He stills, and I know he’s processing this information. I tighten my arms around him, my hands on his back, feeling his taut toned muscles beneath his Tshirt. Gradually, he relaxes as the tension slowly ebbs away.
Is this what’s been worrying him? That he’ll hurt me? Why do I have more faith in him than he has in himself? I don’t understand, surely we’ve moved on.
He’s normally so strong, so in control, but without that, he’s lost. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty—I’m sorry. He kisses my hair, I turn my face up to his, and his lips find mine, searching, taking, giving, begging—for what, I don’t know. I just want to feel his mouth on mine, and I return his kiss passionately.
“You have such faith in me,” he whispers after he breaks away.
“I do.” He strokes my face with the back of his knuckles and the tip of his thumb, gazing intently into my eyes. His anger has gone. My Fifty is back from wherever he’s been. It’s good to see him. I glance shyly up and smirk.
“Besides,” I whisper, “you don’t have the paperwork.” His mouth drops open in amused shock, and he clutches me to his chest again.
“You’re right. I don’t.” He laughs.
We stand in the middle of the great room, locked in our embrace, just holding each other.
“Come to bed,” he whispers, after heaven knows how long.
Oh my . . .
“Christian, we need to talk.”
“Later,” he urges softly.
“Christian, please. Talk to me.”
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He sighs. “About what?”
“You know. You keep me in the dark.”
“I want to protect you.”
“I’m not a child.”
“I am fully aware of that, Mrs. Grey.” He runs his hands down my body and cups my backside. Flexing his hips, he presses his growing erection into me.
“Christian!” I scold. “Talk to me.”
He sighs once more with exasperation. “What do you want to know?” His voice is resigned as he releases me. I baulk— I didn’t mean you had to let me go.
Taking my hand, he reaches down to pick up my e-mail from the floor.
“Lots of things,” I mutter, as I let him lead me to the couch.
“Sit,” he orders. Some things never change, I muse, doing as I’m told. Christian sits beside me, and leaning forward, puts his head in his hands.
Oh no. Is this too hard for him? Then he sits up, rakes both hands through his hair, and turns to me, at once expectant and reconciled to his fate.
“Ask me,” he says simply.
Oh. Well, that was easier than I thought. “Why the additional security for your family?”
“Hyde was a threat to them.”
“How do you know?”
“From his computer. It held personal details about me and the rest of my family. Especially Carrick.”
“Carrick? Why him?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s go to bed.”
“Christian, tell me!”
“Tell you what?”
“You are so . . . exasperating.”
“So are you.” He glares at me.
“You didn’t ramp up the security when you first found out there was information about your family on the computer. So what happened? Why now?” Christian narrows his eyes at me.
“I didn’t know he was going to attempt to burn down my building, or—” He stops. “We thought it was an unwelcome obsession, but you know”—he shrugs—“when you’re in the public eye, people are interested. It was random stuff: news reports on me from when I was at Harvard—my rowing, my career.
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Reports on Carrick—following his career, following my mom’s career—and to some extent, Elliot and Mia.
How strange.
“You said or,” I prompt.
“Or what?”
“You said, ‘attempt to burn down my building, or . . .’ like you were going to say something else.”
“Are you hungry?”
What? I frown at him, and my stomach rumbles.
“Did you eat today?” His voice is sterner and his eyes frost.
I’m betrayed by my flush.
“As I thought.” His voice is clipped. “You know how I feel about you not eating. Come,” he says. He stands and holds out his hand. “Let me feed you.” And he shifts again . . . this time his voice full of sensual promise.