by E. L. James
“You won’t be needing these,” he murmurs, and hooks his fingers into my panties and sweeps them down my legs. I step unsteadily out of them, supporting myself on the ornate post of the bed.
“Stand still,” he orders, and he kisses my behind and then gently nips me twice, making me tense. “Now lie down. Face up,” he adds as he smacks me hard on the behind, making me jump.
Hastily, I crawl onto the bed’s hard, unyielding mattress and lie down, looking up at him. The satin of the sheet beneath me is soft and cool against my skin. His face is impassive, except for his eyes, which glow with a barely leashed excitement.
“Hands above your head,” he orders, and I do as I’m bid.
Jeez, my body hungers for him. I want him already.
He turns, and out of the corner of my eyes, I watch him saunter back over to the chest of drawers, returning with the iPod and what looks like an eye mask, similar to the one I used on my flight to Atlanta. The thought makes me want to smile, but I can’t quite make my lips cooperate. I am too consumed with anticipation. I just know my face is completely immobile, my eyes huge, as I gaze at him.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he shows me the iPod. It has a strange antenna device as well as headphones. How odd. I frown as I try to figure this out.
“This transmits what’s playing on the iPod to the system in the room,” Christian answers my unspoken query as he taps the small antenna. “I can hear what you’re hearing, and I have a remote control unit for it.” He smirks his private-joke smile and holds up a small, flat device that looks like a very hip calculator. He leans across me, inserting the earbuds gently into my ears, and puts the iPod down somewhere on the bed above my head.
“Lift your head,” he commands, and I do so immediately.
Slowly, he slides the mask on, pulling the elastic over the back of my head, and I’m blind. The elastic on the mask holds the earbuds in place. I can still hear him, though the sound is muffled as he rises from the bed. I’m deafened by my own breathing—it’s shallow and erratic, reflecting my excitement. Christian takes my left arm, stretches it gently to the left-hand corner, and attaches the leather cuff around my wrist. His long fingers stroke the length of my arm once he’s finished. Oh! His touch elicits a delicious, tickly shiver. I hear him move slowly around to the other side, where he takes my right arm and cuffs it. Again, his long fingers linger along my arm. Oh my … I am fit to burst already. Why is this so erotic?
He moves to the bottom of the bed and grabs both of my ankles.
“Lift your head again,” he orders.
I comply, and he drags me down the bed so that my arms are stretched out and almost straining at the cuffs. Holy cow, I cannot move my arms. A frisson of trepidation mixed with tantalizing exhilaration sweeps through my body, making me wetter. I groan. Parting my legs, he cuffs first my right ankle and then my left so I am staked out, spread-eagled, and totally vulnerable to him. It’s so unnerving that I can’t see him. I listen hard … what’s he doing? And I hear nothing, just my breathing and the pounding thud of my heart as blood pulses furiously against my eardrums.
Abruptly, the soft silent hiss and pop of the iPod springs into life. From inside my head, a lone angelic voice sings unaccompanied a long sweet note, and it’s joined almost immediately by another voice, and then more voices—holy cow, a celestial choir—singing a capella in my head, an ancient, ancient hymnal. What in heaven’s name is this? I have never heard anything like it. Something almost unbearably soft brushes against my neck, running languidly down my throat, slowly across my chest, over my breasts, caressing me … pulling at my nipples, it’s so soft, skimming underneath. It’s so unexpected. It’s fur! A fur glove?
Christian trails his hand, unhurried and deliberate, down to my belly, circling my navel, then carefully from hip to hip, and I’m trying to anticipate where he’s going next … but the music … it’s in my head … transporting me … the fur across the line of my pubic hair … between my legs, along my thighs, down one leg … up the other … it almost tickles … but not quite … more voices join … the heavenly choir all singing different parts, their voices blending blissfully and sweetly together in a melodic harmony that is beyond anything I’ve ever heard. I catch one word—“deus”—and I realize they are singing in Latin. And still, the fur is moving down my arms and around my waist … back up across my breasts. My nipples harden beneath the soft touch … and I’m panting … wondering where his hand will go next. Suddenly, the fur is gone, and I can feel the fronds of the flogger flowing over my skin, following the same path as the fur, and it’s so hard to concentrate with the music in my head—it sounds like a hundred voices singing, weaving an ethereal tapestry of fine, silken gold and silver through my head, mixed with the feel of the soft suede against my skin … trailing over me … oh my … abruptly, it disappears. Then suddenly, sharply, it bites down on my belly.
“Aagghh!” I cry out. It takes me by surprise, but it doesn’t exactly hurt and tingles all over, and he hits me again. Harder.
“Aaah!”
I want to move, to writhe … to escape, or to welcome, each blow … I don’t know—it’s so overwhelming … I can’t pull my arms … my legs are stuck … I am held very firmly in place … and again he strikes across my breasts—I cry out. And it’s a sweet agony—bearable, just … pleasant—no, not immediately, but as my skin sings with each blow in perfect counterpoint to the music in my head, I am dragged into a dark, dark part of my psyche that surrenders to this most erotic sensation. Yes—I get this. He hits me across my hip, then moves in swift blows over my pubic hair, on my thighs, and down my inner thighs … and back up my body … across my hips. He keeps going as the music reaches a climax, and then suddenly the music stops. And so does he. Then the singing starts again … building and building, and he rains down blows on me … and I groan and writhe. Once again, it ceases and all is quiet … except my wild breathing … and wild yearning. For … oh … what’s happening? What’s he going to do now? The excitement is almost unbearable. I’ve entered a very dark, carnal place.
The bed moves and shifts as I feel him clamber over me, and the song starts again. He’s got it on repeat … this time it’s his nose and lips that take the place of the fur … running down my neck and throat, kissing, sucking … trailing down to my breasts … Ah! Taunting each of my nipples in turn … his tongue swirling around one while his fingers relentlessly tease the other … I groan, loudly I think, though I can’t hear. I am lost. Lost in him … lost in the astral, seraphic voices … lost to all the sensations I cannot escape … I am completely at the mercy of his expert touch.
He moves down to my belly—his tongue circling my navel—following the path of the flogger and the fur … I moan. He’s kissing and sucking and nibbling … moving south … and then his tongue is there. At the junction of my thighs. I throw my head back and cry out as I almost detonate into orgasm … I’m on the brink, and he stops.
No! The bed shifts, and he kneels between my legs. He leans toward the bedpost, and the cuff on my ankle is suddenly gone. I pull my leg to the middle of the bed … resting it against him. He leans over to the opposite post and frees my other leg. His hands travel quickly down both my legs, squeezing and kneading, bringing life back into them. Then, grasping my hips, he lifts me so that my back is no longer on the bed. I am arched, resting on my shoulders. What? He’s kneeling up between my legs … and in one swift, slamming move he’s inside me … oh, fuck … and I cry out again. The quiver of my impending orgasm begins, and he stills. The quiver dies … oh no … he’s going to torture me further.
“Please!” I wail.
He grips me harder … in warning? I don’t know, his fingers digging into the flesh of my behind as I lay panting … so I purposefully still. Very slowly, he starts to move again … out and then in … agonizingly slowly. Holy fuck—please! I’m screaming inside … And as the number of voices in the choral piece increases, so does his pace, infinitesimally, he’s so controlled … so in ti
me with the music. And I can no longer bear it.
“Please,” I beg, and in one swift move, he lowers me back onto the bed, and he’s lying on top of me, his hands on the bed beside my breasts as he supports his weight, and he thrusts into me. As the music reaches its climax, I fall … free-fall … into the most intense, agonizing orgasm I have ever had, and Christian follows me … thrusting hard into me three more times … finally stilling, then collapsing on top of me.
As my consciousness returns from wherever it’s been, Christian pulls out of me. The music has stopped, and I can feel him stretch across my body as he undoes the cuff on my right wrist. I groan as my hand is freed. He quickly frees my other hand, gently pulls the mask from my eyes, and removes the earbuds. I blink in the dim soft light and stare up into his intense gray gaze.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
“Hi, yourself,” I breathe shyly back at him. His lips quirk up into a smile, and he leans down and kisses me softly.
“Well done, you,” he whispers. “Turn over.”
Holy fuck—what’s he going to do now? His eyes soften.
“I’m just going to rub your shoulders.”
“Oh … okay.”
I roll stiffly onto my front. I am so tired. Christian sits astride me and starts to massage my shoulders. I groan loudly—he has such strong, knowing fingers. Leaning down, he kisses my head.
“What was that music?” I mumble almost inarticulately.
“It’s called Spem in Alium, a forty-part motet by Thomas Tallis.”
“It was … overwhelming.”
“I’ve always wanted to fuck to it.”
“Not another first, Mr. Grey?”
“Indeed, Miss Steele.”
I groan again as his fingers work their magic on my shoulders.
“Well, it’s the first time I’ve fucked to it, too,” I murmur sleepily.
“Hmm … you and I, we’re giving each other many firsts.” His voice is matter-of-fact.
“What did I say to you in my sleep, Chris—er, Sir?”
His hands pause their ministrations for a moment.
“You said lots of things, Anastasia. You talked about cages and strawberries … that you wanted more … and that you missed me.”
Oh, thank heavens for that.
“Is that all?” The relief in my voice is evident.
Christian stops his heavenly massage and shifts so that he’s lying beside me, his head propped up on his elbow. He’s frowning.
“What did you think you’d said?”
Oh crap.
“That I thought you were ugly, conceited, and that you were hopeless in bed.”
The crease on his brow deepens.
“Well, naturally I am all those things, and now you’ve got me really intrigued. What are you hiding from me, Miss Steele?”
I blink at him innocently. “I’m not hiding anything.”
“Anastasia, you are a hopeless liar.”
“I thought you were going to make me giggle after sex; this isn’t doing it for me.”
His lips quirk up. “I can’t tell jokes.”
“Mr. Grey! Something you can’t do?” I grin at him, and he grins back.
“No, hopeless joke teller.” He looks so proud of himself that I start to giggle.
“I’m a hopeless joke teller, too.”
“That is such a lovely sound,” he murmurs, and he leans forward and kisses me.
“And you are hiding something, Anastasia. I may have to torture it out of you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
* * *
I wake with a jolt. I think I’ve just fallen down some stairs in a dream, and I bolt upright, momentarily disoriented. It is dark, and I’m in Christian’s bed alone. Something has woken me, some nagging thought. I glance over at the alarm clock on his bedside. It is five in the morning, but I feel rested. Why is that? Oh—it’s the time difference—it would be eight a.m. in Georgia. Holy crap … I need to take my pill. I clamber out of bed, grateful for whatever it is that has woken me. I can hear faint notes from the piano. Christian is playing. This I must see. I love watching him play. Naked, I grab my bathrobe from the chair and wander quietly down the corridor, slipping on my robe and listening to the magical sound of the melodic lament that’s coming from the great room.
Shrouded in darkness, Christian sits in a bubble of light as he plays, and his hair glints with burnished copper highlights. He looks naked, though I know he’s wearing his PJ bottoms. He’s concentrating, playing beautifully, lost in the melancholy of the music. I hesitate, watching from the shadows, not wanting to interrupt him. I want to hold him. He looks lost, sad even, and achingly lonely—or maybe it’s just the music that’s so full of poignant sorrow. He finishes the piece, pauses for a split second, then starts to play it again. I move cautiously toward him, drawn as the moth to the flame … the idea makes me smile. He glances up at me and frowns before his gaze returns to his hands.
Oh, crap, is he pissed off that I am disturbing him?
“You should be asleep,” he scolds mildly.
I can tell he’s preoccupied with something.
“So should you,” I retort not quite as mildly.
He glances up again, his lips twitching with a trace of a smile.
“Are you scolding me, Miss Steele?”
“Yes, Mr. Grey, I am.”
“Well, I can’t sleep.” He frowns once more as a trace of irritation or anger flashes across his face. With me? Surely not.
I ignore his facial expression and very bravely sit down beside him on the piano stool, placing my head on his bare shoulder to watch his deft, agile fingers caress the keys. He pauses fractionally, and then continues to the end of the piece.
“What was that?” I ask softly.
“Chopin. Prelude opus twenty-eight, number four. In E minor, if you’re interested,” he murmurs.
“I’m always interested in what you do.”
He turns and softly presses his lips against my hair.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. Play the other one.”
“Other one?”
“The Bach piece that you played the first night I stayed.”
“Oh, the Marcello.”
He starts to play slowly and deliberately. I feel the movement of his hands in his shoulders as I lean against him and close my eyes. The sad, soulful notes swirl slowly and mournfully around us, echoing off the walls. It is a hauntingly beautiful piece, sadder even than the Chopin, and I lose myself to the beauty of the lament. To a certain extent, it reflects how I feel. The deep poignant longing I have to know this extraordinary man better, to try to understand his sadness. All too soon, the piece is at an end.
“Why do you only play such sad music?”
I sit upright and gaze up at him as he shrugs in answer to my question, his expression wary.
“So you were just six when you started to play?” I prompt.
He nods, his wary look intensifying. After a moment he volunteers. “I threw myself into learning the piano to please my new mother.”
“To fit into the perfect family?”
“Yes, so to speak,” he says evasively. “Why are you awake? Don’t you need to recover from yesterday’s exertions?”
“It’s eight in the morning for me. And I need to take my pill.”
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Well remembered,” he murmurs, and I can tell he’s impressed. “Only you would start a course of time-specific birth control pills in a different time zone. Perhaps you should wait half an hour and then another half hour tomorrow morning. So eventually you can take them at a reasonable time.”
“Good plan,” I breathe. “So what shall we do for half an hour?” I blink innocently at him.
“I can think of a few things.” He grins salaciously. I gaze back impassively as my insides clench and melt under his knowing look.
“On the other hand, we could talk,” I suggest quietly.
His brow crea
ses.
“I prefer what I have in mind.” He scoops me onto his lap.
“You’d always rather have sex than talk.” I laugh, steadying myself by holding on to his upper arms.
“True. Especially with you.” He nuzzles my hair and starts a steady trail of kisses from below my ear to my throat. “Maybe on my piano,” he whispers.
Oh my. My whole body tightens at the thought. Piano. Wow.
“I want to get something straight,” I whisper as my pulse starts to accelerate, and my inner goddess closes her eyes, reveling in the feel of his lips on me.
He pauses momentarily before continuing his sensual assault.
“Always so eager for information, Miss Steele. What needs straightening out?” he breathes against my skin at the base of my neck, continuing his soft gentle kisses.
“Us,” I whisper as I close my eyes.
“Hmm. What about us?” He pauses his trail of kisses along my shoulder.
“The contract.”
He lifts his head to gaze down at me, a hint of amusement in his eyes, and sighs. He strokes his fingertips down my cheek.
“Well, I think the contract is moot, don’t you?” His voice is low and husky, his eyes soft.
“Moot?”
“Moot.” He smiles. I gape at him quizzically.
“But you were so keen.”
“Well, that was before. Anyway, the Rules aren’t moot, they still stand.” His expression hardens slightly.
“Before? Before what?”
“Before …” He pauses, and the wary expression is back. “More.” He shrugs.
“Oh.”
“Besides, we’ve been in the playroom twice now, and you haven’t run screaming for the hills.”
“Do you expect me to?”
“Nothing you do is expected, Anastasia,” he says dryly.
“So, let me be clear. You just want me to follow the Rules element of the contract all the time but not the rest of the contract?”
“Except in the playroom. I want you to follow the spirit of the contract in the playroom, and yes, I want you to follow the Rules—all the time. Then I know you’ll be safe, and I’ll be able to have you anytime I wish.”
