by E. L. James
All the breath is sucked from my body. I feel winded, and I think my heart has stopped. That fucking bitch troll!
“It was a moment, suspended in time. She saw my expression, and she realized how far she’d crossed the line. I said . . . no. I haven’t thought of her like that for years, and besides”—he swallows—“I love you. I told her, I love my wife.”
I gaze at him. I don’t know what to say.
“She backed right off. Apologized again, made it seem like a joke. I mean, she said she’s happy with Isaac and with the business and she doesn’t bear either of us any ill will. She said she missed my friendship, but she could see that my life was with you now. And how awkward that was, given what happened last time we were all in the same room. I couldn’t have agreed with her more. We said our good-byes—our final good-byes. I said I wouldn’t see her again, and she went on her way.”
I swallow, fear gripping my heart. “Did you kiss?”
“No!” he snorts. “I couldn’t bear to be that close to her.”
Oh. Good.
“I was miserable. I wanted to come home to you. But . . . I knew I’d behaved badly. I stayed and finished the bottle, then started on the bourbon. While I was drinking, I remember you saying to me some time ago, ‘If that was my son . . .’ And I got to thinking about Junior and about how Elena and I started. And it made me feel . . . uncomfortable. I’d never thought of it like that before.”
A memory blossoms in my mind—a whispered conversation from when I was half conscious—Christian’s voice: “But seeing her finally put it all in perspective for me. You know . . . with the child. For the first time I felt . . . What we did . . . it was wrong.” He’d been speaking to Grace.
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“It’s over?”
“Yes. It’s been over since I laid eyes on you. I finally realized it that night and so did she.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
He frowns. “What for?”
“Being so angry the next day.”
He snorts. “Baby, I understand angry.” He pauses then sighs. “You see, Ana, I want you to myself. I don’t want to share you. What we have, I’ve never had before. I want to be the center of your universe, for a while at least.”
Oh, Christian. “You are. That’s not going to change.”
He gives me an indulgent, sad, resigned smile. “Ana,” he whispers. “That’s just not true.”
Tears prick my eyes.
“How can it be?” he murmurs.
Oh, no.
“Shit—don’t cry, Ana. Please, don’t cry.” He caresses my face.
“I’m sorry.” My lower lip trembles, and he brushes his thumb over it, soothing me.
“No, Ana, no. Don’t be sorry. You’ll have someone else to love as well. And you’re right. That’s how it should be.”
“Blip will love you, too. You’ll be the center of Blip’s—Junior’s world,” I whisper. “Children love their parents unconditionally, Christian. That’s how they come into the world. Programmed to love. All babies . . . even you. Think about that children’s book you liked when you were small. You still wanted your mom. You loved her.”
He furrows his brow and withdraws his hand, fisting it against his chin.
“No,” he whispers.
“Yes. You did.” My tears flow freely now. “Of course you did. It wasn’t an option. That’s why you’re so hurt.”
He stares at me, his expression raw.
“That’s why you’re able to love me,” I murmur. “Forgive her. She had her own world of pain to deal with. She was a shitty mother, and you loved her.”
He gazes at me, saying nothing, eyes haunted—by memories I can’t begin to fathom.
Oh, please don’t stop talking.
Eventually he says, “I used to brush her hair. She was pretty.”
“One look at you and no one would doubt that.”
“She was a shitty mother.” His voice is barely audible.
I nod and he closes his eyes. “I’m scared I’ll be a shitty father.”
I stroke his dear face. Oh, my Fifty, Fifty, Fifty. “Christian, do you think for one minute I’d let you be a shitty father?”
He opens his eyes and gazes at me for what feels like an eternity. He smiles as relief slowly illuminates his face. “No, I don’t think you would.” He caresses my face with the back of his knuckles, gazing at me in wonder. “God, you’re strong, Mrs. Grey. I love you so much.” He kisses my forehead. “I didn’t know I could.”
“Oh, Christian,” I whisper, trying to contain my emotions.
“Now, that’s the end of your bedtime story.”
“That’s some bedside story . . .”
He smiles wistfully, but I think he’s relieved. “How’s your head?”
“My head?” Actually, it’s about to explode with all you’ve told me!
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Good. I think you should sleep now.”
Sleep! How can I sleep after all that?
“Sleep,” he says sternly. “You need it.”
I pout. “I have one question.”
“Oh? What?” He eyes me warily.
“Why have you suddenly become all . . . forthcoming, for want of a better word?”
He frowns.
“You’re telling me all this, when getting information out of you is normally a pretty harrowing and trying experience.”
“It is?
“You know it is.”
“Why am I being forthcoming? I can’t say. Seeing you practically dead on the cold concrete, maybe. The fact I’m going to be a father. I don’t know. You said you wanted to know, and I don’t want Elena to come between us. She can’t. She’s the past, and I’ve said that to you so many times.”
“If she hadn’t made a pass at you . . . would you still be friends?”
“That’s more than one question.”
“Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.” I flush. “You’ve already volunteered more than I ever thought you would.”
His gaze softens. “No, I don’t think so, but she’s felt like unfinished business since my birthday. She stepped over the line, and I’m done. Please, believe me. I’m not going to see her again. You said she’s a hard limit for you. That’s a term I understand,” he says with quiet sincerity.
Okay. I’m going to let this go now. My subconscious sags into her armchair. Finally!
“Goodnight, Christian. Thank you for the enlightening bedtime story.” I lean over to kiss him, and our lips touch briefly, but he pulls back when I try to deepen the kiss.
“Don’t,” he whispers. “I am desperate to make love to you.”
“Then do.”
“No, you need to rest, and it’s late. Go to sleep.” He switches off the bedside light, plunging us into darkness.
“I love you unconditionally, Christian,” I murmur as I cuddle into his side.
“I know,” he whispers, and I sense his shy smile.
I wake with a start. Light is flooding the room, and Christian is not in bed. I glance at the clock and see it’s seven fifty-three. I take a deep breath and wince as my ribs smart though not as badly as yesterday. I think I could go to work. Work—Yes. I want to go to work.
It’s Monday, and I spent all of yesterday lounging about in bed. Christian only let me go out briefly to see Ray. Honestly, he’s still such a control freak. I smile fondly. My control freak. He’s been attentive and loving and chatty . . . and hands-off since I arrived home. I scowl. I am going to have to do something about this. My head doesn’t hurt, the pain around my ribs has eased—though, admittedly, laughing has to be undertaken with caution—but I’m frustrated. I think this is the longest I’ve gone without sex since . . . well, since the first time.
I think we’ve both recovered our equilibrium. Christian is much more relaxed; his long bedtime story seems to have laid so
me ghosts to rest, for him and for me. We’ll see.
I shower quickly, and once I’m dry, I browse carefully through my clothes. I want something sexy. Something that might galvanize Christian into action. Who would have thought such an insatiable man could actually exercise so much self-control? I don’t really want to dwell on how Christian learned such discipline over his body. We haven’t spoken of the Bitch Troll once since his confessional. I hope we never do. To me she’s dead and buried.
I choose an almost indecently short black skirt and a white silk blouse with a frill. I slide on thigh-highs with lacy tops and my black Louboutin pumps. A little mascara and lip gloss for a natural look, and after a ferocious brushing, I leave my hair loose. Yes. This should do it.
Christian is eating at the breakfast bar. His forkful of omelet stops in midair when he sees me. He frowns.
“Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Going somewhere?”
“Work.” I smile sweetly.
“I don’t think so.” Christian snorts with amused derision. “Dr. Singh said a week off.”
“Christian, I am not spending the day lounging in bed on my own. So I may as well go to work. Good morning, Gail.”
“Mrs. Grey.” Mrs. Jones tries to hide a smile. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“Please.”
“Granola?”
“I’d prefer scrambled eggs with whole wheat toast.”
Mrs. Jones grins and Christian registers his surprise.
“Very good, Mrs. Grey,” Mrs. Jones says.
“Ana, you are not going to work.”
“But—”
“No. It’s simple. Don’t argue.” Christian is adamant. I glare at him, and only then do I notice that he’s in the same pajama bottoms and T-shirt he was wearing last night.
“Are you going to work?” I ask.
“No.”
Am I going crazy? “It is Monday, right?”
He smiles. “Last time I looked.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you playing hooky?”
“I’m not leaving you here on your own to get into trouble. And Dr. Singh said it would be a week before you could go back to work. Remember?”
I slide onto a bar stool beside him and hoist my skirt up a little. Mrs. Jones places a cup of tea in front of me.“You look good,” Christian says. I cross my legs. “Very good. Especially here.” He traces a finger over the bare flesh that shows above my thigh-highs. My pulse quickens as his finger runs across my skin. “This skirt is very short,” he murmurs, vague disapproval in his voice as his eyes follow his finger.
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
Christian gazes at me, mouth twisted in an amused yet exasperated smirk.
“Really, Mrs. Grey?”
I blush.
“I’m not sure this look is suitable for the workplace,” he murmurs.
“Well, since I’m not going to work, that’s a moot point.”
“Moot?”
“Moot,” I mouth.
Christian smirks again and resumes eating his omelet. “I have a better idea.”
“You do?”
He glances at me through long lashes, gray eyes darkening. I inhale sharply. Oh, my. About time.
“We can go see how Elliot’s getting on with the house.”
What? Oh! Tease! I vaguely remember we were supposed to do that before Ray was injured.
“I’d love to.”
“Good.” He grins.
“Don’t you have to work?”
“No. Ros is back from Taiwan. That all went well. Today, everything’s fine.”
“I thought you were going to Taiwan.”
He snorts again. “Ana, you were in the hospital.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah—oh. So today I’m spending some quality time with my wife.” He smacks his lips together as he takes a sip of coffee.
“Quality time?” I can’t disguise the hope in my voice.
Mrs. Jones places my scrambled eggs in front of me, again failing to hide her smile.
Christian smirks. “Quality time.” He nods.
I am too hungry to flirt anymore with my husband.
“It’s good to see you eat,” he murmurs. Rising, he leans over and kisses my hair. “I’m going to shower.”
“Um . . . can I come and scrub your back?” I mumble through a mouth full of toast and scrambled egg.
“No. Eat.”
Leaving the breakfast bar, he tugs his T-shirt over his head, treating me to the sight of his finely sculptured shoulders and naked back as he saunters out of the great room. I stop mid-chew. He’s doing this on purpose. Why?
Christian is relaxed on the drive north. We’ve just left Ray and Mr. Rodriguez watching soccer on the new flat-screen television that I suspect Christian has bought for Ray’s hospital room.
Christian has been laid back ever since “the talk.” It’s as if a weight has been lifted; Mrs. Robinson’s shadow no longer looms so large over us, maybe because I’ve decided to let it go—or because he has, I don’t know. But I feel closer to him now than I ever have before. Perhaps because he’s finally confided in me. I hope he continues to do so. And he’s more accepting of the baby, too. He hasn’t gone out and bought a crib yet, but I have high hopes.
I gaze at him, drinking him in as he drives. He looks casual, cool . . . sexy with his tousled hair, Ray-Bans, pinstripe jacket, white linen shirt, and jeans.
He glances at me and clasps my leg above the knee, his fingers stroking gently. “I’m glad you didn’t change.”
I did slip on a denim jacket and change to flats, but I’m still wearing the short skirt. His hand lingers above my knee. I put my hand on his.
“Are you going to continue to tease me?”
“Maybe.” Christian smiles.
“Why?”
“Because I can.” He grins, boyish as ever.
“Two can play at that game,” I whisper.
His fingers move tantalizingly up my thigh. “Bring it on, Mrs. Grey.” His grin broadens.
I pick up his hand and put it back on his knee. “Well, you can keep your hands to yourself.”
He smirks. “As you wish, Mrs. Grey.”
Dammit. This game is going to backfire on me.
Christian turns into the driveway of our new house. He stops at the keypad and punches in a number, and the ornate white metal gates swing open. We roar up the tree-lined lane under leaves that are a blend of green, yellow, and burnished copper. The tall grass in the meadow is turning gold, but there are still a few yellow wildflowers dotted among the grass. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, and the salty tang of the Sound is in the air mixed with the scent of the coming fall. This is such a tranquil and beautiful place. And to think we’re going to make our home here.
The lane curves around, and our house comes into view. Several large trucks, sides emblazoned with GREY CONSTRUCTION, are parked out front. The house is decked in scaffolding, and several workmen in hard hats are busy on the roof.
Christian pulls up outside the portico and switches off the engine. I can sense his excitement.
“Let’s go find Elliot.”
“Is he here?”
“I hope so. I’m paying him enough.”
I snort, and Christian grins as we get out of the car.
“Yo, Bro!” Elliot shouts from somewhere. We both glance around.
“Up here!” He’s up on the roof, waving down at us and beaming from ear to ear. “About time we saw you here. Stay where you are. I’ll be right down.”
I glance at Christian, who shrugs. A few minutes later, Elliot appears at the front door.
“Hey, bro.” He shakes Christian’s hand. “And how are you, little lady?” He picks me up and swings me around.
“Better, thanks,” I giggle breathlessly, my ribs protesting. Christian frowns at him, but Elliot ignores him.
“Let’s head over to the site office. You’ll need one of these.” He taps his hard hat.
The house is a she
ll. The floors are covered in a hard fibrous material that looks like burlap; some of the original walls have disappeared and new ones have taken their place. Elliot leads us through, explaining what’s happening, while men—and a few women—work everywhere around us. I’m relieved to see the stone staircase with its intricate iron balustrade is still in place and draped completely in white dustsheets.
In the main living area, the back wall has been removed to make way for Gia’s glass wall, and work is beginning on the terrace. In spite of the mess, the view is still stunning. The new work is sympathetic and in keeping with the old-world charm of the house . . . Gia’s done well. Elliot patiently explains the processes and gives us a rough timeframe for each. He’s hoping we can be in by Christmas, although Christian thinks this is optimistic.
Holy cow—Christmas overlooking the Sound. I can’t wait. A bubble of excitement blooms inside me. I have visions of us trimming an enormous tree while a copper-haired little boy looks on in wonder.
Elliot finishes our tour in the kitchen. “I’ll leave you two to roam. Be careful. This is a building site.”
“Sure. Thanks, Elliot,” Christian murmurs, taking my hand. “Happy?” he asks once Elliot has left us alone. I am gazing at this empty shell of a room and wondering where I will hang the pepper pictures that we bought in France.
“Very. I love it. You?”
“Ditto.” He grins.
“Good. I was thinking of the pepper pictures in here.”
Christian nods. “I want to put up José’s portraits of you in this house. You need to decide where they should go.”
I blush. “Somewhere I won’t see them often.”
“Don’t be like that.” He scolds me, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip. “They’re my favorite pictures. I love the one in my office.”
“I have no idea why,” I murmur and kiss the pad of his thumb.
“Worse things to do than look at your beautiful smiling face all day. Hungry?” he asks.
“Hungry for what?” I whisper.
He smirks, his eyes darkening. Hope and desire unfurl in my veins.
“Food, Mrs. Grey.” And he plants a swift kiss on my lips.
I give him my faux pout and sigh. “Yes. These days I’m always hungry.”
“The three of us can have a picnic.”
