grinning down at me. He takes my hand, and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me. My inner goddess nods frantically with approval.
The next display is by a female painter who specializes in figurative art—fruit and vegetables super close up and in rich, glorious color.
“I like those.” I point to three paintings of peppers. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment.” I giggle. Christian’s mouth twists as he tries and fails to hide his amusement.
“I thought I managed that quite competently,” he mutters. “I was just a bit slow, and anyway”—he pulls me into an embrace—“you were distracting me. Where would you put them?”
“What?”
Christian is nuzzling my ear. “The paintings—where would you put them?” He bites my earlobe and I feel it in my groin.
“Kitchen,” I murmur.
“Hmm. Nice idea, Mrs. Grey.”
I squint at the price. Five thousand euros each. Holy shit!
“They’re really expensive!” I gasp.
“So?” He nuzzles me again. “Get used to it, Ana.” He releases me and saunters over to the desk where a young woman dressed entirely in white is gaping at him. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings. Five thousand euros . . . jeez.
We have finished lunch and are relaxing over coffee at the Hotel Le Saint Paul. The view of the surrounding countryside is stunning. Vineyards and fields of sunflowers form a patchwork across the plain, interspersed here and there with neat little French farmhouses. It’s such a clear, beautiful day we can see all the way to the sea, glinting faintly on the horizon. Christian interrupts my reverie.
“You asked me why I braid your hair,” he murmurs. His tone alarms me. He looks . . . guilty.
“Yes.” Oh, shit.
“The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”
Whoa! His birth mom.
He gazes at me, his expression unreadable. My heart leaps into my mouth. What do I say when he says things like this?
“I like you playing with my hair.” My voice is hesitant.
He regards me with uncertainty. “Do you?”
“Yes.” It’s the truth. I grasp his hand. “I think you loved your birth mother, Christian.” His eyes widen and he stares at me impassively, saying nothing.
Holy shit. Have I gone too far? Say something, Fifty—please. But he remains resolutely mute, gazing at me with fathomless gray eyes while the silence stretches between us. He looks lost.
He glances down at my hand on his and he frowns.
“Say something,” I whisper, because I cannot bear the silence any longer.
He shakes his head, exhaling deeply.
“Let’s go.” He releases my hand and stands. His expression guarded. Have I overstepped the mark? I have no idea. My heart sinks and I don’t know whether to say anything else or just let it go. I decide on the latter and follow him dutifully out of the restaurant.
In the lovely narrow street, he takes my hand.
“Where do you want to go?”
He speaks! And he’s not mad at me—thank heavens. I exhale, relieved, and shrug. “I am just glad you’re still speaking to me.”
“You know I don’t like talking about all that shit. It’s done. Finished,” he says quietly .
No, Christian, it isn’t . The thought saddens me, and for the first time I wonder if it will ever be finished. He’ll always be Fifty Shades . . . my Fifty Shades. Do I want him to change? No, not really—only insofar as I want him to feel loved. Peeking up at him, I take a moment to admire his captivating beauty . . . and he’s mine. And it’s not just the allure of his fine, fine face and his body that has me spellbound. It’s what’s behind the perfection that draws me, that calls to me . . . his fragile, damaged soul.
He gives me that look, down his nose, half amused, half wary, wholly sexy then tucks me under his arm, and we make our way through the tourists toward the
The next display is by a female painter who specializes in figurative art—fruit and vegetables super close up and in rich, glorious color.
“I like those.” I point to three paintings of peppers. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment.” I giggle. Christian’s mouth twists as he tries and fails to hide his amusement.
“I thought I managed that quite competently,” he mutters. “I was just a bit slow, and anyway”—he pulls me into an embrace—“you were distracting me. Where would you put them?”
“What?”
Christian is nuzzling my ear. “The paintings—where would you put them?” He bites my earlobe and I feel it in my groin.
“Kitchen,” I murmur.
“Hmm. Nice idea, Mrs. Grey.”
I squint at the price. Five thousand euros each. Holy shit!
“They’re really expensive!” I gasp.
“So?” He nuzzles me again. “Get used to it, Ana.” He releases me and saunters over to the desk where a young woman dressed entirely in white is gaping at him. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings. Five thousand euros . . . jeez.
We have finished lunch and are relaxing over coffee at the Hotel Le Saint Paul. The view of the surrounding countryside is stunning. Vineyards and fields of sunflowers form a patchwork across the plain, interspersed here and there with neat little French farmhouses. It’s such a clear, beautiful day we can see all the way to the sea, glinting faintly on the horizon. Christian interrupts my reverie.
“You asked me why I braid your hair,” he murmurs. His tone alarms me. He looks . . . guilty.
“Yes.” Oh, shit.
“The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”
Whoa! His birth mom.
He gazes at me, his expression unreadable. My heart leaps into my mouth. What do I say when he says things like this?
“I like you playing with my hair.” My voice is hesitant.
He regards me with uncertainty. “Do you?”
“Yes.” It’s the truth. I grasp his hand. “I think you loved your birth mother, Christian.” His eyes widen and he stares at me impassively, saying nothing.
Holy shit. Have I gone too far? Say something, Fifty—please. But he remains resolutely mute, gazing at me with fathomless gray eyes while the silence stretches between us. He looks lost.
He glances down at my hand on his and he frowns.
“Say something,” I whisper, because I cannot bear the silence any longer.
He shakes his head, exhaling deeply.
“Let’s go.” He releases my hand and stands. His expression guarded. Have I overstepped the mark? I have no idea. My heart sinks and I don’t know whether to say anything else or just let it go. I decide on the latter and follow him dutifully out of the restaurant.
In the lovely narrow street, he takes my hand.
“Where do you want to go?”
He speaks! And he’s not mad at me—thank heavens. I exhale, relieved, and shrug. “I am just glad you’re still speaking to me.”
“You know I don’t like talking about all that shit. It’s done. Finished,” he says quietly .
No, Christian, it isn’t . The thought saddens me, and for the first time I wonder if it will ever be finished. He’ll always be Fifty Shades . . . my Fifty Shades. Do I want him to change? No, not really—only insofar as I want him to feel loved. Peeking up at him, I take a moment to admire his captivating beauty . . . and he’s mine. And it’s not just the allure of his fine, fine face and his body that has me spellbound. It’s what’s behind the perfection that draws me, that calls to me . . . his fragile, damaged soul.
He gives me that look, down his nose, half amused, half wary, wholly sexy then tucks me under his arm, and we make our way through the tourists toward the
Similar Books
