Saturday, June 11th 2011, mid-day
.
I emerge from my study, where Taylor has given me a quick go-around on the new security detail, who are waiting in the staff quarters. I'm satisfied with their credentials and employment histories.
I go over their background checks, which Welch has supplied with my asking but he knows to send them anyway. The entire time I'm reading them over, I think of Ana in the back of my mind, so offended that I ran one on her.
Honestly, some part of me does feel guilty about it, but that's a very small part. The other, bigger part just doesn't understand what the whole deal is. I run background checks on all the people who will be sharing close details of life with me-it's a matter of safety.
When I return to the kitchen, Ana has finished preparing the eggs-some type of omelet with potatoes. Suddenly, it occurs to me that Anastasia may be less than pleased with this new development, the extra security.
Wary, I don't know how to act, because I'm not sure how she'll react, I glance at her.
"I'll brief them in ten," I say to Taylor.
"We'll be ready," he assures me, and heads out.
Anastasia slides two warmed plates onto the kitchen island.
"Lunch?" she asks.
"Please." I slip onto one of the bar stools, watching her, trying to guard my expression. God, why am I so nervous about this? It's to keep her safe!
"Problem?" She cocks an eyebrow at me.
"No," I answer quickly.
Her eyebrows knit together and she frowns at me, clearly aware that there's more to it than that, knowing that I'm hiding something from her. Her eyes pierce through me like laser beams, but I ignore it, taking a bite of the omelet.
"This is good," I compliment her as the food settles in my belly, too empty. It's an uncomfortable feeling, and I hate that I've gone so long without eating. It unsettles me. "Would you like a glass of wine?" I ask her.
"No, thank you," she says.
I don't bother getting one for myself, then. I don't want to drink without her. Instead, I switch on the music from earlier, when I was going over the SIP spreadsheets while I waited for Anastasia's haircut to be finished.
"What's this?" she inquires now.
"Canteloube," I tell her, "Songs of the Auvergne. This is called 'Bailero'."
"It's lovely." She sounds taken by the song, entranced by it, and my heart swells again, at her unexpected appreciation for good music. Very few of my subs shared the same opinion on music, Leila especially. I shake the thought of her from my head.
Not now, Grey.
"What language is it?"
"It's in old French-Occitan, in fact."
"You speak French," she recalls, "Do you understand it?"
"Some words, yes," and, ah... I feel myself relax into our new conversation, forgetting about the debacle of the added security for now. "My mother had a mantra: 'musical instrument, foreign language, martial art.' Elliot speaks Spanish; Mia and I speak French. Elliot plays the guitar, I play piano, and Mia the cello."
Memories swirl through my mind, of my childhood home, where we grew up together, practicing, reciting, the sound of some sort of music constantly filling the halls.
"Wow. And the martial arts?"
"Elliot does Judo," I tell her, "Mia put her foot down at age twelve and refused." I smile fondly at the recollection of the argument that went down between my sister and parents.
"I wish my mother had been that organized," Ana muses.
"Dr. Grace is formidable when it comes to the accomplishments of her children."
"She must be very proud of you. I would be."
Proud? Why would she be proud of me?
I'm nothing, and I don't deserve my mother's pride. I'm a dark, dark man with a mangled soul, fucked-up beyond recognition, perhaps beyond saving.
Abruptly, I'm lost in a sea of uncharted territory, unfamiliar with the emotions that come up in response to the thought. What's not unfamiliar, however, are the feelings of disgust, self-hatred...
I change the subject: "Have you decided what you'll wear this evening? Or do I need to come and pick something for you?"
"Um... Not yet. Did you choose all those clothes?"
"No, Anastasia, I didn't. I gave a list and your size to a personal shopper at Neiman Marcus. They should fit." And the hell with it, the anger-which is the most dominant of emotions stirring in me now-spurs me forward into admission: "Just so that you know, I have ordered additional security for this evening and the next few days. With Leila unpredictable and unaccounted for somewhere on the streets of Seattle, I think it's a wise precaution. I don't want you going out unaccompanied. Okay?"
She blinks at me, and I think it's my tone which has caused her to do so. But dammit, I am nothing to be proud of. I've betrayed and gone against all of my parents' wishes. I don't know why they still put up with me. I caused them so much trouble in my teenage years, up until things with Elena took hold and smartened me up. To think they chose to adopt me, and to see all the havoc I've caused them.
"Okay," Anastasia says in response to my question.
"Good." Satisfied with her easy answer, but honestly made wary as well-nothing goes down without an argument from Miss Steele-I push back from my empty plate. "I'm going to brief them. I shouldn't be long."
"They're here?" she asks.
"Yes."
I pick up my plate, put it in the sink, and head back toward my office, where Taylor and the new security should be waiting.
There are four people standing alongside Taylor when I arrive, three men and a woman. The men are introduced as Luke Sawyer, Marcus Reynolds, and Gideon Ryan. The woman is Belinda Prescott, who I've specifically assigned to Anastasia.
She is dark-skinned, and has a serious, no-nonsense look about her. By the way she addresses me, I feel she'll do fine.
The other three I'm cautious about; they seem like puppies competing for Taylor's attention. I ignore the annoying behavior and go over the rules, the protocols, the layout of the apartment.
I address Prescott directly: "Anastasia is to go nowhere without you. I don't want her out of your sight. Do you understand."
"Certainly, Sir."
I finish up with a brief tour, and then dismiss them, once I'm sure they've understood everything.
"Taylor," I say. He turns.
"The lipstick I asked you to pick up?"
"Ah, yes, Sir. I wasn't sure which color you wanted, so I selected a few. They're in the kitchen."
I head that way and find the small cosmetic shop bag on the kitchen island. I fish my hand inside and pull out the first tube I touch.
I go to find Ana, and am surprised to discover her in the sub room once more, sprawled across the bed with her Macbook.
Something about her being in here makes me uncomfortable, but I shake off the feeling and step into the room.
"What are you doing?"
Before she can answer me, I lie down on the bed beside her, and skim the Web page she's on briefly. Amusement floods me when I see that she's reading about Multiple Personality Disorders.
Because of me?
"On this site for a reason?" I inquire casually.
"Research," she answers, "Into a difficult personality." She gazes at me impassively.
I try to muffle my smile, but think I give myself away. "A difficult personality?" I repeat, knowing she means me.
"My own pet project."
"I'm a pet project now? A sideline. Science experiment maybe. When I thought I was everything. Miss Steele, you wound me." I'm joking, really, but something sinister stirs in my stomach-I can't identify the emotion. Am I really that fucked up that she thinks I have a multiple personality disorder?
"How do you know it's you?" she asks.
I'm more than aware that my mood took a sudden shift at lunchtime; and I'm also well aware that my mood swings are nothing new. Leila used to comment on it all the time. Fucking Leila, why can't I get her out of my head? "Wild guess."
"It's true that you are the only fucked-up, mercurial, control freak that I know intimately."
"I thought I was the only person you know intimately," I say, arching a brow at her. At least she's got the fucked-up part right.
Her cheeks pink. "Yes. That, too."
Yes, Anastasia. You are all mine.
Lust opens in me, wide and deep at the thought. I want her again. Here, on this bed.
"Have you reached any conclusions yet?" I ask her.
She turns to watch me for an impassive moment.
"I think you're in need of intense therapy," she finally delivers, totally stoic, though I know she's joking.
I reach up to tuck her hair behind her ears. "I think I'm in need of you," I correct her. Because nothing has changed me so much as Anastasia, in all my years of therapy. And she offers a respite, a relief, an outlet, that nothing else has ever had the ability to do. "Here." I hand her the tube of lipstick I've brought up with me.
She frowns at me, bemused as she takes it carefully.
"You want me to wear this?"
I laugh. "No, Anastasia, not unless you want to. Not sure it's your color," I say, eyeing the tube of bright red lipstick.
I propel myself into a seated position and cross my legs. Taking a discrete breath, I pull my shirt over my head. Here we go.
My heart is like a freight train inside my chest, all of a sudden, and my fingers are tingling. My body temperature rises at least a degree or two. I fight back the panic.
"I like your road map idea," I tell her.
She only stares at me.
"The no-go areas," I explain.
"Oh," she says, catching on, "I was kidding."
"I'm not." I think it would be really beneficial, to draw out the lines as sorts, so she knows where not to cross.
"You want me to draw on you, with lipstick?" she confirms.
"It washes off. Eventually."
A small, crooked smile plays on her lips. "What about something more permanent, like a Sharpie?"
"I could get a tattoo."
"No to the tattoo!" she laughs.
"Lipstick, then," I say, grinning.
She shuts the lid on the Macbook and pushes it aside.
"Come," I tell her, offering my hands to her, "Sit on me." Where she can touch me? Freely?
I watch her cautiously as she pushes off her shoes and crawls over to me. I lie down, keeping my legs bent.
"Lean against my legs."
She straddles me, and I'm surprised to feel, amidst the panic and fear, humor. It's a strange combination of feelings. And lust, always lust.
But she's just so... Excited.
"You seem enthusiastic for this," I note. Her eyes are wide, cheeks flushed.
"I'm always eager for information, Mr. Grey," she tells me, "and it means you'll relax, because I'll know where the boundaries lie."
I shake my head, not quite able to believe I'm about to let her do this, to skate along the edges so closely. Why am I willing to let her do this?
"Open the lipstick."
She pulls the cap off and twists the tube so the lipstick protrudes.
"Give me your hand."
She offers me her free hand, and I roll my eyes.
"The one with the lipstick."
"Are you rolling your eyes at me?" she asks.
"Yep."
"That's very rude, Mr. Grey. I know some people who get positively violent at eye-rolling."
Now who would that be?
"Do you now?"
She places the other hand in mine now, and I sit up, so that we're face to face, inches apart.
"Ready?"
"Yes," she breathes.
Heart hammering, mouth dry, I pick up her hand and guide it to my shoulder.
"Press down," I instruct, and she does.
I drag her hand down, around my arm socket, and down the side of my chest, toward my ribcage, aware that I'm tensing, but I can't help it.
I can hear my breath, slow and steady, controlled, in my ears as I stop at the bottom of my ribcage, and then direct her hand across my stomach.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Maybe this isn't a good idea.
Ana, please don't touch me. Please.
Oh, but I want her to.
My mind battles between the flashbacks and the desire so strong and swift, to feel those smooth hands on my skin, it knocks me reeling, internally.
"And up the other side," I say, and let go of her hand, allowing her to take over.
I watch her carefully, as she drags the lipstick up the other side of my body, mimicking the line I've created on the other side. I can see her looking at my chest, looking at the scars, and something in her face changes-hardens but softens all at the same time.
"There, done," she whispers, when she's reached my other shoulder.
"No, you're not." I trace my finger along the base of my neck, and she follows the guideline with the lipstick, her eyes shards of blue glass.
They almost look wet, as if she's fighting back tears, and the sight derails me. I'm the one who should be fighting back tears.
"Now my back."
I shift, and she climbs off me. I turn away from her, cross-legged.
This is scarier, because I can't see her, I can't see what she's doing, or where she's going to touch me.
"Follow the line from my chest, all the way around to the other side."
As the wariness resurfaces, so does the lust. The act of doing this, of trusting her so implicitly, it turns me on, and I don't know why.
I can feel myself getting hard in my pants as she drags the waxy stick across the middle of my back. She comes up the other side and pauses.
"Around your neck, too?"
I nod.
She completes the go-around.
"Finished," she says lowly.
Thank fuck.
I palpably feel my shoulders loosen, and I rotate to face her again.
"Those are the boundaries," I tell her, aware my voice sounds husky, aware I must look like prey caught in the eyes of a predator. But am I fearful? Am I lustful? I don't know. A mix of the two.
"I can live with those," she says, "Right now I want to launch myself at you."
It is then that I notice it, the dilating of her pupils, the sudden depth in her eyes.
I grin at her, widely, and hold my arms out.
"Well, Miss Steele, I'm all yours."
She squeals, then throws herself at me, catapulting me backwards, flat on the bed. I can't help but let out a laugh, feeling so entirely free in this moment, and twist so that she's underneath me.
"Now, about that rain check," I whisper, and capture her mouth with mine.
.
"You are so beautiful," I whisper, entranced by the still white plane that is her back, running my hands along it. I have never felt skin so smooth. It's like silk, no matter what time of day.
Seeming to surface from her post-coital glow, she lifts her head to look at me, and the expression I see there tells me that she doesn't believe me.
I feel my lips turn down in response. How can she not see it?
Suddenly, it's imperative she know; imperative I get this through to her.
I sweep the both of us up into a sitting position, holding her to me fast.
"You. Are. Beautiful," I repeat to her, the tip of my nose just brushing hers.
"And you're amazingly sweet sometimes," she returns, planting a soft kiss on my mouth.
Well, that's something, at least.
Carefully, I lift her, easing out of her. I see her wince as I do so. I lean forward to kiss her, gently.
"You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?" I ask her. Her cheeks color, a predictable response. "All those boys pursuing you-that isn't enough of a clue?"
"Boys?" she repeats, "What boys?"
"You want the list? The photographer, he's crazy about you, that boy in the hardware store, your roommate's older brother. Your boss," I tack on at the end, and I can hear the acid in my tone. But I can't help it. Jack fucking scum-bag Hyde.
"Oh, Christian, that's just not true," she protests.
"Trust me," I insist, "They want you. They want what's mine." I press her to me, her scent, her warmth, en-robing me. She fists her hands in my hair.
"Mine," I repeat.
"Yes, yours," she assures me, her lips turning up into an amused smile. What's so funny?
Her eyes scan my body, skipping over the sheets, and return to my face, briefly. Then they drop to my chest again.
"The line is still intact," she notes, voice soft, and I jump when I feel her finger on my skin, literally skimming the line drawn on my left shoulder. "I want to go exploring," she continues.
I feel bemusement rise, as I appraise her carefully.
"The apartment?"
"No," she says, "I was thinking of the treasure map that we've drawn on you..."
Apprehension and surprise side-line me, and I feel my eyebrows lift in reply. Abruptly, I can feel the wariness in my eyes as I regard her.
She leans forward to rub her nose against mine, and I resist the urge to stiffen.
"And what would that entail exactly, Miss Steele?" I ask her, trying vainly to keep my voice playful, but I don't think I'm succeeding.
Her hand leaves my shoulder and re-positions itself on my face. She skims my cheek with her fingertips.
"I just want to touch you everywhere I'm allowed."
Some of the wariness fades at her words, and I catch her finger between my teeth, playful.
"Ow."
I grin, growling at her.
"Okay," I agree, and release her finger. I note that the caution remains in my voice. "Wait."
I remember I'm still wearing the condom, and I lift her from my lap, removing the condom, and dropping it over the edge of the bed.
"I hate those things." I wrinkle my nose. "I've a good mind to call Dr. Greene around to give you a shot."
"You think the top ob-gyn in Seattle is going to come running?" she asks, skeptical.
"I can be very persuasive," I remind her, tucking her hair behind her ear, noting the way the new layers frame her face. "Franco's done a great job on your hair. I like these layers."
"Stop changing the subject," she pouts.
I pull her into my lap again, so that she sits astride me, and lean back on my arms.
"Touch away."
I pray the panic doesn't show through in my eyes. This is what she wants, and frankly, I want it too. The fact that I want it terrifies me more than anything else.
Blue eyes on my face, she reaches forward to run her finger along my abdomen, underneath the line.
Reflexively, I jump, and immediately she stops.
"I don't have to," she breathes.
"No, it's fine," I reassure her, and myself maybe, "Just takes some... Readjustment on my part. No one's touched me for a long time."
"Mrs. Robinson?" she guesses.
I nod, made even more nervous at mention of her name. Please don't bring her into this...
"I don't want to talk about her. It will sour your good mood."
"I can handle it," she says.
"No, you can't, Ana," I argue, "You see red whenever I mention her. My past is my past. It's a fact. I can't change it. I'm lucky that you don't have one, because it would drive me crazy if you did."
Her lips turn down into a frown. "Drive you crazy? More than you are already?" Abruptly, her expression shifts, and she smiles.
The sourness fades, and I feel my own humor tugging at my lips.
"Crazy for you," I breathe, surprised that I've said it.
Her eyes deepen, just slightly, and I try to make out the emotion in them.
"Shall I call Dr. Flynn?" she jokes.
"I don't think that will be necessary."
She scoots down a tad, and I extend my legs in front of me, from where they were bent before. Her fingers touch my skin again, my stomach, and I freeze.
Shit. That was unexpected.
I can feel the automatic pick-up in my heart rate and my breathing, the tensing of every muscle, against the inevitable onslaught of pain-but no, wait, there is no pain, only this... Ana touching me... It feels...
"I like touching you," she whispers, and I feel her fingers drift lower, along the hair that stretches between my navel and dick.
Holy fuck.
In completely uncharted territory, the feeling stirs lust, roaring like a tiger, inside me. I feel my cock twitch and stir, hardening...
What the hell...? That was unexpected, but in a totally, completely different way.
"Again?" she says softly.
I grin at her. "Oh, yes, Miss Steele, again."
.
I leave Ana to shower once we'd made love for-what?-the third or fourth time today. Planning on showering myself, I head down to my en suite and turn on the taps. As I undress in front of the mirror, the lipstick lines come into view, strange looking against my skin, and I stare at them for a moment, tracing the boundary lines with my own fingers, remembering how it felt to have Anastasia's hands on me...
I had no frame of reference of how it was to be touched when Elena and I began our relationship. It took much trial and error to get it right, to figure out where was fine and where was... Not. There were a few times I had to leave and gather myself, calm my heart-rate, control the hyperventilating, until I could gather the courage to go back to her.
And then there was... Him. There is nothing about his touch I want to look back on. I can't remember specifics, only pain, searing pain, and that strange, twisted smile on his face...
And the crack whore... She never touched me. Never kissed me, or hugged me, or stroked my face, that I can remember at least. I remember she baked me a cake for my birthday one time-probably my fourth-and that is the closest recollection I have to her offering me any sort of intimate offering.
Grace struggled a lot in the beginning, at my not wanting to be touched. I remember tears swimming in her eyes, a lot, and the confusion. I was confused too, a four year old boy, who couldn't stand to be touched, because it only brought pain and fear and confusion.
In a way, I'm still that four-year-old boy now, with Anastasia.
But with Ana... Her touch is... Different. The fear is there, of course, by instinct more than anything else. Instinct and reflex that feels impossible to let go of.
And there's the wanting it... I want to let her touch me so badly, I want it with every part of my being, but I'm so scared... Because the intensity of the fear and the apprehension and the simple wanting of it is so damn intense. So utterly terrifying. I know nothing like it, I can't compare it to anything else, and so maybe that's why it has no rival, because there's nothing to compare it to.
I don't know what it's like to be touched in... What? Kindness? Love?
I can't wrap my head around it.
I stare at myself a moment longer, still tracing those red lipstick lines on my skin, and decide not to shower.
Instead, I turn for my closet, pulling down the suit I had Gail dry-clean and hang for me. I dress in the suit pants and the white dress shirt, buttoning it half-way, and snap on some cuff-links.
I remember, suddenly, the Cartier earrings I bought for Ana to wear to last Saturday's gala... Which she never got the chance to.
I head over to my bedside drawer, where I stashed them, and pull it open.
There they sit... Directly next to the Ben Wa balls...
Hmm...
I pick them both up, slipping the earrings into my pocket, and decide to check on Anastasia.
I climb the stairs, surprised by the foreboding, sinking feeling that opens in my stomach as I head toward the second level. This is all too familiar, and I decide that I don't like it. I don't like her being up here, alone, in the sub room. She's not a sub. She's... What did I call her before? My girlfriend... That doesn't seem suitable enough, honestly.
I head down the hall, distracted, and step into the room.
I stop in my tracks when I see her, reaching for a silvery gown. What's she's got on at the moment, however, is what's distracted me.
She looks... Ravenous, and if we had time, I'd fuck her again-no, make love to her.
She's wearing a black corset piece, which pushes up her breasts, putting them on show. It has silver trim on it, which do amazing things to her eyes. I can't wait to see her in the dress... Or can I?
The matching panties are scant, barely there.
The thigh-high, natural colored stockings hug her legs, making them look a mile long and absolutely edible... All she needs are some shoes...
As I stare, taking her in, she goes crimson, the blush extending over her shoulders, and to the crest of her breasts.
"Can I help you, Mr. Grey?" she asks, and I realize I've been staring at her for a minute straight, stricken. "I assume there is some purpose to your visit other than to gawk mindlessly at me."
"I am rather enjoying my mindless gawk, thank you, Miss Steele," I answer her, and step further into the room, eyes still on her. God, those curves... That tiny waist, those tits, that ass... All encased in the wonderful silken lingerie she so deserves.
What a mighty fine sight; what a mighty fine woman...
What a great pick.
"Remind me to send a personal note of thanks to Caroline Acton."
She frowns, confused and wary. I can nearly see her eyes turn green with envy, and I suppress my amusement.
"The personal shopper at Neiman's," I explain.
"Oh."
"I'm quite distracted," I admit. All I can see are those legs wrapped around my waist, as I hammer into her, breasts bouncing, straining to escape from that brasserie...
"I can see that," she says, "What do you want, Christian?"
She stares at me, all serious and sassy and I can't help but grin at her.
I produce the silver balls, holding them up.
Her expression immediately falters, lips popping open, in shock I think. She wasn't expecting this. Honestly, neither was I until two minutes ago.
When I get a closer look at her, I see there's wariness there, apprehension too.
"It's not what you think," I assure her. Does she think I'm going to spank her again?
"Enlighten me."
"I thought you could wear these tonight," I suggest.
For whatever reason, as the realization sinks in, I think it would be really hot for her to wear the balls to my parents' function, at my old childhood house... Fuck-really hot.
"To this event?" she asks. It's clear she's surprised.
I can only nod, the lust clouding my vision. At the sight of her, at the implication of the balls...
"Will you spank me later?" she asks, and by the way she says it, I can tell she doesn't want me to.
"No," I answer.
I'm surprised to see disappointment on her face now, and I can't help but laugh at it.
"You want me to?"
She swallows. I watch her throat convulse, and the expression on her face is... Torn. I can't understand it.
"Well, rest assured I am not going to touch you like that, not even if you beg me." I flinch just at the thought. I realize that I'm surprisingly okay with how things are going right now-satisfied, even. I'm shocked at the realization, and how much the thought of going back into the playroom terrifies me. I don't know if I'll be able to do it.
I decided a long time ago-it feels-that if I had to the playroom or Ana, Ana won hands down. I don't know if I'll ever be able to go back into that room again...
"Do you want to play this game?" I ask her now, to take my mind off the last phrase. We're not going there. But here... We can go here. I hold the balls up. "You can always take them out if it's too much."
"Okay." Her voice is soft, and meek, and I watch that familiar blush crawl over her cheeks.
"Good girl," I tell her, unable to hide my grin. "Come here, and I'll put them in, once you've put your shoes on."
For a fleeting moment, she looks confused, turning to gaze at the gray suede stilettos she's chosen. My body hums, imagining what she'll look like with them on... Those long, long legs, lean body towering in those Louboutins... Something I've fantasized about since the beginning, since that morning in the street, after the photo shoot for Miss Kavanagh's magazine interview.
Maybe I'll fuck her in them later...
I hold my hand out to her, so she can balance on them as she steps into the shoes.
Once she's situated, I lead her over to the bed, admiring her in them and coincidentally worried she'll topple over in them. I retrieve the only chair in the room, setting it down in front of her.
"When I nod, you bend down and hold on to the chair. Understand?"
Oh, please. I want to fuck her. I'll be quick, I promise...
"Yes," she breathes.
"Good. Now open your mouth."
She does, and I stick my finger in. I see the surprise in her eyes when I do-that was unexpected, apparently-but she recovers rather quickly.
"Suck," I order her.
She reaches up, steadying my hand with hers, and closes her lips around my finger.
The action of those hot lips closing down on my finger, that tongue swirling around, it makes me hard. I imagine those lips, that tongue, on my cock... And inwardly groan.
Fuck, this is hot.
I slip the balls in her mouth to lubricate them-though I wonder if we'll need any judging by the heady look in her eyes-and go to withdraw my finger. As I do so, she bites down, stopping me.
I grin at her playfulness and shake my head at her. She lets go, obediently, and I nod, signaling her to bend over.
Sometimes having her do exactly as I expect, precisely when I expect it, can be hot. Maybe it's because, as I'm expecting her to be her challenging, disobedient self, suddenly she goes all meek and compliant.
I pull her panties to one side, exposing that vulnerable pink place between her legs to me, admiring the curve of her behind, and the long expanse of stockinged legs after that. Mmm... What a mighty fine creature she is... And she doesn't even know it.
I was right, she is wet, and inch by inch, I slip a finger inside her, closing my eyes as I sink further into that damp, warm, tight place.
I rotate my finger in incremental movements, so that she feels me on all sides, everywhere, and I hear her moan softly at my ministrations.
It makes me smirk.
Yes, baby, feel me. There's no resisting.
I pull my finger out and replace it with the balls, watching them disappear inside with a humming sort of satisfaction. Once placed, I return her panties to the proper position, taking care to leave them exactly as I found them, and I kiss her backside.
Oh, those legs...
From ankle to thigh, I run my hands up them, reveling in the silky feel of the stockings against my skin, and then the even softer feel of her thighs past them.
I kiss the place where each of the stockings end, and hook into the garter belt.
"You have fine, fine legs, Miss Steele," I tell her. My voice sounds low and husky.
I straighten, gripping her hips, and pull her back against me, against my hard-as-nails cock.
"Maybe I'll have you this way when we get home, Anastasia. You can stand now."
She does, slowly, and I lean forward to kiss her on the shoulder.
"I bought these for you to wear to last Saturday's gala," I indulge her, remembering the way I'd gone into the store after work on the Wednesday, I think it was. I had no idea that she'd be leaving me, and with the highest of hopes that she would have been able to wear them...
Deep, dark dread opens up in the pit of my belly when I look back on those long five days of night... But at the same time, hope blooms, when I realize that she's back-and she can wear them now.
"But you left me," I continue, "so I never had the opportunity to give them to you... This is my second chance." And I'm going to make it right, because what I feel for her... I blink back the thought. I can't go there right now.
The day I'd bought the earrings, I suppose I subconsciously was making a decision, to try for more. The emotions and the stirrings and the idea of it have been whirring inside me for quite a while, since before she left me, for sure.
I just don't think I realized it until she was gone.
Would we have eventually begun to move away from what she hated so much, if she hadn't left? Or would we still be caught in purgatory, between the lifestyle I knew, and the relationship she-and I'm beginning to realize, I-wanted?
She reaches for the box, sitting on my palm, now and opens the lid, examining the pair of diamond drop earrings inside. They are perfect for her-simple, but extraordinary. I watch her face the entire time.
"They're lovely," she breathes, "Thank you."
Oh, she likes them.
Unexpected relief floods my body, and I sag against her. The earrings mean so much more... I don't know what I would have done if she hadn't liked them, or worse, rejected them.
I plant a kiss on her bare shoulder once more.
"You're wearing the silver satin dress?" I ask her.
"Yes," she replies, "Is that okay?"
"Of course. I'll let you get ready."
Warring with the steady stream of unnamed-or maybe just ignored-emotions, I walk out of the room.
.