“Oh, Christian, what are you talking about? He hasn’t done anything wrong”
Why is she frowning? Does he make her uncomfortable? Talk to me, Ana. Please. “He makes one move, you tell me. It’s called gross moral turpitude—or sexual harassment.”
“It was just a drink after work.”
“I mean it. One move and he’s out.”
“You don’t have that kind of power,” she scoffs, amused. But her smile fades and she regards me with skepticism. “Do you, Christian?”
I do, actually. I smile at her.
“You’re buying the company?” she whispers, and she looks appalled.
“Not exactly.” This is not the reaction I was expecting, nor is the conversation going the way I thought it would.
“You’ve bought it. SIP. Already.” Her face pales.
Christ! She’s pissed.
“Possibly,” I answer, cautiously.
“You have or you haven’t?” she demands.
Showtime, Grey. Tell her.
“Have.”
“Why?” Her voice is shrill.
“Because I can, Anastasia. I need you safe.”
“But you said you wouldn’t interfere in my career!”
“And I won’t.”
She snatches her hand back. “Christian!”
Shit. “Are you mad at me?”
“Yes. Of course I’m mad at you,” she yells. “I mean, what kind of responsible business executive makes decisions based on who he is currently fucking?” She glances nervously at Taylor, then glares at me, her expression full of recrimination.
And I want to admonish her for her foul mouth and for overreacting. I start to tell her so, then decide that it might not be a good idea. Her lips are set in the mulish Steele pout that I know so well…I have missed that, too.
She folds her arms in disgust.
Fuck.
She’s really mad.
I glare back at her, wanting nothing more than to drag her across my knee—but, sadly, that’s not an option.
Hell, I was only doing what I thought was best.
Taylor parks outside her apartment, and before he’s stopped, it seems, she’s out of the car.
Shit! “I think you’d better wait here,” I say to Taylor, and I scramble after her. My evening may be about to take a radically different course than the one I’d planned. I may have blown it already.
When I reach her at the lobby door, she’s rummaging around in her purse for keys; I stand behind her, helpless.
What to do?
“Anastasia,” I entreat her, as I try to remain calm. She lets out an exaggerated sigh and turns to face me, her mouth pressed in a hard line.
Following up what she said in the car, I try for humor. “First, I haven’t fucked you for a while—a long while, it feels—and second, I wanted to get into publishing. Of the four companies in Seattle, SIP is the most profitable.” I keep talking about the company but what I really want to say is…Please don’t fight with me.
“So you’re my boss now?” she snaps.
“Technically, I’m your boss’s boss’s boss.”
“And technically, it’s gross moral turpitude—the fact that I am fucking my boss’s boss’s boss.”
“At the moment, you’re arguing with him.” My voice is beginning to rise.
“That’s because he’s such an ass.”
Ass. Ass!
She’s calling me names! The only people who do that are Mia and Elliot.
“An ass?” Yes. Maybe I am. And suddenly I want to laugh. Anastasia called me an ass—Elliot would approve.
“Yes.” She’s trying to stay mad at me, but her mouth is lifting at the corners.
“An ass?” I repeat, and I cannot help my smile.
“Don’t make me laugh when I’m mad at you!” she shouts, trying and failing to stay serious. I give her my best one-thousand-watt smile and she unleashes an uninhibited, spontaneous laugh that makes me feel ten feet tall.
Success!
“Just because I have a stupid damn grin on my face doesn’t mean I am not mad as hell at you,” she claims between giggles. Leaning forward, I nuzzle her hair and inhale deeply. Her scent and her proximity stir my libido. I want her.
“As ever, Miss Steele, you are unexpected.” I gaze down, treasuring her flushed face and shining eyes. She’s beautiful. “So are you going to invite me in, or am I to be sent packing for exercising my democratic right as an American citizen, entrepreneur, and consumer to purchase whatever I damn well please?”
“Have you spoken to Dr. Flynn about this?”
I laugh. Not yet. It will be a mindfuck when I do.
“Are you going to let me in or not, Anastasia?”
For a moment she looks undecided, making my heartbeat spike. But she bites her lip, then smiles and opens the door for me. I wave Taylor off and follow Ana upstairs, enjoying the fantastic view of her ass. The gentle sway of her hips as she climbs each step is beyond seductive—more so, I think, because she has no idea she’s so alluring. Her innate sensuality stems from her innocence: her willingness to experiment, and her ability to trust.
Damn. I hope I still have her trust. After all, I drove her away. I will have to work hard to rebuild it. I don’t want to lose her again.
Her apartment is neat and tidy, as I would expect, but it has an unused, uninhabited vibe about it. It reminds me of the gallery: it’s all old brick and wood. The concrete kitchen island is a stark and novel design statement. I like it.
“Nice place,” I remark with approval.
“Kate’s parents bought it for her.”
Eamon Kavanagh has indulged his daughter. It’s a stylish place—he’s chosen well. I hope Katherine appreciates it. I turn and stare at Ana as she stands by the island. I wonder how she feels living with such a well-off friend. I’m sure she pays her way…but it must be tough to play second fiddle to Katherine Kavanagh. Maybe she likes it, or maybe she finds it a struggle. She certainly doesn’t squander her money on clothes. But I’ve remedied that; I have a closetful for her at Escala. I wonder what she’ll think about that? She’ll likely give me a hard time.
Don’t think about that now, Grey.
Ana’s studying me, her eyes dark. She licks her bottom lip, and my body lights up like a firework.
“Er…would you like a drink?” she asks.
“No thank you, Anastasia.” I want you.
She clasps her hands together, seemingly at a loss and looking a little apprehensive. Do I still make her nervous? This woman can bring me to my knees, and she’s the one who’s nervous?
“What would you like to do, Anastasia?” I ask, and move closer to her, my eyes not leaving hers. “I know what I want to do.”
And we can do it here, or in your bedroom, or your bathroom, I don’t care—I just want you. Now.
Her lips part as her breath hitches and her breathing quickens.
Oh, that sound is beguiling.
You want me, too, baby.
I know it.
I feel it.
She backs up against the kitchen island with nowhere else to go.
“I’m still mad at you,” she asserts, but her voice is tremulous and soft. She doesn’t sound mad at all. Wanton, maybe. But not mad.
“I know,” I agree, and give her a wolfish grin. Her eyes widen.
Oh, baby.
“Would you like something to eat?” she whispers.