Текст книги "Fifty shades darker"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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scolding himself. “Which I’m sure you’re aware of.”

I flush and nod. Oh that!

“He has a morbid self-abhorrence. I’m sure that comes as no surprise to you. And of

course there’s the parasomnia . . . um—night terrors, sorry, to the layperson.”

I blink at him, trying to absorb all these long words. I know about all of this. But Flynn

hasn’t mentioned my central concern.

“But he’s a sadist. Surely, as such, he has needs which I can’t fulfill.”

Dr. Flynn actually rolls his eyes, and his mouth presses into a hard line. “That’s no

longer recognized as a psychiatric term. I don’t know how many times I have told him that.

It’s not even classified as a paraphilia any more, not since the nineties.”

Dr. Flynn has lost me again. I blink at him. He smiles kindly at me.

“This is a pet peeve of mine.” He shakes his head. “Christian just thinks the worst

of any given situation. It’s part of his self-abhorrence. Of course, there’s such a thing as

sexual sadism, but it’s not a disease; it’s a lifestyle choice. And if it’s practiced in a safe,

sane relationship between consenting adults, then it’s a nonissue. My understanding is that

Christian has conducted all of his BDSM relationships in this manner. You’re the first lover

who hasn’t consented, so he’s not willing to do it.”

Lover!

“But surely it’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” Dr. Flynn shrugs good-naturedly.

“Well . . . the reasons he does it.”

“Ana, that’s the point. In terms of solution-focused therapy, it is that simple. Christian

wants to be with you. In order to do that, he needs to forego the more extreme aspects of

that kind of relationship. After all, what you’re asking for is not unreasonable . . . is it?”

I flush. No, it’s not unreasonable, is it?

“I don’t think so. But I worry that he does.”

“Christian recognizes that and has acted accordingly. He’s not insane.” Dr. Flynn sighs.

“In a nutshell, he’s not a sadist, Ana. He’s an angry, frightened, brilliant young man, who

was dealt a shit hand of cards when he was born. We can all beat our breasts about it, and

analyze the who, the how and the why to death—or Christian can move on and decide how

he wants to live. He’d found something that worked for him for a few years, more or less,

but since he met you, it no longer works. And as a consequence, he’s changing his modus

operandi. You and I have to respect his choice and support him in it.”

I gape at him. “That’s my reassurance?”

“As good as it gets, Ana. There are no guarantees in this life.” He smiles. “And that is

my professional opinion.”

I smile, too, weakly. Doctor jokes . . . jeez.

“But he thinks of himself as a recovering alcoholic.”

“Christian will always think the worst of himself. As I said, it’s part of his self-abhor-

rence. It’s in his makeup, no matter what. Naturally he’s anxious about making this change

in his life. He’s potentially exposing himself to a whole world of emotional pain, which,

incidentally, he had a taste of when you left him. Naturally he’s apprehensive.” Dr. Flynn

pauses. “I don’t mean to stress how important a role you have in his Damascene conver-

sion—his road to Damascus. But you have. Christian would not be in this place if he had

not met you. Personally I don’t think that an alcoholic is a very good analogy, but if it

works for him for now, then I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Give Christian the benefit of the doubt. I frown at the thought.

“Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He bypassed that phase in his life to-

tally. He’s channeled all his energies into succeeding in the business world, and he has

beyond all expectations. His emotional world has to play catch-up.”

“So how do I help?”

Dr. Flynn laughs. “Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he grins at me. “Christian is

head over heels. It’s a delight to see.”

I flush, and my inner goddess is hugging herself with glee, but something bothers me.

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Of course.”

I take a deep breath. “Part of me thinks that if he wasn’t this broken he wouldn’t . . .

want me.”

Dr. Flynn’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “That’s a very negative thing to say about

yourself, Ana. And frankly it says more about you than it does about Christian. It’s not

quite up there with his self-loathing, but I’m surprised by it.”

“Well, look at him . . . and then look at me.”

Dr. Flynn frowns. “I have. I see an attractive young man, and I see an attractive young

woman. Ana, why don’t you think of yourself as attractive?”

Oh no . . .I don’t want this to be about me. I stare down at my fingers. There’s a sharp

knock on the door that makes me jump. Christian comes back into the room, glaring at both

of us. I flush and glance quickly at Flynn, who is smiling benignly at Christian.

“Welcome back, Christian,” he says.

“I think time is up, John.”

“Nearly, Christian. Join us.”

Christian sits down, beside me this time, and places his hand possessively on my knee.

His action does not go unnoticed by Dr. Flynn.

“Did you have any other questions, Ana?” Dr. Flynn asks and his concern is obvious.

Shit . . . I should not have asked that question. I shake my head.

“Christian?”

“Not today, John.”

Flynn nods.

“It may be beneficial if you both come again. I’m sure Ana will have more questions.”

Christian nods, reluctantly.

I flush. Shit . . . he wants to delve. Christian clasps my hand and regards me intently.

“Okay?” he asks softly.

I smile at him, nodding. Yes, we’re going for the benefit of the doubt, courtesy of the

good doctor from England.

Christian squeezes my hand and turns to Flynn.

“How is she?” he asks softly.

Me?

“She’ll get there,” he says reassuringly.

“Good. Keep me updated of her progress.”

“I will.”

Holy fuck. They’re talking about Leila.

“Shall we go and celebrate your promotion?” Christian asks me pointedly.

I nod shyly as Christian stands.

We say our quick good-byes to Dr. Flynn, and Christian ushers me out with unseemly

haste.

In the street, he turns to me. “How was that?” his voice is anxious.

“It was good.”

He regards me suspiciously. I cock my head to one side.

“Mr. Grey, please don’t look at me that way. Under doctor’s orders I am going to give

you the benefit of the doubt.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

His mouth twists and his eyes narrow. “Get in the car,” he orders while opening the

passenger door of the Saab.

Oh, change of direction. My Blackberry buzzes. I haul it out of my purse.

Shit, José!

“Hi!”

“Ana, hi . . .”

I stare at Fifty, who is eyeing me suspiciously. “José,” I mouth at him. He stares impas-

sively at me, but his eyes harden. Does he think I don’t notice? I turn my attention back to

José.“Sorry I haven’t called you. Is it about tomorrow?” I ask José, but stare up at Christian.

“Yeah, listen—I spoke with some guy at Grey’s place, so I know where I’m delivering

the photos, and I should get there between five and six . . . after that, I’m free.”

Oh.

“Well, I’m actually staying with Christian at the moment, and if you want to, he says

you can stay at his place.”

Christian presses his mouth in a hard line. Hmm—some host he is.

José is silent for a moment, absorbing this news. I cringe. I haven’t had a chance to talk

to him about Christian.

“Okay,” he says eventually. “This thing with Grey, it’s serious?”

I turn away from the car and pace to the other side of the sidewalk.

“Yes.”

“How serious?”

I roll my eyes and pause. Why does Christian have to be listening?

“Serious.”

“Is he with you now? That why you’re speaking in monosyllables?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. So are you allowed out tomorrow?”

“Of course I am.” I hope. I automatically cross my fingers.

“So where shall I meet you?”

“You could collect me from work,” I offer.

“Okay.”

“I’ll text you the address.”

“What time?”

“Say six?”

“Sure. I’ll see you then, Ana. Looking forward to it. I miss you.”

I grin. “Cool. I’ll see you then.” I switch the phone off and turn.

Christian is leaning against the car watching me carefully, his expression impossible

to read.

“How’s your friend?” he asks coolly.

“He’s well. He’ll pick me up from work, and I think we’ll go for a drink. Would you

like to join us?”

Christian hesitates, his gray eyes cool. “You don’t think he’ll try anything?”

“No!” My tone is exasperated—but I refrain from rolling my eyes.

“Okay,” Christian holds his hands up in defeat. “You hang out with your friend, and I’ll

see you later in the evening.”

I was expecting a fight, and his easy acquiescence throws me off balance.

“See? I can be reasonable.” He smirks.

My mouth twists. We’ll see about that.

“Can I drive?”

Christian blinks at me, surprised by my request.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Why, exactly?”

“Because I don’t like to be driven.”

“You managed this morning, and you seem to tolerate Taylor driving you.”

“I trust Taylor’s driving implicitly.”

“And not mine?” I put my hands on my hips. “Honestly—your control freakery knows

no bounds. I’ve been driving since I was fifteen.”

He shrugs in response, as if this is of no consequence whatsoever. Oh—he’s so exas-

perating! Benefit of the doubt? Well, screw that.

“Is this my car?” I demand.

He frowns at me. “Of course it’s your car.”

“Then give me the keys, please. I’ve driven it twice, and only to and from work. Now

you’re having all the fun.” I am in full-on pout mode. Christian’s lips twitch with a re-

pressed smile.

“But you don’t know where we’re going.”

“I’m sure you can enlighten me, Mr. Grey. You’ve done a great job of it so far.”

He gazes at me stunned then smiles, his new shy smile that totally disarms me and

takes my breath away.

“Great job, eh?” he murmurs.

I blush. “Mostly, yes.”

“Well, in that case.” He hands me the keys, walks round to the driver’s door, and opens

it for me.

“Left here,” Christian orders, and we head north toward the I-5. “Hell—gently, Ana.” He

grabs hold of the dashboard.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. I roll my eyes, but don’t turn to look at him. Van Morrison

croons in the background over the car sound system.

“Slow down!”

“I am slowing down!”

Christian sighs. “What did Flynn say?” I hear his anxiety leaching into his voice.

“I told you. He says I should give you the benefit of the doubt.” Damn—maybe I

should have let Christian drive. Then I could watch him. In fact . . . I signal to pull over.

“What are you doing?” he snaps, alarmed.

“Letting you drive.”

“Why?”

“So I can look at you.”

He laughs. “No, no—you wanted to drive. So, you drive, and I’ll look at you.”

I scowl at him. “Keep your eyes on the road!” he shouts.

My blood boils. Right! I pull over to the curb just before a stoplight and storm out

of the car, slamming the door, and stand on the sidewalk, arms folded, I glare at him. He

climbs out of the car.

“What are you doing?” he asks angrily, staring down at me.

“No. What are you doing?”

“You can’t park here.”

“I know that.”

“So why have you?”

“Because I’ve had it with you barking orders. Either you drive or you shut up about

my driving!”

“Anastasia, get back in the car before we get a ticket.”

“No.”

He blinks at me, at a total loss, then runs his hands through his hair, and his anger

becomes bewilderment. He looks so comical all of a sudden, and I can’t help but smile at

him. He frowns.

“What?” he snaps once more.

“You.”

“Oh, Anastasia! You are the most frustrating female on the planet.” He throws his

hands in the air. “Fine—I’ll drive.” I grab the edges of his jacket and pull him to me.

“No—you are the most frustrating man on the planet, Mr. Grey.”

He gazes down at me, his eyes dark and intense, he snakes his arms around my waist

and embraces me, holding me close.

“Maybe we’re meant for each other, then,” he says softly and inhales deeply, his nose

in my hair. I wrap my arms around him and close my eyes. For the first time since this

morning, I feel myself relax.

“Oh . . . Ana, Ana, Ana,” he breathes, his lips pressed against my hair. I tighten my

arms around him, and we stand, immobile, enjoying a moment of unexpected tranquility,

on the street. Releasing me, he opens the passenger door. I climb in and sit quietly, watch-

ing him walk around the car.

Restarting the car, Christian pulls out into the traffic, absentmindedly humming along

to Van Morrison.

Whoa. I’ve never heard him sing, not even in the shower, ever. I frown. He has a lovely

voice—of course. Hmm . . . has he heard me sing?

He wouldn’t be asking you to marry him if he had!My subconscious has her arms

crossed and is wearing Burberry check . . . jeez. The song finishes and Christian smirks.

“You know, if we had gotten a ticket, the title of this car is in your name.”

“Well, good thing I’ve been promoted—I can afford the fine,” I say smugly, staring at

his lovely profile. His lips twitch. Another Van Morrison song starts playing as he takes the

on-ramp to I-5, heading north.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. What else did Flynn say?”

I sigh. “He talked about FFFSTB or something.”

“SFBT. The latest therapy option,” he mutters.

“You’ve tried others?”

Christian snorts. “Baby, I’ve been subjected to them all. Cognitivism, Freud, function-

alism, Gestalt, behaviorism . . . You name it, over the years I’ve done it,” he says and his

tone betrays his bitterness. The rancor in his voice is distressing.

“Do you think this latest approach will help?”

“What did Flynn say?”

“He said not to dwell on your past. Focus on the future—on where you want to be.”

Christian nods but shrugs at the same time, his expression cautious.

“What else?” he persists.

“He talked about your fear of being touched, although he called it something else. And

about your nightmares and your self-abhorrence.” I glance at him, and in the evening light,

he’s pensive, chewing on his thumbnail as he drives. He glances quickly at me.

“Eyes on the road, Mr. Grey,” I admonish, my eyebrow cocked at him.

He looks amused, and slightly exasperated. “You were talking forever, Anastasia. What

else did he say?”

I swallow. “He doesn’t think you’re a sadist,” I whisper.

“Really?” Christian says quietly and frowns. The atmosphere in the car takes a nose-

dive.“He says that term’s not recognized in psychiatry. Not since the nineties,” I mutter,

quickly trying to rescue the mood between us.

Christian’s face darkens, and he exhales slowly.

“Flynn and I have differing opinions on this,” he says quietly.

“He said you always think the worst of yourself. I know that’s true,” I murmur. “He

also mentioned sexual sadism—but he said that was a lifestyle choice, not a psychiatric

condition. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking about.”

His gray eyes flash toward me again, and his mouth sets in a grim line.

“So—one talk with the good doctor and you’re an expert,” he says acidly and turns his

eyes front.

Oh dear . . .I sigh.

“Look—if you don’t want to hear what he said, don’t ask me,” I mutter softly.

I don’t want to argue. Anyway he’s right—what the hell do I know about all his shit?

Do I even want to know? I can list the salient points—his control freakery, his possessive-

ness, his jealousy, his overprotectiveness—and I completely understand where he’s com-

ing from. I can even understand why he doesn’t like to be touched—I’ve seen the physical

scars. I can only imagine the mental ones, and I’ve only glimpsed his nightmares once. And

Dr. Flynn said—

“I want to know what you discussed.” Christian interrupts my thoughts as he heads off

I-5 on exit 172, heading west toward the slowly sinking sun.

“He called me your lover.”

“Did he now?” His tone is conciliatory. “Well, he’s nothing if not fastidious about his

terms. I think that’s an accurate description. Don’t you?”

“Did you think of your subs as lovers?”

Christian’s brow creases once more, but this time he’s thinking. He turns the Saab

smoothly north once again. Where are we going?

“No. They were sexual partners,” he murmurs, his voice cautious again. “You’re my

only lover. And I want you to be more.”

Oh . . . there’s that magical word again, brimming with possibility. It makes me smile,

and inside I hug myself, my inner goddess radiating joy.

“I know,” I whisper, trying hard to hide my excitement. “I just need some time, Chris-

tian. To get my head around these last few days.” He glances at me oddly, perplexed, his

head inclined to one side.

After a beat, the stoplight we’re stationed at turns green. He nods and turns the music

up, and our discussion is over.

Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now—about it being a marvelous

night for moondancing. I gaze out the windows at the pines and spruce dusted gold by the

fading light of the sun, their long shadows stretching across the road. Christian has turned

into a more residential street, and we’re heading west toward the Sound.

“Where are we going?” I ask again as we turn into a road. I catch a road sign—9tH ave

nW. I am baffled.

“Surprise,” he says and smiles mysteriously.

Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept, clapboard houses where kids play

either clustered around their basketball hoops in their yards or cycling and running around

in the street. It all looks affluent and wholesome with the houses nestling among the trees.

Perhaps we’re going to visit someone? Who?

A few minutes later, Christian turns sharply left, and we’re confronted by two ornate

white metal gates set in a six-foot-high, sandstone wall. Christian presses a button on his

door handle and the electric window hums quietly down into the doorframe. He punches a

number into the keypad and the gates swing open in welcome.

He glances at me, and his expression has changed. He looks uncertain, nervous even.

“What is it?” I ask, and I can’t mask the concern in my voice.

“An idea,” he says quietly and eases the Saab through the gates.

We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two cars. On one side, the trees ring

a densely wooded area, and on the other there’s a vast area of grassland where a once-

cultivated field has been left fallow. Grasses and wildflowers have reclaimed it, creating a

rural idyll—a meadow, where the late evening breeze softly ripples through the grass and

the evening sun gilds the wildflowers. It’s lovely—utterly tranquil, and suddenly I imagine

myself lying in the grass and gazing up at a clear blue summer sky. The thought is tantaliz-

ing yet makes me feel homesick for some strange reason. How odd.

The lane curves around and opens into a sweeping driveway in front of an impressive

Mediterranean-style house of soft pink sandstone. It’s palatial. All the lights are on, each

window brightly illuminated in the dusk. There’s a smart, black BMW parked in front of

the four-car garage, but Christian pulls up outside the grand portico.

Hmm . . . I wonder who lives here? Why are we visiting?

Christian glances anxiously at me as he switches off the car engine.

“Will you keep an open mind?” he asks.

I frown.

“Christian, I’ve needed an open mind since the day I met you.”

He smiles ironically and nods. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele. Let’s go.”

The dark wood doors open, and a woman with dark brown hair, a sincere smile, and

a sharp lilac suit stands waiting. I’m grateful I changed into my new navy shift dress to

impress Dr. Flynn. Okay, I’m not wearing killer heels like her—but still, I’m not in jeans.

“Mr. Grey.” She smiles warmly and they shake hands.

“Miss Kelly,” he says politely.

She smiles at me and holds out her hand, which I shake. Her isn’t-he-dreamily-gor-

geous-wish-he-was-mine flush does not go unnoticed.

“Olga Kelly,” she announces breezily.

“Ana Steele,” I mutter back at her. Who is this woman? She stands aside, welcoming

us into the house. It’s a shock when I step in. The place is empty—completely empty. We

find ourselves in a large entrance hall. The walls are a faded primrose yellow with scuff-

marks where pictures must once have hung. All that remains are the old-fashioned crystal

light fixtures. The floors are dull hardwood. There are closed doors to either side of us, but

Christian gives me no time to assimilate what’s happening.

“Come,” he says, and taking my hand, he leads me through the archway in front of us

into a larger inner vestibule. It’s dominated by a curved, sweeping staircase with an intri-

cate iron balustrade but still he doesn’t stop. He takes me through to the main living area,

which is empty, save for a large faded gold rug—the biggest rug I have ever seen. Oh—and

there are four crystal chandeliers.

But Christian’s intention is now clear as we head across the room and outside through

open French doors to a large stone terrace. Below us there’s half a football field of mani-

cured lawn, but beyond that is the view. Wow.

The panoramic, uninterrupted vista is breathtaking—staggering even: twilight over the

Sound. Oh my.

In the distance lies Bainbridge Island, and further still on this crystal clear evening,

the setting sun sinks slowly, glowing blood and flame orange, beyond Olympic National

Park. Vermillion hues bleed into the sky—opals, aquamarines, ceruleans—melding with

the darker purples of the scant wispy clouds and the land beyond the Sound. It is nature’s

best, a visual symphony orchestrated in the sky and reflected in the deep, still waters of the

Sound. I am lost to the view—staring, trying to absorb such beauty.

I realize I’m holding my breath in awe, and Christian is still holding my hand. As I

reluctantly turn my eyes away from the view, he’s gazing anxiously at me.

“You brought me here to admire the view?” I whisper. He nods, his expression serious.

“It’s staggering, Christian. Thank you,” I murmur, letting my eyes feast on it once

more. He releases my hand.

“How would you like to look at it for the rest of your life?” he breathes.

What?I whip my face back to his, startled blue eyes to pensive gray. I think my mouth

drops open, and I gape at him blankly.

“I’ve always wanted to live on the coast. I sail up and down the Sound coveting these

houses. This place hasn’t been on the market long. I want to buy it, demolish it, and build

a new house—for us,” he whispers, and his eyes glow, translucent with his hopes and

dreams.

Holy cow.Somehow I remain upright. I’m reeling. Live, here! In this beautiful haven!

For the rest of my life . . .

“It’s just an idea,” he adds, cautiously.

I glance back to assess the interior of the house. How much is it worth? It must be,

what—five, ten million dollars? I have no idea. Holy shit.

“Why do you want to demolish it?” I ask, looking back at him. His face falls slightly.

Oh no.

“I’d like to make a more sustainable home, using the latest ecological techniques. El-

liot could build it.”

I gaze back at the room again. Miss Olga Kelly is on the far side, hovering by the en-

trance. She’s the realtor, of course. I notice the room is huge and double height, a little like

the great room at Escala. There’s a balcony above—that must be the landing on the second

floor. There’s a huge fireplace and a whole line of French doors opening onto the terrace.

It has an old-world charm.

“Can we look around the house?”

He blinks at me. “Sure,” he shrugs, puzzled.

Miss Kelly’s face lights up like Christmas when we head back in. She’s delighted to

take us on a tour and gives us the spiel.

The house is enormous: twelve thousand square feet on six acres of land. As well as

this main living room, there’s the eat-in—no, banquet-in—kitchen with family room at-

tached– Family!—a music room, a library, a study and, much to my amazement, an indoor

pool and exercise suite with sauna and steam room attached. Downstairs in the basement

there’s a cinema– Jeez—and game room. Hmm . . . what sort of games could we play in

here?Miss Kelly points out all sorts of features, but basically the house is beautiful and was

obviously at one time a happy family home. It’s a little shabby now, but nothing that some

TLC couldn’t cure.

As we follow Miss Kelly up the magnificent main stairs to the second floor, I can

hardly contain my excitement . . . this house has everything I could ever wish for in a home.

“Couldn’t you make the existing house more ecological and self-sustaining?”

Christian blinks at me, nonplussed. “I’d have to ask Elliot. He’s the expert in all this.”

Miss Kelly leads us into the master suite where full height windows open onto a bal-

cony, and the view is still spectacular. I could sit in bed and gaze out all day, watching the

sailing boats and the changing weather.

There are five additional bedrooms on this floor. Jeez—kids. I push the thought hastily

to one side. I have too much to process already. Miss Kelly is busily suggesting to Christian

how the grounds could accommodate riding stables and a paddock. Horses!Terrifying im-

ages of my few riding lessons flash through my mind, but Christian doesn’t appear to be

listening.

“The paddock would be where the meadow is at the moment?” I ask.

“Yes,” Miss Kelly says brightly.

To me the meadow looks like somewhere to lie in the long grass and have picnics, not

for some four-legged fiend of Satan to roam.

Back in the main room, Miss Kelly discreetly disappears, and Christian leads me out

once more onto the terrace. The sun has set and lights from the towns on the Olympic pen-

insula are twinkling on the far side of the Sound.

Christian pulls me into his arms and tips my chin up with his index finger, staring in-

tently down at me.

“Lot to take in?” he asks, his expression unreadable.

I nod.

“I wanted to check you liked it before I bought it.”

“The view?”

He nods.

“I love the view, and I like the house that’s here.”

“You do?”

I smile shyly at him. “Christian, you had me at the meadow.”

His lips part as he inhales sharply, then his face transforms with a grin, and his hands

are suddenly fisting into my hair and his mouth is on mine.

Back in the car as we head for Seattle, Christian’s mood has lifted considerably.

“So you’re going to buy it?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You’ll put Escala on the market?”

He frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“To pay for . . .” My voice trails off—of course. I flush.

He smirks at me. “Trust me, I can afford it.”

“Do you like being rich?”

“Yes. Show me someone who doesn’t,” he says darkly.

Okay, get off that subject quickly.

“Anastasia, you’re going to have to learn to be rich, too, if you say yes,” he says softly.

“Wealth isn’t something I’ve ever aspired to, Christian.” I frown.

“I know. I love that about you. But then you’ve never been hungry,” he says simply.

His words are sobering.

“Where are we going?” I ask brightly, changing the subject.

“To celebrate.” Christian relaxes.

Oh!“Celebrate what, the house?”

“Have you forgotten already? Your acting editor role.”

“Oh yes.” I grin. Unbelievably, I had forgotten.

“Where?”

“Up high at my club.”

“Your club?”

“Yes. One of them.”

The Mile High Club is on the seventy-sixth floor of Columbia Tower, higher even than

Christian’s apartment. It’s very now and has the most head-spinning views over Seattle.

“Cristal, ma’am?” Christian hands me a glass of chilled champagne as I sit perched on

a barstool.

“Why thank you, sir.” I stress the last word flirtatiously, batting my eyelashes at him

deliberately.

He gazes at me and his face darkens. “Are you flirting with me, Miss Steele?”

“Yes, Mr. Grey, I am. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m sure I can think of something,” he says, his voice low. “Come—our table’s ready.”

As we approach the table, Christian stops me, his hand on my elbow.

“Go and take your panties off,” he whispers.

Oh?A delicious tingle runs down my spine.

“Go,” he commands quietly.

Whoa, what?I blink up at him. He’s not smiling—he’s dead serious. Every muscle

below my waistline tightens. I hand him my glass of champagne, turn sharply on my heel,

and head for the restroom.

Shit. What’s he going to do? Perhaps this club is aptly named.

The restrooms are the height of modern design—all dark wood, black granite, and

pools of light from strategically placed halogens. In the privacy of the stall, I smirk as I

divest myself of my underwear. Again I’m grateful I changed into the navy blue shift dress.

I thought it appropriate attire to meet the good Dr. Flynn—I hadn’t expected the evening to

take this unexpected course.

I am excited already. Why does he affect me so? I slightly resent how easily I fall under

his spell. I know now that we won’t be spending the evening talking through all our issues

and recent events . . . but how can I resist him?

Checking my appearance in the mirror, I am bright-eyed and flushed with excitement.

Issues schmissues.

I take a deep breath and head back out into the club. I mean, it’s not as if I haven’t gone

panty less before. My inner goddess is draped in a pink feather boa and diamonds, strutting

her stuff in fuck-me shoes.

Christian stands politely when I return to the table, his expression unreadable. He looks

his usual perfect, cool, calm, and collected self. Of course, I now know differently.

“Sit beside me,” he says. I slide into the seat and he sits. “I’ve ordered for you. I hope

you don’t mind.” He hands me my half-finished glass of champagne, regarding me intently

and under his scrutiny, my blood heats anew. He rests his hands on his thighs. I tense and

part my legs slightly.

The waiter arrives with a dish of oysters on crushed ice. Oysters.The memory of the

two of us in the private dining room at the Heathman fills my mind. We were discussing his

contract. Oh boy. We’ve come a long way since then.

“I think you liked oysters last time you tried them.” His voice is low, seductive.

“Only time I’ve tried them.” I’m all breathy, my voice exposing me. His lips twitch

with a smile.

“Oh, Miss Steele—when will you learn?” he muses.

He takes an oyster from the dish and lifts his other hand from his thigh. I flinch in an-

ticipation, but he reaches for a slice of lemon.

“Learn what?” I ask. Jeez, my pulse is racing. His long, skilled fingers gently squeeze

the lemon over the shellfish.

“Eat,” he says, holding the shell close to my mouth. I part my lips, and he gently places

the shell on my bottom lip. “Tip your head back slowly,” he murmurs. I do as he asks and

the oyster slips down my throat. He doesn’t touch me, only the shell.

Christian helps himself to one, then feeds me another. We continue this tortuous rou-

tine until all twelve are gone. His skin never connects with mine. It’s driving me crazy.