"Red," I whimper. "Red. Red." The tears course down my face. He stills. "No," he gasps, stunned. "Jesus Christ, no."
He moves quickly, unclipping my hands, clasping me around my waist and leaning down to unclip my ankles, while I put my head in my hands and weep.
"No, no, no. Ana, please. No."
Picking me up, he moves to the bed, sitting down and cradling me in his lap while I sob inconsolably. I'm overwhelmed . . . my body wound up to breaking point, my mind a blank and my emotions scattered to the wind. He reaches behind him, drags the satin sheet off the four-poster bed and drapes it around me. The cool sheets feel alien and unwelcome against my sensitized skin. He wraps his arms around me, hugging me close, rocking me gently backward and forward.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Christian murmurs, his voice raw. He kisses my hair over and over again. "Ana, forgive me, please."
Turning my face into his neck, I continue to cry, and it's a cathartic release. So much has happened over the last few days - fires in computer rooms, car chases, careers planned out for me, slutty architects, armed lunatics in the apartment, arguments, his anger - and Christian has been away. I hate Christian going away . . . I use the corner of the sheet to wipe my nose and gradually become aware that the clinical tones of Bach are still echoing around the room.
"Please switch the music off." I sniff.
"Yes, of course." Christian shifts, not letting me go, and pulls the remote out of his back pocket. He presses a button and the piano music ceases, to be replaced by my shuddering breaths. "Better?" he asks. I nod, my sobs easing. Christian wipes my tears away gently with his thumb.
"Not a fan of Bach's Goldberg Variations?" he asks.
"Not that piece."
He gazes down at me, trying and failing to hide the shame in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he says again.
"Why did you do that?" My voice is barely audible as I try to process my scrambled thoughts and feelings.
He shakes his head sadly and closes his eyes. "I got lost in the moment," he says unconvincingly.
I frown at him, and he sighs. "Ana. Orgasm denial is a standard tool in - - You never - " He stops. I shift in his lap, and he winces. Oh. I flush. "Sorry," I mutter.
He rolls his eyes, then leans back suddenly, taking me with him, so that we're both lying on the bed, me in his arms. My bra is uncomfortable, and I adjust it.
"Need a hand?" he asks quietly.
I shake my head. I don't want him to touch my br**sts. He shifts so he's looking down at me, and tentatively raising his hand, he strokes his fingers gently down my face. Tears pool in my eyes again. How can he be so callous one minute and so tender the next?
"Please don't cry," he whispers.
I'm dazed and confused by this man. My anger has deserted me in my hour of need . . . I feel numb. I want to curl up in a ball and withdraw. I blink, trying to hold back my tears as I gaze into his harrowed eyes. I take a shuddering breath, my eyes not leaving his. What am I going to do with this controlling man? Learn to be controlled? I don't think so . . .
"I never what?" I ask.
"Do as you're told. You changed your mind; you didn't tell me where you were. Ana, I was in New York, powerless and livid. If I'd been in Seattle I'd have brought you home."
"So you are punishing me?"
He swallows, then closes his eyes. He doesn't have to answer, and I know that punishing me was his exact intention.
"You have to stop doing this," I murmur.
His brow furrows.
"For a start, you only end up feeling shittier about yourself."
He snorts. "That's true," he mutters. "I don't like to see you like this."
"And I don't like feeling like this. You said on the Fair Lady that you hadn't married a submissive."
"I know. I know." His voice is soft and raw.
"Well stop treating me like one. I'm sorry I didn't call you. I won't be so selfish again. I know you worry about me."
He gazes at me, scrutinizing me closely, his eyes bleak and anxious.
"Okay. Good," he says eventually. He leans down, but pauses before his lips touch mine, silently asking if it's allowed. I raise my face to his, and he kisses me tenderly.
"Your lips are always so soft when you've been crying," he murmurs.
"I never promised to obey you, Christian," I whisper.
"I know."
"Deal with it, please. For both our sakes. And I will try and be more considerate of your . . . controlling tendencies."
He blinks, looking lost and vulnerable, completely at sea.
"I'll try," he murmurs, his voice burning with sincerity. I sigh, a long shuddering sigh. "Please do. Besides, if I had been here . . ."
"I know," he says and blanches. Lying back, he puts his free arm over his face. I curl around him and lay my head on his chest. We both lie silent for a few moments. His hand moves to the end of my braid. He pulls the tie from it, freeing my hair, and gently, rhythmically, combs his fingers through it. This is what this is really about - his fear . . . his irrational fear for my safety. An image of Jack Smith slumped on the floor in my apartment with a Glock comes to mind . . . well, maybe not so irrational, which reminds me . . .
"What did you mean earlier, when you said or?" I ask.
"Or?"
"Something about Jack."
He peers down at me. "You don't give up, do you?"
I rest my chin on his sternum, enjoying the soothing caress of his fingers in my hair.
"Give up? Never. Tell me. I don't like being kept in the dark. You seem to have some overblown idea that I need protecting. You don't even know how to shoot - I do. Do you think I can't handle whatever it is you won't tell me, Christian? I've had your stalker ex-sub pull a gun on me, your pedophile ex-lover harass me - and don't look at me like that," I snap when he scowls at me. "Your mother feels the same way about her."