Unknown: fifty shades darker

He glares down at me, caught off guard by my audacity, I think, but he’s trying to hide his amusement.

“Frankly, yes.”

“Pervert,” I mouth at him and bite my lower lip to prevent my smile.

His mouth drops open, and now his amusement is obvious. He strokes his chin thoughtfully.“Can’t argue with that assessment, Anastasia.” He shakes his head, and his eyes soften with humor.

“I’d discuss it further with you, but I’ve signed an NDA.” He sighs, gazing at me, and his eyes darken. “What I’d like to do to your smart mouth,” he murmurs.

I gasp, knowing full well what he means. “You’re very rude.” I try to sound shocked and succeed. Does he have no boundaries?

He smirks at me, amused, and then he frowns.

“You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don’t see you like that very often.”

What? Whoa! Change of subject—talk about non sequitur—from playful to serious.

I flush and glance down at my fingers. He tilts my head back, and I inhale sharply at the contact with his long fingers.

“I want you that relaxed with me,” he whispers. All trace of humor has gone.

Deep inside me that joy stirs again. But how can this be? We have issues.

“You have to stop intimidating me if you want that,” I snap.

“You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel,” he snaps back, eyes blazing.

I take a deep breath. “Christian, you wanted me as a submissive. That’s where the problem lies. It’s in the definition of a submissive—you e-mailed it to me once.” I pause, trying to recall the wording. “I think the synonyms were, and I quote, ‘compliant, pliant, amenable, passive, tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.’ I wasn’t supposed to look at you. Not talk to you unless you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?” I hiss at him.

He blinks, and his frown deepens as I continue.

“It’s very confusing being with you. You don’t want me to defy you, but then you like my ‘smart mouth.’ You want obedience, except when you don’t, so you can punish me. I just don’t know which way is up when I’m with you.”

He narrows his eyes. “Good point well made, as usual, Miss Steele.” His voice is frigid. “Come, let’s go eat.”

“We’ve only been here for half an hour.”

“You’ve seen the photos; you’ve spoken to the boy.”

“His name is José.”

“You’ve spoken to José—the man who, the last time I met him, was trying to push his tongue into your reluctant mouth while you were drunk and ill,” he snarls.

“He’s never hit me,” I spit at him.

Christian scowls at me, fury emanating from every pore. “That’s a low blow, Anastasia,” he whispers menacingly.

I flush, and Christian runs his hands through his hair, bristling with barely contained anger. I glare back at him.

“I’m taking you for something to eat. You’re fading away in front of me. Find the boy, say good-bye.”

“Please, can we stay longer?”

“No. Go. Now. Say good-bye.”

I glare at him, my blood boiling. Mr. Damned Control Freak. Angry is good. Angry is better than tearful.

I drag my gaze away from him and scan the room for José. He’s talking to a group of young women. I stalk off toward him and away from Fifty. Just because he brought me here, I have to do as he says? Who the hell does he think he is?

The girls are hanging on José’s every word. One of them gasps as I approach, no doubt recognizing me from the portraits.

“José.”

“Ana. Excuse me, girls.” José grins at them and puts his arm around me, and on some level I’m amused—José all smooth, impressing the ladies.

“You look mad,” he says.

“I have to go,” I mutter mulishly.

“You just got here.”

“I know but Christian needs to get back. The pictures are fantastic, José—you’re very talented.”

He beams. “It was so cool seeing you.”

Jose sweeps me into a big bear hug, spinning me so I can see Christian across the gallery. He’s scowling, and I realize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a very calculating move, I wrap my arms around José’s neck. I think Christian is going to expire. His glare darkens to something quite sinister, and slowly he makes his way toward us.

“Thanks for the warning about the portraits of me,” I mumble.

“Shit. Sorry, Ana. I should have told you. D’you like them?”

“Um . . . I don’t know,” I answer truthfully, momentarily knocked off balance by his question.

“Well, they’re all sold, so somebody likes them. How cool is that? You’re a poster girl.” He hugs me tighter still as Christian reaches us, glowering at me now, though fortunately José doesn’t see.

José releases me. “Don’t be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr. Grey, good evening.”

“Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive.” Christian sounds icily polite. “I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle. Anastasia?” He subtly stresses we and takes my hand as he does so.

“Bye, José. Congratulations again.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and before I know it Christian is dragging me out of the building. I know he’s boiling with silent wrath, but so am I.

He looks quickly up and down the street then heads left and suddenly sweeps me into a side alley, abruptly pushing me up against a wall. He grabs my face between his hands, forcing me to look up into his ardent determined eyes.

I gasp, and his mouth swoops down. He’s kissing me, violently. Briefly our teeth clash, then his tongue is in my mouth.

Desire explodes like the Fourth of July throughout my body, and I’m kissing him back, matching his fervor, my hands knotting in his hair, pulling it, hard. He groans, a low sexy sound in the back of his throat that reverberates through me, and his hand moves down my body to the top of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through the plum dress.

I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last few days into our kiss, binding him to me, and it hits me—in this moment of blinding passion—he’s doing the same, he feels the same.

He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminous with desire, firing the already heated blood that is pounding through my body. My mouth is slack as I try to drag precious air into my lungs.

“You. Are. Mine,” he snarls, emphasizing each word. He pushes away from me and bends, hands on his knees as if he’s run a marathon. “For the love of God, Ana.” I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control the riotous reaction in my body, trying to find my equilibrium again.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper once my breath has returned.

“You should be. I know what you were doing. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you.”

I flush and shake my head.

“No. He’s just a friend.”

“I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you . . . you bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It’s very . . .” He frowns, grasping for the word. “Unsettling.

“I like control, Ana, and around you that just”—he stands, his gaze intense—

“evaporates.” He waves his hand vaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deep breath. He clasps my hand.

“Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat.”

He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.

“This place will have to do,” Christian grumbles. “We don’t have much time.” The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen tablecloths, and walls the same color as Christian’s playroom—deep blood red—with small gilt mirrors randomly placed, white candles, and small vases of white roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background about this thing called love. It’s very romantic.