Okay, what’s going on here? Is she reluctant? Too tired? What? “Don’t you want to fuck?” I ask, confused.
“No,” she whispers.
“Oh.” Well, that’s disappointing.
She swallows, then says in a small voice, “I want you to make love to me.”
I stare at her, bemused.
What exactly does she mean?
Make love? We do. We have. It’s just another term for fucking.
She studies me, her expression grave. Hell. Is this her idea of more? All the hearts-and-flowers shit, is that what she means? But we’re just talking semantics, surely? This is semantics. “Ana, I—” What does she want from me? “I thought we did.”
“I want to touch you.”
Fuck. No. I step back as the darkness closes around my ribs.
“Please,” she whispers.
No. No. Haven’t I made it clear?
I can’t bear to be touched. I can’t.
Ever.
“Oh no, Miss Steele, you’ve had enough concessions from me this evening. And I’m saying no.”
“No?” she queries.
“No.”
And for a moment I want to send her home, or upstairs—anywhere away from me. Not here.
Don’t touch me.
She’s watching me warily and I think about the fact that she’s leaving tomorrow and I won’t see her for a while. I sigh. I don’t have the energy for this. “Look, you’re tired, I’m tired. Let’s just go to bed.”
“So touching is a hard limit for you?”
“Yes. This is old news.” I can’t keep the exasperation out of my voice.
“Please tell me why.”
I don’t want to go there. This is not a conversation I want to have. Ever. “Oh, Anastasia, please. Just drop it for now.”
Her face falls. “It’s important to me,” she says, a hesitant plea in her voice.
“Fuck this,” I mutter to myself. At the chest of drawers I pull out a T-shirt and throw it to her. “Put that on and get into bed.” Why am I even letting her sleep with me? But it’s a rhetorical question: deep down I know the answer. It’s because I sleep better with her.
She’s my dream catcher.
She keeps my nightmares at bay.
She turns away from me and removes her bra, then slips on the T-shirt.
What did I say to her in the playroom this afternoon? She shouldn’t hide her body from me.
“I need the bathroom,” she says.
“Now you’re asking permission?”
“Er…no.”
“Anastasia, you know where the bathroom is. Today, at this point in our strange arrangement, you don’t need my permission to use it.” I unbutton my shirt and slip it off, and she dashes past me out of the bedroom as I try to contain my temper.
What’s gotten into her?
One evening at my parents’ and she’s expecting serenades and sunsets and fucking walks in the rain. That’s not what I’m about. I’ve told her this. I don’t do romance. I sigh heavily as I remove my pants.
But she wants more. She wants all that romantic shit.
Fuck.
In my closet I throw my pants into the laundry basket and pull on my PJ bottoms, and then wander back into my bedroom.
This isn’t going to work, Grey.
But I want it to work.
You should let her go.
No. I can make this work. Somehow.
The radio alarm reads 11:46. Time for bed. I check my phone for any urgent e-mails. There’s nothing. I give the bathroom door a brisk knock.
“Come in,” Ana garbles. She’s brushing her teeth, literally foaming at the mouth—with my toothbrush. She spits into the sink as I stand beside her, and we stare at each other in the mirror. Her eyes are bright with mischief and humor. She rinses off the toothbrush and without a word hands it to me. I put it in my mouth and she looks pleased with herself.
And just like that, all the tension from our previous exchange evaporates.
“Do feel free to borrow my toothbrush,” I say sardonically.
“Thank you, Sir.” She beams, and for a moment I think she’s going to curtsey, but she leaves me to brush my teeth.
When I reenter the bedroom she’s stretched out under the covers. She should be stretched out under me. “You know this is not how I saw tonight panning out.” I sound sullen.
“Imagine if I said to you that you couldn’t touch me,” she says, as argumentative as ever.
She’s not going to let this go. I sit down on the bed. “Anastasia, I’ve told you. Fifty shades. I had a rough start in life—you don’t want that shit in your head. Why would you?”
No one should have this shit in their head!
“Because I want to know you better.”
“You know me well enough.”
“How can you say that?” She sits up and kneels facing me, earnest and eager.
Ana. Ana. Ana. Let it go. For fuck’s sake.
“You’re rolling your eyes,” she says. “Last time I did that, I ended up over your knee.”
“Oh, I’d like to put you there again.” Right now.
Her face brightens. “Tell me, and you can.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re bargaining with me?” My voice betrays my disbelief.
She nods. “Negotiating.”
I frown. “It doesn’t work that way, Anastasia.”
“Okay. Tell me, and I’ll roll my eyes at you.”
I laugh. Now she is being ridiculous, and cute in my T-shirt. Her face shines with longing.
“Always so keen and eager for information,” I marvel. And a thought occurs to me: I could spank her. I’ve wanted to since dinner, but I could make it fun.