Note from Riottori: Enjoy! And please give me any feed-back you can.
A sound from the doorway interrupts my mantra and makes me look up. My husband is leaning against the frame, his head cocked to the side and his intense, grey gaze assessing me. He's just wearing his pajama bottoms, his muscular chest bare save a fine smattering of hair. The effect he has on me is awesome, even now. I feel my breath catch in my throat and my eyes rake over him, drinking him in.
"Good morning, Mrs Grey," he purrs, lazy as a cat.
"Good morning, Mr Grey," I reply, my heart hammering its hurt somewhere deep inside me. "Coffee?" I ask, holding up the cafetiere, acting, playing my role perfectly. The good wife.
"Hmm, sounds good." He eases himself onto the bar-stool and runs a hand through his just-slept hair. I inhale sharply and turn away not wanting him to see the flush of despair that pinks my cheeks.
"What time did you get home last night?" I ask, while I fetch cream from the fridge. I bend over, deliberately, even though the cream is on the top shelf.
"Around 1. The meeting ran way over schedule," he lies, easily. "You were sound asleep. I didn't want to wake you."
I turn and look him in the eye, aware of how I look, tousled bed-hair, tight, revealing night-gown that highlights the fact I'm wearing nothing under it.
"You know I don't mind being woken, Mr Grey," I whisper, suggestively.
His mouth breaks into its familiar grin.
"Are you flirting with me, Mrs Grey?" he asks, grey eyes ablaze.
I step forward with a confidence I don't feel until I'm in his line of vision, all he can see.
"Maybe," I say and tug gently on my bottom lip, my gaze never leaving his. I feel the tell-tale bloom of desire in the bottom of my belly but it's mixed with a different desire, an over-riding one: I want to take back what is rightfully mine. Come back to me, Christian, I will him, feeling my emotions fill my blue eyes, trickle in like water. While you still can, before too much damage is done.
His buzzing cell rudely interrupts the tension I have created in the air between us and I feel a pang of disappointment. He rolls his eyes and reaches for the cell, his eyes widening a fraction when he reads the name on the screen.
"Sorry," he mouths, a final appreciative glance over my body and then he swivels on his stool to take the call. And I am left feeling bereft.
The shower pounds a relentless beat on my shoulders. I step right into the path of the hot water, tilt my face up into it and enjoy the all-encompassing touch it gives me. It washes away my hang-over, the droplets trickle down becoming one with my tears. I have learnt how to cry quietly; have mastered the art of hiding grief. I allow myself to indulge now and then.
My hands make a soapy trail over my body, the sponge invading and enticing, waking me up, emboldening me. I linger on certain spots, spots that have been neglected for too long. I crank the hot water up, steam filling the cubicle, making it hard to breath. The water cascades down, scalding my soft skin. I add a bit more hot – it is almost unbearable. Almost.
Who are you? I hear this question rise from my very core. How much more can you take? I ease the hot water up just a little more, impressed by my own limits. My skin feels red raw but I take it, willingly endure the punishing power of the water. One more turn of the dial and then I must be done, I think. I reach forward. That's it, you little masochist...
And then, just like that, I find the power to slam the water off. The steam clears almost as quickly as it has come and I can finally see. I stand, my skin ablaze from abuse as the burning water drips off me. I am fire, I am full of flame, I am Ana.
My husband is in our bedroom as I stalk from the en-suite, naked and feral and wild. He looks up, shock registering in his face, his hand tying his tie, frozen.
"Ana, what..." My mouth steals the words from his lips as I attack him, wrap my hands around his tie and drag him down to meet my mouth. My tongue claims him, invades him and I break back so he's gasping, panting, wanting more.
I turn on my heel and head for the chest of drawers, pulling out black, lacy underwear.
"What was that?" he asks, his question laden with desire.
"Can't a wife kiss her husband?" I ask, innocently. I don't turn to face him but can feel his eyes on me, taking in the view.
In a flash, he's by my side, one hand on my bare bottom, the other reaching round to the front to feel me. I wriggle away.
"Oh, Mr Grey. I'm going to be late. I have an important appointment. It's not just you, you know?" I tease, edging away from him.
I step into my knickers, all the while watching him, watching me. He reaches for me again, eyes hooded in confusion and lust. I back around the bed, using it as a barrier between us while I ease my bra on, a tantalising reverse striptease.
"Ana," he says, a warning, a command. I smile sweetly as I step into my dress and pull it on, hiding my nakedness.
"I don't want to be late. Sir." I look solemnly at him but I allow the corners of my lips to flick up.
"Are you smirking at me, Mrs Grey?" he asks, edging closer to me as I back away. "You know how I feel about that." His voice cracks with need. I flick my eyes down and see his desire straining against his trousers. It's been a long time since we've played this game.
"Oh, no, Sir. I would never smirk at you," I say, my eyes still down-cast. I peek shyly up at him like the girl last night, see the amusement and longing etched into his expression.
"Now, come here," he says.
"No, Sir," I say.
"What?" he asks, incredulously. "Are you defying me?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I said, come here." He sounds so in control.
"And I said, no, Sir. I want you to remember this all day. When you're in a meeting, you'll think about how you feel now." I train my focus on his crotch. "When you're eating lunch, remember me. When you're on the phone, remember me. Good bye, Sir."
As I walk briskly from the room, I can hear his groan of frustration. It makes me smile.