I nod slowly. “Yes. You.”
Standing over her, staring into eyes that are dark with desire, I feel the heat from her body. It’s searing me. I want to be wrapped in it. Bathed in it. I want to make her scream and moan and call out my name. I want to reclaim her and wipe the memory of our breakup from her mind.
I want to make her mine. Again.
But first things first.
“Have you eaten today?” I need to know.
“I had a sandwich at lunch.”
That will do. “You need to eat,” I chide her.
“I’m really not hungry right now…for food.”
“What are you hungry for, Miss Steele?” I lower my face so that our lips are almost touching.
“I think you know, Mr. Grey.”
She’s not wrong. I stifle my groan and it takes all my self-control not to grab her and toss her onto the concrete counter. But I was serious when I said she’d have to beg. She has to tell me what she wants. She has to vocalize her feelings, her needs, and desires. I want to learn what makes her happy. I lean down as if to kiss her, fooling her, and whisper in her ear instead.
“Do you want me to kiss you, Anastasia?”
She inhales sharply. “Yes.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that. I told you I’m not going to touch you until you beg me and tell me what to do.”
“Please,” she pleads.
Oh no, baby. I’m not going to make this easy on you. “Please what?”
“Touch me.”
“Where, baby?”
She reaches for me.
No.
The darkness erupts inside me and grips my throat with its claws. Instinctively, I step back, my heart pounding as fear courses through my body.
Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.
Fuck.
“No. No,” I mutter.
This is why I have rules.
“What?” She’s confused.
“No.” I shake my head. She knows this. I told her yesterday. I have to make her understand she can’t touch me.
“Not at all?” She steps toward me and I don’t know what she intends. The darkness stabs at my insides, so I take another step back and hold up my hands to ward her off.
With a smile, I beseech her, “Look. Ana…” But I can’t find the right words.
Please. Don’t touch me. I can’t handle it.
Damn, it’s frustrating.
“Sometimes you don’t mind,” she protests. “Perhaps I should find a marker pen, and we could map out the no-go areas.”
Well, that’s an approach that I’ve not considered before. “That’s not a bad idea. Where’s your bedroom?” I need to move her on from this subject.
She nods to the left.
“Have you been taking your pill?”
Her face falls. “No.”
What!
After all the trouble we went to to get her on the fucking pill! I can’t believe she just stopped taking it.
“I see.”
This is a disaster. What the hell am I going to do with her? Damn it. I need condoms. “Come, let’s have something to eat,” I say, thinking that we can go out and I can replenish my supply.
“I thought we were going to bed. I want to go to bed with you.” She sounds sullen.
“I know, baby.”
But with us it’s two steps forward and one step back.
This evening is not going as planned. Maybe it was too much to hope. How can she be with a fucked-up asshole who can’t bear to be touched? And how can I be with someone who forgets to take their damned pill? I hate condoms.
Christ. Maybe we are incompatible.
Enough of the negative thinking, Grey. Enough!
She looks crestfallen, and part of me is suddenly absurdly pleased that she does. At least she wants me. I bound forward and grab her wrists, pinning her hands behind her and pulling her into my arms. Her slender body against the length of mine feels good. But she’s slim. Too slim. “You need to eat and so do I.” And you’ve completely thrown me by trying to touch me. I need to recover my composure, baby. “Besides…anticipation is the key to seduction, and right now I’m really into delayed gratification.” Especially with no contraception.
She looks a little skeptical.
Yes, I know. I just made that up.
“I’m seduced and I want my gratification now. I’ll beg. Please,” she whimpers.
She is Eve herself: temptation incarnate. I tighten my hold and there’s definitely less of her. It’s disconcerting, more so because I know I’m to blame. “Eat. You’re too slender.” I kiss her forehead and release her, wondering where we can dine.
“I’m still mad that you bought SIP, and now I’m mad at you because you’re making me wait.” She purses her lips.
“You are one angry little madam, aren’t you?” I state, knowing she won’t understand the compliment. “You’ll feel better after a good meal.”
“I know what I’ll feel better after.”
“Anastasia Steele, I’m shocked.” I feign outrage and hold my palm against my heart.
“Stop teasing me. You don’t fight fair.” All of a sudden her stance changes. “I could cook something,” she says, “except we’ll have to go shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“For groceries.”
“You have no food here?” For heaven’s sake—no wonder she hasn’t eaten! “Let’s go shopping, then.” I stride to the door of her apartment and open it wide, gesturing for her to exit. This could work in my favor. I just need to find a pharmacy or a convenience store.
“Okay, okay,” she says, and scurries out the door.
As we walk down the street hand in hand, I wonder at how, in her presence, I can run through an entire spectrum of emotion: from angry, to carnal, to fearful, to playful. Before Ana, I was calm and stable, but boy, was my life monotonous. That changed the moment she fell into my office. Being with her is like being inside a storm, my feelings colliding and crashing together, then surging and ebbing away. I hardly know which way is up. Ana’s never dull. I just hope what’s left of my heart can cope.
We walk two blocks to Ernie’s Supermarket. It’s small, and packed with too many people; mostly singles, I think, judging from the contents of their shopping baskets. And here am I, single no more.
I like that idea.
I follow in Ana’s wake, holding a wire basket and enjoying the view of her ass, all tight and taut in her jeans. I especially like it when she leans over the vegetable counter and picks up some onions. The fabric stretches across her behind and her blouse rides up, revealing a sliver of pale, flawless skin.
Oh, what I’d like to do to that ass.
Ana is looking at me, perplexed and asking me questions about when I was last in a supermarket? I have no idea. She wants to cook stir-fry because it’s quick. Quick, huh? I smirk and follow her through the store, enjoying how adept she is at choosing her ingredients: a squeeze of a tomato here, the sniff of a pepper there. As we walk to the checkout she asks me about my staff and how long they’ve been with me. Why does she want to know? “Taylor, four years, I think. Mrs. Jones, about the same.”
I ask her a question of my own. “Why didn’t you have any food in the apartment?”
Her expression clouds. “You know why.”