“The shrink who saw her called it a typical cry for help. He didn’t believe her to be truly at risk—one step from suicidal ideation, he called it. But I’m not convinced. I’ve been trying to track her down since then to get her some help.”
“Did she say anything to Mrs. Jones?”
He gazes at me. He looks really uncomfortable.
“Not much,” he says eventually, but I know he’s not telling me everything.
I distract myself with pouring tea into teacups. So Leila wants back into Christian’s life and chooses a suicide attempt to attract his attention?
Christian left Georgia to be at her side, but she disappears before he gets there? How odd.
“You can’t find her? What about her family?”
“They don’t know where she is. Neither does her husband.”
“Husband?”
“Yes,” he says distractedly, “she’s been married for about two years.”
“No! Good God, no. She was with me nearly three years ago. Then she left and married this guy shortly afterward.”
“Let me get this straight. She hasn’t been your submissive for three years?”
“About two and a half years.”
“And she wanted more.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t?”
“You know this.”
“So she left you.”
“Yes.”
“So why is she coming to you now?”
“I don’t know.” And the tone of this voice tells me that he at least has a theory.
“But you suspect . . .”
His eyes narrow perceptibly with anger. “I suspect it has something to do with you.” Me? What would she want with me?
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” he asks softly.
“I forgot about her.” I shrug apologetically. “You know, drinks after work, at the end of my first week. You turning up at the bar and your . . . testosterone rush with Jack, and then when we were here. It slipped my mind. You have a habit of making me forget things.”
“Testosterone rush?” His lips twitch.
“Yes. The pissing contest.”
“I’ll show you a testosterone rush.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a cup of tea?”
“No, Anastasia, I wouldn’t.”
His eyes burn into me, scorching me with his I-want-you-and-I-want-you-now look.
“Forget about her. Come.” He holds out his hand.
My inner goddess does three back flips over the gym floor as I grasp his hand.
I wake, too warm, and I’m wrapped around a naked Christian Grey. Even though he’s fast asleep, he’s holding me close. Soft morning light filters through the curtains. My head is on his chest, my leg tangled with his, my arm across his stomach.
I raise my head slightly, scared that I might wake him. He looks so young, so relaxed in sleep, so utterly beautiful. I can’t quite believe this Adonis is mine, all mine.
for a few more precious moments. I lean over and tenderly kiss one of his scars. He moans softly but doesn’t wake, and I smile. I kiss another and his eyes open.
“Hi.” I grin at him, guiltily.
“Hi,” he answers warily. “What are you doing?”
“Looking at you.” I run my fingers down his happy trail. He captures my hand, narrows his eyes, then smiles a brilliant Christian-at-ease smile, and I relax. My secret touching stays secret.
Suddenly he moves on top of me, pressing me into the mattress, his hands on mine, warning me. He strokes my nose with his.
“I think you’re up to no good, Miss Steele,” he accuses but his smile remains.
“I like being up to no good near you.”
“You do?” he asks and kisses me lightly on the lips. “Sex or breakfast?” he asks, his eyes dark but full of humor. His erection is digging into me, and I tilt my pelvis up to meet him.“Good choice,” he murmurs against my throat, as he trails kisses down to my breast.
I stand at my chest of drawers, staring at my mirror, trying to coax my hair into some semblance of style—really, it’s just too long. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt, and Christian, freshly showered, is dressing behind me. I gaze at his body hungrily.
“How often do you work out?” I ask.
“Every weekday,” he says, buttoning his fly.
“What do you do?”
“Run, weights, kickbox.” He shrugs.
“Kickbox?”
“Yes, I have a personal trainer, an ex-Olympic contender who teaches me. His name is Claude. He’s very good. You’d like him.”
I turn to gaze at him as he starts to button up his white shirt.
