She squares her shoulders.

Uh-oh.

“Sit,” she orders.

What?

She splays her hands on my naked chest and pushes me gently toward a stool in the bathroom.

Okay, I’ll play. I sit down and she takes my razor.

“Ana,” I warn. But she ignores me and leans down and kisses me.

“Head back,” she says against my lips.

When I hesitate, she cocks her head to one side. “Tit for tat, Mr. Grey.” And I know she’s provoking me. How can I walk away from a challenge when my wife never does?

“You know what you’re doing?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

Well, what’s she going to do, Grey?

Slit my throat?

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and raise my chin, offering myself to her. She slides her fingers into my hair and grips hard while I scrunch my eyes tighter. She’s standing so close to me. I can smell her. Sea. Sunshine. Sex. Sweetness. Ana.

It’s heady.

With the utmost tenderness she glides my razor from my neck to my chin, shaving me. I release the breath I was holding.

“Did you think I was going to hurt you?” I hear the tremor in her voice.

“I never know what you’re going to do, Ana, but no—not intentionally.”

Sliding the razor across my skin again, she says quietly, “I would never intentionally hurt you, Christian.” She sounds so sincere. Opening my eyes, I curl my arms around her as she shaves my cheek.

“I know,” I whisper.

She hurt me when she left, that one time.

And I deserved it. I hurt her.

You are one fucked-up son of a bitch!

Grey, don’t go there.

I angle my cheek, making it easier for her to finish the job, and two strokes of the razor later, she’s completed her work. “All done, and not a drop of blood spilled.” She beams at me.

I run my hands up her leg and ease her onto my lap until she’s sitting astride me. “Can I take you somewhere today?”

“No sunbathing?” Ana’s tone is disingenuous, but I ignore it.

“No. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer something else.”

“Well, since you’ve covered me in hickeys and effectively put the kibosh on that, sure, why not?”

Hickeys? We’re not in high school!

“You never really had an adolescence—emotionally speaking. I think you’re experiencing it now.”

Hell.

Ignoring Flynn’s words and Ana’s reference to my bad behavior, I continue, “It’s a drive, but it’s worth a visit, from what I’ve read. My dad recommended we visit. It’s a hilltop village called Saint-Paul-de-Vence. There are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like.”

She presses her lips together and leans back to study me.

“What?” I ask, alarmed at her expression.

“I know nothing about art, Christian.”

I shrug. “We’ll buy only what we like. This isn’t about investment.”

She looks a little less alarmed, but preoccupied nevertheless.

“What?” I ask again. “Look, I know we only got the architect’s drawings the other day—but there’s no harm in looking, and the town is an ancient, medieval place.”

Her expression remains the same.

“What now?” I ask. Fuck, Ana. Are you still angry about yesterday?

She shakes her head.

“Tell me,” I beg, but she gives nothing away. “You’re not still mad about what I did yesterday?” I can’t look her in the eye; instead, I bow my head and nuzzle between her breasts.

“No. I’m hungry,” she says.

“Why didn’t you say?” I ease her off my lap.

Ana and I fall under Saint-Paul-de-Vence’s spell. We wander the narrow, cobbled streets, breathing in the Gallic wonder of it all, followed from a discreet distance by Taylor and Philippe Ferreux. Ana is tucked under my arm, where she fits perfectly. “How did you know about this place?” she asks.

“Dad e-mailed me when we were in London. He and Mom came here back in the day.”

“It’s beautiful.” Ana waves her hand in homage to our spectacular surroundings.

We stop at a small gallery with some striking abstract art in the window and decide to venture in. I’m taken by some erotic photographs that are on display inside. They’re beautifully composed. “Not quite what I had in mind,” Ana says, her tone wry.

I grin down at her. “Me neither.” My hand finds hers as we study some still-life paintings, all vegetables and fruit. They’re good.

“I like those.” Ana points to some peppers. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment.” She giggles, her eyes alive with mischief and memories—of our reconciliation—maybe?

“I thought I managed that quite competently. I was just a bit slow, and anyway”—I embrace her and nuzzle her ear—“you were distracting me. Where would you put them?”

Ana gasps, distracted by my teasing lips. “What?”

“The paintings—where would you put them?” I graze her earlobe with my teeth.

“Kitchen,” she breathes.

“Hmm. Nice idea, Mrs. Grey.”

“They’re really expensive!”

“So?” I kiss the spot behind her ear. “Get used to it, Ana.” I release her and approach the sales assistant to purchase all three of the paintings and give her my credit card and our address in Escala for shipping.