Chapter Twenty-One #2
“I like you sore.” His eyes smolder. “Reminds you where I’ve been, and only me.” He grabs my chin and kisses me roughly, then stands and holds his hand out to help me up.
I glance down at the foil packet beside me. “Always prepared,” I muse.
He looks at me confused as he redoes his fly.
I hold up the empty packet.
“A man can hope, Anastasia, dream even, and sometimes his dreams come true.”
He sounds so odd, his eyes burning. I just don’t understand. My postcoital glow is fading fast. What is his problem?
“So…on your desk…that’s been a dream?” I ask, trying humor to lighten the atmosphere between us.
He smiles an enigmatic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and I know immediately this is not the first time he’s had sex on his desk. The thought is unwelcome. I squirm uncomfortably as my postcoital glow evaporates.
“I’d better go have a shower.” I stand and start to move past him.
He frowns and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve got a couple more calls to make. I’ll join you for breakfast once you’re out of the shower. I think Mrs. Jones has laundered your clothes from yesterday. They’re in the closet.”
What? When the hell did she do that? Jeez, could she hear us?
“Thank you,” I mutter.
“You’re most welcome,” he replies automatically, but there’s an edge to his voice.
I’m not saying thank you for fucking me. Although, it was very…
“What?” he asks, and I realize I’m frowning.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re being more weird than usual.”
“You find me weird?” He tries to stifle a smile.
“Sometimes.”
He regards me for a moment, his eyes speculative. “As ever, I’m surprised by you, Miss Steele.”
“Surprised how?”
“Let’s just say that was an unexpected treat.”
“We aim to please, Mr. Grey.” I cock my head to one side like he often does to me and give his words back to him.
“And please me you do,” he says, but he looks uneasy. “I thought you were going to have a shower?”
Oh, he’s dismissing me.
“Yes, um, I’ll see you in a moment.” I scurry out of his office completely dumbfounded.
He seemed confused. Why? I have to say as physical experiences go, that was very satisfying. But emotionally—well, I’m rattled by his reaction, and that was about as emotionally enriching as cotton candy is nutritious.
Mrs. Jones is still in the kitchen. “Would you like your tea now, Miss Steele?”
“I’ll have a shower first, thank you.” And I take my blazing face quickly out of the room.
In the shower, I try to figure out what’s up with Christian.
He is the most complicated person I know, and I cannot understand his ever-changing moods.
He seemed fine when I went into his study.
We had sex…and then he wasn’t. No, I don’t get it.
I look to my subconscious. She’s whistling with her hands behind her back and looking anywhere but at me.
She hasn’t got a clue, and my inner goddess is still basking in a remnant of postcoital glow. No—we’re all clueless.
I towel-dry my hair, comb it through with Christian’s one and only hair implement, and put my hair up in a bun.
Kate’s plum dress hangs laundered and ironed in the closet along with my clean bra and panties.
Mrs. Jones is a marvel. Slipping on my shoes, I straighten my dress, take a deep breath, and head out to the great room.
Christian is still nowhere to be seen, and Mrs. Jones is checking the contents of the pantry. “Tea now, Miss Steele?” she asks.
“Please.” I smile at her. I feel slightly more confident now that I’m dressed.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“No, thank you.”
“Of course you’ll have something to eat,” Christian snaps, glowering as he strolls into the kitchen. “She likes pancakes, bacon, and eggs, Mrs. Jones.”
“Yes, Mr. Grey. What would you like, sir?”
“Omelet, please, and some fruit.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me, his expression unfathomable. “Sit,” he orders, pointing to one of the barstools.
I oblige, and he sits beside me while Mrs. Jones busies herself with breakfast. Gosh, it’s unnerving having someone else listen to our conversation.
“Have you bought your air ticket?”
“No, I’ll buy it when I get home, over the internet.”
He leans on his elbow, rubbing his chin. “Do you have the money?”
Oh no.
“Yes,” I say with mock patience as if I’m talking to a small child.
He raises a censorious eyebrow at me. Crap.
“Yes, I do, thank you,” I amend rapidly.
“I have a jet. It’s not scheduled to be used for three days; it’s at your disposal.”
I gape at him. Of course he has a jet, and I have to resist my body’s natural inclination to roll my eyes at him. I want to laugh. But I don’t, as I can’t read his mood.
“We’ve already made serious misuse of your company’s aviation fleet. I wouldn’t want to do it again.”
“It’s my company; it’s my jet.” He sounds almost wounded.
Oh, boys and their toys!
“Thank you for the offer. But I’d be happier taking a scheduled flight.”
He looks like he wants to argue further but decides against it. “As you wish.” He sighs. “Do you have much preparation to do for your interview?”
“No.”
“Good. You’re still not going to tell me which publishing houses?”
“No.”
His lips curl up in a reluctant smile. “I am a man of means, Miss Steele.”
“I am fully aware of that, Mr. Grey. Are you going to track my phone?” I ask innocently.
“Actually, I’ll be quite busy this afternoon, so I’ll have to get someone else to do it.” He smirks.
Is he joking?
“If you can spare someone to do that, you’re obviously overstaffed.”
“I’ll send an email to the head of human resources and have her look into our head count.” His lips twitch to hide his smile.
Oh, thank the Lord, he’s recovered his sense of humor.
Mrs. Jones serves us breakfast and we eat quietly for a few moments. After clearing the pans, tactfully, she heads out of the living area.
I peek up at him.
“What is it, Anastasia?”
“You know, you never did tell me why you don’t like to be touched.”
He blanches, and his reaction makes me feel guilty for asking. “I’ve told you more than I’ve ever told anybody.” His voice is quiet as he gazes at me impassively.
And it’s clear to me that he’s never confided in anyone. Doesn’t he have any close friends? Perhaps he told Mrs. Robinson? I want to ask him, but I can’t—I can’t be that invasive. I shake my head at the realization. He really is an island.
“Will you think about our arrangement while you’re away?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Will you miss me?”
I’m surprised by his question. “Yes,” I answer honestly.
How could he mean so much to me in such a short time? He’s gotten under my skin…literally.
He smiles and his eyes light up. “I’ll miss you, too. More than you know.”
My heart warms at his words. He really is trying hard. He gently strokes my cheek, bends down, and kisses me softly.
It is late afternoon, and I sit nervous and fidgeting in the lobby waiting for Mr. J.
Hyde of Seattle Independent Publishing. This is my second interview today, and the one I’m most anxious about.
My first interview went well, but it was for a larger conglomerate with offices based throughout the United States, and I would be one of many editorial assistants there.
I can imagine being swallowed up and spat out pretty quickly in such a corporate machine.
SIP is where I want to be. It’s small and unconventional, championing local talent, and has an interesting and quirky roster of authors.
My surroundings are sparse, but I think it’s a design statement rather than frugality.
I’m seated on one of two dark-green chesterfield couches made of leather—not unlike the couch that Christian has in his playroom.
I stroke the leather appreciatively and wonder idly what Christian does on that couch.
My mind wanders as I think of the possibilities…
No—I must not go there now. I flush at my wayward and inappropriate thoughts.
The receptionist is an attractive woman with dark, glossy skin, large silver earrings and long straightened hair.
She has a bohemian look about her, the sort of woman I could be friendly with.
The thought is comforting. Every few moments she glances up at me, away from her computer, and smiles reassuringly. I tentatively return her smile.
My flight is booked, my mother is in seventh heaven that I am visiting, I’m packed, and Kate has agreed to drive me to the airport.
Christian has ordered me to take my BlackBerry and the Mac.
I roll my eyes at the memory of his overbearing bossiness, but I realize now that’s just the way he is.
He likes control over everything, including me.
Yet he’s so unpredictably and disarmingly agreeable, too.
He can be tender, good-humored, even sweet.
And when he is, it’s so left field and unexpected.
He insisted on accompanying me all the way down to my car in the garage.
Jeez, I’m only going for a few days; he’s acting like I’m going for weeks. He always keeps me off balance.
“Ana Steele?” A woman with long, black, pre-Raphaelite hair standing by the reception desk distracts me from my introspection. She has the same bohemian, floaty look as the receptionist. She could be in her late thirties, maybe in her forties. It’s so difficult to tell with older women.
“Yes,” I reply, standing awkwardly.
She gives me a polite smile, her cool hazel eyes assessing me. I’m wearing a black pinafore over a white blouse, and black pumps. Very interview, I think. My hair is restrained in a tight bun, and for once the tendrils are behaving themselves. She holds her hand out to me.
“Hello, Ana, my name’s Elizabeth Morgan. I’m head of human resources here at SIP.”
“How do you do?” I shake her hand. She looks too casual to be the head of HR.
“Please follow me.”