Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

familiarity. Christian shows him to the foyer door and returns moments later.
    “I’m glad you kept it long,” he says as he walks toward me, his eyes bright. He takes a strand between his fingers.
    “So soft,” he murmurs, gazing down at me. “Are you still mad at me?”
    I nod and he smiles.
    “What precisely are you mad at me about?”
    I roll my eyes. “You want the list?”
    “There’s a list?”
    “A long one.”
    “Can we discuss it in bed?”
    “No.” I pout at him childishly.
    “Over lunch, then. I’m hungry, and not just for food,” he gives me a salacious smile.
    “I am not going to let you dazzle me with your sexpertise.”
    He stifles a smile. “What is bothering you specifically, Miss Steele? Spit it out.”
    Okay .
    “What’s bothering me? Well, there’s your gross invasion of my privacy, the fact that you took me to some place where your ex-mistress works and you used to take all your lovers to have their bits waxed, you manhandled me in the street like I was six years old—and to cap it all, you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!” My voice has risen to a crescendo.
    He raises his eyebrows, and his good humor vanishes.
    “That’s quite a list. But just to clarify once more—she’s not my Mrs. Robinson.”
    “She can touch you,” I repeat.
    He purses his lips. “She knows where.”
    “What does that mean?”
    He runs both hands through his hair and closes his eyes briefly, as if he’s seeking divine guidance of some kind. He swallows.
    “You and I don’t have any rules. I have never had a relationship without rules, and I never know where you’re going to touch me. It makes me nervous. Your touch completely—” He stops, searching for the words. “It just means more . . . so much more”
    More? His answer’s completely unexpected, throwing me, and there’s that little word with the big meaning hanging between us again.  
    My touch means . . . more. Holy cow. How am I supposed to resist when he says this stuff? Gray eyes search mine, watching, apprehensive.  
    Tentatively I reach out and apprehension shifts to alarm. Christian steps back and I drop my hand.
    “Hard limit,” he whispers urgently, a pained, panicked look on his face.
    I can’t help but feel a crushing disappointment. “How would you feel if you couldn’t touch me?”
    “Devastated and deprived,” he says immediately.
    Oh, my Fifty Shades . Shaking my head, I offer him a small, reassuring smile and he relaxes.
    “You’ll have to tell me exactly why this is a hard limit, one day, please.”
    “One day,” he murmurs and seems to snap out of his vulnerability in a nanosecond.  
    How can he switch so quickly? He’s the most capricious person I know.
    “So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy.” His mouth twists as he contemplates this. “Because I know your bank account number?”
    “Yes, that’s outrageous.”
    “I do background checks on all my submissives. I’ll show you.” He turns and heads for his study.  
    I dutifully follow him, dazed. From a locked filing cabinet, he pulls a manila folder. Typed on the tab: A NASTASIA R OSE S TEELE .
    Holy fucking shit. I glare at him.
    He shrugs apologetically. “You can keep it,” he says quietly.
    “Well, gee, thanks,” I snap. I flick through the contents. He has a copy of my birth certificate, for heaven’s sake, my hard limits, the NDA, the contract— Jeez —my social security number, resume, employment records.
    “So you knew I worked at Clayton’s?”
    “Yes.”
    “It wasn’t a coincidence. You didn’t just drop by?”
    “No.”
    I don’t know whether to be angry or flattered.
    “This is fucked-up. You know that?”
    “I don’t see it that way. What I do, I have to be careful.”
    “But this is private.”
    “I don’t misuse the information. Anyone can get hold of it if they have half a mind to, Anastasia. To have control—I need information. It’s how I’ve always operated.” He gazes at me, his expression guarded and unreadable.
    “You do misuse the information. You deposited twenty-four thousand dollars that I didn’t want into my account.”
    His mouth presses in a hard line. “I told you. That’s what Taylor managed to get for your car. Unbelievable, I know, but there you go.”
    “But the Audi . . .”
    “Anastasia, do you have any idea how much money I make?”
    I flush, of course not. “Why should I? I don’t need to know the bottom line of your bank account,