"You could have a nice brunette submissive. 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."
He gazes at me for a moment, and I have no idea what he's thinking.
"You make me look at the world differently, Anastasia. You don't want me for my money. You give me... hope," he says softly.
What? Mr. Cryptic is back. "Hope of what?"
He shrugs. "More." His voice is low and quiet. "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, that 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." He reaches forward and takes my hand. "Don't run, please - have a little faith in me and a little patience. Please."
He looks so vulnerable... Jeez, it's disturbing. Leaning up on my knees, I bend forward and kiss him gently on his lips.
"Okay. Faith and patience, I can live with that."
"Good. Because Franco's here."
Franco is small, dark, and g*y. I love him.
"Such beautiful hair!" he gushes with an outrageous, probably fake Italian accent. I bet he's from Baltimore or somewhere, but his enthusiasm is infectious. Christian leads us both into his bathroom, exits hurriedly, and reenters carrying a chair from his room.
"I'll leave you two to it," he mutters.
"Grazie, Mr. Grey." Franco turns to me. "Bene, Anastasia, what shall we do with you?"
Christian is sitting on his couch, plowing through what look like spreadsheets. Soft, mellow classical music drifts through the great room. A woman sings passionately, pouring her soul into the song. It's breathtaking. Christian glances up and smiles, distracting me from the music.
"See! I tell you he like it," Franco enthuses.
"You look lovely, Ana," Christian says appreciatively.
"My work 'ere is done," Franco exclaims.
Christian rises and strolls toward us. "Thank you, Franco."
Franco turns, grasps me in an overwhelming bear hug, and kisses both my cheeks.
"Never let anyone else be cutting your hair, bellissima Anastasia!"
I laugh, slightly embarrassed by his familiarity. Christian shows him to the foyer door and returns moments later.
"I'm glad you kept it long," he says as he walks toward me, his eyes bright. He takes a strand between his fingers.
"So soft," he murmurs, gazing down at me. "Are you still mad at me?"
I nod and he smiles.
"What precisely are you mad at me about?"
I roll my eyes. "You want the list?"
"There's a list?"
"A long one."
"Can we discuss it in bed?"
"No." I pout at him childishly.
"Over lunch, then. I'm hungry, and not just for food," he gives me a salacious smile.
"I am not going to let you dazzle me with your sexpertise."
He stifles a smile. "What is bothering you specifically, Miss Steele? Spit it out."
Okay.
"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 manhandled me in the street like I was six years old - and to cap it all, you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!" My voice has risen to a crescendo.
He raises his eyebrows, and his good humor vanishes.
"That's quite a list. But just to clarify once more - she's not my Mrs. Robinson."
"She can touch you," I repeat.
He purses his lips. "She knows where."
"What does that mean?"
He runs both hands through his hair and closes his eyes briefly, as if he's seeking divine guidance of some kind. He swallows.
"You and I don't have any 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 - " He stops, searching for the words. "It just means more... so much more"
More? His answer's completely unexpected, throwing me, and there's that little word with the big meaning hanging between us again.
My touch means... more. Holy cow. How am I supposed to resist when he says this stuff? Gray eyes search mine, watching, apprehensive.
Tentatively I reach out and apprehension shifts to alarm. Christian steps back and I drop my hand.
"Hard limit," he whispers urgently, a pained, panicked look on his face.
I can't help but feel a crushing disappointment. "How would you feel if you couldn't touch me?"
"Devastated and deprived," he says immediately.
Oh, my Fifty Shades. Shaking my head, I offer him a small, reassuring smile and he relaxes.
"You'll have to tell me exactly why this is a hard limit, one day, please."
"One day," he murmurs and seems to snap out of his vulnerability in a nanosecond.
How can he switch so quickly? He's the most capricious person I know.
"So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy." His mouth twists as he contemplates this. "Because I know your bank account number?"
"Yes, that's outrageous."
"I do background checks on all my submissives. I'll show you." He turns and heads for his study.
I dutifully follow him, dazed. From a locked filing cabinet, he pulls a manila folder.
Typed on the tab: anastasia rose steele.
Holy f**king shit. I glare at him.
He shrugs apologetically. "You can keep it," he says quietly.