Chapter Five
It’s very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm in this bed.
Hmm… I open my eyes, and for a moment I’m tranquil and serene, enjoying the strange, unfamiliar surroundings.
I have no idea where I am. The headboard behind me is in the shape of a massive sun.
It’s oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and sumptuously furnished in browns and golds and beiges.
I have seen it before. Where? My befuddled brain struggles through its recent visual memories.
Holy crap. I’m in The Heathman Hotel…in a suite. I stood in a room similar to this with Kate. This looks bigger. Oh shit. I’m in Christian Grey’s suite. How did I get here?
Fractured memories of the previous night come slowly back to haunt me.
The drinking—oh no, the drinking—the phone call—oh no, the phone call—the vomiting—oh no, the vomiting.
José and then Christian. Oh no. I cringe inwardly.
I don’t remember coming here. I’m wearing my T-shirt, bra, and panties. No socks. No jeans. Holy shit.
I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and two tablets.
Advil. Control freak that he is, he thinks of everything.
I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don’t feel that bad, probably much better than I deserve.
The orange juice tastes divine. It’s thirst-quenching and refreshing.
There’s a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can’t seem to find my voice. He opens the door anyway and strolls in.
Holy hell, he’s been working out. He’s in gray sweatpants that hang, in that way, off his hips and a gray sleeveless T-shirt dark with sweat, like his hair.
Christian Grey’s sweat—the notion does odd things to me.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two-year-old; if I close my eyes, then I’m not really here.
“Good morning, Anastasia. How are you feeling?”
“Better than I deserve.” I peek at him as he places a large shopping bag on a chair then grasps each end of the towel that he has around his neck. He’s staring at me, gray eyes dark, expression impassive, and as usual, I have no idea what he’s thinking. He hides his thoughts and feelings so well.
“How did I get here?” My voice is small, contrite.
He sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s close enough for me to touch, for me to smell. Oh my…sweat and body wash and Christian. It’s a heady cocktail—so much better than a margarita, and now I can speak from experience.
“After you passed out, I didn’t want to risk the leather upholstery in my car, taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here,” he says.
“Did you put me to bed?”
“Yes.” His face is impassive.
“Did I throw up again?” My voice is quieter.
“No.”
“Did you undress me?” I whisper.
“Yes.” He quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.
“We didn’t…?” My mouth is drying in mortified horror as I can’t complete the question. I stare at my hands.
“Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive,” he says dryly.
“I’m so sorry.”
His mouth lifts in a wry smile. “It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I’ll forget in a while.”
Me neither. Oh, he’s laughing at me, the bastard. I didn’t ask him to come get me. Somehow I’ve been made to feel like the villain of the piece.
“You didn’t have to track me down with whatever James Bond gadgetry you’re developing for the highest bidder,” I snap.
He stares at me, surprised and, if I’m not mistaken, a little wounded.
“First, the technology to track cell phones is available over the internet. Second, my company does not invest or manufacture any kind of surveillance devices. And third, if I hadn’t come to get you, you’d probably be waking up in the photographer’s bed, and from what I can remember, you weren’t overly enthused about him pressing his suit,” he says acidly.
Pressing his suit! I glance at Christian. He’s glaring at me, eyes blazing, aggrieved.
I try, but fail to repress my giggle. “Which medieval chronicle did you escape from? You sound like a courtly knight.”
His mood visibly shifts. His eyes soften and his expression warms, and there’s a trace of a smile on his lips. “Anastasia, I don’t think so. Dark knight, maybe.” His smile is sardonic, and he shakes his head. “Did you eat last night?” His tone is accusatory.
I shake my head. What major transgression have I committed now?
His jaw clenches, but his face remains impassive. “You need to eat. That’s why you were so ill. Honestly, it’s drinking rule number one.” He runs this hand through his hair, and I know it’s because he’s exasperated.
“Are you going to continue to scold me?”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“I think so.”
“You’re lucky I’m just scolding you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday.
You didn’t eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk.
” He closes his eyes, dread etched briefly on his face, and he shudders.
When he opens his eyes, he glares at me.
“I hate to think what could have happened to you.”
I scowl back at him. What is his problem? What’s it to him? If I was his… Well, I’m not. Though maybe part of me would like to be.
The thought overrides the irritation I feel at his high-handed words. I flush at the waywardness of my subconscious—she’s doing her happy dance in a bright-red hula skirt at the thought of being his.
“I would have been fine. I was with Kate.”
“And the photographer?” he snaps at me.
Hmm, young José. I’ll need to face him at some point.
“José just got out of line.” I shrug.
“Well, the next time he gets out of line, maybe someone should teach him some manners.”
“You are quite the disciplinarian,” I hiss.
“Oh, Anastasia, you have no idea.” His eyes narrow, and then he grins wickedly.
It’s disarming. One minute I’m confused and angry; the next I’m gazing at his gorgeous smile. Wow… I’m entranced, and it’s because his smile is so rare. I quite forget what he’s talking about.
“I’m going to have a shower. Unless you’d like to shower first?” He cocks his head to one side, still grinning.
My heartbeat has picked up, and my medulla oblongata has neglected to fire any synapses to make me breathe.
His grin widens, and he reaches over and runs his thumb down my cheek and across my lower lip. “Breathe, Anastasia,” he whispers then stands back up. “Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes. You must be famished.” He heads into the bathroom and closes the door.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Why is he so damned attractive?
Right now I want to go join him in the shower.
I have never felt this way about anyone.
My hormones are racing. My skin tingles where his thumb traced over my face and lower lip, and I’m squirming with a needy, achy…
discomfort. I don’t understand this reaction.
Hmm… Desire. This is desire. This is what it feels like.
I lie back on the soft feather-filled pillows.
If you were mine. Oh my—what would I do to be his?
He’s the only man who has ever set the blood racing through my body.
Yet he’s so antagonizing, too; he’s difficult, complicated, and confusing.
One minute he rebuffs me; the next he sends me $14,000 books, then he tracks me like a stalker.
And for all that, I have spent the night in his hotel suite and I feel safe.
Protected. He cares enough to come rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger.
He’s not a dark knight at all but a white knight in shining, dazzling armor, a classic romantic hero—Sir Gawain or Sir Lancelot.
I scramble out of his bed and frantically search for my jeans. He emerges from the bathroom wet and glistening from the shower, still unshaven, with just a towel around his waist, and there I am—all bare legs and awkward gawkiness.
He’s surprised to see me out of bed. “If you’re looking for your jeans, I’ve sent them to the laundry.” His gaze is dark. “They were spattered with your vomit.”
“Oh.” I flush scarlet. Why oh why does he always catch me off balance?
“I sent Taylor out for another pair and some shoes. They’re in the bag on the chair.”
Clean clothes. What an unexpected bonus.
“Um. I’ll have a shower,” I mutter. “Thanks.” What else can I say? I grab the bag and dart into the bathroom away from the unnerving proximity of naked Christian. Michelangelo’s David has nothing on him.
In the bathroom, it’s all hot and steamy.
I strip off my clothes and quickly clamber into the shower, anxious to be under the cleansing stream of water.
It cascades over me, and I hold my face up to the welcoming torrent.
I want Christian Grey. I want him badly.
Simple fact. For the first time in my life, I want to go to bed with a man.
I want to feel his hands and his mouth on me.
He said he likes his women sentient. He’s probably not celibate then.
But he’s not made a pass at me, unlike Paul or José.
I don’t understand. Does he want me? He wouldn’t kiss me last week.
Am I repellent to him? Yet I’m here; he brought me here.
I just don’t know what his game is. What’s he thinking?
You’ve slept in his bed all night, and he’s not touched you, Ana.
You do the math. My subconscious has reared her ugly, snide head. I ignore her.
The water is warm and soothing. Hmm… I could stay under this shower, in his bathroom, forever.
I reach for the body wash and it smells of him.
It’s a delicious smell. I rub it all over myself, fantasizing that it’s him—him rubbing this heavenly scented soap into my body, across my breasts, over my stomach, between my thighs with his long-fingered hands.
Oh my. My heartbeat picks up again. This feels so… so good.