Don’t go there, Grey.
Why didn’t she ask me to stop? She didn’t safe-word. She deserved to be punished. She ran from me. She rolled her eyes. This is what happens when you defy me, baby.
She scowls. Blue eyes wide and bright, filled with hurt and rage and sudden, chilling insight.
Shit. What have I done?
It’s sobering.
I’m unbalanced, teetering at the edge of a dangerous precipice, desperately searching for the words to make this right, but my mind is blank.
“Well, you are one fucked-up son of a bitch,” she snarls.
All the breath leaves my body, and it’s like she’s whipped me with a belt…Fuck!
She’s recognized me for what I am.
She’s seen the monster.
“Ana,” I whisper, pleading with her. I want her to stop. I want to hold her and make the pain go away. I want her to sob in my arms.
“Don’t you dare Ana me! You need to sort your shit out, Grey!” she snaps, and walks out of the playroom, quietly shutting the door behind her. Stunned, I stare at the closed door, her words ringing in my ears.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.
No one has ever walked out on me. What the hell? Mechanically, I run my hand through my hair, trying to rationalize her reaction, and mine. I just let her go. I’m not mad…I’m…what? I stoop to pick up the belt, walk to the wall, and hang it on its peg. That was, without doubt, one of the most satisfying moments of my life. A moment ago I felt lighter, the weight of uncertainty between us gone.
It’s done. We’re there.
Now that she knows what’s involved, we can move on.
I told her. People like me like inflicting pain.
But only on women who like it.
My sense of unease grows.
Her reaction—the image of her injured, haunted look is back, unwelcome, in my mind’s eye. It’s unsettling. I am used to making women cry—it’s what I do.
But Ana?
I sink to the floor and lean my head against the wall, my arms on my bent knees. Just let her cry. She’ll feel better for crying. Women do, in my experience. Give her a moment, then go and offer her aftercare. She didn’t safe-word. She asked me. She wanted to know, curious as ever. It’s just been a rude awakening, that’s all.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.
Closing my eyes, I smile without humor. Yes, Ana, yes I am, and now you know. Now we can move forward with our relationship…arrangement. Whatever this is.
My thoughts don’t comfort me and my sense of unease grows. Her wounded eyes glaring at me, outraged, accusatory, pitying…she can see me for what I am. A monster.
Flynn springs to mind: Don’t dwell on the negative, Christian.
I close my eyes once more and see Ana’s anguished face.
What a fool I am.
This was too soon.
Way, way too soon.
Fuck.
I’ll reassure her.
Yes—let her cry, then reassure her.
I was angry with her for running from me. Why did she do that?
Hell. She’s so different from any other woman I’ve known. Of course she wouldn’t react in the same way.
I need to face her, hold her. We’ll get through this. I wonder where she is.
Shit!
Panic seizes me. Suppose she’s gone? No, she wouldn’t do that. Not without saying good-bye. I stand and race out of the room and down the stairs. She’s not in the living room—she must be in bed. I dash to my bedroom.
The bed is empty.
Full-blown anxiety erupts in the pit of my belly. No, she can’t have gone! Upstairs—she must be in her room. I take the stairs three at a time and pause, breathless, outside her bedroom door. She’s in there, crying.
Oh, thank God.
I lean my head against the door, overwhelmed by my relief.
Don’t leave. The thought is awful.
Of course she just needs to cry.
Taking a steadying breath, I head to the bathroom beside the playroom to fetch some arnica cream, Advil, and a glass of water, and I return to her room.
Inside it’s still dark, though dawn is a pale streak on the horizon, and it takes me a moment to find my beautiful girl. She’s curled up in the middle of the bed, small and vulnerable, sobbing quietly. The sound of her grief rips through me, leaving me winded. My subs never affected me like this—even when they were bawling. I don’t get it. Why do I feel so lost? Putting down the arnica, water, and tablets, I lift the comforter, slide in beside her, and reach for her. She stiffens, her whole body screaming, Don’t touch me! The irony is not lost on me.
“Hush,” I whisper, in a vain attempt to halt her tears and calm her. She doesn’t respond. She remains frozen, unyielding.
“Don’t fight me, Ana, please.” She relaxes a fraction, allowing me to pull her into my arms, and I bury my nose in her wonderfully fragrant hair. She smells as sweet as ever, her scent a soothing balm to my nerves. And I plant a tender kiss on her neck.
“Don’t hate me,” I murmur, as I press my lips to her throat, tasting her. She says nothing, but slowly her crying dissipates into soft sniffling sobs. At last she’s quiet. I think she might have fallen asleep, but I cannot bring myself to check, in case I disturb her. At least she’s calmer now.
Dawn comes and goes, and the ambient light gets brighter, intruding into the room as morning moves on. And still we lie quietly. My mind drifts as I hold my girl in my arms, and I observe the changing quality of the light. I can’t remember an instance when I just lay down and let time creep by and my thoughts wander. It’s relaxing, imagining what we could do for the rest of the day. Maybe I should take her to see The Grace.
Yes. We could go sailing this afternoon.
If she’s still talking to you, Grey.
She moves, a slight twitch in her foot, and I know she’s awake.
“I brought you some Advil and some arnica cream.”
Finally she responds, slowly turning in my arms to face me. Pain-riven eyes focus on mine, her look intense, questioning. She takes her time to scrutinize me, as if seeing me for the first time. It’s unnerving because, as usual, I have no idea what she’s thinking, what she’s seeing. But she’s definitely calmer, and I welcome the small spark of relief this brings. Today might be a good day after all.
She caresses my cheek and runs her fingers along my jaw, tickling my stubble. I close my eyes, savoring her touch. It’s still so new, this sensation, being touched and enjoying her innocent fingers gently stroking my face, the darkness quiet. I don’t mind her touching my face…or her fingers in my hair.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
Her soft-spoken words are a surprise. She’s apologizing to me?
“What for?”
“What I said.”
Relief courses unchecked through my body. She’s forgiven me. Besides, what she said in anger was right—I am a fucked-up son of a bitch.
“You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know.” And for the first time in so many years I find myself apologizing. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Her shoulders lift a little and she gives me a slight smile. I’ve won a reprieve. We’re safe. We’re okay. I’m relieved.
“I asked for it,” she says.
You sure did, baby.
She swallows nervously. “I don’t think I can be everything you want me to be,” she concedes, her eyes wide with heartfelt sincerity.