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I moan between parted lips and arch my back so my breasts fill my palms. He squeezes my nipples between our thumbs, pulling gently so that they elongate further. I watch in fascination at the wanton creature writhing in front of me. Oh this feels good. I groan and close my eyes, no longer wanting to see that libidinous woman in the mirror falling apart under her own hands… his hands… feeling my skin as he would, experiencing how arousing it is – just his touch, and his calm, soft, commands.
“That’s right, baby,” he murmurs.
He guides my hands down the sides of my body, past my waist to my hips, and across to my pubic hair. He slides his leg in between mine, pushing my feet further apart, widening my stance, and runs my hands over my sex, one hand at a time in turn, setting up a rhythm. It is so erotic. Truly I am a marionette and he is the master puppeteer.
“Look at you glow, Anastasia,” he whispers as he trails kisses and soft bites along my shoulder. I groan. Suddenly he lets go.
“Carry on,” he orders, and stands back watching me.
I rub myself. No. I want him, him to do it. It doesn’t feel the same. I’m lost without him. He pulls his shirt over his head and quickly takes off his jeans.
“You’d rather I do this?” His gray gaze scorches mine in the mirror.
“Oh yes… please,” I breathe.
He wraps his arms around me again and takes my hands once more, continuing the sensual caress across my sex, over my clitoris. His chest hair scrapes against me, his erection presses against me. Oh soon… please. He bites the nape of my neck, and I close my eyes, enjoying the myriad of sensations; my neck, my groin… the feel of him behind me.
He stops abruptly and spins me around, circling my wrists with one hand, imprisoning my hands behind me, and pulling at my ponytail with the other. I am flush against him, and he kisses me wildly, ravaging my mouth with his. Holding, h me in place.
His breathing is ragged, matching mine.
“When did you start your period, Anastasia?” he asks out of the blue, gazing down at me. “Err... yesterday,” I mumble in my highly aroused state.
“Good.” He releases me and turns me around.
“Hold on to the sink,” he orders and pulls my hips back again, like he did in the playroom, so I’m bending down.
He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string… what! And… a gently pulls my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet. Holy fuck. Sweet mother of all… Jeez.
And then he’s inside me… ah! Skin against skin… moving slowly at first… easily, testing me, pushing me… oh my. I grip on to the sink, panting, forcing myself back on him, feeling him inside me. Oh the sweet agony… his hands clasp my hips. He sets a punishing rhythm – in, out, and he reaches around and finds my clitoris, massaging me… oh jeez. I can feel myself quicken.
“That’s right, baby,” he rasps as he grinds into me, angling his hips, and it’s enough to send me flying, flying high.
Whoa … and I come, loudly, gripping for dear life onto the sink as I spiral down through my orgasm, everything spinning and clenching at once. He follows, clasping me tightly, his front on my back as he climaxes and calls my name like it’s a litany or a prayer.
“Oh, Ana!” His breathing is ragged in my ear, in perfect synergy with mine. “Oh, baby, will I ever get enough of you?” he whispers.
Will it always be like this? So overwhelming, so all‑consuming, so bewildering and beguiling. I wanted to talk, but now I’m spent and dazed from his lovemaking and wondering if I will ever get enough of him?
We sink slowly to the floor, and he wraps his arms around me, imprisoning me. I am curled on his lap, my head against his chest, as we both calm. Very subtly, I inhale his sweet, intoxicating Christian scent. I must not nuzzle. I must not nuzzle. I repeat the mantra in my head – though I am so tempted to do so. I want to lift my hand and draw patterns in his chest hair with my fingertips… but I resist, knowing that he’ll hate it if I do. We are both quiet, lost in our thoughts. I am lost in him… lost to him.
I remember that I have my period.
“I’m bleeding,” I murmur.
“Doesn’t bother me,” he breathes.
“I noticed.” I can’t keep the dryness out of my voice.
He tenses slightly.
“Does it bother you?” he asks softly.
Does it bother me? Maybe it should… should it? No, it doesn’t. I lean back and look up at him, and he gazes down at me, his eyes a soft cloudy gray.
“No, not at all.”
He smirks.
“Good. Let’s have a bath.”
He uncurls from around me, placing me on the floor as he makes to stand. As he does, I notice again the small, round, white scars on his chest. They are not chicken pox, I muse absentmindedly. Grace said he was hardly affected. Holy shit … they must be burns.
Burns from what? I blanch at the realization, shock and revulsion coursing through me.
From cigarettes? Mrs. Robinson, his birth mother, who? Who did this to him? Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation, and I’m over‑reacting – wild hope blossoms in my chest
– hope that I am wrong.
“What is it?” Christian’s face is wide‑eyed with alarm.
“Your scars,” I whisper. “They’re not from chicken pox.” I watch as in a split second he closes down, his stance changing from relaxed, calm, and at ease, to defensive – angry, even. He frowns, his face darkening, and his mouth presses into a thin, hard line.
“No, they’re not,” he snaps, but he does not elaborate further. He stands, holds his hand out for me, and hauls me to my feet.
“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is colder and scolding as he lets go of my hand.
I flush, chastened, and stare down at my fingers, and I know, I know that someone stubbed cigarettes out on Christian. I feel sick.
“Did she do that?” I whisper before I can stop myself.
He says nothing, so I’m forced to look at him. He’s glaring at me.
“She? Mrs. Robinson? She’s not an animal, Anastasia. Of course she didn’t. I don’t understand why you feel you have to demonize her.”
He’s standing there, naked, gloriously naked, with my blood on him… and we’re finally having this conversation. And I’m naked too – neither of us has anywhere to hide, except perhaps the bath. I take a deep breath, move past him, and step down into the water.
It is deliciously warm, soothing, and deep. I melt into the fragrant foam and stare up at him, hiding among the bubbles.
“I just wonder what you would be like if you hadn’t met her. If she hadn’t introduced you to your… um, lifestyle.”
He sighs and steps down into the bath opposite me, his jaw clenched with tension, his eyes frosty. As he gracefully submerges his body beneath the water, he’s careful not to touch me. Jeez – have I made him that mad?
He stares impassively at me, his face unreadable, saying nothing. Again the silence stretches between us, but I hold my counsel. It’s your turn Grey – I am not caving this time.
My subconscious is nervous, anxiously biting her nails – this could go either way. Christian and I stare at each other, but I am not backing down. Eventually, after what seems like a millennium, he shakes his head, and he smirks.
“I would probably have gone the way of my birth mother, had it not been for Mrs.
Robinson.”
Oh! I blink at him. Crack addict or whore? Possibly both?
“She loved me in a way I found… acceptable,” he adds with a shrug.
What the hell does that mean?
“Acceptable?” I whisper.
“Yes.” He stares intently at me. “She distracted me from the destructive path I found myself following. It’s very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you’re not perfect.” Oh no. My mouth dries as I digest his words. He gazes as me, his expression unfathomable. He’s not going to tell me any more. How frustrating. Inside, I’m reeling – he sounds so full of self‑loathing. And Mrs. Robinson loved him. Holy shit … does she still?
I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach.
“Does she still love you?”
“I don’t think so, not like that.” He frowns as if he hasn’t thought about the idea. “I keep telling you it was a long time ago. It’s in the past. I couldn’t change it even if I wanted to, which I don’t. She saved me from myself.” He’s exasperated and runs a wet hand through his hair. “I’ve never discussed this with anyone.” He pauses, “Except Dr.
Flynn, of course. And the only reason I’m talking about this now, to you, is because I want you to trust me.”
“I do trust you, but I do want to know you better, and whenever I try to talk to you, you distract me. There’s so much I want to know.”
“Oh for pity’s sake, Anastasia. What do you want to know? What do I have to do?” His eyes blaze, and though he doesn’t raise his voice, I know he’s trying to rein in his temper.
I glance quickly down at my hands, clear beneath the water as the bubbles have started to disperse.
“I’m just trying to understand, you’re such an enigma. Unlike anyone I’ve met before.
I’m glad you’re telling me what I want to know.”
Jeez – maybe it’s the Cosmopolitans making me brave, but suddenly I cannot bear the distance between us. I move through the water to his side and lean against him so we’re touching, skin to skin. He tenses and eyes me warily, as if I might bite. Well, that’s a turnaround. My inner goddess gazes at him in quiet, surprised speculation.
“Please don’t be angry with me,” I whisper.
“I am not angry with you, Anastasia. I’m just not used to this kind of talking – this probing. I only have this with Dr. Flynn and with–” He stops and frowns.
“With her. Mrs. Robinson. You talk to her?” I prompt, trying to rein in my own temper.
“Yes, I do.”
“What about?”
He shifts in the bath so that he’s facing me, causing the water to lap over the sides onto the floor. He places his arm around my shoulders, resting on the ledge of the bath.
“Persistent aren’t you?” he murmurs, a trace of irritation in his voice. “Life, the universe – business. Anastasia, Mrs. R and I go way back. We can discuss anything.”
“Me?” I whisper.
“Yes.” Gray eyes watch me carefully.
I bite my bottom lip, trying to curb the sudden rush of anger that surfaces.
“Why do you talk about me?” I endeavor not to sound whiney and petulant, but I don’t succeed. I know I should stop. I am pushing him too hard. My subconscious has her Edvard Munch face on again.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Anastasia.”
“What does that mean? Anyone who just didn’t automatically sign your paperwork, no questions asked?”
He shakes his head.
“I need advice.”
“And you take advice from Mrs. Paedo?” I snap. The hold on my temper is more tentative than I thought.
“Anastasia – enough,” he snaps back sternly, his eyes narrowing.
I’m skating on thin ice, and I’m heading into danger. “Or I’ll put you across my knee.
I have no sexual or romantic interest in her whatsoever. She’s a dear, valued friend and a business partner. That’s all. We have a past, a shared history, which was monumentally beneficial for me, though it fucked up her marriage – but that side of our relationship is over.”
Jeez – another part I just can’t understand. She was married as well. How did they get away with it for so long?
“And your parents never found out?”
“No,” he growls. “I’ve told you this.”
And I know that’s it. I cannot ask him any further questions about her because he will lose it with me.
“Are you done?” he snaps.
“For now.”
He takes a deep breath and visibly relaxes in front of me, like a great weight is lifted from his shoulders or something.
“Right – my turn,” he mutters, and his glare turns steely, speculative. “You haven’t responded to my email.”
I flush. Oh, I hate the spotlight on me, and it seems he’s going to get angry every time we have a discussion. I shake my head. Perhaps that’s how he feels about my questions, he’s not used to being challenged. The thought is revelatory, distracting, and unnerving.
“I was going to respond. But now you’re here.”
“You’d rather I wasn’t?” he breathes, his expression impassive again.
“No, I’m pleased,” I murmur.
“Good.” He gives me a genuine, relieved smile. “I’m pleased I’m here too – in spite of your interrogation. So, while it’s acceptable to grill me, you think you can claim some kind of diplomatic immunity just because I’ve flown all this way to see you? I’m not buying it, Miss Steele. I want to know how you feel.”
Oh no…
“I told you. I am pleased you’re here. Thank you for coming all this way,” I say feebly.
“It’s my pleasure, Miss Steele.” His eyes shine as he leans down and kisses me gently.
I feel myself responding automatically. The water is still warm, the bathroom still steamy.
He stops and pulls back, gazing down at me.
“No. I think I want some answers first before we do any more.” More? There’s that word again. And he wants answers… answers to what? I don’t have a secret past – I don’t have a harrowing childhood. What could he possibly want to know about me that he doesn’t already know?
I sigh, resigned.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, how you feel about our would‑be arrangement, for starters.” I blink at him. Truth or dare time – my subconscious and inner goddess glance nervously at one another. Hell, let’s go for truth.
“I don’t think I can do it for an extended period of time. A whole weekend being someone I’m not.” I flush and stare at my hands.
He tips my chin up, and he’s smirking at me, amused.
“No, I don’t think you could either.”
And part of me feels slightly affronted and challenged.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Yes, but in a good way,” he says with a small smile.
He leans down and kisses me softly, briefly.
“You’re not a great submissive,” he breathes as he holds my chin, his eyes dancing with humor.
I stare at him shocked, then I burst out laughing – and he joins me.
“Maybe I don’t have a good teacher.”
He snorts.
“Maybe. Perhaps I should be stricter with you.” He cocks his head to one side and gives me an artful smile.
I swallow. Jeez, no. But at the same time, my muscles clench deliciously deep inside.
It is his way of showing that he cares. Perhaps the only way he can show he cares – I realize that. He’s staring at me, gauging my reaction.
“Was it that bad when I spanked you the first time?” I gaze back at him, blinking. Was it that bad? I remember feeling confused by my reaction. It hurt, but not that much in retrospect. He’s said over and over again it’s more in my head. And the second time… Well, that was good… hot.
“No, not really,” I whisper.
“It’s more the idea of it?” he prompts.
“I suppose. Feeling pleasure, when one isn’t supposed to.”
“I remember feeling the same. Takes a while to get your head around it.” Holy hell. This was when he was a kid.
“You can always safe‑word, Anastasia. Don’t forget that. And, as long as you follow the rules, which fulfill a deep need in me for control and to keep you safe, then perhaps we can find a way forward.”
“Why do you need to control me?”
“Because it satisfies a need in me that wasn’t met in my formative years.”
“So it’s a form of therapy?”
“I’ve not thought of it like that, but yes, I suppose it is.” This I can understand. This will help.
“But, here’s the thing – one moment you say don’t defy me, the next you say you like to be challenged. That’s a very fine line to tread successfully.” He gazes at me for a moment, then frowns.
“I can see that. But you seem to be doing fine so far.”
“But at what personal cost? I’m tied up in knots here.”
“I like you tied up in knots,” he smirks.
“That’s not what I meant!” I splash him in exasperation.
He gazes down at me, arching an eyebrow.
“Did you just splash me?”
“Yes.” Holy shit… that look.
“Oh, Miss Steele.” He grabs me and pulls me onto his lap, sloshing water all over the floor. “I think we’ve done enough talking for now.” He clasps his hands on either side of my head and kisses me. Deeply. Possessing my mouth. Angling my head… controlling me. I moan against his lips. This is what he likes. This is what he’s so good at. Everything ignites inside me and my fingers are in his hair, holding him to me, and I’m kissing him back and saying I want you too the only way I know how. He groans, shifting me so I’m astride him, kneeling over him, his erection beneath me. He pulls back and looks at me, his eyes hooded, glowing and lustful. I drop my hands to grab on to the edge of the bath but he grips both my wrists and pulls my hands behind my back, holding them together in one hand.
“I’m going to have you now,” he whispers and lifts me so that I’m hovering over him.
“Ready?” he breathes.
“Yes,” I whisper, and he eases me on to him, slowly, exquisitely slowly… filling me…
watching me as he takes me.
I groan, closing my eyes, and I revel in the sensation, the stretching fullness. He flexes his hips, and I gasp, leaning forward, resting my forehead against his.
“Please let my hands go,” I whisper.
“Don’t touch me,” he pleads, and releasing my wrists, he grabs my hips.
Clasping the bath ledge, I move up and then down slowly, opening my eyes to gaze at him. He’s watching me. His mouth open slightly, his breathing halted, stilted – his tongue between his teeth. He looks so… hot. We’re wet and slippery and moving against each other. I lean down and kiss him. He closes his eyes. Tentatively, I bring my hands up to his head and run my fingers through his hair, not taking my lips from his mouth. This is allowed. He likes this. I like this. And we move together. I tug his hair, tipping his head back and deepen the kiss, riding him – faster, picking up the rhythm. I moan against his mouth. He starts to lift me faster, faster… holding my hips. Kissing me back. We are wet mouths and tongues, tangled hair, and moving hips. All sensation… all consuming again.
I am close… I am starting to recognize this delicious tightening… quickening. And the water… it’s swirling around us, our own whirlpool, a stirring vortex as our movements become more frantic… sloshing everywhere, mirroring what’s happening inside me… and I just don’t care.
I love this man. I love his passion, the effect I have on him. I love that he’s flown so far to see me. I love that he cares about me… he cares. It’s so unexpected, so fulfilling.
He is mine, and I am his.
“That’s right, baby,” he breathes.
And I come, my orgasm ripping through me, a turbulent, passionate, apogee that devours me whole. And suddenly Christian crushes me to him… his arms wrapped around my back as he finds his release.
“Ana, baby!” he cries, and it’s a wild invocation, stirring and touching the depths of my soul.
We lie staring at each other, gray eyes into blue, face to face, in the super king bed, both hugging our pillows on our fronts. Naked. Not touching. Just looking and admiring, covered by the sheet.
“Do you want to sleep?” Christian asks, his voice soft. He is beautiful; the mix of colors in his hair vivid against the white Egyptian cotton pillowcase, gray eyes, smoldering, expressive. He looks concerned.
“No. I’m not tired.” I feel strangely energized. It’s been so good to talk – I don’t want to stop.
“What do you want to do?” he asks.
“Talk.”
He smiles.
“About what?”
“Stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“What’s your favorite film?”
He grins.
“Today, it’s ‘The Piano’.”
His grin is infectious.
“Of course. Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt you can play? So many accomplishments, Mr. Grey.”
“And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele.”
“So I am number seventeen.”
He frowns at me not comprehending.
“Seventeen?”
“Number of women you’ve um… had sex with.”
His lips quirk up, his eyes shining with incredulity.
“Not exactly.”
“You said fifteen,” My confusion is obvious.
“I was referring to the number of women in my playroom. I thought that’s what you meant. You didn’t ask me how many women I’d had sex with.”
“Oh.” Holy shit… there’s more… How? I gape at him. “Vanilla?”
“No. You are my one vanilla conquest,” he shakes his head, still grinning at me.
Why does he find this funny? And why am I grinning back at him like an idiot?
“I can’t give you a number. I didn’t put notches in the bedpost or anything.”
“What are we talking – tens, hundreds… thousands?” My eyes grow wilder as the numbers get larger.
“Tens. We’re in the tens, for pity’s sake.”
“All submissives?”
“Yes.”
“Stop grinning at me,” I scold him mildly, trying and failing to keep a straight face.
“I can’t. You’re funny.”
“Funny peculiar or funny ha ha?”
“A bit of both I think.” His words mirror mine.
“That’s a damned cheek, coming from you.”
He leans across and kisses the tip of my nose.
“This will shock you, Anastasia. Ready?”
I nod, wide‑eyed, still with the stupid grin on my face.
“All submissives in training, when I was training. There are places in and around Seattle that one can go and practice. Learn to do what I do,” he says.
What?
“Oh.” I blink at him.
“Yep, I’ve paid for sex, Anastasia.”
“That’s nothing to be proud of,” I mutter haughtily. “And you’re right… I am deeply shocked. And cross that I can’t shock you.”
“You wore my underwear.”
“Did that shock you?”
“Yes.” My inner goddess pole‑vaults over the fifteen‑foot bar.
“You didn’t wear your panties to meet my parents.”
“Did that shock you?”
“Yes.”
Jeez, the bar’s moved to sixteen feet.
“It seems I can only shock you in the underwear department.”
“You told me you were a virgin. That’s the biggest shock I’ve ever had.”
“Yes, your face was a picture, a Kodak moment.” I giggle.
“You let me work you over with a riding crop.”
“Did that shock you?”
“Yep.”
I grin.
“Well, I may let you do it again.”
“Oh, I do hope so, Miss Steele. This weekend?”
“Okay,” I agree, shyly.
“Okay?”
“Yes. I’ll go to the Red Room of Pain again.”
“You say my name.”
“That shocks you?”
“The fact that I like it shocks me.”
“Christian.”
He grins.
“I want to do something tomorrow.” His eyes glow with excitement.
“What?”
“A surprise. For you.” His voice is low and soft.
I raise an eyebrow and stifle a yawn at the same time.
“Am I boring you, Miss Steele?” His tone is sardonic.
“Never.”
He leans across and kisses me gently on my lips.
“Sleep,” he commands, then switches off the light.
And in this quiet moment, as I close my eyes, spent and sated, I think I’m in the eye of the storm. And in spite of all he’s said, and what he hasn’t said, I don’t think I have ever been so happy.
Christian stands in a steel‑barred cage. Wearing his soft, ripped jeans, his chest and feet are mouthwateringly naked, and he’s staring at me. His private‑joke smile etched on his beautiful face and his eyes a molten gray. In his hands he holds a bowl of strawberries.
He ambles with athletic grace to the front of the cage, gazing intently at me. Holding up a plump ripe strawberry, he extends his hand through the bars.
“Eat,” he says, his tongue caressing the front of his palate as he enunciates the ‘t’.
I try and move toward him, but I’m tethered, held back by some unseen force around my wrist, holding me. Let me go.
“Come, eat,” he says, smiling his delicious crooked smile.
I pull and pull… let me go! I want to scream and shout, but no sound emerges. I am mute. He stretches a little further, and the strawberry is at my lips.
“Eat, Anastasia.” His mouth forms my name, lingering sensually on each syllable.
I open my mouth and bite, the cage disappears, and my hands are free. I reach up to touch him, graze my fingers through his chest hair.
“Anastasia.”
No. I moan.
“Come on, baby.”
No. I want to touch you.
“Wake up.”
No. Please. My eyes flicker unwillingly open for a split second. I’m in bed and someone is nuzzling my ear.
“Wake up, baby,” he whispers, and the effect of his sweet voice spreads like warm melted caramel through my veins.
It’s Christian. Jeez, it’s still dark, and the images of him from my dream persists, disconcerting and tantalizing in my head.
“Oh… no,” I groan. I want back at his chest, back to my dream. Why is he waking me?
It’s the middle of the night, or so it feels. Holy shit. Does he want sex – now?
“Time to get up, baby. I’m going to switch on the sidelight.” His voice is quiet.
“No,” I groan.
“I want to chase the dawn with you,” he says, kissing my face, my eyelids, the tip of my nose, my mouth, and I open my eyes. The sidelight is on. “Good morning, beautiful,” he murmurs.
I groan, and he smiles.
“You are not a morning person,” he murmurs.
Through the haze of light, I squint and see Christian leaning over me, smiling. Amused.
Amused at me. Dressed! In black.
“I thought you wanted sex,” I grumble.
“Anastasia, I always want sex with you. It’s heartwarming to know that you feel the same,” he says dryly.
I gaze at him as my eyes adjust to the light, but he still looks amused… thank heavens.
“Of course I do, just not when it’s so late.”
“It’s not late, it’s early. Come on – up you go. We’re going out. I’ll take a rain check on the sex.”
“I was having such a nice dream,” I whine.
“Dream about what?” he asks patiently.
“You.” I blush.
“What was I doing this time?”
“Trying to feed me strawberries.”
His lips twitch with a trace of a smile.
“Dr. Flynn could have a field day with that. Up – get dressed. Don’t bother to shower, we can do that later.”
We!
I sit up, and the sheet pools at my waist, revealing my body. He stands to give me room, his eyes dark.
“What time is it?”
“5:30 in the morning.”
“Feels like 3:00 a.m.”
“We don’t have much time. I let you sleep as long as possible. Come.”
“Can’t I have a shower?”
He sighs.
“If you have a shower, I’ll want one with you, and you and I know what will happen then – the day will just go. Come.”
He’s excited. Like a small boy, he’s iridescent with anticipation and excitement. It makes me smile.
“What are we doing?’
“It’s a surprise. I told you.”
I can’t help but grin up at him.
“Okay.” I clamber off the bed and search for my clothes. Of course they are neatly folded on the chair beside my bed. He’s laid out a pair of his jersey boxer briefs too, Ralph Lauren, no less. I slip them on, and he grins at me. Hmm, another piece of Christian Grey’s underwear – a trophy to add to my collection – along with the car, the BlackBerry, the Mac, his black jacket, and a set of old valuable first editions. I shake my head at his lar‑gesse, and I frown as a scene from Tess crosses my mind: the strawberry scene. It evokes my dream. To hell with Dr. Flynn – Freud would have a field day – and then he’d probably expire trying to deal with Fifty Shades.
“I’ll give you some room now that you’re up.” Christian exits toward the living area, and I wander into the bathroom. I have needs to attend to, and I want a quick wash. Seven minutes later, I am in the living area, scrubbed, brushed and dressed in jeans, my camisole, and Christian Grey’s underwear. Christian glances up from the small dining table where he’s eating breakfast. Breakfast! Jeez, at this time.
“Eat,” he says.
Holy Moses… my dream. I gape at him, thinking about his tongue on his palate. Hmm, his expert tongue.
“Anastasia,” he says sternly, pulling me out of my reverie.
It really is too early for me. How to handle this?
“I’ll have some tea. Can I take a croissant for later?” He eyes me suspiciously, and I smile very sweetly.
“Don’t rain on my parade, Anastasia,” he warns softly.
“I will eat later when my stomach’s woken up. About 7:30 a.m.… okay?”
“Okay.” He peers down at me.
Honestly. I have to concentrate hard on not making a face at him.
“I want to roll my eyes at you.”
“By all means, do, and you will make my day,” he says sternly.
I gaze up at the ceiling.
“Well a spanking would wake me up, I suppose.” I purse my lips in quiet contempla‑tion.
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