Grey: Fifty Shades of Grey as Told by Christian (Fifty Shades 4)

“Anastasia, your whole body’s just relaxed.” I mask my irritation.

“Well, you just seem to be, um…on the jealous side.”

Yes. I’m jealous. The thought of Ana with anyone else is…unsettling. Very unsettling. “Yes, I am. And you’d do well to remember that. But thank you for asking. We’ll take Charlie Tango.”

She flashes me a quick grin as my hands slide down her body, the body she’s given to me and no one else.

“Can I wash you?” she asks, diverting me.

“I don’t think so.” I kiss her neck as I rinse her back.

“Will you ever let me touch you?” Her voice is a gentle entreaty, but it doesn’t stop the darkness that’s swirling suddenly from nowhere and tightening around my throat.

No.

I will it away, cupping and concentrating on Ana’s ass, her fucking glorious behind. My body responds on a primal level—at war with the darkness. I need her. I need her to chase my fear away.

“Put your hands on the wall, Anastasia. I’m going to take you again,” I whisper, and with a startled glance at me, she splays her hands on the tiles. I grab her hips, pulling her back from the wall. “Hold fast, Anastasia,” I warn, as the water streams over her back.

She bends her head and braces herself as my hands sweep through her pubic hair. She squirms, her behind brushing my arousal.

Fuck! And like that, my residual fear melts away.

“Do you want this?” I ask as my fingers tease her. In answer she wiggles her butt against my erection, making me smile. “Tell me,” I demand, my voice strained.

“Yes.” Her agreement slices through the pouring water, keeping the darkness at bay.

Oh, baby.

She’s still wet from earlier—from me, from her—I don’t know. In the moment I give a silent word of thanks to Dr. Greene: no more condoms. I ease into Ana and slowly, deliberately make her mine again.

I WRAP HER IN a bathrobe and kiss her soundly. “Dry your hair,” I order, handing her a hair dryer I never use. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” she admits, and I don’t know if she means it or if she’s said it merely to please me. But pleased I am.

“Great. Me, too. I’ll check where Mrs. Jones is with dinner. You have ten minutes. Don’t get dressed.” I kiss her once more and pad out to the kitchen.

Gail is washing something at the sink. She looks up as I peer over her shoulder.

“Clams, Mr. Grey,” she says.

Delicious. Pasta alle Vongole, one of my favorites.

“Ten minutes?” I ask.

“Twelve,” she says.

“Great.”

She gives me a look as I head into my study. I ignore it. She’s seen me in less than my bathrobe before—what the hell is her problem?

I check through some e-mails and my phone to see if there’s any news about Leila. Nothing—but since Ana’s arrival, I don’t feel as hopeless as I did earlier.

Ana enters the kitchen at the same time that I do, lured no doubt by the tantalizing smell of our dinner. When she sees Mrs. Jones she clutches the neck of her bathrobe.

“Just in time,” Gail says, serving our meal in two large bowls at the place settings on the counter.

“Sit.” I point to one of the barstools. Ana’s anxious eyes pass from me to Mrs. Jones.

She’s self-conscious.

Baby, I have staff. Get over it.

“Wine?” I offer, to distract her.

“Please,” she says, sounding reserved as she takes her seat.

I open a bottle of Sancerre and pour two small glasses.

“There’s cheese in the fridge if you’d like, sir,” Gail says. I nod, and she exits the room, much to Ana’s relief. I take my seat.

“Cheers.” I raise my glass.

“Cheers,” Ana replies, and the crystal glasses sing as we clink. She takes a bite of her food and makes an appreciative noise in the back of her throat. Perhaps she is famished.

“Are you going to tell me?” she asks.

“Tell you what?” Mrs. Jones has outdone herself; the pasta tastes delicious.

“What I said in my sleep.”

I shake my head. “Eat up. You know I like watching you eat.”

She pouts with mock exasperation. “You are so pervy,” she exclaims under her breath.

Oh, baby, you have no idea. And a thought springs to mind: maybe we should explore something new in the playroom tonight. Something fun.

“Tell me about this friend of yours,” I ask.

“My friend?”

“The photographer.” I keep my voice light, but she regards me with a fleeting frown.

“Well, we met the first day of college. He’s an engineering major, but his passion is photography.”

“And?”

“That’s it.” Her evasive answers are irritating.

“Nothing else?”

She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “We’ve become good friends. It turns out my dad and José’s dad served together in the military before I was born. They’ve gotten back in touch, and they’re now best buds.”

Oh. “Your dad and his dad?”

“Yeah.” She twirls more pasta around her fork.

“I see.”

“This tastes delicious.” She gives me a contented smile, and her robe gapes a little, revealing the swell of her breast. The sight stirs my cock.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Fine,” she says.

“Up for more?”

“More?”

“More wine?” More sex? In the playroom?