Thursday June 9th 2011

.

"Ready to head to the office in five, Mr. Grey?" Taylor asks as I'm finishing up breakfast.

I drain the vestiges of my coffee cup.

"Actually no."

Inspiration hit me on my way back from my run this morning. I may not be able to express the depth of my emotions to Ana verbally, but music has always held a special, expressive place in my heart. And I think her, too, so music might be a perfect way of communicating with her.

"We're going to the Apple store," I say in response to Taylor's puzzled expression.

.

The rest of the workday swings by effortlessly with the prospect of seeing Anastasia this evening, and giving her the gift. Before I know it, it's time to leave. I ignore the pleasure on Taylor's face as I climb into the back of the Audi SUV.

We are quiet all the way to SIP, which isn't altogether unusual. The nearer we draw to Anastasia's place of work, the more the anticipation grows. I want to see her, I want to hold her, take her in my arms and kiss her, deeply. I want to fuck her-no, make love to her. That was how Ana put it so long ago, wasn't it? Only weeks ago.

Taylor pulls up in front of SIP a few minutes shy of five thirty. As we wait, I remove my tie and unbutton my shirt a button or two, dressing down for the evening. An art exhibition is a little more casual than a day at the office as a CEO.

I stare anxiously toward the door, waiting for her to appear, but when she does, door held by some guy she smiles at in thanks, my throat dries, my jaw locks, and my body temperature rises several degrees. In response to anger, not lust.

I can't believe what I'm seeing, as she walks toward us.

She's absolutely gaunt, and so pale, nearly skeletal! How much weight has she fucking lost since Saturday? It hasn't been a week!

Remorse and shame surface, though not as strong as the anger, when I realize that this is entirely my doing. I did this to her.

Taylor clicks open the back door for her, and she slips in, onto the seat beside me. Up close, I can see that her eyes are too large in her face, and there are dark circles under those eyes, which she's poorly tried to conceal with makeup-which she doesn't need.

"When did you last eat?" I demand, and it comes out sharply, sharper than I had intended our meeting to begin, but dammit, she looks like hell!

Taylor rounds to the driver's side.

"Hello, Christian. Yes, it's nice to see you, too," she replies, sarcasm strong. I see she hasn't lost her wit.

"I don't want your smart mouth now. Answer me."

My anger seems to be getting through to her. For the first time, she looks tentative.

"Um... I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh-and a banana," she adds, as if that's fucking anything at all! A banana and yogurt combined are a mere one hundred and fifty calories, give or take! That's nothing! And it's late afternoon now.

"When did you last have a real meal?" I snap. I can hear the poison in my tone, but I can't do anything to conceal it. I'm really upset at the sight of her looking this way. It's taken me off guard, I wasn't expecting her to be so poorly affected by this. Me? Yes. But her? She was the one who left me.

Taylor turns the key in the ignition, and the engine hums to life. He shoulder checks and pulls out into the after-work traffic.

Ana glances out the window, toward the sidewalk, and I follow her gaze. The same guy who held the door for her is waving. She returns the gesture.

"Who's that?" I demand. My fuse is short, and I have little patience for strange men making moves on my girl.

"My boss," she replies, eyes flitting to my face again.

"Well?" I command, "Your last meal?"

"Christian, that really is none of your concern," she argues.

"Whatever you do concerns me," I retaliate, "Tell me."

She groans and rolls her eyes, and I'm so angry that when the inclination to spank her comes to mind, I almost entertain it. I feel my eyes narrow in warning.

Much to my surprise however, Anastasia doesn't look scared, or even worried. In fact, it appears that she's trying hard not to laugh.

In response, I feel my own expression turn my lips up slightly. She really does look lovely when she's amused.

"Well?" I urge, a little gentler now that some humor has seeped its way into the air between us.

"Pasta alla vongole, last Friday," she admits in a whisper.

The rage comes flaring back, along with the shame and regret.

This is all your fault, you fucking idiot, I reprimand myself.

I close my eyes to try to contain it from her. "I see," I say, and all the animation has gone from my voice, in the same way as I've forced it from my face, "You look like you've lost at least five pounds, possibly more since then. Please eat, Anastasia," I beg her.

Her gaze is downcast now, focused on her hands, wrung together in her lap, where the material of that purple dress pools slightly. It's so much looser on her than when I saw her wear it last, and the shame bangs like a drum inside my chest.

I square my shoulders toward her now.

"How are you?" I'm desperate to know.

I watch her throat convulse as she swallows, obscured slightly by the dark waves of hair that fall over her neck and part of her face. I want to reach out and tuck the loose strands behind her ear, but I'm afraid it would be too forward of me right now.

"If I told you I was fine, I'd be lying."

Her honesty makes me gasp as relief and guilt flood me. Guilt, because I know it's my doing. And relief, because at least she feels the same that I do. At least she's missed me, too.

"Me, too," I tell her softly, and now I can't resist-I reach for her hand and take it in mine. Her fingers are soft and cool, and so, so welcome. "I miss you."

"Christian, I-" she begins.

"Ana, please," I interrupt her before she can get whatever she's trying to say out, "We need to talk." I want you back, sweet girl. I'm powerless without you. I need you by my side.

"Christian... I... Please... I've cried so much," she whispers, emotion catching in her throat, showing on her face.

"Oh, baby, no," I murmur, and before I can weigh out the consequences, I tug her into my lap. I wrap my arms around her, pull her close, and bury my nose in her hair. Oh, sweet bliss. It is wonderful to have her close to me again. Her touch, her scent, it's like a salve to a burn wound. Healing, cooling, and it brings such unspeakable relief.

"I've missed you so much, Anastasia," I whisper.

She seems to relax now, resting her head on my shoulder, giving in, and I see this as a good sign. I kiss her head over and over, praising whatever gods may exist for allowing me to have this moment with her.

Sooner than I'd like to, we stop, and I have to let her go.

"Come," I urge her as I ease her off my lap, "we're here."

Confusion is apparent on her face as she stares helplessly at me.

"Helipad," I explain, "on the top of this building."

Taylor is there at her door now, and he opens it for her so she can slide out.

Taylor and I both agreed transportation by helicopter would be quickest. Plus, it gets Ana in my good books. The look on her face as we flew over the sound, toward Seattle that first time, was priceless.

As I climb out the other side, Ana says to Taylor, "I should give you back your handkerchief."

What?

"Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes," he insists.

As I round the vehicle and take Ana's hand, blood floods her cheeks. I give Taylor a puzzled look that clearly says, 'What's that all about?' but he gives nothing away, only stares back at me serenely and without expression.

I decide to let it go.

"Nine?" We've decided he and Stephan will drive to Portland, where Stephan will return Charlie Tango and Taylor will drive us home.

"Yes, sir," he agrees.

I nod and lead Ana through the door, into the building's foyer. It's gilded and formal, but I hardly notice my surroundings. All I'm focused on is Ana's hand in mine, the feel of her, present beside me, walking with me to the elevators.

I punch the call button with my thumb, recalling what elevators do to the both of us, and I can't suppress my amused smile.

There's a ding, and the doors slip open. I usher her inside, stepping in after she does. As the doors close, I feel it, predictable as ever. The lust crackles in the air between us, like an exposed live wire, and I want to kiss her, to have her, so badly.

"Oh my," she gasps, and I glance down at her, seeing it in her eyes, seeing the lust, reflecting back at me there, the intensity of it.

"I feel it too."

I run my thumb along her knuckles, and very softly, she bites down on that plump lower lip. My cock stirs in my pants after being dormant for too long. The desire stirs like a sleeping giant, in the pit of my stomach, waking after its slumber.

"Please don't bite your lip, Anastasia," I can only whisper, my voice rough and weakened by lust.

Obediently, she lets it go.

"You know what it does to me," I tell her.

Mercifully, the doors open before us, releasing us from our spell. We step out onto the roof and it's windy. It whips through my hair and pins our clothes against our bodies. I'm half afraid it'll sweep Ana away, so I put my arm around her and guide her over to where Charlie Tango waits, rotor blades spinning, thanks to Stephan, who's brought her over for me.

He jumps down to shake my hand.

"Ready to go, sir. She's all yours!" he shouts over the noise of the spinning blades.

"All checks done?" I yell back.

"Yes, sir."

"You'll collect her around eight thirty?" I confirm.

"Yes, sir."

"Taylor's waiting for you out front."

"Thank you, Mr. Grey. Safe flight to Portland, Ma'am." He lifts a hand to his forehead to salute Ana, and then we're on our own.

Ducking down, I guide her to the door, helping her in and buckle her into the harness, which brings back fond memories.

I smirk at her knowingly. "This should keep you in your place. I must say I like this harness on you. Don't touch anything," I add.

That beautiful blush graces her face, bright crimson too, and I run an index finger over it. I hand her her headphones, knowing she won't be able to lean forward to reach them. She scowls at me, as if she's caught on.

I strap myself in to my own seat and run through my preflight checks, even though Stephan's done it for me. Better safe than sorry.

I slip my headphones on and switch the throttle, and the blades roar overhead.

I take a second to look at her, sitting beside me.

"Ready, baby?"

"Yes."

I grin, holding nothing back, joyous at her agreeance. She's ready. I love flying with her. I thought I enjoyed it before I met her, but showing this to her has given it an entirely new meaning, a totally different sort of fun.

"Sea-Tac tower, this is Charlie Tango Golf-Golf Echo Hotel, cleared for takeoff to Portland via PDX. Please confirm, over."

"Good to go, Charlie Tango," the tower responds, and relays some instructions.

"Roger, tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out."

With that, I switch the collective and anti-torque switches, grasp the cyclic, and we rise up smoothly into the sky. The city gapes below us, falling away.

"We've chased the dawn, Anastasia, now the dusk."

.

We talk on the way over, about eating at the Space Needle despite the fact we've broken up, about Ana's new job, briefly.

By the time I set us down in Portland, we're right on time, and the sun is setting, the sky awash with beautiful colors.

I power down the helicopter, unbuckle my harness and lean over to free Ana from hers.

"Good trip, Miss Steele?" I question. I am on top of the world right now. It's a beautiful, crisp evening, and I'm in Portland with my girl. It's a very real possibility that things could change tonight. And though it fills me with trepidation, yes, because that means I'll have to change, it fills me with enthrallment more.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey."

"Well, let's go see the boy's photos," I say, helping her to find her footing on the helipad.

I turn to find Joe approaching us and release Ana's hand momentarily to shake his.

"Joe," I greet him. "Keep her safe for Stephan. He'll be along around eight or nine."

"Will do, Mr. Grey," Joe responds, "Ma'am," he nods at Ana, "Your car's waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator's out of order; you'll need to use the stairs."

Normally, this would perturb me, but I don't think anything could make me upset right about now. I'm on a date with Miss Anastasia Steele.

"Thank you, Joe."

We head toward the stairwell.

"Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those heels," I say, giving the black heeled boots she wears a disapproving look. For how dangerous they are, they sure make her legs look amazing.

"Don't you like the boots?" she asks.

"I like them very much, Anastasia," I assure her. In fact, I'd like to fuck you while you're wearing them, and only them. "Come. We'll take it slow. I don't want you falling and breaking your neck."

Not when I've only gotten the chance to have you back.

.

"Jose is just a friend."

Her words interrupt my thoughts, my brooding. I've fallen back into despair after our brief break from it on the trip over. She really is too thin, and I can't get over the fact that it's me who's done this to her. That I've caused her so much pain, it's pushed her appetite-already too small-away so completely.

Apprehension has begun to stir in my gut. Can I really do this? Can I really change so much for her? This is who I am, who I've defined myself as for so long. How can I just let that go? Not that I'm unwilling, because I am. I'd do anything for her, but how?

God, I need to call Flynn.

I glance over at Ana now, confused and distracted by her words. Automatically, though I've hardly noticed, my walls go up immediately, and I can feel the stone, the guard in my eyes. Don't let her in, don't let her see. It surprises me, how quickly it's come on, as if I haven't even had to try. It occurs to me I may need to try harder to let the guard down than to keep it up.

As I stare at her, her cheeks pink, and I'm made aware again, of just how much weight she's lost.

I shift in my seat, the emotion like bugs on my skin, uncomfortable.

"Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you'll eat," I beg her.

"Yes, Christian, I'll eat," she relents, and I get the feeling she's only saying it to please me.

"I mean it," I push.

"Do you now?" she says, and I'm surprised by the scorn I hear in her voice.

"I don't want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you back, and I want you healthy."

"But nothing's changed," she argues, and her voice almost shakes.

"Let's talk on the way back," I reason, "We're here."

I climb out of the car, step onto the sidewalk and pull open her door. She climbs out a little clumsily.

"Why do you do that?" she demands, and I'm surprised by the strength and noise behind her words.

"Do what?" I implore, thrown off guard by the suddenness of her explosion.

"Say something like that and then just stop," she elaborates.

I glance at the people milling around us and move closer to her, lowering my voice. "Anastasia, we're here. Where you want to be. Let's do this and then talk. I don't particularly want a scene in the street."

She seems to realize where we are, looking around. She presses her lips together, sulky, and glances at me. I realize I'm frowning at her.

"Okay," she acquiesces.

I take her hand, surprised every time that she doesn't pull away-but then, she's missed me too, apparently-and lead her into the building where the boy's art show is taking place.

The converted warehouse, consisting of brick walls and dark floors, holds up well to the menagerie of pieces we find inside. There's a large amount of space, both above us, to the high, white, exposed ceiling, and around us. It has a very modern feel, practical.

His photography is quite good. If I didn't know any better, I might have purchased some of his pieces if it weren't for our history.

"Good evening and welcome to Jose Rodriguez's show," a young woman greets us. She has short mousy brown hair and garish red lipstick. She's dressed all in black and clearly trying too hard. Her gaze flits between us a couple of times, lingering on my face for a tad longer than appropriate-it's just a face, doll-and she suddenly blinks.

"Oh, it's you, Ana," she says, recognizing her. Is it because she's looking so unhealthy that she didn't recognize her? Does she know her from somewhere? "We'll want your take on all this, too." She smiles, big, and hands Ana a brochure. She directs us to a pathetic table, where drinks and snacks are set up.

"You know her?" I ask Ana as we walk over.

Ana shakes her head, clearly confused.

I shrug, deciding that she may have crossed paths with her at school or something. "What would you like to drink?" I ask.

"I'll have a glass of white wine, thank you."

I feel my brow crease, frowning. She hasn't eaten enough to feed a mouse in days. She should not be drinking on such an empty stomach. It's reckless and irresponsible. However, I choose not to say anything, and turn toward the open bar to receive our drinks. She'd probably fight me on it, and I really am not in the mood to fight tonight, or any night for that matter. I want things to be as they were.

As they were? But that's what sent her off in the first place, that snide, rude voice in my head tells me. Damn my thoughts and all their truth.

I'm still trying to figure out how to go about the whole 'Changing Things' deal, but I decide to put it aside for now. This night, or at least the next hour or so, is about Ana's friend's art show. We'll talk afterwards. Who knows if she'll even agree to trying again?

"Grey? Is that you?"

I glance over my shoulder, in the direction of the voice.

"Fred. Hey. How are you?" I say, surprised to see him here. This isn't exactly what I would call 'black tie' but whatever.

We catch up a bit as we wait in line, and I feel as if someone's watching me, so I glance up, to find Ana's eyes on me from across the room. She's standing with the photographer now, who's dressed in a suit or a tuxedo, I can't tell from this distance.

It doesn't matter in this moment, because I'm suddenly lost, drifting in those ocean blue eyes. Floating in their waves, caught up in them. For a sudden, infinitesimal moment, it's just her and me in this big wide abandoned warehouse.

Oh, Ana. I want you back. Do you feel the same about me?

The spell is broken as the photographer calls her back, and she looks away. I stare at her a moment longer, as the woman with the short hair from before walks up to them, and then turn back, trying to catch up with Fred's story, who hadn't even noticed my lapse in attention.

When it's my turn at the bar, I order a Pinot grigio for Ana, and a Shiraz for myself. I head back into the throngs, finding Ana admiring a-and I hate to admit it-stunning shot of the lake at Vancouver, the early evening fuchsia clouds reflected in the still reflection of the water.

I hand her glass over.

"Does it come up to scratch?" she asks me.

Which? The photo? Does she really think I'd judge her friend so harshly? I may be a man of many means, but I appreciate good art when I see it.

"The wine," she elaborates.

Oh. "No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy's quite talented, isn't he?" I ask to change the subject, and maybe ease some of her qualms, turning my attention to the photo again.

"Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?" she asks, and her voice is absolutely booming with pride. My eyes slide from the photograph to her face as I realize that she really does see this friend of hers fondly. If she speaks so highly of him, I wonder how I measure up?

"Christian Grey?" a voice interrupts us, and a photographer from Portland Printz approaches. "Can I have a picture, sir?"

"Sure," I relent, trying to hide my frown, but I think I fail. Can't we have a moment of peace?

As the man lifts his camera, Ana goes to step out of the frame, but I grip her hand, pulling her to my side. Oh, no you don't. The man lowers his camera just slightly, glancing between the two of us. The look on his face is one of pure astonishment, as if he can't believe his luck.

"Mr. Grey, thank you," he says, and takes a couple of pictures. "Miss...?" he urges, turning his attention to Ana. I roll my eyes at his prodding.

"Ana Steele," she replies.

"Thank you, Miss Steele," he tells her, and he's gone, off searching for his next opportunity. No doubt he'll find Fred in the crowd.

"I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet," Anastasia tells me now, "There aren't any. That's why Kate thought you were gay."

The memory of Ana's question in my office that first fated day brings amusement, and I can't suppress my smile. "That explains your inappropriate question. No, I don't do dates, Anastasia-only with you. But you know that." You know so much about me, Ana. More than anyone.

"So you never took your subs out?" she questions, glancing around the room surreptitiously.

"Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know." I shrug, keeping my eyes on hers. It was never in this way, there was always a different intention behind it. It was never sincere, like this.

She doesn't look totally convinced, lost in some sort of thought.

"Just you, Anastasia," I assure her.

Her cheeks color again, and she stares down at her fingers. What is she thinking?

"Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let's look around," I suggest. I offer her my hand and she takes it.

We walk together through the warehouse, admiring a few more landscape pictures. As we turn the corner, my heart stops.

There, on the far wall, hang seven huge pictures of Anastasia, in various poses. Laughing, candid shots, serene, peaceful takes. She looks absolutely stunning in every single one, and there's a side of her that Jose has captured in film that I've only seen rarely. It makes me sad, and greedy and guilty. I want to see that side of her as much as he seems to. I've always thought Anastasia was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, worthy of my complete, undivided attention.

"Seems I'm not the only one," I muse aloud, and suddenly, through the dreaminess of staring at Ana in these photos, comes anger. Not at her, and not at myself. But at the photographer. Doesn't he know she's mine? All mine? Resolved, I release Anastasia's hand.

"Excuse me," I mutter to her, keeping my eyes on her for a fixed moment, so many emotions swimming through me. Then I turn and head over to the reception desk, where the girl from before stands behind it. She smiles at me as I approach.

"Hi, what can I do for you?" she asks.

"I'd like to buy the portraits of Anastasia."

"Which one, sir?" she asks.

"All of them."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"All seven?" she blurts, blatantly shocked.

"All seven," I confirm.

A little thrown off, she tells me the total, and I take out my wallet, handing her my credit card. Once the transaction is finished, I turn back to Anastasia, but find a man standing close to her, too close, and he's got his hand on her elbow.

Back the fuck off, buddy. She's mine.

"You're a lucky guy," he says to me when I step up to them. I glare at him.

"That I am," I agree, and pull Ana over to one side, away from the guy.

"Did you just buy one of these?" she asks me.

"One of these?" I snort, staring at the portraits, internally bracing myself for her reaction.

"You bought more than one?" her voice is high pitched and incredulous.

I roll my eyes. "I bought them all, Anastasia," I relent, "I don't want some stranger ogling you in the privacy of their home."

"You'd rather it was you?" she scoffs, and it sounds like she's holding in laughter.

I'm surprised by her reaction, and I stare down at her, trying to hide my amusement.

"Frankly, yes."

"Pervert." She mouths the word at me, biting her lip to hold down the smile.

My jaw drops in shock, and now I'm really humored, smiling all at the same time. And turned on, if I admit to it.

Deciding to play along, I stroke my chin thoughtfully.

"Can't argue with that assessment, Anastasia." I shake my head at her.

"I'd discuss it further with you, but I've signed an NDA."

I sigh, staring down at her. "What I'd like to do to your smart mouth."

She draws a breath quickly, gasping. "You're very rude," she says and she sounds shocked, but I think she's teasing.

I smirk, and then, my mind straying back to the photos, I frown.

"You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don't see you like that very often."

She blushes again and her gaze drops.

Oh, no you don't.

I stick my finger under her chin and tilt her head back, so I can see her face.

"I want you that relaxed with me," I breathe.

Emotion, a hundred different kinds, courses through the sea in her eyes.

"You have to stop intimidating me if you want that," she barks.

"You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel," I return in much the same tone.

I watch her take in a breath. "Christian, you wanted me as a submissive. That's where the problem lies. It's in the definition of a submissive-you e-mailed it to me once." She pauses a moment, seemingly trying to remember the nature of the message. "I think the synonyms were, and I quote, 'compliant, pliant, amenable, passive, tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.' I wasn't supposed to look at you. Not talk to you unless you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?" she spits at me.

The further on she goes, the deeper my mood plummets.

"It's very confusing being with you. You don't want me to defy you, but then you like my 'smart mouth.' You want obedience, except when you don't, so you can punish me. I just don't know which way is up when I'm with you."

I narrow my eyes at her. As always, she's hit the nail on the head. I understand her frustrations, how confusing this must be. I hadn't realized the extent of it. "Good point well made, Miss Steele," I say. "Come, let's go eat." I need to get her out of her now, so that we can talk.

"We've only been here for half an hour," she protests.

"You've seen the photos; you've spoken to the boy."

"His name is Jose," she says bitterly.

"You've spoken to Jose-the man who, the last time I met him, was trying to push his tongue into your reluctant mouth while you were drunk and sick," I remind her, fucking done with this subject. How many damn times have we gone over it?

"He's never hit me," she snaps back.

Rage blows through my veins, made even more potent, possibly, by the fact that the insult hurts my ego. "That's a low blow, Anastasia." Even to me, my whisper sounds menacing.

She visibly pales, and I run my hands through my hair, forcing myself to back off.

Chill out, Grey. You're scaring her.

"I'm taking you for something to eat. You're fading away in front of me. Find the boy, say good-bye," I demand.

"Please, can we stay longer?" she begs.

"No. Go. Now. Say good-bye," I reiterate, barely holding onto my contained fury.

She glares at me a moment longer, and then turns to face the room, searching for her friend in the crowd. She stomps off rather impressively, toward the boy where he stands with a flock of young women. Ana pulls him aside and they talk for a minute. Just when I think I'm beginning to get a hold of myself, he picks her up and spins her in his arms, and when that's not enough, Ana very deliberately wraps her arms around his neck.

Fucking hell!

I make my way toward them.

"How cool is that? You're a poster girl," Jose is saying as I approach them, and he takes her in his arms again.

I'm gonna punch you out, kid!

"Don't be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr. Grey, good evening," he says, seeing me.

"Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive." I stand, spine ramrod straight. I feel like an ice sculpture. "I'm sorry we can't stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle." It's only a tiny lie. "Anastasia?" I take her hand firmly in mine. Mine.

"Bye, Jose," Ana says, "Congratulations again." She leans in and kisses him on the cheek. Before my blood can completely boil over and I explode in front of everyone, I drag her out into the evening.

I'll fucking show her a kiss.

I check for onlookers quickly, and then pull her into a nearby alley, pushing her up against the brick wall.

I'll fucking show her who's in charge, and who she belongs to.

I grip her face in my hands, tilting it up so that she's forced to look me in the eyes. She begins to gasp, but before it can completely escape, my mouth is on hers, my lips crushing hers. Our teeth clash and scrape together momentarily, and then I force my tongue into her mouth.

She tastes like white wine, sweet and fragrant.

She responds immediately, kissing me back with just as much aggression. Her fingers rake through my hair, scraping against my scalp, pulling hard. Goddamn that feels good.

I groan low in my throat at the feeling, at the memory of my dream the other night.

I skate my hand down over the curves of her body, digging my fingers into the flesh at the top of her thigh. I can feel the supple smoothness of it, even through the material of her dress.

Where before the kiss began in anger, it's melted and molded into something different. I feel every ounce of my desperation, my heartache, everything pouring into this kiss, into her. It's my way of trying to communicate physically what I can't get across verbally or emotionally.

I'm blind with bliss, and consumed by the passion inside.

Oh, Ana, please take me back... I want to do this with you.

Finally, I pull away, breathing hard. Her eyes are darkened by lust, wide and oh so blue. Vulnerable and completely trusting, and slightly bewildered by my unforeseen blitz.

She's panting too, lips parted as she draws air in hastily.

My heart is going to beat out of my chest, it's pounding so hard. It's not only the effort of a passionate kiss that has left me out of breath, but the simplicity of being near her, touching her. She drives me crazy.

"You. Are. Mine," I say, putting as much conviction into the words as I can, in my out-of-breath state. I plant my palms on the wall behind her and push off, putting some distance between us. I bend, putting my hands on my knees. Fuck. "For the love of God, Ana."

She slumps against the brick exterior and doesn't say anything.

There's quiet while the both of us struggle to regain some equilibrium.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispers, once our breathing has evened out.

"You should be," I tell her, "I know what you were doing. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you."

She shakes her head, and in the dimness of the nearby street light, I can see the guilt on her face. "No. He's just a friend."

"I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you... You bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It's very..." I trail off, struggling to find the right words. "Unsettling," I finally decide on. "I like control, Ana, and around you that just" I stand staring at her for a moment. "evaporates." I flip my hand in the air, then rake my fingers through my hair. I take a breath and reach for her hand once more.

"Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat."