“I think we’ve established that,” I hiss through my teeth. “Look at me!” I pull down my camisole to reveal the top of my breasts. Christian gazes at me, his eyes not leaving my face, his expression wary and uncertain. He’s not used to seeing me this mad. Can’t he see what he’s done? Can’t he see how ridiculous he is? I want to shout at him, but I refrain—I don’t want to push him too far. Heaven knows what he’d do. Eventually, he sighs and holds his palms up in a resigned, conciliatory gesture.
“Okay,” he says, his voice placating. “I get it.”
Hallelujah!
“Good!”
He runs his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.” Finally, he looks contrite—using my own words back at me.
“You are such an adolescent sometimes,” I scold him, mulishly, but the fight has gone out of my voice, and he knows it. He steps closer and tentatively raises his hand to tuck my hair behind my ear.
“I know,” he acknowledges softly. “I have a lot to learn.”
Dr. Flynn’s words come back to me … Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He bypassed that phase in his life totally. He’s channeled all his energies into succeeding in the business world, and he has beyond all expectations. His emotional world has to play catch-up.
My heart thaws a little.
“We both do.” I sigh and cautiously raise my hand, placing it over his heart. He doesn’t flinch like he used to, but he stiffens. He rests his hand over mine and smiles his shy smile.
“I’ve just learned that you’ve 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.”
I arch my eyebrow at him. “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, Mrs. Grey, or ensure that all potential projectile objects are nailed down and that you don’t have access to a gun.” He smirks.
I smirk back, narrowing my eyes. “I’m resourceful.”
“That you are,” he whispers and releases my hand to circle his arms around me. Pulling me into an embrace, he buries his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, and feel the tension leave his body as he nuzzles me.
“Am I forgiven?”
“Am I?”
I feel his smile. “Yes,” he answers.
“Ditto.”
We stand holding each other, my pique forgotten. He does smell good, adolescent or not. How can I resist him?
“Hungry?” he says after a while. I have my eyes closed and my head against his chest.
“Yes. Famished. All the … er … activity has given me an appetite. But I’m not dressed for dinner.” I’m sure my sweatpants and camisole would be frowned upon in the dining room.
“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 Cote D’Azur. Anyway, I thought we’d eat on deck.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
He kisses me—an earnest forgive-me kiss—then we wander hand in hand toward the bow, where our gazpacho awaits.
THE STEWARD SERVES OUR crème brulée and discreetly retires.
“Why do you always braid my hair?” I ask Christian out of curiosity. We’re sitting adjacent to each other at the table, my lower leg curled around his. He pauses as he’s about to pick up his dessertspoon and frowns.
“I don’t want your hair catching in anything,” he says quietly, and for a moment, he’s lost in thought. “Habit, I think,” he muses. Suddenly he frowns and his eyes widen, his pupils dilating with alarm.
What’s he remembered? It’s something painful, some early childhood memory, I guess. I don’t want to remind him of that. Leaning over, I put my index finger over his lips.
“No, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know. I was just curious.” I give him a warm, reassuring smile. His look is wary, but after a moment he visibly relaxes, his relief evident. I lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth.
“I love you,” I murmur, and he smiles his heart-achingly shy smile, and I melt. “I will always love you, Christian.”
“And I you,” he says softly.
“In spite of my disobedience?” I raise my eyebrow.
“Because of your disobedience, Anastasia.” He grins.
I crack my spoon through the burned sugar crust of my dessert and shake my head. Will I ever understand this man? Hmm—this crème brulée is delicious.
ONCE THE STEWARD HAS cleared our dessert plates, Christian reaches for the bottle of rosé and refills my glass. I check that we’re alone and ask, “What’s with the no going to the bathroom thing?”
“You really want to know?” He half smiles, his eyes alight with a salacious gleam.
“Do I?” I gaze at him through my lashes as I take a sip of my wine.
“The fuller your bladder, the more intense your orgasm, Ana.”
I blush. “Oh. I see.” Holy cow, that explains a lot.
He grins, looking far too knowing. Will I always be on the back foot with Mr. Sexpertise?
“Yes. Well …” I desperately hunt around for a change of subject. He takes pity on me.
“What do you want to do for the rest of the evening?” He cocks his head to one side and gives me his lopsided grin.
Whatever you want, Christian. Put your theory to the test again? I shrug.
“I know what I want to do,” he murmurs. Grabbing his glass of wine, he rises and holds his hand out to me. “Come.”
I take his hand and he leads me into the main salon.
His iPod is in the speaker dock on the dresser. He switches it on and selects a song.
“Dance with me.” He pulls me into his arms.
“If you insist.”
“I insist, Mrs. Grey.”
A slinky, cheesy melody starts. Is this a Latin rhythm? Christian grins down at me and starts to move, sweeping me off my feet and taking me with him around the salon.
A man with a voice like warm melted caramel croons. It’s a song I know but can’t place. Christian dips me low, and I yelp in surprise and giggle. He smiles, his eyes filled with humor. Then he scoops me up and spins me under his arm.
“You dance so well,” I say. “It’s like I can dance.”
He gives me a sphinxlike smile but says nothing, and I wonder if it’s because he’s thinking of her … Mrs. Robinson, the woman who taught him how to dance—and how to fuck. She hasn’t crossed my mind for a while. Christian has not mentioned her since his birthday, and as far as I’m aware, their business relationship is over. Reluctantly though, I have to admit—she was some teacher.
He dips me low again and plants a swift kiss on my lips. “I’d miss your love,” I murmur, echoing the lyrics.
“I’d more than miss your love,” he says and spins me once more. Then he sings the words softly in my ear, making me swoon.
The track ends and Christian gazes down at me, his eyes dark and luminous, all humor gone, and I’m suddenly breathless.
“Come to bed with me?” he whispers, and it’s a heartfelt plea that tugs at my heart.