Happy Tuesday, all! We’re now on Chapter Eight of the train wreck that is Fifty Shades Darker, so without further ado, let’s get to it!
Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen avidly for the slightest sound, but all I hear is my aggravated breathing. It’s loud and shallow, my scalp prickles, my mouth is dry, and I feel faint.
This is a constant condition for her. It’s called being Ana.
I’ve never really looked at them before: all figurative paintings, all religious–the Madonna and child, all sixteen of them. How odd? Christian isn’t religious, is he? All of the paintings in the great room are abstracts–these are so different. They don’t distract me for long–Where is Christian?
Maybe it’s because he has a Madonna-whore complex.
“˜You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia,’ he breathes. “˜But even in my T-shirt you look beautiful.’
I reach up and stroke his face, running my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It’s unexpectedly soft. “˜Your beard grows quickly,’ I whisper, unable to hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, fucked-up man who stands before me.
As if being fucked-up is an attractive quality in a man.
“˜How could she have known it was my car?’
He glances anxiously at me and sighs. “˜She had an Audi A3. I buy one for all my submissives–it’s one of the safest cars in its class.’
Oh. “˜So, not so much a graduation present, then.’
“˜Anastasia, despite what I hoped, you have never been my submissive, so technically it is a graduation present.’ He pulls out of the parking space and speeds to the exit.
How awful would that be, to find out that he gets all of his girlfriends all of the same cars, as though he expects all of them to be one and the same person.
Here I am, in Seattle’s most prestigious hotel, dressed in an oversized denim jacket, oversized sweatpants, and an old T-shirt next to this elegant, beautiful, Greek god. No wonder the receptionist is looking from one to the other as if the equation doesn’t add up.
Right. Well dressed man brings sloppily dressed woman to a fancy hotel. They could have been traveling. To be honest, who cares why she was sloppily dressed?
I blush into my glass. The Armagnac is delicious, leaving a burning warmth in its wake as it glides silkily down my throat.
Does this seem like a double entendre to you? Anyone remember the first book and the Christian Grey popsicle scene? Yeah.
“˜I could watch you sleep for hours, Anastasia. But I’ve only been here about five minutes.’
OK, wanting to watch someone just sleep, just watch them for hours, is plain creepy. I hate being stared at, and I would especially hate being stared at by some creepster in my sleep.
And that’s it for today! See you later in the week!