Chapter Twenty-Four
Christian stands in a steel-barred cage.
Wearing his soft, ripped jeans, his chest and feet are mouthwateringly naked, and he’s staring at me.
His private-joke smile is etched on his beautiful face and his eyes are a molten gray.
In his hands he holds a bowl of strawberries.
He ambles with athletic grace to the front of the cage, gazing intently at me.
Holding up a plump, ripe strawberry, he extends his hand through the bars.
“Eat,” he says, his tongue caressing the front of his palate as he enunciates the t.
I try to move toward him, but I’m tethered, held back by some unseen force around my wrist, holding me. Let me go.
“Come, eat,” he says, smiling his delicious crooked smile.
I pull and pull… Let me go! I want to scream and shout, but no sound emerges. I am mute.
He stretches a little farther, and the strawberry is at my lips. “Eat, Anastasia.” His mouth forms my name, lingering sensually on each syllable.
I open my mouth and bite, the cage disappears, and my hands are free. I reach up to touch him, graze my fingers through his chest hair.
“Anastasia.”
No. I moan.
“Come on, baby.”
No. I want to touch you.
“Wake up.”
No. Please. My eyes flicker unwillingly open for a split second. I’m in bed and someone is nuzzling my ear.
“Wake up, baby,” he whispers, and the effect of his sweet voice spreads like warm melted caramel through my veins.
It’s Christian. It’s still dark, and the images of him from my dream persist, disconcerting and tantalizing in my head.
“Oh no,” I groan. I want back at his chest, back to my dream. Why is he waking me? It’s the middle of the night, or so it feels. Holy shit. Does he want sex—now?
“Time to get up, baby. I’m going to switch on the side light.” His voice is quiet.
“No,” I groan.
“I want to chase the dawn with you,” he says, kissing my face, my eyelids, the tip of my nose, my mouth, and I open my eyes. The side light is on. “Good morning, beautiful.”
I groan, and he smiles. “You are not a morning person.”
Through the haze of light, I squint and see Christian leaning over me, smiling. Amused. Amused at me. Dressed! In black.
“I thought you wanted sex,” I grumble.
“Anastasia, I always want sex with you. It’s heartwarming to know that you feel the same,” he says dryly.
I gaze at him as my eyes adjust to the light, but he still looks amused…thank heavens.
“Of course I do, just not when it’s so late.”
“It’s not late, it’s early. Come on—up you go. We’re going out. I’ll take a rain check on the sex.”
“I was having such a nice dream,” I whine.
“Dream about what?” he asks patiently.
“You.” I blush.
“What was I doing this time?”
“Trying to feed me strawberries.”
His lips twitch with a trace of a smile. “Dr. Flynn could have a field day with that. Up—get dressed. Don’t bother to shower; we can do that later.”
We!
I sit up, and the sheet pools at my waist, revealing my body. He stands to give me room, his eyes dark.
“What time is it?”
“Five thirty in the morning.”
“Feels like three a.m.”
“We don’t have much time. I let you sleep as long as possible. Come.”
“Can’t I have a shower?”
He sighs. “If you have a shower, I’ll want one with you, and you and I know what will happen then—the day will just go. Come.”
He’s excited. Like a small boy, he’s iridescent with anticipation and excitement. It makes me smile.
“What are we doing?”
“It’s a surprise. I told you.”
I can’t help but grin up at him. “Okay.” I clamber off the bed and search for my clothes.
Of course they are neatly folded on the chair beside my bed.
He’s laid out a pair of his jersey boxer briefs, too—Ralph Lauren, no less.
I slip them on, and he grins at me. Hmm, another piece of Christian Grey’s underwear, a trophy to add to my collection—along with the car, the BlackBerry, the Mac, his black jacket, and a set of valuable old first editions.
I shake my head at his largesse, and I frown as a scene from Tess crosses my mind: the strawberry scene.
It evokes my dream. To hell with Dr. Flynn—Freud would have a field day, and then he’d probably die trying to deal with Fifty Shades.
“I’ll give you some room now that you’re up.
” Christian exits toward the living area, and I wander into the bathroom.
I have needs to attend to, and I want a quick wash.
Seven minutes later, I am in the living area, scrubbed, brushed, and dressed in jeans, my camisole, and Christian Grey’s underwear.
Christian glances up from the small dining table where he’s eating breakfast. Breakfast! At this time! “Eat,” he says.
Holy crap…my dream. I gape at him, thinking about his tongue touching his palate. Hmm, his expert tongue.
“Anastasia,” he says sternly, pulling me out of my reverie.
It really is too early for me. How to handle this?
“I’ll have some tea. Can I take a croissant for later?”
He eyes me suspiciously, and I smile very sweetly.
“Don’t rain on my parade, Anastasia,” he warns softly.
“I will eat later when my stomach’s woken up. About seven thirty a.m…okay?”
“Okay.”
Honestly. I have to concentrate hard on not making a face at him. “I want to roll my eyes at you.”
“By all means, do, and you will make my day,” he says sternly.
I gaze up at the ceiling. “Well, a spanking would wake me up, I suppose.” I purse my lips in quiet contemplation.
Christian’s mouth drops open.
“On the other hand, I don’t want you to be all hot and bothered; the climate here is warm enough.” I shrug nonchalantly.
Christian closes his mouth and tries very hard to look displeased, but fails hopelessly. I can see the humor lurking in the back of his eyes. “You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele. Drink your tea.”
I notice the Twinings label, and inside, my heart sings. See, he does care, my subconscious mouths at me. I sit and face him, drinking in his beauty. Will I ever get enough of this man?
As we leave the room, Christian throws a sweatshirt at me.
“You’ll need this.”
I look at him, puzzled.
“Trust me.” He grins, leans over, and kisses me quickly on the lips, then grabs my hand and we head out.
Outside, in the relative cool of predawn, the valet hands Christian a set of keys to a flashy sports car with a soft top. I raise an eyebrow at Christian, who smirks back at me.
“You know, sometimes it’s great being me,” he says with a conspiratorial but smug grin that I simply can’t help emulating. He’s so lovable when he’s playful and carefree. He opens my car door with an exaggerated bow, and in I climb. He is in such a good mood.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He grins as he slips the car into drive, and we head out on Savannah Parkway. He programs the GPS and presses a switch on the steering wheel, and a classical orchestral piece fills the car.
“What’s this?” I ask as the sweet, sweet sound of a hundred violin strings assails us.
“It’s from La Traviata. An opera by Verdi.”
Oh my…it’s lovely.
“La Traviata? I’ve heard of that. I can’t think where. What does it mean?”
Christian glances at me. “Well, literally, ‘the woman led astray.’ It’s based on Alexandre Dumas’s book La Dame aux Camélias.”
“Ah. I’ve read it.”
“I thought you might’ve.”
“The doomed courtesan.” I squirm uncomfortably in the plush leather seat. Is he trying to tell me something? “Hmm, it’s a depressing story.”
“Too depressing? Do you want to choose some music? This is on my iPod.” Christian has that secret smile again.
I can’t see his iPod anywhere. He taps the screen on the console between us, and behold—there is a playlist.
“You choose.” His lips twitch up into a smile, and I know it’s a challenge.
Christian Grey’s iPod. This should be interesting.
I scroll through the touch screen and find the perfect song.
I press play. I wouldn’t have figured him for a Britney fan.
The club-mix, techno beat assaults us both, and Christian turns the volume down.
Maybe it’s too early for this: Britney’s at her most sultry.
“‘Toxic,’ eh?” Christian grins.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I feign innocence.
He turns the music down a little more, and inside I am hugging myself. My inner goddess is standing on the podium awaiting her gold medal. He turned the music down. Victory!
“I didn’t put that song on my iPod,” he says casually and puts his foot down so I am thrown back into my seat as the car accelerates along the freeway.
What? He knows what he’s doing, the bastard. Who did? And I have to listen to Britney going on and on. Who…who?
The song ends and the iPod shuffles to Damien Rice being mournful. Who? Who? I stare out the window, my stomach churning. Who?
“It was Leila,” he answers my unspoken thoughts.
How does he do that? “Leila?”
“An ex, who put the song on my iPod.”
Damien warbles away in the background as I sit stunned. An ex…ex-submissive? An ex—
“One of the fifteen?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“We finished.”
“Why?”
It’s too early for this kind of conversation. But he looks relaxed, happy even, and, what’s more, talkative.
“She wanted more.” His voice is low, introspective even, and he leaves the sentence hanging between us, ending it with that powerful little word again.
“And you didn’t?” I ask before I can employ my brain-to-mouth filter. Shit, do I want to know?
He shakes his head. “I’ve never wanted more, until I met you.”
I gasp, reeling. Isn’t this what I want? He wants more. He wants it, too! My inner goddess has backflipped off the podium and is doing cartwheels around the stadium. It’s not just me.
“What happened to the other fourteen?” I ask.
Jeez, he’s talking—take advantage.
“You want a list? Divorced, beheaded, died?”
“You’re not Henry VIII.”
“Okay. In no particular order, I’ve only had long-term relationships with four women, apart from Elena.”
“Elena?”
“Mrs. Robinson to you.” He half smiles his secret-private-joke smile.