Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

I feel. You’ve made all these changes for me, and I . . . I think I should reciprocate in some way. I don’t know—maybe . . . try . . . some role-playing games,” I stutter, my face as crimson as the walls of the playroom.  
    Why is this so hard to talk about? I have done all manner of kinky fuckery with this man, things I hadn’t even heard of a few weeks ago, things that I would never have thought possible, yet the hardest of all is talking to him.
    “Ana, you do reciprocate, more than you know. Please, please don’t feel like this.”
    Gone is carefree Christian. His eyes are wider now with alarm, and it’s gut-wrenching. “Baby, it’s only been one weekend,” he continues. “Give us some time. I thought a great deal about us last week when you left. We need time. You need to trust me, and I you. Maybe in time we can indulge, but I like how you are now. I like seeing you this happy, this relaxed and carefree, knowing that I had something to do with it. I have never—” He stops and runs his hand through his hair. “We have to walk before we can run.” Suddenly he smirks.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “Flynn. He says that all the time. I never thought I’d be quoting him.”
    “A Flynnism.”
    Christian laughs. “Exactly.”
    The waiter arrives with our starters and bruschetta, and our conversation changes tack as Christian relaxes.  
    But when the unfeasibly large plates are placed before us, I can’t help think how I have thought of Christian today—relaxed, happy and carefree. At least he’s laughing now, at ease again.  
    I breathe an inward sigh of relief as he starts quizzing me about places I’ve been. This is a short discussion, since I have never been anywhere except the continental US. Christian, on the other hand, has traveled the world. We slip into an easier, happier conversation, talking about all the places he’s visited.

    After our tasty and filling meal, Christian drives back to Escala, Eva Cassidy’s gentle sweet voice singing over the speakers. It allows me a peaceful interlude in which to think. I have had a mind-blowing day. Dr. Greene, our shower, Christian’s admission, making love at the hotel and on the boat, buying the car. Even Christian himself has been so different. It’s as if he’s letting go of something or rediscovering something—I don’t know.  
    Who knew he could be so sweet? Did he?  
    When I glance at him, he, too, looks lost in thought. It strikes me then that he never really had an adolescence—a normal one anyway. I shake my head.  
    My mind drifts back to the ball and dancing with Dr. Flynn and Christian’s fear that Flynn had told me all about him. Christian is still hiding something from me. How can we move on if he feels that way?  
    He thinks I might leave if I know him. He thinks that I might leave if he’s himself.   Oh, this man is so complicated .
    As we get closer to his home, he starts radiating tension until it becomes palpable. As we drive, he scans the sidewalks and side alleys, his eyes darting everywhere, and I know he’s looking for Leila. I start looking, too. Every young brunette is a suspect, but we don’t see her.  
    When he pulls into the garage, his mouth is set in a tense, grim line. I wonder why we’ve come back here if he’s going to be so wary and uptight. Sawyer is in the garage, patrolling. The defiled Audi is gone. He comes to open my door as Christian pulls in beside the SUV.
    “Hello, Sawyer,” I murmur my greeting.
    “Miss Steele.” He nods. “Mr. Grey.”
    “No sign?” Christian asks.
    “No, sir.”
    Christian nods, grasps my hand, and heads for the elevator. I know his brain is working overtime—he’s distracted. Once we’re inside he turns to me.
    “You are not allowed out of here alone. You understand?” he snaps.
    “Okay.” Jeez—keep your hair on . But his attitude makes me smile. I want to hug myself—now this man, all domineering and short with me I know. I marvel that I would have found it so threatening only a week or so ago when he spoke to me this way. But now, I understand him so much better. This is his coping mechanism. He’s stressed about Leila, he loves me, and he wants to protect me.
    “What’s so funny?” he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his expression.
    “You are.”
    “Me? Miss Steele? Why am I funny?” he pouts.
    Christian pouting is . . . hot.
    “Don’t pout.”
    “Why?” He’s even more amused.
    “Because it has the same effect