“A man can hope, Anastasia, dream even, and sometimes his dreams come true.” I had no idea I’d get to use it so soon, and on her terms, not mine. Miss Steele, for such an innocent, you are, as ever, unexpected.
“So…on your desk…that’s been a dream?” she asks.
Sweetheart. I’ve had sex on this desk many, many times, but always at my instigation, never at a submissive’s.
This is not how it works.
Her face falls as she reads my thoughts.
Shit. What can I say? Ana, unlike you, I have a past.
I run my hand through my hair in frustration; this morning is not going according to plan.
“I’d better go and have a shower,” she says, subdued. She stands and takes a few steps toward the door.
“I’ve got a couple more calls to make. I’ll join you for breakfast once you’re out of the shower.” I gaze after her, wondering what to say to make this right. “I think Mrs. Jones has laundered your clothes from yesterday. They’re in the closet.”
She looks surprised, and impressed. “Thank you,” she says.
“You’re most welcome.”
Her brow creases as she studies me, baffled.
“What?” I ask.
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re being more weird than usual.”
“You find me weird?” Ana, baby, “weird” is my middle name.
“Sometimes.”
Tell her. Tell her no one’s pounced on you for a long time.
“As ever, I’m surprised by you, Miss Steele.”
“Surprised how?”
“Let’s just say that was an unexpected treat.”
“We aim to please, Mr. Grey,” she teases, still scrutinizing me.
“And please me you do,” I acknowledge. But you disarm me, too. “I thought you were going to have a shower?”
Her mouth turns down.
Shit.
“Yes, um, I’ll see you in a moment.” She turns and scampers out of my study, leaving me standing in a maze of confusion. I shake my head to clear it, then begin picking up my scattered belongings from the floor and arranging them on my desk.
How the hell can she just waltz into my study and seduce me? I’m supposed to be in control of this relationship. This is what I was thinking about last night: her unbridled enthusiasm and affection. How the hell am I supposed to deal with that? It’s not something I know. I pause as I pick up my phone.
But it’s nice.
Yeah.
More than nice.
I chuckle at the thought and remember her “nice” e-mail. Damn, there’s a missed call from Bill. He must have phoned during my tryst with Miss Steele. I sit down at my desk, master of my own universe once more—now that she’s in the shower—and call him back. I need Bill to tell me about Detroit…and I need to get back on my game.
Bill doesn’t pick up, so I call Andrea.
“Mr. Grey.”
“Is the jet free today and tomorrow?”
“It’s not scheduled for use until Thursday, sir.”
“Great. Can you try Bill for me?”
“Sure.”
My conversation with Bill is lengthy. Ruth has done an excellent job scouting all of the available brownfield sites in Detroit. Two are viable for the tech plant we want to build, and Bill is certain that Detroit has the available labor force we require.
My heart sinks.
Does it have to be Detroit?
I have vague memories of the place: drunks, hobos, and crackheads shouting at us on the streets; the seedy dive we called home; and a young, broken woman, the crack whore I called Mommy, staring into space while she sat in a drab, grimy room filled with stale air and dust motes.
And him.
I shudder. Don’t think about him…or her.
But I can’t help it. Ana has said nothing about my nocturnal confession. I’ve never mentioned the crack whore to anyone. Perhaps that’s why Ana attacked me this morning: she thinks I need some TLC.
Fuck that.
Baby. I’ll take your body if you offer it up. I’m doing just fine. But even as the thought pops into my head I wonder if I’m “just fine.” I ignore my unease; it’s something to discuss with Flynn when he’s back.
Right now, I’m hungry. I hope she’s gotten her sweet butt out of that shower, because I need to eat.
ANA IS STANDING AT the kitchen counter talking to Mrs. Jones, who has set places for our breakfast.
“Would you like something to eat?” asks Mrs. Jones.
“No thank you,” Ana says.
Oh no you don’t.
“Of course you’ll have something to eat,” I growl at both of them. “She likes pancakes, bacon, and eggs, Mrs. Jones.”
“Yes, Mr. Grey. What would you like, sir?” she replies, without batting an eyelid.
“Omelet, please, and some fruit. Sit,” I tell Ana, pointing to one of the barstools. She does, and I take a seat beside her while Mrs. Jones makes our breakfast.
“Have you bought your air ticket?” I ask.
“No, I’ll buy it when I get home, over the Internet.”
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes,” she says, as if I’m five years old, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder, flattening her lips, peeved, I think.
I arch an eyebrow in censure. I could always spank you again, sweetheart.
“Yes, I do, thank you,” she says quickly, in a more subdued tone.
That’s better.
“I have a jet. It’s not scheduled to be used for three days; it’s at your disposal.” This will be a “no.” But at least I can offer.