's right. Feel me, Ana," I whisper, continuing to massage her most orgasmic place. I can feel the heat rising within her. She has to iron herself against my body to remain upright. When she grabs onto my lapel for dear life I know she's about to come undone.
Right where I want her.
The door pings open and finally we've arrived at the lobby. I pull out of her abruptly—leaving her panting and wanton—and then escort her through the doors.
"I can't believe you just did that," she says.
I smirk and then stick my two dripping fingers in my mouth, sucking them dry. "Mighty fine, Miss Steele."
"I can't believe you just did that!"
"You'd be surprised what I can do."
"Try me." She bats her lashes in challenge.
"I want to get you home," I say. "But maybe we'll only make it as far as the car."
"Car sex?" she asks, her voice quivering at the end, matching the state I've just put her in.
"Come with me." I take her hand and whisk her past the crowd of the meandering intoxicated.
"Yes, I want to," she says.
"Miss Steele!" I playfully chide.
"I've never had sex in a car," she says as we arrive outside.
"I'd be very surprised to hear you did." The thought of Ana having sex with anyone else unnerves me. Suddenly, I have horrid visions of the photographer selling her that old granny jalopy and planning that future for himself.
"Oh, no, I mean—"Ana says.
"What did you mean?" I ask. That fucker Rodriguez has a whole scam going. He gives them a deal on a car and then offers free repairs...
"Christian, it's only an expression," she snaps back.
"Oh yes, that famous expression I've never done it in a car."
"Christian! You've just done—"
"I've just done what?"
"Turned me on beyond reason." She gives me a look that I know has origin in her panties—or lack thereof. "Now, just take me home and fuck me."
A smile spreads across my face.
"You're a born romantic, Miss Steele." I take her hand just before the Saab pulls up to the valet.
"So you want sex in a car?" I ask.
"Quite frankly I would be happy with the lobby floor."
"So would I, but both of us in handcuffs negates the purpose, don't you think?" I smirk. "And I didn't want to fuck you in a restroom. Well, at least not tonight."
"You mean there was a possibility?" she asks and I give her a baited shrug. "Let's go back!"
I look down at her with a sensual gaze. "Patience, Anastasia." Though I'm having trouble with the virtue myself.
The car arrives and I move to open her door.
"Oh, we will fuck in a car," I whisper in her ear just before she sits, my mouth brushing against her soft skin. "At a time and place of my choosing." I can feel her smile against my lips. "And be careful when you sit. Your skirt is very, very short." I run a finger along the edge of the hem. Her hand quickly covers mine and she pulls the fabric down, holding it tight against her ass as she finds her seat.
Before I take the wheel I text Taylor what feels like the most important directive I have ever given him: Remove the flowers on the entryway table.
#######
"Oh god, fuck me!" Ana cries out as I slam us down on that table—sans flowers. Taylor may not have brought cock to my kitten, but he's getting a bonus tonight.
"Delayed gratification, Anastasia," I pant, my hands gripping her thighs as I push the fabric of her skirt up and reveal her beautifully bare below.
She gasps as her naked ass touches the cold marble.
What can I do to make you take me already?" she asks as she wraps her legs around me and starts to grind against my crotch. The evidence of her arousal coating my zipper.
"What can I do to make you say yes?" I ask.
She stops her grinding and pulls back to look at me. "I told you, I just need some time," she says softly.
Time. That thing that has a habit of running out.
"You know you fucking own me." I dip my head and rest it on her chest, in her cleavage. The scent of her skin—a mixture of her perfume and sweat and need—is intoxicating.
"Own you?" she questions.
I look up at her. A desperate boy, I know. But what else am I, really?
"Body, mind, soul. I can't live without your answer," I say.
"I promise you, you won't die without it." She brushes my face. "Soon."
"Why are you torturing me?"
"Delayed gratification." She grins.
"Fuck that." I take the back of her head in my hand, fingers twisting in her hair, and crash her mouth to mine.
"First surface here," I murmur against her lips and she moans approval.
I pull back and rummage through my pocket for a familiar foil packet, which I toss to her.
"Do you know how much you turn me on?" I growl as I begin to remove my pants and boxers.
She bites her lip and shakes her head as her knees knock against each other.
"Well, you do," I mutter. "All the time." I take the packet from her hand, rip it open and roll it over myself. Less than two days of these torture devices. It's like latex was invented to fuck with me. So to speak.
"Keep your eyes open," I say as I part her knees and wrap her long legs around me, positioning myself to take her at will. "I want to see you." She nods, and with her gaze held to mine, I sink into her.
"Oh god," she calls out, tilting her head back as I fill her.
"Open," I say, tipping her chin to me again as I hold myself deep inside of her. "I want to see you come."
She mewls a response that I quickly catch with my kiss, my tongue rolling around in her moaning. I start to really move, pumping in and out of her, and it's clear there's no way either of us will last. When I feel she's close, I reach down and massage her clit with my thumb.
"Give it to me, baby," I say. She tightens and throbs, milking my cock. It takes everything for me to hold back. It's sweet relief when her nails dig into my ass and she lets go with the most voluminous, life affirming orgasm.
"You're mine," I cry out, and I explode inside of her.
I find a moment of sweet rest with my head against her chest as we work to catch our breath.
But only a moment...
"I'm not done with you," I growl, ripping off and tying the condom to discard.
All at once, I hoist her up into my arms and head to my study.
"What are we going to do in there?" she asks as we arrive at the door.
"Fuck the paperwork." I grin.
########
"Satisfied, Miss Steele?" I ask as she lies naked, tangled in my arms. Finally, after countless rounds, we've found our bed and this lazy afterglow.
She stretches, arms above her head with an arched back, testing her body. "I think I'm beyond the realm of mere mortal satisfaction. But you, Mr. Grey, are not mere mortal."
"Back at you, Miss Steele." I smile, stroking her shoulder with my fingertips.
"I'm sorry about your office," she says with a giggle.
"Well, we can officially say that the paperwork has been destroyed." I laugh and then kiss her head.
"Is sex like this for everyone?" she asks after a few moments of the most comfortable silence imaginable.
"I don't know, but it's pretty damn special with you."
"Because you're pretty special, Mr. Grey."
"I think you need to get to sleep. You're a bit delirious." I turn over and move her into my arms so we're spooning. My most favorite way to fall asleep.
"You don't like compliments," she says.
"Rest," I whisper into her locks and kiss her there.
"I loved the house, Mr. Grey," she says, and I can tell she's not far from sleep.
"I love that you loved it." She has no idea the depth of how much.
She tucks into me and within moments she's out. As I lay there I can't stop from thinking that she really did love it—those nail marked walls, and well tracked floors, and a fully seasoned kitchen with grease and pencil marks from splatters and growth spurts.
She loved it.
I fall asleep with a smile.
#######
Bon Jovi wakes me today and I want to stab his vocal chords. My alarm again. I'm sure it's as surprised as I am that we've formed such a committed relationship. It's taken me nearly twenty-eight years and I'm finally being woken up.
But, why the fuck am I being woken up at five am?
Oh shit, I'm going to Portland today.
I'm reminded of this fact by the four texts from Ros telling me to study my shit and not be lost in a cloud of vagina today.
I'm not sure what a cloud of vagina is, but looking down at Ana, I'd like to be lost in that one right now.
Yeah, I guess I have been a little unpredictable at meetings these days due to the girl softly tangled against me.
"Don't go, we need to go to the barn," she mumbles when I start to move to get up.
"What?" I ask.
"Past the meadow," she says, but the end of meadow is lost against the pillow.
Oh, she's dreaming. As much as I'd like to stay and listen, I have to get going before Ros shells my nuts and serves them at the meeting.
As quietly as I can, I peel myself from Ana's body. Every time I'm freed from one limb another takes hold. She's gripping my flesh so tightly I know I'll be marked. That makes me grin.
"So good, Mr. Grey," she murmurs, lost in her dream. "I'm your pretty pony. I need your sugar cubes." Damn, what is this thing about?
I finally manage to free myself without waking her and tip-toe to the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me.
I move to the shower and set the temperature for near scalding with a hard punishing flow.
Just the way I like it.
My phone buzzes on the counter and I go to check.
Welch.
"What?" I answer in a whisper yell.
"No morning wood for the staff?"
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"You're not excited to hear from me?"
"It's five in the morning."
"And she just left," he says, so deliciously smug.
"Who?" Is Welch really that sick and twisted that he's calling me to tell me he's cheating on that wildebeest he calls wife.
"Lincoln."
"Is this your idea of fun—calling me up with this shit?"
"Elena Lincoln and your little friend's friend Merry visited a man at a house last night."
"What do you mean—visited?"
"The house in question belongs to a guy named Lou Garson."
"Is he a criminal?"
"Nope. Clean as a whistle. Accountant. Family man. A four-car garage all to himself, two kids with C report cards in Ivy League schools and through the roof alimony—you know, the American dream."
"Then why the hell are you calling me?"
"Are you taking a shower or is there a hurricane today?" he asks. "And why are you whispering?"
"I'm not talking about what I do naked in water with you," I say. "Or why I'm doing it quietly."
"Oh, believe me, I know all about that." He chuckles. "That's practically my whole job these days."
"Get to the point," I growl.
"Anyway," he continues, "Meredith entered the home at about six. Lincoln not until fifteen after ten. Meredith then left shortly after midnight. But... Lincoln just departed at 4:46 am."
"So, what are you saying—they had an orgy and Merry bailed early?"
"Could be. But that feeling's not rolling around in my gut."
"Look, Elena knows a lot of supposedly straight-laced guys who like to fuck kinky. This isn't news."
"Yeah, but why bring this Merry?"
"She was probably setting them up."
"I thought that, too. But, when I looked into this guy further, there's no evidence of him in the lifestyle. And, all these odds and ends bills he was late on are suddenly paid up to date."
"What does that mean?"
"Cable, electric, American Express."
"I know what you mean by bills! But, what are you saying? Elena's paying them?"
"Possibly. Possibly not. It's the possibilities that have my dick woke."
"Listen, I think all of this is fishy as fuck with Elena, but her meeting with some guy and a submissive isn't unusual activity. That's what she does."
"All night?"
"She likes to watch... activities. She goes to clubs to fulfill her voyeuristic kink." She'd take me there, after I was eighteen. I never liked watching or being watched, but I went.
"Why did Merry leave early?" he asks.
"I don't know... What's your theory?"
"I don't have one. I'm not sure if it has something to do with Leila Williams or that Granny shoot 'em up Botox business she's most likely going to fuck you with, but it's something. I just can't slap my dick on it yet. But I will."
"Good, now with that imagery you've just given me, I'll try not to vomit in my shower." He's made three erection jokes. I'd find this troubling, if he wasn't Welch. "Dig deeper and call me back." I hang up.
I don't think her meeting with some random guy is anything. He's probably a secret freak. Even Welch said he could be helping her try and screw me with the med spa bullshit. And, as much as that explanation makes sense to me, an un-played message on my phone catches my eye and causes me a wave of unexpected doubt.
Elena's call last night.
I press play.
"Christian," she starts commandingly. "I've been trying to reach you all day. And last night. I..." She pauses and when her voice returns it's softer, less sure. "Well, I just... I think we need to talk. You're unhappy with me, and it bothers me, and I just want to make it right." She sighs. "I need your ear on some business matters, and well... you know I think you've been preoccupied. I won't get into why again. You've made it quite clear, as has she, that it's not my place. But, I was wondering if you could stop by the downtown salon this evening. I need to speak with you in person. I'd like you to look at some books with my accountant for an idea I have. He lives nearby. It'll be quick. And it'll just be the three of us. Don't worry, Anastasia won't even miss you." She hangs up.
The accountant. She wanted me to see that accountant. That explains that. She was probably going to tell me about her med spa idea, so she wasn't trying to fuck me over with that. But, just the three of us is what leaves me with an uneasy feeling.
There would've been four.
The steam has enveloped the room, and when I look up into the mirror I don't see anything. The man who's reflection I've always known is gone.
#######
I adjust the cuffs on my shirt in the closet. My suit is pressed and crisp and my loafers polished. It's going to be a clear day today. The flight should be nice.
Fuck Elena. Whatever she's up to, I'll squash it.
Before I step out of the closet, I notice my husbandly sweater folded on a shelf. I told Taylor to get those cedar balls. I don't want any bugs eating holes in the rest of my life.
I reach over and stroke the wool. I like the strong knit and the soft pull. There's a bulge in the pocket. It's the gift from Ana. I remove it and examine it again. Such a sweet thought. A birthday present for me.
I want it with me, so I put it the pocket just inside my suit coat. It sits over my heart and I feel a warmth knowing I'll carry it there all day.
Ana is strangling my pillow now, still sleeping soundly, hair and limbs a beautiful tangled mess. I hate to wake her, but she has to get to work and I have this overwhelming need to kiss her goodbye.
"Hey, sleepyhead," I whisper against her hair and then kiss her forehead.
"Mmmmm," she murmurs in stretch and blinks her eyes open to see me leaning over her. "You're all dressed," she says with a frown.
"Yes, I have a meeting in our old stomping grounds late morning," I say and she scrunches her brow, confused. "Portland."
"Oh, the place we romped about when we were just kids."
"Yes, way back before arthritis and hearing aids," I say with my best old man impression as I stroke her hair.
She giggles and leans up, burying her face in my neck. "You smell good." She runs her lips from my throat, up my chin, to my mouth. "Don't go," she murmurs against it.
"Are you trying to keep a man from an honest day's work?" Our mouths don't part.
"Yes," she breathes and begins to kiss me. The passion in it builds and just as I find myself hovering over her on the bed, I stop.
"I would love nothing more than to sink into you right now, but..." I kiss her nose. "I have to go to this meeting. But, tonight, I am all yours. It'll be champagne and lobster tails and the two of us right back here." One final kiss on the lips, then I stand and head for the door.
"Wave to the Heathman for me," she says gleefully.
"Oh, I will." I smile. "Laters baby." She blows a kiss and I catch it and hold it to my heart.
I watch her for a moment longer, luxuriating in the sight of her in my bed. I want to memorize this picture. Every line and detail. Every scent and sound. All of her.
Finally, I take off. I'm a little emotional leaving her this morning, I don't know why. It's just a small trip, but I suppose it's because it's our first since we've really been together.
Taylor buzzes me that he's downstairs and I know I have to go. Charlie Tango is waiting and I'll be home in time for dinner.
Thank you for reading and all your comments and love! And thank you for your patience when life gets in the way of writing here.
It's Christian's Birthday and Father's Day on Sunday. I may be doing a cute story in the future with the kids about that. Stay tuned...
More on this story soon! Big CT crash ahead!
xox
