Wednesday, May 25 2011

"You look stunning," I murmur in her ear, once I've met her halfway across the bar. I lean down to kiss her on the cheek, making it clear to many of the men staring, that she's mine… Well, nearly. I'd like to fuck her, badly. However, I'll wait until after the negotiations are over.

"A dress, Miss Steele. I approve," I tell her, and take her arm, leading her over to a nearby booth. I signal the waiter. "What would you like to drink?" I ask, turning to her.

The corners of her lips turn up in a small smile, and I wonder if she's laughing at me. "I'll have what you're having, please," she says sweetly.

She is laughing at me, and the realization makes me want to spank her, but amuses me, all at the same time. How confusing.

The waiter steps up to our table; I order another glass of Sancerre for Ana. "They have an excellent wine cellar here," I tell her, making idle talk. Is it because I'm out of my mind with anxiety? I prop my elbows on the table, resting my chin on the temple my fingers make. I fix my eyes on her face, not knowing if I'll ever be able to tear my gaze away again. I can't make out what she's thinking.

"Are you nervous?" I ask her softly.

"Yes," she murmurs.

"Me, too," I whisper. She blinks at me, seeming a little shocked, and I grin at her. Yes, Miss Steele, I get nervous too. Though, only around her…

The waiter is back, with Anastasia's glass of wine, and two small dishes—one with olives, the other with an assorted mix of nuts.

"So, how are we going to do this?" she inquires once he's gone. "Run through my points one by one?"

"Impatient as ever, Miss Steele," I say, amused.

"Well, I could ask you what you thought of the weather today."

I smile again, and reach for an olive. As I pop it in my mouth, I watch the way her gaze loiters on my mouth. She flushes. Hmm. What's she thinking about? "I thought the weather today was particularly unexceptional today." And I lift the corners of my lips into a smirk, humoring her.

"Are you smirking at me, Mr. Grey?" she demands.

"I am, Miss Steele." What are you gonna do about it?

"You know this contract is legally unenforceable," she says after a moment, looping right back to the chase. She's leaning toward me slightly, hands in her lap. Those blue eyes are so intense, her gaze slicing through me like lightening.

"I am fully aware of that, Miss Steele."

"Were you going to tell me that at any point?" she asks.

I frown. "You'd think I'd coerce you into something you don't want to do, and then pretend that I have a legal hold over you?" What kind of person does she think I am?

"Well… yes," she admits.

Her admission fills my stomach with lead, and it falls to the ground. She really doesn't trust me? No—maybe, she just doesn't know me well enough. That's understandable; we've only known each other a little more than two weeks. Despite the fact, I've shown her everything. She's seen the deepest parts of my life. How can she not know me? Awareness hits, and suddenly I understand. "You don't think very highly of me, do you?" I ask her. It makes absolute sense to me.

"You haven't answered my question," she counters.

"Anastasia," I say, "It doesn't matter if it's legal or not. It represents an arrangement that I would like to make with you—what I would like from you and what you can expect from me. If you don't like it, then don't sign. If you do sign and then decide you don't like it, there are enough get-out clauses so you can walk away. Even if it were legally binding, do you think I'd drag you through the courts if you decide to run?" Alarm fills me as I realize that maybe this is exactly what she thinks. I want to do degrading, very rude things to her in my playroom. Why would she think I wouldn't do them anywhere else? Does she have any faith in me at all?

I watch her take a long, contemplative sip of her wine. I surge forward into explanation: "Relationships like this are built on honesty and trust. If you don't trust me—trust me to know how I'm affecting you, how far I can go with you, how far I can take you—if you can't be honest with me, then we really can't do this." I pause, taking a quick lungful of air as the pain at the prospect slices through me. "So it's quite simple, Anastasia. Do you trust me or not?"

"Did you have similar discussions with, um… the fifteen?"

Why the fuck does she keep changing the subject when I ask her that? "No."

"Why not?"

"Because," I tell her—the answer is quite straightforward, "They were all established submissives. They knew what they wanted out of a relationship with me and generally what I expected. With them, it was just a question of fine-tuning the soft limits, details like that."

"Is there a store you go to?" she demands, "Submissives 'R' Us?" She doesn't quirk a brow, though I know she's being tart.

I can't help it, I laugh, though in any other instance, I'd want to flog her for being so sassy with me. "Not exactly."

"Then how?"

Why does this matter? The only one I want, right now, is her. Where I find my other submissives, really, is so far off the grid of relevance. "Is that what you want to discuss? Or shall we get down to the nitty-gritty? Your issues, as you say."

I watch her throat convulse as she swallows hard. That tiny crinkle appears between her brows, and she seems lost in thought. "Are you hungry?" I interrupt her; she glances up at me quickly.

"No."

"Have you eaten today?" I ask, trying desperately to tame my temper.

She stares at me momentarily, and I know the answer before she speaks. "No." She has the grace to sound contrite.

"You have to eat, Anastasia," I push, feeling like a broken record. How many times have I fucking told her this? "We can eat down here or in my suite. What would you prefer?"

"I think we should stay in public, on neutral ground," she says, and I know it's because she thinks I won't try anything this way.

Try me. I can feel a grin making its way onto my face. "Do you think that would stop me?"

Her eyes go wide, and she swallows again. "I hope so."

Her reaction makes me grin even wider. "Come," I tell her now, standing, "I have a private dining room booked. No public." I hold my hand out to her. She reaches for me.

"Bring your wine," I remind her. I know that I'm encouraging her drinking a little too passionately. But I also know she's braver with a little bit of alcohol in her system, which will help her to be honest with me tonight.

She grips it in one hand, and takes mine with her other, allowing me to help her out of the booth. Once she's standing, I reposition my grip on her elbow. These heels are so high, and I'm afraid she'll fall over or twist an ankle. She's not the most graceful woman in Portland… Let's just put it that way.

We walk back through the bar and up the stairs to a mezzanine floor. One of the workers approaches us. "Mr. Grey, this way, sir," he says.

I allow him to lead us through a lush sitting area, the chairs, couches all fully cushioned, in dark hues. I don't look at them long enough to make out what color they are. He takes us through a door, to a private dining room. A sumptuous chandelier hangs over a set table—white, starched tablecloth, crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and a white rose bouquet to top it all off, all just as I have asked.

The waiter pulls Anastasia's chair out for her. I sit down across, watching as he deposits her cloth napkin in her lap. Really, that's unnecessary. She can put her own napkin in her own damn lap. The waiter leaves, and she hasn't taken her eyes off the layout in front of us, and now she's biting her lip.

"Don't bite your lip," I murmur to her. She releases it, frowning.

"I've ordered already," I tell her, "I hope you don't mind."

"No, that's fine."

Her words please me, and I relax a token. "It's good to know that you can be amenable. Now, where were we?"

"The nitty-gritty," she tells me, and reaches for her wine glass, taking a rather large gulp. As she sets it down, she blushes.

"Yes, your issues," I murmur, and fish the email I've printed from my inner jacket pocket.

I read the first point silently:

2: Not sure why this is solely for MY benefit—i.e., to explore MY sensuality and limits. I'm sure I wouldn't need a ten-page contract to do that! Surely this is for YOUR benefit.

"Clause 2. Agreed. This is for the benefit of us both," I amend, "I shall redraft."

She blinks at me, I think a little surprised that I'm jumping right into it. And suddenly, she looks a little shy. She has another drink of her wine. Yes, Miss Steele, keep drinking. She'll open up soon enough.

"My sexual health," I continue, "Well, all of my previous partners have had blood tests, and I have regular tests every six months for all the health risks you mention. All my recent tests are clear. I have never taken drugs. In fact, I'm vehemently antidrug. I have a strict no-tolerance policy with regards to drugs for all my employees, and I insist on random drug testing." Ha. What will she make of that?

She blinks at me once more, and I'm satisfied at the expression on her face. She's shocked.

"I have never had any blood transfusions. Does that answer your question?" She nods, slowly, giving nothing away. I lower my gaze back to the paper.

8: I can terminate at any time if I don't think you're sticking to the agreed limits. Okay—I like this.

"Your next point I mentioned earlier. You can walk away any time, Anastasia. I won't stop you. If you go, however—that's it. Just so you know." As is the way every time I think of her leaving, pain flares, between each of my ribs.

"Okay." Her voice is soft, and she looks slightly troubled. Before I can read too much into her expression, the waiter interrupts.

I've no idea what I've ordered—I've done so in haste. He sets our first course down on the table in front of us—oysters on a bed of ice. Without speaking, the waiter steps out of the room, leaving us to our business. Ah, yes. Business. This certainly doesn't feel like a business meeting.

"I hope you like oysters," I tell Anastasia now.

"I've never had one," she says.

"Really? Well, all you do is tip and swallow. I think you can manage that." I pick one up and gaze at her, thinking of how well she swallows… Mmmm, I'd like to do that again sometime. I watch her face turn red, and I know she's thinking of the same thing I am.

I squirt some lemon juice on my oyster, place the edge of the shell on my lip, and tip my head back, swallowing the oyster down. "Hmm, delicious." I'm impressed. The oysters are delicious, and I'm starving. "Tastes of the sea." I grin at her. "Go on."

"So, I don't chew it?" she asks, obviously inexperienced.

"No, Anastasia, you don't." I'm strangely amused by this observation.

She bites down on her lower lip, and I'm suddenly overcome by lust, the monster snarling to life inside my abdomen, but mostly in my pants. She reaches for an oyster, squirts some lemon juice over it, and tips it into her mouth. She swallows. Oh my fuck. Who knew watching Anastasia eat could be so sexy? She licks her lips when she's finished, gazing at me. "Well?" I ask.

"I'll have another."

"Good girl." Score!

"Did you choose these deliberately?" she asks, reaching for another oyster, "Aren't they known for their aphrodisiac qualities?"

"No, they are the first item on the menu. I don't need an aphrodisiac near you." Just look under the table… "I think you know that, and I think you react the same way near me. So where were we?" I take another glance at the email.

9: Obey you in all things? Accept without hesitation your discipline? We need to talk about this.

"Obey me in all things. Yes, I want you to do that. I need you to do that. Think of it as role-play, Anastasia."

"But I'm worried you'll hurt me," she admits, her voice small and meek.

Her words stir some type of emotion in me, though I can't put a name to it. It's heavy and oppressing. "Hurt you how?"

"Physically."

"Do you really think I would do that? Go beyond any limit you can't take?" The idea that she'd think this makes me mad, and the heavy, oppressing feeling gives way to this one. In a way, I'm grateful. Anger is a feeling I'm familiar with.

"You've said you've hurt someone before," she says now, and she's stopped eating.

"Yes, I have. It was a long time ago." And I'm not proud of it.

"How did you hurt her?" she inquires.

I am strangely ashamed of this, and I don't know why, but I push forward and tell her anyway. "I suspended her from my playroom ceiling. In fact, that's one of your questions." I think back to her earlier inquiry. "Suspension—that's what the carabineers are for in the playroom. Rope play. One of the ropes was tied too tightly."

She seems all at once repulsed, her hands held in front of her, palms forward, and I stop. "I don't need to know anymore," she says, "So you won't suspend me then?"

Oh, how I would love to suspend Anastasia Steele in my playroom… For a brief moment, I let myself picture it… "Not if you really don't want to. You can make that a hard limit."

"Okay," she says.

"So obeying—do you think you can manage that?" I ask her, bringing the both of us back to focus on the main point.

She doesn't speak at first, and I only stare at her. This is a very important question, and I need to hear her answer. "I could try," she finally whispers.

I think that's as close to a yes as I'm going to get. And it'll do. "Good. Now term," I continue, and skim the next line of her email.

11: One-month trial period. Not three.

"One month instead of three is no time at all, especially if you want a weekend away from me each month. I don't think I'll be able to stay away from you for that length of time. I can barely manage it now." I clamp my jaw shut. Why have I spoken so freely? She wasn't supposed to hear that. I'm not sure even three months will be long enough, now that I think about it, but I'll keep that to myself for now.

"How about one day over one weekend per month you get to yourself—but I get a midweek night that week?"

"Okay," she acquiesces.

"And please, let's try it for three months," I'm very nearly begging, and it's so unlike me, "If it's not for you, then you can walk away anytime."

"Three months?" she asks, and she seems a little intimidated.

I watch her take another sip of wine, and slip another oyster down her throat. My cock twitches as she swallows. Fuck, why am I so turned on by that? To distract myself, I scan another part of her email.

15.2: Using my body as you see fit sexually or otherwise—please define "or otherwise."

"The ownership thing, that's just terminology and goes back to the principle of obeying," I tell her, and I'm thankful my tone isn't giving me away. I'd like to fuck her on this table when we're finished. "It's to get you into the right frame of mind, to understand where I'm coming from. And I want you to know that as soon as you cross my threshold as my submissive, I will do what I like to you. You have to accept that and willingly. That's why you have to trust me." Fuck, I hope she's hearing this. She needs to hear what I'm saying. "I will fuck you, any time, any way I want—anywhere I want. I will discipline you, because you will screw up. I will train you to please me. But I know that you've not done this before. Initially, we'll take it slowly, and I will help you. We'll build up to various scenarios. I want you to trust me, but I know I have to earn your trust, and I will. The 'or otherwise'—again, it's to help you get into the mindset; it means anything goes."

She's staring blankly at me, and I can't tell what she's thinking. Why, at times, is she so open, and at others so closed off?

"Still with me?" I ask her and take a sip of wine.

The waiter comes and clears the table. "Would you like some more wine?" he asks her before he leaves.

"I have to drive," she says.

Suddenly, having her a little tipsy is no longer a concern. Her safety comes first. I'll find other ways to spur her honesty. I stay silent.

"Some water then?" She nods permissibly. "Still or sparkling?"

"Sparkling, please."

He nods and leaves to get her water. When he's gone, I stare at her a moment. She doesn't speak.

"You're very quiet."

"You're very verbose," she counters. My palm twitches at her tone. She won't be getting away with this any longer, pretty soon. At the same time, I can't suppress my grin and move on.

15.5: This whole discipline clause. I'm not sure I want to be whipped, flogged, or corporally punished. I am sure this would be in breach of clauses 2-5. And also "for any other reason." That's just mean—and you told me you weren't a sadist.

"Discipline. There's a very fine line between pleasure and pain, Anastasia. They are two sides of the same coin, one not existing without the other. I can show you how pleasurable pain can be. You don't believe me now, but this is what I mean about trust. There will be pain, but nothing that you can't handle. Again, it comes down to trust. Do you trust me, Ana?"

"Yes, I do."

Relief, so intense floods my veins that it leaves me lightheaded. She trusts me! "Well, then. The rest of this stuff is just details."

"Important details," she pushes.

"Okay, let's talk through those." If they are important to her, I want to discuss them with her.

The waiter steps in again, and I'm getting slightly annoyed at the way he keeps popping up. He sets the plates in front of us and disappears. The main course is… more fish. Black cod, asparagus, and crushed potatoes with a hollandaise sauce. It looks delicious, and my mouth is starting to water. I take a bite, and watch Ana try some of hers. She takes a large chug of water.

"The rules. Let's talk about them. The food is a deal breaker?" I ask her.

"Yes." Her answer is vehement.

"Can I modify to say that you will eat at least three meals a day?" That's reasonable. That's what normal people eat.

"No." Her tone is equally as emphatic. She is so stubborn about this. Why?

I feel my lips purse in frustration. "I need to know that you're not hungry." I can't have her weak or passing out on me.

She frowns and throws my former words back in my face: "You'll have to trust me."

It throws me off, and I can only gaze at her wordlessly for a moment. "Touché, Miss Steele. I concede the food and the sleep."

"Why can't I look at you?" she demands.

"That's a Dom/sub thing. You'll get used to it."

"Why can't I touch you?" She's firing these questions rapid bullet point at me now.

"Because you can't." Fuck. Will she let it go?

"Is it because of Mrs. Robinson?" she asks me, and she sounds angry and confused.

"Why would you think that?" I ask her, completely bemused. In the same sweep of recognition, though, I understand. "You think she traumatized me?" Anastasia nods. Elena was one of the best things that happened to me. I don't know where I'd be if she hadn't stepped into my life. "No, Anastasia," I say, "She's not the reason. Besides, Mrs. Robinson wouldn't take any of that shit from me."

Her bottom lip sticks out, and I almost believe she's pouting. It looks girlish and cute and hot. "So nothing to do with her."

"No. And I don't want you touching yourself, either." Same use of words, totally different meaning, but whatever. She'll get it.

"Out of curiosity… why?" she asks me.

"Because I want all of your pleasure." And my mood darkens deliciously at the thought. I've already had all of her; I want the rest of it, too.

She seems lost in thought, taking another bite of her fish, chewing slowly, and I can see her mulling it all over.

"I've given you a great deal to think about, haven't I?" I ask her.

"Yes," she admits.

"Do you want to go through the soft limits now, too?" I ask her.

"Not over dinner."

Her answer amuses me and I smirk. "Squeamish?" I tease her.

"Something like that."

"You've not eaten very much," I scold her.

"I've had enough," she assures me.

"Three oysters, four bites of cod, and one asparagus, no potatoes, no nuts, no olives, and you've not eaten all day. You said I could trust you."

"Christian, please, it's not every day I sit through conversations like this," she begs.

"I need you fit and healthy, Anastasia," I push.

"I know," she tells me.

"And right now, I want to peel you out of that dress." I watch her swallow as her cheeks warm, so subtly I'm not sure she notices.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she says, "We haven't had dessert."

"You want dessert?" I don't believe it.

"Yes."

"You could be dessert," I tease.

She blushes darker. "I'm not sure I'm sweet enough," she says as an excuse.

"Anastasia, you're deliciously sweet. I know." And I'd love to taste her, right now.

"Christian, you use sex as a weapon. It really isn't fair." She's been staring down at her hands, but now she looks up, directly into my eyes.

Sex as a weapon? The thought never occurred to me, and I register the surprise in my expression. I stroke my chin as I mull over her words. "You're right," I finally concede, "I do. In life you use what you know, Anastasia. Doesn't change how much I want you. Here. Now."

Her lips part as he breathing quickens, and I know I'm affecting her. I need only read her body to know that. The tablecloth shifts just slightly, and I know she's pressing her thighs together underneath the table.

"I'd like to try something," I whisper, her reactions stirring the lust deep in my own body. "If you were my sub, you wouldn't have to think about this. It would be easy. All those decisions—all the wearying thought processes behind them. The 'is this the right thing to do? Should this happen here? Can it happen now?' You wouldn't have to worry about any of that detail. That's what I'd do as your Dom. And right now, I know you want me, Anastasia."

She frowns. Is it because I've caught her?

"I can tell because your body gives you away. You're pressing your thighs together, you're flushed, and your breathing has changed."

"How do you know about my thighs?"

"I felt the tablecloth move, and it's a calculated guess based on years of experience. I'm right, aren't I?"

In answer, she flushes further and stares down at her hands. "I haven't finished my cod."

"You'd prefer cold cod to me?" Right now, I could really care less about whether she eats or not. She can always eat afterwards. I want to fuck her on this table. Now. Hard.

She suddenly jerks her head up, and she's glaring at me. Christ, that's kind of hot. "I thought you liked me to clear my plate," she argues.

"Right now, Miss Steele, I couldn't give a fuck about your food."

"Christian. You just don't fight fair."

"I know. I never have."

She seems to contemplate something, momentarily, and then reaches for her plate, plucking up a stalk of cold asparagus. I know it's on purpose, because she's staring boldly into my eyes while she does it, and she bites her lip, then slips the stalk of asparagus into her mouth, and sucks the end of it. Shit. My cock stirs in my pants at the memory of her mouth on me. That is so hot…

"Anastasia. What are you doing?"

She bites off the head. "Eating my asparagus."

Her voice is so full of lust. I know she's playing me, and I have to shift in my seat. "I think you're toying with me, Miss Steele."

"I'm just finishing my food, Mr. Grey." Oh my fuck, she has the face to act naïve.

The waiter comes back, entering the dining room on his own accord and picks up our plates.

"Would you like some dessert?" I ask her before the waiter leaves. Hmm… Maybe we could do something with that… The bigger part of me is hoping she'll say no, so I can get around to fucking her now.

"No thank you," she says, quiet, gaze down, "I think I should go."

Go?! "Go?" She's leaving? I barely notice the waiter leave. She's saying no. She's-she's going? I'm so surprised I can't hide its evidence on my face or in my tone.

"Yes," she mumbles, "We both have the graduation ceremony tomorrow." She stands, smoothing the wrinkles in her dress.

On autopilot, I stand with her, though my legs are like jelly, due to the shock of it all. She's leaving, in the middle of my seducing her? "I don't want you to go," I tell her. I've not meant to say the words out loud. Why do I get this tearing, heavy feeling in my chest each time she leaves? And she still hasn't fucking said 'yes'!

"Please… I have to," she insists.

"Why?" I demand. Please, don't go, Ana. Not yet.

"Because you've given me so much to consider," she explains, "And I need some distance."

"I could make you stay." I could.

"Yes," she agrees, "you could easily, but I don't want you to."

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair, almost unconsciously. It's almost through by the time I notice I'm doing it. "You know," I start, "When you fell into my office to interview me, you were all 'yes, sir' 'no, sir.' I thought you were a natural-born submissive. But quite frankly, Anastasia, I'm not sure you have a submissive bone in your delectable body." A body I'd like to kiss every part of. A body I'd love to gaze at again. A body I'd like to peel out of that dress.

"You may be right," she whispers.

"I want the chance to explore the possibility you do." I'm moving toward her, staring down into those blue, blue eyes. On its own accord, my hand comes up, caressing her face and that delicious bottom lip. "I don't know any other way, Anastasia. This is who I am." Suddenly, I'm being so honest. I want this woman. Badly. But I only want her my way, on my terms, because that's the only way I know. I don't know if I could do things any differently, if she asked.

"I know," she whispers.

I lean down, my intention to kiss her, but I stop myself only inches away from her face. I give her a chance to turn away, to deny my advances, but she tilts her face up, receiving me. As I press my lips to hers, her response is nearly instant. She twists her fingers in my hair, tugging gently—Jesus, that feels good—pulling my body flush to hers. I'm surprised at her eagerness for only a moment, and then I'm returning the passion with equal fervor. I grasp the nape of her neck, and press my other hand to the base of her spine pulling her, impossibly closer. Oh, I want to fuck her so badly…

"I can't persuade you to stay?" I ask her between kisses.

"No," she replies, and there's a token of disappointment in her voice. I wonder at it. If she doesn't want to leave, then why is she forcing herself to?

"Spend the night with me," I beg.

"And not touch you? No."

I groan at her words. That is the one thing I will never give on. She will never touch me. I can't let her. "You impossible girl." I force myself to pull back from the kiss, and gaze down into her eyes, intensified and darkened by the lust which emanates from her. "Why do I think you're telling me goodbye?"

"Because I'm leaving now."

But she doesn't catch on. Why do I have the feeling she's thrown everything into this kiss, because it's the last time she'll ever see me? Is she going to say no?

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

"Christian," she beseeches me, "I have to think about this. I don't know if I can have the kind of relationship you want."

I let my eyes flutter shut, and I press my forehead against hers. Her words cut me to the core. She doesn't know if she can… But I want her, I need her. More than I've ever needed anything else in my entire life. Against everything inside me, I kiss her forehead and pull back, releasing her. Her scent fades, and I'm in my own space again. "As you wish, Miss Steele. I'll escort you to the lobby."

I proffer her my hand, and after collecting her purse, she takes it. We walk in silence down the stairs. My stomach is churning, my heart pounding. This can't be it. What can I do to make her stay, to make her say yes?

"Do you have your valet ticket?" I ask her once we've reached the lobby, trying to ignore the pain inside of me. It feels as if all my organs are bunching and knotting together. It's not a good feeling at all. Please, Ana, don't go… Please say yes. Please don't leave me. I don't know what I'll do if this is the last time we're together.

"Thank you for dinner," she says to me once she's pulled her ticket from her purse and I've handed it to the doorman.

"It's a pleasure as always, Miss Steele." I force myself to sound polite, but inside I'm a wreck. Why am I reacting this way? It hasn't worked out other times, with other women, and that was that. We said goodbye and they went on their way. Why is it so different this time? What is it about Anastasia Steele that I can't let go of? Something in my mind is suddenly blocking out the possibility, grasping at straws, wracking my brain. There has to be something I can do to ensure I see her again. Tomorrow won't count. I realize that she moves to Seattle this weekend, and I turn suddenly to peer at her. I find her already watching me, and some foreign emotion has surfaced in her eyes. Something deep, far too deep for me to fathom.

"You're moving this weekend to Seattle. If you make the right decision—" For me or for her? "—can I see you on Sunday?" She's going to say no. I'm such a fucking idiot. Why did I even ask?

"We'll see. Maybe," she whispers, and relief floods my chest, chasing away the pain for just a moment. She hasn't said no.

My gaze falls to her arms, and I realize they're bare. "It's cooler now, don't you have a jacket?"

"No," she says.

I shake my head, galled. I slip my jacket over my shoulders and hold it open for her. "Here. I don't want you catching cold."

She blinks up at me for a moment, but recovers quickly, and slips her arms through the armholes. I slip the coat up onto her shoulders, letting my hands linger there for just a moment.

Her car pulls up, and my hands drop, as well as my jaw. That is what Anastasia Steele drives? The thing is a hundred years old, beaten, and worn. How the fuck did she even make it here? It looks like it's going to fall apart at any moment.

"That's what you drive?" And I can't hide the shock. I lead her outside. The valet jumps out and hands her the keys, and I slip him a ten-dollar bill. "Is this roadworthy?" I ask, turning my attention back to her.

"Yes." She sounds offended.

"Will it make it to Seattle?"

"Yes. She will."

I highly, highly doubt that. "Safely?"

"Yes," she barks now, irritated. "Okay, she's old. But she's mine, and she's roadworthy. My stepdad bought it for me."

"Oh, Anastasia, I think we can do better than this." She hasn't said yes, yet, but I'll buy her the Audi anyway. I'll make the call tonight, or early tomorrow, once they're open.

"What do you mean? You are not buying me a car," she cries, catching on at once.

Just try and stop me, Miss Steele. "We'll see."

Everything inside me is telling me not to, but I open her door for her anyway, and help her in. She slips her shoes off and rolls down the window. I don't take my eyes off her, knowing that I've said all I can. I have to wait for her decision, but it doesn't sit well with me. She's going to say no, I know it.

"Drive safe," I murmur.

"Goodbye, Christian," she says, starting the engine, then flicks a small smile in my direction.

I watch her as she drives away, pauses at the driveway, and turns out onto the street. Unbelievable rage, unbidden and powerful, fills me. I turn and smack a nearby pillar with the palm of my hand. The pain radiates halfway up my arm, but I ignore it.

"Sir?" The doorman asks, "Are you okay?"

I don't answer him, seething as I push back into the building and up to my room. I pace back and forth for a while, running my hands through my hair until my scalp tingles. She can't do this. She can't say no. I need to make her mine, she needs to say 'yes'. I'll be lost if she doesn't.

At this point, I'm almost willing to do anything, in order to make her say yes.

.

…

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tonight

Date: May 25 2011 22:01

To: Anastasia Steele

I don't understand why you ran this evening. I sincerely hope I answered all your questions to your satisfaction. I know I have given you a great deal to contemplate, and I fervently hope that you will give my proposal your serious consideration. I really want to make this work. We will take it slow.

Trust me.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…