Saturday, June 11th 2011, mid-day

.

"Were all your submissives brunettes?" Ana asks as I ease out into traffic. If I drive, we'll get there faster, despite the fact that this is her car.

I frown, caught off guard by the question, and made a little wary, honestly. Where is she going with this?

"Yes."

"I just wondered," she says.

"I told you. I prefer brunettes." Don't make me tell you why.

"Mrs. Robinson isn't a brunette," she points out.

"That's probably why. She put me off blondes forever," I joke.

"You're kidding!" she gasps.

"Yes. I'm kidding."

Ana turns her gaze out the side window, and, for a long moment, is quiet. I find myself scanning every face I see, behind wheels, in passenger seats, waiting at crosswalks... None of them are Leila, and none of them are holding handguns.

"Tell me about her," Ana finally requests.

"What do you want to know?" I ask, feeling my brows come together in confusion. If she's so abhorrent toward Elena, why would she want to know more about her?

"Tell me about your business arrangement," she suggests.

I relax, satisfied by the question. Business is an easy topic for me. Business, work, is safe.

"I am a silent partner. I'm not particularly interested in the beauty business, but she's built it into a successful venture. I just invested and helped get her started."

"Why?"

The answer is obvious: "I owed it to her."

"Oh?" she asks.

"When I dropped out of Harvard, she loaned me a hundred grand to start my business," I indulge. This is something in my past I don't tend to focus on. I'm not proud of the fact that I dropped out of one of the most prestigious universities.

"You dropped out?" she asks, seeming surprised.

"It wasn't my thing," I explain, "I did two years. Unfortunately, my parents were not so understanding." They were angry, but I think what it really came down to was concern. They didn't think I'd make it without a solid education under my belt.

"You don't seem to have done too badly dropping out. What was your major?"

"Politics and Economics."

"So, she's rich?"

"She was a bored trophy wife, Anastasia. Her husband was wealthy-big in timber. He wouldn't let her work. You know, he was controlling. Some men are like that." I cast her a quick smile.

"Really? A controlling man, surely a mythical creature?" Anastasia says, the sarcasm thick in her voice.

I feel my grin widen.

"She lent you her husband's money?" she asks.

I nod.

"That's terrible."

"He got his own back," I mutter, recalling the memory. I pull into the underground garage.

"How?"

I shake my head. I don't want to go there right now. I park beside the Audi Quattro. "Come-Franco will be here shortly."

.

I take care of some business in my office, skimming through e-mails and printing off some spreadsheets, which SIP has sent over.

I reply to Ros's phone call, which she keeps mercifully short, and after not too long, Taylor steps into the doorway, knocking on the jamb.

I look up from my computer.

"Yes?"

"The hairstylist has arrived, Sir."

I nod. "Let him in. I'll find Ana."

Taylor steps away, and abandoning the spreadsheets on the edge of my desk, I head out into the sitting room. It only takes a quick scan of the area to realize she's not there, and apprehension makes my gut heavy. Where is she?

The apprehension builds to panic, and then mania, when I check my bedroom and the library and don't find her there, either.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, glancing up. Would she have gone up to the playroom?

I shake my head. Impossible.

"Ana?" I call, straining for a reply. There is no answer.

I mount the stairs, taking them quickly, ignoring the riotous rhythm of my heart, the metallic taste in the back of my mouth.

She's gone. She's run. Or worse, Leila...

I turn the handle on the playroom door, and it doesn't budge. Locked.

Raking my hand through my hair, I stand in the hallway for a moment.

Briefly, I feel the relief flood me when I realize she's not in the playroom.

But where the fuck is she?

And then I hear it-the muffled intonation of a one-sided conversation. I follow the voice-stifled by walls-down the hall, and into the submissive bedroom. The closet door is ajar, the light on, and I step into the doorway.

There, sitting on the floor, talking into her Blackberry, is Anastasia.

Thank God!

The relief floods through me so palpably, I want to swing her up into my arms and crush her to my chest.

You haven't left me. You're still here. You're safe.

"There you are" I say, "I thought you'd run off."

She holds one hand out toward me and says into the phone, "Sorry, Mom, I have to go. I'll call again soon... Love you, too, Mom."

As she hangs up, I realize that she looks tense, uncomfortable.

I gaze around our surroundings, the clothes dangling from the wooden hangers, the track lighting... The design is different, but it's still a closet, and she's still hiding in here.

I shudder as it takes me back, way back, to when I used to hide from the crack whore's pimp in her closet. I never learned, always chose the same hiding place, whenever anything bad happened.

If I close my eyes and think about it really hard, I bet I could remember the sounds, muffled by my shallow surroundings, the smell of her clothes around me-something floral, gentle... Soothing.

"Why are you hiding in here?" I ask her to distract myself from the blooming thoughts. I do not want to go there.

"I'm not hiding," she says, "I'm despairing."

Alarmed, I repeat, "Despairing?"

"Of all this, Christian," she explains, waving her hand around at the clothes.

"Can I come in?"

"It's your closet."

I frown, sinking down onto the carpet across from her. I bought these clothes for her. Why can't she just take them and be thankful? It's her closet.

"They're just clothes. If you don't like them, I'll send them back," I try to reason.

"You're a lot to take on, you know?"

Too much. Not enough. What's the difference?

"I know. I'm trying," I plead.

"You're very trying," she says.

"As are you, Miss Steele."

"Why are you doing this?" she inquires, those eyes beseeching me for an answer, an honest answer.

Don't make me say it.

"You know why."

"No, I don't," she argues.

I push a hand through my hair, exasperated. "You are one frustrating female," I tell her.

"You could have a nice brunette submissive," she says, "One who'd say, 'How high?' every time you said jump, provided of course she had permission to speak. So why me, Christian? I just don't get it."

Yes, why you?

I don't understand it either, honestly. When she walked-or rather, fell-into my life, she tilted my world on its axis. Nothing has been the same since. She's beautiful, and challenging, and innocent, and wise, and smart. In such a short amount of time, she's changed me so much, in ways I'm only beginning to recognize, and in others that I've been aware of, and fought against, the entire time we've known each other. My wealth was never a deciding factor-in fact, it didn't seem to affect her judgment at all. For the first time, a woman is accepting me for me, a person-not a mega-CEO.

She sees me-like really sees me. Those eyes are the sharpest, most haunting eyes, I have every laid witness to, and they pierce straight to me, down to where whatever remains of my soul lies.

I try to put my thoughts into words: "You make me look at the world differently, Anastasia. You don't want me for my money. You give me... Hope."

"Hope for what?"

I shrug. "More." Oh, if it was only that simple. "And you're right. I am used to women doing exactly what I say, when I say, doing exactly what I want. It gets old quickly. There's something about you, Anastasia, which calls to me on some deep level. I don't understand. It's a siren's call. I can't resist you, and I don't want to lose you." Unconsciously, I'm reaching out for her hand, warm against mine. "Don't run, please-have a little faith in me and a little patience. Please."

For a minute she just stares at me, with those piercing eyes, and I feel naked, exposed.

Finally she moves, coming up onto her knees and leaning in to brush her lips against mine.

"Okay," she agrees, "Faith and patience, I can live with that."

"Good. Because Franco's here."

.

While Franco does Ana's hair in my bathroom, I try and focus on the spreadsheets, positioning them around me on the couch, turning on some music to focus myself.

It doesn't work. I'm caught up in the conversation in the closet still. What caused me to be so honest, so open with her? With myself? That's part of the problem. I'm hiding from myself and my emotions, because I'm scared of what might happen if I let myself feel them.

What if I let her in-or maybe, more fittingly, myself out-and she leaves me again? It nearly destroyed me once before. I couldn't do it again. I can't lose her, it would undoubtedly kill me... And now, with Leila on the loose, it puts it all into perspective.

Anastasia is so completely different from all of my past subs. She may look much the same on the outside-hair, skin, body type-but on the inside, she's an entire galaxy of difference. And what's more, I like it.

What's more I think I'm... No, can I go there?

No. Not now.

I shake my head and pour myself into my work, pushing the thoughts of Anastasia aside for now.

.

When Ana and Franco walk in an hour later, I'm deep into my work, satisfyingly distracted.

I glance up, and am immensely pleased to see that she's kept it long. Franco has merely given her more shape, more style. She looks fresh and revitalized, and the newly cut layers frame her face beautifully.

I feel myself grin.

"See! I tell you he like it!"

"You look lovely, Ana," I tell her, agreeing with the stylist.

"My work 'ere is done," Franco says.

I push myself up off the couch and walk over to them. "Thank you, Franco."

The little dark man turns and envelopes Ana in a ginormous hug, and plants a kiss on both of her cheeks.

Good thing he's gay.

"Never let anyone else be cutting your hair, bellisimma Ana!" he tells her.

She laughs nervously, cheeks turning pink, just slightly. She really does look fantastic.

I show Franco to the door, pay and tip him.

When I return, Ana is standing in the same spot I left her in.

"I'm glad you kept it long." I finger one of the strands, like silk against my skin. "So soft," I muse. "Are you still mad at me?"

She nods, solemn, and I smile.

"What precisely are you mad at me about?"

She rolls her eyes heavenward, and for the first time, my immediate reaction is not to spank her. I'm surprised by the amusement which fills me instead.

"You want the list?"

"There's a list?"

"A long one," she confirms.

"Can we discuss it in bed?"

"No."

Damn.

"Over lunch, then," I acquiesce. "I'm hungry, and not just for food." I grin at her suggestively.

"I'm not going to let you dazzle me with your sexpertise," she says.

Sexpertise? I feel myself smile, and attempt to muffle it.

"What is bothering you specifically, Miss Steele? Spit it out."

She seems to take a breath.

"What's bothering me? Well, there's your gross invasion of my privacy, the fact that you took me to some place where your ex-mistress works and you used to take all your lovers to have their bits waxed, you man-handled me in the street like I was six years old-and to cap it all, you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!"

I raise my eyebrows, taken aback by her outburst. Abruptly, my mood sobers.

"That's quite a list. But just to clarify once more-she's not my Mrs. Robinson."

"She can touch you," she points out, stubborn.

"She knows where," I explain. After too many trials and errors.

"What does that mean?"

Oh, for fuck's sake. I really don't want to be talking about this. I haven't sorted these feelings out for myself yet, let alone figured out how to explain them to Anastasia.

I run both hands through my hair and shut my eyes briefly, trying to compose myself.

"You and I don't have rules. I have never had a relationship without rules, and I never know where you're going to touch me. It makes me nervous. Your touch completely-" My jaw clamps as I search for the right words. "It just means more... So much more."

I've never wanted someone to touch me, it's never been a welcoming feeling, ever. But with Ana, all of that's different, and it's... Baffling.

I stare into her eyes, watching her process my words, hoping what I've said is enough, because I can't go any further than that.

Slowly, intentionally, she reaches out, her hand coming toward me.

Reflexively, I step back, out of her reach, and her hand drops.

"Hard limit," I breathe, the flurry of emotions whirling inside me again.

Her face falls. "How would you feel if you couldn't touch me?"

"Devastated and deprived." Shit, is this a deal breaker? I can't imagine not touching Ana, but I can't let her touch me-I just can't. It means too much, and there's so much there, so many bad memories, but so many conflicting feelings...

Mercifully, she gives me a small, reassuring smile. I feel myself relax underneath the glow of it.

"You'll have to tell me exactly why this is a hard limit, one day, please," she murmurs.

"One day." With that part of the conversation taken care of, I move on to the next point. "So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy." I feel my mouth twist in displeasure. "Because I know your bank account number?"

"Yes, that's outrageous," she says.

"I do background checks on all my submissives," I remind her, "I'll show you." I turn, headed for my study, and she follows me.

I unlock the filing cabinet, and thumb through it for her file, snatching it out. When I turn to her, I find her scowling at me.

Immediately, I feel ashamed.

I shrug. "You can keep it."

It doesn't apply anymore. She wasn't what I thought she'd be, no, but she's so much better than what I could have imagined.

"Well, gee, thanks."

I watch her open the file, flipping through its contents: a copy of her birth certificate, her hard limits, the NDA, the contract, her social security number, resume, and employment records...

"So, you knew I worked at Clayton's?" she asks.

"Yes," I admit.

"It wasn't a coincidence. You didn't just drop by?"

"No."

Nothing about the beginning stages was chance. Every bit of it was planned, predictable, controlled.

"This is fucked-up," she states, "You know that?"

"I don't see it that way," I argue, "What I do, I have to be careful." All my bases covered, everything out in the open. I have to know exactly what I'm getting myself into. Or rather, who. Anastasia, somehow, pulled the wool over my eyes. As I gaze at her, I remember my first impression of her, that day she fell into my office, hair in those ocean blue eyes. Meek, mild mannered, shy, demure. Perfectly submissive, or so it seemed...

"But this is private," she protests now.

"I don't misuse the information," I assure her, "Anyone can get hold of it if they have half a mind to, Anastasia. To have control-I need information. It's how I've always operated." In every aspect of my life.

"You do misuse the information," she argues, "You deposited twenty-four thousand dollars that I didn't want into my account."

Irritation flares, and I press my mouth into a line to keep it at bay. "I told you. That's what Taylor managed to get for your car. Unbelievable, I know, but there you go."

"But the Audi..." she trails off.

"Anastasia, do you have any idea how much money I make?" I ask her, aware I sound exasperated.

Her cheeks turn red. "Why should I? I don't need to know the bottom line of your bank account, Christian."

I feel my bad mood dissipate at her words, the anger in my eyes softening. "I know. That's one of the things I love about you."

I don't give it enough time to process the look she gives me.

"Anastasia, I earn roughly one hundred thousand dollars an hour."

Her jaw drops, apparently shocked.

"Twenty-four thousand dollars is nothing," I assure her, "The car, the Tess books, the clothes, they're nothing." Nothing compared to the way I feel for you. Nothing compared to the underlying messages I want those gifts to convey.

"If you were me, how would you feel about all this... Largesse coming your way?" she asks me.

I stare at her as I realize that I have not an earthly clue on how that would feel. Not an inkling. I wish I did.

After a long while, I lift my shoulders. "I don't know."

"It doesn't feel great," she tells me, "I mean, you're very generous, but it makes me uncomfortable. I have told you this enough times."

I exhale heavily. "I want to give you the world, Anastasia." And I want her to accept it, because she deserves it.

"I just want you, Christian," she insists, "Not all the add-ons."

Just me? But...

"They're part of the deal. Part of what I am."

She glances around the room, shoulders sagging in defeat.

"Shall we eat?" she asks.

I frown, knowing that she's changing the subject, knowing that this isn't going to be resolved, at least not today.

"Sure," I relent.

.

"Detroit's available to meet next Friday, the seventeenth. Does that work for you?"

"Have Nate call Andrea," I tell Ros, staring distractedly out my office window, "It should work. We can take Charlie Tango."

I can almost hear her grin through the phone. "Great," she says. I can hear the excitement in her voice. She's never had the opportunity to fly in the helicopter before, so this will be her first time.

"Anything else?"

We talk briefly about SIP, their financial situation, possibilities for widening their horizons. I keep the conversation short, my rumbling stomach distracting me. I really am quite hungry.

"Okay, let's set up a telephone conference for Monday morning. I want to get some more information."

"Sure thing, Christian."

"That's it, Ros."

"Thanks. Have a good weekend."

"You, too." I hang up, and go searching for my woman.

I find her, obviously, in the kitchen whisking eggs at the counter. Coming up behind her, I wind my arms around her waist, making her jump.

"Interesting choice of music," I murmur in her ear, noting Beyonce's 'Crazy In Love' playing on my iPod, on the dock across the room. It's definitely a far cry from 'Bailero', which was playing earlier. I inhale a noseful of her shampoo. Different, but good. "Your hair smells good." I take another inhalation.

She shrugs me off. "I'm still mad at you."

I can't fight the frown that makes its way onto my face. Frankly, I'm done with the fighting. I'm having a grand old time with her here, in my apartment, where we're contained and safe, and she's cooking me lunch, and then we'll make love...

Damn, she's putting a damper on my mood.

"How long are you going to keep this up?"

She shrugs one shoulder, beating the eggs with the other hand. "At least until I've eaten."

I feel my mouth twitch in amusement.

The music is too loud, distracting, and I pick up the remote to turn it off.

"Did you put that on your iPod?" she asks, the sudden silence a void around us, which grows thicker with her question.

I shake my head at her, and I know the unspoken answer is in my eyes.

I see it make its way into Ana's.

"Don't you think she was trying to tell you something back then?" she asks.

"Well, with hindsight, probably." Self-loathing opens up in my belly.

Why didn't you notice, you asshole? Why didn't you care?

How could I? I wasn't the same man I was then, that I am now-changed by Anastasia...

"Why's it still on there?"

"I quite like the song," I confess, "But if it offends you, I'll remove it."

"No, it's fine," she says, "I like to cook to music."

"What would you like to hear?"

"Surprise me," she requests.

I head over to the dock and scroll through the options, finally settling on Nina Simone's, "I Put a Spell on You." It seems fitting-she really has bewitched me completely, and she hardly even knows it.

I put a spell on you, because you're mine.

You better stop the things that you do.

I gaze across the room at her, all of those emotions intensifying inside me again, and she turns to gaze at me, flushing. My heart skips a beat, and the emotions give way to the dark pooling of desire, deep in my gut. In a second, I'm hard.

No I ain't lying, no I ain't lying

I just can't stand it babe
The way you're always running around.

I make my way toward her, eyes glued on hers, watching the lust open up in her face as I close the distance between us, that flush spreading, disappearing underneath the collar of her shirt... Mmm... I'd like to see where it ends...

I just can't stand it, the way you always put me down

I put a spell on you because you're mine.

"Christian, please," she breathes, head tilted slightly back as I come to stand in front of her, my intentions clear, I suppose. I hope.

"Please what?"

"Don't do this," she begs.

"Do what?"

"This," she insists.

I don't think she's serious, and physical hunger for food aside, this hunger is stronger. This is a desire I need to sate. Now.

"Are you sure?" I whisper, reaching for the whisk, which she holds uselessly in her hand now, and putting it back in the bowl with the eggs.

"I want you, Anastasia. I love and I hate, and I love arguing with you. It's very new. I need to know that we're okay. It's the only way I know how."

This is something new, my explaining this to her, and it feels... Like I've lifted a weight off my shoulders, now that she knows the motivation behind it.

"My feelings for you haven't changed," she whispers.

We are standing so close, less than a foot apart, and from this stance, I can see straight down her shirt, a very tempting sight indeed. I can smell her, and her scent surrounds me, consumes me, teleports me. Oh, I want her. Oh, I need her. The heat comes off her in waves, and I want to touch that alabaster skin of hers so badly...

"I'm not going to touch you until you say yes. But right now, after a really shitty morning, I want to bury myself in you and just forget everything but us."

Her eyes, from where she's been staring straight ahead, meet mine again.

"I'm going to touch your face," she warns, her voice a whisper, before she lifts her hand.

I'm surprised at her warning, and then pleased. This is okay. To know it's coming, to be prepared, makes it okay... And besides, my face is a safe place, well within the boundaries of comfort.

She touches her fingers to my unshaven cheek, running them across the stubble there. Oh, her fingers are so smooth, and so soft. I feel my eyes shut against the onslaught of emotions her touch stirs in me.

Fear, apprehension, wariness, bliss, contentment, peace... More.

I sigh, resting my face into the cradle her hand makes.

As if drawn together, like magnets, our faces incline toward one another. I stop myself just shy, so that I can feel her breath on my face.

"Yes or no, Anastasia?"

"Yes."

Because I don't want to ruin this soft and tender moment, I touch my lips to hers softly and tenderly, coaxing them apart as I take her in my arms. Oh, she feels so nice against me... Better than good. It feels like home.

I skate my hand up her back, and into her hair, taking hold of it and tugging gently, so that her face turns up. With the other hand, I cup her backside, easing it against my erection.

Feel me, Ana. Feel what you do to me.

She breaths something between a sigh and a moan.

"Mr. Grey," Taylor's voice interrupts us, and I release Ana, deflating at once.

"Taylor," I respond.

He stands in the doorway, and as he watches me, I realize the time, and that the extra security must be here now. Finally.

"My study."

Taylor heads across the room, in that direction.

"Rain check," I whisper to Ana, and follow Taylor through the great room.