“I can’t remember.”

“Does Mrs. Jones do all the shopping?”

“I think Taylor helps her. I’m not sure.”

“Are you happy with a stir-fry? It’s quick.”

“Stir-fry sounds good.” Christian grins, no doubt figuring out my ulterior motive for a

speedy meal.

“Have they worked for you long?”

“Taylor, four years, I think. Mrs. Jones about the same. Why didn’t you have any food

in the apartment?”

“You know why,” I murmur, flushing.

“It was you who left me,” he mutters disapprovingly.

“I know,” I reply in a small voice, not wanting that reminder.

We reach the checkout and silently stand in line.

If I hadn’t left, would he have offered the vanilla alternative?I wonder idly.

“Do you have anything to drink?” He pulls me back to the present.

“Beer . . . I think.”

“I’ll get some wine.”

Oh dear. I’m not sure what sort of wine is available in Ernie’s Supermarket. Christian

remerges empty handed, grimacing with a look of disgust.

“There’s a good liquor store next door,” I say quickly.

“I’ll see what they have.”

Maybe we should just go to his place, then we wouldn’t have all this hassle. I watch as

he strolls purposefully and with easy grace out of the door. Two women coming in stop and

stare. Oh yes, eye my Fifty Shades, I think despondently.

I want the memory of him in my bed, but he’s playing hard to get. Maybe I should, too.

My inner goddess nods frantically in agreement. And as I stand in line, we come up with

a plan. Hmm . . .

Christian carries the grocery bags into the apartment. He’s carried them as we’ve walked

back to the apartment from the store. He looks odd. Not his usual CEO demeanor at all.

“You look very—domestic.”

“No one has ever accused me of that before,” he says dryly. He places the bags on the

kitchen island. As I start to unload them, he takes out a bottle of white wine and searches

for a corkscrew.

“This place is still new to me. I think the opener is in that drawer there.” I point with

my chin.

This feels so . . . normal. Two people, getting to know each other, having a meal. Yet

it’s so strange. The fear that I’d always felt in his presence has gone. We’ve already done

so much together, I blush just thinking about it, and yet I hardly know him.

“What are you thinking about?” Christian interrupts my reverie as he shrugs out of his

pinstripe jacket and places it on the couch.

“How little I know you, really.”

He gazes at me and his eyes soften. “You know me better than anyone.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Mrs. Robinson comes unbidden, and very unwelcome, into

my mind.

“It is, Anastasia. I am a very, very private person.”

He hands me a glass of white wine.

“Cheers,” he says.

“Cheers,” I respond taking a sip as he puts the bottle in the fridge.

“Can I help you with that?” he asks.

“No it’s fine . . . sit.”

“I’d like to help.” His expression is sincere.

“You can chop the vegetables.”

“I don’t cook,” he says, regarding the knife I hand him with suspicion.

“I imagine you don’t need to.” I place a chopping board and some red peppers in front

of him. He stares down at them in confusion.

“You’ve never chopped a vegetable?”

“No.”

I smirk at him.

“Are you smirking at me?”

“It appears this is something that I can do and you can’t. Let’s face it, Christian, I think

this is a first. Here, I’ll show you.”

I 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 have any trouble with it,” I mutter ironically.

He gazes at me impassively for a moment then sets about his task as I continue to pre-

pare 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, re-

peatedly 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, con-

tinually 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 have 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, bravely 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 each other in—the atmosphere charg-

ing between us, almost crackling, neither saying anything, just looking. I bite my lip as

desire for this beautiful man seizes me with a vengeance, igniting my blood, shallowing

my breath, pooling below my waist. I see my reactions reflected in his stance, in his eyes.

In a beat, he grabs me by my hips and pulls me to him as my hands reach for his hair

and his mouth claims me. He pushes me against the fridge, and I hear the vague protesting

rattle of bottles and jars from within as his tongue finds mine. I moan into his mouth, and

one of his hands moves into my hair, pulling my head back as we kiss, savagely.

“What do you want, Anastasia?” he breathes.

“You.” I gasp.

“Where?”

“Bed.”

He breaks free, scoops me into his arms, and carries me quickly and seemingly with-

out any strain into my bedroom. Setting me on my feet beside my bed, he leans down and

switches on my bedside lamp. He glances quickly round the room and hastily closes the

pale cream curtains.

“Now what?” he says softly.

“Make love to me.”

“How?”

Jeez.

“You have got to tell me, baby.”

Holy crap.“Undress me.” I am panting already.

He smiles and hooks his index finger into my open shirt, pulling me toward him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and without taking his blazing eyes off mine, slowly starts

to unbutton my shirt.

Tentatively I put my hands on his arms to steady myself. He doesn’t complain. His

arms are a safe area. When he’s finished with the buttons, he pulls my shirt over my shoul-

ders, and I let go of him to let the shirt fall to the floor. He reaches down to the waistband

of my jeans, pops the button, and pulls down the zipper.

“Tell me what you want, Anastasia.” His eyes smolder and his lips part as he takes

quick shallow breaths.

“Kiss me from here to here,” I whisper trailing my finger from the base of my ear,

down my throat. He smoothes my hair out of the line of fire and bends, leaving sweet soft

kisses along the path my finger took and then back again.