“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Anastasia, you are a hopeless liar.”
“I thought you were going to make me giggle after sex, this isn’t doing it for me.”
His lips quirk up.
“I can’t tell jokes.”
“Mr. Grey! Something you can’t do?” I grin at him, and he grins back.
“No, hopeless joke teller.” He looks so proud of himself that I start to giggle.
“I’m a hopeless joke teller too,”
“That is such a lovely sound,” he murmurs, and he leans forward and kisses me.
“And you are hiding something, Anastasia. I may have to torture it out of you.”
I wake with a jolt. I think I’ve just fallen down some stairs in a dream, and I bolt upright, momentarily disorientated. It is dark, and I’m in Christian’s bed alone. Something has woken me, some nagging thought. I glance over at the alarm clock on his bedside. It is 5:00 in the morning, but I feel rested. Why is that? Oh – it’s the time difference – it would be 8:00 a.m. in Georgia.
Shrouded in darkness, Christian sits in a bubble of light as he plays, and his hair glints with burnished copper highlights. He looks naked, though I know he’s wearing his PJ
bottoms. He’s concentrating, playing beautifully, lost in the melancholy of the music. I hesitate, watching from the shadows, not wanting to interrupt him. I want to hold him.
He looks lost, sad even, and achingly lonely – or maybe it’s just the music that’s so full of poignant sorrow. He finishes the piece, pauses for a split second, then starts to play it again.
I move cautiously toward him, drawn as the moth to the flame… the idea makes me smile.
He glances up at me and frowns before his gaze returns to his hands Oh crap, is he pissed off that I am disturbing him?
“You should be asleep,” he scolds mildly.
I can tell he’s pre-occupied with something.
“So should you,” I retort not quite as mildly.
He glances up again, his lips twitching with a trace of a smile.
“Are you scolding me, Miss Steele?”
“Yes, Mr. Grey, I am.”
“Well, I can’t sleep.” He frowns once more as a trace of irritation or anger flashes across his face. With me? Surely not.
I ignore his facial expression and very bravely sit down beside him on the piano stool, placing my head on his bare shoulder to watch his deft, agile fingers caress the keys. He pauses fractionally, and then continues to the end of the piece.
“What was that?” I ask softly.
“Chopin. Opus 28, number 4. In E minor, if you’re interested,” he murmurs.
“I’m always interested in what you do.”
He turns and softly presses his lips against my hair.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. Play the other one.”
“Other one?”
“The Bach piece that you played the first night I stayed.”
“Oh, the Marcello.”
He starts to play slowly and deliberately. I feel the movement of his hands in his shoulder as I lean against him and close my eyes. The sad, soulful notes swirl slowly and mournfully around us, echoing off the walls. It is a hauntingly beautiful piece, sadder even than the Chopin, and I lose myself to the beauty of the lament. To a certain extent, it reflects how I feel. The deep poignant longing I have to know this extraordinary man better, to try and understand
“Why do you only play such sad music?”
I sit upright and gaze up at him as he shrugs in answer to my question, his expression wary.“So you were just six when you started to play?” I prompt.
He nods, his wary look intensifying. After a moment he volunteers.
“I threw myself into learning the piano to please my new mother.”
“To fit into the perfect family?”
