"Don't leave me again," he implores, looking deep into my eyes, his face serious.

"I've missed this," he breathes.

"Me, too," I whisper.

As sanity returns, I open my eyes and gaze up into the face of the man I love. Christian's expression is soft, tender. He strokes his nose against mine, bearing his weight on his elbows, his hands holding mine by the side of my head. Sadly, I suspect that's so I don't touch him. He plants a gentle kiss on my lips as he eases himself out of me.

He takes hold of my chin and kisses me hard. A passionate, beseeching kiss, asking for what? I don't know. It leaves me breathless.

"What's your favorite song on there?"

"You are most welcome, Anastasia."

"Okay," I whisper and smile at him. His answering smile is dazzling; relief, elation, and boyish delight combined into one enchanting look that would melt the coldest of hearts. "Thank you for the iPad."

"Now, that would be telling." He grins. "Come cook me some food, wench. I'm famished," he adds, sitting up suddenly and dragging me with him.

"Wench. Food, now, please."

"Since you ask so nicely, sire, I'll get right on it."

"In your bed?" he murmurs.

"My balloon," I say again and turn on my heel and head out to the kitchen, leaving him grinning from ear to ear.

As I scramble out of bed, I dislodge my pillow, revealing the deflated helicopter balloon underneath. Christian reaches for it and gazes up at me, puzzled.

"Lucky Charlie Tango," he says, in surprise.

Yes, I'm sentimental, Grey, because I love you.

Christian and I sit on Kate's Persian rug, eating stir-fry chicken and noodles from white china bowls with chopsticks and sipping chilled white Pinot Grigio. Christian leans against the couch with his just-fucked hair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He's wearing his jeans and his shirt, and that's all. The Buena Vista Social Club croons softly in the background from Christian's iPod.

"Yes." I flush. "It's been keeping me company."

"That's my balloon," I say, feeling proprietary as I reach for my robe and wrap it around myself. Oh jeez… why did he have to find that?

"Wench?" I giggle.

"Her husband, Steve, and I… we didn't get along. And I missed Ray. Her marriage to Steve didn't last long. She came to her senses, I think. She never talks about him," I add quietly. I think that's a dark part of her life, which we've never discussed.

"This is good," he says appreciatively as he digs into his food.

"Not really," I scoff. "By the time I was interested in learning how to, my mom was living with Husband Number Three in Mansfield, Texas. And Ray, well, he would've lived on toast and takeout if it weren't for me."

"So you stayed in Washington with your stepfather."

I sit cross-legged beside him, eating greedily, beyond hungry, and admire his naked feet.

"I lived very briefly in Texas. Then went back to Ray."

Christian gazes down at me. "Why didn't you stay in Texas with your mom?"

"Did your mother teach you?"

"I suppose." I shrug.

"You're used to taking care of people."

"Sounds like you looked after him," he says softly.

"I usually do all the cooking. Kate isn't a great cook."

The edge in his voice attracts my attention, and I glance up at him.

He smiles. "I know, but you being mad, baby, wouldn't stop me."

He narrows his eyes. "That fucker better watch himself."

My heart rate spikes.

"I've noticed," I whisper. "You just go about it in a strange way."

"I want to take care of you." His eyes glow with some unnamed emotion.

"That I own it. The heads of agreement was signed yesterday. The news is embargoed for four weeks while the management at SIP makes some changes."

I scowl. "If I leave and find another job, will you buy that company, too?"

"Christian!" I admonish. "He's my boss." Christian's mouth presses into a hard line. He looks like a recalcitrant schoolboy.

"I'm still mad at you for buying SIP."

"Don't tell them what?"

"What is it?" I ask, startled by his wary expression.

"Don't tell them," he says.

"What am I going to say to my work colleagues, to Jack?"

His brow creases. "It's the only way I know how."

"Oh… will I be out of a job?" I ask, alarmed.

"I sincerely doubt it," Christian says wryly, trying to stifle his smile.

"You're not thinking of leaving, are you?" His expression alters, wary once more.

"I assumed that you would."

"Not me." Why not me? My inner goddess wakes from her doze and sits upright, all ears. "We have ice cream. Vanilla." I snicker.

"The night."

"Good. Where's the ice cream?"

What? I stare at him dumbfounded as he gracefully gets to his feet.

He puts down his empty bowl and gazes at me impassively. I sigh. I don't want to fight. Standing up, I reach for his bowl.

"Now you're talking!" he says, giving me a lascivious grin.

He cocks his head to one side, sighs, and shakes his head at me. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Miss Steele." His eyes glitter.

"What do you mean?"

"In the oven." I smile sweetly at him.

"Don't you think you're being a tad overprotective?"

"Can I stay?" he asks.

"Possibly. I'm not sure you've given me a great deal of choice."

"Yes. I am fully aware of how this looks."

"Paging Dr. Flynn," I murmur.

"Really?" Christian's grin gets bigger. "I think we could do something with that."

"Yes, I will buy that company, too." He is adamant.

"Would you like dessert?"

I scowl at him again. I am in a no-win situation here.

I place the bowls in the sink. "Do you have those silver ball things?"

He pats his hands down his chest, belly, and the pockets of his jeans. "Funnily enough, I don't carry a spare set around with me. Not much call for them in the office."

"I could still take you across my knee."

Oh, shit. What's he planning?

"Well, Anastasia, my new motto is, 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.'"

I gape at him -- I can't believe he just said that -- and he looks sickeningly pleased with himself as he grins at me. Turning, he opens the freezer and takes out a pint of Ben & Jerry's finest vanilla.

"This will do just fine." He looks up at me, eyes dark. "Ben & Jerry's & Ana." He says each word slowly, enunciating every syllable clearly.

Oh fucking my. I think my lower jaw is on the floor. He opens the cutlery drawer and grabs a spoon. When he looks up, his eyes hooded, and his tongue skims his top teeth. Oh, that tongue.

"I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Grey, and I thought you said that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit."

"You have a change of sheets, don't you?"

In my bedroom he places the ice cream on my bedside table, pulls the duvet off the bed, and removes both the pillows, placing them all in a pile on the floor.

"We'll use this." He takes hold of my robe sash and with delicious, teasing slowness, releases the bow, and gently pulls it free of the garment.

He strolls over to me, not taking his eyes off mine.

Oh. "Okay," I whisper.

My body practically convulses.

"I hope you're warm," he whispers. "I'm going to cool you down with this. Come." He holds out his hand, and I place mine in his.

His lips quirk upward in a half smile. "Wouldn't dream of it, baby, but I do want to mess with you and these sheets."

I nod, watching him, fascinated. He holds up Charlie Tango.

"I want to tie you up."

"Okay," I whisper again, incapable of anything more.

"Just your hands. To the bed. I need you still."

"Don't mess with my balloon," I warn.

I feel winded. Desire, dark, sleek, and wanton runs hot through my veins. We're going to have fun, with food.

Normally I hate energy-saving bulbs -- they are so dim -- but being naked here, with Christian, I'm grateful for the muted light. He stands by the bed gazing down at me.

My robe falls open while I stand paralyzed under his heated gaze. After a moment, he pushes the robe off my shoulders. It falls and pools at my feet so that I'm standing naked before him. He strokes my face with the backs of his knuckles, and his touch resonates in the depths of my groin. Bending, he kisses my lips briefly.

I do as I'm told. My room is shrouded in darkness except for the soft, insipid light from my lamp.

"I could look at you all day, Anastasia," he says, and with that crawls on to the bed, up my body, and straddles me.

"Lie on the bed, faceup," he murmurs, his eyes darkening, burning into mine.

I comply and he fastens the end of my robe sash around my left wrist and threads the end through the metal bars at the head of my bed. He pulls it tight so my left arm is flexed above me. He then secures my right hand, tying the sash tightly.

"Arms above your head," he commands.

He climbs off me and bends to give me a quick peck on the lips. Then he stands and lifts his shirt over his head. He undoes his jeans and drops them to the floor.

He is gloriously naked. My inner goddess is doing a triple axel dismount off the uneven bars, and abruptly my mouth is dry. He has a physique drawn on classical lines: broad muscular shoulders, narrow hips, the inverted triangle. He obviously works out. I could look at him all day. He moves to the end of the bed and grasps my ankles, pulling me swiftly and sharply downward so that my arms are stretched out and unable to move.

When I'm tied up, staring at him, he visibly relaxes. He likes me tethered. I can't touch him this way. It occurs to me that none of his subs would have touched him either -- and what's more, they would never have the opportunity to. He would have always been in control and at a distance. That's why he likes his rules.

"That's better," he mutters.

Picking up the pint of ice cream, he climbs smoothly back onto the bed to straddle me once more. Very slowly, he peels off the lid and dips the spoon in.

I want to giggle. He's really enjoying himself, and his good humor is infectious. He scoops another spoonful and feeds me some more; then he does it again. Okay, enough.

"Hey," I start in protest.

"This is too good to share," he says, smiling wickedly.

He scoops out another spoonful and offers me the spoon, so I open my mouth; then he quickly pops it in his mouth again.

"Well, as you've pleased me so much today, Miss Steele." He relents and offers me another spoonful. This time he lets me eat it.

"Yes," I say more forcefully than I mean and try in vain to buck him off.

"Ice cream," I plead.

"Hmm… it's still quite hard," he says with a raised brow. Scooping out a spoonful of the vanilla, he pops it into his mouth. "Delicious," he murmurs, licking his lips. "Amazing how good plain old vanilla can taste." He gazes down at me. "Want some?" he teases.

He looks so freaking hot, young, and carefree -- sitting on me and eating ice cream -- eyes bright, face luminous. Oh, what the hell is he going to do to me? As if I can't tell. I nod, shyly.

He laughs. "Getting feisty, are we? I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Why, Miss Steele, do you like your vanilla?"

Taking another spoonful, he offers me more. This time I keep my mouth shut and shake my head, and he lets it slowly melt on the spoon so that the melted ice cream drips onto my throat, onto my chest. He dips down and very slowly licks it off. My body lights up with longing.

"Hmm, well, this is one way to ensure you eat -- force-feed you. I could get used to this."

"Mmm. Tastes even better off you, Miss Steele."

I pull against my restraints and the bed creaks ominously, but I don't care -- I'm burning with desire, it's consuming me. He takes another spoonful and lets the ice cream dribble onto my breasts. Then with the back of the spoon, he spreads it over each breast and nipple.

It's torture. As it starts to melt, the ice cream runs off me in rivulets onto the bed. His lips continue their slow torture, sucking hard, nuzzling, softly -- Oh please!-- I'm panting.

Oh… it's cold. Each nipple peaks and hardens beneath the cool of the vanilla.

"Cold?" Christian asks softly and bends to lick and suckle all the ice cream off me once more, his mouth hot compared to the cool of the ice.

And just as I am getting used to the sensation, he sits up again and trails a spoonful of ice cream down the center of my body, across my stomach, and into my navel where he deposits a large dollop of ice cream. Oh, this is chillier than before, but weirdly it burns.

And I try; I try to stay still despite the heady combination of cold and his inflaming touch. But my hips start to move involuntarily, gyrating to their own rhythm, caught up in his cool vanilla spell. He shifts lower and starts eating the ice cream in my belly, swirling his tongue into and around my navel.

"Want some?" And before I can confirm or deny his offer, his tongue is in my mouth, and it's cold and skilled and tastes of Christian and vanilla. Delicious.

"Now, you've done this before." Christian's eyes shine. "You're going to have to stay still, or there will be ice cream all over the bed." He kisses each of my breasts and sucks each of my nipples hard, then follows the line of ice cream down my body, sucking and licking as he goes.

I moan. Holy cow. It's cold, it's hot, it's tantalizing, but he doesn't stop. He trails the ice cream farther down my body, into my pubic hair, on to my clitoris. I cry out, loudly.

"I know, baby, I know," he breathes as his tongue works its magic. He doesn't stop, just doesn't stop, and my body is climbing -- higher, higher. He slips one finger inside me, then another, and he moves them with agonizing slowness in and out.

"Hush now," Christian says softly as his magical tongue sets to work lapping up the vanilla, and now I'm keening quietly.

"Oh… please… Christian."

I erupt unexpectedly into a mind-blowing orgasm that stuns all my senses, obliterating all that's happening outside my body as I writhe and groan. Holy fucking cow, that was so quick.

"Just here," he murmurs, and he rhythmically strokes the front wall of my vagina while he continues the exquisite, relentless licking and sucking.

"Oh yes!" he groans as he slams into me. He's sticky -- the residual melted ice cream spreading between us. It's a strangely distracting sensation, but one I can't dwell on for more than a few seconds as Christian suddenly pulls out of me and flips me over.

I am vaguely aware that he has stopped his ministrations. He's hovering over me, sliding on a condom, and then he's inside me, hard and fast.

"No," I gasp.

I cry out.

He smiles against my neck, and his fingers curl around my jaw and throat, holding me fast for a moment.

I groan as he picks up speed.

"You are mine, Anastasia."

"I take care of what's mine," he hisses and bites my ear.

"Yes, you do. I'm not going to let you go."

"That's right, baby, I want to hear you." He snakes one hand around my waist while his other hand grasps my hip, and he pushes into me harder, making me cry out again. And the punishing rhythm starts. His breathing grows harsher and harsher, ragged, matching mine. I feel the familiar quickening deep inside. Again!

"This way," he murmurs and abruptly is inside me once more, but he doesn't start his usual punishing rhythm straight away. He leans over, releases my hands, and pulls me upright so I am practically sitting on him. His hands move up to my breasts, and he palms them both, tugging gently on my nipples. I groan, tossing my head back against his shoulder. He nuzzles my neck, biting down, as he flexes his hips, deliciously slowly, filling me again and again.

"Do you know how much you mean to me?" he breathes against my ear.

"Yes, yours," I pant.

He stills. "Me too, baby," he says quietly.

"What I feel for you frightens me," I whisper.

I am lying curled up in his arms on sticky sheets. His front is pressed to my back, his nose in my hair.

I am just sensation. This is what he does to me -- takes my body and possesses it wholly so that I think of nothing but him. His magic is powerful, intoxicating. I'm a butterfly caught in his net, unable and unwilling to escape. I'm his… totally his.

"Come on, baby," he growls through gritted teeth and on cue, like the sorcerer's apprentice I am, I let go, and we find our release together.

"What if you leave me?" The thought is horrific.

"I'm not going anywhere. I don't think I could ever have my fill of you, Anastasia."

I turn and gaze at him. His expression is serious, sincere. I lean over and kiss him gently. He smiles and reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ear.

"I've never felt the way I felt when you left, Anastasia. I would move heaven and earth to avoid feeling like that again." He sounds so sad, dazed even.

"What do you have that I don't?" I ask her.

"Who are you?"

I kiss him again. I want to lighten our mood somehow, but Christian does it for me.

"What?"

"Of course I'll come." Oh, shit. I have nothing to wear.

"Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell, they'd banish us, you know…" She smiles, a slow, evil grimace that spreads across her face, and it's so chilling that I start to scream.

"Tell me," he insists.

"Don't be mad, but I still have all those clothes for you at home. I am sure there are a couple of dresses in there."

"I have nothing to wear."

"Will you come with me to my father's summer party tomorrow? It's an annual charity thing. I said I'd go."

I purse my lips. "Do you, now?" I mutter, my voice sardonic. I don't want to fight with him tonight. I need a shower.

The girl who looks like me is standing outside SIP. Hang on -- she is me. I am pale and unwashed, and all my clothes are too big; I'm staring at her, and she's wearing my clothes -- happy, healthy.

"Nothing."

"I'm nobody… Who are you? Are you nobody, too…?"

I smile, feeling suddenly shy.

Christian looks momentarily uncomfortable.

"Who?" I press.

"When was this?" he whispers, dismayed. He sits up, staring down at me.

I swallow. The ex-sub! I remember Christian talking about her before we went gliding. Suddenly, he's radiating tension. Something is going on.

"It's Leila."

"When I left work this evening," I repeat. "Do you know who she is?"

Christian stills, and as the light from the bedside lamp warms up, I see his face is ashen.

He switches on the lamp so we're bathed in its dim light. He gazes down at me, his face etched with concern.

"Yes." He runs a hand through his hair.

"The girl who put 'Toxic' on your iPod?"

"There was a girl outside SIP when I left this evening. She looked like me… but not really."

I am so disoriented. I'm at home… in the dark… in bed with Christian. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind.

"What is it? What girl?" he asks soothingly.

"Who?"

His mouth presses into a hard line, but he says nothing.

"The girl," I whisper.

"Oh."

"Jesus, Ana!" Christian is shaking me awake.

"Baby, are you okay? You were having a bad dream."

"Yes," he says. "Did she say anything?"

He glances at me anxiously.

Climbing out of bed, Christian drags on his jeans and heads into the main room. A glance at my alarm clock shows it's five in the morning. I roll out of bed, putting his white shirt on, and follow him.

"She said, 'What do you have that I don't have?' and when I asked who she was, she said, 'Nobody.'"

My scalp prickles as adrenaline spikes through my body. What if she means a lot to him? Perhaps he misses her? I know so little about his past… um, relationships. She must have had a contract, and she would have done what he wanted, given him what he needed gladly.

"Yes, outside SIP, yesterday… early evening," he says quietly. He turns to me as I move toward the kitchen and asks me directly, "What time, exactly?"

Holy shit, he's on the phone.

Oh no -- when I can't. The thought makes me nauseous.

Christian closes his eyes as if in pain. What's happened? What does she mean to him?

"About ten to six?" I mumble. Who on earth is he calling at this hour? What's Leila done? He relays the information to whoever's on the line, not taking his eyes off me, his expression dark and earnest.

"Find out how… Yes… I wouldn't have said so, but then I wouldn't have thought she could do this." He closes his eyes as if he's in pain. "I don't know how that will go down… Yes, I'll talk to her… Yes… I know… Follow it up and let me know. Just find her, Welch -- she's in trouble. Find her." He hangs up.

He runs his hand through his hair in exasperation. "Yes, please," he says, but I can tell he's irritated.

"Well, I need some tea. Would you like to join me for a cup?" I want to know what's going on. I will not be sidetracked by sex.

"Do you want some tea?" I ask. Tea, Ray's answer to every crisis and the only thing he does well in the kitchen. I fill the kettle with water.

I put the kettle on the stove and busy myself with teacups and the teapot. My anxiety level has shot to DEFCON 1. Is he going to tell me the problem? Or am I going to have to dig?

I sense his eyes on me -- sense his uncertainty, and his anger is palpable. I glance up, and his eyes glitter with apprehension.

"Actually, I'd like to go back to bed." His look tells me that it's not to sleep.

His mouth sets into a hard line, and he rolls his eyes at me.

"While I was with you in Georgia, Leila turned up at my apartment unannounced and made a scene in front of Gail."

He sighs and closes his eyes. "No."

I wait patiently, pouring boiling water into the teapot as he paces back and forth. After a beat he continues.

"Mrs. Jones."

"Gail?"

"You're not going to tell me?"

"It shouldn't concern me, but it does. She found me and accosted me outside my office. How does she know about me? How does she know where I work? I think I have a right to know what's going on."

"Please?" I ask softly.

"Because it shouldn't concern you. I don't want you tangled up in this."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, 'made a scene'?"

He shakes his head.

"Okay," he says, resigned. "I have no idea how she found you. Maybe the photograph of us in Portland, I don't know." He sighs again, and I sense his frustration is directed at himself.

He runs a hand through his hair again, radiating frustration as if waging some internal battle.

"What is it?" I ask softly.

Crap. What does this mean? Suicidal? Why?

He sighs in defeat. "She made a haphazard attempt to open a vein."

"Gail got her to hospital. But Leila discharged herself before I could get there."

"Please?"

"Tell me. You're keeping something back." My tone is more forceful than I feel.

He glares at me, appraising.

"Oh no!" That explains the bandage on her wrist.

"Not much," he says eventually, but I know he's not telling me everything.

He blinks at me, surprised. "Ana, I --" he stops.

He gazes at me. He looks really uncomfortable.

"The shrink who saw her called it a typical cry for help. He didn't believe her to be truly at risk -- one step from suicidal ideation, he called it. But I'm not convinced. I've been trying to track her down since then to get her some help."

"Did she say anything to Mrs. Jones?"

I distract myself with pouring tea into teacups. So Leila wants back into Christian's life and chooses a suicide attempt to attract his attention? Whoa… scary. But effective. Christian left Georgia to be at her side, but she disappears before he gets there? How odd.

"But you didn't?"

"I don't know." And the tone of this voice tells me that he at least has a theory.

Me? What would she want with me? "What do you have that I don't?"

What? "So she was with you while she was married?" Holy fuck. He really has no boundaries.

"Husband?"

"So she left you."

He shakes his head sadly. "I don't know. All we've managed to find out is that she ran out on her husband about four months ago."

"Let me get this straight. She hasn't been your submissive for three years?"

"You can't find her? What about her family?"

"They don't know where she is. Neither does her husband."

"But you suspect…"

"No! Good God, no. She was with me nearly three years ago. Then she left and married this guy shortly afterward."

"About two and a half years."

"Yes."

"You know this."

"So why is she coming to you now?"

"Yes."

"Yes," he says distractedly, "she's been married for about two years."

"And she wanted more."

Oh. "So why is she trying to get your attention now?"

His eyes narrow perceptibly with anger. "I suspect it has something to do with you."

I stare at Fifty, magnificently naked from the waist up. I have him; he's mine. That's what I have, and yet she looked like me: same dark hair and pale skin. I frown at the thought. Yes… what do I have that she doesn't?

"Forget about her. Come." He holds out his hand.

"Testosterone rush?" His lips twitch.

I wake, too warm, and I'm wrapped around a naked Christian Grey. Even though he's fast asleep, he's holding me close. Soft morning light filters through the curtains. My head is on his chest, my leg tangled with his, my arm across his stomach.

"Why didn't you tell me yesterday?" he asks softly.

"No, Anastasia, I wouldn't."

"I'll show you a testosterone rush."

His eyes burn into me, scorching me with his I-want-you-and-I-want-you-now look. Fuck… it's so hot.

"I forgot about her." I shrug apologetically. "You know, drinks after work, at the end of my first week. You turning up at the bar and your… testosterone rush with Jack, and then when we were here. It slipped my mind. You have a habit of making me forget things."

My inner goddess does three back flips over the gym floor as I grasp his hand.

"Yes. The pissing contest."

"Wouldn't you rather have a cup of tea?"

I raise my head, scared that I might wake him. He looks young and relaxed in sleep and he's mine.

"Hi." I grin at him, guiltily.

Hmm… Reaching up, I tentatively stroke his chest, running my fingertips through the smattering of hair, and he doesn't stir. I can't quite believe it. He's really mine -- for a few more precious moments. I lean over and tenderly kiss one of his scars. He moans softly but doesn't wake, and I smile. I kiss another and his eyes open.

"Hi," he answers warily. "What are you doing?"

Suddenly he moves on top of me, pressing me into the mattress, his hands on mine, warning me. He strokes my nose with his.

"I think you're up to no good, Miss Steele," he accuses, but his smile remains.

"I like being up to no good near you."

"Looking at you." I run my fingers down his happy trail. He captures my hand, narrows his eyes, then smiles a brilliant Christian-at-ease smile, and I relax. My secret touching stays secret.

Oh… why won't you let me touch you?

"You do?" he asks and kisses me lightly on the lips. "Sex or breakfast?" he asks, his eyes dark but full of humor. His erection is digging into me, and I tilt my pelvis up to meet him.

"But I want you fit, baby, for what I have in mind. I'll need you to keep up."

"What do you do?"

"Kickboxing?"

I flush as memories of the playroom flood my mind. Yes… the Red Room of Pain is exhausting. Is he going to let me back in there? Do I want to go back in?

He saunters over and wraps his arms around me, his darkening eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

"How often do you work out?" I ask.

"Why would I need a personal trainer? I have you to keep me fit."

I stand at my chest of drawers, staring at my mirror, trying to coax my hair into some semblance of style -- really, it's just too long. I'm in jeans and a T-shirt, and Christian, freshly showered, is dressing behind me. I gaze at his body hungrily.

"You'd like him as a trainer."

"Yes, I have a personal trainer, an ex-Olympic contender who teaches me. His name is Claude. He's very good. You'd like him."

"What do you mean, I'd like him?"

I turn to gaze at him as he starts to button up his white shirt.

"Run, weights, kickboxing." He shrugs.

"Every weekday," he says, buttoning his fly.

"Good choice," he murmurs against my throat, as he trails kisses down to my breast.

"Nothing." I shake my head at him. "Okay, I'll meet Claude."

"You know you want to," he mouths at me.

"Yes, jeez -- if it makes you that happy," I scoff.

"You will?" Christian's face lights up in astounded disbelief. His expression makes me smile. He looks like he's won the lottery, though Christian's probably never even bought a ticket -- he has no need.

"Ah," he says knowingly and bites his lip. Taking one hand off me, he reaches into his jeans pocket and holds up the key to my little Audi.

I stare into his unfathomable, mesmerizing gray eyes.

"What?" he asks, concerned.

"I'd like to get my hair cut, and um… I need to bank a check and buy a car."

I flush, and the undesirable thought that Leila could probably keep up slithers invidious and unwelcome into my mind. I press my lips together and Christian frowns at me.

He tightens his arms around me and kisses my cheek. "You have no idea," he whispers. "So -- what would you like to do today?" He nuzzles me, sending delicious tingles through my body.

Of course you do! My inner goddess screams.

"No, Christian. My money, your car. I'll buy it from you."

I open my mouth then close it and repeat the process twice, but I have been rendered speechless. He's giving me back the car. Double crap. Why didn't I foresee this? Well, two can play at that game. I fish in the back pocket of my jeans and pull out the envelope with his check.

"No, it isn't. I'd like to buy the car from you."

"It's here," he says quietly, his expression uncertain.

"Here, this is yours."

Christian looks at me quizzically; then, recognizing the envelope, raises both his hands and steps away "Oh no. That's your money."

"What do you mean, it's here?" Boy. I sound angry. Crap. I am angry. How dare he!

His expression changes completely. Fury -- yes, fury -- sweeps across his face.

"No, Anastasia. Your money, your car," he snaps.

"Taylor brought it back yesterday."

"If you'd given me a pen -- that would be a suitable graduation present. You gave me an Audi."

"I gave you that car for your graduation present."

"Do you really want to argue about this?"

He glances up at me, still impassive.

He snaps the phone shut.

"You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele," he says dryly. He turns on his heel and stalks into the other room. That is not the reaction I expected. I was anticipating full-scale Armageddon. I stare at myself in the mirror and shrug, deciding on a ponytail.

Christian gazes at me impassively, but I know I've just lit the fuse and should stand well back. He strokes his chin.

I scowl at him, then inspiration hits me. Taking the envelope, I rip it in two, then two again and drop the contents into my wastebasket. Oh, that feels good.

"Yes, twenty-four thousand dollars. Directly."

"No."

"Good -- here are the keys." He puts them on the chest of drawers.

"That's not what I meant!"

"End of discussion, Anastasia. Don't push me."

"Deposited in your bank account, Monday. Don't play games with me." He's boiling mad, but I don't care.

My curiosity is piqued. What is Fifty doing? I follow him into the room, and he's on the phone.

"Good… Monday? Excellent… No that's all, Andrea."

"There's no way my car was worth twenty-four thousand dollars."

My ire takes Christian by surprise.

"I would agree with you, but it's about knowing your market, whether you're buying or selling. Some lunatic out there wanted that death trap and was willing to pay that amount of money. Apparently it's a classic. Ask Taylor if you don't believe me."

"I know everything about you, Anastasia," he says quietly.

"Twenty-four thousand dollars!" I'm almost screaming. "And how do you know my account number?"

I glower at him and he glowers back, two angry stubborn fools glaring at each other.

And I feel it, the pull -- the electricity between us -- tangible, drawing us together. Suddenly he grabs me and pushes me up against the door, his mouth on mine, claiming me hungrily, one hand on my behind pressing me to his groin and the other in the nape of my hair, tugging my head back. My fingers are in his hair, twisting hard, holding him to me. He grinds his body into mine, imprisoning me, his breathing ragged. I feel him. He wants me, and I'm heady and reeling with excitement as I acknowledge his need for me.

"Why, why do you defy me?" he mumbles between his heated kisses.

"Because I can." I'm breathless. I feel rather than see his smile against my neck, and he presses his forehead to mine.

"Lord, I want to take you now, but I'm out of condoms. I can never get enough of you. You're a maddening, maddening woman."

"And you make me mad," I whisper. "In every way."

"I'll get this." I pick up the tab for breakfast before he does.

My blood sings in my veins. Will he always have this effect on me? And I on him?

"Thank you," he says grudgingly. Oh, the sulky schoolboy is back.

He scowls.

He shakes his head. "Come. Let's go out for breakfast. And I know a place you can get your hair cut."

"You have to be quick around here, Grey."

"You're right, I do," he says sourly, though I think he's teasing.

"Don't look so cross. I'm twenty-four thousand dollars richer than I was this morning. I can afford"-- I glance at the check --"twenty-two dollars and sixty-seven cents for breakfast."

"Okay," I acquiesce and just like that, our fight is over.

"Yes, look at it."

"Sounds like a good cause," I say softly.

"It's a drug rehab program for parents with young kids called Coping Together."

I blush and stare down at my fingers knotted in my lap. "And there's your father's function this evening."

Christian rubs his hands down his thighs, looking uncomfortable.

"You really want your hair cut?"

"What's the charity?"

We walk for two blocks, and the stores become decidedly more exclusive. I haven't yet had an opportunity to explore, but this really is just around the corner from where I live. Kate will be pleased. There are plenty of small boutiques to feed her fashion passion. Actually, I need to buy some floaty skirts for work.

"At my parents' house. They have a tent. You know, the works."

"Where is it?"

"You look lovely to me. You always do."

"Remember, it's black tie."

"Come, let's go." He stands, effectively halting that topic of conversation and holds out his hand. As I take it, he tightens his fingers around mine.

It's strange. He's so demonstrative in some ways and yet so closed in others. He leads me out of the restaurant, and we walk down the street. It is a lovely, mild morning. The sun is shining, and the air smells of coffee and freshly baked bread.

"Surprise."

Oh, okay. I don't really like surprises.

"Where to now?"

"Where are we going?"

And he knows her. What is this?

"Why here?" I hiss at him.

I glare at him. He's introducing the Rules by stealth. I've agreed to the personal trainer -- and now this?

The usual? What does that mean?

"Is this the usual, sir?" she asks politely. She's wearing very pink lipstick.

Christian stops outside a large, slick-looking beauty salon and opens the door for me. It's called Esclava. The interior is all white and leather. At the stark white reception desk sits a young blonde woman in a crisp white uniform. She glances up as we enter.

Holy fuck! It's Rule Number Six, the damned beauty salon. All the waxing nonsense… shit!

This is where he brought all his subs? Maybe Leila, too? What the hell am I supposed to make of this?

"Miss Steele will tell you what she wants."

"Good morning, Mr. Grey," she says brightly, color rising in her cheeks as she bats her eyelashes at him. It's the Grey effect, but she knows him! How?

"No," he says quickly, with a nervous glance at me.

"Hello, Greta."

"I own this place, and three more like it."

"Franco is free in five minutes."

"I'd like a haircut, please."

I blush and glance at Greta, who is looking at me expectantly.

"Waxing?"

I peek up at him, and suddenly he blanches -- something, or someone, has caught his eye. I turn to see where he's looking, and right at the back of the salon a sleek platinum blonde has appeared, closing a door behind her and speaking to one of the hair stylists.

"Yes. It's a sideline. Anyway -- whatever you want, you can have it here, on the house. All sorts of massage: Swedish, shiatsu; hot stones, reflexology, seaweed baths, facials, all that stuff that women like -- everything. It's done here." He waves his long-fingered hand dismissively.

"Certainly, Miss Steele."

Greta is all pink lipstick and bustling Germanic efficiency as she checks her computer screen.

He laughs. "Yes waxing, too. Everywhere," he whispers conspiratorially, enjoying my discomfort.

"Franco's fine," says Christian reassuringly to me. I am trying to wrap my head around this. Christian Grey, CEO, owns a chain of beauty salons.

"You own it?" I gasp in surprise. Well, that's unexpected.

"Excuse me," Christian mumbles hurriedly.

Platinum Blonde is tall, tanned, lovely, and in her late thirties or early forties -- it's difficult to tell. She's wearing the same uniform as Greta, but in black. She looks stunning. Her hair shines like a halo, cut in a sharp bob. As she turns, she catches sight of Christian and smiles at him, a dazzling smile of warm recognition.

He strides quickly through the salon, past the hair stylists all in white, past the apprentices at the sinks, and over to her, too far away for me to hear their conversation. Platinum Blonde greets him with obvious affection, kissing both his cheeks, her hands resting on his upper arms, and they talk animatedly together.

"Hang on a moment, please." I watch Christian, fascinated.

"Miss Steele?"

Then it hits me like a wrecking ball, and I know, deep down in my gut on a visceral level, I know who it is. It's her. Stunning, older, beautiful.

It's Mrs. Robinson.

Platinum Blonde turns and looks at me, and gives me the same dazzling smile, as if she knows me. I smile politely back.

Greta the receptionist is trying to get my attention.

Christian looks upset about something. He's reasoning with her, and she's acquiescing, holding her hands up and smiling at him. He's smiling at her -- clearly they know each other well. Perhaps they've worked together for a long time? Maybe she runs the place; after all, she has a certain look of authority.