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"What?" he asks, his voice quiet.
I flounder momentarily. No - I'll tell him. He's always complaining that I don't talk to him.
"I think that you felt trapped into bringing me to meet your parents." My voice is soft and hesitant. "If Elliot hadn't asked Kate, you'd never have asked me." I can't see his face in the dark, but he tilts his head, gaping at me.
"Anastasia, I'm delighted that you've met my parents. Why are you so filled with self-doubtIt never ceases to amaze me. You're such a strong, self-contained young woman, but you have such negative thoughts about yourself. If I hadn't wanted you to meet them, you wouldn't be here. Is that how you were feeling the whole time you were there?"
Oh! He wanted me there - and it's a revelation. He doesn't seem uncomfortable answering me as he would if he were hiding the truth. He seems genuinely pleased that I'm here... a warm glow spreads slowly through my veins. He shakes his head and reaches for my hand. I glance nervously at Taylor.
"Don't worry about Taylor. Talk to me."
I shrug.
"Yes. I thought that. And another thing, I only mentioned Georgia because Kate was talking about Barbados - I haven't made up my mind."
"Do you want to go and see your mother?"
"Yes."
He looks oddly at me, like he's having some internal struggle.
"Can I come with you?" he asks eventually.
What!?
"Erm... I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"I was hoping for a break from all this... intensity to try and think things through."
He stares at me.
"I'm too intense?"
I burst out laughing.
"That's putting it mildly!"
In the light of the passing street lamps, I see his lips quirk up.
"Are you laughing at me, Miss Steele?"
"I wouldn't dare, Mr. Grey," I reply with mock seriousness.
"I think you dare, and I think you do laugh at me, frequently."
"You are quite funny."
"Funny?"
"Oh yes."
"Funny peculiar or funny ha ha?"
"Oh... a lot of one and some of the other."
"Which way round?"
"I'll leave you to figure that out."
"I'm not sure if I can figure anything out around you, Anastasia," he says sardonically, and then continues quietly, "What do you need to think about in Georgia?"
"Us," I whisper.
He stares at me, impassive.
"You said you'd try," he murmurs.
"I know."
"Are you having second thoughts?"
"Possibly."
He shifts as if uncomfortable.
"Why?"
Holy crap. How did this suddenly become such an intense and meaningful conversationIt's been sprung on me, like an exam that I'm not prepared for. What do I sayBecause I think I love you, and you just see me as a toy. Because I can't touch you, because I'm too frightened to show you any affection in case you flinch or tell me off or worse -
beat meWhat can I say?
I stare momentarily out of the window. The car is heading back across the bridge. We are both shrouded in darkness, masking our thoughts and feelings, but we don't need the night for that.
"Why, Anastasia?" Christian presses me for an answer.
I shrug, trapped. I don't want to lose him. In spite of all his demands, his need to control, his scary vices. I have never felt as alive as I do now. It's a thrill to be sitting here beside him. He's so unpredictable, sexy, smart, and funny. But his moods... oh - and he wants to hurt me. He says he'll think about my reservations, but it still scares me. I close my eyes. What can I sayDeep down I would just like more, more affection, more playful Christian, more... love.
He squeezes my hand.
"Talk to me, Anastasia. I don't want to lose you. This last week... " He trails off.
We're coming near to the end of the bridge, and the road is once more bathed in the neon light of the street lamps so his face is intermittently in the light and the dark. And it's such a fitting metaphor. This man, whom I once thought of as a romantic hero - a brave shining white knight, or the dark knight as he said. He's not a hero, he's a man with serious, deep emotional flaws, and he's dragging me into the dark. Can I not guide him into the light?
"I still want more," I whisper.
"I know," he says. "I'll try."
I blink up at him, and he relinquishes my hand and pulls at my chin, releasing my trapped lip.
"For you, Anastasia, I will try." He's radiating sincerity.
And that's my cue. I unbuckle my seatbelt, reach across, and clamber into his lap, taking him completely by surprise. Wrapping my arms around his head, I kiss him, long and hard, and in a nanosecond, he's responding.
"Stay with me, tonight," he breathes. "If you go away, I won't see you all week.
Please."
"Yes," I acquiesce. "And I'll try too. I'll sign your contract." And it's a spur of the moment decision.
He gazes down at me.
"Sign after Georgia. Think about it. Think about it hard, baby."
"I will." And we sit in silence for a mile or two.
"You really should wear your seatbelt," Christian whispers disapprovingly into my hair, but he makes no move to shift me from his lap.
I nuzzle up against him, eyes closed, my nose at his throat, drinking in his sexy Christian-and-spiced-musky-body-wash fragrance, my head on his shoulder. I let my mind drift, and I allow myself to fantasize that he loves me. Oh, and it's so real, tangible almost, and a small part of my nasty harpy self-conscious acts completely out of character and dares to hope. I'm careful not to touch his chest but just snuggle in his arms as he holds me tightly.