Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed

by E. L. James

  I turn immediately, no hesitation. He unclasps my bra and then, taking both straps, he slowly pulls it down my arms, brushing my skin with his fingers and the tip of his thumbnails as he slides my bra off. His touch sends shivers down my spine, waking every nerve ending in my body. He’s standing behind me, so close that I feel the heat radiating from him, warming me, warming me all over. He pulls my hair so it’s all hanging down my back, grasps a handful at my nape, and angles my head to one side. He runs his nose down my exposed neck, inhaling all the way, then back up to my ear. The muscles in my belly clench, carnal and wanting. Jeez, he’s hardly touched me, and I want him.

  “You smell as divine as ever, Anastasia,” he whispers as he places a soft kiss beneath my ear.

  I moan.

  “Quiet,” he breathes. “Don’t make a sound.”

  Pulling my hair behind me, to my surprise, he starts braiding it in one large braid, his fingers fast and deft. He ties it with an unseen hair tie when he’s finished and gives it a quick tug so I’m forced back against him.

  “I like your hair braided in here,” he whispers.

  Hmm … why?

  He releases my hair.

  “Turn around,” he orders.

  I do as I’m bid, my breathing shallow, fear and longing mixed together. It’s an intoxicating mix.

  “When I tell you to come in here, this is how you will dress. Just in your panties. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” He glowers at me.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  A trace of a smile lifts the corner of his mouth.

  “Good girl.” His eyes burn into mine. “When I tell you to come in here, I expect you to kneel over there.” He points to a spot beside the door. “Do it now.”

  I blink, processing his words, then turn and rather clumsily kneel as directed.

  “You can sit back on your heels.”

  I sit back.

  “Place your hands and forearms flat on your thighs. Good. Now part your knees. Wider. Wider. Perfect. Look down at the floor.”

  He walks over to me, and I can see his feet and shins in my field of vision. Naked feet. I should be taking notes if he wants me to remember. He reaches down and grasps my braid again, then pulls my head back so I am looking up at him. It’s only just not painful.

  “Will you remember this position, Anastasia?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. Stay here, don’t move.” He leaves the room.

  I’m on my knees, waiting. Where’s he gone? What is he going to do to me? Time shifts. I have no idea how long he leaves me like this … a few minutes, five, ten? My breathing becomes shallower; the anticipation is devouring me from the inside out.

  And suddenly he’s back—and all at once I’m calmer and more excited in the same breath. Could I be more excited? I can see his feet. He’s changed his jeans. These are older, ripped, soft, and over-washed. Holy cow. These jeans are hot. He shuts the door and hangs something on the back.

  “Good girl, Anastasia. You look lovely like that. Well done. Stand up.”

  I stand, but I keep my face down.

  “You may look at me.”

  I peek up at him, and he’s staring at me intently, assessing, but his eyes soften. He’s taken off his shirt. Oh my … I want to touch him. The top button of his jeans is undone.

  “I’m going to chain you now, Anastasia. Give me your right hand.”

  I give him my hand. He turns it palm up, and before I know it, he swats the center with a riding crop I hadn’t noticed is in his right hand. It happens so quickly that the surprise hardly registers. Even more astonishing—it doesn’t hurt. Well, not much, just a slight ringing sting.

  “How does that feel?” he asks.

  I blink at him, confused.

  “Answer me.”

  “Okay.” I frown.

  “Don’t frown.”

  I blink and try for impassive. I succeed.

  “Did that hurt?”

  “No.”

  “This is not going to hurt. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” My voice is uncertain. Is it really not going to hurt?

  “I mean it,” he says.

  Jeez, my breathing is so shallow. Does he know what I’m thinking? He shows me the crop. It’s brown plaited leather. My eyes jerk up to meet his, and they’re alight with fire and a trace of amusement.

  “We aim to please, Miss Steele,” he murmurs. “Come.” He takes my elbow and moves me to beneath the grid. He reaches up and takes down some shackles with black leather cuffs.

  “This grid is designed so the shackles move across the grid.”

  I glance up. Holy shit—it’s like a subway map.

  “We’re going to start here, but I want to fuck you standing up. So we’ll end up by the wall over there.” He points with the riding crop to where the large wooden X is on the wall.

  “Put your hands above your head.”

  I oblige immediately, feeling like I’m exiting my body—a casual observer of events as they unfold around me. This is beyond fascinating, beyond erotic. It’s singularly the most exciting and scary thing I’ve ever done. I’m entrusting myself to a beautiful man who, by his own admission, is fifty shades of fucked up. I suppress the brief thrill of fear. Kate and Elliot, they know I’m here.

  He stands very close as he fastens the cuffs. I’m staring at his chest. His proximity is heavenly. He smells of body wash and Christian, an inebriating mix, and that drags me back into the now. I want to run my nose and tongue through that smattering of chest hair. I could just lean forward …

  He steps back and gazes at me, his expression hooded, salacious, carnal, and I am helpless, my hands tied, but just looking at his lovely face, reading his need and longing for me, I can feel the dampness between my legs. He walks slowly around me.

  “You look mighty fine trussed up like this, Miss Steele. And your smart mouth quiet for now. I like that.”

  Standing in front of me again, he hooks his fingers into my panties and, at a most unhurried pace, peels them down my legs, stripping me agonizingly slowly, so that he ends up kneeling in front of me. Not taking his eyes off mine, he scrunches my panties in his hand, holds them up to his nose, and inhales deeply. Holy fuck. Did he just do that? He grins wickedly at me and tucks them into the pocket of his jeans.

  Uncoiling from the floor, rising lazily, like a jungle cat, he points the end of the riding crop at my navel, leisurely circling it—tantalizing me. At the touch of the leather, I quiver and gasp. He walks around me again, trailing the crop around the middle of my body. On his second circuit, he suddenly flicks the crop, and it hits me underneath my behind … against my sex. I cry out in surprise as all my nerve endings stand to attention. I pull against the restraints. The shock runs through me, and it’s the sweetest, strangest, hedonistic feeling.

  “Quiet,” he whispers as he walks around me again, the crop slightly higher around the middle of my body. This time when he flicks it against me in the same place, I’m anticipating it. My body convulses at the sweet, stinging bite.

  As he makes his way around me, he flicks again, this time hitting my nipple, and I throw my head back as my nerve endings sing. He hits the other … a brief, swift, sweet chastisement. My nipples harden and elongate from the assault, and I moan loudly, pulling on my leather cuffs.

  “Does that feel good?” he breathes.

  “Yes.”

  He hits me again across the buttocks. The crop stings this time.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I whimper.

  He comes to a stop … but I can no longer see him. My eyes are closed as I try to absorb the myriad sensations coursing through my body. Very slowly, he rains small, biting licks of the crop down my belly, heading south. I know where this is leading, and I try to psyche myself up for it—but when he hits my clitoris, I cry out loudly.

  “Oh … please!” I groan.

  “Quiet,” he orders, and he hits me again o
n my behind.

  I did not expect this to be like this … I am lost. Lost in a sea of sensation. And suddenly, he’s dragging the crop against my sex, through my pubic hair, down to the entrance of my vagina.

  “See how wet you are for this, Anastasia. Open your eyes and your mouth.”

  I do as I’m told, completely seduced. He pushes the tip of the crop into my mouth, like my dream. Holy shit.

  “See how you taste. Suck. Suck hard, baby.”

  My mouth closes around the crop as my eyes lock on his. I can taste the rich leather and the saltiness of my arousal. His eyes are blazing. He’s in his element.

  He pulls the tip from my mouth, and he stands forward and grabs me and kisses me hard, his tongue invading my mouth. Wrapping his arms around me, he pulls me against him. His chest crushes mine, and I itch to touch, but I can’t, my hands useless above me.

  “Oh, Anastasia, you taste mighty fine,” he breathes. “Shall I make you come?”

  “Please,” I beg.

  The crop bites my buttock. Ow!

  “Please, what?”

  “Please, Sir,” I whimper.

  He smiles at me, triumphant.

  “With this?” He holds the crop up so I can see it.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Are you sure?” He looks sternly at me.

  “Yes, please, Sir.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  I shut the room out, him out … the crop out. He starts small, biting licks of the crop against my belly once more. Moving down, soft small licks against my clitoris, once, twice, three times, again and again, until finally, that’s it—I can take no more—and I come, gloriously, loudly, sagging weakly. His arms curl around me as my legs turn to jelly. I dissolve in his embrace, my head against his chest, and I’m mewling and whimpering as the aftershocks of my orgasm consume me. He lifts me, and suddenly we’re moving, my arms still tethered above my head, and I can feel the cool wood of the polished cross at my back, and he’s popping the buttons on his jeans. He puts me down against the cross briefly while he slides on a condom, and then his hands wrap around my thighs as he lifts me again.

  “Lift your legs, baby, wrap them around me.”

  I feel so weak, but I do as he asks as he wraps my legs around his hips and positions himself beneath me. With one thrust, he’s inside me, and I cry out again, listening to his muffled moan at my ear. My arms are resting on his shoulders as he thrusts into me. Jeez, it’s deep this way. He thrusts again and again, his face at my neck, his harsh breathing at my throat. I feel the build up again. Jeez, no … not again … I don’t think my body will withstand another Earth-shattering moment. But I have no choice … and with an inevitability that’s becoming familiar, I let go and come again, and it’s sweet and agonizing and intense. I lose all sense of self. Christian follows, shouting his release through clenched teeth and holding me hard and close as he does.

  He pulls out of me swiftly and sets me down against the cross, his body supporting mine. Unbuckling the cuffs, he frees my hands, and we both sink to the floor. He pulls me into his lap, cradling me, and I lean my head against his chest. If I had the strength, I’d touch him, but I don’t. Belatedly, I realize he’s still wearing his jeans.

  “Well done, baby,” he murmurs. “Did that hurt?”

  “No,” I breathe. I can barely keep my eyes open. Why am I so tired?

  “Did you expect it to?” he whispers as he holds me close, his fingers pushing some escaped tendrils of hair off my face.

  “Yes.”

  “You see, most of your fear is in your head, Anastasia.” He pauses. “Would you do it again?”

  I think for a moment as fatigue clouds my brain … Again?

  “Yes.” My voice is so soft.

  He hugs me tightly.

  “Good. So would I,” he murmurs, then leans down and softly kisses the top of my head.

  “And I haven’t finished with you yet.”

  Not finished with me yet. Holy Moses. There’s no way I can do any more. I am utterly spent and fighting an overwhelming desire to sleep. I’m leaning against his chest, my eyes are closed, and he’s wrapped around me—arms and legs—and I feel … safe, and oh so comfortable. Will he let me sleep, perchance to dream? My mouth quirks up at the silly thought, and turning my face into Christian’s chest, I inhale his unique scent and nuzzle him, but immediately he tenses … oh crap. I open my eyes and glance up at him. He’s staring down at me.

  “Don’t,” he breathes in warning.

  I flush and look back at his chest in longing. I want to run my tongue through the hair, kiss him, and for the first time, I notice he has a few random and faint small, round scars dotted around his chest. Chicken pox? Measles? I think absently.

  “Kneel by the door,” he orders as he sits back, putting his hands on his knees, effectively releasing me. No longer warm, the temperature of his voice has dropped several degrees.

  I stumble clumsily up into a standing position and scoot over to the door and kneel as instructed. I’m shaky and very, very tired, monumentally confused. Who would have thought I could have found such gratification in this room. Who could have thought it would be so exhausting? My limbs are deliciously heavy, sated. My inner goddess has a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside of her room.

  Christian is moving about in the periphery of my vision. My eyes start to droop.

  “Boring you, am I, Miss Steele?”

  I jump awake, and Christian is standing in front of me, his arms crossed, glaring down at me. Oh, shit, caught napping—this is not going to be good. His eyes soften as I gaze up at him.

  “Stand up,” he orders.

  I climb warily to my feet. He stares at me and his mouth quirks up.

  “You’re shattered, aren’t you?”

  I nod shyly, flushing.

  “Stamina, Miss Steele.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I haven’t had my fill of you yet. Hold out your hands in front as if you’re praying.”

  I blink at him. Praying! Praying for you to go easy on me. I do as I’m told. He takes a cable tie and fastens it around my wrists, tightening the plastic. Holy hell. My eyes fly to his.

  “Look familiar?” he asks, unable to conceal his smile.

  Jeez … the plastic cable ties. Restocking at Clayton’s! It all becomes clear. I gape up at him as adrenaline spikes though my body anew. Okay—that’s got my attention—I’m awake now.

  “I have scissors here.” He holds them up for me to see. “I can cut you out of this in a moment.”

  I try to pull my wrists apart, testing my bonds, and as I do, the plastic bites into my flesh. It’s sore, but if I relax my wrists they’re fine—the tie is not cutting into my skin.

  “Come.” He takes my hands and leads me over to the four-poster bed. I notice now that it has dark red sheets on it and a shackle at each corner.

  He leans down and whispers in my ear, “I want more—much, much more.”

  And my heartbeat starts pounding again. Oh boy.

  “But I’ll make this quick. You’re tired. Hold on to the post,” he says.

  I frown. Not on the bed then? I find I can part my hands as I grasp the ornately carved wooden post.

  “Lower,” he orders. “Good. Don’t let go. If you do, I’ll spank you. Understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good.”

  He stands behind me and grasps my hips, and then quickly lifts me backward so I’m bending forward, holding the post.

  “Don’t let go, Anastasia,” he warns. “I’m going to fuck you hard from behind. Hold the post to support your weight. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  He smacks me across my behind with his hand. Ow … It stings.

  “Yes, Sir,” I mutter quickly.

  “Part your legs.” He puts his leg between mine, and holding my hips, he pushes my right leg to the side.

  “That’s better. After this, I’ll let you sleep.”

  Sleep? I’m panting. I’m not thinking of sleep now
. He reaches up and gently strokes my back.

  “You have such beautiful skin, Anastasia,” he breathes as he bends down and kisses me along my spine, gentle featherlight kisses. At the same time, his hands move around to my front, palming my breasts, and as he does this he traps my nipples between his fingers and tugs them gently.

  I stifle my moan as I feel my whole body respond, coming alive once more for him.

  He gently bites and sucks me at my waist, tugging my nipples, and my hands tighten on the exquisitely carved post. His hands drop away, and I hear the now familiar tear of foil, and he kicks off his jeans.

  “You have such a captivating, sexy ass, Anastasia Steele. What I’d like to do to it.” His hands smooth and shape each of my buttocks, then his fingers glide down, and he slips two fingers inside me.

  “So wet. You never disappoint, Miss Steele,” he whispers, and I hear the wonder in his voice. “Hold tight … this is going to be quick, baby.”

  He grabs my hips and positions himself, and I brace myself for his assault. But he reaches over me and grabs my braid near the end and winds it around his wrist to my nape, holding my head in place. Very slowly he eases into me, pulling my hair at the same time … Oh, the fullness. He eases out of me slowly, and his other hand grabs my hip, holding tight, and then he slams into me, jolting me forward.

  “Hold on, Anastasia!” he shouts through clenched teeth.

  I grip the post harder and push back against him as he continues his merciless onslaught, again and again, his fingers digging into my hip. My arms are aching, my legs feel uncertain, my scalp is getting sore from his tugging my hair … and I can feel a gathering deep inside me. Oh no … and for the first time, I fear my orgasm … if I come … I’ll collapse. Christian continues to move roughly against me, in me, his breathing harsh, moaning, groaning. My body is responding … how? I feel a quickening. But suddenly, Christian stills, slamming really deep.

  “Come on, Ana, give it to me,” he groans, and my name on his lips sends me over the edge as I become all body and spiraling sensation and sweet, sweet release, and then completely and utterly mindless.

  When sense returns, I’m lying on him. He’s on the floor, and I’m lying on top of him, my back to his front, and I’m staring at the ceiling, all postcoital, glowing, shattered. Oh … the carabiners, I think absently—I’d forgotten about those. Christian nuzzles my ear.