In the fridge, I find a carton of orange juice and pour myself a glass. Hmm . . . it’s delicious, and my fuzzy head eases immediately.
Marriage. It’s almost unbelievable and completely unexpected. But then everything about Christian is unexpected. My lips quirk up with irony. Christian Grey, expect the unexpected—Fifty Shades of Fucked-Up.
I don’t understand why you’d be even contemplating marriage to someone who is that fucked up. It’s not like he’s quirky, but he has some serious issues he needs to take care of, and marriage isn’t going to magically fix him.
I feel world weary, but I’m enjoying the calm serenity of the great room and its beautiful works of art—cold and austere, but in their own way, still beautiful in the shadows and surely worth a fortune. Could I live here? For better, for worse? In sickness and in health? I close my eyes, lean my head back against the glass, and take a deep, cleansing breath.
So what is she saying, she wants to live in an apartment that’s as cold and sterile as a hospital? Not understanding.
“Christian . . . Stop. I can’t do this,” I whisper urgently against his mouth, my hands pushing on his upper arms.
“What? What’s wrong?” he murmurs and starts kissing my neck, running the tip of his tongue lightly down my throat. Oh . . .
“No, please. I can’t do this, not now. I need some time, please.”
“Oh, Ana, don’t overthink this,” he whispers as he nips my earlobe.
“Ah!” I gasp, feeling it in my groin, and my body bows, betraying me. This is so confusing.
I don’t think Ana is overthinking anything at all. She’s clearly confused about what’s going on in the relationship, and yeah, that could put a damper on anyone’s libido. But she said to stop, so Christian needs to respect that and give her whatever space she needs. If someone tells you to stop kissing them and you don’t, then that’s pretty much sexual assault. But Christian doesn’t respect Ana’s wishes throughout the series, so how is this a surprise?
I marvel at what I can do to this man with my touch. He stretches out over me, and for now my doubts are pushed down and locked away in the dark, scary depths at the back of my mind. I’m intoxicated with this man, my man, my Fifty Shades.
“No, Christian, I can’t. I am not a megalomaniac CEO with a beautiful smile who can come and go as he pleases.”
“I like to come as I please.” He smirks and cranks his glorious smile up another notch so it’s in full HD IMAX.
So his smile is really bright, so bright, in fact, that it belongs in an IMAX theater. Okay then.
Oh, that man has double standards. He can—I shudder at the thought—bathe his batshit ex-lover, but I will probably get a truckload of grief for wanting to have a drink with José. How am I going to handle this?
Bathing his mentally ill ex-girlfriend before the doctor came to take her to the hospital doesn’t seem a close shot to wanting to go out and hang with Jose the Creepo, now, does it?
And it strikes me like a thunderbolt—that’s what he needs from me, what he’s entitled to—unconditional love.
He can get unconditional love from a pet. Why not suggest that he get one before trying out this marriage thing?
He stares at me. “Well, Ana, I think this might be a good time to discuss your misdemeanors.” He steps in, closing the door behind him, and my mouth instantly dries as alarm bells ring loud and piercing in my head.
His lips twitch into a grotesque smile, and his eyes gleam a deep, dark cobalt. “At last, I have you on your own,” he says, and he slowly licks his lower lip.
How come all of the men in this book are either douchebags or creeps and it’s perfectly okay? Ana’s boss is a creep now. E. L. James just doesn’t set a very high bar for her male characters, now, does she?
And that’s it for today!