Mr. Million Meets His Match [A 50 Shades of Grey spinoff]

3. Release

In this moment of suspension, we look at each other fixedly without a word. If eyes are the window to the soul, then ours unfold a picture of wild meteors, smoldering lava and frenzy. Adrian drops the knife and nests me against him so fiercely it hurts. He claims my mouth in a furious kiss, and I find myself reciprocating with ardor. His possessive tongue rolls around mine and invades each corner of my mouth mercilessly. He grazes his teeth across my lips, his experienced hands taking in my breasts, trailing to my waist and further down to my sex. I grope for him too, pressing my fingers to his cock, fondling the hard length, longing for it to be inside me. I want to know all of him, kiss his chest, lick his belly, toy with his navel...

I undo one button of his shirt.

"Don't," he growls seizing my wrist.

"What?"

I'm disconcerted. His harsh tone hits me with the unsettling feeling of falling from a rooftop. I'm left sprawled on the asphalt facing a pair of eyes as unyielding and cold as steel. They reflect a wall.

"I don't like to be touched."

"What do you mean? How can you make love if—"

"I don't make love, Annabelle. I fuck."

A never-ending pause ensues. There's no longer desire between us. It has been replaced with strain. Palpable strain.

I gesture toward the bottle on the coffee table. "You see that? It's a complex wine made of selected grapes and aged to expand in flavor, texture and aroma. It gratifies the senses and ultimately the soul. And you, despite your expensive taste in wine, settle for a cheap bottle in bed. I've had my fair share of second-rate wine, Adrian. I prefer the other kind."

As he listens, his eyes become inscrutable. They soften and at the same time translate a renewed intensity.

I don't care what he thinks. I start to pull away to get my cape.

"I'd like to go home."

But he holds my hand.

"Stay."

"What for?" I hesitate for a split second. "We're not making love and we're definitely not fucking."

"We could do something else."

I frown. I frown and admire his face, for there's a different quality to it surfacing in this instant. What is it? I can't explain in words. Maybe, after all the pent-up tension has been dropped, Adrian is allowing himself to lower his guard.

He flashes a smile that throws my resolve off balance and makes me want to stay, contract or no contract, fuck or no fuck.

"What else could we do, Adrian?"

"Finish that bottle of wine together, Annabelle."

The hours trickled, lazy hours by the fire as we sat on the thick rug, our backs against the coffee table, nipping at a bowl of strawberries stolen from the kitchen, emptying one bottle of Conti to open yet another. I told him about my summers at the beach in Pornichet when I was a girl, taking swimming lessons with my uncle and daydreaming I was a mermaid. He told me about his passion for flying, how he felt one with his plane and exhilaratingly free riding the clouds, alone in the infinite where no one could judge him.

Now we watch the flames in silence while a dreamy song plays. It talks of not being afraid to speak out. Listen to what your soul is singing and let it be heard...

Adrian sips his wine and studies me, intrigued.

"You really thought I was a serial killer?"

"Potentially, yes."