Sunday, May 22 2011 (very early morning)
Ana, exhausted from our second round, falls into sleep rather quickly, if not instantly.
I, on the other hand, cannot, for the life of me, even close my eyes.
What the fuck is this woman doing to me? In the past few days, I've done things I've never done before. I've slept with her, without fucking her, I've kissed her without an NDA in place, I've fucked—no, made love to—no… whatever the fuck I've done, in my bed—vanilla, at least. And I've never had vanilla sex before—and now, I'm letting her sleep here. Because I can't bring myself to wake her and take her to the bed upstairs.
She looks so peaceful, and I imagine she's spent.
Oh, she's going to be sore in the morning, and the thought pleases me. She'll know I've been there—only me.
I lay awake for nearly an hour, vacillating between staring out the window and staring at Anastasia's sleeping face.
She's awakening things in me I didn't know were there. Strong feelings, and impulsions I've never acted upon before, or even thought about acting upon.
I need to see Flynn…
Finally, I pull myself out of bed and pull on a pair of pajama pants. I leave Ana sleeping in my bed, and retreat to the oasis my piano offers.
.
A gasp of air disturbs my peace.
I glance up, still playing, and find Anastasia standing in the middle of the room, wrapped in my duvet. Her cheeks are, as always it seems, flushed. She's staring at me, and the expression on her face is unfathomable. I can't begin to make sense of it.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you," she whispers, coming toward me.
I frown. "Surely, I should be saying that to you." I finish the piece and sit back, resting my hands on my knees. She doesn't move toward me, and so I stand and go to her. "You should be in bed."
"That was a beautiful piece," she says, ignoring my admonishment, "Bach?" she guesses.
"Transcription by Bach, but it's originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello," I tell her. I'm pleased by her familiarity with the music. She's more intelligent in the world of music than I formerly guessed. "Bed. You'll be exhausted in the morning."
"I woke and you weren't there," she says softly.
"I find it difficult to sleep, and I'm not used to sleeping with anyone," I tell her. I'm half telling the truth. There's no way I'm telling her the real reason—because the idea of her is keeping me up. I drape my arm around her and guide her back to my bedroom.
"How long have you been playing? You play beautifully," she inquires, on the way.
"Since I was six."
"Oh," she says, and she's quiet for a moment.
"How are you feeling?" I feel the need to ask, switching on the lamp beside the bed. Maybe two times in one night wasn't the best way to ease her into it. Part of me just needs to know.
"I'm good," she says.
In unity, our gazes fall to the bed sheets. Blood. Not very much, but enough to be noticed.
"Well," I muse out loud, "That's going to give Mrs. Jones something to think about." I turn to face her, tilting her chin up so I can see her face.
I'm not expecting it, and so it's maybe even more disconcerting, when she lifts a hand, reaching out for my chest.
NO!
My stomach drops six feet below ground, and pain sears, at just the idea, through my skin. I step back, out of her reach.
"Get into bed," I order, and my tone is very sharp, cruel even. "I'll come and lie down with you," I add, forcing myself to soften. It isn't her fault. She doesn't know.
She frowns as her hand recedes, drops back to her side.
To stop her from touching me again, I pull a t-shirt on, from the chest of drawers. When I turn back toward the bed, she's still standing there.
"Bed," I demand again.
She crawls onto the mattress, and I slip in beside her, turning her onto her side, away from me, and to me. This way, she won't be able to touch me.
I struggle to tame the riotous feeling inside, the galloping of my heart.
I kiss her hair, inhaling the heady scent of her—freesia, sandalwood, and sex.
"Sleep, sweet Anastasia."
A moment later, I feel her relax against me, her breathing evening out, falling into a long and slow, push and pull, pattern. I close my eyes and listen to it, pressing my hand to her chest, feeling her steady, slowed heartbeat under my palm.
Like that, I order my still pounding heart. Slow. Steady.
I shut my eyes, listening to the melody her breathing makes—almost as soothing as anything I could play on the piano.
Before I know it, I plunge into darkness next to her.
.
When I wake, Anastasia is not in bed beside me.
My bedroom is filled with light—which is strange. I don't ever sleep this late.
I feel extremely well-rested, and absolutely satiated.
As I sit up in bed, I notice the wonderful aroma coming from the kitchen. She's cooking. Holy hell, it smells good, and I realize I am starving.
I go to find Anastasia.
She's in the kitchen, and she stops me in my tracks. She's wearing the shirt I was wearing the night before—and that's it. I can tell she's not wearing anything underneath it. As she turns and struts around my kitchen—she's dancing, plugged into her iPod, and she doesn't notice me yet—I can see her nipples, and her pubic hair, through my shirt. It's… hot.
She's got her hair fixed in two pigtails. I wonder if she's getting all girled up to protect herself from the wrath of Christian… Oh, but what she doesn't know is that she may just love the wrath of me.
I take a seat at the breakfast bar, leaning against the backrest and admiring the view. She puts the bacon under the grill, cracks a few eggs into a bowl, and begins to whisk, sashaying her hips from side to side.
Okay, so she can't dance well, but I don't care. She's got a fine, fine body, and I'm enjoying watching her.
She turns and sees me, stills, and her face turns red.
Ah, there it is. The infamous blush.
She looks stunned for a moment, and I watch her eyes drift from my face to my chest to my hair. She's checking me out. The realization makes me smirk.
Finally, she seems to gather her wits, and she pulls the headphones out of her ears.
She can hear me now. "Good morning, Miss Steele. You're very energetic this morning."
"I-I slept well," she stammers.
"I can't imagine why," I say, trying in vain to hide my smirk. All because of me. I frown as I add, "So did I, after I came back to bed."
"Are you hungry?" she asks, still fixed to the spot.
"Very," I tell her, and though I am starving, I would like nothing more than to fuck her on the counter top, at this moment. Ana in pigtails does things to me. She looks so young, so carefree, so girlish.
"Pancakes, bacon and eggs?" she inquires.
"Sounds great." My stomach growls. It smells amazing.
"I don't know where you keep your placemats," she tells me, shrugging.
"I'll do that," I offer, standing, "You cook." Because I sure as hell can't. "Would you like me to put some music on so you can continue your… er… dancing?" I grin widely as she blushes again.
Aw, shucks, Miss Steele. Don't be embarrassed.
"Please don't stop on my account," I tease her, "It's every entertaining."
Mortified, she turns her back on me and continues to beat the eggs.
I can't help but go to her, forgetting about the placemats for now, and I tug gently on one of the braids.
"I love these," I murmur in her ear, "They won't protect you."
"How would you like your eggs?" she snaps.
I grin. Oh, that smart mouth. Perhaps we could do something with that, today… Hmm.
"Thoroughly whisked and beaten," I quip.
I see her try to hide her smile.
I turn back to the task at hand, sliding open the drawer at the end and take out two placemats. I arrange them on the breakfast bar and pour two glasses of orange juice.
I stride to the counter to start the coffee, and then I remember that Anastasia doesn't drink coffee.
I wonder if Mrs. Jones has picked up the Twining's English Breakfast tea, as I've asked her to…
"Would you like some tea?" I ask her as she turns to glance at me. She's got the eggs in a pan now.
"Yes, please," she says, "If you have some."
I open the cupboard—ah, there it is.
As I pull it down, I see her purse her lips. "Bit of a foregone conclusion, wasn't I?"
"Are you? I'm not sure we've concluded anything yet, Miss Steele."
She doesn't say anything, only serves up breakfast. My stomach snarls at the sight. Of the food… Of her, reaching up so that the hem of my shirt rises up her backside, revealing a tasty glimpse.
She finds some maple syrup in the fridge—also something I've requested Mrs. Jones to pick up—and I wait for her by the counter.
She turns.
"Miss Steele," I say, motioning to the barstool next to me.
"Mr. Grey," she nods back at me and sits. As she does, I see her wince. Oh, she's in pain.
"Just how sore are you?" I demand as I sit down next to her.
She flushes, seeming embarrassed. "Well, to be truthful," she snaps, "I have nothing to compare this to. Did you wish to offer your commiserations?" Her tone turns sickly sweet, mocking, and I have to suppress my amusement.
My my, Miss Steele. Such attitude.
"No. I wondered if we should continue your basic training," I tell her.
"Oh." And I see the idea of it, the wanting, the lust, rise up on her face as she stares at me.
"Eat, Anastasia," I order, and dig in.
Oh, God, this woman can cook. The food is delicious.
"This is delicious, incidentally," I tell her.
She eats a tiny forkful of omelet, seeming lost in some sort of thought, and bites down on her lip.
Fuck. Why does that turn me on so much?
"Stop biting your lip," I demand, "It's very distracting, and I happen to know you're not wearing anything under my shirt, which makes it even more distracting."
That small crease appears between her eyebrows as she dunks her teabag into the small pot Mrs. Jones has purchased.
"What sort of basic training did you have in mind?" she inquires now.
"Well, as you're sore, I thought you could stick to oral skills." Mmm, yes. I'd like to fuck her mouth… I'd also like to taste her. She smells divine.
She swallows her tea the wrong way and chokes, coughing and spluttering as she stares at me. I pat her on the back and hand her the glass of orange juice by her plate.
"That's if you want to stay," I add.
She stares at me for a moment and then, "I'd like to stay for today. If that's okay. I have to work tomorrow."
Oh thank goodness. Why am I always so paranoid that I'm going to say the wrong thing and send her running?
"What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?" I ask.
"Nine."
"I'll get you to work by nine tomorrow," I promise her.
She frowns. What? "I'll need to go home tonight," she says, "I need clean clothes."
"We can get you some here," I tell her. It's no problem, really.
She bites her lip, troubled, and I lift my hand to release it from her teeth's grip.
"What is it?" I demand. Why do I find it so frustrating that I can't know what she's thinking?
"I need to be home this evening," she pushes.
I feel my mouth form a hard line as frustration rises in me. So stubborn, but I suppose I do need to ease her into this. If you throw a frog into hot water, they'll jump right out. The key is to warm the water slowly, so they don't notice it getting hotter…
"Okay, this evening. Now eat your breakfast."
I take a few more bites, never peeling my eyes from her, as I wait for her to take a bite. She just stares at her plate, her expression blank.
"Eat, Anastasia," I can't help but snap, "You didn't eat last night."
"I'm really not hungry," she whispers.
"I would really like you to finish your breakfast," I push, trying—really fucking trying—not to lose my temper.
"What is it with you and food?" she demands to know.
"I told you. I have an issue with wasted food. Eat," I bark again. If I told her, she'd never agree to this. Why would she want to be with a man who has such a dark and fucked up past? The simple matter of the equation is that I know what it's like to be hungry, really hungry. And I never want to know that feeling again.
She must see something in my face, because she picks up her fork now and starts to eat.
Relieved that she's eating, I turn my attention back to my own plate. I finish before she does, and I watch her eat the rest of her breakfast. She takes slow, tentative bites, chewing purposefully, and I try not to lose my patience with her. At least she's eating.
Once her plate is clear, I jump up.
"You cooked, I'll clear."
"That's very democratic," she seems to congratulate me.
"Yes," I frown at the thought. I never did this for any of my other submissives when they cooked over the weekends. There's just something about Ana, though. I feel like I… owe it to her or something. "Not my usual style," I say. "After I've done this, we'll take a bath." And continue your training.
"Oh, okay," she says. Her cell rings, and I carry the plates over to the sink, to give her some privacy.
"Hi," I hear her greet whoever it is on the other line, and I wonder if it's the photographer. She wanders away from me, toward the glass wall, and though I've promised myself I'd give her some privacy, I find myself straining to hear what she's saying to the other person.
She's too far away.
I scrub the plates in earnest, return the orange juice to the fridge, dry the plates and slip them back into their rightful place in the cupboard.
"Kate, I don't want to talk over the phone," I hear Ana say. Her voice has risen a smidgen, just enough. I glance over at her. Miss Kavanagh. And not the photographer.
"Kate, please," Ana begs. She sounds exasperated.
"I've told you I'm okay… Kate, please!... I'll see you this evening." She hangs up and walks back to me.
"The NDA," she says, "Does it cover everything?" She sounds hesitant and shy.
"Why?" I inquire, turning to glance at her over my shoulder, simultaneously sliding the box of tea bags back in the cupboard. Her cheeks turn pink.
"Well," her voice warbles, "I have a few questions, you know, about sex." She's avoiding my gaze, staring intently at her hands, "And I'd like to ask Kate."
"You can ask me," I tell her. There's nothing she can't ask of me. I want her to be as open with me as possible. If she has any questions about this, I want to be the one to answer them for her.
"Christian, with all due respect," she starts, and then seems to second-guess what she's about to say. "It's just about mechanics," she finally says, "I won't mention the Red Room of Pain."
I feel my eyebrows lift, half in surprise, but mostly in amusement.
"Red Room of Pain? It's mostly about pleasure, Anastasia. Believe me." I would know. I've been in there, on both sides of the coin. "Besides," I continue, and I can't hide the disgust, "your roommate is making the beast with two backs with my brother. I'd really rather you didn't." If Miss Kavanagh ever were to mention anything to Elliot about what I do… I shudder at the thought. My life would, effectively, be over.
"Does your family know about your… um, predilection?" she inquires.
"No. It's none of their business." I round the counter to stand in front of her. "What do you want to know?" I push, keeping my voice soft, running my fingers down her cheek, feeling that soft, flawless skin under my fingers. I tilt her chin up, so that I can see into her eyes. I want to know.
"Nothing specific at the moment," she breathes, caught in my stare.
"Well, we can start with: How was last night for you?" For some reason, I feel eager to know. Did I do well? Was I adequate enough for her?
"Good."
Good. I was good. "Me, too," I murmur softly, "I've never had vanilla sex before. There's a lot to be said for it. But then, maybe it's because it's with you." Again, I find myself thinking about things too closely. I run my thumb across her mouth. "Come. Let's have a bath." I tilt my lips down to meet hers.
I want to wash her, and after that, we'll move forward with her training…