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“That is such a lovely sound,” I whisper, and kiss her. But I still want to know why she’s relieved. “And you are hiding something, Anastasia. I may have to torture it out of you.”
“Ha!” The space between us is filled with her laughter. “I think you’ve done enough torturing.”
Her response wipes the smile off my face, and her expression softens immediately. “Maybe I’ll let you torture me like that again,” she says coyly.
Relief sweeps through me. “I’d like that very much, Miss Steele.”
“We aim to please, Mr. Grey.”
“You’re okay?” I ask, humbled and anxious at once.
“More than okay.” She gives me her timid smile.
“You’re amazing.” I kiss her forehead, then climb off the bed as that ominous feeling ripples through me once more. Shaking it off, I button my fly and hold out my hand to help her off the bed. When she’s standing I pull her into my arms and kiss her, savoring her taste.
“Bed,” I mutter, and lead her to the door. There I wrap her in the bathrobe she’s left hanging on the peg, and before she can protest I pick her up and carry her downstairs to my bedroom.
“I’m so tired,” she mumbles once she’s in my bed.
“Sleep now,” I whisper, and wrap her in my arms. I close my eyes, fighting the disquieting sensation that surges and fills my chest once more. It’s like homesickness and a homecoming rolled into one…and it’s terrifying.
SATURDAY, JUNE 4, 2011
* * *
The summer breeze teases my hair, its caress the nimble fingers of a lover.
My lover.
Ana.
I wake suddenly, confused. My bedroom is shrouded in darkness, and beside me Ana sleeps, her breathing gentle and even. I prop myself up on one elbow and run my hand through my hair, with the uncanny feeling that someone has just done exactly that. I glance around the room, peering into the shadowy corners, but Ana and I are alone.
Strange. I could swear someone was here. Someone touched me.
It was just a dream.
I shake off the disturbing thought and check the time. It’s after 4:30 in the morning. As I flop back down onto my pillow, Ana mumbles an incoherent word and turns over to face me, still fast asleep. She looks serene and beautiful.
I stare at the ceiling, the flashing light of the smoke alarm taunting me once more. We have no contract. Yet Ana’s here. Beside me. What does this mean? How am I supposed to deal with her? Will she abide by my rules? I need to know that she’s safe. I rub my face. This is uncharted territory for me; it’s out of my control, and it’s unsettling.
Leila pops into my mind.
Shit.
My mind races: Leila, work, Ana…and I know I won’t get back to sleep. Getting up, I pull on some PJ pants, close the bedroom door, and head into the living room to my piano.
Chopin is my solace; the somber notes match my mood and I play them over and over. A small movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention, and looking up, I see it’s Ana coming toward me, her footsteps hesitant. “You should be asleep,” I mutter, but continue playing.
“So should you,” she volleys back. Her face is firm with resolve, yet she looks small and vulnerable dressed only in my oversized bathrobe. I hide my smile.
“Are you scolding me, Miss Steele?”
“Yes, Mr. Grey, I am.”
“Well, I can’t sleep.”
I have too much weighing on my mind, and I’d rather she went back to bed and slept. She must be tired from yesterday. She disregards my mood and sits down beside me on the piano bench, leaning her head on my shoulder.
It’s such a tender and intimate gesture that for a moment I lose my place in the prelude, but I continue playing, feeling more at peace because she’s with me.
“What was that?” she asks when I finish.
“Chopin. A prelude. Opus twenty-eight, number four. In E minor, if you’re interested.”
“I’m always interested in what you do.”
Sweet Ana. I kiss her hair. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” she says, not moving her head. “Play the other one.”
“Other one?”
“The Bach piece that you played the first night I stayed.”
“Oh, the Marcello.”
I can’t remember when I last played for someone upon request. For me the piano is a solitary instrument, for my ears only. My family hasn’t heard me play for years. But since she’s asked, I’ll play for my sweet Ana. My fingers caress the keys and the haunting melody echoes through the living room.
“Why do you only play such sad music?” she asks.
Is it sad?
“So you were just six when you started to play?” She continues her questions, lifting her head and studying me. Her face is open and eager for information, as usual; and after last night, who am I to deny her anything?
“I threw myself into learning the piano to please my new mother.”
“To fit into the perfect family?” My words from our candid night in Savannah echo in her soft voice.
“Yes, so to speak.” I don’t want to talk about this and I’m surprised how much of my personal information she’s retained. “Why are you awake? Don’t you need to recover from yesterday’s exertions?”
“It’s eight in the morning for me. And I need to take my pill.”
“Well remembered,” I muse. “Only you would start a course of time-specific birth control pills in a different time zone. Perhaps you should wait half an hour, and then another half hour tomorrow morning. So eventually you can take them at a reasonable time.”