Friday, June 10th 2011
.
In her bedroom once more, I strip the duvet and pillows from the bed, tossing them nearby, on the floor.
"You have a change of sheets, don't you?" I ask her. I really don't feel like stalling this out to go and purchase her a second pair of sheets. The ice cream, from where it sits on her bedside table, is nearly the exact consistency I'm looking for, and if I have to put it in the freezer again, it'll be ruined.
She nods.
I hold up the deflated Charlie Tango balloon.
"Don't mess with my balloon," she says in warning.
I half-smile in amusement at the attempted malice in her voice. She's like a kitten with its claws out-trying to look fierce, but failing miserably.
"Wouldn't dream of it, baby," I assure her, "But I do want to mess with you and these sheets. I want to tie you up."
I see the surprise in her eyes, and the excitement. It turns me on. She still trusts me.
"Okay," she breathes.
"Just your hands," I add, "To the bed. I need you still."
For a second, I allow the images of what I'm going to do to her flit through my mind... Sweet, slippery Ana...
"Okay."
I walk over to her now, ready to get started, spurred on by the images playing in my mind.
"We'll use this." I undo the bow and ease the sash of her robe through the belt loops until it comes loose. The garment falls open, revealing just a teasing glimpse of that lush, perfect body to me. I'm erect in a millisecond.
I admire her for a moment, and then reach forward to push the robe off her shoulders. It puddles at her feet, and there she stands: completely bare, in front of me. She looks at me with eyes so big and clear and innocent and trusting...
I reach up to stroke her cheek with my knuckles, which has flushed a beautiful baby pink.
I can't believe this fabulous woman is mine. I can't believe she's accepted me back. I can't believe any of it. I'm never going to let her go now.
I kiss her on the mouth, chastely.
"Lie on the bed, faceup," I instruct her.
She walks over to the bed and eases herself onto her back atop the mattress. In the muted light cast from the energy-saving bulb in her lamp, her curves are accentuated just so. She looks absolutely marvelous, and I take another minute to just look at her.
"I could look at you all day, Anastasia." I climb onto the bed, up over her, and sit straddling her hips, holding my weight on my shins.
"Arms above your head."
She lifts them immediately and I loop the end of the sash around her left wrist, tying it fast. I weave the other end through the metal bars on her headboard and, making sure her left arm is stretched above her, I fasten her other wrist.
Just this simple act has me completely at ease-but standing at attention too. Staring down at her, trussed up and at my mercy, I realize that she can't touch me, she can't take me off guard. I'm completely in control now, and tranquility seeps through my veins like warm maple syrup.
This truly is my happy place.
I climb off the bed and bend over her to kiss her. She looks beautiful, tied to that bed of hers, silken skin glowing in the lamplight, breasts rising and falling with each of her breaths, eyes on me and only me...
I disrobe quickly, thankful that I didn't bother pulling my boxers back on again before we ate, and then stride to the foot of her bed. Taking her ankles in my hands, I tug her so that her entire body is flexed and completely immobile.
"That's better."
Heading back over to the bedside table, I pick up the ice cream container and straddle her once again. Slowly, slowly, to tease her, I pull the lid off and dip the spoon inside. It barely gives under the metal, which I'm a tad surprised at. I haven't taken enough time. What can I say? I'm anxious to get started.
"Hmm... It's still quite hard." I scoop out a small spoonful and eat it, the creaminess of the vanilla melting on my tongue, slipping down my throat. It's cold and scrumptious. "Delicious," I muse, licking my lips, but it would taste even better off her body. "Amazing how good plain old vanilla can taste," I add, staring down at her. The words have a double meaning, and I think she catches on. "Want some?"
She nods, coy.
I dig out another spoonful and hold the spoon near her mouth. When she opens her lips, I pop the spoon in my own.
"This is too good to share," I tease, grinning.
"Hey," she whines.
"Why, Miss Steele, do you like your vanilla?" I goad her.
"Yes," she snaps, and bucks her hips.
I laugh as I bounce, thrown off balance a tad by her testiness.
"Getting feisty, are we? I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Ice cream," she says, pleads, begs.
"Well, as you've pleased me so much today, Miss Steele." This time, when I offer her the spoon once more, I let her eat the ice cream. The sight is so satisfactory that I feed her two more mouthfuls.
"Hmm, well, this is one way to ensure you eat," I observe, "Force-feed you. I could get used to this."
I offer her another spoonful, but this time she presses her lips together and shakes her head at me. This is what I've been waiting for, her refusal.
I watch the ice cream puddle in the spoon, melting, and drip onto her throat. I move the spoon down so some of it spills onto her chest. Leaning down, I lap it up with my tongue, tasting more of her skin than the ice cream.
"Mmm. Tastes even better off you, Miss Steele," I murmur.
The bed creaks as she pulls at her ties, and I can tell she's getting worked up. Frankly, so am I. Despite the cold ice cream, this is hot. Really hot.
I drip more ice cream across her chest, onto her breasts, spreading it over eat nipple with the back of the spoon. I watch, fascinated, as her nipples harden against the coolness of it.
"Cold?" I ask her, amused. I stoop to suck and lick the ice cream off her breasts, relishing in her supple, smooth skin against my lips and tongue. I allow myself to get lost on the moment, in her...
I can hear her breaths coming quickly now, panting, and I sit up.
"Want some?"
Before she can answer, I plunge my tongue into her mouth, letting her taste the ice cream on me. After a moment, I pull back to take another scoop of vanilla, skimming it down the center of her body, letting it pool in her navel. God, I love that navel. It's so... Sexy.
"Now," I remind her, "You've done this before." I recall the time in her old bedroom, with the ice and wine. That was good. "You're going to have to stay still, or there will be ice cream all over the bed."
Knowing that it will probably cause her to writhe but going ahead with it anyway-let's see how much control she really has-I stoop to suck each of her nipples into my mouth, firmly.
She does well at first, but as I lick and suckle my way down to her belly button, her hips begin to sway. It begins to seep across her stomach, down over her hip bones, puddling on the sheets beneath her.
Quickly, I move to clean up the mess, eating the ice cream out of her navel, dipping my tongue into and around it.
She moans as I do so, and encouraged, I keep going, moving lower, trailing the ice cream over the crest between her hips, through the bushel of pubic hair, pressing it into her clitoris.
She cries out, loudly, as my cold tongue makes contact with her overheated flesh.
"Hush now," I order gently, cleaning the sticky, gooey ice cream off her clitoris. It melts more quickly here, and I have to work harder, faster.
"Oh... Please... Christian," she begs, high-pitched and full of need.
"I know, baby, I know," I whisper, swirling my tongue faster and faster, the ice cream long gone by now. I feel her body climbing toward its peak, and ease one finger inside her. She's hot, nearly burning compared to the chill of the ice cream. I slip a second finger in alongside the first, reveling in the feeling of her body around me, the cradle it makes.
In slow, measured movements, I ease my fingers in and out of her a few times.
"Just here," I mumble to myself, finding that spongy tissue on the front wall of her vagina, her g-spot. I continue to lick and suckle at her clitoris, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. Her back arches slightly, her legs tensing as I rub at her g-spot faster.
And suddenly, she comes, erupting around me in a shower of bliss.
As she relaxes onto the bed underneath me, recovering from her orgasm, I roll on the second condom and hover over her, easing myself inside her warm, damp depths.
"Oh yes!" I can't help but moan. She feels exquisite, tight and wet, and slightly sticky from the leftover ice cream.
No, this is my happy place.
Pulling out of her, I flip her onto her front.
"This way."
I fill her once again, reveling in the act, basking in the way she envelopes me, sheaths me whole.
Stretching up, I untie her hands and pull her back up to my chest, sitting us both up.
I take her breasts in my hands, tugging gently on her nipples, which are still cool from the ice cream, and slightly sticky, too.
She groans, her head falling back onto my shoulder. I burrow my nose against her neck, inhaling the smell of her: freesia, sandalwood, sex and vanilla ice cream.
I flex my hips, pushing myself into her as far as I can go, again and again.
"Do you know how much you mean to me?" I whisper.
"No."
I smile against her throat, curling my fingers around her jaw and neck, to secure her in place. Lies.
"Yes, you do. I'm not going to let you go."
I increase the pace now, harder, faster. Oh fuck, she feels so good. Why does she feel so good? Did the time apart make our bond stronger; had I forgotten how good it was? Maybe it's this storm of new emotions inside me, intensifying everything... Everything.
Oh god, how could I have let her go? How? How could I have been so moronic?
What if she'd gone off to the photographer, seeking solace? Or the guy from the hardware store?
She groans softly.
"You are mine, Anastasia."
"Yes, yours," she vows, panting.
"I take care of what's mine."
She cries out as I bite down on her ear.
"That's right, baby, I want to hear you," I egg her on. I ease one hand around front, grasping her hip with the other, really slamming into her now.
She cries out again, and I can hear my breathing growing more ragged.
My abs strain as I slam into her relentlessly, the sensation building, building, leaving me more and more without senses, taking me higher, floating...
"Come on, baby," I hear myself growl at her. I can feel her piquing, she's so close and so am I.
Just in time, just in fucking time, she free falls into her orgasm, and I follow in relief.
.
"What I feel for you frightens me," she whispers in the stillness afterwards. We are curled up together, spooning on her sticky sheets.
I freeze, because I've just been thinking the exact same thing.
"Me too, baby," I tell her. I've never felt anything like this, she's taken me to an entirely different realm of emotion. Emotion I've tried so hard to avoid for so many years, and only in the past month or so, have these new feelings begun to surface. Intense, demanding-to-be-felt feelings. Feelings that intensified so much after she left me.
They made me realize that I could never let her leave me again, ever.
And though I don't know exactly what they mean, I do know that Ana is my life. She's saved me from a life of disaster, and emotionless plague. I will forever be grateful for that. She's brought color to my monochromatic life.
"What if you leave me?" she asks.
As fucking if. "I'm not going anywhere," I promise, "I don't think I could ever have my fill of you, Anastasia."
She rolls over, staring into my eyes. I fight the urge to flinch away from her, to hide from her. Instead I show her the sincerity, the seriousness, of my words. I do my best to reflect the openness I see in her eyes, back at her.
She kisses me, softly, and I smile at her, tucking a few loosened strands of hair behind her ear.
"I've never felt the way I felt when you left, Anastasia. I would move heaven and earth to avoid feeling like that again."
I was a mess of a man. I debated over my entire existence, I wondered if life was even worth living anymore. I was truly in a dark, dark place. I was angry at first, yes, but the anger crumbled away into despair and a darkness so deep I wondered if I'd ever make it to the other side. I had almost decided that I wouldn't, and then Monday-and the potential to see her again-happened.
I don't realize I'm lost in thought until she kisses me again, her warm, smooth lips breaking me from my reverie.
Suddenly, I remember the party.
"Will you come with me to my father's summer party tomorrow? It's an annual charity thing. I said I'd go."
She smiles. "Of course I'll come."
Her expression suddenly turns stricken.
"What?" I ask her, anxiously.
"Nothing."
"Tell me," I push.
"I have nothing to wear," she admits.
Well, she still has all the things I bought for her back in the sub closet at home... But if she tried to return the Macbook, Blackberry and car to me, how will she feel about me keeping all her clothes?
"Don't be mad," I warn, "but I still have all those clothes for you at home. I am sure there are a couple of dresses in there."
Her lips pucker. "Do you, now?"
"Please don't be angry with me," I beg her as she sits up, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress.
"I'm not," she assures me, her tone blase and almost casual.
"Where are you going?"
"For a drink. Want something?"
.
Saturday, June 11th 2011 - 5am
.
Screaming wakes me, very early the next morning. It's shrill and piercing and feminine, and for the first time in a long time, it's not my own.
Disoriented for a moment-I'm not at home-I realize I'm in Ana's bed, and it's her wailing that has woken me.
I sit bolt upright.
Shit! She's having a nightmare.
She tosses herself about on the mattress beside me. "No! No!" she shouts.
"Ana, wake up!" I reach for her, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her, "Jesus, Ana!"
She stops screaming and her eyes flutter open, dazed, confused. She glances around, sees me, shakes her head.
"Baby, are you okay? You were having a bad dream." My heart is pounding in my chest, and I force it to return to normal.
"Oh," she breathes, groggy and still confused.
I sit up, reaching for the lamp and switch it on. Light floods the room, and now that I have a clearer picture of her, she looks pale and desolate.
Oh, baby. It was only a dream.
"The girl," she finally breathes.
"What is it? What girl?" My voice is soft, gentle.
"There was a girl outside SIP when I left this evening. She looked like me... But not really," she explains.
In an instant, the puzzle pieces click together, and I know. It's Leila. It has to have been. Fuck. I feel the blood drain from my face.
"When was this?" I realize that this was hours ago, and she'll probably be long gone by now. Shit.
"When I left work this evening," Ana says, "Do you know who she is?"
She looked like me... But not really. "Yes," I say, and rake a hand through my hair, exasperated. The skin, the body type, the hair-always the hair. But the eyes. The eyes are what makes Anastasia so different, so striking, so other. Their depth, their innocence, their sincerity...
"Who?" she asks.
I feel my lips press together. I do not want to tell her. I do not want to involve her in this. This should be none of her concern.
"Who?" she repeats, pressingly.
"It's Leila," I relent.
Ana's eyes widen, just slightly, and she swallows hard.
Fuck it. We missed our chance. Dammit, Leila!
The exasperation flares to anger. I can't believe it, after we'd been so careful, on such high-alert. How the hell has she slipped past our radars? How the fuck did she find out where Ana works? What if she tries something? She's mentally unstable; there's no telling what she might do. If anything happened to Anastasia on my watch...
"The girl who put 'Toxic' on your iPod?" she clarifies now.
I turn my attention to her face now. God, I cannot let anything happen to you... "Yes. Did she say anything?"
"She said, 'What do you have that I don't have?' and when I asked who she was, she said, 'Nobody.'"
My eyes clamp shut as guilt floods my chest. How could I have been so callous with her? How could I have disregarded her feelings so wholly? It's me who's done this to her, who has made her feel this way about herself, isn't it?
I recall her face when I broke things off, her tears, her protests. And how I shut her down, with no regard for how she would take it. Because I didn't care. I never fucking cared. About anyone or anything-until Ana...
Checking the clock on the bedside table, it reads 5:03. I climb out of bed and drag on my jeans, heading into the front room to call Welch.
"'Lo?" he answers on the third ring. His voice is muffled and still cloudy with sleep.
"Welch, it's Grey. I apologize for waking you so early on a Saturday, but it's important."
"What is it?" Immediately he sounds marginally more alert.
"It's about Leila Williams. Anastasia saw her yesterday. Leila approached her. I think she could be a real danger, Welch. She could be psychotic; I'm worried she might hurt Ana."
"Approached her?"
"Yes, outside SIP, yesterday." Ana comes out, wearing only my shirt.
"What time?"
"Early evening," I tell him. My gaze follows her as she moves into the kitchen.
"What time, exactly?" Welch demands, in high-efficiency mode. I hear a door shut, and then he powers up his computer.
"What time, exactly?" I repeat to Ana.
"About ten to six?" she says.
"About ten to six," I relay to Welch, who I can now hear clacking at the keyboard on the other end.
"How did she find her?" he asks, a rhetorical question.
"Find out how," I demand.
"You think she'd harm Anastasia?"
"Yes," I say earnestly, "I wouldn't have said so, but then I wouldn't have thought she could do this." I shut my eyes again, at the onslaught of emotion the words bring. Damn, we need to find her. Before she can hurt herself again, or Anastasia! Briefly, the thought crosses that she could be after me, but that apprehension pales hugely in comparison to thinking about something happening to Ana.
"Christian, when we find her, do you think she'll come peacefully?"
"I don't know how that will go down," I admit.
"Make sure Anastasia knows that she could be in danger. She needs to be aware of this," Welch says.
"Yes, I'll talk to her."
"Psychotic breaks are a serious thing, Grey. People lose touch with reality, they can become homicidal, or suicidal, as you know, and she's already at risk from last time..."
"Yes, I know. Follow it up and let me know. Just find her, Welch-she's in trouble. Find her."
I press the 'end' button and turn to Anastasia, who is standing at the kitchen island, regarding me intently, with concern.
Oh, Ana, baby. Please don't look at me like that. It's you who I need to be concerned about.
"Do you want some tea?" she asks me.
Suddenly I see her, in the dim light of morning, wearing only my shirt, nothing on underneath... And I need to be near her. The lust comes suddenly, lighting through my veins like fire, making my blood hum.
"Actually, I'd like to go back to bed."
"Well, I need some tea," she insists. "Would you like to join me for a cup?"
Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair, forcing my insane need for sex, now, now, now aside. I don't know what it is, but the need to be near her, inside her, is unwarrantable. I need to know that she's here, and I'm here, and we're safe, we're okay.
"Yes, please," I finally agree, irritation seeping through, into my voice. Talk about sexually frustrated.
She plunks the kettle on the stove to boil, and gathers teacups and teapot.
I find myself watching her, tracking every move, unbelievably anxious.
It's not enough to talk to her everyday, to know that she's safe. This was what I was so terrified of in the first place-that Leila would approach Anastasia, or possibly want to harm her in some way. I need Anastasia with me at all times, living with me possibly, or have security on her-possibly both. Probably both.
Oh, fuck that stupid husband of Leila's and all his idiotic tendencies! Why didn't he see this coming, why didn't he get her help before the shit hit the fan like this?
"What is it?" Ana asks now, gently, her eyes on mine.
I shake my head at her. This is none of her business, or her concern. She does not need to worry herself with this.
"You're not going to tell me?" She says it in such a way that I think it offends her.
I exhale and shut my eyes. "No."
"Why?"
"Because it shouldn't concern you," I explain, "I don't want you tangled up in this."
"It shouldn't concern me," she argues, "but it does. She found me and accosted me outside my office. How does she know about me? How does she know where I work? I think I have a right to know what's going on."
Dammit, she's right. All of the things she's said are true, but I don't want her involved! The less she knows, the safer she is... I don't want her worried and anxious. It kills me to know that I've promised to protect her, that all I want to do is protect her, and now all of that is in fucking jeopardy! Because I wasn't there at the apartment when she arrived, because she cut her wrist in front of Gail, demanding to see me.
Would it have been different if I'd been there? Would I have been able to talk her down, and get her the proper help? Would she have felt the same need to escape if I'd been the one to take her to the hospital?
"Please?"
I feel my mouth flatten into a line, and I roll my eyes at her, realizing that she's not going to give up until I give her some information. Stubborn woman.
"Okay," I relent, "I have no idea how she found you. Maybe the photograph of us in Portland, I don't know." I sigh. Why the fuck don't I know? I should know. I should have been more attentive!
I pace the kitchen a few times, while she pours the boiled water into the teapot to steep with the tea bags.
"While I was with you in Georgia, Leila turned up at my apartment unannounced and made a scene in front of Gail." She doesn't need to know all the gory details.
"Gail?" Ana asks.
"Mrs. Jones," I clarify.
"What do you mean, 'made a scene'?" she pushes.
I glare at her. Damn her curiosity. She does not need to know this!
"Tell me," she commands, "You're keeping something back."
Her words take me off guard. She thinks I'm lying to her?
"Ana, I..."
"Please?"
I sigh, giving in, defeated. "She made a haphazard attempt to open a vein," I admit.
"Oh no!" Anastasia sounds appalled, and heartbroken.
"Gail got her to hospital," I continue, "But Leila discharged herself before I could get there. The shrink who saw her called it a typical cry for help. He didn't believe her to be truly at risk-one step from suicidal ideation, he called it. But I'm not convinced. I've been trying to track her down since then to get her some help."
"Did she say anything to Mrs. Jones?"
Just that she wanted to talk to me... Godammit this is really all my fault. What do you want, Leila? What can I do for you?
"Not much," I finally tell Ana.
Surprisingly, she doesn't push it. She turns her back to me and pours tea into cups, quiet.
"You can't find her?" she finally says, "What about her family?"
"They don't know where she is," I tell her, "Neither does her husband." Only where she might be. For a price. Fucking scum.
"Husband?" Ana perks up.
"Yes, she's been married for about two years." How is this relevant?
"So she was with you while she was married?" she asks, appalled.
"No!" Christ! "Good God, no. She was with me nearly three years ago. Then she left and married this guy shortly afterward."
I remember her e-mail to me after the wedding... How happy she seemed... And up until six or seven months ago, that's all I saw in those e-mails, all she expressed. She never mentioned wanting to see me again, never mentioned that she was struggling with any sort of depression or anxiety. Why didn't she tell me? I might have been able to help her sooner. This might not have even happened, if she'd communicated with me.
"So why is she trying to get your attention now?"
I shake my head. "I don't know. All I've managed to find out is that she ran out on her husband about four months ago." Only three months after her last e-mail to me, which had alluded a short getaway to the mountains they'd gone on... Happy. Satisfied. Content. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing off.
"Let me get this straight," Ana says, and I force my attention back to her. "She hasn't been your submissive for three years?"
"About two and a half years," I concede.
"And she wanted more."
"Yes."
"But you didn't?"
"You know this."
"So she left you."
"Yes."
"So why is she coming to you now?"
As we speak, going over what I thought we already knew, a thought occurs.
More.
I've never wanted more... Until Anastasia.
"What do you have that I don't?" The words she had spoken to Anastasia outside SIP run through my head.
"I don't know," I tell Ana. I'm not going to give her theories. Not when nothing is concrete.
"But you suspect..." she pushes.
Oh for the love of God, could she give it a rest?
"I suspect it has something to do with you... Why didn't you tell me yesterday?" If she had told me sooner, maybe we could have caught up with Leila. She'd be in good care by now, getting the help she needs... Medicated, receiving therapy, contained, no longer a danger to not only herself, but to Anastasia as well.
"I forgot about her," Ana says, shrugging apologetically, "You know, drinks after work, at the end of my first week. You turning up at the bar and your... Testosterone rush with Jack, and then we were here. It slipped my mind. You have a habit of making me forget things."
For the first time this morning, humor touches me.
"Testosterone rush?"
"Yes." Her eyes narrow. "The pissing contest."
Sweeping me out from under my feet, the lust is back, exploding through me, demanding not to be ignored, but to be felt.
"I'll show you a testosterone rush."
"Wouldn't you rather have a cup of tea?" she asks.
"No, Anastasia, I wouldn't," I say, staring into her eyes, willing the feelings I'm feeling to be reflected back at me.
I want her. Badly. To know that she's here, and I'm here, and that she's safe.
I see it, that glimmer in her eyes-the darkening of her irises, the dilating of her pupils...
"Forget about her. Come," I beckon, offering my hand. She takes it, and I pull her into the bedroom.
.
The first thing I feel when I wake is the warmth of Ana, pressed up against me. Still floating between sleep, I need only focus on how good it feels-how soft her skin feels against me, how comfortable I am, how I can feel her breasts pressed to my side, and the scent of her surrounding me, swirling in my head, a dream.
Awareness breaks through the cloud of sleep, and as I open my eyes, I find her watching me.
Before peaceful, immediately I am wary. She looks guilty, as if she's been... Up to something.
"Hi," she greets me, grinning.
"Hi," I respond, suspicious, "What are you doing?"
"Looking at you."
I jump internally when I feel her fingers on my belly, tracing the line of hair that leads down into my pants. Automatically, on reflex, I grasp her hand, stopping her.
I roll, pinioning her beneath me, keeping her hands in mine, pressing them into the mattress by her head. I feel safer like this, on top, in charge, with her trapped beneath me. I don't know what she was up to, but if she had the face to look guilty, then it must have been something...
I'm aware that I'm hard. Did I wake up with an erection, or did it come on in response to seeing her, feeling her, lying naked next to me? Or her touch?
I lean down, brushing my nose along the length of hers.
"I think you're up to no good, Miss Steele."
"I like being up to no good near you," she murmurs.
"You do?" I kiss her chastely on the mouth. "Sex or breakfast?" She presses her hips into my cock, and that's answer enough for me. "Good choice," I hum, ducking my face underneath her chin, leaving a trail of kisses all the way down to her breast.
Upon reaching my destination, I take a nipple in my mouth, sucking hard, pinching the other between my fingers.
She moans and writhes beneath me, and I smile against her breast.
"So responsive, Miss Steele."
Every inch of my body is a live wire, as I leave kisses on every part of her skin I can access. I am alive with a need I have never experienced before. Frankly, it scares me. The need is so potent, so demanding. The only thing that seems to sate it is sex, with Ana. And so, not knowing what else to do, or how else to calm the need, I give in, every time.
.
Ana lays sprawled across my front, her face buried in my neck.
I run my hands up and down her back, reveling in its smoothness, it's softness. I am absolutely satiated and calm. This is exactly what I needed to calm the raging storm inside of me. It has been consuming me ever since Leila went missing, ever since I learned she'd tried to kill herself in front of Gail in my apartment, ever since she'd demanded my attention.
She obviously needed my help; why has she run away, where she is unable to get it?
I have never felt compassion for one of my subs before; it was always about lust and games and control. Why now?
Ana moves, disrupting my thoughts.
Automatically, my arms tighten around her, to stop her from going anywhere.
"Where are you going?" I murmur.
"I need to have a shower," she says, wiggling out of my grasp and sitting up on top of me. "Care to join? I need someone to wash my back."
"At your service, Miss Steele."
.
Showered and clean, we dress in Ana's room.
"How often do you work out?"
I glance up to where she stands in front of her chest of drawers, staring at herself in the mirror. She looks dissatisfied and frustrated, twisting her hair this way and that. For now, she's stopped to stare at me.
"Every weekday," I say automatically, doing up my fly.
"What do you do?"
Why is she so curious? "Run, weights, kickboxing." I shrug.
"Kickboxing?"
"Yes, I have a personal trainer, an ex-Olympic contender who teaches me. His name is Claude. He's very good." In fact, he put me on my ass in our most recent spar. "You'd like him." He'd push her, challenge her, something that she needs.
She rotates fully to face me now, as I shrug my shirt over my shoulders and begin to button it.
"What do you mean, I'd like him?"
"You'd like him as a trainer." I've been trying to have Ana start some type of workout regime, but she's, obviously, been a bit stubborn. I really wish she'd agree, so she could build some muscle, some stamina. If and when we go back into the playroom, I want to try some things I've never tried with her-and a couple completely new things I haven't tried with anyone. But if she's going to keep up, she's going to need to develop some strength and endurance.
"Why would I need a personal trainer?" she asks, smirking, teasing, "I have you to keep me fit."
Mind filled with all the possibilities, I walk across the room to her, taking her in my arms. The ideas play behind my eyes like a filmstrip.
"But I want you fit, baby, for what I have in mind. I'll need you to keep up."
As if on cue, her cheeks go red, but she doesn't back down, or look away. A moment passes between us, and I see the lust, the excitement, the curiosity in her eyes.
"You know you want to."
A second later, her face darkens, and not in the good way. Her lips flatten and something in her eyes backs away, closes off.
"What?" I question, suddenly concerned. Does she not want to? Was I wrong? Have I said something that will turn her away? Am I mentioning the playroom too soon?
"Nothing," she says, shaking her head at me. "Okay, I'll meet Claude."
"You will?" I'm sidetracked by her agreement, astounded and pleased. This has come up out of the blue, and make of it what I will about her sudden change in composure, but she's willing to be trained, and the thought makes my insides soar. She'll be strong, and she'll possess fortitude, resilience. She'll be able to hold up beneath my fantasies, and I won't have to be worried that I'm pushing her too far, or that she'll give out in front of me.
In another way, this is moving one step closer to us going back into the playroom.
"Yes, jeez," she scoffs, "It it makes you that happy."
I wind my arms around her, bringing her closer, and kiss her cheek. "You have no idea... So what would you look to do today?" I lean in to nuzzle her ear.
"I'd like to get my hair cut," she says, "and um... I need to bank a check and buy a car."
"Ah," I say. She wants to bank the check I gave her, to buy a new car in the place of the one she tried to give back to me. The very car which sits in the parking lot below, out back. Biting my lip, I reach into my pocket and pull out the A3 key fob.
"It's here," I tell her, uncertain over how she'll react. It's hard to say. She didn't seem so angry at my returning the Macbook and Blackberry... But how will she take the car?
"What do you mean, it's here?" she snaps, and shit, she sounds angry.
"Taylor brought it back yesterday," I explain.
She opens and shuts her mouth twice, seemingly at a loss for words. She looks baffled, outraged, and then-shit-resolved.
I watch her reach around and pull something out of her back pocket. When she produces it to me, I see it's an envelope.
"Here, this is yours," she says.
I'm puzzled at first, but when I get a closer look at the envelope-and see it's one of mine from my office-I realize it's the check.
I raise both hands and take a step back.
"Oh no. That's your money."
"No, it isn't," she argues, "I'd like to buy the car from you."
For fuck's sake, I gave that car to her as a gift! How dare she try to buy it from me? Who does she think I am? I sure as hell don't need the money, and she sure as hell does!
"No, Anastasia," I snap, knowing this isn't the end of the argument if I can help it, "Your money, your car."
"No, Christian. My money, your car. I'll buy it from you," she offers again.
"I gave you that car for your graduation present." I'm speaking through my teeth now.
"If you'd given me a pen-that would be a suitable graduation present. You gave me an Audi."
"Do you really want to argue about this?" My teeth are still clenched.
"No."
"Good-here are the keys." I put them on the chest of drawers.
"That's not what I meant!" she cries, exasperated.
"End of discussion, Anastasia," I order. "Don't push me."
She glares at me for a second, and then, in the next second, she tears the envelope-and my check-in two, then fours. She drops it into the wastebasket.
I just stare at her. Does she really think that'll stop me?
"You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele." I turn and head into the other room, pulling out my Blackberry.
I call Andrea.
"Mr. Grey," she answers, efficiently and promptly, even on a Saturday morning.
"Andrea, please deposit twenty-four thousand dollars into Anastasia Steele's bank account." I read off the number, which I have memorized, in case of emergency. Like now, for example.
She walks into the room.
"Twenty-four thousand, sir?" she repeats, a little thrown.
"Yes, twenty-four thousand dollars. Directly."
"Um, certainly, Sir."
"Good."
"It should be through by Monday."
"Monday? Excellent."
"Anything else, Sir?"
"No that's all, Andrea," I answer, and hang up.
I turn to Anastasia. "Deposited in your back account, Monday. Don't play games with me."
.
This is where it gets exciting... :)
Who's ready for the gala? Raise your hand if you are!