Fifty Shades Darker

«Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive.» Christian sounds icily polite. «I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle. Anastasia?» He subtly stresses we and takes my hand as he does so.

«Bye, José. Congratulations again.» I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and before I know it Christian is dragging me out of the building. I know he’s boiling with silent wrath, but so am I.

He looks quickly up and down the street then heads left and suddenly sweeps me into a side alley, abruptly pushing me up against a wall. He grabs my face between his hands, forcing me to look up into his ardent determined eyes.

I gasp, and his mouth swoops down. He’s kissing me, violently. Briefly our teeth clash, then his tongue is in my mouth.

Desire explodes like the Fourth of July throughout my body, and I’m kissing him back, matching his fervor, my hands knotting in his hair, pulling it, hard. He groans, a low sexy sound in the back of his throat that reverberates through me, and his hand moves down my body to the top of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through the plum dress.

I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last few days into our kiss, binding him to me, and it hits me—in this moment of blinding passion—he’s doing the same, he feels the same.

He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminous with desire, firing the already heated blood that is pounding through my body. My mouth is slack as I try to drag precious air into my lungs.

«You. Are. Mine,” he snarls, emphasizing each word. He pushes away from me and bends, hands on his knees as if he’s run a marathon. «For the love of God, Ana.»

I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control the riotous reaction in my body, trying to find my equilibrium again.

«I’m sorry,” I whisper once my breath has returned.

«You should be. I know what you were doing. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you.»

I flush and shake my head.

«No. He’s just a friend.»

«I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you… you bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It’s very …» He frowns, grasping for the word. «Unsettling.

«I like control, Ana, and around you that just»—he stands, his gaze intense— «evaporates.» He waves his hand vaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deep breath. He clasps my hand.

«Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat.»

Chapter Two

He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.

«This place will have to do,” Christian grumbles. «We don’t have much time.»

The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen tablecloths, and walls the same color as Christian’s playroom—deep blood red—with small gilt mirrors randomly placed, white candles, and small vases of white roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background about this thing called love. It’s very romantic.

The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove, and I sit, apprehensive and wondering what he’s going to say.

«We don’t have long,” Christian says to the waiter as we sit. «So we’ll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list.»

«Certainly, sir.» The waiter, taken aback by Christian’s cool, calm efficiency, scuttles off. Christian places his Blackberry on the table. Jeez, don’t I get a choice?

«And if I don’t like steak?»

He sighs. «Don’t start, Anastasia.»

«I am not a child, Christian.»

«Well, stop acting like one.»

It’s as if he’s slapped me. I blink at him. So this is how it will be, an agitated, fraught conversation, albeit in a very romantic setting but certainly no hearts and flowers.

«I’m a child because I don’t like steak?» I mutter trying to conceal my hurt.

«For deliberately making me jealous. It’s a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend’s feelings, leading him on like that?» Christian presses his lips together in a thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the wine list.

I blush—I hadn’t thought of that. Poor José—I certainly don’t want to encourage him. Suddenly, I’m mortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thing to do. He glances at the wine list.

«Would you like to choose the wine?» he asks, raising his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He knows I know nothing about wine.

«You choose,” I answer, sullen but chastened.

«Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please.»

«Er… we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir.»

«A bottle then,” Christian snaps.

«Sir.» He retreats, subdued, and I don’t blame him. I frown at Fifty. What’s eating him? Oh, me probably, and somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep for a while.

«You’re very grumpy.»

He gazes at me impassively. «I wonder why that is?»

«Well, it’s good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn’t you say?» I smile at him sweetly.