Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

to worry about any of that detail. That’s what I’d do as your Dom. And right now, I know you want me, Anastasia.”
    My frown deepens. How can he tell?
    “I can tell because… ”
    Holy shit, he’s answering my unspoken question. Is he psychic as well?
    “… Your body gives you away. You’re pressing your thighs together, you’re flushed, and your breathing has changed.”
    OK, this is too much.
    “How do you know about my thighs?” My voice is low, disbelieving. They’re under the table, for heaven’s sake.
    “I felt the tablecloth move, and it’s a calculated guess based on years of experience. I’m right, aren’t I?”
    I flush and stare down at my hands. That’s what I’m hindered by in this game of seduction. He’s the only one who knows and understands the rules. I’m just too naïve and inexperienced. My only sphere of reference is Kate, and she doesn’t take any shit from men. My other references are all fictional: Elizabeth Bennet would be outraged, Jane Eyre too frightened, and Tess would succumb, just as I have.
    “I haven’t finished my cod.”
    “You’d prefer cold cod to me?”
    My head jerks up to glare at him, and his gray eyes burn molten silver with compelling need.
    “I thought you liked me clearing my plate.”
    “Right now, Miss Steele, I couldn’t give a fuck about your food.”
    “Christian. You just don’t fight fair.”
    “I know. I never have.”
    My inner goddess frowns at me. You can do this, she coaxes – play this sex god at his own game. Can I? Okay. What to do? My inexperience is an albatross around my neck. Picking up a spear of asparagus, I gaze at him and bite my lip. Then very slowly put the tip of my cold asparagus in my mouth and suck it.
    Christian’s eyes widen infinitesimally, but I notice.
    “Anastasia. What are you doing?”
    I bite off the tip.
    “Eating my asparagus.”
    Christian shifts in his seat.
    “I think you’re toying with me, Miss Steele.”
    I feign innocence.
    “I’m just finishing my food, Mr. Grey.”
    The waiter chooses this moment to knock and, unbidden, enter. He glances briefly at Christian, who frowns at him but then nods, so the waiter clears our plates. The waiter’s arrival has broken the spell. And I grasp this precious moment of clarity. I have to go. Our meeting will only end one way if I stay, and I need some boundaries after such an intense conversation. As much as my body craves his touch, my mind is rebelling. I need some distance to think about all he’s said. I still haven’t made a decision, and his sexual allure and prowess doesn’t make it any easier.
    “Would you like some dessert?” Christian asks, ever the gentleman, but his eyes still blaze.
    “No, thank you. I think I should go.” I stare down at my hands.
    “Go?” He can’t hide his surprise.
    The waiter leaves hastily.
    “Yes.” It’s the right decision. If I stay here, in this room with him, he will fuck me. I stand, purposefully. “We both have the graduation ceremony tomorrow.”
    Christian stands automatically, revealing years of ingrained civility.
    “I don’t want you to go.”
    “Please… I have to.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you’ve given me so much to consider… and I need some distance.”
    “I could make you stay,” he threatens.
    “Yes, you could easily, but I don’t want you to.”
    He runs his hand through his hair, regarding me carefully.
    “You know, when you fell into my office to interview me, you were all ‘yes, sir’, ‘no, sir’. I thought you were a natural born submissive. But quite frankly, Anastasia, I’m not sure you have a submissive bone in your delectable body.” He moves slowly toward me as his speaks, his voice tense.
    “You may be right,” I breathe.
    “I want the chance to explore the possibility that you do,” he murmurs, staring down at me. He reaches up and caresses my face, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “I don’t know any other way, Anastasia. This is who I am.”
    “I know.”
    He leans down to kiss me, but pauses before his lips touch mine, his eyes searching mine, wanting, asking permission. I raise my lips to his, and he kisses me and because I don’t know if I’ll ever kiss him again, I let go – my hands moving of their own accord and twisting into his hair, pulling him to me, my mouth opening, my tongue stroking his. His hand grasps the nape of my neck as he deepens the kiss, responding to my ardor. His other hand slides down my back and flattens at the