“No, no, no. Ana, please. No.” I’ve gone too far. I pick her up and sit down on the bed, cradling her in my lap while she sobs. Reaching for the satin sheet behind me, I pull it off the bed and wrap it around her, and I hug her close, rocking her gently, backward and forward. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I whisper, feeling like an asshole, and shower her hair with kisses. “Ana, forgive me, please.”
She says nothing. She continues to weep; each sob a twist of the knife in my dark, dark soul.
What was I thinking?
Ana. I’m sorry.
I’m a fucking asshole.
She buries her face in my neck, and her tears scorch my skin. “Please switch the music off.”
“Yes, of course.” I move with her on my lap, easing the remote out of my back pocket, and switch off the music. All I hear is her quiet keening interspersed with her shuddering breaths.
It’s hell.
“Better?” I ask.
She nods, and gently I wipe away her tears with my thumb. “Not a fan of Bach’s Goldberg Variations?” I make a desperate attempt at humor.
“Not that piece.” She looks up at me, her eyes dulled by her inner pain, and shame washes over me in a torrent.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“W-why did you d-do that?” she stutters between shudders.
I shake my head and close my eyes. “I got lost in the moment.”
Her brows knit together.
I sigh. I have to explain. “Ana, orgasm denial is a standard tool in— You never—”
What’s the use?
I stop and she shifts; her weight slams against my semi-erect dick and I wince.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, as her pale cheeks pink. Even now, she’s apologizing to me. This woman puts me to shame. Disgusted with myself, I lie back and take her with me so that we’re both lying on the bed, my arms around her.
She squirms and starts to readjust her bra.
“Need a hand?” I ask.
She shakes her head vehemently, and I know she doesn’t want me to touch her.
Fuck.
Ana. I’m. Sorry.
I can’t bear it. I move so that we’re facing each other. I raise my hand and wait a beat to see if she withdraws, but she doesn’t, and I stroke the backs of my fingers gently down her tearstained face. Tears well in her eyes again.
“Please don’t cry,” I mutter, as we gaze at each other.
She looks so damned hurt. It’s heartrending.
“I never what?” she asks, and it takes me a split second to realize what she’s referring to—my unfinished sentence.
“Do as you’re told. You changed your mind; you didn’t tell me where you were. Ana, I was in New York, powerless and livid. If I’d been in Seattle, I’d have brought you home.”
“So you are punishing me?”
Yes. No. Yes. I close my eyes, unable to face her.
“You have to stop doing this,” she says.
I frown.
“For a start, you only end up feeling shittier about yourself.”
I snort. “That’s true. I don’t like to see you like this.”
“And I don’t like feeling like this. You said on the Fair Lady that you hadn’t married a submissive.”
“I know. I know.”
“Well, stop treating me like one. I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I won’t be so selfish again. I know you worry about me.”
We stare at each other while I weigh her words. “Okay. Good.” I lean over to kiss her. But I stop before my lips touch hers, asking for permission and begging for forgiveness. She raises her lips to mine and I kiss her with tenderness.
“Your lips are always so soft when you’ve been crying.”
“I never promised to obey you, Christian.”
“I know.”
“Deal with it, please. For both our sakes. And I will try to be more considerate of your controlling tendencies.”
I have no answer to that, except “I’ll try.”
She sighs. “Please do. Besides, if I had been here…” Her eyes grow wide.
“I know,” I whisper, feeling like all the blood is draining from my face. I lie back and fling my arm across my eyes, imagining for the thousandth time what could have happened.
He could have killed her.
She curls around me and lays her head on my chest while I hold her. My fingers twirl her braid, then untie it and slowly untangle her hair. It’s soothing, feeling her soft hair spill through my fingers.
Ana, I’m so sorry.
We lie for several moments, until Ana interrupts my thoughts. “What did you mean earlier, when you said ‘or’?”
“Or?” I ask.
“Something about Jack.”
I peer at her. “You don’t give up, do you?”
She rests her chin on my sternum. “Give up? Never. Tell me. I don’t like being kept in the dark. You seem to have some overblown idea that I need protecting. You don’t even know how to shoot—I do.” She’s on a roll. “Do you think I can’t handle whatever it is you won’t tell me, Christian? I’ve had your stalker ex-sub pull a gun on me, your pedophile ex-lover harass me—”
Ana!
“And don’t look at me like that. Your mother feels the same way about her.”
What? “You talked to my mother about Elena?” I don’t believe it.
“Yes, Grace and I talked about her.”
I gape at her, and Ana continues, “She’s very upset about it. Blames herself.”
“I can’t believe you spoke to my mother. Shit!” I put my arm over my face again, as yet more shame washes through me.
“I didn’t go into any specifics.”
“I should hope not. Grace doesn’t need all the gory details. Christ, Ana. My dad, too?”
“No!” she says, shocked, I think. “Anyway, you’re trying to distract me—again. Jack. What about him?”
I lift my arm to check on her and she’s sporting her expectant talk-to-me-now, I’m-taking-none-of-your-bullshit look. Sighing, I put my arm back over my eyes, and I let the words spill out in a rush. “Hyde is implicated in Charlie Tango’s sabotage. The investigators found a partial print—just partial, so they couldn’t make a match. But then you recognized Hyde in the server room. He has convictions as a minor in Detroit, and the prints matched his. This morning, a cargo van was found in the garage here. Hyde was the driver. Yesterday, he delivered some shit to that new guy who’s moved in. The guy we met in the elevator.”