Chapter Two

As the song ends, Carrick is hovering for Ana's next dance, so I kiss her cheek, and say, "You're popular. Okay dancing with my father?"

She smiles, and obliges, "I think I've got one more in me."

Of course, I don't go very far, and watch from the edge of the dance floor. Obviously, I cannot know what they discuss, but it looks innocuous enough from where I'm standing. A vaguely familiar woman asks, "May I have this dance?" My reluctance must be evident, even with a mask covering half my face, because she smiles, and says, "It's 2011, Mr. Grey. A woman can request a dance."

Finally recognizing that voice, and cheeky grin, I concede, "So I'm told, Ms. Stokes. Would you also prefer to lead?"

She laughs, saying, "I'm not that progressive."

She knows me well enough to keep some distance between us, even while we dance, and I ask, "You're here alone?"

"No."

"And he doesn't mind, that you're essentially in my arms?"

She smiles, and says, "He's a senator, and working the room. I'm sure you know that the line between big business and politics is barely visible nowadays. If he can see us, I'm sure he's thrilled. And I'm hardly in your arms. Though..." She glances around, before lowering her voice, to ask, "She can touch you?"

Ann helped me a lot, asking nothing in return, so I reveal, "Yes. Only her."

"I'm glad. Congratulations, Mr. Grey."

"Please, call me Christian."

She smiles, and warmly complies, "Christian."

It sounds weird, though not unpleasant. My past is catching up with me in ways that I never imagined, and it's happening fast. I'm just starting to become uncomfortable, when the song ends, and we make our polite goodbyes. I immediately glance around for Ana, and instead see Carrick walking towards me, alone. My unease must again be visible, because he quietly reveals, "Just the ladies', son. Mia is with her."

Prescott isn't in sight, so she'll be watching over Ana. It's enough that I relax a little, and joke, "Hardly reassuring, Dad. A chipmunk would make a more responsible companion."

He laughs, and then gestures to one of the benches nearby. He wants to talk. When we're seated, he asks, "You and Anastasia haven't quite sorted out finances?"

"If you mean, she's fighting tooth and nail against accepting even a cent from me, yes. Where's this going, Dad?"

He recoils slightly from my resentful tone. We haven't actually had an argument in years, but there's no way anyone is going to decide how Ana and I run our lives. "You still manage the family trusts, and none of us have regretted that decision. Now, clearly, you're just as clever and lucky when it comes to choosing a life partner. But, no one knows the future, Christian. And, if anything happened, your siblings' financial future would be vulnerable."

"I will not consider a prenup, if that's where this is heading. The only contract Ana's signing is a marriage license."

He silently regards me for a few seconds, and then says, "A compromise? I hear you're getting good at that."

I can't help a smile at that, and say, "It did look like you two were getting cozy. All right, Dad, assuming Elliot and Mia agree with you, I'll find someone to manage the trusts. My professional opinion is they'll be more vulnerable then, but they'll be independent of me. Good enough?"

"Thank you, Christian."

I can see the women approaching, and stand to meet them, every fiber of my being focused on Anastasia, so that Dad's parting words don't register, and I merely nod a goodbye. I greet Ana with a kiss on the cheek, and then suggest it might be time to go. She looks relieved at the idea, but Mia protests, "Christian, it's barely eleven. You can't drag her away so soon."

My skin is itching with the need to be away from people, but I would stay, if it's what Ana wants. Thankfully, she says, "Actually, I'm really tired, and my feet are killing me."

It's almost impossible to dim Mia's spirit, so she brightly concedes, "Okay, Ana. Thanks, for removing the stick from my brother's butt enough that he hung around a little this year."

Fair comment, but I growl, "Mia!" Of course, she only laughs, hugs us both, and flits off to the next distraction. Finally, Ana and I are effectively alone, and I confess, "Feels like forever since I saw you last."

She laughs, and practically falls into an embrace, as she says, "You're hopeless."

"Hopeless for you, yes." She's really leaning on me. Not that I mind. "Okay, baby?"

"Just tired."

"Home, or here?" When she only looks confused, I remind her, "I still have a room here."

"Oh, right. No, I think home. Will your parents mind, though?"

I'm already guiding her towards the car, signaling Taylor as I go. "I doubt it. This is the longest I've ever stayed at one of these things. You can imagine why I always fucked off before the dancing started."

"Mia said you were dancing with someone?"

"Is that why you're upset?"

She breathes a laugh, and says, "I'm not upset, darling, just tired, like I said. And I'm not used to heels." When I scoop her up in my arms, she yelps, and protests, "Christian, I can still walk!"

She's not going anywhere now that I have her, and I joke, "Geez, no pleasing some people."

She sighs, and rests a hand on my chest. Now that I can tolerate it, she seems to want that contact all the time. I don't mind that either.

Ana is asleep before I reach the car.

As usual, since meeting Christian, I wake confused. A few seconds later, my senses inform me that I'm in our bed at Escala, and I can hear a shower running. I'm naked. I must've been even more exhausted than I realized, if he managed to strip me while I slept. I recall reading that pregnancy can cause fatigue, but so can being Christian's lover. When I move, nausea threatens, but not too severe. I now keep a bottle of water beside the bed, and drink enough to settle my stomach. It's quite dark. I feel around, until I find a light switch, and flick it on. The changes Christian made, mean that I can sort of see my way. I'm not quite to the shower, when he asks, "Anastasia?"

"Who were you expecting?"

He laughs, and says, "Literally no one. I thought you were out for the count."

I step in to join him, saying, "Well, I'm rested now." He takes my hand, guiding me under the water, and into his arms. It's scalding, so I retreat a little, exclaiming, "God, how can you stand it so hot?"

He chuckles, and says, "Wuss." This time, when he draws me in, the temperature is tolerable. "I just needed to wash off the evening. Hot water works best for that."

He's caressing my arm with a sudsy loofah, and I purr, "Mmm, that's nice, thank you. You didn't have fun?"

"Well, parts of it were great fun. It's just all that contact. I'm not used to it." I was about to ask if he can now tolerate me washing him, but decide against it. He's obviously had enough of being touched for one night. "Baby?"

Damn, I'm biting my lip again. I still don't usually notice, until he tells me. "Another time."

Again reading my mind, he takes my hand, and guides it onto his chest. "It's okay. Everything is different with you. I doubt that I'll never need to cleanse myself of your touch. Maybe not attempt it if I'm upset or asleep, just in case I instinctively lash out. But, other than that, you have my consent, okay?"

Glad that the cascading water immediately washes away the evidence of too much emotion, I mumble, "Okay." When he removes his hand from mine, I ask, "Can I explore?"

"I think so."

"So, literally no one has ever done this?"

"Not that I can remember. Grace said she had to wait until I was unconscious, before treating the fresher burns." Oh, God, I'd forgotten that he said he'd been burned. As I snatch my hand from him, he asks, "Ana?"

Struggling to stay calm enough for conversation, I ask, "You have scars?"

"Front and back. You didn't realize?" When I can only shake my head, he explains, "The fucker beat me with the business end of his belt, and used me as an ash tray when he was feeling lazy. That sort of thing tends to leave a mark."

Shaking my head, before that image enters it, I say, "On some level, I think that I knew. It's just...in my mind, you're always perfect. And the rest of your body..."

And I suddenly need him again. I wonder if he's sensed it, when the water stops falling. Sure enough, his hands alight on the outside of my arms, and he merely asks, "Hard or gentle?"

Honestly, I'd be fine with either. But the images have caught up with me, and picturing his beautiful body marred by proof of the torture he's endured, makes me choose, "Gentle, please."

He takes my hand to silently guide me out of the shower, and then hands me a small towel, as he suggests, "Perhaps you could dry me?"

I reflexively swallow, when I realize that he means his whole body. I'm getting brave about caressing his torso when we're both dressed, but this seems a big step. Determined to be what he needs, I banish my fear with, "Another first, Mr. Grey?"

"Absolutely, Ms. Steele."

Just like when I used the mitt, I start with his arms, going slow enough that he could stop me. His breathing gets faster at some point, but he doesn't use a safeword, even when I dry his chest. "Darling, I don't need it, but maybe I could check my work?"

"With your hands?"

"Yes."

I'm suddenly cloaked in one of his...our, voluminous bath sheets—heavenly warm from the heated towel rack—and he says, "I think I'd like that. But your touch tends to leave me weak at the knees, so we'd better move this experiment to the bed."

I make him weak at the knees? "It seems that, the more I get to know you, the more we have in common. Which is not something I would have believed on that fateful day at Grey House, just over a month ago."

He chuckles, and says, "Yeah. I have to keep reminding myself that the reason it seems like we barely know each other is because I've known my toothbrush longer. I'm grateful you're getting good at voicing your needs. I never want Hurricane Christian to obliterate your identity." The bath sheet is still draped around me, as I quickly dry myself. Suddenly, the edges are clenched together by iron fists, effectively trapped me inside plush cotton, and Christian demands, "Promise you won't let me do that?"

Immediately turned on by this aggressive affection, I'm already having trouble thinking straight. "Uh, promise not to let you bully me?"

A wall is against my back, and Christian's body is pinning me in place. "Yes."

I giggle, at the contradiction between his words and his actions, pointing out, "I'm pretty sure this behavior would count."

"What?" I merely glance down, at my cotton prison, and he's immediately gone from me. "Sorry. But you have no idea what it does to me, seeing flashes of your body beneath that towel."

"Christian, that wasn't a complaint. It was just funny."

"No, you were right. You said that you wanted gentle this time. I just...you get me quite worked up."

I'm not even sure when I changed my mind. "Sometimes it seems like you know me better than I know myself."

I hear his sharp intake of breath, as he realizes what I mean, and then his fiery, "No more gentle?"

I hear him gasp again, when I let the towel fall to the floor."

When I return from the en suite, Christian makes no comment—he'd usually compliment me—and I wonder if he's fallen asleep. Sure enough, his steady breathing doesn't change, even as I get into bed. I'm wondering whether it's safe to snuggle against him, when he stirs and reaches for me, saying, "I missed you."

I giggle, and move into his arms, saying, "While I peed?"

"Yes."

He sounds entirely sincere, so I laugh again, from too much joy, and accuse, "You've got it bad, Mr. Grey."

He kisses me, and says, "So do you, Ms. Steele. Still want to explore?"

"Christian, you're barely conscious. It can wait."

"No. It's the perfect time. I can't imagine feeling more relaxed than I do right now."

Good point. "Okay, but back first."

Even his movements seem more relaxed than usual, as he slowly leaves my embrace, and I hear the rustling of sheets, before he instructs, "Have at it, but remember the scars, and mind your limits."

My limits? "Oh, you mean stop, if I'm getting distressed?"

"Yes."

He sounds good; relaxed, and unafraid. "Thank you, for doing this, Christian."

He breathes a laugh, and says, "I suspect that it will be entirely my pleasure, Anastasia. Whenever you're ready, baby."

I start at his lower back, because I already know he's not as sensitive there. As I explore the curves of his muscles, and work my way up his back, I ask, "How long have you been working out?"

"Forever, since maybe five. I had this childish notion that, if I got strong enough, I could stop the next adult that tried to hurt me."

"After Grace rescued you? Why would any adult hurt you after that?"

"Just because I was safe, doesn't mean that I knew it. The first few years, I was terrified of ending up back in his clutches. By the age of ten, the terror had morphed into anger. At twelve, I was already above average strong, and had begun exacting my revenge on the world, namely in the form of identifying bullies among my older classmates, and beating them to a pulp."

There is no emotion in his voice. He might as well be reciting the weather report. For some reason, that makes it even more emotive, and I stop my movements, merely resting my palm on him.

"Ana?"

"I'm okay. Just minding my limits."

I feel him relax, and he says, "Thank you. I don't need this, so don't push yourself."

"I won't. What happened to him, the man who did this to you?"

"My parents pursued the case. Last I heard, the fucker was doing time for a string of offences. Carrick has the details, if you want to know more."

That reminds me. "I think maybe Carrick knows that you weren't a virgin when you met me."

"Yeah, I think you're right. What did he say to you?"

"Oh, just something about being glad that you chose me. It was more the way he said it, as if he knew there were other options. He said the same to you?"

"No. We were discussing your stubborn refusal to share my wealth, and his parting comment was about being glad that I'm done with the paperwork. I wasn't really listening at the time, because you were walking towards me, but realized later that he could only be referring to the contracts."

I smile, and remind him, "I told you that they'd be fine with it."

"Actually, you only mentioned Grace. And, are you going to explore, or not?"

I'm feeling brave again, so resume my exploration, tenderly accusing, "Sir is impatient."

"And don't start that shit, or we'll end up fucking again."

Just contemplating it nudges my libido into life, but I really am tired, so continue up his back, and find the first scar. It's smaller than I was expecting. I don't know why. By the time I'm done, Christian hasn't said a word, and I wonder if he's again asleep. But he stirs, and I feel him turning, so I ask, "Only four?"

"Yeah, he was clearly fucked up, but smart enough to mostly avoid doing any real damage. The buckle only hit me when he was too drunk to pay attention."

And I'm trembling. As Christian enfolds me in his embrace, I beg, "Enough exploring."

"Yes. I'm sorry. I keep on forgetting that, despite strong evidence to the contrary, you're not actually invincible."

Most of my strength consumed by not weeping, because I know it would only upset him, I mutter, "Not your fault." He merely holds me a little tighter. When I'm calm, I ask, "How was it?"

"Good. Not very sexy, but probably only because we've just fucked." He kisses my hair, adding, "Now, go to sleep."

It's amazing how just these words make my eyelids droop, as if his to command. "Yes, sir."

Sunday morning, Christian again serves me breakfast in bed. I could get used to this, though I would prefer it without the nausea. When I've had a few mouthfuls, he asks, "Better?"

"Much, thank you."

He kisses my bare shoulder, and says, "Then I'll leave you in peace for a while. And, later, I thought we might go sailing?"

He sounds like Playful Christian as he suggests it, so I know it'll be fun. "I'd like that. Before then, can we talk? Nothing bad."

He sounds more amused than anxious, when he points out, "Last time you said that, I found out that I'm going to be a father."

Smiling, I say, "Nothing like that. I just think we need to put time aside for conversation, or we'll never get better at communicating."

The back of his hand is caressing my arm—I love that his knuckles are slightly callused—as he says, "Oh, I dunno, we seem to understand each other pretty well nowadays."

And I'm yet again desperate for him. "You're kind of proving my point for me, darling."

He relents, and leaves the bed, as he says, "Yeah, I guess so. All right, baby, conversation at 0900?"

I giggle at the phrasing, and say, "Thank you." Before he's gone, I think to ask, "Oh, what do I wear, for sailing?"

"Whatever you want, plus sneakers. It's a warm day, but can feel cool out on the bay, so bring a light jacket. Anything you might need is in our closet."

I already forgot that I now own an entire wardrobe of new clothes, that I haven't yet explored. "Thank you, darling."

My delight must be visible, because Christian growls, and leaves the room, saying, "Fuck, if I'm going to keep my hands from you long enough to talk, I'd better work out before breakfast."

I presume it's exactly 9am, when Christian finds me in the kitchen, and asks, "Still want that conversation?"

I close the dishwasher, and say, "Please. Where?"

He taps the counter, saying, "Here will do."

I walk towards the sound, and sit next to him on one of the stools. When he says nothing, I guess that he's waiting for me to begin, so scan my memory, and soon ask, "Oh, why did you go quiet when I joked about using those balls without you?"

"Because I was in Dom mode. But I know you were just playing, and any other time, I won't mind if you have a wank when we're not together. And I'm very okay with it when we're together, so long as I get a turn."

His last sentence makes me smile, and I ask, "So...it was Dominant Christian dressing me?"

"Oh, yes. He very much enjoys attending to your needs. In that moment, when you joked about keeping your orgasm to yourself, I felt the old urge to punish you, but it was only for a moment. I truly don't need it, but I spent a long time as a Dom, and it's taking some time to adjust to being a fiancée."

Perhaps even more confused than when we started, I ask, "You controlled their orgasms too?"

"Of course."

I breathe a laugh, and say, "It's not 'of course' to me." And then it begins to make sense, when I remember something else he once told me. "Oh, because you needed their pleasure too?"

"Yes."

I smile, to reassure him, and suggest, "Perhaps we should make a rule, no one-word answers during scheduled conversation time?"

I can hear his smile, when he merely replies, "Perhaps." A moment later, he sighs, and explains, "My OCD isn't so much about physical rituals, though I do have a few. It's...I obsess about...romantic relationships, for lack of a better term. In the past, the more I cared, the worse it got."

Suddenly understanding something I didn't even know to ask about, I guess, "Oh, that's why only on weekends. You were trying to not care about them?"

"Partly. I was also busy getting my business off the ground. After my first relationship ended so horribly, I tried to do without anyone. Some shrink once diagnosed that I don't need human connections. Misdiagnosed, as it turns out. I lasted eight months without a partner, before having a major depressive episode. Grace arranged a medical intervention when I hadn't eaten or slept for three days, and that's how I met Flynn. If I hadn't, we probably wouldn't be having this conversation."

I presume he's talking about suicide, and have to swallow my shock, before saying, "I know that I just put a ban on one-word answers, but 'fuck' is all I can think of."

He laughs a little, and says, "Yeah. On the plus side, I was putting in enough hours, that I made my first million in those months. And, soon after, GEH was born."

"Well, that's something. And you can reassure Dominant Christian that, now we live together, I can't imagine having the time to steal any orgasms, even if I had the inclination."

He laughs again, before saying, "Good. Any other questions?"

"Your turn."

"I don't have any."

That can't be right. We still barely know each other. "There's nothing you want to know about me?"

"Oh, I thought you meant questions about things that are bothering us."

I smile, and tease, "Wow, you really do suck at conversation."

I can imagine his friendly glare, when he growls, "Wicked woman." After a moment, he asks, "Oh, have you given any thought to what sort of wedding you'd like?"

"I'm sorry, no. It's just been crazy."

"And unlikely to get less so. We'll need to arrange a driver for you, now that we suspect Linc is out for blood. That way, your CPO won't be multi-tasking."

He keeps telling me that he thinks I'm smart, so I find the courage to reveal, "I might know someone."

"A driver?"

I nod, and say, "He drove me to Grey House, the day we met. He was really nice, competent, and knows Seattle inside and out. I was actually going to use him as my regular driver once I moved. Of course, I had no way of knowing that I was just one scary elevator ride away from my life changing forever."

Apparently, talking about that very first day means that I'm too far from him, because Christian's hands are on my hips, and his knees are now just outside mine, as he says, "He'd have to prove himself, but tell him to drop his CV at Grey House, and I'll consider him. What's his name?"

"Uh, I can find out, but 'Manny' is all I know."

"That'll do." His hands are more pleading than insisting, when he then says, "I think that's enough conversation for now."

I was just thinking the same thing, but have to ask, "You'd really consider him, just on my say so?"

"Of course. You have the best instincts of anyone I know. If I weren't fucking you, I'd poach you from UPP, as my personal assistant."

Smiling at the absurdity of it—no way we'd get any work done if I was his assistant—I ask, "No fucking the staff is one of your rules?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I'm glad that I don't work for you."

He's undoing my belt, as he says, "Mostly, so am I."

"Mostly?"

"Ana, baby?"

His warm hands are on my midriff, so I'm having trouble forming sentences, "Hmm?"

"Shut up, and feel."

"Yes, sir."