Chapter Twelve
For the first time in my life, I voluntarily go for a run.
I find my nasty, never-used sneakers, some sweatpants, and a T-shirt.
I put my hair in pigtails, blushing at the memories they bring back, and I plug in my iPod.
I can’t sit in front of that marvel of technology and look at or read any more disturbing material.
I need to expend some of this excess, enervating energy.
Quite frankly, I have a mind to run to The Heathman Hotel and just demand sex from the control freak.
But that’s five miles, and I don’t think I’ll be able to run one mile, let alone five, and, of course, he might turn me down, which would be beyond humiliating.
Kate is walking from her car as I head out the door. She nearly drops her shopping bags when she sees me. Ana Steele in sneakers. I wave and don’t stop for the inquisition. I need some serious alone time. Snow Patrol blaring in my ears, I set off into the opal-and-aquamarine dusk.
I pace through the park. What am I going to do?
I want him, but on his terms? I just don’t know.
Perhaps I should negotiate what I want. Go through that ridiculous contract line by line and say what is acceptable and what isn’t.
My research has told me that legally it’s unenforceable.
He must know that. I figure that it just sets up the parameters of the relationship.
It illustrates what I can expect from him and what he expects from me—my total submission.
Am I prepared to give him that? Am I even capable?
I am plagued by one question: Why is he like this? Is it because he was seduced at such a young age? I just don’t know. He’s still such a mystery.
I stop beside a large spruce and put my hands on my knees, breathing hard, dragging precious air into my lungs.
Oh, this feels good, cathartic. I feel my resolve hardening.
Yes. I need to tell him what’s okay and what isn’t.
I need to email him my thoughts, and then we can discuss these on Wednesday.
I take a deep, cleansing breath, then jog back to the apartment.
Kate has been shopping, as only she can, for clothes for her vacation to Barbados.
Mainly bikinis and matching sarongs. She will look fabulous in all of them, yet she still makes me sit and comment while she tries on each and every one.
There are only so many ways one can say “You look fabulous, Kate.” She has a slim, curvy figure to die for.
She doesn’t do it on purpose, I know, but I haul my sorry, perspiration-clad ass into my room on the pretext of packing more boxes.
Could I feel any more inadequate? Taking the awesome free technology with me, I set the laptop up on my desk and email Christian.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Shocked of WSUV
Date: May 23 2011 20:33
To: Christian Grey
Okay, I’ve seen enough.
It was nice knowing you.
Ana
I press send, hugging myself, laughing at my little joke. Will he find it as funny? Oh, shit—probably not. Christian Grey is not famed for his sense of humor. But I know it exists. I’ve experienced it. Perhaps I’ve gone too far. I wait for his answer.
I wait…and wait. I glance at my alarm clock. Ten minutes have passed.
To distract myself from the anxiety that blooms in my belly, I start doing what I told Kate I would be doing—packing up my room.
I begin by cramming my books into a crate.
By nine, I’ve heard nothing. Perhaps he’s out.
I pout petulantly as I plug in my iPod earbuds, listen to Snow Patrol, and sit down at my small desk to reread the contract and make my comments.
I don’t know why I glance up—maybe I catch a slight movement from the corner of my eye, I don’t know—but when I do, he’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom, watching me intently.
He’s wearing his gray flannel pants and a white linen shirt, gently twirling his car keys. I pull out my earbuds and freeze. Fuck!
“Good evening, Anastasia.” His voice is cool, his expression completely guarded and unreadable.
The capacity to speak deserts me. Damn Kate for letting him in here with no warning. Vaguely, I’m aware that I’m still in my sweats, unshowered, yucky, and he’s just gloriously yummy, his pants doing that hanging from the hips thing, and what’s more, he’s here in my bedroom.
“I felt that your email warranted a reply in person,” he explains.
I open my mouth and then close it again, twice. The joke is on me. Never in this or any alternative universe did I expect him to drop everything and turn up here.
“May I sit?” he asks, his eyes now dancing with humor. Thank heavens—maybe he’ll see the funny side?
I nod. The power of speech remains elusive. Christian Grey is sitting on my bed.
“I wondered what your bedroom would look like,” he says.
I glance around it, plotting an escape route.
No, there’s still only the door or window.
My room is functional but cozy—sparse white wicker furniture and a white iron double bed with a patchwork quilt, made by my mother when she was in her folksy Americana quilting phase. It’s all pale blue and cream.
“It’s very serene and peaceful in here,” he murmurs.
Not at the moment…not with you here.
Finally, my medulla oblongata recalls its purpose. I breathe. “How…?”
He smiles at me. “I’m still at The Heathman.”
I know that.
“Would you like a drink?” Politeness wins out over everything else I’d like to say.
“No thank you, Anastasia.” He smiles a dazzling, crooked smile, his head cocked slightly to one side.
Well, I might need one.
“So, it was nice knowing me?”
Holy cow, is he offended? I stare down at my fingers. How am I going to dig myself out of this? If I tell him it was a joke, I don’t think he’ll be impressed.
“I thought you’d reply by email.” My voice is small, pathetic.
“Are you biting your lower lip deliberately?” he asks darkly.
I inhale sharply, freeing my lip. “I wasn’t aware I was biting my lip.
” My heart is pounding. I feel that pull, that delicious electricity between us charging, filling the space with static.
He’s sitting so close to me, his eyes dark smoky gray, his elbows resting on his knees, his legs apart.
Leaning forward, he slowly undoes one of my pigtails, his fingers freeing my hair.
My breathing is shallow, and I can’t move.
I watch hypnotized as his hand moves to my second pigtail, and pulling the hair tie, he loosens the braid with his long, skilled fingers.
“So you decided on some exercise?” His voice is soft and melodious, and he gently tucks my hair behind my ear. “Why, Anastasia?” His fingers circle my ear, and very softly, rhythmically, he tugs my earlobe. It’s so sexual.
“I needed time to think,” I whisper. I’m all deer/headlights, moth/flame, bird/snake…and he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Think about what, Anastasia?”
“You.”
“And you decided that it was nice knowing me? Do you mean knowing me in the biblical sense?”
Oh shit. “I didn’t think you were familiar with the Bible.”
“I went to Sunday school, Anastasia. It taught me a great deal.”
“I don’t remember reading about nipple clamps in the Bible. Perhaps you were taught from a modern translation.”
His lips arch with a trace of a smile, and my eyes are drawn to his mouth. “Well, I thought I should come and remind you how nice it was knowing me.”
Holy crap. I stare at him openmouthed, and his fingers move from my ear to my chin.
“What do you say to that, Miss Steele?”
His eyes blaze, his challenge intrinsic in his stare.
His lips are parted; he’s waiting, coiled to strike.
Desire—acute, liquid, and smoldering—combusts deep in my belly.
I take preemptive action and launch myself at him.
Somehow he moves, I have no idea how, and in the blink of an eye I’m on the bed, pinned beneath him, my arms stretched out and held above my head, his free hand clutching my face, and his mouth finding mine.
His tongue is in my mouth, claiming and possessing me, and I revel in the force he uses.
I feel him against the length of my body.
He wants me, and this does strange, delicious things to my insides.
Not Kate in her little bikinis, not one of the fifteen, not evil Mrs. Robinson.
Me. This beautiful man wants me. My inner goddess glows so bright she could light up Portland.
He stops kissing me, and opening my eyes, I find him gazing down at me. “Trust me?” he asks.
I nod, wide-eyed, my heart bouncing off my ribs, my blood thundering through my body.
He reaches down, and from his pants pocket, he takes out his silver-gray silk tie…
That silver-gray woven tie that leaves small impressions of its weave on my skin.
He moves so quickly, sitting astride me as he fastens my wrists together, but this time, he ties the other end of the tie to one of the spokes of my white iron headboard.
He pulls at my binding, checking it’s secure.
I’m not going anywhere. I’m tied, literally, to my bed, and I’m so aroused.
He slides off me and stands beside the bed, staring down at me, his eyes dark with want. His look is triumphant mixed with relief.
“That’s better,” he murmurs and smiles a wicked, knowing smile. He bends and starts undoing one of my sneakers. Oh no…no…my feet. No. I’ve just been running.
“Not my shoes,” I protest, trying to kick him off.
He stops. “If you struggle, I’ll tie your feet, too. If you make a noise, Anastasia, I will gag you. Keep quiet. Katherine is probably outside listening right now.”
Gag me! Kate! I shut up.
He removes my shoes and my socks efficiently and slowly peels off my sweatpants. Oh, what panties am I wearing? He lifts me and pulls the quilt and my duvet out from under me and places me back down, this time on the sheets.