Fifty Shades Darker (book 5)

Chapter 4

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And she’s doing it again: laughing at me and trivializing my lifestyle. Christ, I’d like to put her in her

place—preferably under me or on her knees. I lean in closer and whisper in her ear, “What I’d like to do

to your smart mouth.”

“You’re very rude.” She’s scandalized, her expression prim, while the tips of her ears turn a fetching

pink.

Oh, baby, that’s old news.

I glance back at the pictures. “You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don’t see you

like that very often.”

She examines her fingers once more, hesitating as if she’s contemplating what to say. I don’t know

what she’s thinking, so, reaching forward, I tilt her head up. She gasps as my fingers make contact with

her chin.

Again, that sound; I feel it in my groin.

“I want you that relaxed with me.” I sound hopeful.

Damn it. Too hopeful.

“You have to stop intimidating me if you want that,” she retorts, surprising me with her depth of feeling.

“You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel!” I snap back.

Shit, are we doing this here, now? I want to do this in private. She clears her throat and draws herself

up to full height.

“Christian, you wanted me as a submissive,” she says, keeping her voice down. “That’s where the

problem lies. It’s in the definition of a submissive—you e-mailed it to me once.” She pauses, glaring at

me. “I think the synonyms were, and I quote, ‘compliant, pliant, amenable, passive, tractable, resigned,

patient, docile, tame, subdued.’ I wasn’t supposed to look at you. Not talk to you, unless you gave me

permission to do so. What do you expect?”

We need to discuss this in private! Why is she doing this here?

“It’s very confusing being with you,” she continues, in full flow. “You don’t want me to defy you, but then

you like my ‘smart mouth.’ You want obedience except when you don’t so that you can punish me. I just

don’t know which way is up when I’m with you.”

Okay, I can see that could be confusing—however, I do not want to discuss it here. We need to leave.

“Good point well made, as usual, Miss Steele.” My tone is arctic. “Come, let’s go eat.”

“We’ve only been here for half an hour.”

“You’ve seen the photos. You’ve spoken to the boy.”

“His name is José,” she asserts, louder this time.

“You’ve spoken to José—the man who, if I am not mistaken, was trying to push his tongue into your

mouth the last time I met him, while you were drunk and ill.” I grit my teeth.

“He’s never hit me,” she retaliates with fury in her eyes.

What the hell? She does want to do this now.

I can’t believe it. She fucking asked me how bad it could get! Anger erupts like Mount St. Helens deep

in my chest. “That’s a low blow, Anastasia.” I’m seething. Her face reddens, and I don’t know if it’s from

embarrassment or anger. I run my hands through my hair to prevent myself from grabbing her and

dragging her outside so we can continue this discussion in private. I take a deep breath.

“I’m taking you for something to eat. You’re fading away in front of me. Find the boy, say good-bye.” My

tone is clipped as I struggle to control my temper, but she doesn’t move.

“Please, can we stay longer?”

“No. Go. Now. Say good-bye.” I manage not to shout. I recognize that stubborn, mulish set to her

mouth. She’s mad as hell, and in spite of all I’ve been through over the last few days, I don’t give a shit.

We are leaving if I have to pick her up and carry her. She gives me a withering look and turns with a

sharp spin, her hair flying so that it hits my shoulder. She stalks off to find him.

As she moves away I struggle to recover my equilibrium. What is it about her that presses all my

buttons? I want to scold her, spank her, and fuck her. Here. Now. And in that order.

I scan the room. The boy—no, Rodriguez—is standing with a flock of female admirers. He notices Ana,

and, forgetting his fans, he greets her like she’s the center of his whole goddamn universe. He listens

intently to everything she has to say, then sweeps her into his arms, spinning her around.

Get your fat paws off my girl.

She glances at me, then weaves her hands into his hair and presses her cheek to his and whispers

something in his ear. They continue talking. Close. His arms around her. And he’s basking in her

fucking light.

Before I’m even aware that I’m doing it, I’m striding over, ready to rip him limb from limb. Fortunately for

him, he releases her as I approach.

“Don’t be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr. Grey, good evening,” the boy mumbles, sheepish and a little

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