Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

really, Mr. Grey?” I challenge, grinning back at him. Two can play this game.
    “Are you going to stop me?”
    “You’re going to have to catch me first.”
    His eyes widen a fraction, and he grins, slowly getting to his feet.
    “Oh, really, Miss Steele?”
    The breakfast bar is between us. I have never been so grateful for its existence than in this moment.
    “And you’re biting your lip,” he breathes, moving slowly to his left as I move to mine.
    “You wouldn’t,” I tease. “After all, you roll your eyes.” I try reasoning with him. He continues to move toward his left, as do I.
    “Yes, but you’ve just raised the bar on the excitement stakes with this game.” His eyes blaze, and wild anticipation emanates from him.
    “I’m quite fast, you know.” I try for nonchalance.
    “So am I.”
    He’s stalking me, in his own kitchen.
    “Are you going to come quietly?” he asks.
    “Do I ever?”
    “Miss Steele, what do you mean?” he smirks. “It’ll be worse for you if I have to come and get you.”
    “That’s only if you catch me, Christian. And right now, I have no intention of letting you catch me.”
    “Anastasia, you may fall and hurt yourself. Which will put you in direct contravention of rule number seven.”
    “I have been in danger since I met you, Mr. Grey, rules or no rules.”
    “Yes you have.” He pauses, and his brow furrows slightly.
    Suddenly, he lunges for me, making me squeal and run for the dining room table. I manage to escape, putting the table between us. My heart is pounding and adrenaline has spiked through my body… boy... this is so thrilling. I’m a child again, though that’s not right. I watch him carefully as he paces deliberately toward me. I inch away.
    “You certainly know how to distract a man, Anastasia.”
    “We aim to please, Mr. Grey. Distract you from what?”
    “Life. The universe.” He waves one of his hands vaguely.
    “You did seem very preoccupied as you were playing.”
    He stops and folds his arms, his expression amused.
    “We can do this all day, baby, but I will get you, and it will just be worse for you when I do.”
    “No, you won’t.” I must not be overconfident. I repeat this as a mantra. My subconscious has found her Nikes, and she’s on the starting blocks.
    “Anyone would think you didn’t want me to catch you.”
    “I don’t. That’s the point. I feel about punishment the way you feel about me touching you.”
    His entire demeanor changes in a nanosecond. Gone is playful Christian, and he stands staring at me as if I’d slapped him. He’s ashen.
    “That’s how you feel?” he whispers.
    Those four words, and the way he utters them, speaks volumes. Oh no. They tell me so much more about him and how he feels. They tell me about his fear and loathing. I frown. No, I don’t feel that bad. No way. Do I?
    “No. It doesn’t affect me quite as much as that, but it gives you an idea,” I murmur, staring anxiously at him.
    “Oh,” he says.
    Crap. He looks completely and utterly lost, like I’ve pulled the rug from under his feet.
    Taking a deep breath, I move round the table until I am standing in front of him, gazing into his apprehensive eyes.
    “You hate it that much?” he breathes, his eyes filled with horror.
    “Well… no,” I reassure him. Jeez – that’s how he feels about people touching him? “No. I feel ambivalent about it. I don’t like it, but I don’t hate it.”
    “But last night, in the playroom, you… ” he trails off.
    “I do it for you, Christian, because you need it. I don’t. You didn’t hurt me last night. That was in a different context, and I can rationalize that internally, and I trust you. But when you want to punish me, I worry that you’ll hurt me.”
    His gray eyes blaze like a turbulent storm. Time moves, and expands and slips away before he answers softly.
    “I want to hurt you. But not beyond anything that you couldn’t take.”
    Fuck!
    “Why?”
    He runs his hand through his hair, and he shrugs.
    “I just need it.” He pauses, gazing at me with anguish, and he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t tell you,” he whispers.
    “Can’t or won’t?”
    “Won’t.”
    “So you know why.”
    “Yes.”
    “But you won’t tell me.”
    “If I do, you will run screaming from this room, and you’ll never want to return.” He stares at me warily. “I can’t risk that, Anastasia.”
    “You want me to stay.”
    “More than you know. I couldn’t bear