“Christian—” She’s about to object, but I gently press a finger to her lips.

“We’ll talk later. I want you to eat now. You said you were hungry.” I skim my lips over hers, then place the scarf over her eyes, tying it behind her head. “Can you see?”

“No,” she grumbles, lifting her head in that way she does when she rolls her eyes. It makes me chuckle. She’s so predictable sometimes.

“I can tell when you’re rolling your eyes, and you know how that makes me feel.”

She huffs and purses her lips. “Can we just get this over and done with?”

“Such impatience, Mrs. Grey. So eager to talk.”

“Yes!”

“I must feed you first.” I place a soft kiss on her temple. She has no idea how hot she looks perched primly on the stool, blindfolded and with her hair restrained in its bun. I’m almost tempted to grab my camera.

But I must feed her.

From the fridge I extract a bottle of Sancerre and the various serving dishes into which Gail has transferred the Greek deli food; the lamb is in a Pyrex bowl.

Shit. How long do I cook this for?

I pop it in the microwave and set it to heat for five minutes on full power. That should be enough. I place two pitas in the toaster.

“Yes. I am eager to talk,” Ana says, and the way she’s tilting her head, it’s obvious she’s listening to what I’m doing. I grab the bottle of wine and a corkscrew as Ana shifts in her chair.

“Be still, Anastasia—I want you to behave,” I murmur, close to her ear. “And don’t bite your lip.” I tug her bottom lip free from her teeth and she smiles.

Finally!

A smile.

I open the bottle, easing out the cork, and fill a glass.

Now for some musical accompaniment. I switch on the surround speakers and select Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” from the iPod. The pluck of a guitar string resonates through the room.

Yes. This song works.

I turn it down and pick up the glass of wine. “A drink first, I think,” I say, almost to myself. “Head back.” She lifts her chin. “Farther.” Ana obliges and I take a swig of cool, crisp wine and kiss her, pouring the wine into her mouth.

“Mm.” She swallows.

“You like the wine?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

“More?”

“I always want more, with you.”

I grin. More. Our word. She grins, too.

“Mrs. Grey, are you flirting with me?”

“Yes.”

Good. I love it when she flirts with me.

I take another large sip of wine, then, holding the knot of the scarf, gently tug her head back. I kiss her, drizzling the wine into her mouth. She drinks, greedily. “Hungry?” I ask her against her lips.

“I think we’ve already established that, Mr. Grey.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm.

Ah, there she is again…my girl.

The microwave pings, announcing that the lamb is ready. Its appetizing aroma has filled the kitchen. I pick up a cloth, open the microwave door, and grab the dish. “Shit! Christ!” It’s scalding hot where my finger touches it without the cloth. I drop it and it clatters on the counter.

“You okay?” Ana asks.

“Yes!”

No.

Ow!

I abandon the dish, wanting some TLC. “I just burned myself. Here.” I ease my poor finger into her mouth. “Maybe you could suck it better.”

Ana grabs my hand and slowly draws my finger out of her mouth.

“There, there,” she whispers, and pouts prettily and blows gently on my smarting skin.

Oh.

She might as well be blowing on my dick.

She kisses my knuckle, twice, then slowly reinserts my digit into her mouth, her tongue cradling and sucking me.

She might as well be sucking my dick.

Lust surges like a tidal wave, south.

Ana.

As she fellates my finger her forehead creases.

“What are you thinking?” I whisper, as I draw my finger out of her mouth and attempt to bring my body under control.

“How mercurial you are.”

This is not news. “Fifty Shades, baby.” I plant a kiss at the corner of her mouth.

“My Fifty Shades.” She grabs my T-shirt and tugs me closer.

“Oh, no you don’t, Mrs. Grey. No touching. Not yet.” I pry her hand from my shirt and kiss each of her fingers. “Sit up.” Ana pouts. “I will spank you if you pout.”

I stick a fork into the lamb dish, then into the accompanying sauce of yogurt and mint. “Now open wide.” She opens her mouth and I slide a forkful between her lips.

“Hmm,” she hums in appreciation.

“You like?”

“Yes.”

I try some, too, and it’s a party of delicious flavors in my mouth. I realize how hungry I am. “More?” I ask Ana. She nods, and I feed her another forkful. While she’s chewing, I tear some of the pita bread and dip it into the hummus. “Open.” Ana indulges me and eats this latest morsel with enthusiasm.

I join her.

This really is the best hummus in Seattle.

“More?” I ask.

She nods. “More of everything. Please. I’m starving.”

Her words are music to my soul. I feed her and myself, alternating between the bread and hummus and the lamb. Ana is lapping it up, thoroughly enjoying the feast, and it’s a pleasure to watch her savor the food and to feed her. Occasionally I offer her more wine, using my tried-and-trusted mouth-to-mouth technique.