Author Note: Told you guys it would take me forever to update. In my defence, I ended up doing two chapters at once by accident, because I couldn't remember when the next chapter started, so it seemed to take me ages to write/edit/tweak parts of it. I do apologise! Thanks so much for supporting this story - to the people who have reviewed, you're fantastic. This also applies to the people who are following/favouriting the story/me. Anyways, to apologise for my delay, I'm posting two chapters at once - enjoy!

I can smell her shampoo in the air, and I swear I've never wanted to kiss someone as badly as I want to kiss her. I reign in my control. I can't do this. I shouldn't be doing this! The thought of her getting the wrong idea about me, pulls me back to Earth. No. I have to keep my distance.

She doesn't move away, doesn't try and hold herself up. She's just gazing up at me, with her fathomless blue eyes. I'm so close. If I leant forward fractionally, I'd be kissing her.

No. No. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and harden my resolve. "Anastasia, you should steer clear of me. I'm not the man for you." I can barely look at her, as she blinks back at me, the spell between us broken. She looks offended - she looks hurt. I feel like such a shit. "Breathe, Anastasia. Breathe. I'm going to stand you up and let you go," I tell her. She barely moves as I set her onto her own two feet again. She looks devastated.

"I've got this," she finally says, after what feels like an eternity. Her voice is cold. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For saving me." And in those three words, I suddenly long to have her back in my arms, to hold her and kiss her. But I screwed it up with my stupid practicality, and no doubt, she'll never want to see me after this, so I mutter some stupid insult at the cyclist in the hopes that it makes her smile. It doesn't. "Do you want to come and sit down in the hotel for a moment?" I offer weakly.

She shakes her head, and turns, crossing the road ahead of me. Her hair flies out behind her, and she crosses her arms over her chest. I get the feeling it's to protect her from something. Maybe me.

"Thanks for the tea, and doing the photo-shoot," she says quietly. She can't even meet my gaze. And I know I've hurt her. I'm such a shit, I repeat in my head like a mantra.

"Anastasia ... I ..." There are no words. She looks up at me, and I wish she hadn't. All I can see is the pain of my rejection floating around in her gaze. She blinks it back and waits, but I don't open my mouth again.

"What, Christian?" What a good time to use my name, I muse. Way to kick a man when he's down. I think of something to say, to let her know that I care.

"Good luck with your exams," is literally all I can think of. She looks confused and then hurt, and then ... angry?

"Thanks." Could there be any more sarcasm in her voice? "Goodbye, Mr. Grey." And she disappears out of sight.

I stand on the sidewalk for several moments, waiting and waiting. Willing her to turn back. Willing myself to run after her. But to say what? Because what she wants from me is a relationship. And what I want from her is a submissive. They don't coincide together. It's one or the other.

Eventually, I turn back into the hotel, resigned. I'm not even sure what occured between us both today. Her feelings seemed to come from nowhere. Or did I just not see them before? I make my way up to my hotel room, but I can't erase her from my mind. And I can't erase the look of those pale blue eyes blinking at me sadly before she turned and disappeared out of sight.

"What are we looking for again?" Elliot gripes from roughly three aisles over. I can't see him so it's a guess, but he sounds bored. I browse through the shelves of books in front of me, touching the binders and reading the authors names. All the books in here smell ... old. Not just old, but musky too. However, as I'm assured, this is the place for first editions, and with a feeling I don't want to dwell on, I continue down the aisle until I find what I'm looking for.

"Got it," I call out, and hear Elliot approaching.

"Tess of the d'Ubervilles," he reads over my shoulder, in disbelief. "This is what you were looking for? Didn't really take you as a Thomas Hardy fan."

"This isn't for me," I tell, without offering an explanation. There are all three volumes here, and I pull them out into my arms. Jeez, they're heavy. I open the binding and look inside for the few clues that identify it as a first edition. Dates on the copyright page, 'first edition' stamped across the page. I ponder if I should purchase them or not. This could give the wrong idea about me. This is almost hearts and flowers, and that is not something I want to encourage. But I still can't get Miss Steele's big, blue eyes out my mind, and I picture her opening the packaging and her face brightening with a smile all for me. And with that image, I make my way to the cash desk.

"Would you like them packaged, sir?" The elderly man behind the counter asks me. I nod and pick up the small card that accompanies it, writing a note that comes to me from nowhere. A quote. I'm not even sure how it comes to my mind - maybe it's been there all along, in the dark corners of my brain where I forget things like my mum and dad's anniversary, and the lyrics to my old favourite Metallica songs. When he's packaged it all, I slip the note in the box and he wraps it again in another, sturdier box and offers to have it sent. I pay for them, ignoring Elliot when he chokes at the price, and make my way outside, into the sunshine.

"Who were they for?"

"Nobody. I think we should go hiking now, before it begins to rain." Elliot glances up at the clouds and nods.

"Okay." Suitably distracted, he walks ahead of me as I smirk at his retreating back. It's unnerving how easy it is to change the topic of discussion sometimes.

I'm exhausted, is the only thought crossing my mind as I retreat from the soothing heat of the shower. I'm bone-achingly tired. All my muscles are tensed, I have a sore back and sore feet, and all I want to do is sleep. It's only after ten, but the combination of exercise, fresh air, and a large meal has made me replete and sleepy. I'm hoping that tonight, my thoughts won't be plagued by her but it's a fruitless hope, I know - regardless of how hard I try to cling to it.

I check my phone out of habit, but aside from a few telephone calls from Ros, there's nothing particular. I'm in the middle of making myself comfortable on my bed, when my phone rings, startling me. Nobody would call at this time, surely. Unless it's Ros again. I check caller ID, but it's not one that I recognise. Or that my phone recognises, anyways. It's Portland's area code.

It's her. I know it. I wonder if I should answer it, then groan when I realise what kind of hold she has on me. She must have the books by now, I realise. I lift the handset to my ear.

"Anastasia?"

"Why did you send me the books?" She's shouting - I have to hold the phone away from my ear briefly. It's noisy in the background and she sounds slurred. I check the signal but it's fine.

"Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange." Why is she calling me? Is she hurt? She sounds so far away.

"I'm not the strange one, you are!" She shouts again. The edge to her voice tells me she's had a little too much to drunk. It makes me feel ... angry. But amused. I imagine her being one of these women who get tipsy on a glass of wine.

"Anastasia, have you been drinking?"

"What's it to you?" Her defiant voice reaches me as something slams on her side.

"I'm ..." Angry. Amused. Weirdly aroused. "Curious. Where are you?" A thought pulls at me. I can go and get her. Yes, that's not stalker-gone-wild. I'm not going to harm her, just encourage her into returning home. So she doesn't get hurt. Besides, I want to see her.

"In a bar."

"Which bar?"

"A bar in Portland." Wow, helpful, I snort. An unpleasant thought occurs to me.

"How are you getting home?"

"I'll find a way."

Which means 'I have no idea, we'll see how drunk we are at the end of the night and determine it then'. It worries me. If she was my submissive, she wouldn't be drinking to excess like this. Drunk women are a massive no-no for me. I've dealt with that enough. What can I do? I can't order her to stay in. "Which bar are you in?" I try again, oozing impatience.

"Why did you send me the books, Christian?"

I ignore her. "Anastasia, where are you, tell me now." There's a brief pause where I think she's going to relent, and then out of nowhere, giggling. Girly giggling.

"You're so ... domineering." Oh, fuck. I close my eyes and think of anything that will stop me turning up at this bar she's at with a raging hard-on. Anything. Apples. Bananas. Tiles. Receipts. A toothbrush. Nothing works. I clear my throat.

"Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?"

She giggles again. "I'm in Portland...'s a long way from Seattle." She sounds quieter now. Sad, maybe. She doesn't know I'm still here, and I can use that to my favour.

"Where in Portland?"

"Goodnight, Christian."

"Ana!" The line goes dead and I curse. Nobody teases me and then doesn't follow through. I'm turned on and fuming - not a good combination. I hit speed dial and call a number that I seem to call far too frequently.

"Mr Grey," Welch answers on the first ring. He sounds tired. "How can I help?"

"I need you to trace a phone. Anastasia Steele. I got you to do a background check on her a couple of days ago?"

"Okay. Two seconds..." there's a slight pause where I hear the tapping of keys on a computer, and then he comes back to the phone. "She's in downtown Portland. A bar called ... Mistys." He taps a few more keys. "The directions have been sent to your phone, Sir."

"Thanks, Welch. I owe you." I hang up the phone and grab the clothes I'd originally set out for tomorrow, and pulling them on. I consider Elliot across the hall, and against my better judgement, knock his door.

He's awake, completely dressed still. "You okay?"

"Wanna go out tonight?"

"Um ... sure." I turn on my heel and walk down the corridor briskly, ignoring his calls for me to wait. As I reach the elevators, I slow my walk as I hear him fumble with his hotel key. I tap in a number to my phone and give it a call.

"Hi," she answers slowly. Quietly. Sounding more sober already.

"I'm coming to get you," is all I say before I hang up the phone. At least she can't say I didn't warn her.

The club is easy to locate. The local populace have all gathered around by the door, waiting to get in. Some are smoking, some are socialising. I find a parking space, and we walk up to the door, where the bouncer lets us inside.

It's not your regular bar - more like a club. Busy, with a dancefloor that's fully occupied as of present, and small booths set up over on the other side, the bar dominating the middle of the room. It's chaotic, and I can't see Anastasia anywhere.

"Jesus Christ, the talent in here..." Elliot whoops and turns to point out a tall strawberry-blonde female who's sitting with a group of men. I narrow my gaze - it's Miss Kavanagh. She's draped all over the guy beside her. I approach them.

"Kate, is it?" I ask. Though I know the answer. She turns to me, batting her eyelashes, but then stands abruptly when she recognises me, hitting her knee off the table.

"Mr Grey?"

"I'm looking for Anastasia. She said she was here ... do you know where?"

She pauses for a moment, confused. "She went outside for some air ... round the back, I think." Her gaze settles on Elliot and he winks at her.

"Wanna dance?" He sticks his tongue between his teeth and grins cheekily. She almost melts to the floor and they head off in the direction of the dancefloor.

I take the long route around the back, passing people who are out smoking, a couple who are a little too touchy-feely in the shadows, and then finally I spot her. Or more accurately, I spot that photographer first. He's tall amongst his peers, and well-built. She's leaning against the brick wall beside him, frowning. He moves closer to her, but she tries to push him off. I move towards them, feeling my skin prickling.

"Jose, no!" She tries to push him away again, but between her own drunken state, and his strength, it's useless. I feel my spine stiffen.

"I think the lady said 'no'." Jose stiffens and turns to me. Neither of them have noticed me approaching. He takes a step away from me, and then, out of nowhere, I hear Anastasia wretch. Jose lets out a line of expletives and steps back, almost into me, to prevent his shoes from being splattered. Anastasia places one hand on the wall to steady herself, and the paleness of her skin- almost green, frightens me. I lean forward and pull back her long, brown hair, which so far has managed to escape the vomit. I scan the area, find a bench not too far along the path and lead her over to it gently, not caring that the photographer is rooted to the spot. If she weren't so sick, I would already have punched him.

"If you're going to throw up again, do it here. I'll hold you," I tell her as I steady her shoulders. She barely weighs a thing against me. She attempts to push me away, but relents and vomits three times more before she's boking but bringing nothing else up. I see the flush spread up her neck. I hand her my handkerchief and she takes it gratefully.

Jose says something, but I miss it, and it doesnt matter anyways as he wanders indoors and out of sight. For a brief moment, neither of us say a word, and Anastasia finally takes her own weight, sitting on the bench with her head in her hands. Her hair has fallen down over her face, without me continuing to hold it back.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, so quietly that I strain to hear her.

A part of me enjoys her embarrassment. Maybe she shouldn't have gotten this drunk if she couldnt handle it. "What are you sorry for Anastasia?" I ask slowly, caressing her name with my tongue, willing her to feel the full weight of her embarrassment.

She takes a deep breath. "The phone call mainly. Being sick. Oh, the list is endless." Her attractive blush spreads down her neck, to the area I can see beyond her hair.

I recall a family gathering from when I was a teenager. My mother had bought champagne, wine, beer, spirits - every and any type of alcohol for entertaining our guests. It had began as a harmless prank; Elliot and myself sneaking the drinks under the table. Almost a game, to see who would get caught first. But the alcohol had been good. And it had erased everything. It had erased those horrible thoughts and nightmares, and the anger that bubbled beneath the surface, cutting each breath. Carrick had found me on the bathroom floor, three hours later, completely passed out. "We've all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you," I tell her, without explaining any further. That little stunt had had Elena making sure I didn't sit down for a week. The thought of my submission to her brought my rudely back to the present, and what I wanted for Ana. I hardened my voice. "It's about knowing your limits, Anastasia. I mean, I'm all for pushing limits, but really, this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this behaviour?"

She stiffens beside me, anger vibrating off her in waves, and I fear I've overstepped the mark. But then she goes slack again. "No. I've never been drunk before, and right now, I have no desire to ever be again." She's barely finished her sentence when she begins to sway, and I make a grab for her, steadying her once again. I lift her slowly, and hear her release a long sigh.

"Come on, I'll take you home."

"I need to tell Kate," she whispers, lifting her head from my chest.

"My brother can tell her."

"What?"

"My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh."

"Oh?"

"He was with me when you phoned," I explain, getting irritated. The sooner I get her home, the sooner I know she'll be safe.

"In Seattle?"

"No, I'm still at the Heathman."

"How did you find me?"

I wince. "I tracked your cell phone, Anastasia."

She leans back a little to look at me, but I keep my face as impassive as possible, daring her to comment. If she complains, I'll just politely point out that if I hadn't tracked her down, she'd still be pushing her 'friend' off of her. The thought angers me again. Someone should have a talk with him.

"Do you have a jacket or purse?" I ask slowly, realizing she's only wearing her jeans and a short-sleeved top. It's hardly winter, but the weather isn't exactly a heatwave either. And besides that, I know women. They'd carry around their kitchen sink if it would fit in their purses. There's no way she doesn't have some kind of bag with her.

"Err ... yes. I came with both. Christian, please, I need to tell Kate. She'll worry."

"If you must." I place her down on the ground, already missing the heat of her body, that citrus-y scent that clings to her skin, despite the alcohol, and musky scent of the bar. I grab her hand and pull her through the back entrance into the bar. If possible, it's noiser and busier than it was ten minutes ago. Anastasia leaves my side briefly to head towards the table I found Miss Kavanagh at earlier, and shouts something at the only man left sitting. She grabs her purse and coat from the chair and turns back to me, explaining that her friend is on the dancefloor.

Sure enough, it doesn't take me long to locate my brother, his mess of blonde hair high above the heads of the other people. I'm about to beeline my way towards him, when I notice the colour drain from Ana's face once more, and she sways on her feet. Changing route, I head towards the bar, and usher the barman over, requesting a water.

"Drink," I order her when it's placed in front of us. She scowls but lifts the glass regardless, taking a small sip. "All of it," I clarify. She rolls her eyes, making my teeth grit together, and then downs the entire glass of water, clunking it onto the bar in an angry gesture. I smirk. She's teasing me, and I must admit, I like her fire. Her insistence that she can do things for herself, that she doesnt need me bossing her around left, right and centre. On impulse, I grab her hand again, and lead her in the direction of my brother. The crowd parts for us easily, as I creep closer. Both of them are grinding against one another in the most disgusting manner I've ever seen. I grab my brother's arm, pulling him over.

"This is Anastasia, I'm taking her home. She's Kate's friend - make sure she knows that she's okay." Elliot grins and I know what he's thinking. He thinks I've scored tonight. I don't bother to correct him, as he pulls Kate closer, whispers my instructions into her ear and she gestures to Ana. Now that that's sorted ...

I swing Anastasia under my arm, attempting to make it easier for us to get off the floor. It has the opposite effect though, and when she rights herself, even under the strobing lights, I can see she's turned a different shade. I've barely time to curse before she collapses.