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I feel like squirming with a needy, achy... discomfort. I don't understand this reaction.
Hmm... Desire. This is desire. This is what it feels like.
I lie back on the soft feather filled pillows. 'If you were mine.' Oh my - what would I do to be hisHe's the only man who has ever set my blood racing around my body. Yet, he's so antagonizing too; he's difficult, complicated, and confusing. One minute he rebuffs me, the next he sends me fourteen-thousand-dollar books, then he tracks me like a stalker.
And for all that, I have spent the night in his hotel suite, and I feel safe. Protected. He cares enough to come and rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger. He's not a dark knight at all, but a white knight in shining, dazzling armor - a classic romantic hero - Sir Gawain or Lancelot.
I scramble out of his bed frantically searching for my jeans. He emerges from the bathroom wet and glistening from the shower, still unshaven, with just a towel around his waist, and there am I - all bare legs and awkward gawkiness. He's surprised to see me out of bed.
"If you're looking for your jeans, I've sent them to the laundry." His gaze is a dark obsidian. "They were spattered with your vomit."
"Oh." I flush scarlet. Why oh why does he always catch me on the back foot?
"I sent Taylor out for another pair and some shoes. They're in the bag on the chair."
Clean clothes. What an unexpected bonus.
"Um... I'll have a shower," I mutter. "Thanks." What else can I sayI grab the bag and dart into the bathroom away from the unnerving proximity of naked Christian. Michel-angelo's David has nothing on him.
In the bathroom, it's all hot and steamy from where he's been showering. I strip off my clothes and quickly clamber into the shower anxious to be under the cleansing stream of water. It cascades over me, and I hold up my face into the welcoming torrent. I want Christian Grey. I want him badly. Simple fact. For the first time in my life, I want to go to bed with a man. I want to feel his hands and his mouth on me.
He said he likes his women sentient. He's probably not celibate then. But he's not made a pass at me, unlike Paul or Jose. I don't understand. Does he want meHe wouldn't kiss me last week. Am I repellent to himAnd yet, I'm here and he brought me here. I just don't know what his game isWhat he's thinkingYou've slept in his bed all night, and he's not touched you Ana. You do the math. My subconscious has reared her ugly, snide head. I ignore her.
The water is warm and soothing. Hmm... I could stay under this shower, in his bathroom, forever. I reach for the body-wash and it smells of him. It's a delicious smell. I rub it all over myself, fantasizing that it's him - him rubbing this heavenly scented soap into my body, across my br**sts, over my stomach, between my thighs with his long fingered hands. Oh my. My heartbeat picks up again, this feels so... so good.
"Breakfast is here." He knocks on the door, startling me.
"Okay," I stutter as I'm yanked cruelly out of my erotic daydream.
I climb out of the shower and grab two towels. I put my hair in one and wrap it Carmen Miranda style on my head. Hastily, I dry myself, ignoring the pleasurable feel of the towel rubbing against my over-sensitized skin.
I inspect the bag of jeans. Not only has Taylor brought me jeans and new Converse, but a pale blue shirt, socks, and underwear. Oh my. A clean bra and panties - actually to describe them in such a mundane, utilitarian way does not do them justice. They are an exquisite design of some fancy European lingerie. All pale blue lace and finery. Wow. I am in awe and slightly daunted by this underwear. . What's more, they fit perfectly. But of course they do. I flush to think of the Buzz-Cut man in some lingerie store buying this for me. I wonder what else is in his job description.
I dress quickly. The rest of the clothing is a perfect fit. I brusquely towel-dry my hair and try desperately to bring it under control. But, as usual, it refuses to cooperate, and my only option is to restrain it with a hair tie. I shall search in my purse, when I find it. I take a deep breath. Time to face Mr. Confusing.
I'm relieved to find the bedroom empty. I hunt quickly for my purse - but it's not in here. Taking another deep breath, I enter the living area of the suite. It's huge. There's an opulent, plush seating area, all overstuffed couches and soft cushions, an elaborate coffee table with a stack of large glossy books, a study area with a top-of-the-range Mac, an enormous plasma screen TV on the wall, and Christian is sitting at a dining table on the other side of the room reading a newspaper. It's the size of a tennis court or something, not that I play tennis, though I have watched Kate a few times. Kate!
"Crap, Kate," I croak. Christian peers up at me.
"She knows you're here and still alive. I texted Elliot," he says with just a trace of humor.
Oh no. I remember her fervent dancing of the night before. All her patented moves used with maximum effect to seduce Christian's brother no less! What's she going to think about me being hereI've never stayed out before. She's still with Elliot. She's only done this twice before, and both times I've had to endure the hideous pink PJs for a week from the fallout. She's going to think I've had a one-night stand too.
Christian stares at me imperiously. He's wearing a white linen shirt, collar and cuffs undone.
"Sit," he commands, pointing to a place at the table. I make my way across the room and sit down opposite him as I've been directed. The table is laden with food.
"I didn't know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu." He gives me a crooked, apologetic smile.
"That's very profligate of you," I murmur, bewildered by the choice, though I am hungry. "Yes, it is." He sounds guilty.