Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

a repressed smile.
    “Don’t make me laugh when I am mad at you!” I shout.
    And he smiles, a dazzling, full-toothed, all-American-boy smile, and I can’t help it. I am grinning and laughing, too. How could I not be affected by the joy I see in his smile?
    “Just because I have a stupid damn grin on my face doesn’t mean I’m not mad as hell at you,” I mutter breathlessly, trying to suppress my high-school-cheerleader giggling. Though I was never cheerleader —the bitter thought crosses my mind.  
    He leans in, and I think he’s going to kiss me but he doesn’t. He nuzzles my hair and inhales deeply.
    “As ever, Miss Steele, you are unexpected.” He leans back and gazes at me, his eyes dancing with humor. “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?”
    He laughs. “Are you going to let me in or not, Anastasia?”
    I try for a grudging look—biting my lip helps—but I’m smiling as I open the door. Christian turns and waves to Taylor, and the Audi pulls away.

    It’s odd having Christian Grey in the apartment. The place feels too small for him.  
    I am still mad at him—his stalking knows no bounds, and it dawns on me that this is how he knew about the e-mail being monitored at SIP. He probably knows more about SIP than I do. The thought is unsavory.  
    What can I do? Why does he have this need to keep me safe? I am a grown-up— sort of —for heaven’s sake. What can I do to reassure him?  
    I gaze at his beautiful face as he paces the room like a caged predator, and my anger subsides. Seeing him here in my space when I thought we were over is heartwarming. More than heartwarming, I love him, and my heart swells with a nervous, heady elation. He glances around, assessing his surroundings.
    “Nice place,” he says.
    “Kate’s parents bought it for her.”
    He nods distractedly, and his bold gray eyes come to rest on mine, staring at me.
    “Er . . . would you like a drink?” I mutter, flushing with nerves.
    “No, thank you, Anastasia.” His eyes darken.
    Oh crap. Why am I so nervous?
    “What would you like to do, Anastasia?” he asks softly as he walks toward me, all feral and hot. “I know what I want to do,” he adds in a low voice.
    I back up until I bump against the concrete kitchen island.  
    “I’m still mad at you.”
    “I know.” He smiles a lopsided apologetic smile and I melt . . . Well, maybe not so mad.
    “Would you like something to eat?” I ask.
    He nods slowly. “Yes. You,” he murmurs. Everything south of my waistline clenches. I’m seduced by his voice alone, but that look, that hungry I-want-you-now look—oh my.  
    He’s standing in front of me, not quite touching, staring down into my eyes and bathing me in the heat that’s radiating off his body. I’m stiflingly hot, flustered, and my legs are like jelly as dark desire courses through me. I want him.
    “Have you eaten today?” he murmurs.
    “I had a sandwich at lunch,” I whisper. I don’t want to talk food.
    He narrows his eyes. “You need to eat.”
    “I’m really not hungry right now . . . for food.”
    “What are you hungry for, Miss Steele?”  
    “I think you know, Mr. Grey.”
    He leans down, and again I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t.  
    “Do you want me to kiss you, Anastasia?” he whispers softly in my ear.
    “Yes,” I breathe.
    “Where?”
    “Everywhere.”
    “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that. I told you I am not going to touch you until you beg me and tell me what to do.”
    My inner goddess is writhing on her chaise longue. I am lost; he’s not playing fair.
    “Please,” I whisper.
    “Please what?”
    “Touch me.”
    “Where, baby?”
    He is so tantalizingly close, his scent intoxicating. I reach up, and immediately he steps back.
    “No, no,” he chides, his eyes suddenly wide and alarmed.
    “What?” No . . . come back .
    “No.” He shakes his head.
    “Not at all?” I can’t keep the longing out of my voice.
    He looks at me uncertainly, and I’m emboldened by his hesitation. I step toward him, and he steps back, holding up his hands in defense, but smiling.
    “Look, Ana.” It’s a warning, and he runs his hand through his hair, exasperated.
    “Sometimes you don’t mind,” I observe plaintively.