"I'm okay. We're all okay. A bit shaken. But Gail is fine. Ryan is fine. And Jack is gone."
He shakes his head. "No thanks to you," he mutters. What? I lean back, and glare at him. "What do you mean?"
"I don't want to argue about it right now, Ana."
I blink. Well, maybe I do, but I decide against it. At least he's talking to me. I nestle into him once more. His fingers move to my hair and start playing with it.
"I want to punish you," he whispers. "Really beat the shit out of you," he adds.
My heart leaps into my mouth. Fuck. "I know," I whisper as my scalp prickles.
"Maybe I will."
"I hope not."
He hugs me tighter. "Ana, Ana, Ana. You'd try the patience of a saint."
"I could accuse you of many things, Mr. Grey, but being a saint isn't one of them."
Finally I am blessed with his reluctant chuckle. "Fair point well made as ever, Mrs. Grey." He kisses my forehead and shifts.
"Back to bed. You had a late night, too." He moves quickly, picking me up and depositing me back on the bed.
"Lie down with me?"
"No. I have things to do." He reaches down and collects the glass.
"Go back to sleep. I'll wake you in a couple of hours."
"Are you still mad at me?"
"Yes."
"I'll go back to sleep, then."
"Good." He pulls the duvet over me and kisses my forehead once more. "Sleep."
And because I'm so groggy from the night before, relieved that he's back, and emotionally fatigued by our early-morning encounter, I do exactly as I'm told. As I drift off I'm curious though grateful, given the nasty taste in my mouth, to know why he hasn't deployed his usual coping mechanism and leapt on me to have his wicked way.
"There's some orange juice for you here," Christian says, and my eyes flutter open again. I have had the most restful two hours of sleep I can remember, and I wake refreshed, my head no longer throbbing. The orange juice is a welcome sight - as is my husband. He's in his sweats. And I'm momentarily zapped back to the Heathman Hotel and the first time I ever woke up with him. His gray tank top is damp with his sweat. Either he's been working out in the basement gym or he's been for a run, but he shouldn't look this good after a workout.
"I'm going to take a shower," he murmurs and disappears to the bathroom. I frown. He's still distant. He's either distracted by all that's happened, or still mad, or . . . what? I sit up and reach for the orange juice, drinking it down too quickly. It's delicious, ice cold, and it makes my mouth a much better place. I clamber out of bed, anxious to close the distance - real and metaphysical - between my husband and me. I glance quickly at the alarm. It's eight o'clock. I strip off Christian's Tshirt and follow him into the bathroom. He's in the shower, washing his hair, and I don't hesitate. I slip in behind him and he stiffens the moment I wrap my arms around him - my front to his wet, muscular back. I ignore his reaction, holding him tightly, and press my cheek flat against him, closing my eyes. After a moment, he shifts so we are both under the cascade of hot water and carries on washing his hair. I let the water wash over me as I cradle the man I love. I think of all the times he's f**ked me and all the times he's made love to me in here. I frown. He's never been this quiet. Turning my head, I start to trail kisses across his back. His body stiffens again.
"Ana," he warns.
"Hmm."
My hands travel slowly down over his taut stomach to his belly. He places both his hands on mine and brings them to an abrupt halt. He shakes his head.
"Don't," he warns.
Oh. I release him, immediately. He's saying no? My mind goes into free fall - has this ever happened before? My subconscious shakes her head, her lips pursed. She glares at me over her half-moon glasses, wearing her you've-really-fucked-up-this-time look. I feel like I've been slapped, hard. Rejected. And a lifetime of insecurity spawns the ugly thought he doesn't want me anymore. I gasp as the pain sears through me. Christian turns, and I'm relieved to see he's not completely oblivious to my charms. Grasping my chin, he tilts my head back, and I find myself gazing into his wary, beautiful eyes.
"I'm still f**king mad at you," he says, his voice quiet and serious. Shit! Leaning down, he rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I reach up and caress his face.
"Don't be mad at me, please. I think you're overreacting," I whisper.
He straightens, blanching. My hand falls free to my side.
"Overreacting?" he snarls. "Some f**king lunatic gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife, and you think I'm overreacting!" The restrained menace in his voice is frightening, and his eyes blaze as he stares at me like I'm the f**king lunatic.
"No . . . um, that's not what I was referring to. I thought this was about me staying out."
He closes his eyes once more as if in pain and shakes his head.
"Christian, I wasn't here." I try to appease and reassure him.
"I know," he whispers opening his eyes. "And all because you can't follow a simple, f**king request." His tone is bitter and it's my turn to blanch. "I don't want to discuss this now, in the shower. I am still f**king mad at you, Anastasia. You're making me question my judgment." He turns and promptly leaves the shower, grabbing a towel on the way and stalking out of the bathroom, leaving me bereft and chilled under the hot water.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
Then the significance of what he's just said dawns on me. Kidnap?
Fuck. Jack wanted to kidnap me? I recall the duct tape and not wanting to think too deeply about why Jack had that. Does Christian have more information? Hurriedly I wash myself, then shampoo and rinse my hair. I want to know. I need to know. I am not going to let him keep me in the dark about this.