Fifty Shades of Grey(169)

"I thought we did?" he says eventually.

"I want to touch you."

He takes an involuntary step back from me, his expression for a moment fearful, and then he reins it in.

"Please," I whisper.

He recovers himself.

"Oh, no Miss Steele, you've had enough concessions from me this evening. And I'm saying no."

"No?"

"No."

Oh... I can't argue with that... can I?

"Look, you're tired, I'm tired. Let's just go to bed," he says, watching me carefully.

"So touching is a hard limit for you?"

"Yes. This is old news."

"Please tell me why."

"Oh, Anastasia, please. Just drop it for now," he mutters exasperated.

"It's important to me."

Again he runs both hands through his hair, and he utters an oath beneath his breath.

Turning on his heel, he heads for the chest of drawers, pulls out a t-shirt, and throws it at me. I catch it, bemused.

"Put that on and get into bed," he snaps, irritated.

I frown but decide to humor him. Turning my back, I quickly remove my bra, pulling the t-shirt on as hastily as I can to cover my nakedness. I leave my panties on, I haven't worn them for most of the evening.

"I need the bathroom." My voice is a whisper.

He frowns, bemused.

"Now you're asking permission?"

"Err... no."

"Anastasia, you know where the bathroom is. Today, at this point in our strange arrangement, you don't need my permission to use it." He cannot hide his irritation. He shrugs out of his shirt, and I scoot into the bathroom.

I stare at myself in the over-large mirror, shocked that I still look the same. After all that I've done today, it's still the same ordinary girl gaping back at me. What did you expect - that you'd grow horns and a little pointy tail My subconscious snaps at me. And what the hell are you doingTouching is his hard limit. Too soon, you idiot, he needs to walk before he can run. My subconscious is furious, medusa-like in her anger, hair flying, her hands clenched around her face like Edvard Munch's Scream. I ignore her, but she won't climb back into her box. You are making him mad - think about all that's he's said, all he's conceded. I scowl at my reflection. I need to be able to show him affection - then perhaps he can reciprocate.

I shake my head resigned and grasp Christian's toothbrush. My subconscious is right of course. I'm rushing him. He's not ready and neither am I. We are balanced on the delicate see-saw, that is our strange arrangement - at different ends, vacillating, and it tips and sways between us. We both need to edge closer to the middle. I just hope neither of us falls off in our attempt to do so. This is all so quick. Maybe I need some distance. Georgia seems more appealing than ever. As I begin brushing my teeth, he knocks.

"Come in," I splutter through a mouthful of toothpaste.

Christian stands in the doorway, his PJs hanging off his hips - in that way that makes every little cell in my body stand up and take notice. He's bare-chested, and I drink him in like I'm crazed with thirst and he's clear cool mountain spring water. He gazes at me impassively, then smirks and comes to stand beside me. Our eyes lock in the mirror, gray to blue. I finish with his toothbrush, rinse it off, and hand it to him, my look never leaving his. Wordlessly, he takes the toothbrush from me and puts it in his mouth. I smirk back at him, and his eyes are suddenly dancing with humor.

"Do feel free to borrow my toothbrush." His tone is gently mocking.