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“Do you know where the broom is?” I ask innocently.

This stops Christian in his tracks. “Um . . . no.” I laugh. “I’ll go.”

As I climb into bed and wait for Christian to join me, I reflect on how differently this day could have ended. I was so mad at him earlier, and he with me. How am I going to deal with this running-a-company nonsense? I have no desire to run my own company. I am not him. I need to head this off at the pass. Perhaps I should have a safe word for when he’s being overbearing and domineering, for when he’s being an arse. I giggle. Perhaps the safe word should be arse . I find the thought very appealing.

“What?” he says as he climbs into bed beside me wearing only his pajama pants.

“Nothing. Just an idea.”

“What idea?” He stretches out beside me.

Here goes nothing. “Christian, I don’t think I want to run a company.” He props himself up on his elbow and gazes down at me. “Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s not something that has ever appealed to me.”

“You’re more than capable, Anastasia.”

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“I like to read books, Christian. Running a company will take me away from that.”

“You could be the creative head.”

I frown.

“You see,” he continues, “running a successful company is all about embracing the talent of the individuals you have at your disposal. If that’s where your talents and your interests lie, then you structure the company to enable that. Don’t dismiss it out of hand, Anastasia. You’re a very capable woman. I think you could do anything you wanted if you put your mind to it.” Whoa! How can he possibly know that I’d be any good at this?

“I’m also worried it will take up too much of my time.” Christian frowns.

“Time I could devote to you.” I deploy my secret weapon.

His gaze darkens. “I know what you’re doing,” he murmurs, amused.

Damn it!

“What?” I feign innocence.

“You’re trying to distract me from the issue at hand. You always do that. Just don’t dismiss the idea, Ana. Think about it. That’s all I ask.” He leans down and kisses me chastely, then skims his thumb down my cheek. This argument is going to run and run. I smile up at him—and something he said earlier today pops unbidden into my mind.

“Can I ask you something?” My voice is soft, tentative.

“Of course.”

“Earlier today you said if I was angry with you, I should take it out on you in bed. What did you mean?”

He stills. “What did you think I meant?”

Holy shit! I should just say it. “That you wanted me to tie you up.” His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Um . . . no. That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Oh.” I’m surprised by my slight twinge of disappointment.

“You want to tie me up?” he asks, obviously reading my expression correctly. He sounds shocked. I blush.

“Well . . .”

“Ana, I—” he stops, and something dark crosses his face.

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“Christian,” I whisper, alarmed. I move so that I am lying on my side, propped up on my elbow like him. I caress his face. His eyes are large and fearful.

He shakes his head sadly.

Shit! “Christian, stop. It doesn’t matter. I thought that’s what you meant.” He takes my hand and places it on his pounding heart. Fuck! What is it?

“Ana, I don’t know how I’d feel about you touching me if I were restrained.” My scalp prickles. It’s like he’s confessing something deep and dark.

“This is still too new.” His voice is low and raw.

Fuck. It was just a question, and I realize that he’s come a long way, but he still has a long way to go. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty. Anxiety grips my heart. I lean over and he freezes, but I plant a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“Christian, I got the wrong idea. Please don’t worry about it. Please don’t think about it.” I kiss him. He closes his eyes, groans and reciprocates, pushing me down into the mattress, his hands clasping my chin. And soon we’re lost . . .

lost in each other again.

1

rd

William Shakespeare, King Lear, (3

edition of Shakespeare’s First Folio, Etext #2266, Project Gutenburg,

July 2000), Act 1, Scene 1, http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?pageno=9&fk_files=1448414.

When I wake before the alarm the following morning, Christian is wrapped around me like ivy, his head on my chest, his arm around my waist, and his leg between mine. And he’s on my side of the bed. It’s always the same, if we argue the night before, this is how he ends up, coiled around me, making me hot and bothered.

Oh, Fifty. He is so needy on some level. Who would have thought? The familiar vision of Christian as a dirty, wretched little boy haunts me. Gently, I stroke his shorter hair and my melancholy recedes. He stirs, and his sleepy eyes meet mine. He blinks a couple of times as he wakes.

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“Hi,” he murmurs and smiles.

“Hi.” I love waking to that smile.

He nuzzles my breasts and hums appreciatively deep in his throat. His hand travels down from my waist, skimming over the cool satin of my nightgown.

“What a tempting morsel you are,” he mutters. “But, tempting though you are,” he glances at the alarm, “I have to get up.” He stretches out, untangles himself from me, and rises.

I lie back, put my hands behind my head, and enjoy the show—Christian stripping for his shower. He is perfect. I wouldn’t change a hair on his head.

“Admiring the view, Mrs. Grey?” Christian arches a sardonic brow at me.

“It’s a mighty fine view, Mr. Grey.”

He grins and throws his pajama pants at me so they almost land on my face, but I catch them in time, giggling like a schoolgirl. With a wicked grin, he pulls the duvet off, puts one knee on the bed, grabs my ankles, and drags me toward him so that my nightdress rides up. I squeal, and he crawls up my body, trailing little kisses on my knee, my thigh . . . my . . . oh . . . Christian!

“Good morning, Mrs. Grey,” Mrs. Jones greets me. I flush, embarrassed remembering her tryst with Taylor the night before.

“Good morning,” I respond as she hands me a cup of tea. I sit on the bar stool beside my husband, who just looks radiant: freshly showered, his hair damp, wearing a crisp white shirt and that silver-gray tie. My favorite tie. I have fond memories of that tie.

“How are you, Mrs. Grey?” he asks, his eyes warm.

“I think you know, Mr. Grey.” I gaze up at him through my lashes.

He smirks. “Eat,” he orders. “You didn’t eat yesterday.” Oh, bossy Fifty!

“That’s because you were being an arse.”

Mrs. Jones drops something that clatters into the sink, making me jump.

Christian seems oblivious to the noise. Ignoring her, he stares at me impassively.

“Arse or not—eat.” His tone is serious. No arguing with him.

“Okay! Picking up spoon, eating granola,” I mutter like a petulant teenager. I reach for the Greek yoghurt and spoon some onto my cereal, followed by a 185/551

handful of blueberries. I glance at Mrs. Jones and she catches my eye. I smile, and she responds with a warm smile of her own. She has provided me with my breakfast of choice introduced to me on our honeymoon.

“I may have to go to New York later in the week.” Christian’s announcement interrupts my reverie.

“Oh.”

“It’ll mean an overnight. I want you to come with me.”

“Christian, I won’t get the time off.”