knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can’t seem to find my
voice. He opens the door anyway and strolls in. Holy hell, he’s
been working out. He’s in gray sweat pants that hang, in that way, off his hips
and a gray singlet, which is dark with sweat, like his hair. Christian
Grey’s sweat, the notion does odd
things to me. I take a deep breath
and close my eyes. I feel like a two‑year old, if I close my eyes then I’m not
really here. “Good
morning Anastasia. How are you feeling?” Oh no.
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