“I don’t know why you’re calling at this hour. I have nothing to say to you . . . well, you can tell me now. You don’t have to leave a message.” I stand motionless by the door, eavesdropping guiltily. Who is he talking to?
“No, you listen. I asked you, and now I am telling you. Leave her alone. She’s nothing to do with you. Do you understand?”
He sounds belligerent and angry. I hesitate to knock.
“I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the fuck alone. Do I need to put it in triplicate for you? Are you hearing me? . . . Good. Good night.” He slams the phone down on the desk.
“What?” he snarls, and I almost want to run and hide.
He sits at his desk with his head in his hands. He glances up, his expression ferocious, but his face softens immediately when he sees me. His eyes are wide and cautious. Suddenly, he looks so tired and my heart constricts.
He blinks, and his eyes sweep down my legs and back again. I am wearing one of his T-shirts.
“You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia,” he breathes. “But even in my T-shirt you look beautiful.”
Oh, an unexpected compliment. “I missed you. Come to bed.” He rises slowly out of the chair still in his white shirt and black dress pants. But now his eyes are shining and full of promise . . . but there’s a trace of sadness, too. He stands in front of me, staring intently but not touching me.
“Do you know what you mean to me?” he murmurs. “If something happened to you, because of me . . .” His voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes across his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable—his fear very much apparent.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I reassure him, my voice soothing. I reach up and stroke his face, running my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It’s unexpectedly soft. “Your beard grows quickly,” I whisper, unable to hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, fucked-up man who stands before me.
I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers down his throat, to the faint smudge of lipstick at the base of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his lips parted. I run my index finger along the line, and he closes his eyes. His soft breathing quickens. My fingers reach the edge of his shirt, and I run them down to the next fastened button.
“I’m not going to touch you. I just want to undo your shirt,” I whisper.
His eyes open wide, regarding me with alarm. But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t stop me. Very slowly I unfasten the button, holding the material away from his skin, and move tentatively down to the next button, repeating the process—slowly, concentrating on what I am doing.
I don’t want to touch him.
“Back on home territory.” I trace the line with my fingers before undoing the final button. I pull his shirt open and move to his cuffs, removing his black polished stone cufflinks one at a time.
“Can I take your shirt off?” I ask, my voice low.
He nods, eyes still wide, as I reach up and pull his shirt over his shoulders. He frees his hands so he’s standing in front of me naked from the waist up. With his shirt off, he seems to recover his equilibrium. He smirks down at me.
“What about my pants, Miss Steele?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“In the bedroom. I want you in your bed.”
“Do you now? Miss Steele, you are insatiable.”
“I can’t think why.” I grab his hand, pull him from his study, and lead him to his bedroom. The room is chilly.
“You opened the balcony door?” he asks, frowning down at me as we arrive in his room.
“No.” I don’t remember doing that. I recall scanning the room when I woke. The door was definitely closed.
“What?” he snaps, glaring at me.
“When I woke . . . there was someone in here,” I whisper. “I thought it was my imagination.”
“What?” He looks horrified and dashes to the balcony door, peers out, then steps back into the room and locks the door behind him. “Are you sure? Who?” he asks his voice tight.
“A woman, I think. It was dark. I’d only just woken up.”
“Get dressed,” he snarls at me on his way back in. “Now!”
“My clothes are upstairs,” I whimper.
He pulls open one of the drawers in his chest of drawers and fishes out a pair of sweatpants.
“Put these on.” They are far too big, but he is not to be argued with.
He swipes a T-shirt, too, and quickly pulls it over his head. Grabbing the bedside phone, he presses two buttons.
“She’s still fucking here,” he hisses down the phone.
Approximately three seconds later, Taylor and one of the other security guys, burst into Christian’s bedroom. Christian gives them a
“How long ago?” Taylor demands, staring at me all businesslike. He’s still wearing his jacket. Does this man ever sleep?
