Chapter 5
Christian PoV
"Welcome," she greeted me as I entered the kitchen. "This is Reynolds, if he didn't introduce himself. He's kind of my right hand man." My mood darkened slightly at her words. Not if I had anything to do about it.
"Yes, he did when he answered the door. Thank you Reynolds," I said, dismissing him. Anastasia narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips at me. Oh yes, Reynolds was her employee, not mine. Oops.
"Will that be all ma'am?" Reynolds asked her, reverting the power back to Anastasia. Good man. I glanced around the room while they continued their exchange. The foyer was all marble with Grecian columns on either side of the doorways that entered to various parts of the house. Reynolds had led me to the left, which led into the kitchen and dining area. She had a state of the art kitchen with all stainless steel appliances. A double oven built into one wall, and a huge stove on her island. The countertops were all granite. A beautiful hunter green shade. The floor was slate tile arranged in an artful mosaic.
"Yes, thank you Reynolds," she said, waving him away, pulling my attention back to her. "Would you like to visit the wine cellar?" she asked me, pointing to a large wooden door to her right, noticing I wasn't carrying a bottle. I got a good look at her at this point, as she'd stepped around from behind the countertop. She was wearing the same outfit as before, only now a black apron was covering her front. I imagined her cooking in nothing but that apron and those mile-high heels. My cock twitched in response.
"No, thank you, Anastasia. I'd forgotten that you don't drink. And if you're not going to drink, neither will I." It seemed rude to be the only one drinking wine in an otherwise sober environment. I wasn't sure as to her reasoning for not drinking, and if she were a recovering alcoholic, I imagined it would be like rubbing salt in an open wound.
"Oh, I don't mind. Most people drink around me. It doesn't bother me. I just choose not to. But, please do sit down, Christian." She gestured towards the dining room table where she'd lain a spread of various appetizers. The woman could cook. That was a very good thing. "Water? Iced tea? Lemonade? Milk?" she asked, rattling off every drink she likely had in the refrigerator.
"Anastasia," I called to her, letting her hear how I caress her name with my voice. "Calm down. It's just dinner." I reached out to her, hesitating before stroking her cheek with my finger. I remembered that she was okay with that kind of contact. "Water will be fine, thank you." She blushed again, turning away from me and heading towards the refrigerator to pour the glasses from the in-fridge dispenser.
On the table was an assortment of cheeses, gourmet crackers, freshly baked French bread cut thinly, bruschetta, pesto and fresh mozzarella cheese. "Do you like bruschetta?" she asked as she selected a slice of bread and spread the pesto on it. I nodded enthusiastically, mimicking her actions. She gave me a megawatt smile, and then dolloped some mozzarella cheese on the bread, spreading it around like the pesto, then topped it with a bit of the bruschetta mix.
I watched in rapt attention as she bit into the bread, licking her lips where a bit of pesto escaped her mouth. Oh how I wanted to use my own tongue to lick her lips. Would she ever allow me to do that?
After some more light conversation, a few more slices of bread and some cheese and crackers, she retreated to the kitchen to retrieve our meal. She returned, having removed the apron and carrying a casserole dish that had a mouthwatering aroma wafting from it.
"Tortellini Bolognese a la Anastasia," she quipped, setting the dish down on the table. She dashed away again, only to return with a basket of piping hot garlic rolls. They smelled divine. In her other hand was a small dish filled with shredded cheese. "Parmesan, asiago and romano. Freshly grated, good Sir." She was joking, but she had no idea the effect she had on me when she used the word, Sir. If I had my way, she'd use that word a lot. Though I did like it when she called me by my given name. I'd never liked that before by anyone other than family and Flynn.
"This all looks simply wonderful," I told her. "I can't believe you made such a meal on such short notice." She bit her lip. Oh dear god, how did I not notice that before? I wanted to bite that lip.
"Well, cooking is my true passion. Being a CEO just pays the bills. I had most of this already made up. The pasta I made on Sunday, and the sauce didn't take too long. The pesto was pre-made as well." She smiled fondly at me.
I scooped a hearty helping on to my plate and took two rolls from her offered basket. "May I fill your plate?" I asked, still holding on to the serving spoon.
"Yes, please," she replied, holding up her plate, her teeth sliding over her lip again. I tried to ignore it and dip the spoon into the entrée. I dished a generous helping on her plate, eyeing her carefully to see if she tried to protest to the amount. One thing I couldn't stand was a woman who ate less around a man because she felt she had to. "That's perfect, thank you," she said, placing her plate back in front of her. She buttered two rolls and dug in, enthusiastically.
I picked up a forkful of the pasta and popped it into my mouth. Instantly, I was hit with a plethora of sensations. The flavors exploded in my mouth. Creamy, savory, spicy and warmth, all in the same bite. She had a gift. "Ana, this is amazing," I told her. "You could open a restaurant."
"With one bite of one dish, you're telling me I could open a restaurant?" she replied. "No, but thank you. I do pride myself on my recipes. I'm very glad you're enjoying it. And you called me Ana."
"That's your name," I replied.
"Yes, but you usually call me Anastasia or Miss Steele. Not that I'm complaining. I prefer Ana, most of the time."
"Most of the time?" I asked, pressing for more information. Come on, baby, be honest with me.
She hesitated before responding. "Well, when you call me Anastasia… the way you say it. Um, it kind of sends tingles down my spine. It's very… pleasant. You say it beautifully." She turned red as the Bolognese and bit her lip again. I wanted so to lean over and take her lip between my own teeth.
"You have a beautiful name," I replied. "And a beautiful name deserves to be said beautifully. And in the spirit of sharing, I like the way you say my name, too. Not many people call me Christian. Because I don't let them. But I'm glad you do. You also say it beautifully."
We ate the rest of the meal in relative silence, occasionally chipping in information about our days. I could tell that we were both avoiding the proverbial elephant in the room… Dr. Flynn. The topic would have to be breached sooner or later, so I decided to approach it gently over dessert, which was a chocolate soufflé with a peanut butter caramel sauce. Good god this woman was amazing. She carried the tray of soufflés into her living room, setting them carefully on the coffee table. "If you keep feeding me like this, I'll have to double my time with my trainer every day." I sat on the overstuffed leather sofa, which by some miracle was more comfortable that the one at Flynn's office. I dug into the soufflé, which had risen perfectly and was full of hot, gooey deliciousness inside the dish. Simply divine.
"So, I figured we should talk about this sooner than later," she said, starting the conversation off for me. "It appears that we are both patients of Dr. John Flynn. I'm fine with this, considering he isn't allowed to disclose information about us to the other person, but I wanted to see how you felt about it."
"I'll admit, I was shocked to see you there," I told her. "Though it made sense of his reaction when I said your name during our session." That piqued her interest. "He asked the name of the girl that had captivated me so thoroughly." She blushed at my words. "Your blush is beautiful," I said, reaching over to caress her cheek. She flinched slightly, but didn't stop me.
"Doctor Flynn said I should be upfront, forthcoming and honest with you," she said.
"He said about the same to me," I replied. "Given the fact that we're both seeing a therapist, I imagine we both have issues of one sort or another. Would you like to go first? Or shall I?"
"Um, we're just going to throw it all out there? Now? I mean, isn't this more like a fourth or fifth date type conversation?" she asked. I chuckled.
"Normally, I suppose two people wouldn't start pouring their souls out on a first date, but you and I are far from normal. Your parents mentioned to me the other night, when they discovered you'd been drafted into the dance auction, that you do not like to be touched. They were worried about how that would play out. I assured them that I'd take care of it. I knew exactly what to do, because I don't like to be touched either." There, I'd put it out there. I started it. I hoped she'd continue it.
"I can't stand being touched," she whispered. "It terrifies, angers, and hurts me all at the same time." Her words echo my feelings on the subject, exactly. "When I literally fell into your arms earlier that night, I all but had a panic attack. I had to quash my memories away and deal with the present. I knew you weren't touching me on purpose, which was why I had to stop my reaction from getting worse. I simply fell, you caught me, and that was it. But it takes my mind a while to wrap my head around that. Despite having many more years with a loving family and a happy life than I had negative ones, those first few years are ingrained in my memory so deeply. Add that to the fact that I have eidetic memory… I can't forget, even if I try."
"Believe it or not, I know exactly what you mean," I added. "I don't have the perfect recall that you do, but my… upbringing… before Grace and Carrick adopted me was nothing short of pure hell. Apart from Flynn, no one knows the extent of what happened to me."
"Same here," she responded. "I've never told anyone. My parents suspect what happened. Kate knows some details, but overall, I bottle it all up until Flynn coaxes it out of me. I swear that man has a gift for getting the whole truth and nothing but the truth."
I smiled in agreement. "So um, what happened to you as a child?" I ask, curiously. Fully intending to give back as much information as she gives me.
"Well, to make a long story short, my biological mother was unfit to raise us. She was a drug addict, an alcoholic, and a really not very nice person. Much less the company she kept. Mostly she neglected us, but that wasn't half as bad as what she did when she did pay attention."
I urge her to continue, finding the parallels to my own childhood rather disarming. "I never had a bed," she continued. "I slept in a crib always. Even when I got to be too big for it, I slept in a crib. Ethan slept in a dresser drawer. I think maybe my mother wanted me at first, as my bedroom was painted nice, like a lovely nursery for a baby, nice clothes and toys, but then her addictions worsened and she stopped caring about me, and only about how to get her next fix.
"She had men in and out of the house at all hours of the day. I'd be locked in the bedroom, stuck in my crib for the duration. No matter how hard I cried, she'd never come to my aid except to beat me and yell at me. Sometimes, when she had a trick over, her pimp would come in the room and beat me, and hold his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet. He'd say I was distracting the clientele.
"There was hardly ever any food in the house. As soon as I was big enough to walk, I took to the backyards, digging through trash, trying to find food. I guess I was remarkably resourceful for so young. I was acting on basic survival instincts though.
"It was worse when Ethan came along. She didn't want him; that much was obvious. She no longer wanted me, though, like I said, I think she did in the very beginning. Ethan didn't even have a name. She called me Annie-girl, when she wasn't calling me a little shit or something else. I don't know why she kept us. It would have been so much easier for her to just drop us off at a hospital or even throw us away. Not that I want to die or anything. Flynn had a field day with that comment. It's just anything would have been better than that. Even death.
"Then she got pregnant a third time. Honestly, birth control isn't that expensive. She took enough pills every day to kill a horse; I don't know why she couldn't throw that one in the mix. I think she had a moment of clarity the day Kate was born. She saw what a mess her life was, how horrible she was to her children, and how she couldn't do it on her own anymore.
"I delivered Kate myself, cutting the umbilical cord with the scissors from the knife block. My mother then used that same pair of scissors to slit her wrists and take her own life. We were found by the cops a few hours later due to all the crying and screaming. And within a few weeks, The Steeles adopted us. It's a wonder that the lot of us don't have some horrid syndromes or something. I'm sure she was high as a kite through all three pregnancies. Ethan had a bit of a stutter as a kid and some attention deficit issues, but he turned out fine. Kate never had any issues."
I could tell she was holding something back. There was something she left out, but I didn't want to press for more information. She'd already given so much.
"I'm so sorry, Ana," I told her, reaching over to take her hands in mine. I kept my eyes trained on hers, unwilling to look at the scars that I knew were exposed due her sleeves riding up. "And I'm sad to say my childhood was rather similar." She gestured for me to continue.
"My biological mother was a crack-whore. She neglected me, let her boyfriends, tricks, and pimps beat me, and eventually she overdosed on drugs, and died. I wasn't found until four days later, when her pimp showed up, kicked me across the room and then left. The police arrived shortly thereafter. Grace was the one who examined me at the hospital, and a month later, I went home with her."
My story was a lot shorter than hers, but then I had far fewer memories of that time in my life. "Oh Christian," Anastasia cooed. She pulled one of her hands from mine and reached up to my face, caressing my cheek and my jaw. I never let my subs touch me like this, but with her, I liked it. "Aren't we a pair?"
"Indeed, Miss Steele. So where does that leave us? Neither of us can stand to be touched. How do we create any kind of relationship from that?"
"I think we'll just have to take it slow," she replied. "We'll have to see what limits we each have and how to go about going beyond those limits." Then she laughed. "I have to admit, if someone had told me that if I tripped on a spilled drink one day, and it would lead to discussing ways to get past my afflictions by having a relationship with a man the next day, I'd have had them committed."
"Fair point well made, Miss Steele," I said. "My past relationships have been, rather different. So I don't have a basis of comparison."
"How so?" she asked. Oh dear, here came the difficult part.
"Um, how about we save that for Friday?" I suggest, evading the topic. "We can have dinner at my place and discuss our um, options. Does that work for you?"
"Yes, that'll be fine. And we'll keep in touch until then?" she asked, hope in her eyes.
"Every day, Anastasia," I promised, bringing her hand up to my lips for a kiss. Again I ignored the scar on her hand. I knew that if I looked at it, I wouldn't be able to keep myself from asking about it.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Oh my, it's getting late. I have a breakfast meeting in the morning. Um, shall I show you out?" she asked.
"Yes, that's fine," I replied. "I have an early meeting as well. This evening has been exceptional, Anastasia. Even with the conversation, I can't imagine anyone else that I'd have rather spent my time with tonight." She blushed and smiled as she stood up and led me to the front door.
We stood in front of it awkwardly for a moment before I finally broke the silence. "Anastasia, may I kiss you goodnight?" I asked quietly.
She gazed up at me, curiosity, fear and desire flitting through her eyes. Then she bit her lip and nodded. I stepped towards her, placed my fingers on her chin, releasing her lip from between her teeth and leaned in ever so slowly, my intent clear. Her eyes were wide as saucers as she drank me in. Then closing my eyes just before, I pressed my lips to hers.