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“Hi,” he murmurs, gazing down at me, his eyes warm.
“Hi.” I smile, feeling suddenly shy. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Just an hour or so.”
“We’re moving?”
“I figured since we ate out last night and went to the ballet and the Casino that we’d dine on board tonight. A quiet night à deux.”
I grin at him. “Where are we going?”
“Ca
“Okay.” I stretch, feeling stiff. No amount of training with Claude could have prepared me for this afternoon.
I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it on. Why am I so shy? I feel Christian’s eyes on me. When I glance at him, he returns
to his laptop, his brow furrowed.
As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at the Casino, my robe falls open. I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked.
Holy fuck! What has he done to me?
I gaze in horror at the red marks all over my breasts. Hickeys! I have hickeys! I am married to one of the most respected businessmen in the United States, and he’s
given me goddamn hickeys. How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush. The fact is I know exactly why—Mr. Orgasmic was using his fine-motor sexing skills
on me.
My subconscious peers over her half-moon specs and tuts disapprovingly, while my i
reflection. My wrists have a red welt around them from the handcuffs. No doubt they’ll bruise. I examine my ankles—more welts. Holy hell, I look like I’ve been in
some sort of accident. I gaze at myself, trying to absorb how I look. My body is so different these days. It’s changed subtly since I’ve known him . . . I’ve become
leaner and fitter, and my hair is glossy and well cut. My nails are manicured, my feet pedicured, my eyebrows threaded and beautifully shaped. For the first time in
my life, I’m well groomed—except for these hideous love bites.
I don’t want to think about grooming at the moment. I’m too mad. How dare he mark me like this, like some teenager. In the short time we’ve been together, he’s
never given me hickeys. I look like hell. I know why he’s done this. Damn control freak. Right! My subconscious folds her arms beneath her small bosom—he’s
gone too far this time. I stalk out of the en suite bathroom and into the walk-in closet, carefully avoiding even a glance in his direction. Slipping out of my robe, I
pull on my sweatpants and a camisole. I undo the braid, pick up a hairbrush from the small vanity unit, and brush out my tangles.
“Anastasia,” Christian calls and I hear his anxiety. “Are you okay?”
I ignore him. Am I okay? No, I am not okay. After what he’s done to me, I doubt I’ll be able to wear a swimsuit, let alone one of my ridiculously expensive
I ignore him. Am I okay? No, I am not okay. After what he’s done to me, I doubt I’ll be able to wear a swimsuit, let alone one of my ridiculously expensive
bikinis, for the rest of our honeymoon. The thought is suddenly so infuriating. How dare he? I’ll give him are you okay. I seethe as fury spikes through me. I can
behave like an adolescent, too! Stepping back into the bedroom, I hurl the hairbrush at him, turn, and leave—though not before I see his shocked expression and his
lightning reaction as he raises his arm to protect his head so that the brush bounces ineffectively off his forearm and onto the bed.
I storm out of our cabin, bolt upstairs and out on deck, fleeing toward the bow. I need some space to calm down. It’s dark and the air is balmy. The warm breeze
carries the smell of the Mediterranean and the scent of jasmine and bougainvillea from the shore. The Fair Lady glides effortlessly through the calm cobalt sea as I
rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the distant shore where tiny lights wink and twinkle. I take a deep, healing breath and slowly begin to calm. I’m
aware of him behind me before I hear him.
“You’re mad at me,” he whispers.
“No shit, Sherlock!”
“How mad?”
“Scale of one to ten, I think I’m at fifty. Apt, huh?”
“That mad.” He sounds surprised and impressed at once.
“Yes. Pushed to violence mad,” I say through gritted teeth.
He stays silent as I turn and scowl at him, watching me with wide and wary eyes. I know from his expression and because he’s made no move to touch me that
he’s out of his depth.
“Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall.”
He shrugs minutely. “Well, you won’t take your top off again,” he murmurs petulantly.
And this justifies what he’s done to me? I glare at him. “I don’t like you leaving marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It’s a hard limit!” I hiss at him.
“I don’t like you taking your clothes off in public. That’s a hard limit for me,” he growls.
“I think we’ve established that,” I hiss through my teeth. “Look at me!” I pull down my camisole to reveal the top of my breasts. Christian gazes at me, his eyes
not leaving my face his expression wary and uncertain. He’s not used to seeing me this mad. Can’t he see what he’s done? Can’t he see how ridiculous he is? I
want to shout at him, but I refrain—I don’t want to push him too far. Heaven knows what he’d do. Eventually, he sighs and holds his palms up in a resigned,
conciliatory gesture.
“Okay,” he says his voice placating. “I get it.”
Hallelujah!
“Good!”
He runs his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.” Finally, he looks contrite—using my own words back at me.
“You are such an adolescent sometimes,” I scold him, mulishly, but the fight has gone out of my voice, and he knows it. He steps closer and tentatively raises his
hand to tuck my hair behind my ear.
“I know,” he acknowledges softly. “I have a lot to learn.”
Dr. Fly
into succeeding in the business world, and he has beyond all expectations. His emotional world has to play catch-up.
My heart thaws a little.
“We both do.” I sigh and cautiously raise my hand, placing it over his heart. He doesn’t flinch like he used to, but he stiffens. He rests his hand over mine and
smiles his shy smile.
“I’ve just learned that you’ve a good arm and a good aim, Mrs. Grey. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always
surprise me.”
I arch my eyebrow at him. “Target practice with Ray. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. Grey, and you’d do well to remember that.”
“I will endeavor to do that, Mrs. Grey, or ensure that all potential projectile objects are nailed down and that you don’t have access to a gun.” He smirks.
I smirk back, narrowing my eyes. “I’m resourceful.”
“That you are,” he whispers and releases my hand to circle his arms around me. Pulling me into an embrace, he buries his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms
around him, holding him close, and feel the tension leave his body as he nuzzles me.
“Am I forgiven?”
“Am I?”
I feel his smile. “Yes,” he answers.
“Ditto.”
We stand holding each other, my pique forgotten. He does smell good, adolescent or not. How can I resist him?
“Hungry?” he says after a while. I have my eyes closed and my head against his chest.
“Yes. Famished. All the . . . er . . . activity has given me an appetite. But I’m not dressed for di
upon in the dining room.
“You look good to me, Anastasia. Besides, it’s our boat for the week. We can dress how we like. Think of it as dress down Tuesday on the Cote D’Azur.