Page 40

I put the bacon under the grill, and while it's cooking, I whisk some eggs. I turn, and Christian is sitting on one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar, leaning on it, his face supported by his steepled hands. He's still wearing the t-shirt he's slept in. Just-fucked hair really, really suits him, as does his designer stubble. He looks both amused and bewildered.
I freeze, flush, then gather myself and pull the headphones out of my ears, my knees weak at the sight of him.
"Good morning, Miss Steele. You're very energetic this morning," he says dryly.
"I slept well," I stutter my explanation. His lips try to mask his smile.
"I can't imagine why." He pauses and frowns. "So did I, after I came back to bed."
"Are you hungry?"
"Very," he says with an intense look, and I don't think he's referring to food.
"Pancakes, bacon, and eggs?"
"Sounds great."
"I don't know where you keep your placemats." I shrug, trying desperately hard not to look flustered.
"I'll do that. You cook. Would you like me to put some music on so you can continue your... err... dancing?"
I stare down at my fingers, knowing that I am turning puce.
"Please, don't stop on my account. It's very entertaining." His tone is one of wry amusement.
I purse my lips. Entertaining ehMy subconscious has doubled over in laughter at me.
I turn and continue to whisk the eggs, probably beating them a little harder than they need.
In a moment, he's beside me. He gently pulls my pigtail.
"I love these," he whispers. "They won't protect you." Hmm Bluebeard...
"How would you like your eggs?" I ask tartly. He smiles.
"Thoroughly whisked and beaten," he smirks.
I turn back to the task at hand, trying to hide my smile. He's hard to stay mad at. Especially when he's being so uncharacteristically playful. He opens a drawer and takes out two black slate placemats for the breakfast bar. I pour the egg mix into a pan, pull out the bacon and turn it over, and put it back under the grill.
When I turn back round, there is orange juice on the table, and he's making coffee.
"Would you like some tea?"
"Yes, please. If you have some."
I find a couple of plates and place them in the warming tray of the range. Christian reaches into a cupboard and pulls out some Twining's English Breakfast tea. I purse my lips.
"Bit of a foregone conclusion wasn't I?"
"Are youI'm not sure we've concluded anything yet, Miss Steele," he murmurs.
What does he mean by thatOur negotiationsOur, err... relationship... whatever that is He's still so cryptic. I serve up the breakfast onto the heated plates and lay them on the placemats. I hunt in the refrigerator and find some maple syrup.
I glance up at Christian, and he's waiting for me to sit down.
"Miss Steele." He motions to one of the bar stools.
"Mr. Grey." I nod in acknowledgement. I climb up and wince slightly as I sit down.
"Just how sore are you?" he asks as he sits down. His gray eyes dark.
I flush. Why does he ask such personal questions?
"Well, to be truthful, I have nothing to compare this to," I snap at him. "Did you wish to offer your commiserations?" I ask too sweetly. I think he's trying to stifle a smile, but I can't be sure.
"No. I wondered if we should continue your basic training."
"Oh." I stare at him dumbfounded as I stop breathing and everything inside me clenches tight. Ooh... that's so nice. I suppress my groan.
"Eat, Anastasia." My appetite has become uncertain again... more... more sex... yes please.
"This is delicious, incidentally." He grins at me.
I try a forkful of omelet but can barely taste it. Basic training! I want to f**k your mouth. Does that form part of basic training?
"Stop biting your lip. It's very distracting, and I happen to know you're not wearing anything under my shirt which makes it even more distracting," he growls.
I dunk my teabag in the small pot that Christian has provided. My mind is in a whirl.
"What sort of basic training did you have in mind?" I ask, my voice slightly too high, betraying my wish to sound as natural, disinterested, and calm as I can with my hormones wreaking havoc through my body.
"Well, as you're sore, I thought we could stick to oral skills."
I choke on my tea, and I stare at him, eyes wide and gaping. He pats me gently on the back and passes me some orange juice. I cannot tell what he's thinking.
"That's if you want to stay," he adds. I glance up at him, trying to recover my equilibrium. His expression is unreadable. It's so frustrating.
"I'd like to stay for today. If that's okay. I have to work tomorrow."
"What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?"
"Nine."
"I'll get you to work by nine tomorrow."
I frown. Does he want me to stay another night?
"I'll need to go home tonight - I need clean clothes."
"We can get you some here."
I don't have spare cash to spend on clothes. His hand comes up, and he grasps my chin, tugging it so my lip is released from the grip of my teeth. I'm not even aware I've been biting my lip.
"What is it?" he asks.
"I need to be home this evening."
His mouth is a hard line.
"Okay, this evening," he acquiesces. "Now eat your breakfast."
My thoughts and my stomach are in turmoil. My appetite has vanished. I stare at my half-eaten breakfast. I'm just not hungry.
"Eat, Anastasia. You didn't eat last night."