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

by E. L. James

  “I’m so glad you’re back. Shower with me—now.”

  I can’t decide if it’s a request or a command.

  “Yes,” I whisper, and he grabs my hand, leading me out of the big room into his bedroom to his bathroom.

  Once there, he releases me and turns the water on in the far-too-spacious shower. Spinning around slowly, he gazes at me, eyes hooded.

  “I like your skirt. It’s very short,” he says, his voice low. “You have great legs.”

  He steps out of his shoes and reaches down to take off each of his socks, never taking his eyes off me. I am rendered speechless by the look of hunger in his eyes. Wow … to be this wanted by this Greek god. I mirror his actions and step out of my black flats. Suddenly, he reaches for me, backing me up against the wall. Kissing me, my face, my throat, my lips … running his hands through my hair. I feel the cool, smooth tiled wall at my back as he pushes himself against me, so that I’m flattened between his heat and the chill of the ceramic. Tentatively, I place my arms on his upper arms, and he groans as I squeeze tightly.

  “I want you now. Here … fast, hard,” he breathes, and his hands are on my thighs, pushing up my skirt. “Are you still bleeding?”

  “No.” I flush.

  “Good.”

  His thumbs hook over my white cotton panties, and abruptly he drops to his knees as he tugs them off. My skirt is now rucked up so that I’m naked from the waist down and panting, wanting. He grabs my hips, pushing me against the wall again, and kisses me at the apex of my thighs. Grabbing my upper thighs, he forces my legs apart. I groan loudly, feeling his tongue circling my clitoris. Oh my. Tipping my head back involuntarily, I moan as my fingers find their way into his hair.

  His tongue is relentless, strong and insistent, washing over me—swirling around and around, again and again—nonstop. It’s exquisite, the intensity of feeling—it’s almost painful. My body starts to quicken, and he releases me. What? No! My breathing is ragged as I pant, gazing at him with delicious anticipation. He grabs my face with both hands, holding me firmly, and he kisses me hard, thrusting his tongue into my mouth so I can taste my arousal. Unzipping his fly, he frees himself, grabs the backs of my thighs, and lifts me.

  “Wrap your legs around me, baby,” he commands, his voice urgent, strained.

  I do as I’m told and wrap my arms around his neck, and he moves quickly and sharply, filling me. Ah! He gasps, and I groan. Holding my behind, his fingers digging into my soft flesh, he begins to move, slowly at first—a steady even tempo … but as his control unravels, he speeds up … faster and faster. Ahhh! I tip my head back and concentrate on the invading, punishing, heavenly sensation … pushing me, pushing me … onward, higher, up … and when I can take no more, I explode around him, spiraling into an intense, all-consuming orgasm. He lets go with a deep growl, and he buries his head in my neck as he buries himself inside me, groaning loudly and incoherently as he finds his release.

  His breathing is erratic, but he kisses me tenderly, not moving, still inside me, and I blink, unseeing, into his eyes. As he comes into focus, he gently pulls out of me, holding me steady while I place my feet on the floor. The bathroom is now cloudy with steam … and hot. I feel overdressed.

  “You seem pleased to see me,” I murmur with a shy smile.

  His lips quirk up. “Yes, Miss Steele, I think my pleasure is pretty self-evident. Come—let me get you in the shower.”

  He undoes the next three buttons of his shirt, removes the cuff links, tugs it over his head, and discards it on the floor. Taking off his suit pants and boxer briefs, he kicks them to one side. He begins to undo the buttons on my blouse while I watch him, yearning to reach out and stroke his chest, but I contain myself.

  “How was your journey?” he asks mildly. He seems so much calmer now, his apprehension gone, dissolved by sexual congress.

  “Fine, thank you,” I murmur, still breathless. “Thanks once again for first class. It really is a much nicer way to travel.” I smile shyly at him. “I have some news,” I add nervously.

  “Oh?” He looks down at me as he undoes the last button, slips my blouse down my arms, and throws it on top of his discarded clothes.

  “I have a job.”

  He stills, then smiles at me, his eyes warm and soft.

  “Congratulations, Miss Steele. Now will you tell me where?” he teases.

  “You don’t know?”

  He shakes his head, frowning. “Why would I know?”

  “With your stalking capabilities, I thought you might have …” I trail off as his face falls.

  “Anastasia, I wouldn’t dream of interfering in your career, unless you ask me to, of course.” He looks wounded.

  “So you have no idea which company?”

  “No. I know there are four publishing companies in Seattle—so I am assuming it’s one of them.”

  “SIP.”

  “Oh, the small one, good. Well done.” He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “Clever girl. When do you start?”

  “Monday.”

  “That soon, eh? I’d better take advantage of you while I still can. Turn around.”

  I am thrown by his casual command but do as I’m bid, and he undoes my bra and unzips my skirt. He pushes my skirt down, cupping my behind as he does and kissing my shoulder. He leans against me and his nose nuzzles my hair, inhaling deeply. He squeezes my buttocks.

  “You intoxicate me, Miss Steele, and you calm me. Such a heady combination.” He kisses my hair. Grabbing my hand, he tugs me into the shower.

  “Ow,” I squeal. The water is practically scalding. Christian grins down at me as the water cascades over him.

  “It’s only a little hot water.”

  And actually he’s right. It feels heavenly, washing off the sticky Georgia morning and the stickiness from our lovemaking.

  “Turn around,” he orders, and I comply, turning to face the wall. “I want to wash you,” he murmurs, and reaches for the body wash. He squirts a little into his hand.

  “I have something else to tell you,” I murmur as his hands start on my shoulders.

  “Oh yes?” he asks mildly.

  I steel myself with a deep breath. “My friend José’s photography show is opening Thursday in Portland.”

  He stills, his hands hovering over my breasts. I have emphasized the word “friend.”

  “Yes, what about it?” he asks sternly.

  “I said I would go. Do you want to come with me?”

  After what feels like a monumental amount of time, he slowly starts washing me again.

  “What time?”

  “The opening is at seven thirty p.m.”

  He kisses my ear.

  “Okay.”

  Inside my subconscious relaxes and then collapses, slumped into an old battered armchair.

  “Were you nervous about asking me?”

  “Yes. How can you tell?”

  “Anastasia, your whole body’s just relaxed,” he says dryly.

  “Well, you just seem to be, um … on the jealous side.”

  “Yes, I am,” he says darkly. “And you’d do well to remember that. But thank you for asking. We’ll take Charlie Tango.”

  Oh, the helicopter of course, silly me. More flying … cool! I grin.

  “Can I wash you?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so,” he murmurs, and he kisses me gently on my neck to take the sting out of his refusal. I pout at the wall as he caresses my back with soap.

  “Will you ever let me touch you?” I ask boldly.

  He stills again, his hand on my behind.

  “Put your hands on the wall, Anastasia. I’m going to take you again,” he murmurs in my ear as he grabs my hips, and I know that the discussion is over.

  LATER, WE ARE SEATED at the breakfast bar, dressed in bathrobes, having consumed Mrs. Jones’s rather excellent pasta alle vongole.

  “More wine?” Christian asks, gray eyes glowing.

  “A small glass, please.” The Sancerre is c
risp and delicious. Christian pours one for me and one for himself.

  “How’s the, um … situation that brought you to Seattle?” I ask tentatively.

  He frowns. “Out of hand,” he murmurs bitterly. “But nothing for you to worry about, Anastasia. I have plans for you this evening.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I want you ready and waiting in my playroom in fifteen minutes.” He stands and gazes down at me.

  “You can get ready in your room. Incidentally, the walk-in closet is now full of clothes for you. I don’t want any arguments about them.” He narrows his eyes, daring me to say something. When I don’t, he stalks off to his study.

  Me! Argue? With you, Fifty Shades? It’s more than my backside’s worth. I sit on the barstool, momentarily stupefied, trying to assimilate this morsel of information. He’s bought me clothes. I roll my eyes in an exaggerated fashion, knowing full well he can’t see me. Car, phone, computer … clothes, it’ll be a damn condo next, and then I really will be his mistress.

  Ho! My subconscious has her snarky face on. I ignore her and make my way upstairs toward my room. So, it is still mine … why? I thought he’d agreed to let me sleep with him. I suppose he’s not used to sharing his personal space, but then, neither am I. I console myself with the thought that at least I have somewhere to escape from him.

  Examining the door, I find that it has a lock but no key. I wonder briefly if Mrs. Jones has a spare. I’ll ask her. I open the closet door and close it again quickly. Holy crap—he’s spent a fortune. It resembles Kate’s—so many clothes hanging neatly on the rail. Deep down, I know that they’ll all fit. But I have no time to think about that—I have to get kneeling in the Red Room of … Pain … or Pleasure, hopefully—this evening.

  KNEELING BY THE DOOR, I am naked except for my panties. My heart is in my mouth. Jeez, I thought after the bathroom he would have had enough. The man is insatiable, or maybe all men are like him. I have no idea, no one to compare him to. Closing my eyes, I try to calm myself down, to connect with my inner sub. She’s there somewhere, hiding behind my inner goddess.

  Anticipation runs bubbling like soda through my veins. What will he do? I take a deep, steadying breath, but I cannot deny it, I’m excited, aroused, wet already. This is so … I want to think wrong, but somehow it’s not. It’s right for Christian. It’s what he wants—and after the last few days … after all he’s done, I have to man up and take whatever he decides he wants, whatever he thinks he needs.

  The memory of his look when I came in this evening, the longing in his face, his determined stride toward me like I was an oasis in the desert. I’d do almost anything to see that look again. I press my thighs together at the delicious memory, and it reminds me that I need to spread my knees. I shuffle them apart. How long will he make me wait? The wait is crippling me, crippling me with a dark and tantalizing desire. I glance quickly around the subtly lit room: the cross, the table, the couch, the bench … that bed. It looms so large, and it’s made up with red satin sheets. Which piece of apparatus will he use?

  The door opens and Christian breezes in, ignoring me completely. I glance down quickly, staring at my hands, positioned with care on my spread thighs. Placing something on the large chest beside the door, he strolls casually toward the bed. I indulge myself in a quick glimpse at him, and my heart almost lurches to a stop. He’s naked except for those soft ripped jeans, top button casually undone. Jeez, he looks so freaking hot. My subconscious is frantically fanning herself, and my inner goddess is swaying and writhing to some primal carnal rhythm. She’s so ready. I lick my lips instinctively. My blood pounds through my body, thick and heavy with salacious hunger. What is he going to do to me?

  Turning, he nonchalantly walks back to the chest of drawers. Opening one, he begins to remove items and place them on the top. My curiosity burns, blazes even, but I resist the overwhelming temptation to sneak a quick peek. When he finishes what he’s doing, he comes to stand in front of me. I can see his naked feet, and I want to kiss every inch of them … run my tongue over his instep, suck each of his toes. Holy shit.

  “You look lovely,” he breathes.

  I keep my head down, conscious that he’s staring at me while I am practically naked. I feel the flush as it slowly spreads over my face. He bends down and cups my chin, forcing my face up to meet his gaze.

  “You are one beautiful woman, Anastasia. And you’re all mine,” he murmurs. “Stand up.” His command is soft, full of sensual promise.

  Shakily, I get to my feet.

  “Look at me,” he breathes, and I stare up into his smoldering gaze. It is his Dom gaze—cold, hard, and sexy as hell, seven shades of sin in one enticing look. My mouth dries, and I know I will do anything he asks. An almost cruel smile plays across his lips.

  “We don’t have a signed contract, Anastasia. But we’ve discussed limits. And I want to reiterate we have safewords, okay?”

  Holy fuck … what has he got planned that I need safewords?

  “What are they?” he asks authoritatively.

  I frown slightly at his question, and his face hardens perceptibly.

  “What are the safewords, Anastasia?” he says slowly and deliberately.

  “ ‘Yellow,’ ” I mumble.

  “And?” he prompts, his mouth setting in a hard line.

  “ ‘Red,’ ” I breathe.

  “Remember those.”

  And I can’t help it … I raise my eyebrow at him and am about to remind him of my GPA, but the sudden frosty glint in his icy gray eyes stops me in my tracks.

  “Don’t start with your smart mouth in here, Miss Steele. Or I will fuck it with you on your knees. Do you understand?”

  I swallow instinctively. Okay. I blink rapidly, chastened. Actually, it’s his tone of voice, rather than the threat, that intimidates me.

  “Well?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I mumble hastily.

  “Good girl,” he pauses as he stares at me. “My intention is not that you should use the safeword because you’re in pain. What I intend to do to you will be intense. Very intense, and you have to guide me. Do you understand?”

  Not really. Intense? Wow.

  “This is about touch, Anastasia. You will not be able to see me or hear me. But you’ll be able to feel me.”

  I frown—not hear him? How is that going to work? He turns, and I hadn’t noticed that above the chest is a sleek, flat, matte black box. As he waves his hand in front, the box splits in half: two doors slide open revealing a CD player and a host of buttons. Christian presses several of these buttons in sequence. Nothing happens, but he seems satisfied. I am mystified. When he turns to face me again, he wears his small I-have-a-secret smile.

  “I am going to tie you to that bed, Anastasia. But I’m going to blindfold you first and,” he reveals his iPod in his hand, “you will not be able to hear me. All you will hear is the music I am going to play for you.”

  Okay. A musical interlude. Not what I was expecting. Does he ever do what I expect? Jeez, I hope it’s not rap.

  “Come.” Taking my hand, he leads me over to the antique four-poster bed. There are shackles attached at each corner, fine metal chains with leather cuffs, glinting against the red satin.

  Oh boy, I think my heart is going to jump out of my chest, and I’m melting from the inside out, desire coursing through me. Could I be any more excited?

  “Stand here.”

  I am facing the bed. He leans down and whispers in my ear.

  “Wait here. Keep your eyes on the bed. Picture yourself lying here bound and totally at my mercy.”

  Oh my.

  He moves away for a moment, and I can hear him near the door fetching something. All my senses are hyperalert, my hearing more acute. He’s picked up something from the rack of whips and paddles by the door. Holy cow. What is he going to do?

  I feel him behind me. He takes my hair, pulls it into a ponytail behind me, and starts to braid it.

  “While I like your pigtails, Ana
stasia, I am impatient to have you right now. So one will have to do.” His voice is low, soft.

  His deft fingers skim my back occasionally as they work down my hair, and each casual touch is like a sweet, electric shock against my skin. He fastens the end with a hair tie, then gently tugs the braid so that I’m forced to step back flush against him. He pulls again to the side so that I angle my head, giving him easier access to my neck. Leaning down, he nuzzles my neck, tracing his teeth and tongue from the base of my ear to my shoulder. He hums softly as he does, and the sound resonates through me. Right down … right down there, inside me. Unbidden, I groan quietly.

  “Hush now,” he breathes against my skin. He holds up his hands in front of me, his arms touching mine. In his right hand is a flogger. I remember the name from my first introduction to this room.

  “Touch it,” he whispers, and he sounds like the devil himself. My body flames in response. Tentatively, I reach out and brush the long strands. It has many long fronds, all soft suede with small beads at the end.

  “I will use this. It will not hurt, but it will bring your blood to the surface of your skin and make you very sensitive.”

  Oh, he says it won’t hurt.

  “What are the safewords, Anastasia?”

  “Um … ‘yellow’ and ‘red,’ Sir,” I whisper.

  “Good girl. Remember, most of your fear is in your mind.”

  He drops the flogger on the bed, and his hands move to my waist.