Total pages in book: 262
Estimated words: 268603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1343(@200wpm)___ 1074(@250wpm)___ 895(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 268603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1343(@200wpm)___ 1074(@250wpm)___ 895(@300wpm)
She’s leaning on the rail at the bow, staring at the distant shore. It’s a beautiful evening and the Fair Lady, like the Queen of the Seas that she is, coasts effortlessly over the Mediterranean.
Ana looks desolate. It’s chastening.
“You’re mad at me,” I whisper.
“No shit, Sherlock!” she hisses, but she doesn’t turn to look at me.
“How mad?”
“Scale of one to ten, I think I’m at fifty. Apt, huh?”
Wow. “That mad.”
“Yes. Pushed-to-violence mad,” she seethes. Finally, she looks at me, her expression raw and angry…and I know she sees me. Sees me for who I am. You are one fucked-up son of a bitch. Her recrimination from months ago echoes in my head.
Hell. It’s been weeks since I’ve felt as shitty as this.
Flynn’s words float back to me: communicate and compromise.
Ana takes a deep breath and stands taller, squaring her shoulders. “Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall.”
“Well, you won’t take your top off again,” I grunt, and even to my own ears I sound like a petulant teen.
She glares at me. “I don’t like you leaving marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It’s a hard limit!” She spits at me like a cornered kitten.
“I don’t like you taking your clothes off in public. That’s a hard limit for me,” I counter.
I warned you, Ana.
“I think we’ve established that,” she continues in the same vein. “Look at me!” She tugs down her top, exposing the love-bites I’ve left on her. I count six. I didn’t know my plan would be quite so effective.
But I don’t want to fight.
I raise my hands, palms up in surrender. “Okay, I get it.”
Maybe I overreacted.
“Good!” she snaps.
I run my hand through my hair, feeling helpless.
I’m lost. What more can I do? “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.” I don’t want to fight. Ana. Please.
“You are such an adolescent sometimes.” Ana shakes her head, but she sounds more resigned than forthright. I take a step forward and tuck a loose tendril behind her ear.
“I know, I have a lot to learn.”
“We both do.” She sighs and slowly raises her hand and places it over my heart.
Ana.
I place my hand over hers and give her an apologetic smile. “I’ve just learned that you’ve got a good arm and a good aim, Mrs. Grey. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me.”
Her lips form a half smile and she arches a brow. “Target practice with Ray. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. Grey, and you’d do well to remember that.”
“I will endeavor to do that or ensure that all potential projectile objects are nailed down and that you don’t have access to a gun.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m resourceful.”
Oh, Ana. I don’t doubt it. “That you are,” I whisper, and releasing her hand, I fold her into my arms. Her hands move over my back and she returns my embrace. I plant my nose in her hair, inhaling her soothing scent. “Am I forgiven?” I ask, quietly.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” I respond.
“Ditto.”
We stand at the bow, the French Riviera passing us by, and we just…are.
For a moment, it’s the best feeling in the world.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Yes. Famished. All the, um, activity has given me an appetite. But I’m not dressed for dinner.”
“You look good to me, Anastasia. Besides, it’s our boat for the week. We can dress how we like. Think of it as dress-down Tuesday on the Côte d’Azur. Anyway, I thought we’d eat on deck.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
I reach under her chin and raise her lips to mine and kiss her. Slowly. Gently.
Forgive me, Ana.
She smiles and together we walk hand in hand back to where our dinner awaits.
“Why do you always braid my hair?” Ana asks as I’m about to tuck into my crème brûlée.
I frown, because the answer’s obvious. “I don’t want your hair catching in anything.” I’ve always done it. Hair and toys don’t mix. “Habit, I think, I add. And from nowhere a vision of a young woman singing an eighties pop song as she brushes out her long dark hair comes to mind. She turns and smiles at me, the dust motes circling in the air around her.
Hey, Maggot. Do you want to brush my hair?
And I’m back in a godforsaken slum in Detroit, a lifetime ago. Ana caresses my chin and runs a finger across my lips, bringing me back to the Fair Lady.
Why is the crack whore haunting me now?
“It doesn’t matter,” Ana whispers. “I don’t need to know. I was just curious.” She smiles and leans forward to kiss the corner of my lips. “I love you,” she whispers. “I’ll always love you, Christian.”
“And I you.” I’m thankful that she’s here to drag me back from the dark abyss of my early childhood.