Fifty Shades Darker

“For heaven’s sake, Christian, Leila was standing at the end of your bed, and she didn’t harm me, and yes, I do need to work. I don’t want to be beholden to you. I have my student loans to pay.”

His mouth presses into a grim line, as I place my hands on my hips. I am not budging on this. Who the fuck does he think he is?

“I don’t want you going to work.”

“It’s not up to you, Christian. This is not your decision to make.”

He runs his hand through his hair as he stares at me. Seconds, minutes tick by as we glare at each other.

“Sawyer will come with you.”

“Christian, that’s not necessary. You’re being irrational.”

“Irrational?” he growls. “Either he comes with you, or I will be really irrational and keep you here.”

He wouldn’t, would he? “How, exactly?”

“Oh, I’d find a way, Anastasia. Don’t push me.”

“Okay!” I concede, holding up both my hands, placating him. Holy fuck-Fifty is back with a vengeance.

We stand, scowling at each other.

“Okay-Sawyer can come with me if it makes you feel better.” I concede rolling my eyes. Christian narrows his and takes a menacing step in my direction. I immediately step back. He stops and takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and runs both his hands through his hair. Oh no. Fifty is well and truly wound up.

“Shall I give you a tour?”

A tour? Are you kidding me? “Okay,” I mutter warily. Another change of tack-Mr. Mercurial is back in town. He holds out his hand and when I take it, he squeezes mine softly.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t. I was just getting ready to run,” I quip.

“Run?” Christian eyes widen.

“I’m joking!” Oh jeez.

He leads me out of the closet, and I take a moment to calm down. Adrenaline is still coursing through my body. A fight with Fifty is not to be undertaken lightly.

He gives me a tour of the apartment, showing me the various rooms. Along with the playroom and three spare bedrooms upstairs, I’m intrigued to find that Taylor and Mrs. Jones have a wing to themselves-a kitchen, spacious living area, and a bedroom each. Mrs. Jones has not yet returned from visiting her sister who lives in Portland.

Downstairs, the room that catches my eye is opposite his study-a TV room with a too-large plasma screen and assorted games consoles. It’s cozy.

“So you do have an Xbox?” I smirk.

“Yes, but I’m crap at it. Elliot always beats me. That was funny, when you thought I meant this room was my playroom.” He grins down at me his snit-fit forgotten. Thank heavens he’s recovered his good mood.

“I’m glad you find me amusing, Mr. Grey,” I respond haughtily.

“That you are, Miss Steele-when you’re not being exasperating, of course.”

“I’m usually exasperating when you’re being unreasonable.”

“Me? Unreasonable?”

“Yes, Mr. Grey. Unreasonable could be your middle name.”

“I don’t have a middle name.”

“Unreasonable would suit then.”

“I think that’s a matter of opinion, Miss Steele.”

“I would be interested in Dr. Flynn’s professional opinion.”

Christian smirks.

“I thought Trevelyan was your middle name.”

“No. Surname.”

“But you don’t use it.”

“It’s too long. Come,” he commands. I follow him out of the TV room through the great room to the main corridor past the utility room and an impressive wine cellar and into Taylor’s own large, well-equipped office. Taylor stands when we enter. There’s room in here for a meeting table that seats six. Above one desk is a bank of monitors. I had no idea the apartment had CCTV. It appears to monitor the balcony, stairwell, service elevator, and foyer.

“Hi, Taylor. I’m just giving Anastasia a tour.”

Taylor nods but doesn’t smile. I wonder if he’s been told off, too, and why is he still working? When I smile at him, he nods politely. Christian grabs my hand once more and leads me to the library.

“And, of course, you’ve been in here.” Christian opens the door. I spy the green baize of the billiard table.

“Shall we play?” I ask. Christian smiles, surprised.

“Okay. Have you played before?”

“A few times,” I lie, and he narrows his eyes, cocking his head to one side.

“You’re a hopeless liar, Anastasia. Either you’ve never played before or-”

I lick my lips. “Frightened of a little competition?”

“Frightened of a little girl like you?” Christian scoffs good-naturedly.

“A wager, Mr. Grey.”

“You’re that confident, Miss Steele?” He smirks, amused and incredulous at once. “What would you like to wager?”

“If I win, you’ll take me back into the playroom.”

He gazes at me as if he can’t quite comprehend what I’ve said. “And if I win?” he asks after several shell- shocked beats.

“Then it’s your choice.”

His mouth twists as he contemplates his answer. “Okay, deal.” He smirks. “Do you want to play pool, English snooker or carom billiards?”

“Pool, please. I don’t know the others.”

From a cupboard beneath one of the bookshelves, Christian takes out a large leather case. Inside the pool balls are nested in velvet. Quickly and efficiently, he racks the balls on the baize. I don’t think I’ve ever played pool on such a large table before. Christian hands me a cue and some chalk.

“Would you like to break?” He feigns politeness. He’s enjoying himself-he thinks he’s going to win.

“Okay.” I chalk the end of my cue, and blow the excess chalk off-staring up at Christian through my lashes. His eyes darken as I do.

I line up on the white ball and with a swift clean stroke, hit the center ball of the triangle square on with such force that a striped ball spins and plunges into the top right pocket. I’ve scattered the rest of the balls.

“I choose stripes,” I say innocently, smiling coyly at Christian. His mouth twists in amusement.

“Be my guest,” he says politely.

I proceed to pocket the next three balls in quick succession. Inside, I’m dancing. At this moment, I am so grateful to Jose for teaching me to play pool and play it well. Christian watches impassively, giving nothing away, but his amusement seems to ebb. I miss the green stripe by a hairsbreadth.

“You know, Anastasia, I could stand here and watch you leaning and stretching across this billiard table all day,” he says appreciatively.

I flush. Thank heavens I am wearing my jeans. He smirks. He’s trying to put me off my game, the bastard. He pulls his cream sweater over his head, tosses it onto the back of a chair, and grins at me, as he saunters over to take his first shot.

He bends low over the table. My mouth goes dry. Oh, I see what he means. Christian in tight jeans and white T-shirt, bending, like that… is something to behold. I quite lose my train of thought. He sinks four solids rapidly, then fouls by sinking the white.

“A very elementary mistake, Mr. Grey,” I tease.

He smirks. “Ah, Miss Steele, I am but a foolish mortal. Your go, I believe.” He waves at the table.

“You’re not trying to lose are you?”

“Oh no. For what I have in mind as the prize, I want to win, Anastasia.” He shrugs casually. “But then, I always want to win.”