o Charlie
Tango? Is this why you’re worried? Talk to me, Christian—
please.”
He stares at me, saying nothing and the silence expands between us again
like it did this afternoon. Holy fucking crap! He’s not going to talk to me, I
know.
“Don’t overthink this Christian,” I scold quietly, and the words echo, disturbing
a memory from the recent past—his words to me about his stupid contract. I
reach over, take the box from his lap, and open it. He watches me passively
as if I’m a fascinating alien creature. Knowing that the camera is prepped by
the overly helpful salesman in the store, and ready to go, I fish it out of the box
and remove the lens cap. I point the camera at him so his beautiful anxious
face fills the frame. I press the button and keep it pressed, and ten pictures of
Christian’s alarmed expression are captured digitally for posterity.
“I’ll objectify you then,” I murmur, pressing the shutter again. On the final still
his lips twitch almost imperceptibly. I press again, and this time he smiles . . .
a small smile, but a smile nevertheless. I hold
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E L JAMES
down the button once more and see him physically relax in front of me and
pout—a full-on, posed, ridiculous, “blue steel” pout, and it makes me giggle.
Oh, thank hea一vens. Mr. Mercurial is back—and I’ve never been so pleased
to see him.
“I thought it was my present,” he mutters sulkily, but I think he’s teasing.
“Well, it was supposed to be fun, but it’s ended up as a symbol of women’s
oppression.” I snap away, taking more pictures of him, and watch the
amusement grow on his face in super close-up. Then his eyes darken, and
his expression changes to predatory.
“You want to be oppressed?” he murmurs silkily.
“Not oppressed. No,” I murmur back, snapping again.
“I could oppress you big time, Mrs. Grey,” he threatens, his voice husky.
“I know you can, Mr. Grey. And you do, frequently.”
He blinks at me as his face falls. Shit. I lower the camera and stare at him.
“What’s wrong, Christian?” My voic
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