by E. L. James
“Christian’s not here.” Elliot smirks—oh, it’s a family trait—and waves his arm to indicate we’re alone. He strolls toward the nearest bike and swings a long denim-clad leg over the saddle, sitting astride and grabbing the handlebars.
“Christian has, um . . . issues about my safety. I shouldn’t.”
“You always do what he says?” Elliot has a wicked sparkle in his baby-blue eyes, and I see a glimmer of the bad boy . . . the bad boy Kate has fallen in love with. The bad boy from Detroit.
“No.” I arch an admonishing brow at him. “But I’m trying to put that right. He has enough to worry about without adding me to the mix. Is he back?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t go fishing?”
Elliot shakes his head. “I had some business to deal with in town.”
Business! Holy shit—groomed blonde business! I inhale sharply and gape at him.
“If you don’t want to ride, what are you doing in the garage?” Elliot is intrigued.
“I’m looking for wood for the fire.”
“There you are. Oh, Elliot—you’re back.” Kate interrupts us.
“Hey, baby.” He smiles broadly.
“Catch anything?”
I scrutinize Elliot’s reaction. “No. I had a few things to take care of in town.” And for one brief moment, I see a flash of uncertainty cross his face.
Oh shit.
“I came out to see what was keeping Ana.” Kate looks at us, confused.
“We were just shooting the breeze,” Elliot says, and the tension crackles between them.
We all pause as we hear a car pull up outside. Oh! Christian’s back. Thank heavens. The garage door opener whirrs loudly into action, startling us all, and the door slowly lifts to reveal Christian and Ethan unloading a black flatbed truck. Christian stops when he sees us standing in the garage.
“Garage band?” he asks sardonically as he wanders in, heading straight for me.
I grin. I am relieved to see him. Beneath his wading jacket, he’s wearing the coveralls I sold him at Claytons.
“Hi,” he says looking quizzically at me, ignoring both Kate and Elliot.
“Hi. Nice coveralls.”
“Lots of pockets. Very handy for fishing.” His voice is soft and seductive, for my ears only, and when he gazes down at me, his expression is hot.
I flush, and he smiles a huge, no-holds-barred, all-for-me smile.
“You’re wet,” I murmur.
“It was raining. What are you guys doing in the garage?” Finally he acknowledges that we are not alone.
“Ana came to fetch some wood,” Elliot smirks. Somehow he manages to make that sentence sound smutty. “I tried to tempt her to take a ride.” He is master of the double entendre.
Christian’s face falls, and my heart stills.
“She said no. That you wouldn’t like it,” Elliot says kindly—and innuendo-free.
Christian’s gray gaze swings back to me. “Did she, now?” he murmurs.
“Listen, I’m all for standing around discussing what Ana did next, but shall we go back inside?” Kate snaps. She stoops down, snatches up two logs, and turns on her heel, stomping toward the door. Oh shit. Kate is mad—but I know it’s not at me. Elliot sighs and, without a word, follows her out. I gaze after them, but Christian distracts me.
“You can ride a motorcycle?” he asks, his voice laced with disbelief.
“Not very well. Ethan taught me.”
His eyes frost immediately. “You made the right decision,” he says, his voice much cooler. “The ground’s very hard at the moment, and the rain’s made it treacherous and slippery.”
“Where do you want the fishing gear?” Ethan calls from outside.
“Leave it, Ethan—Taylor will take care of it.”
“What about the fish?” Ethan continues, his voice vaguely taunting.
“You caught a fish?” I ask, surprised.
“Not me. Kavanagh did.” And Christian pouts . . . prettily.
I burst out laughing.
“Mrs. Bentley will deal with that,” he calls back. Ethan grins and heads into the house.
“Am I amusing you, Mrs. Grey?”
“Very much so. You’re wet . . . Let me run you a bath.”
“As long as you join me.” He leans down and kisses me.
I fill the large egg-shaped tub in the en suite bathroom and pour in some expensive bath oil, which starts to foam immediately. The aroma is heavenly . . . jasmine, I think. Back in the bedroom, I start to hang The Dress while the bath fills.
“Did you have a good time?” Christian asks as he enters the room. He’s just in a T-shirt and sweat pants, his feet bare. He closes the door behind him.
“Yes,” I murmur, drinking him in. I have missed him. Ridiculous—it’s only been what, a few hours?
He cocks his head to one side and gazes at me. “What is it?”
“I was thinking how much I’ve missed you.”
“You sound like you have it bad, Mrs. Grey.”
“I have, Mr. Grey.”
He strolls toward me until he’s standing in front of me. “What did you buy?” he whispers, and I know it’s to change the topic of conversation.
“A dress, some shoes, a necklace. I spent a great deal of your money.” I glance up at him, guiltily.
He’s amused. “Good,” he murmurs and tucks a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. “And for the billionth time, our money.” He tugs my chin, releasing my lip from my teeth and runs his index finger down the front of my T-shirt, down my sternum, between my breasts, down my stomach, and over my belly to the hem.
“You won’t be needing this in the bath,” he whispers, and gripping the hem of my T-shirt in both hands, slowly pulls it up. “Lift your arms.”
I comply, not taking my eyes off his, and he drops my T-shirt on the floor.
“I thought we were just having a bath.” My pulse quickens.
“I want to make you good and dirty first. I’ve missed you, too.” He leans down and kisses me.
“Shit, the water!” I struggle to sit up, all post-orgasmic and dazed.
Christian doesn’t release me.
“Christian, the bath!” I gaze down at him from my prone position across his chest.
He laughs. “Relax—it’s a wet room.” He rolls over and kisses me quickly. “I’ll switch off the faucet.”
He climbs gracefully off the bed and strolls into the bathroom. My eyes greedily follow him all the way. Hmm . . . my husband, naked and soon to be wet. My inner goddess licks her lips salaciously and gives me her well-fucked grin. I bound out of bed.
We sit at opposite ends of the bath, which is very full—so full that whenever we move, water laps over the side and splashes to the floor. It’s very decadent. Even more decadent is Christian washing my feet, massaging the soles, pulling gently on my toes. He kisses each one and gently bites my little toe.
“Aaah!” I feel it—there, in my groin.
“Like that?” he breathes.
“Hmm,” I mumble incoherently.
He starts massaging again. Oh, this feels good. I close my eyes.
“I saw Gia in town,” I murmur.
“Really? I think she has a place here,” he says dismissively. He’s not interested in the slightest.
“She was with Elliot.”
Christian stops massaging. That got his attention. When I open my eyes his head is inclined to one side, like he doesn’t understand.
“What do you mean with Elliot?” he asks, perplexed rather than concerned.
I explain what I saw.
“Ana, they’re just friends. I think Elliot is pretty stuck on Kate.” He pauses then adds more quietly. “In fact I know he’s pretty stuck on her.” And he gives me his I-have-no-idea-why look.
“Kate is gorgeous.” I bristle, championing my friend.
He snorts. “Still glad it was you that fell into my office.” He kisses my big toe, releases my left foot, and picks
up my right before beginning the massage process again. His fingers are so strong and supple, I relax again. I do not want to fight about Kate. I close my eyes and let his fingers work their magic on my feet.
I gape at myself in the full-length mirror, not recognizing the vixen that stares back at me. Kate has gone all out and played Barbie with me this evening, styling my hair and makeup. My hair is full and straight, my eyes ringed with kohl, my lips scarlet red. I look . . . hot. I’m all legs, especially in the high-heeled Manolos and my indecently short dress. I need Christian to approve, though I have a horrible feeling he won’t like so much of my flesh exposed. In view of our entente cordiale, I decide I should ask him. I pick up my BlackBerry.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Does My Butt Look Big In This?
Date: August 27, 2011 18:53 MST
To: Christian Grey
Mr. Grey
I need your sartorial advice.
Yours
Mrs. G x
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Peachy
Date: August 27, 2011 18:55 MST
To: Anastasia Grey
Mrs. Grey
I seriously doubt it.
But I will come and give your butt a thorough examination just to make sure.
Yours in anticipation
Mr. G x
Christian Grey,
CEO Grey Enterprises Holdings and Butt Inspectorate Inc.
As I read his e-mail, the bedroom door opens, and Christian freezes on the threshold. His mouth pops open and his eyes widen.
Holy crap . . . this could go either way.
“Well?” I whisper.
“Ana, you look . . . Wow.”
“You like it?”
“Yes, I guess so.” He’s a little hoarse. Slowly he steps into the room and closes the door. He’s wearing black jeans and a white shirt, but with a black jacket. He looks divine. He stalks slowly toward me, but as soon as he reaches me, he puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around to face the full-length mirror, while he stands behind me. My gaze finds his in the glass, then he glances down, fascinated by my naked back. His finger glides down my spine and reaches the edge of my dress at the small of my back, where pale flesh meets silver cloth.
“This is very revealing,” he murmurs.
His hand skims lower, over my backside and down to my naked thigh. He pauses, gray eyes burning intently into blue. Then slowly he trails his fingers back up to the hem of my skirt.
Watching his long fingers move lightly, teasingly across my skin, feeling the tingles they leave in their wake, my mouth forms a perfect O.
“It’s not far from here.” He touches the hem, then moves his fingers higher. “To here,” he whispers. I gasp as his fingers stroke my sex, moving tantalizingly over my panties, feeling me, teasing me.
“And your point is?” I whisper.
“My point is . . . it’s not far from here”—his fingers glide over my panties, then one is inside, against my soft dampened flesh—“to here. And then . . . to here.” He slips a finger inside me.
I gasp and make a soft mewling sound.
“This is mine,” he murmurs in my ear. Closing his eyes, he moves his finger slowly in and out of me. “I don’t want anyone else to see this.”
My breath stutters, my panting matching the rhythm of his finger. Watching him in the mirror, doing this . . . it’s beyond erotic.
“So be a good girl and don’t bend down, and you should be fine.”
“You approve?” I whisper.
“No, but I’m not going to stop you wearing it. You look stunning, Anastasia.” Abruptly he withdraws his finger, leaving me wanting more, and he moves around to face me. He places the tip of his invading finger on my lower lip. Instinctively, I pucker my lips and kiss it, and I’m rewarded with a wicked grin. He puts his finger in his mouth and his expression informs me that I taste good . . . real good. I flush. Will it always shock me when he does that?
He grasps my hand.
“Come,” he orders softly. I want to retort that I was about to, but in light of what happened in the playroom yesterday, I decide against it.
We are waiting for dessert in a plush, exclusive restaurant in town. It’s been a lively evening so far, and Mia is determined it should continue and that we must go clubbing. Right now she’s sitting silently for once, hanging on Ethan’s every word as he and Christian talk. Mia is obviously infatuated with Ethan, and Ethan is . . . well it’s difficult to tell. I don’t know if they are just friends or if there’s something more.
Christian seems at ease. He’s been talking animatedly with Ethan. They obviously bonded over the fly-fishing. They’re talking about psychology, mainly. Ironically, Christian sounds the more knowledgeable. I snort softly as I half listen to their conversation, sadly acknowledging that his expertise is the result of his experience with so many shrinks.
You’re the best therapy. His words, whispered while we were making love once, echo in my head. Am I? Oh, Christian, I hope so.
I glance over at Kate. She looks beautiful, but then she always does. She and Elliot are less lively. He seems nervous, his jokes a little too loud, and his laugh a little off. Have they had a fight? What’s eating him? Is it that woman? My heart sinks at the thought that he might hurt my best friend. I glance at the entrance, half expecting to see Gia calmly saunter her well-groomed ass across the restaurant to us. My mind is playing tricks, I suspect it’s the amount of alcohol I’ve had. My head is beginning to ache.
Abruptly, Elliot startles us all by standing and pulling his chair back so it scrapes across the tile floor. All eyes turn to him. He gazes down at Kate for one moment then drops to one knee beside her.
Oh. My. God.
He reaches for her hand, and silence settles like a blanket over the entire restaurant as everyone stops eating, stops talking, stops walking, and stares.
“My beautiful Kate, I love you. Your grace, your beauty, and your fiery spirit have no equal, and you have captured my heart. Spend your life with me. Marry me.”
Holy shit!
The attention of the entire restaurant is trained on Kate and Elliot, waiting with bated breath as one. The anticipation is unbearable. Silence stretches like a taut rubber band. The atmosphere is oppressive, apprehensive, and yet hopeful.
Kate stares blankly at Elliot as he gazes up at her, his eyes wide with longing—fear even. Holy crap, Kate! Put him out of his misery. Please. Jeez—he could have asked her privately.
A single tear trickles down her cheek though she remains expressionless. Shit! Kate crying? Then she smiles, a slow disbelieving I’ve-found-Nirvana smile.
“Yes,” she whispers, a breathy, sweet acceptance—not Kate-like at all. For one nanosecond there’s a pause as the entire restaurant exhales a collective sigh of relief, and then the noise is deafening. Spontaneous applause, cheering, catcalls, whooping, and suddenly I have tears rolling down my face, smudging my Barbie-meets-Joan-Jett makeup.
Oblivious to the commotion around them, the two are locked in their own little world. From his pocket Elliot produces a small box, opens it, and presents it to Kate. A ring. And from what I can see, an exquisite ring, but I need a closer look. Is that what he was doing with Gia? Choosing a ring? Shit! Oh, I’m so glad I didn’t tell Kate.
Kate looks from the ring to Elliot then throws her arms around his neck. They kiss, remarkably chaste for them, and the crowd goes wild. Elliot stands and acknowledges the approbation with a surprisingly graceful bow then, wearing a huge self-satisfied grin, sits back down. I can’t take my eyes off them. Taking the ring out of its box, Elliot gently slides it onto Kate’s finger, and they kiss once more.
Christian squeezes my hand. I didn’t realize I’d been gripping his so tightly. I release him, a little embarrassed, and he shakes his hand, mouthing, “Ow.”
“Sorry. Did you know about this?” I whisper.
Christian smiles, and I know that he did. He summons the waiter. “Two bottles
of the Cristal please. The 2002 if you have it.”
I smirk at him.
“What?” he asks.
“Because the 2002 is so much better than the 2003,” I tease.
He laughs. “To the discerning palate, Anastasia.”
“You have a very discerning palate, Mr. Grey, and singular tastes.” I smile.
“That I do, Mrs. Grey.” He leans in close. “You taste best,” he whispers, and he kisses a certain spot behind my ear, sending little shivers down my spine. I blush scarlet and fondly remember his earlier demonstration of the quite literal shortcomings of my dress.
Mia is the first up to hug Kate and Elliot, and we all take turns congratulating the happy couple. I clutch Kate in a fierce hug.
“See? He was just worried about his proposal,” I whisper.
“Oh, Ana.” She giggle-sobs.
“Kate, I am so happy for you. Congratulations.”
Christian is behind me. He shakes Elliot’s hand, then—surprising both Elliot and me—pulls him into a hug. I can only just catch what he says.
“Way to go, Lelliot,” he murmurs. Elliot says nothing, for once stunned into silence, then cautiously returns his brother’s hug.
Lelliot?
“Thanks, Christian,” Elliot chokes out.
Christian gives Kate a brief, if awkward, almost arm’s-length hug. I know that Christian’s attitude to Kate is tolerant, at best, and ambivalent most of the time, so this is progress. Releasing her, he says so quietly only she and I can hear, “I hope you are as happy in your marriage as I am in mine.”
“Thank you, Christian. I hope so, too,” she says graciously.
The waiter has returned with the champagne, which he proceeds to open with an understated flourish.
Christian holds his champagne flute aloft.
“To Kate and my dear brother, Elliot—congratulations.”
We all sip, well, I glug. Hmm, Cristal tastes so good, and I’m reminded of the first time I drank it at Christian’s club and later, our eventful elevator journey to the first floor.
Christian frowns at me. “What are you thinking about?” he whispers.
“The first time I drank this champagne.”
His frown becomes more quizzical.
