Unknown - fifty shades darker

“Great job, eh?” he murmurs.

I blush. “Mostly, yes.”

“Well, in that case.” He hands me the keys, walks round to the driver’s door, and opens it for me.

“Left here,” Christian orders, and we head north toward the I-5. “Hell—gently, Ana.” He grabs hold of the dashboard.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. I roll my eyes, but don’t turn to look at him. Van Morrison croons in the background over the car sound system.

“Slow down!”

“I am slowing down!”

Christian sighs. “What did Flynn say?” I hear his anxiety leaching into his voice.

“I told you. He says I should give you the benefit of the doubt.” Damn—maybe I should have let Christian drive. Then I could watch him. In fact . . . I signal to pull over.

“What are you doing?” he snaps, alarmed.

“Letting you drive.”

“Why?”

“So I can look at you.”

He laughs. “No, no—you wanted to drive. So, you drive, and I’ll look at you.” I scowl at him. “Keep your eyes on the road!” he shouts.

My blood boils. Right! I pull over to the curb just before a stoplight and storm out of the car, slamming the door, and stand on the sidewalk, arms folded, I glare at him. He climbs out of the car.

“What are you doing?” he asks angrily, staring down at me.

“No. What are you doing?”

“You can’t park here.”

“I know that.”

“So why have you?”

“Because I’ve had it with you barking orders. Either you drive or you shut up about my driving!”

“Anastasia, get back in the car before we get a ticket.”

“No.”

He blinks at me, at a total loss, then runs his hands through his hair, and his anger becomes bewilderment. He looks so comical all of a sudden, and I can’t help but smile at him. He frowns.

“What?” he snaps once more.

“You.”

“Oh, Anastasia! You are the most frustrating female on the planet.” He throws his hands in the air. “Fine—I’ll drive.” I grab the edges of his jacket and pull him to me.

“No—you are the most frustrating man on the planet, Mr. Grey.” He gazes down at me, his eyes dark and intense, he snakes his arms around my waist and embraces me, holding me close.

“Maybe we’re meant for each other, then,” he says softly and inhales deeply, his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms around him and close my eyes. For the first time since this morning, I feel myself relax.

“Oh . . . Ana, Ana, Ana,” he breathes, his lips pressed against my hair. I tighten my arms around him, and we stand, immobile, enjoying a moment of unexpected tranquility, on the street. Releasing me, he opens the passenger door. I climb in and sit quietly, watching him walk around the car.

Restarting the car, Christian pulls out into the traffic, absentmindedly humming along to Van Morrison.

Whoa. I’ve never heard him sing, not even in the shower, ever. I frown. He has a lovely voice—of course. Hmm . . . has he heard me sing?

He wouldn’t be asking you to marry him if he had! My subconscious has her arms crossed and is wearing Burberry check . . . jeez. The song finishes and Christian smirks.

“You know, if we had gotten a ticket, the title of this car is in your name.”

“Well, good thing I’ve been promoted—I can afford the fine,” I say smugly, staring at his lovely profile. His lips twitch. Another Van Morrison song starts playing as he takes the on-ramp to I-5, heading north.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. What else did Flynn say?”

I sigh. “He talked about FFFSTB or something.”

“SFBT. The latest therapy option,” he mutters.

“You’ve tried others?”

Christian snorts. “Baby, I’ve been subjected to them all. Cognitivism, Freud, functionalism, Gestalt, behaviorism . . . You name it, over the years I’ve done it,” he says and his tone betrays his bitterness. The rancor in his voice is distressing.

“Do you think this latest approach will help?”

“What did Flynn say?”

“He said not to dwell on your past. Focus on the future—on where you want to be.” Christian nods but shrugs at the same time, his expression cautious.

“What else?” he persists.

“He talked about your fear of being touched, although he called it something else. And about your nightmares and your self-abhorrence.” I glance at him, and in the evening light, he’s pensive, chewing on his thumbnail as he drives. He glances quickly at me.

“Eyes on the road, Mr. Grey,” I admonish, my eyebrow cocked at him.

He looks amused, and slightly exasperated. “You were talking forever, Anastasia. What else did he say?”

I swallow. “He doesn’t think you’re a sadist,” I whisper.

“Really?” Christian says quietly and frowns. The atmosphere in the car takes a nose-dive.“He says that term’s not recognized in psychiatry. Not since the nineties,” I mutter, quickly trying to rescue the mood between us.

Christian’s face darkens, and he exhales slowly.

“Flynn and I have differing opinions on this,” he says quietly.

“He said you always think the worst of yourself. I know that’s true,” I murmur. “He also mentioned sexual sadism—but he said that was a lifestyle choice, not a psychiatric condition. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking about.” His gray eyes flash toward me again, and his mouth sets in a grim line.

“So—one talk with the good doctor and you’re an expert,” he says acidly and turns his eyes front.

Oh dear . . . I sigh.

“Look—if you don’t want to hear what he said, don’t ask me,” I mutter softly.

I don’t want to argue. Anyway he’s right—what the hell do I know about all his shit?

Do I even want to know? I can list the salient points—his control freakery, his possessiveness, his jealousy, his overprotectiveness—and I completely understand where he’s coming from. I can even understand why he doesn’t like to be touched—I’ve seen the physical scars. I can only imagine the mental ones, and I’ve only glimpsed his nightmares once. And Dr. Flynn said—

“I want to know what you discussed.” Christian interrupts my thoughts as he heads off I-5 on exit 172, heading west toward the slowly sinking sun.

“He called me your lover.”

“Did he now?” His tone is conciliatory. “Well, he’s nothing if not fastidious about his terms. I think that’s an accurate description. Don’t you?”

“Did you think of your subs as lovers?”

Christian’s brow creases once more, but this time he’s thinking. He turns the Saab smoothly north once again. Where are we going?

“No. They were sexual partners,” he murmurs, his voice cautious again. “You’re my only lover. And I want you to be more.”

Oh . . . there’s that magical word again, brimming with possibility. It makes me smile, and inside I hug myself, my inner goddess radiating joy.

“I know,” I whisper, trying hard to hide my excitement. “I just need some time, Christian. To get my head around these last few days.” He glances at me oddly, perplexed, his head inclined to one side.

After a beat, the stoplight we’re stationed at turns green. He nods and turns the music up, and our discussion is over.

Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now—about it being a marvelous night for moondancing. I gaze out the windows at the pines and spruce dusted gold by the fading light of the sun, their long shadows stretching across the road. Christian has turned into a more residential street, and we’re heading west toward the Sound.

“Where are we going?” I ask again as we turn into a road. I catch a road sign—9tH ave nW. I am baffled.

“Surprise,” he says and smiles mysteriously.