Sunday, May 22, 2011

"I have no clean clothes in here," Ana panics, scrambling to sit up on my bed. Her hair is wild, cheeks still flushed. Shit, she is drop-dead gorgeous. "Perhaps I should just stay here."

"Oh no, you don't. You can wear something of mine." There's no way she's backing out of this. I want her to meet my mother. And she's damn well going to meet my mother. I pull a white t-shirt over my head and absently run my hand through my hair. I've long since given up attempting to tame my hair, ever. It has a mind of its own. I can't be too bothered about it, really.

I gaze at her impassively. She still looks quite torn between choices.

"Anastasia," I say, "You could be wearing a sack and you'd look lovely. Please don't worry. I'd like you to meet my mother. Get dressed. I'll just go and calm her down." She still looks undecided. I need to make my expectations clear. "I will expect you in that room in five minutes; otherwise I'll come and drag you out of here myself in whatever you're wearing. My t-shirts are in this drawer," I say, gesturing, "My shirts are in the closet. Help yourself."

I gaze at her a moment longer. She had better obey me. What concerns me is that Anastasia never does what's expected. I suppose I just need to trust that she will. I turn and stride from my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

My mother is waiting in the great room. She's distracted by something on her Blackberry, in the midst of peeling her coat off. She glances up at me when I enter the room.

"Christian!" she greets me, "How are you darling, alright?"

I sense the mirth dancing in my eyes, and I can't peel the grin off my face. "I'm well, Mother. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she tells me, "I was just in the neighborhood."

I take a seat on the couch, throwing my arms over the back. "I see."

Curiosity sparks in her eyes as she takes a seat next to me. "Well?" she urges, "Tell me about… her."

I don't miss the fact that she stammers over the last word, and I smirk. Why the hell does everyone think I'm gay?

Ana appears in the doorway now. She's dressed in the clothes she wore last night. She's replaced her pigtails for a singular ponytail, and I have to say, she's done rather well. If I can't tell I've just fucked her, neither will my mom.

"Here she is," I announce, jumping to my feet. I can hear the pride in my voice, and I embrace it. Anastasia Steele is an amazing woman, and I'm pleased to be able to introduce her to one of the most important people in my life. My mother absolutely beams at Anastasia, and rises from the couch as well. Good God, Mother, hide your enthusiasm just a little bit, will you? "Mother, this is Anastasia Steele," I introduce, "Anastasia, this is Grace Trevelyan-Grey."

My mother extends her hand. "What a pleasure to meet you." I'm not lost on the relief I see in her gaze, and I'm wondering if it's because she sees that Anastasia is, in fact, a female, or if it's something else.

Anastasia reaches to grasp my mother's hand and shakes it, returning the smile. Shit, that smile is stunning. "Dr. Trevelyan-Grey," she murmurs formally, politely.

"Call me Grace," my mother urges, grinning hugely and I can't help but frown. Okay, that's strange. My mother's never asked anyone to call her by her first name. So often she prefers the professional address. "I am usually Dr. Trevelyan, and Mrs. Grey is my mother-in-law," she says conspiratorially, and winks. "So, how did you two meet?"

Now she's looking at me, and I take this as my cue that I am permitted to be included in the conversation again. "Anastasia interviewed me for the student paper at WSU because I'm conferring the degrees there this week," I tell her.

"So you are graduating this week?" Grace inquires of her.

"Yes," she answers, and in the kitchen, her cell phone starts to ring. "Excuse me," she mumbles, and goes to answer it.

My mother takes a breath as she turns to look at me again. "Nice girl," she murmurs, "She's gorgeous."

"She is," I agree.

"And very sweet."

Sweet. Hmm… I mull over the word in my head, thinking back to this morning, when she earned her first well deserved A… She wasn't very sweet then…

I gaze over at her now. She has her shoulders angled in on herself, as if she's hiding from something, or protecting herself. "Look, Jose, now's not a good time," she says, and glances up at me.

Jose. The photographer. What the fuck is he calling for?

"I heard you were in Portland this week."

"Yes," I murmur to her, eyes glued to Anastasia's face. She looks nervous. And now she turns her back to me. Shit. Does she not want me to hear this phone conversation? There's something about that damn photographer. There has to be something going on between them. No way in fucking hell am I letting him come between Anastasia and me.

"… and Elliot called to say you were around—I haven't seen you for two weeks, darling." I tune back into what my mother is saying, and I try to concentrate on the conversation at hand, but the rage is swarming inside me like a hornet's nest, and the fog of it is just too thick.

"Did he now?" I say, unable to tear my eyes from that gorgeous woman now back in the sitting area. Fuck him. Fuck him and his attempts to win her over. She's mine.

"… other plans and I don't want to interrupt your day."

Oh. She's leaving now. Out of the corner of my eye I watch her swipe her coat off the arm of the couch and she turns to me.

I force myself to finally turn away from Anastasia, and I plant a kiss on my mother's proffered cheek. "I have to drive Anastasia back to Portland," I hear myself mutter as an excuse.

"Of course, darling." She understands, and now turns her attention to Anastasia. "Anastasia, it's been such a pleasure. I do hope we meet again." She holds her hand out once more, and Anastasia takes it immediately.

Taylor steps into the room. "Mrs. Grey?" he says. He'll escort her out.

"Thank you, Taylor."

They leave, but I only know this by sound, because my eyes are fixed on Anastasia again. The anger licks up the walls of my belly, jealousy promoting it like jet fuel.

"So the photographer called?" I demand, and I can hear the acidity in my voice.

She swallows. "Yes."

"What did he want?"

"Just to apologize," she says, "You know—for Friday."

Yes. I fucking know. "I see."

Having returned, Taylor steps back into the room. "Mr. Grey, there's an issue with the Darfur shipment."

Fuck. This will have to be dealt with later. I nod at Taylor, acknowledging his words. "Charlie Tango back at Boeing Field?" I ask.

"Yes, sir."

Taylor turns his attention to Anastasia now. "Miss Steele," he greets her.

She offers him a small smile, and he turns to leave.

"Does he live here?" she asks me, "Taylor?"

"Yes," I snap. I can't fucking deal with this right now. I stalk over to the counter where I've left my Blackberry and scroll through the multiple emails I've received from Ros, requesting I call her when I can. I make the call.

"Ros here."

"Ros, what's the issue?"

For a minute, she seems surprised at my anger, but pushes forward anyway. "There's an issue with security at the drop-off site, sir. They're low on crew members."

"I'm not having either crew put at risk," I tell her.

"Right, sir. Should I reschedule?"

"No, cancel," I tell her, "We'll air-drop instead."

"Certainly, Mr. Grey. I'll arrange that immediately."

"Good." I hang up. Next order of business. I leave Anastasia in the great room and head into my office, where I print off the entire contract and slip it into an envelope.

"This is the contract," I tell her upon returning, "Read it, and we'll discuss it next weekend." That should give her enough time to process it all. "May I suggest you do some research, so you know what's involved," I add. "That's if you agree, and I really hope you do." Suddenly, all my anger vanishes into thin air, replaced with the squirming, daunting sensation of anxiety.

She still hasn't said yes, or even no, and I can't figure out why. But maybe, once she does a bit of research, she'll have a better inclination of which way she'll choose to go.

"Research?" she asks.

"You'll be amazed what you can find on the Internet."

She looks troubled suddenly, gnawing on that lip.

"What is it?" I demand.

"I… don't have a computer," she says, sullen, "I usually use the computers at school. I'll see if I can use Kate's laptop."

That probably isn't such a good idea… I hand Anastasia the envelope and picture how Miss Kavanagh would react if she stumbled across her internet history after Anastasia was done with it. No. I'll get her a laptop of her own. That way she'll have email, and I'll be able to reach her with better ease, as well.

"I'm sure I can… er, lend you one," I say, knowing she'd never accept if I outright told her I'd purchase one for her, "Get your things, we'll drive back to Portland and grab some lunch on the way. I need to dress." Jeans and t-shirt won't do for heading out into public.

"I'll just make a call," she murmurs softly.

I feel the corners of my lips turn down. Why the hell would she need to call him back? "The photographer? I don't like to share, Miss Steele. Remember that," I warn her, and I hope that'll be enough. I turn and head back into my bedroom, in search of a better outfit.

.

Anastasia is biting her lip again, and I've just called the elevator.

"What is it, Anastasia?" I inquire. My anger has dissipated slightly, upon the realization that she'd made a call to Miss Kavanagh instead of the photographer. I overheard her conversation while I was gathering my things. I reach up to free her lip from her teeth. "Stop biting your lip, or I will fuck you in the elevator, and I don't care who gets in with us."

She blushes, and I smile at the sight.

"Christian," she indulges me, "I have a problem."

"Oh?" Perhaps there's something I can do to fix it, and I turn my full attention to her now. Before she can tell me what she's having an issue with, the bell dings, announcing the elevator's arrival. The doors gape open and we step inside. I punch the Garage button, and we begin to descend.

"Well," she continues, but is interrupted by her blush. "I need to talk to Kate." Shit, this again. "I've so many questions about sex, and you're too involved." You don't know the half of it, Miss Steele. "If you want me to do all these things—how do I know—?" She stops, and I can see she's struggling, warring over some thoughts inside her head. "I just don't have any terms of reference."

I can't help but roll my eyes. So that's what this is all about. She just needs some girl talk. I suppose I can allow it, so long as she doesn't mention anything to Elliot. I tell her this, and she seems perturbed at my words.

"She wouldn't do that," she snaps, though her tone softens quickly—she reigns in her temper so well, "and I wouldn't tell you anything she tells me about Elliot—if she were to tell me anything."

"Well, the difference is that I don't want to know about his sex life. Elliot's a nosy bastard." I joke, but really I'm serious. "But only about what we've done so far," I add. Katherine can't know about what I have in mind for Anastasia… "She'd probably have my balls if she knew what I wanted to do to you." And I'm aware I'm thinking out loud.

"Okay," she acquiesces, and she smiles at me.

I smile back at her quickly, but all that's running through my head is how different this all is. Why is it, that with her, I find it so hard to keep her under my hand? Why am I allowing her these things?

"The sooner I have your submission the better, and we can stop all this."

"Stop all what?" she asks.

"You, defying me." I sweeten the blow with a kiss as we stop on the Garage floor, and the doors slip open. I grip her hand in mine and pull her into the garage. Now I get to show her my car. I point the key fob at the Audi R8 and press 'unlock'.

"Nice car," she comments.

Exhilaration rushes through me at her approval and I grin at her. "I know."

.

"So what sort of car is this?" she asks once we're situated.

"It's an Audi R8 Spyder," I tell her and add, "It's a lovely day. We can take the top down. There's a baseball cap in there," I gesture toward the glove box with my chin, "In fact, there should be two. And sunglasses if you want them."

I start the ignition, slip my overnight bag between our seats, and press the button to retract the roof. I figure I'll just stay in Portland for the week. The graduation isn't far away. Last but not least, I turn the music on and Bruce Springsteen's 'I'm On Fire' seeps from the speakers.

"Gotta love Bruce." I grin.

Oh, it's been too long since I've driven this baby. I ease the car up the steep ramp and out into the sunshine. It's a gorgeous morning, and despite the fact that I'm returning Miss Steele to her home—one of the too many arguments I've lost this weekend—I'm happy, really happy. I've got this beautiful woman, who is totally out of my league, sitting next to me, in a gorgeous car, driving through this gorgeous day. It's just… gorgeous.

Anastasia pulls out the caps from the glove box and hands one to me. I pull it on. As we cruise through the streets, headed toward the Interstate, I find myself lost in thought again. How is it, that this woman has affected me so in such a short amount of time? She's completely deconstructing me, and a part of me—and I don't know if it's rational or irrational—is terrified that she's going to strip me down until I'm nothing. From the beginning, it's as if she's been trying so hard to figure me out, to see the deeper parts of me.

There's nothing there, baby, I think to myself absently. It's been over two weeks since I last saw Flynn, and I'm sure he'd have a lot to say about all of this.

It's true that my mood has been significantly higher this past week—relatively so. Before Anastasia fell into my office, I saw the world through a serious of black, white, and grey filters. Nothing had life. Nothing had edge.

But when that flurry of dark chestnut hair, alabaster skin, and cornflower blue eyes lurched into my office, everything exploded in a rainbow of Technicolor. There's something so different about this woman, and I can't figure out what it is. Why does she make me feel this way? She makes me second-guess nearly everything I do. I'm so much more conscious of the way I do things around her, in a way I've never been before.

I've never wanted a sub so badly.

As I think this, I glance over at her and find her gazing at me, and that blush is coloring her face. I smirk. So she's been watching me… Does she like what she sees? I reach over, squeezing her leg, right above the knee, gently. I feel her muscles tense beneath my grip, and her lips part, and though I can't hear it, I know she's catching her breath.

"Hungry?" I inquire. I'm ravenous after our expenditures this morning.

"Not particularly," she says, and my mood plummets.

How is it that she's never hungry? She hasn't eaten enough to feed a mouse in the last 24 hours.

"You must eat, Anastasia. I know a great place near Olympia. We'll stop there."

.

Cuisine Savage is one of my favorite places to eat. It's small and intimate, the décor very rustic. It feels very much like a home. They do things a little differently here, and I love it. For someone who is such a—how did Anastasia put it? Oh yes—control freak—I love the unpredictability of this place. It's one of the few instances where I'm okay with just sitting back and letting life happen in front of me. It is, in fact, just a tiny piece of my day.

"I've not been here for awhile," I say to Anastasia after we are seated, and the hostess has left, "We don't get a choice—they cook whatever they've caught or gathered." I lift my eyebrows in what I hope looks like feigned terror, and it makes her laugh. Oh, how I love to hear Anastasia Steele laugh.

The waitress steps up to our table. "Hi, how are you doing today? My name's Laura, and I'll be taking care of you guys today. Can I get you something to drink?" she grips her pad and pen expectantly.

"Two glasses of the Pinot Grigio." This is my go-to wine, and in a place where I don't know what we'll be having, it's safe. This is a wine that goes with, literally, anything.

As she walks away, Anastasia purses her lips. She looks a little frustrated.

"What?"

"I wanted a Diet Coke," she whispers.

I shake my head. Oh no, Anastasia. No more of this topping from the bottom stuff. I'm in control now. "The Pinot Grigio here is a decent wine," I explain to her, "It will go well with the meal, whatever we get." I sound surprisingly composed.

"Whatever we get?" she asks.

"Yes." I grin and she reciprocates with one of her own. We stare at each other, grinning madly, stupidly, for a moment.

"My mother liked you," I feel the need to tell her.

"Really?" She seems pleased by this, flushing with pleasure.

"Oh yes. She's always thought I was gay."

Her mouth pops open. She seems to recover rather quickly and asks, "Why did she think you were gay?"

"Because she's never seen me with a girl," I answer honestly. In fact, no one but the help has ever seen me with a girl.

"Oh… Not even one of the fifteen?"

I smile, amused at her recall, and her name for them. I suppose it's as good as any. I never thought to group them together like so. "You remembered. No, none of the fifteen."

"Oh," she murmurs.

I take a breath. "You know, Anastasia, it's been a weekend of firsts for me, too." I hear how quiet I am; it's strange to be sharing this with her. Why do I feel the need to tell her my every thought?

"It has?"

I rattle off the list: "I've never slept with anyone, never had sex in my bed, never flown a girl in Charlie Tango, and never introduced a woman to my mother." I pause. "What are you doing to me?" I implore her, beseeching her, as if she might know, might hold the answer.

The waitress interrupts, and I am partially grateful for it, depositing our wine in front of us. I watch her take a sip.

"I've really enjoyed this weekend," she tells me softly, and bites down on that delectable lip.

Shit. "Stop biting your lip," I growl. "Me, too," I add as an afterthought. Because I have. This weekend has been more enjoyable than I thought possible, and I never want it to end.

"What's vanilla sex?" The question comes from out of nowhere, and I laugh.

"Just straightforward sex, Anastasia," I say, "No toys, no add-ons. You know," I say, shrugging, "Well, actually you don't, but—that's what it means."

"Oh."

The waitress is back, this time with soup. She sets the bowls in front of us, and we stare at it, both of us rather suspicious.

"Nettle soup," the waitress says helpfully, and then she's gone.

Hmm, okay. Each of us raise our spoon to our lips and take a tentative taste. Mmmm. It's actually quite good, and I'm relieved. I wouldn't want to bring Anastasia here and have her hate the place. When I glance up at her, relieved, I find she has the same expression on her face. She giggles, and the sound is wonderful.

I tilt my head to the side, wishing it weren't so short, wishing she'd do it again. "That's a lovely sound," I tell her.

"Why have you never had vanilla sex before?" she asks, effectively ignoring the compliment, "Have you always done… er, what you've done?"

Slowly, I nod. "Sort of," I admit, and suddenly I'm swamped by anxiety again. Should I tell her? Bring her right back to the beginning? That 'owe it to her' feeling overwhelms me again. I've never felt the need to tell any of the other fifteen. Why is the need so pressing with Anastasia? I don't know. I just know I need to tell her. I look up at her. "One of my mother's friends seduced me when I was fifteen."

"Oh," she says, and I can see the shock in her eyes.

"She had… very particular tastes. I was her submissive for six years." I shrug, for the first time ever, feeling small and meek about the confession.

"Oh," she says again.

"So I do know what it involves, Anastasia."

She just stares at me, and I keep talking, hoping it will spur some kind of reaction in her. "I didn't really have a run-of-the-mill introduction to sex."

"So you never dated anyone at college?" she asks, finally speaking again.

"No." I shake my head.

The waitress comes back and clears our empty dishes.

"Why?"

I smile at her. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," she tells me. Okay then.

"I didn't want to. She was all I wanted, needed. And besides, she'd have beaten the shit out of me." I smile fondly at the memory.

"So if she was a friend of your mother's, how old was she?" she pushes.

I smirk at her. I don't think Elena would be very pleased if I shared her age. "Old enough to know better."

"Do you still see her?" she asks.

"Yes." Of course I do. We're business partners, and old friends.

"Do you still… er…?" she trails off, color filling her face before she can finish the question.

"No." I grin. "She's a very good friend."

"Oh. Does your mother know?

Is she fucking serious? "Of course not."

The waitress is back, this time with our main course. Venison. It smells amazing, and I dig in immediately. Mmmm, so tender.

"But it can't have been full time?" Oh. We're still talking about Elena, and I wonder, briefly, if part of this doesn't sit well with her.

"Well, it was, though I didn't see her all the time. It was… difficult. After all, I was still at school and then at college." She hasn't touched her meal. "Eat up, Anastasia."

"I'm really not hungry, Christian," she returns.

Anger flares in my chest. What the fuck is her problem? Why is she never hungry? I've had just about enough of this shit. "Eat."

She stares at me, and I think she sees something that scares her in my expression. "Give me a moment."

I blink, trying to quash the anger. I didn't mean to scare her. "Okay." I keep eating. The meat is perfectly cooked, falling apart in my mouth, on my tongue. It's been served with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables. Everything is perfect.

Anastasia reaches for her cutlery, slices the tiniest bite of venison off her steak, and chews. "Is this what our, er… relationship will be like?" she whispers once she's swallowed, "You ordering me around?"

"Yes," I murmur.

"I see." She seems troubled by this. She's biting her lip.

"And what's more, you'll want me to," I add.

She doesn't answer me, only takes another bite of her food. "It's a big step," she says.

I can see that this is difficult for her to accept. Usually, the other women I enter into contract with, already know what they want. They accept the ordering around, the submission, before they've even signed.

"It is," I tell Anastasia now, and briefly I shut my eyes. I need to give her another chance, though it kills me to do it. Please don't go… "Anastasia, you have to go with your gut. Do the research, read the contract—I'm happy to discuss any aspect. I'll be in Portland until Friday if you want to talk about it before then." I'm aware that I'm speaking too quickly, but for some reason I need to get all the words out before she can think about the first ones, "Call me—maybe we can have dinner—say, Wednesday?" Midweek, that should give her enough time to arrive at a decision. "I really want to make this work. In fact, I've never wanted anything as much as I want this to work." I watch her gravely as she processes my words, every bit the truth.

"What happened to the fifteen?" she blurts after a minute.

Again, not what I was expecting, and I feel my eyebrows lift in surprise at her question. Where did that come from? I think about that for a moment, and I shake my head, realizing that the answer was the same for most of them.

"Various things," I explain, "but it boils down to… Incompatibility." I shrug.

"And you think that I might be compatible with you?"

"Yes." Yes. Doesn't she remember how good we are together?

"So you're not seeing any of them anymore?" she asks.

"No, Anastasia, I'm not. I am monogamous in my relationships."

She looks a tad bit surprised. "I see," she finally says.

"Do the research, Anastasia." I watch as she sets her knife and fork down. She's barely touched a thing on her plate—two nibbles of the steak, a forkful of the mashed potatoes, none of the vegetables.

"That's it?" I demand, "That's all you're going to eat?"

She nods. It takes everything in me not to demand she eat more. She's going to need to eat more if this is going to work out. I can't have her passing out on me. What's more, I can't have her getting exhausted too soon. She'll need to keep up with me, and she's going to need to fuel her body to do so.

I down the rest of my meal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Anastasia squirm in her seat. Oh? I glance up at her, and when our eyes lock she flushes.

"I'd give anything to know what you're thinking right at this moment," I say to her lowly. She turns even pinker, and I grin. "I can guess."

"I'm glad you can't read my mind," she mumbles.

"Your mind, no, Anastasia, but your body—that I've gotten to know quite well since yesterday." I gesture for the waitress, and she comes over immediately. "We'll take the check now."

"Certainly, sir. Nothing else for you?"

"No."

She scoops up our plates, and is off.

We don't discuss anymore. I pay, and we go back to the car.

.