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“You’re back.”
“It would appear so.”
Slowly I pull myself up into a sitting position, not taking my eyes off him. My mouth is dry. “How long have you been sitting there watching me sleep?”
“Long enough.”
“You’re still mad.” I can hardly speak the words.
He gazes at me, as if considering his response. “Mad,” he says as if testing the word, weighing up its nuances, its meaning. “No, Ana. I am way, way beyond
mad.”
Holy crap. I try to swallow, but it’s hard with a dry mouth.
“Far beyond mad . . . that doesn’t sound good.”
He gazes at me, completely impassive, and doesn’t respond. A stark silence stretches between us. I reach over to my glass of water and take a welcome sip,
trying to bring my erratic heart rate under control.
“Ryan caught Jack.” I try a different tack, and I place my glass beside his on the bedside table.
“I know,” he says icily.
Of course, he knows. “Are you going to be monosyllabic for long?”
His eyebrows move fractionally registering his surprise as if he hadn’t expected this question. “Yes,” he says finally.
Oh . . . okay. What to do? Defense—the best form of attack. “I’m sorry I stayed out.”
“Are you?”
“No,” I mutter after a pause, because it’s true.
“Why say it then?”
“Because I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
He sighs heavily as if he’s been holding this tension for a thousand hours and runs his hand through his hair. He looks beautiful. Mad, but beautiful. I drink him
in—Christian’s back—angry, but in one piece.
“I think Detective Clark wants to talk to you.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Christian, please . . .”
“Christian, please . . .”
“Please what?”
“Don’t be so cold.”
His eyebrows rise in surprise once more. “Anastasia, cold is not what I’m feeling at the moment. I’m burning. Burning with rage. I don’t know how to deal with
these”—he waves his hand searching for the word—“feelings.” His tone is bitter.
Oh shit. His honesty disarms me. All I want to do is crawl into his lap. It’s all I’ve wanted to do since I came home last night. To hell with this. I move, taking
him by surprise and climbing awkwardly into his lap, where I curl up. He doesn’t push me away, which is what I’d feared. After a beat, he folds his arms around
me and buries his nose in my hair. He smells of whiskey. Jeez, how much did he drink? He smells of bodywash, too. He smells of Christian. I wrap my arms
around his neck and nuzzle his throat, and he sighs once more, deeply this time.
“Oh, Mrs. Grey. What am I going to do with you?” He kisses the top of my head. I close my eyes, relishing the contact with him.
“How much have you had to drink?”
He stills. “Why?”
“You don’t normally drink hard liquor.”
“This is my second glass. I’ve had a trying night, Anastasia. Give a man a break.”
I smile. “If you insist, Mr. Grey,” I breathe into his neck. “You smell heavenly. I slept on your side of the bed because your pillow smells of you.”
He nuzzles my hair. “Did you now? I wondered why you were on this side. I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.”
His hand rhythmically strokes my back.
“And I’m mad at you,” I whisper.
He pauses. “And what, pray, have I done to deserve your ire?”
“I’ll tell you later when you’re no longer burning with rage.” I kiss his throat. He closes his eyes and leans into my kiss but makes no move to kiss me back. His
arms tighten around me, squeezing me.
“When I think of what might have happened . . .” His voice is barely a whisper. Broken, raw.
“I’m okay.”
“Oh, Ana.” It’s almost a sob.
“I’m okay. We’re all okay. A bit shaken. But Gail is fine. Ryan is fine. And Jack is gone.”
He shakes his head. “No thanks to you,” he mutters.
What? I lean back, and glare at him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to argue about it right now, Ana.”
I blink. Well, maybe I do, but I decide against it. At least he’s talking to me. I nestle into him once more. His fingers move to my hair and start playing with it.
“I want to punish you,” he whispers. “Really beat the shit out of you,” he adds.
My heart leaps into my mouth. Fuck. “I know,” I whisper as my scalp prickles.
“Maybe I will.”
“I hope not.”
He hugs me tighter. “Ana, Ana, Ana. You’d try the patience of a saint.”
“I could accuse you of many things, Mr. Grey, but being a saint isn’t one of them.”
Finally I am blessed with his reluctant chuckle. “Fair point well made as ever, Mrs. Grey.” He kisses my forehead and shifts.
“Back to bed. You had a late night, too.” He moves quickly, picking me up and depositing me back on the bed.
“Lie down with me?”
“No. I have things to do.” He reaches down and collects the glass. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go back to sleep, then.”
“Good.” He pulls the duvet over me and kisses my forehead once more. “Sleep.”
And because I’m so groggy from the night before, relieved that he’s back, and emotionally fatigued by our early-morning encounter, I do exactly as I’m told. As I
drift off, I’m curious though grateful, given the nasty taste in my mouth, to know why he hasn’t deployed his usual coping mechanism and leapt on me to have his
wicked way.
“There’s some orange juice for you here,” Christian says, and my eyes flutter open again. I have had the most restful two hours of sleep I can remember, and I wake
refreshed, my head no longer throbbing. The orange juice is a welcome sight—as is my husband. He’s in his sweats. And I’m momentarily zapped back to the
Heathman Hotel and the first time I ever woke up with him. His gray tank top is damp with his sweat. Either he’s been working out in the basement gym or he’s
been for a run, but he shouldn’t look this good after a workout.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he murmurs and disappears to the bathroom. I frown. He’s still distant. He’s either distracted by all that’s happened, or still mad,
or . . . what? I sit up and reach for the orange juice, drinking it down too quickly. It’s delicious, ice cold, and it makes my mouth a much better place. I clamber out
of bed, anxious to close the distance—real and metaphysical—between my husband and me. I glance quickly at the alarm. It’s eight o’clock. I strip off Christian’s
T-shirt and follow him into the bathroom. He’s in the shower, washing his hair, and I don’t hesitate. I slip in behind him, and he stiffens the moment I wrap my arms
around him—my front to his wet, muscular back. I ignore his reaction, holding him tightly, and press my cheek flat against him, closing my eyes. After a moment,
he shifts so we are both under the cascade of hot water and carries on washing his hair. I let the water wash over me as I cradle the man I love. I think of all the
times he’s fucked me and all the times he’s made love to me in here. I frown. He’s never been this quiet. Turning my head, I start to trail kisses across his back. His
body stiffens again.
“Ana,” he warns.
“Hmm.”
My hands travel slowly down over his taut stomach to his belly. He places both his hands on mine and brings them to an abrupt halt. He shakes his head.
“Don’t,” he warns.
I release him, immediately. He’s saying no? My mind goes into free fall—has this ever happened before? My subconscious shakes her head, her lips pursed. She
glares at me over her half-moon glasses, wearing her you’ve-really-fucked-up-this-time look. I feel like I’ve been slapped, hard. Rejected. And a lifetime of insecurity spawns the ugly thought he doesn’t want me anymore. I gasp as the pain sears through me. Christian turns, and I’m relieved to see he’s not completely
oblivious to my charms. Grasping my chin, he tilts my head back, and I find myself gazing into his wary, beautiful eyes.