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What is he thinking? Oh, this is not the reaction I was expecting, and my subconscious glares at me like I’m a domesticated farm animal. Christian never reacts the way I expect. He looks back up, his eyes filled with what, pain?

“Why do you think I want this?” he asks, bemused.

No, no, no! You said you’d love it . . .

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“Don’t you?” I ask, refusing to acknowledge my subconscious who is questioning why anyone would want erotic photographs of me. Christian swallows and runs a hand through his hair, and he looks so lost, so confused. He takes a deep breath.

“For me, photos like those have usually been an insurance policy, Ana. I know I’ve objectified women for so long,” he says and pauses awkwardly.

“And you think taking pictures of me is . . . um, objectifying me?” All the air leaves my body, and the blood drains from my face.

He scrunches up his eyes. “I am so confused,” he whispers. When he opens his eyes again, they are wide and wary, full of some raw emotion.

Shit. Is it me? My questions earlier about his birth mom? The fire at his office?

“Why do you say that?” I whisper, panic rising in my throat. I thought he was happy. I thought we were happy. I thought I made him happy. I don’t want to confuse him. Do I? My mind starts racing. He hasn’t seen Flynn in nearly three weeks. Is that it? Is that the reason he’s unraveling? Shit, should I call Flynn? And in a possibly unique moment of extraordinary depth and clarity, it comes to me—the fire, Charlie Tango, the Jet Ski . . . He’s scared, he’s scared for me, and seeing these marks on my skin must bring that home. He’s been fussing about them all day, confusing himself because he’s not used to feeling uncomfortable about inflicting pain. The thought chills me.

He shrugs and once more his eyes move down to my wrist where the bangle he bought me this afternoon used to be. Bingo!

“Christian, these don’t matter.” I hold up my wrist, revealing the fading welt.

“You gave me a safe word. Shit—yesterday was fun. I enjoyed it. Stop brooding about it—I like rough sex, I’ve told you that before.” I blush scarlet as I try to quash my rising panic.

He gazes at me intently, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s measuring my words. I stumble on.

“Is this about the fire? Do you think it’s connected somehow to Charlie Tango? Is this why you’re worried? Talk to me, Christian—please.” He stares at me, saying nothing and the silence expands between us again as it did this afternoon. Holy fucking crap! He’s not going to talk to me, I know.

“Don’t overthink this Christian,” I scold quietly, and the words echo, disturbing a memory from the recent past—his words to me about his stupid contract. I 73/551

reach over, take the box from his lap, and open it. He watches me passively as if I’m a fascinating alien creature. Knowing that the camera is prepped by the overly helpful salesman in the store, and ready to go, I fish it out of the box and remove the lens cap. I point the camera at him so his beautiful anxious face fills the frame.

I press the button and keep it pressed, and ten pictures of Christian’s alarmed expression are captured digitally for posterity.

“I’ll objectify you then,” I murmur, pressing the shutter again. On the final still his lips twitch almost imperceptibly. I press again, and this time he smiles . . .

a small smile, but a smile nevertheless. I hold down the button once more and see him physically relax in front of me and pout—a full-on, posed, ridiculous, “Blue Steel” pout, and it makes me giggle. Oh, thank heavens. Mr. Mercurial is back—and I’ve never been so pleased to see him.

“I thought it was my present,” he mutters sulkily, but I think he’s teasing.

“Well, it was supposed to be fun, but apparently it’s a symbol of women’s oppression.” I snap away, taking more pictures of him, and watch the amusement grow on his face in super close-up. Then his eyes darken, and his expression changes to predatory.

“You want to be oppressed?” he murmurs silkily.

“Not oppressed. No,” I murmur back, snapping again.

“I could oppress you big time, Mrs. Grey,” he threatens, his voice husky.

“I know you can, Mr. Grey. And you do, frequently.” His face falls. Shit. I lower the camera and stare at him.

“What’s wrong, Christian?” My voice oozes frustration. Tell me!

He says nothing. Gah! He’s so infuriating. I lift the camera to my eye again.

“Tell me,” I insist.

“Nothing,” he says and abruptly disappears from the viewfinder. In one swift, smooth move, he sweeps the camera box onto the cabin floor, grabs me and pushes me down onto the bed. He sits astride me.

“Hey!” I exclaim and take more photographs of him, smiling down at me with dark intent. He grabs the camera by the lens, and the photographer becomes the subject as he points the Nikon at me and presses the shutter down.