“He wants to see me, not Ethan.”

Christian scowls at me.

“He’s just a friend.” My voice is emphatic.

“I don’t like it.”

So what?Jeez, he’s irritating sometimes. I take a deep breath. “He’s my friend, Chris-

tian. I haven’t seen him since his show. And that was too brief. I know you don’t have any

friends, apart from that god-awful woman, but I don’t moan about you seeing her,” I snap.

Christian blinks, shocked. “I want to see him. I’ve been a poor friend to him.” My subcon-

scious is alarmed. Are you stamping your little foot? Steady now!

Gray eyes blaze at me. “Is that what you think?” he breathes.

“Think about what?”

“Elena. You’d rather I didn’t see her?”

Holy cow.“Exactly. I’d rather you didn’t see her.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

“Because it’s not my place to say. You think she’s your only friend.” I shrug in exas-

peration. He really doesn’t get it. How did this turn into a conversation about her? I don’t

even want to think about her. I try to steer us back to José. “Just as it’s not your place to say

if I can or can’t see José. Don’t you see that?”

Christian gazes at me, perplexed, I think. Oh, what is he thinking?

“He can stay here, I suppose,” he mutters. “I can keep an eye on him.” He sounds

petulant.

Hallelujah!

“Thank you! You know, if I am going to live here, too . . .” I trail off. Christian nods.

He knows what I’m trying to say. “It’s not like you haven’t got the space.” I smirk.

His lips quirk up slowly. “Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?”

“Most definitely, Mr. Grey.” I get up just in case his palms start twitching, clear our

plates, and then load them into the dishwasher.

“Gail will do that.”

“I’ve done it now.” I stand up and gaze at him. He’s watching me intently.

“I have to work for a while,” he says apologetically.

“Cool. I’ll find something to do.”

“Come here,” he orders, but his voice is soft and seductive, his eyes heated. I don’t

hesitate to walk into his arms, clasping him around his neck as he perches on his bar stool.

He wraps his arms around me, crushes me to him, and just holds me.

“Are you okay?” he whispers into my hair.

“Okay?”

“After what happened with that fucker? After what happened yesterday?” he adds, his

voice quiet and earnest.

I gaze into dark, serious, gray eyes. Am I okay?“Yes,” I whisper.

His arms tighten around me, and I feel safe, cherished, and loved all at once. It’s bliss-

ful. Closing my eyes, I enjoy the feel of being in his arms. I love this man. I love his intoxi-

cating scent, his strength, his mercurial ways—my Fifty.

“Let’s not fight,” he murmurs. He kisses my hair and inhales deeply. “You smell heav-

enly as usual, Ana.”

“So do you,” I whisper and kiss his neck.

All too soon he releases me. “I should only be a couple of hours.”

I wander listlessly through the apartment. Christian is still working. I have showered and

dressed in some sweats and a T-shirt of my own, and I’m bored. I don’t want to read. If I

sit still, I’ll recall Jack and his fingers on me.

I check out my old bedroom, the subs’ room. José can sleep here—he’ll like the view.

It’s about eight fifteen, and the sun is beginning to sink into the west. The lights of the city

twinkle below me. It’s glorious. Yes, José will like it here. I wonder idly where Christian

will hang José’s pictures of me. I’d rather he didn’t. I am not keen on looking at myself.

Back down the hallway I find myself outside the playroom, and without thinking, I try

the door handle. Christian normally keeps it locked, but to my surprise, the door opens.

How strange. Feeling like a child playing hooky and straying into the forbidden forest, I

walk in. It’s dark. I flick the switch and the lights under the cornice light up with a soft

glow. It’s as I remember it. A womb-like room.

Memories of the last time I was in here flash through my mind. The belt . . . I wince

at the recollection. Now it hangs innocently, lined up with others, on the rack beside the

door. Tentatively I run my fingers over the belts, the floggers, the paddles, and the whips.

Sheesh. This is what I need to square with Dr. Flynn. Can someone in this lifestyle just

stop? It seems so improbable. Wandering over to the bed, I sit on soft red satin sheets, gaz-

ing around at all the apparatus.

Beside me is the bench, above that the assortment of canes. So many! Surely one is

enough?Well, the less said about that the better. And the large table. We never tried that,

whatever he does on it. My eyes fall on the chesterfield, and I move over to sit on it. It’s

just a couch, nothing extraordinary about it—nothing to fasten anything to, not that I can

see. Glancing behind me, I spy the museum chest. My curiosity is piqued. What does he

keep in there?

As I pull open the top drawer I realize my blood is pounding through my veins. Why

am I so nervous? This feels so illicit, as if I’m trespassing, which of course I am. But if he

wants to marry me, well . . .

Holy fuck, what’s all this? An array of instruments and bizarre implements—I don’t

have a clue what they are, or what they’re for—are carefully laid out in the display drawer.

I pick one up. It’s bullet-shaped with a sort of handle. Hmm . . . what the hell do you do with

that?My mind boggles, though I think I have an idea. Jeez, there are four different sizes!

My scalp prickles and I glance up.

Christian is standing in the doorway, staring at me, his face unreadable. How long has

he been there? I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

“Hi.” I smile nervously at him, and I know my eyes are wide and that I’m deathly pale.

“What are you doing?” he says softly, but there’s an undercurrent in his tone.

Oh shit. Is he mad? I flush. “Er . . . I was bored and curious,” I mutter, embarrassed to

be found out. He said he’d be two hours.

“That’s a very dangerous combination.” He runs his long index finger across his lower

lip in quiet contemplation, not taking his eyes off me. I swallow and my mouth is dry.

Slowly, he enters the room and closes the door quietly behind him, his eyes liquid gray

fire. Oh my.He leans casually over the chest of drawers, but I think his stance is deceptive.

My inner goddess doesn’t know whether it’s fight or flight time.

“So, what exactly are you curious about, Miss Steele? Perhaps I could enlighten you.”

“The door was open . . . I—” I gaze at Christian as I hold my breath and blink, uncer-

tain as ever of his reaction or what I should say. His eyes are dark. I think he’s amused,

but it’s difficult to tell. He places his elbows on the museum chest and rests his chin on his

clasped hands.

“I was in here earlier today wondering what to do with it all. I must have forgotten to

lock it.” He scowls momentarily as if leaving the door unlocked is a terrible lapse in judg-

ment. I frown—it’s not like him to be forgetful.

“Oh?”

“But now here you are, curious as ever.” His voice is soft, puzzled.

“You’re not mad?” I whisper, using my remaining breath.

He cocks his head to one side, and his lips twitch in amusement.

“Why would I be mad?”

“I feel like I’m trespassing . . . and you’re always mad at me.” My voice is quiet,

though I’m relieved. Christian’s brow creases once more.

“Yes, you’re trespassing, but I’m not mad. I hope that one day you’ll live with me here,

and all this”—he gestures vaguely round the room with one hand—“will be yours, too.”