The waiter arrives with a dish of oysters on crushed ice. Oysters. The memory of the two of us in the private dining room at the Heathman fills my mind. We were discussing his contract. Oh boy. We’ve come a long way since then.
«I think you liked oysters last time you tried them.» His voice is low, seductive.
«Only time I’ve tried them.» I’m all breathy, my voice exposing me. His lips twitch with a smile.
«Oh, Miss Steele—when will you learn?» he muses.
He takes an oyster from the dish and lifts his other hand from his thigh. I flinch in anticipation, but he reaches for a slice of lemon.
«Learn what?» I ask. Jeez, my pulse is racing. His long, skilled fingers gently squeeze the lemon over the shellfish.
«Eat,” he says, holding the shell close to my mouth. I part my lips, and he gently places the shell on my bottom lip. «Tip your head back slowly,” he murmurs. I do as he asks and the oyster slips down my throat. He doesn’t touch me, only the shell.
Christian helps himself to one, then feeds me another. We continue this tortuous routine until all twelve are gone. His skin never connects with mine. It’s driving me crazy.
«Still like oysters?» he asks as I swallow the final one.
I nod, flushed, craving his touch.
«Good.»
I squirm in my seat. Why is this so hot?
He puts his hand casually on his own thigh again, and I melt. Now. Please. Touch me. My inner goddess is on her knees, naked except for her panties—begging. He runs his hand up and down his thigh, lifts it, then places it back where it was.
The waiter tops up our champagne glasses and whisks away our plates. Moments later he’s back with our entrée, sea bass—I don’t believe it—served with asparagus, sautéed potatoes, and a hollandaise sauce.
«A favorite of yours, Mr. Grey?»
«Most definitely, Miss Steele. Though I believe it was cod at the Heathman.» His hand moves up and down his thigh. My breathing spikes, but still he doesn’t touch me. It’s so frustrating. I try to concentrate on our conversation.
«I seem to remember we were in a private dining room then, discussing contracts.»
«Happy days,” he says, smirking. «This time I hope to get to fuck you.» He moves his hand to pick up his knife.
Gah!
He takes a bite out of his sea bass. He’s doing this on purpose.
«Don’t count on it,” I mutter with a pout and he glances at me, amused. «Speaking of contracts,” I add. «The NDA.»
«Tear it up,” he says simply.
Whoa.
«What? Really?»
«Yes.»
«You’re sure I’m not going to run to the Seattle Times with an exposé?» I tease.
He laughs and it’s a wonderful sound. He looks so young.
«No. I trust you. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt.»
Oh. I grin shyly at him. «Ditto,” I breathe.
His eyes light up. «I’m very glad you’re wearing a dress,” he murmurs. And bam—desire courses through my already overheated blood.
«Why haven’t you touched me, then?» I hiss.
«Missing my touch?» he asks grinning. He’s amused… the bastard.
«Yes,” I seethe.
«Eat,” he orders.
«You’re not going to touch me, are you?»
«No.» He shakes his head.
What? I gasp out loud.
«Just imagine how you’ll feel when we’re home,” he whispers. «I can’t wait to get you home.»
«It will be your fault if I combust here on the seventy–sixth floor,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
«Oh, Anastasia. We’d find a way to put the fire out,” he says, grinning salaciously at me.
Fuming, I dig into my sea bass, and my inner goddess narrows her eyes in quiet, devious contemplation. We can play this game, too. I learned the basics during our meal at the Heathman. I take a bite out of my sea bass. It is melt–in–the–mouth delicious. I close my eyes, savoring the taste. When I open them, I begin my seduction of Christian Grey, very slowly hitching my skirt up, exposing more of my thighs.
Christian pauses momentarily, a forkful of fish suspended midair.
After a beat, he resumes eating. I take another bite of sea bass, ignoring him. Then, putting down my knife, I run my fingers up the inside of my lower thigh, lightly tapping my skin with my fingertips. It’s distracting even to me, especially as I am craving his touch. Christian pauses once more.
«I know what you’re doing.» His voice is low and husky.
«I know that you know, Mr. Grey,” I reply softly. «That’s the point.» I pick up an asparagus stalk, gaze sideways at him from beneath my lashes, then dip the asparagus into the hollandaise sauce, swirling the tip round and round.
«You’re not turning the tables on me, Miss Steele.» Smirking he reaches over and takes the spear from me—amazingly and annoyingly managing not to touch me again. No, this isn’t right—this is not going according to plan. Gah!
«Open your mouth,” he commands.
I am losing this battle of wills. I glance up at him again, and his eyes blaze bright gray. Parting my lips a fraction I run my tongue across my lower lip. Christian smiles and his eyes darken further.
«Wider,” he breathes, his lips parting so that I can see his tongue. I groan inwardly and bite my bottom lip, then do as he asks.
