fifty-shades-of-grey

“Talk to me, Anastasia. I don’t want to lose you. This last week… ” He trails off.We’re coming near to the end of the bridge, and the road is once more bathed in theneon light of the street lamps so his face is intermittently in the light and the dark. And it’ssuch a fitting metaphor. This man, whom I once thought of as a romantic hero – a braveshining white knight, or the dark knight as he said. He’s not a hero, he’s a man with serious,deep emotional flaws, and he’s dragging me into the dark. Can I not guide him intothe light?“I still want more,” I whisper.“I know,” he says. “I’ll try.”I blink up at him, and he relinquishes my hand and pulls at my chin, releasing mytrapped lip.“For you, Anastasia, I will try.” He’s radiating sincerity.And that’s my cue. I unbuckle my seatbelt, reach across, and clamber into his lap, takinghim completely by surprise. Wrapping my arms around his head, I kiss him, long andhard, and in a nanosecond, he’s responding.“Stay with me, tonight,” he breathes. “If you go away, I won’t see you all week.Please.”“Yes,” I acquiesce. “And I’ll try too. I’ll sign your contract.” And it’s a spur of themoment decision.He gazes down at me.“Sign after Georgia. Think about it. Think about it hard, baby.”“I will.” And we sit in silence for a mile or two.“You really should wear your seatbelt,” Christian whispers disapprovingly into myhair, but he makes no move to shift me from his lap.I nuzzle up against him, eyes closed, my nose at his throat, drinking in his sexy Christian-and-spiced-musky-body-washfragrance, my head on his shoulder. I let my mind drift,and I allow myself to fantasize that he loves me. Oh, and it’s so real, tangible almost, anda small part of my nasty harpy self-conscious acts completely out of character and dares tohope. I’m careful not to touch his chest but just snuggle in his arms as he holds me tightly.All too soon, I’m torn from my impossible daydream.“We’re home,” Christian murmurs, and it’s such a tantalizing sentence, full of so muchpotential.Home, with Christian. Except his apartment is an art gallery, not a home.Taylor opens the door for us, and I thank him shyly, aware that he’s been within earshotof our conversation, but his kind smile is reassuring and gives nothing away. Once out ofthe car, Christian assesses me critically. Oh no… what have I done now?“Why don’t you have a jacket?” he frowns as he shrugs out of his and drapes it overmy shoulders.Relief washes through me.“It’s in my new car,” I reply sleepily, yawning.He smirks at me.“Tired, Miss Steele?”“Yes, Mr. Grey.” I feel bashful under his teasing scrutiny. Nevertheless I feel an explanationis in order, “I’ve been prevailed upon in ways I never thought possible today.”