Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

me. It’s so frustrating. I try to concentrate on our conversation.
    “I seem to remember we were in a private dining room then, discussing contracts.”
    “Happy days,” he says, smirking. “This time I hope to get to fuck you.” He moves his hand to pick up his knife.
    Gah!
    He takes a bite out of his sea bass. He’s doing this on purpose.
    “Don’t count on it,” I mutter with a pout and he glances at me, amused. “Speaking of contracts,” I add. “The NDA.”
    “Tear it up,” he says simply.
    Whoa.
    “What? Really?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re sure I’m not going to run to the Seattle Times with an exposé?” I tease.
    He laughs and it’s a wonderful sound. He looks so young.
    “No. I trust you. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
    Oh. I grin shyly at him. “Ditto,” I breathe.
    His eyes light up. “I’m very glad you’re wearing a dress,” he murmurs. And bam—desire courses through my already overheated blood.
    “Why haven’t you touched me, then?” I hiss.
    “Missing my touch?” he asks grinning. He’s amused . . . the bastard.
    “Yes,” I seethe.
    “Eat,” he orders.
    “You’re not going to touch me, are you?”
    “No.” He shakes his head.
    What? I gasp out loud.
    “Just imagine how you’ll feel when we’re home,” he whispers. “I can’t wait to get you home.”
    “It will be your fault if I combust here on the seventy-sixth floor,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
    “Oh, Anastasia. We’d find a way to put the fire out,” he says, grinning salaciously at me.
    Fuming, I dig into my sea bass, and my inner goddess narrows her eyes in quiet, devious contemplation. We can play this game, too. I learned the basics during our meal at the Heathman. I take a bite out of my sea bass. It is melt-in-the-mouth delicious. I close my eyes, savoring the taste. When I open them, I begin my seduction of Christian Grey, very slowly hitching my skirt up, exposing more of my thighs.
    Christian pauses momentarily, a forkful of fish suspended midair.
    Touch me.
    After a beat, he resumes eating. I take another bite of sea bass, ignoring him. Then, putting down my knife, I run my fingers up the inside of my lower thigh, lightly tapping my skin with my fingertips. It’s distracting even to me, especially as I am craving his touch. Christian pauses once more.
    “I know what you’re doing.” His voice is low and husky.
    “I know that you know, Mr. Grey,” I reply softly. “That’s the point.” I pick up an asparagus stalk, gaze sideways at him from beneath my lashes, then dip the asparagus into the hollandaise sauce, swirling the tip round and round.
    “You’re not turning the tables on me, Miss Steele.” Smirking he reaches over and takes the spear from me—amazingly and annoyingly managing not to touch me again. No, this isn’t right—this is not going according to plan. Gah!
    “Open your mouth,” he commands.  
    I am losing this battle of wills. I glance up at him again, and his eyes blaze bright gray. Parting my lips a fraction I run my tongue across my lower lip. Christian smiles and his eyes darken further.
    “Wider,” he breathes, his lips parting so that I can see his tongue. I groan inwardly and bite my bottom lip, then do as he asks.  
    I hear his sharp intake of breath—he’s not so immune. Good, I am finally getting to him. My inner goddess fist-pumps the air above her chaise longue.
    Keeping my eyes locked on his, I take the spear in my mouth, and suck, gently . . . delicately . . . on the end. The hollandaise sauce is mouthwatering. I bite down, moaning quietly in appreciation.
    Christian closes his eyes. Yes ! When he opens them again, his pupils have dilated. The effect on me is immediate. I groan and reach out to touch his thigh. To my surprise, he uses his other hand to grab my wrist.
    “Oh, no you don’t, Miss Steele,” he murmurs softly. Raising my hand to his mouth, he gently brushes my knuckles with his lips, and I squirm. Finally! More, please.
    “Don’t touch,” he scolds me quietly, and places my hand back on my knee. It’s so frustrating—this brief unsatisfactory contact.
    “You don’t play fair.” I pout.
    “I know.” He picks up his champagne glass to propose a toast, and I mirror his actions.
    “Congratulations on your promotion, Miss Steele.” We clink glasses and I blush.
    “Yes, kind of unexpected,” I mutter. He frowns as if some unpleasant thought has crossed his mind.
    “Eat,” he