brush up against him and he steps back. My inner
goddess sits up and takes notice.
“Like this.” I slice the red pepper, careful to remove
the seeds.
“Looks simple enough.”
“You shouldn’t ha一ve any trouble with it,” I mutter
ironically.
He gazes at me impassively for a moment then sets
about his task as I continue to prepare the diced chicken.
He starts to slice, carefully, slowly. Oh my, we’ll be here
all day.
I wash my hands and hunt for the wok, the oil, and the
other ingredients I need, repeatedly brushing against him—
my hip, my arm, my back, my hands. Small, seemingly
innocent touches. He stills each time I do.
“I know what you’re doing, Anastasia,” he murmurs
darkly, still preparing the first pepper.
“I think it’s called cooking,” I say, fluttering my
eyelashes. Grabbing another knife, I join him at the
chopping board peeling and slicing garlic, shallots, and
French beans, continually bumping against him.
“You’re quite good at this,” he mutters as he starts on
his second red pepper.
“Chopping?” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Years of
practice.” I brush against him again, this time with my
behind. He stills once more.
“If you do that again, Anastasia, I am going to take you
on the kitchen floor.”
Oh, wow. It’s working. “You’ll ha一ve to beg me first.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe.”
He puts down his knife and saunters slowly over to
me, his eyes burning. Leaning past me, he switches the gas
off. The oil in the wok quiets almost immediately.
“I think we’ll eat later,” he says. “Put the chicken in the
fridge.”
This is not a sentence I had ever expected to hear from
Christian Grey, and only he can make it sound hot, really
hot. I pick up the bowl of diced chicken, rather shakily
place a plate on top of it, and stow it in the fridge. When I
turn back, he’s beside me.
“So you’re going to beg?” I whisper, bra一vely gazing
into his darkening eyes.
“No, Anastasia.” He shakes his head. “No begging.”
His voice is soft, seductive.
And we stand staring at each other, drinking e
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