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Anyway, I thought we’d eat on deck.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
He kisses me—an earnest forgive-me kiss—then we wander hand in hand toward the bow where our gazpacho soup awaits.
The steward serves our crème brulée and discreetly retires.
“Why do you always braid my hair?” I ask Christian out of curiosity. We’re sitting adjacent to each other at the table, my lower leg curled around his. He pauses
as he’s about to pick up his dessertspoon and frowns.
“I don’t want your hair catching in anything,” he says quietly and for a moment, he’s lost in thought. “Habit, I think,” he muses. Suddenly he frowns and his eyes
widen, his pupils dilating with alarm.
Holy shit! What’s he remembered? It’s something painful, some early childhood memory, I guess. I don’t want to remind him of that. Leaning over, I put my
index finger over his lips.
“No, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know. I was just curious.” I give him a warm, reassuring smile. His look is wary, but after a moment he visibly relaxes, his
relief evident. I lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth.
“I love you,” I murmur, and he smiles his heart-achingly shy smile, and I melt. “I will always love you, Christian.”
“And I you,” he says softly.
“In spite of my disobedience?” I raise my eyebrow.
“Because of your disobedience, Anastasia.” He grins.
“Because of your disobedience, Anastasia.” He grins.
I crack my spoon through the burnt sugar crust of my dessert and shake my head. Will I ever understand this man? Hmm—this crème brulée is delicious.
Once the steward has cleared our dessert plates, Christian reaches for the bottle of rosé and refills my glass. I check that we’re alone and ask, “What’s with the no
going to the bathroom thing?”
“You really want to know?” He half smiles, his eyes alight with a salacious gleam.
“Do I?” I gaze at him through my lashes as I take a sip of my wine.
“The fuller your bladder, the more intense your orgasm, Ana.”
I blush. “Oh. I see.” Holy cow, that explains a lot.
He grins, looking far too knowing. Will I always be on the back foot with Mr. Sexpertise?
“Yes. Well . . .” I desperately hunt around for a change of subject. He takes pity on me.
“What do you want to do for the rest of the evening?” He cocks his head to one side and gives me his lopsided grin.
Whatever you want, Christian. Put your theory to the test again? I shrug.
“I know what I want to do,” he murmurs. Grabbing his glass of wine, he rises and holds his hand out to me. “Come.”
I take his hand and he leads me into the main salon.
His iPod is in the speaker dock on the dresser. He switches it on and selects a song.
“Dance with me.” He pulls me into his arms.
“If you insist.”
“I insist, Mrs. Grey.”
A slinky, cheesy melody starts. Is this a Latin rhythm? Christian grins down at me and starts to move, sweeping me off my feet and taking me with him round the
salon.
A man with a voice like warm melted caramel croons. It’s a song I know but can’t place. Christian dips me low, and I yelp in surprise and giggle. He smiles, his
eyes filled with humor. Then he scoops me up and spins me under his arm.
“You dance so well,” I say. “It’s like I can dance.”
He gives me a sphinxlike smile but says nothing, and I wonder if it’s because he’s thinking of her . . . Mrs. Robinson, the woman who taught him how to dance
—and how to fuck. She hasn’t crossed my mind for a while. Christian has not mentioned her since his birthday, and as far as I’m aware, their business relationship
is over. Reluctantly though, I have to admit—she was some teacher.
He dips me low again and plants a swift kiss on my lips.
“I’d miss your love,” I murmur, echoing the lyrics.
“I’d more than miss your love,” he says and spins me once more. Then he sings the words softly in my ear making me swoon.
The track ends and Christian gazes down at me, his eyes dark and luminous, all humor gone, and I’m suddenly breathless.
“Come to bed with me?” he whispers and it’s a heartfelt plea that tugs at my heart.
Christian, you had me at I do—two and half weeks ago. But I know this is his way of apologizing and making sure all is well between us after our spat.
When I wake, the sun is shining through the portholes and the water reflects shimmering patterns onto the cabin ceiling. Christian is nowhere to be seen. I stretch
out and smile. Hmm . . . I’ll take a punishment fuck followed by makeup sex any day. I marvel what it is to go to bed with two different men—angry Christian and
sweet let-me-make-it-up-to-you-in-any-way-I-can Christian. It’s tricky to decide which of them I like the best.
I rise and head for the bathroom. Opening the door, I find Christian inside shaving, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist. He turns and beams, not
fazed that I am interrupting him. I have discovered that Christian will never lock the door if he is the only person in the room—the reason why is sobering, and not
one I want to dwell on.
“Good morning, Mrs. Grey,” he says, radiating his good mood.
“Good morning yourself.” I grin back as I watch him shave. I love watching him shave. He pulls up his chin and shaves beneath it, taking long deliberate strokes,
and I find myself unconsciously mirroring his actions. Pulling my upper lip down just as he does, to shave his philtrum. He turns and smirks at me, one half of his
face still covered in shaving soap.
“Enjoying the show?” he asks.
Oh, Christian, I could watch you for hours. “One of my all-time favorites,” I murmur, and he leans down and kisses me quickly, smearing shaving soap on my
face.
“Shall I do this to you again?” he whispers wickedly and holds up the razor.
I purse my lips at him. “No,” I mutter, pretending to sulk. “I’ll wax next time.” I remember Christian’s joy in London when he’d discovered that during his one
meeting there, I’d shaved off my pubic hair out of curiosity. Of course I hadn’t done it to Mr. Exacting’s high standards . . .
“What the hell have you done?” Christian exclaims. He ca
pull down my satin nightdress so he can’t see. He grabs my hand to stop me.
“Ana!”
“I—err . . . shaved.”
“I can see that. Why?” He’s gri
I cover my face with my hands. Why am I so embarrassed?
“Hey,” he says softly and pulls my hand away. “Don’t hide.” He’s biting his lip so that he won’t laugh. “Tell me. Why?” His eyes dance with merriment. Why
does he find this so fu
“Stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you. I’m sorry. I’m . . . delighted,” he says.
“Oh . . .”
“Tell me. Why?”
I take a deep breath. “This morning, after you left for your meeting, I took a shower and was remembering all your rules.”
He blinks. The humor in his expression has vanished, and he regards me cautiously.
He blinks. The humor in his expression has vanished, and he regards me cautiously.
“And I was ticking them off one by one and how I felt about them, and I remembered the beauty salon, and I thought . . . this is what you’d like. I wasn’t brave
enough to get a wax.” My voice disappears into a whisper.
He stares at me, his eyes glowing—this time not with mirth at my folly, but with love.
“Oh, Ana,” he breathes. He leans down and kisses me tenderly. “You beguile me,” he whispers against my lips and kisses me once more, clasping my face in