th mock seriousness.
“I think you dare, and I think you do laugh at me, frequently.”
“You are quite funny.”
“Funny?”
“Oh yes.”
“Funny peculiar or funny ha ha?”
“Oh… a lot of one and some of the other.”
“Which way round?”
“I’ll lea一ve you to figure that out.”
“I’m not sure if I can figure anything out around you, Anastasia,” he says sardonically, and then continues quietly, “What do you need to think about in Georgia?”
“Us,” I whisper.
He stares at me, impassive.
“You said you’d try,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“Are you ha一ving second thoughts?”
“Possibly.”
He shifts as if uncomfortable.
“Why?”
Holy crap. How did this suddenly become such an intense and meaningful conversation? It’s been sprung on me, like an exam that I’m not prepared for. What do I say? Because I think I love you, and you just see me as a toy. Because I can’t touch you, because I’m too frightened to show you any affection in case you flinch or tell me off or worse – beat me? What can I say?
I stare momentarily out of the window. The car is heading back across the bridge. We are both shrouded in darkness, masking our thoughts and feelings, but we don’t need the night for that.
“Why, Anastasia?” Christian presses me for an answer.
I shrug, trapped. I don’t want to lose him. In spite of all his demands, his need to control, his scary vices. I ha一ve never felt as alive as I do now. It’s a thrill to be sitting here beside him. He’s so unpredictable, sexy, smart, and funny. But his moods… oh – and he wants to hurt me. He says he’ll think about my reservations, but it still scares me. I close my eyes. What can I say? Deep down I would just like more, more affection, more playful Christian, more… love.
He squeezes my hand.
“Talk to me, Anastasia. I don’t want to lose you. This last week… ” He trails off.
We’re coming near to the end of the bridge, and the road is once more bathed in the neon light of the street lamps so his face is intermittently in the light and the dark. And it’s such a fitting metaphor. This
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