it hits me—in this
moment of blinding passion—he’s doing the same, he feels
the same.
He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminous
with desire, firing the already heated blood that is pounding
through my body. My mouth is slack as I try to drag
precious air into my lungs.
“You. Are. Mine,” he snarls, emphasizing each word.
He pushes away from me and bends, hands on his knees
as if he’s run a marathon. “For the love of God, Ana.”
I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control the
riotous reaction in my body, trying to find my equilibrium
again.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper once my breath has returned.
“You should be. I know what you were doing. Do you
want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has
feelings for you.”
I flush and shake my head.
I flush and shake my head.
“No. He’s just a friend.”
“I ha一ve spent all my adult life trying to a一void any
extreme emotion. Yet you . . . you bring out feelings in me
that are completely alien. It’s very . . .” He frowns,
grasping for the word. “Unsettling.
“I like control, Ana, and around you that just”—he
stands, his gaze intense—“evaporates.” He wa一ves his hand
vaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deep
breath. He clasps my hand.
“Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat.”
He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.
“This place will ha一ve to do,” Christian grumbles. “We
don’t ha一ve much time.”
The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen
tablecloths, and walls the same color as Christian’s
playroom—deep blood red—with small gilt mirrors
randomly placed, white candles, and small vases of white
roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background
about this thing called love. It’s very romantic.
The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove,
and I sit, apprehensive and wondering what he’s going to
say.
“We don’t ha一ve long,” Christian says to the waiter as
we sit. “So we’ll each ha一ve sirloin steak cooked medium,
béarnaise sauce if you ha一ve it, fries, and green vegetables,
w
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