Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

opener is in that drawer there.” I point with my chin.  
    This feels so . . . normal. Two people, getting to know each other, having a meal. Yet it’s so strange. The fear that I’d always felt in his presence has gone. We’ve already done so much together, I blush just thinking about it, and yet I hardly know him.
    “What are you thinking about?” Christian interrupts my reverie as he shrugs out of his pinstripe jacket and places it on the couch.
    “How little I know you, really.”
    He gazes at me and his eyes soften. “You know me better than anyone.”  
    “I don’t think that’s true.” Mrs. Robinson comes unbidden, and very unwelcome, into my mind.
    “It is, Anastasia. I am a very, very private person.”
    He hands me a glass of white wine.
    “Cheers,” he says.
    “Cheers,” I respond taking a sip as he puts the bottle in the fridge.
    “Can I help you with that?” he asks.
    “No it’s fine . . . sit.”
    “I’d like to help.” His expression is sincere.
    “You can chop the vegetables.”
    “I don’t cook,” he says, regarding the knife I hand him with suspicion.
    “I imagine you don’t need to.” I place a chopping board and some red peppers in front of him. He stares down at them in confusion.
    “You’ve never chopped a vegetable?”
    “No.”
    I smirk at him.
    “Are you smirking at me?”
    “It appears this is something that I can do and you can’t. Let’s face it, Christian, I think this is a first. Here, I’ll show you.”
    I brush up against him and he steps back. My inner goddess sits up and takes notice.
    “Like this.” I slice the red pepper, careful to remove the seeds.
    “Looks simple enough.”
    “You shouldn’t have any trouble with it,” I mutter ironically.
    He gazes at me impassively for a moment then sets about his task as I continue to prepare the diced chicken. He starts to slice, carefully, slowly. Oh my, we’ll be here all day .
    I wash my hands and hunt for the wok, the oil, and the other ingredients I need, repeatedly brushing against him—my hip, my arm, my back, my hands. Small, seemingly innocent touches. He stills each time I do.
    “I know what you’re doing, Anastasia,” he murmurs darkly, still preparing the first pepper.
    “I think it’s called cooking,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes. Grabbing another knife, I join him at the chopping board peeling and slicing garlic, shallots, and French beans, continually bumping against him.
    “You’re quite good at this,” he mutters as he starts on his second red pepper.
    “Chopping?” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Years of practice.” I brush against him again, this time with my behind. He stills once more.
    “If you do that again, Anastasia, I am going to take you on the kitchen floor.”
    Oh, wow. It’s working. “You’ll have to beg me first.”
    “Is that a challenge?”
    “Maybe.”
    He puts down his knife and saunters slowly over to me, his eyes burning. Leaning past me, he switches the gas off. The oil in the wok quiets almost immediately.
    “I think we’ll eat later,” he says. “Put the chicken in the fridge.”
    This is not a sentence I had ever expected to hear from Christian Grey, and only he can make it sound hot, really hot. I pick up the bowl of diced chicken, rather shakily place a plate on top of it, and stow it in the fridge. When I turn back, he’s beside me.
    “So you’re going to beg?” I whisper, bravely gazing into his darkening eyes.
    “No, Anastasia.” He shakes his head. “No begging.” His voice is soft, seductive.
    And we stand staring at each other, drinking each other in—the atmosphere charging between us, almost crackling, neither saying anything, just looking. I bite my lip as desire for this beautiful man seizes me with a vengeance, igniting my blood, shallowing my breath, pooling below my waist. I see my reactions reflected in his stance, in his eyes.  
    In a beat, he grabs me by my hips and pulls me to him as my hands reach for his hair and his mouth claims me. He pushes me against the fridge, and I hear the vague protesting rattle of bottles and jars from within as his tongue finds mine. I moan into his mouth, and one of his hands moves into my hair, pulling my head back as we kiss, savagely.
    “What do you want, Anastasia?” he breathes.
    “You.” I gasp.
    “Where?”
    “Bed.”
    He breaks free, scoops me into his arms, and carries me quickly and seemingly without any strain into my bedroom. Setting me on my