Sunday, May 15, 2011

It's a gorgeous day outside. The sun is shining, with only a light breeze, and it's not too chilly at all.

I am holding Miss Steele's hand, warm and small in mine, as we turn left outside the Heathman and head down the sidewalk toward the street. We wait at the edge of the sidewalk for the crosswalk light to change.

Here I am, in the street, holding a girl's hand. When was the last time I did this? Oh, of course I've held my other submissives' hands on occasion, but for some reason this feels different.

Hold it, Grey. She's not your anything… Yet.

I am glad to be with here, something light and airy in my chest. I feel almost… normal, doing this.

I have four blocks of walking to think about what I'm to say to this woman, how I am to broach the subject. I've never had someone who hasn't been aware of the nature of the relationship I have in mind before.

When we reach the door of the Portland Coffee House, I'm forced to release her hand so that I can open the door for her.

Once we're inside, I suggest she chooses a table for us, while I get the drinks. I ask her what she'd like.

"I'll have… um—English Breakfast Tea, bag out," she requests.

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I took her for a coffee girl. Surely a university student drinks coffee?

"No coffee?" I ask.

"I'm not keen on coffee," she says.

I smile. "Okay," I acquiesce, "Bag out tea. Sugar?"

For a moment she stares at me, stunned, and I'm confused. Have I said something wrong?

"No thanks," she finally answers, eyes turned down again.

"Anything to eat?"

"No thank you."

I head to the counter, stepping up to the back of the line of customers waiting to be served. I rarely wait to be served. I'm taken as a priority nearly everywhere I go, so it's unusual to have to wait.

Finally, I'm at the top of the line.

"Next customer, please?" She short haired blond calls out and I step up to the counter.

"One English breakfast tea, bag out; a mocha, and a blueberry muffin, please."

I receive a tray, and the helpful barista places everything on it.

I find Miss Steele waiting at a quaint round table and approach her. She seems lost in thought, staring down at her hands and biting her lip.

Oh, how I'd like to bite that lip…

The errant thought enters my mind unexpectedly and I put it aside, for now.

"Penny for your thoughts?" I ask as I approach.

Her face flushes—she sure blushes a lot—and shakes her head.

I set the tray down on the table, hand Anastasia her order, place my own at the spot across from her, and set the tray aside.

I sit and cross my legs. I can't help but push it. I need to know what she's thinking. Suddenly, every inane detail of her life has become important to me. I need to know who she is, what her life is like. If she's had no experience in my world—which I doubt she has, but you never know—I need to know what she's like, so that I can judge how to go about introducing it to her.

"Your thoughts?" I inquire.

"This is my favorite tea," she blurts, and the information is unexpected, but useful. I frown, suspecting there was more in her head than that.

I watch her remove the tea bag from the packaging, swirl it in the water for barely two seconds, and then pull it back out again. What an unusual way to drink tea, and I find myself cocking my head at her.

She glances at me. "I like my tea black and weak."

But it must have no flavor… Oh, Miss Steele, could I introduce you to some flavor…

I see that she's not going to volunteer any information, and so I know I'll need to take the reigns. The thought is comforting. This is familiar, having all the control. This is what I know, what I revel in.

"I see," I say, "Is he your boyfriend?" I've been dying to know this piece of information since I saw the look she and the photographer exchanged during the photo shoot. They seem very fond of each other, and knowing this is crucial to me. If they're involved, I will not interfere. As much as I would have liked to stay, I'll be on my way.

"Who?" she asks, clearly taken off guard.

"The photographer. Jose Rodriguez."

She laughs, and the sound is like chorusing bells, beautiful and clear. I'm sidetracked for a moment, hearing it.

"No," she explains, "Jose's a good friend of mine, that's all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?"

"The way you smiled at him, and he at you."

"He's more like family." And now she's whispering.

I nod, acknowledging this. This is good, this is what I need to know. The anxious knot I hadn't noticed before unwinds, and I am able to peel back the paper on my blueberry muffin. She's staring.

"Do you want some?" I ask her, amused by the way she watches. I'm more than willing to share, to feed her… Hmm…

"No thanks." Her lips turn down again, and she casts her gaze to her hands, which are knotted in her lap.

"And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He's not your boyfriend?" I continue. I need to cover all my bases.

"No. Paul's just a friend. I told you yesterday. Why do you ask?"

"You seem nervous around men," I tell her, and though it's not quite a direct answer to her question, it's impertinent, nonetheless.

"I find you intimidating," she admits, flushing again. She still isn't looking at me.

I can't hide my gasp, and again I am reminded of the way those blue eyes of hers have seemed to pin me from the very start, that they seem to see right through me. For a moment, I am sure she knows, but then, it's just an assumption. I recall that she knows nothing about me.

"You should find me intimidating. You're very honest," I tell her as her gaze falls once more, "Please don't look down. I like to see your face."

She lifts her eyes to mine, and I try my best at a reassuring smile.

"It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking. You're a mystery, Miss Steele." But her eyes are very open, very honest, almost like an open book. I can read every emotion in them. Her thoughts, however, what's going on her head—I have no idea of.

"There's nothing mysterious about me," she dismisses.

"I think you're very self-contained. Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about." I don't take my eyes off her as I tear off a small piece of muffin and pop it in my mouth. As if in direct response to my words, color rises in her face once again, crawling up her chest, her neck, her cheeks.

"Do you always make such personal observations?" she inquires.

"I hadn't realized I was. Have I offended you?"

"No."

"Good," I say, relieved.

"But you're very high-handed."

Shock lifts my eyebrows, surprised at her audacity. Just when I think I know her, that smart mouth comes out again. My face feels warm, and I wonder if I'm blushing now, too. Maybe she's rubbing off on me… I stop to think about that for a moment. Hmm, rubbing off on me…

"I'm used to getting my own way, Anastasia. In all things."

"I don't doubt it," she says, "Why haven't you asked me to call you by your first name?" Her question holds zip, candor, and if I'm not mistaken, a slight hint of antagonism.

"The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends. That's the way I like it." And if I have my way, the only way you'll be addressing me is, 'Sir' and 'Mr. Grey'.

There's a quiet moment. Anastasia takes a sip of her tea, and I take another bite of my muffin. It's quite tasty.

"Are you an only child?" I ask. I assume the answer to this is affirmative, recalling the background check I had Welch run after our interview.

"Yes."

"Tell me about your parents," I request.

She seems slightly confused, but relents either way. "My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband, Bob. My stepdad lives in Montesano."

"Your father?"

"My father died when I was a baby," she says.

"I'm sorry," I say, and am immediately aware that I am—sorry. I feel pain for this girl, and this troubles me. I've never felt pain for anyone before. It's hard even feeling pain for myself.

"I don't remember him," she says.

"And your mother remarried?" Of course, I already know this.

She snorts. "You could say that."

I frown at her, knowing the answer already, but wishing she'd tell me anyway. "You're not giving much away, are you?"

"Neither are you."

"You've interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then." I smirk at her, knowing full well that she's thinking of the 'gay' question, just as I am.

"My mom is wonderful," she says, and for a minute I'm derailed by the way she's dived into sharing this information, but I catch up quickly. "She's an incurable romantic," Anastasia continues, "She's currently on her fourth husband."

I raise my eyebrows, feigning surprise. Of course, this information isn't new to me.

"I miss her," she tells me honestly, "She has Bob now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don't go as planned." When she smiles, I can see how much she adores her mom. We have that in common—one of few things, I'm sure.

I take a sip of my coffee. "Do you get along with your step-father?" I ask.

"Of course. I grew up with him. He's the only father I know."

"And what's he like?"

"Ray?" she says, "he's… taciturn." She's sharing information freely now. It seems a dam has been opened when it comes to speaking of others, just as it had when she spoke of Kate back in my office. Hmm.

"That's it?"

"He likes soccer—European soccer especially—and bowling, and fly-fishing, and making furniture. He's a carpenter. Ex-army." She exhales softly, a sigh.

"You lived with him?"

"Yes. My mom met Husband Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Ray."

I frown in confusion. Don't girls normally prefer to live with their mothers? I know Mia was always so much more open with our mother than she was with our father. This woman is constantly surprising me.

"You didn't want to live with your mom?"

"Husband Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in Montesano. And… you know, my mom was newly married." Abruptly she stops and switches gears. "Tell me about your parents."

I shrug. "My dad's a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle." There's not much to know, and I wonder why she's so curious about me. Her life is of much more interest, but I suppose the least I can do is volunteer a bit of my own information, after she's been so forthcoming with her own.

"What do your siblings do?" she probes.

"Elliot's in construction, and my little sister is in Paris, studying cookery under some renowned French chef." I keep my answers short, hoping we can steer the conversation back to her. I have no interest in talking about myself. Why would she want to know anything about me?

"I hear Paris is lovely," she says quietly.

"It's beautiful," I agree, "Have you been?" And I'm relieved that the attention is back on her.

"I've never left mainland USA."

This doesn't surprise me. Judging by her upbringing, I doubt vacations like that could have been very affordable. I would love to take her one day. I would love to do that for her, show her the world, in a sense.

"Would you like to go?"

"To Paris?" Suddenly her voice is high-pitched with—what? Excitement, disbelief? It's hard to tell. "Of course! But it's England that I'd really like to visit."

I tilt my head, running my finger over my lower lip, conscious that is it just one of my many mannerisms. She seems distracted by it, and I have to suppress my smirk. It's just a pretty face, baby.

"Because?"

She blinks, those gorgeous lashes fluttering. "It's the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Bronte sisters, Thomas Hardy. I'd like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books."

And we're back to the hearts and flowers. Abruptly, I am distracted by the thought. If she thinks these books are so wonderful, I'm willing to bet she has ideals about the life she'd like to live. I am nothing like the men in those books…

She seems suddenly distracted, glancing at the delicate wristwatch she wears—it has to be sterling silver. She deserves platinum, white gold in the least.

"I'd better go," she says, "I have to study."

"For your exams?" I recall that she is a student—oh yes.

"Yes," she says, "They start Tuesday."

"Where's Miss Kavanagh's car?" I inquire, deciding I'll walk her to it.

"In the hotel parking lot."

"I'll walk you back."

"Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey," she says.

I grin, knowing I have so much more to offer than tea. "You're welcome, Anastasia. It's my pleasure. Come," I request, standing and holding out my hand.

Obediently, she takes it, and we head out.

As we head back along the sidewalk, I'm thinking of all the things I could buy her. A new watch, a car, clothes… Oh, but I like the way her ass looks in those jeans…

"Do you always wear jeans?"

"Mostly," she responds, a little confused.

I nod. She should be wearing pencil skirts, and silk wrap dresses, to show off those legs. Those legs I would so love to have wrapped around my waist…

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Her voice interrupts my inappropriate thoughts.

A girlfriend. I smirk at the thought. "No, Anastasia, I don't do the girlfriend thing." I do the submissive thing.

She seems confused by my answer. Numerous emotions flit across her face, and as she turns, I see a biker coming up the wrong side of the street, going too fast. She trips, lurching headfirst into the traffic whizzing past.

"Shit, Ana!" I hear my panicked cry, and on instinct, I'm pulling the hand I'm still holding, hard. The cyclist whips past, just shy of clipping the hell out of her. If he'd been going slower, within reach, I'd have his balls.

But right now, I'm more concerned about Miss Steele.

"Are you okay?" I inquire of her, one arm holding her securely against me, where she's safe, the other on her face, searching for any sign of harm she may have endured. My thumb brushes that full, pouty, bottom lip, so soft against my skin, and her eyes go slightly cloudy, unfocused; her pupils dilate, and her gaze goes to my mouth.

I know in this instant that she wants me to kiss her, and I'm shocked that I want the same thing. I want this woman's lips on mine, to kiss her hard, to feel the shape of that mouth on mine, her tongue against my tongue, to feel her head in my hands. And after that, I'd like to take her back to the hotel room, tie her to the bed, and fuck her, hard.

I close my eyes, forcing her out of my vision, and I shake my head. No. No, I can't do this. The chance of this happening is impossible. I think back to our conversation in the coffee shop. I know more about her now. I know where she came from, her love of classic literature. I know, deep down, that this is not the life for her.

She deserves more than this. She deserves hearts and flowers, not whips and chains.

"Anastasia, you should steer clear of me. I'm not the man for you." My voice is low, and as much as it pains me to say it, I know my words are true. I watch her for a moment, watch her take what I've said in, process it. She' s holding her breath. I need to let her go. She's too close, it's distracting. She smells amazing, so sexy, of sandalwood and freesia, maybe?

"Breathe, Anastasia, breathe," I urge her. I'm still supporting most of her weight. She's slight in my arms. "I'm going to stand you up and let you go." Gently, I push her away from me, and I have some space again.

I keep my hands on her shoulders, just in case she needs the support still, and I study her face closely. She looks… desolate, lost and bereft.

"I've got this, thank you," she says, and her voice is low with embarrassment.

"For what?" I ask. What have I done to earn her thanks?

"For saving me." Her voice is just a whisper.

"That idiot was riding the wrong way," I say, "I'm glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you. Do you want to come and sit down in the hotel for a moment?" We will sit in the lobby area, I tell myself. I don't think I could trust myself if I took her up to my room. I can't make sense of it, but I have the most overwhelming urge to fuck her and make her mine, right now.

She shakes her head 'no' and I know it's for the best.

She turns now, to make her way across the street, the light giving us the go ahead. I follow behind her closely, careful to keep enough distance, but to stay close enough so that I can act quickly, should she trip again.

Once we're in front of the hotel, she turns to me, but she doesn't look me in the eye. She's hurt, and I don't know why. But the realization that I've hurt her in some way does strange, strangling things to my insides. I hurt.

"Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot."

"Anastasia… I…" I begin to say, but for once I am at a loss for words. I don't know what to say to her, I don't know how to make it better. Well, maybe I do… But no—I've promised myself I wouldn't. But I want to see her again. Maybe this is the time to ask her to dinner… But I've already told her I'm not the man for her. I've already told her she needs to stay away from me…

"What, Christian?" Anastasia snaps, now angry, impatient possibly.

"Good luck with your exams," I say, knowing this is the only thing I can say. This is the best thing for her. I will go now, and I will leave her be, to live the life she so deserves to live, free of all the shades of my fucked-upness.

"Thanks," and if I'm correct, I hear the slight inclination of sarcasm in her tone, "Good-bye, Mr. Grey."

And I watch her disappear into the underground garage.

I war with myself for several minutes, standing there on the threshold of the hotel.

Finally, when I've decided I've stood there long enough, I head back into the lobby, striding past the receptionist desk, and back toward the elevators.

.

It's late. I've had a busy day, full of meetings, and my Blackberry is charging by the bed, nearly drained.

I'm sitting at the table, showered, in pajama pants and a t-shirt, bare feet propped on the chair across from me.

I'm going over some mergers and acquisitions, having to do with the new solar-powered cell-phone we're trying to distribute. There have been a couple hiccups in the plan so far, but nothing that can't be solved.

One minute I'm responding to Ros's email, the next I'm searching Thomas Hardy first editions on Google.

I can do this—send her a gift, I know she will adore. A good luck gift, for her exams—but also, a warning.

I find a set of Tess of the d'Ubervilles and decide on the purchase.

Quickly, I glance at the time in the corner of the Macbook screen. It's after midnight, and I'm sure Taylor is sleeping down the hall.

I'll call him in the morning, and send him out to get the books.

I go to the desk, pull out a plain piece of cardstock. I need to make this personal, so she'll know it was from me.

I could simply sign it, wish her luck on her exams, but no… That would send mixed signals, make it seem like I wish to see her again.

But I do want to see her again.

You're good for nothing, Grey. You're a fucked up son of a bitch. A complete and utter screw up.

I sit and think for awhile.

What she needs is a warning.

Two minutes later, after entering 'Thomas Hardy, Tess of d'Uberville quotes' into my search engine, I find the perfect inscription, and scrawl it down.

…

Why didn't you tell me there was danger? Why didn't you warn me?

Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks…