fifty-shades-of-grey

ollection, and my muscles contract deliciously deep in my belly. My subconscious scowlsat me… fucking – not lovemaking – she screams at me like a harpy. I ignore her, but deepdown I know she has a point. I shake my head to concentrate on the task at hand.There is a state-of-the-art range. I think I have the hang of it. I need somewhere tokeep the pancakes warm, and I start on the bacon. Amy Studt is singing in my ear aboutmisfits. This song used to mean so much to me, that’s because I’m a misfit. I have neverfitted in anywhere and now… I have an indecent proposal to consider from King Misfithimself. Why is he this way? Nature or Nurture? It’s so alien to anything I know.I put the bacon under the grill, and while it’s cooking, I whisk some eggs. I turn, andChristian is sitting on one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar, leaning on it, his face supportedby 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 weakat 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 tolook flustered.“I’ll do that. You cook. Would you like me to put some music on so you can continueyour… 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 wryamusement.I purse my lips. Entertaining eh? My 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. Especiallywhen he’s being so uncharacteristically playful. He opens a drawer and takes outtwo black slate placemats for the breakfast bar. I pour the egg mix into a pan, pull out thebacon 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. Christianreaches into a cupboard and pulls out some Twining’s English Breakfast tea. I purse mylips.