Hmm . . . payback time.
"Sit," I mutter.
He blinks at me, not understanding. I push him gently toward the lone white stool in the bathroom. He sits down, gazing at me puzzled, and I take the razor from him.
"Ana," he warns as he realizes my intention. I lean down and kiss him.
"Head back," I whisper.
He hesitates.
"Tit for tat, Mr. Grey."
He stares at me with wary, amused disbelief. "You know what you're doing?" he asks, his voice low. I shake my head slowly, deliberately, trying to look as serious as possible. He closes his eyes and shakes his head then tilts his head back in surrender. Holy shit, he's going to let me shave him. My inner goddess flexes and stretches her arms outward, her fingers interlocked, palms out, limbering up. Tentatively I slide my hand into the damp hair at his forehead, gripping tightly to hold him still. He clenches his eyes closed and parts his lips as he inhales. Very gently, I stroke his razor up from his neck to his chin, revealing a path of skin beneath the lather. Christian exhales.
"Did you think I was going to hurt you?"
"I never know what you're going to do, Ana, but no - not intentionally."
I run the razor up his neck again, clearing a wider path in the lather.
"I would never intentionally hurt you, Christian."
He opens his eyes and circles his arms around me as I gently drag the razor down his cheek from the bottom of his sideburn.
"I know," he says, angling his face so I can shave the rest of his cheek. Two more strokes and I've finished.
"All done, and not a drop of blood spilt." I grin proudly. He runs his hand up my leg so that my nightdress rides up my thigh and pulls me on to his lap so that I'm astride him. I steady myself with my hands on his upper arms. He's really very muscular.
"Can I take you somewhere today?"
"No sunbathing?" I arch a caustic brow at him.
He licks his lips nervously. "No. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer that."
"Well, since you've covered me in hickeys and effectively put the kibosh on that, sure, why not?"
Wisely he chooses to ignore my tone. "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."
Holy crap. I lean back and gaze at him. Art . . . he wants to buy art. How can I buy art?
"What?" he asks.
"I know nothing about art, Christian."
He shrugs and smiles at me indulgently. "We'll only buy what we like. This isn't about investment."
Investment? Jeez.
"What?" he says again.
I shake my head.
"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."
Oh - the architect, he had to remind me of her . . . a good friend of Elliot's, Gia Matteo. During our meetings, she'd been all over Christian like a rash.
"What now?" Christian exclaims. I shake my head. "Tell me," he urges.
How can I tell him that I don't like Gia? My dislike is irrational. I don't want to come across as the jealous wife.
"You're not still mad about what I did yesterday?" He sighs and nuzzles his face between my br**sts.
"No. I'm hungry," I mutter, knowing full well that this will distract him from this line of questioning.
"Why didn't you say?" He eases me off his lap and stands.
Saint Paul de Vence is a medieval fortified hilltop village, one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through the narrow cobbled streets, my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. Taylor and either Gaston or Philippe - I can't tell the difference between them - trail behind us. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules. It's quite crowded with tourists, but I feel comfortable tucked under Christian's arm. There is so much to see -
little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and shops.
In the first gallery, Christian gazes distractedly at the erotic photographs in front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his aviator specs. They are the work of Florence D'elle - naked women in various poses.
"Not quite what I had in mind," I mumble disapprovingly. They make me think of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever did destroy them.
"Me neither," Christian says, grinning down at me. He takes my hand and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me after all. My inner goddess nods frantically with approval.
The next display is by a female painter who specializes in figurative art - fruit and vegetables super close up and in rich, glorious color.
"I like those." I point to three paintings of peppers. "They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment." I giggle. Christian's mouth twists as he tries and fails to hide his amusement.
"I thought I managed that quite competently," he mutters. "I was just a bit slow, and anyway" - he pulls me into an embrace - "you were distracting me. Where would you put them?"
"What?"
Christian is nuzzling my ear. "The paintings - where would you put them?" He bites my earlobe and I feel it in my groin.
"Kitchen," I murmur.
"Hmm. Nice idea, Mrs. Grey."