Fifty Shades Darker (book 5)

Chapter 5

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“Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive. I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle.

Anastasia?” I take her hand.

“Bye, José. Congratulations again.” She leans away from me, gives Rodriguez a tender kiss on his

reddening cheek, and I’m going to have a coronary. It takes all my self-control not to haul her over my

shoulder. Instead I drag her by the hand to the front door and out onto the street. She’s stumbling

behind me, trying to keep up, but I don’t care.

Right now. I just want to—

There’s an alley. I hurry us into it, and before I know what I’m doing I’ve pressed her against the wall. I

grab her face between my hands, pinning her body with mine as rage and desire mix in a heady,

explosive cocktail. I capture her lips with mine and our teeth clash, but then my tongue is in her mouth.

She tastes of cheap wine and delicious, sweet, sweet Ana.

Oh, this mouth.

I have missed this mouth.

She ignites around me. Her fingers are in my hair, pulling hard. She moans into my mouth, giving me

more access, and she’s kissing me back, her passion unleashed, her tongue entwined with mine.

Tasting. Taking. Giving.

Her hunger is unexpected. Desire bursts through my body, like a forest fire licking through dry tinder.

I’m so aroused—I want her now, here, in this alley. And what I’d intended as a punishing I-own-you kiss

becomes something else.

She wants this, too. Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

She’s missed this, too.

And it’s more than arousing.

I groan in response, undone.

With one hand, I hold her at the nape of her neck as we kiss. My free hand travels down her body, and

I reacquaint myself with her curves: her breast, her waist, her ass, her thigh. She moans as my fingers

find the hem of her dress and start tugging it higher. My goal is to pull it up, fuck her here. Make her

mine, again.

The feel of her.

It’s intoxicating, and I want her like I’ve never wanted her before.

In the distance and through the fog of my lust, I hear a police siren wail.

No! No! Grey!

Not like this. Get a grip.

I pull back, gazing down at her, and I’m panting and mad as hell.

“You. Are. Mine!” I growl, and push myself away from her, as my reason returns. “For the love of God,

Ana.” I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath and calm my raging body. I’m painfully

hard for her right now.

Has anyone ever affected me like this? Ever?

Christ! I nearly fucked her in a back alley.

This is jealousy. This is what it feels like: my insides gutted and raw, my self-control absent. I don’t like

it. I don’t like it one bit.

“I’m sorry,” she says, hoarse.

“You should be. I know what you’re doing. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has

feelings for you.”

“No.” Her voice is soft and breathless. “He’s just a friend.” At least she sounds contrite, and it goes

some way toward pacifying me.

“I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you…you bring out feelings in

me that are completely alien. It’s very…” Words fail me. I cannot find the vocabulary to describe how I

feel. I’m out of control and at a loss. “Unsettling” is the best I can manage. “I like control, Ana, and

around you, that just”—I stand and look down at her—“evaporates.”

Her eyes are wide with carnal promise, and her hair is mussed and sexy, falling to her breasts. I rub the

back of my neck, thankful that I’ve recovered some semblance of self-control.

See how I am around you, Ana. See?

I run my hand through my hair, taking deep, thought-clearing breaths. I grab her hand. “Come, we need

to talk.” Before I fuck you. “And you need to eat.”

There’s a restaurant close to the alley. It’s not what I would have chosen for a reunion, if that’s what this

is, but it will suffice. I don’t have long, as Taylor will be arriving soon.

I open the door for her. “This place will have to do. We don’t have much time.” The restaurant looks like

it caters to the gallery crowd, and maybe students. It’s ironic that the walls are painted the same color

as my playroom, but I don’t dwell on the thought.

An obsequious waiter leads us to a secluded table; he’s all smiles for Anastasia. I glance at the

chalkboard menu on the wall and decide to order before the waiter retreats, letting him know we’re tight

for time. “So we’ll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and

green vegetables, whatever the chef has—and bring me the wine list.”

“Certainly, sir,” he says, and rushes off.

Ana purses her lips, annoyed.

What now?

“And if I don’t like steak?”

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