So I've purchased 'Grey' and it's sitting in my iBooks library, with a fresh, 'new' sticker on it. It's tempting the hell out of me, so I have officially gone on a writing frenzy.
June 1st 2011 – evening
.
"I'm bleeding," Anastasia murmurs after a long, quiet moment.
"Doesn't bother me."
"I noticed," she replies sarcastically, and I can almost see the expression on her face, though my view of it is nowhere near.
Suddenly, I feel nervous, and I feel my muscles clench in response to the emotion. "Does it bother you?" I ask her. If it does, I'll feel awful. I never want to push anything she's uncomfortable with on her. Ever.
She lifts her head from my chest so she can gaze at me. Her eyes are limpid pools of blue, completely satisfied. It makes me glow.
"No, not at all," she responds.
"Good. Let's have a bath."
I set her on the floor, and pull myself into a standing position. When I reach down to help Anastasia to her feet, I'm disturbed by the expression on her face. She's horror struck and as white as a sheet.
"What is it?" I'm suddenly flooded with concern for her.
"Your scars," she barely breathes, "They're not from chicken pox."
Before I can think about it—it's an automatic reflex—my walls go up, and I'm angry.
"No, they're not," I bark at her, aware I sound harsh, but the expression on her face has morphed, and now she's looking at me as if I'm a kicked puppy.
I pull her to her feet, maybe a bit roughly.
She never fucking noticed the scars before—why does she have to say something about them now?
"Don't look at me like that," I chasten her, releasing her hand. I can't stand to touch her right now, I realize. I'm at war with the sensations going on inside of me. I need to sort them out before I can be with her again, physically. Emotionally, I suppose, as well.
"Did she do that?" Anastasia whispers now.
Rage so potent it nearly blinds me fills my chest. It leaves me speechless for a minute.
"She?" I finally snap, "Mrs. Robinson? She's not an animal, Anastasia. Of course she didn't. I don't understand why you feel you have to demonize her."
She doesn't say anything, surprising me, and instead just shifts past me, lowering herself into the bath water. She stares up at me, where I'm still standing, stock still.
"I just wonder what you would be like if you hadn't met her. If she hadn't introduced you to your… um, lifestyle."
I exhale slowly, and ease myself into the bath water with her, but I keep careful not to touch her. I can't, just yet.
We stare at each other for a long moment, and I'm standing my own, but so is she, and she must be more determined than I am, because she stares me down like no tomorrow.
Some of the anger dissipates like the foam popping on top of the water, and amusement cracks my composure. I can't fight the smirk that turns the edges of my lips up. So she wins. It may not be a bad idea to tell her anyone. I do want her to trust me, and I need to communicate with her openly—at least a little bit—for that to happen.
"I would probably have gone the way of my birth mother, had it not been for Mrs. Robinson," I admit to her. It feels strange to say this out loud, to her. "She loved me in a way I found… acceptable," I add with a shrug, mostly paraphrasing Dr. Flynn. This is what he theorized about the whole concept.
"Acceptable?" Anastasia whispers.
"Yes," I say, gazing at her fixedly. Her eyes are so probing, yet so open. It's as if she's begging me to tell her more, but at the same time, I know there's no judgment there. I feel free to share with her, and so the next words tumble out of me before I can stop them. There are no barriers when it comes to Anastasia, I am beginning to realize. "She distracted me from the destructive path I found myself following. It's very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you're not perfect."
Shit. I've said too much. I won't say anymore. I watch her closely for her reaction, but she gives nothing away.
"Does she still love you?" she asks now.
"I don't think so," I reply. "Not like that." I frown. My words have been automatic, but I need to think them over. I hadn't thought about the possibility for a long time. "I keep telling you it was a long time ago. It's in the past. I couldn't change it even if I wanted to, which I don't. She saved me from myself." Suddenly I'm irritated with myself. I've said too much again. Fuck, Christian, stop when you say you'll stop. I lift a damp hand and push it through my hair. "I've never discussed this with anyone. Except Dr. Flynn, of course. And the only reason I'm talking about this now, to you, is because I want you to trust me."
"I do trust you," she assures me, "But I do want to know you better, and whenever I try to talk to you, you distract me. There's so much I want to know."
My temper flares again, her words like jet fuel to the fire. For fuck's sake, we've been over this time and time again.
"Oh, for pity's sake, Anastasia. What do you want to know? What do I have to do?" I try desperately to keep my voice calm, and I think I succeed. But I don't know how much longer I can keep my composure.
Her gaze falls to the surface of the water, or maybe even deeper.
"I'm just trying to understand; you're such an enigma. Unlike anyone I've met before. I'm glad you're telling me what I want to know."
Suddenly, she's drifting through the water, coming to sit close by me, too close. Automatically, I flinch when she presses herself against my side.
"Please don't be mad at me," she murmurs, those blue eyes imploring as they search my face.
"I am not angry with you, Anastasia," I assure her, "I'm just not used to this kind of talking—this probing. I only have this with Dr. Flynn and with—" I cut myself off, my lips turning down into a frown. And with Elena.
"With her. Mrs. Robinson. You talk to her?" I can hear the temper in her tone, though she's trying in vain to hide it.
"Yes, I do," I tell her.
"What about?" she prompts.
I turn toward her, sloshing the water over the sides—the tub is filled very deeply—and throw my arms over her shoulders, resting it on the stone edge. It's cool against my skin, but against the heat of the water, it doesn't bother me.
"Persistent, aren't you?" I mumble, trying to hide my own irritation, though I'm sure it shows through. "Life, the universe—business. Anastasia, Mrs. R and I go way back. We can discuss anything."
"Me?" she breathes.
"Yes," I answer, watching her intently for her reaction.
Surprisingly, she looks angry, and chomps down on that luscious bottom lip.
"Why do you talk about me?" she demands petulantly.
"I've never met anyone like you, Anastasia." I'm still watching her face, trying to decode the anger I see there.
"What does that mean?" she pushes, "Anyone who just didn't automatically sign your paperwork, no questions asked?"
I shake my head, half in disbelief, half in irritation. "I need advice."
"And you take advice from Mrs. Pedo?" she barks.
"Anastasia—enough," I snap back, my temper snapping as quickly as her own. Elena is a good friend of mine, and I've had enough of Anastasia's judgment about her. "Or I'll put you across my knee. I have no sexual or romantic interest in her whatsoever. She's a dear, valued friend and a business partner. That's all. We have a past, a shared history, which was monumentally beneficial for me, though it fucked up her marriage—but that side of our relationship is over." I don't know how else I can explain it, and I hope to the fucking lord this is the last time I have to do it.
"And your parents never found out?" she inquires, most of the heat gone from her voice. She cools off quickly—I wish I could do the same.
"No. I've told you this. Are you done?" I'm aware I'm snappy and short, but I'm done with this topic. I've reached my limit.
"For now," she relents.
I draw in a breath, deep into my lungs, and relax the muscles in my shoulders I hadn't realized were tensed.
"Right—my turn. You haven't responded to my e-mail."
Blush colors her face, and she shakes her head.
"I was going to respond. But now you're here."
"You'd rather I wasn't?" I whisper, forcing that mask forward again. I can't let her see how much I'd be hurt if she said she didn't want me here. Not after all the things I have lined up for us for tomorrow morning.
"No, I'm pleased," she says.
"Good," I mutter in relief, and grin at her. "I'm pleased I'm here, too—in spite of your interrogation. So, while it's acceptable to grill me, you think you can claim some kind of diplomatic immunity just because I've flown all this way to see you? I'm not buying it, Miss Steele. I want to know how you feel."
"I-I told you," she stammers, "I am pleased you're here. Thank you for coming all this way."
"It's my pleasure," I tell her, and lean down to kiss her, because I can, because she's here. As our lips touch, she responds immediately, attempting to deepen the kiss. I pull back.
"No. I think I want some answers first before we do any more."
She exhales a sigh. "What do you want to know?"
"Well, how you feel about our would-be arrangement, for starters."
Her lashes flutter.
"I don't think I can do it for an extended period of time," she admits. "A whole weekend of being someone I'm not." Her cheeks turn pink again, and she stares down at her hands.
I smirk at her, hooking a finger under her chin, tugging so that I can see her eyes once more.
"No, I don't think you could, either," I agree.
"Are you laughing at me?" she inquires, a bit haughtily, if I'm not mistaken.
"Yes, but in a good way," I assure her. Anastasia could never be someone she's not. It's just absolutely not in her nature. I love that about her. I lean down and plant a quick kiss on her lips because of it.
"You're not a great submissive."
She stares at me, eyes wide, for a second, and then sweet, sweet laughter bursts from her. I can't help but join her.
"Maybe I don't have a good teacher," she finally jokes.
I snort. "Maybe. Perhaps I should be stricter with you," I tease, tilting my head to the side, grinning at her.
I watch her throat convulse as she swallows. Anxiety flits through her eyes, and I suppress the dark feeling blooming in the pit of my belly. She's still scared of me.
"Was it that bad when I spanked you the first time?" I inquire.
She stares at me for a moment, seeming to contemplate. Why does she have to think about it so hard? It should be an automatic answer—either it was or it wasn't.
"No, not really," she finally breathes.
"It's more the idea of it?"
"I suppose," she agrees. "Feeling pleasure, when one isn't supposed to."
Her words are familiar. "I remember feeling the same. Takes a while to get our head around it. You can always use the safeword, Anastasia. Don't forget that. And, as long as you follow the rules, which fulfill a deep need in me for control and to keep you safe, then perhaps we can find a way forward."
"Why do you need to control me?" she asks.
"Because it satisfies a need in me that wasn't met in my formative years," I answer, paraphrasing Dr. Flynn once more.
"So it's a form of therapy?"
Yes, I suppose it could be. "I've not thought of it like that, but yes, I suppose it is."
"But, here's the thing," she urges, "One moment you say 'don't defy me', the next you say you like to be challenged. That's a very fine line to tread successfully."
I gaze at her for a long moment, taking a moment to piece together the words. Hmm. I had never thought that much into it. When she puts it that way… I frown. Yes, that must be a difficult line to walk.
"I can see that," I say, "But you seem to be doing fine so far."
"But at what personal cost? I'm tied up in knots here."
"I like you tied up in knots," I quip, smirking.
"That's not what I meant!" she cries, and she sweeps her hand through the water, sending a wave of water into my face.
I stare down at her in amused shock.
"Did you just splash me?"
"Yes," she admits, sheepish.
"Oh, Miss Steele," I murmur, looping my arms around her and pulling her into my lap, caught up in the moment so suddenly, it takes me off guard. Who knew splashing could turn me on? "I think we've done enough talking for now."
.
After she's ridden me in the tub, I drain the water. We dry off and make our way over to the bed.
The sheet is draped over the both of us, pillows hugged to each of our fronts. From where I lay on my side, and Ana on hers, I admire her face. Her hair is slightly damp, loose now, flowing over the pillow.
"Do you want to sleep?" I murmur, suddenly realizing that she could be exhausted.
"No. I'm not tired," she replies.
"What do you want to do?"
"Talk."
I smile at her. To be honest, the answer is unexpected. I was expecting her to want to have sex again.
"About what?"
"Stuff," she says.
"What stuff?" I inquire.
"You."
Reflexively, I'm guarded. "What about me?"
"What's your favorite film?" she asks.
I grin, both relieved and amused by her question. "Today, it's The Piano."
Her smile echoes my own. "Of course," she says, "Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt you can play? So many accomplishments, Mr. Grey."
"And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele," I murmur, meaning every single word of it.
"So I am number seventeen."
Abruptly, I'm confused, frowning at her.
"Seventeen?"
"Number of women you've, um… had sex with."
I smirk at her. "Not exactly."
"You said fifteen," she argues, befuddled.
"I was referring to the number of women in my playroom. I thought that's what you meant. You didn't ask me how many women I'd had sex with."
"Oh," she breathes. "Vanilla?"
"No. You are my one vanilla conquest," I assure her, shaking my head. I'm still smiling hugely at her. I can't seem to stop.
"I can't give you a number," I tell her. "I didn't put notches in the bedpost or anything."
"What are we talking—tens, hundreds… thousands?"
"Tens," I say, sort of shocked she would think I could have been with thousands of women. "We're in the tens, for pity's sake."
"All submissives?"
"Yes."
"Stop grinning at me," she chides me, works hard to make for a serious face, but fails miserably.
"I can't. You're funny."
"Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?" she inquires teasingly.
"A bit of both I think," I goad.
"That's damned cheeky, coming from you," she says.
I stretch across the mattress to kiss her nose. "This will shock you, Anastasia. Ready?"
She nods, those blue eyes wide, still grinning away.
"All submissives in training, when I was training. There are places in and around Seattle that one can go and practice. Learn to do what I do."
"Oh," she says flatly, blinking, clearly shocked.
"Yep, I've paid for sex, Anastasia."
"That's nothing to be proud of. And you're right… I am deeply shocked. And cross that I can't shock you."
"You wore my underwear," I remind her. That shocked the hell out of me.
"Did that shock you?" she asks.
"Yes."
"You didn't wear your panties to meet my parents," I add.
"Did that shock you?"
"Yes."
"It seems I can only shock you in the underwear department," she muses.
"You told me you were a virgin," I point out, "That's the biggest shock I've ever had." I think back to that night, the way I was frozen to the spot. I never would have guessed she would have been so inexperienced.
"Yes, your face was a picture, a Kodak moment," she reminisces, giggling.
"You let me work you over with a riding crop."
Her cheeks warm slightly. "Did that shock you?"
"Yep," I say, popping the 'p'.
She smiles. "Well, I may let you do it again."
"Oh, I do hope so, Miss Steele. This weekend?"
"Okay," she murmurs, bashful.
"Okay?"
"Yes. I'll go to the Red Room of Pain again."
"You say my name," I tell her.
"That shocks you?"
"The fact that I like it shocks me." I usually don't let anyone address my by my first name, other than my family and close friends.
"Christian," she says simply, earnestly.
My grin stretches across my face. "I want to do something tomorrow."
"What?" she asks.
"A surprise. For you," I tell her. I want to show her another side of me.
She arches her right brow, and muffles her yawn.
"Am I boring you, Miss Steele?" I tease her.
"Never," she vows.
I stretch across the mattress again, and kiss her tenderly on the mouth.
"Sleep."
I reach around and turn off the lamp. Darkness falls around us, and Anastasia is soon quiet. My entire body is alive with excitement. I can't wait for the dawn.