by E. L. James
Oh, that feels so good—possessing him, possessing me.
He holds my hands, and I don’t know if it’s to steady me or keep me from touching him, even though I have my road map.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs.
I rise again, heady with the power I have over him, watching Christian Grey slowly coming apart beneath me. He lets go of my hands and grabs my hips, and I place my hands on his arms. He thrusts into me sharply, causing me to cry out.
“That’s right, baby, feel me,” he says, his voice strained.
I tip my head back and do exactly that. This is what he does so well.
I move—countering his rhythm in perfect symmetry—numbing all thought and reason. I am just sensation lost in this void of pleasure. Up and down … again and again … Oh yes … Opening my eyes, I stare down at him, my breathing ragged, and he’s staring back at me, eyes blazing.
“My Ana,” he mouths.
“Yes,” I rasp. “Always.”
He groans loudly, closing his eyes again, tipping his head back. Seeing Christian undone is enough to seal my fate, and I come audibly, exhaustingly, spinning down and around, collapsing on top of him.
“Oh, baby,” he groans as he finds his release, holding me still and letting go.
MY HEAD IS ON his chest in the no-go area, my cheek nestled against the springy hair on his sternum. I am panting, glowing, and I resist the urge to pucker my lips and kiss him.
I just lie on top of him, catching my breath. He smoothes my hair, and his hand runs down my back, caressing me as his breathing calms.
“You are so beautiful.”
I lift my head to gaze at him, my expression skeptical. He frowns in response and sits up quickly, taking me by surprise, his arm sweeping around to hold me in place. I clutch his biceps as we are nose to nose.
“You. Are. Beautiful,” he says again, his tone emphatic.
“And you’re amazingly sweet sometimes.” I kiss him gently.
He lifts me and eases out of me. I wince as he does. Leaning forward, he kisses me softly.
“You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?”
I flush. Why’s he going on about this?
“All those boys pursuing you—that isn’t enough of a clue?”
“Boys? What boys?”
“You want the list?” Christian frowns. “The photographer, he’s crazy about you, that boy in the hardware store, your roommate’s older brother. Your boss,” he adds bitterly.
“Oh, Christian, that’s just not true.”
“Trust me. They want you. They want what’s mine.” He pulls me against him, and I lift my arms to his shoulders, my hands in his hair, regarding him with amusement.
“Mine,” he repeats, his eyes glowing possessively.
“Yes, yours.” I reassure him, smiling. He looks mollified, and I feel perfectly comfortable naked in his lap on a bed in the full light of a Saturday afternoon. Who would have thought? The lipstick marks remain on his exquisite body. I note some smears on the duvet cover, though, and wonder briefly what Mrs. Jones will make of them.
“The line is still intact,” I murmur and bravely trace the mark on his shoulder with my index finger. He stiffens, blinking suddenly. “I want to go exploring.”
He regards me skeptically.
“The apartment?”
“No. I was thinking of the treasure map that we’ve drawn on you.” My fingers itch to touch him.
His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he blinks with uncertainty. I rub my nose against his.
“And what would that entail exactly, Miss Steele?”
I lift my hand from his shoulder and run my fingertips down his face.
“I just want to touch you everywhere I’m allowed.”
Christian catches my index finger in his teeth, biting down gently.
“Ow,” I protest and he grins, a low growl coming from his throat.
“Okay,” he says, releasing my finger, but his voice is laced with apprehension. “Wait.” He leans behind me, lifting me again, and removes his condom, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor beside the bed.
“I hate those things. I’ve a good mind to call Dr. Greene around to give you a shot.”
“You think the top ob-gyn in Seattle is going to come running?”
“I can be very persuasive,” he murmurs, hooking my hair behind my ear. “Franco’s done a great job on your hair. I like these layers.”
What?
“Stop changing the subject.”
He shifts me back so I’m straddling him, leaning on his propped-up knees, my feet on either side of his hips. He leans back on his arms.
“Touch away,” he says without humor. He looks nervous, but he’s trying to hide it.
Keeping my eyes on his, I reach down and trace my finger underneath the lipstick line, across his finely sculptured abdominal muscles. He flinches and I stop.
“I don’t have to,” I whisper.
“No, it’s fine. Just takes some … readjustment on my part. No one’s touched me for a long time,” he murmurs.
“Mrs. Robinson?” The words pop unbidden out of my mouth, and amazingly, I manage to keep all bitterness and rancor out of my voice.
He nods, his discomfort obvious. “I don’t want to talk about her. It will sour your good mood.”
“I can handle it.”
“No, you can’t, Ana. You see red whenever I mention her. My past is my past. It’s a fact. I can’t change it. I’m lucky that you don’t have one, because it would drive me crazy if you did.”
I frown at him, but I don’t want to fight. “Drive you crazy? More than you are already?” I smile, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between us.
His lips twitch. “Crazy for you,” he whispers.
My heart swells with joy.
“Shall I call Dr. Flynn?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says dryly.
Shifting back so he drops his legs, I place my fingers back on his stomach and let them drift across his skin. He stills once more.
“I like touching you.” My fingers skate down to his navel then southward along his happy, happy trail. His lips part as his breathing changes, his eyes darken, and his erection stirs and twitches beneath me. Holy cow. Round two.
“Again?” I murmur.
He smiles. “Oh yes, Miss Steele, again.”
WHAT A DELICIOUS WAY to spend a Saturday afternoon. I stand beneath the shower, absentmindedly washing myself, careful not to wet my tied-back hair, contemplating the last couple of hours. Christian and vanilla seem to be going well.
He’s revealed so much today. It’s staggering, trying to assimilate all the information and to reflect on what I’ve learned: his salary details—whoa, he’s stinking rich, and for someone so young, it’s just extraordinary—and the dossiers he has on me and on all his brunette submissives. I wonder if they are all in that filing cabinet?
My subconscious purses her lips at me and shakes her head—Don’t even go there. I frown. Just a quick peek?
And there’s Leila—with a gun, potentially, somewhere—and her crap taste in music still on his iPod. But even worse, Mrs. Pedo Robinson; I cannot wrap my head around her, and I don’t want to. I don’t want her to be a shimmering-haired specter in our relationship. He’s right, I do go off the deep end when I think of her, so perhaps it’s best if I don’t.
I step out of the shower and dry myself, and I’m suddenly seized by unexpected anger.
But who wouldn’t go off the deep end? What normal, sane person would do that to a fifteen-year-old boy? How much has she contributed to his fucked-upness? I don’t understand her. And worse still, he says she helped him. How?
I think of his scars, the stark physical embodiment of a horrific childhood and a sickening reminder of what mental scars he must bear. My sweet, sad Fifty Shades. He’s said such loving things today. He’s crazy for me.
Staring at my reflection, I smile at the memory of his words, my heart brim
ming once more, and my face transforms with a ridiculous smile. Perhaps we can make this work. But how long will he want to do this without wanting to beat the crap out of me because I cross some arbitrary line?
My smile dissolves. This is what I don’t know. This is the shadow that hangs over us. Kinky fuckery, yes, I can do that, but more?
My subconscious stares at me blankly, for once offering no snarky words of wisdom. I head back to my bedroom to dress.
Christian is downstairs getting ready, doing whatever he’s doing, so I have the bedroom to myself. As well as all the dresses in the closet, I have drawers full of new underwear. I select a black bustier corset creation with a price tag of $540. It has silver trim like filigree and the briefest of panties to match. Thigh-high stockings, too, in a natural color, so fine, pure silk. Wow, they feel … slinky … and kind of hot …
I am reaching for the dress when Christian enters unannounced. Whoa, you could knock! He stands immobilized, staring at me, eyes glimmering, hungrily. I blush crimson everywhere, it feels. He is wearing a white shirt and black suit pants; the neck of his shirt is open. I can see the lipstick line still in place, and he’s still staring.
“Can I help you, Mr. Grey? I assume there is some purpose to your visit other than to gawk mindlessly at me.”
“I am rather enjoying my mindless gawk, thank you, Miss Steele,” he murmurs darkly, stepping farther into the room and drinking me in. “Remind me to send a personal note of thanks to Caroline Acton.”
I frown. Who the hell is she?
“The personal shopper at Neiman’s,” he says, spookily answering my unspoken question.
“Oh.”
“I’m quite distracted.”
“I can see that. What do you want, Christian?” I give him my no-nonsense stare.
He retaliates with his crooked smile and pulls the silver ball things from his pocket, stopping me in my tracks. Holy shit! He wants to spank me? Now? Why?
“It’s not what you think,” he says quickly.
“Enlighten me,” I whisper.
“I thought you could wear these tonight.”
And the implications of that sentence hang between us as the idea sinks in.
“To this event?” I’m shocked.
He nods slowly, his eyes darkening.
Oh my.
“Will you spank me later?”
“No.”
For a moment, I feel a tiny fleeting stab of disappointment.
He chuckles. “You want me to?”
I swallow. I just don’t know.
“Well, rest assured I am not going to touch you like that, not even if you beg me.”
Oh! This is news.
“Do you want to play this game?” he continues, holding up the balls. “You can always take them out if it’s too much.”
I gaze at him. He looks so wickedly tempting—unkempt, recently fucked hair, dark eyes dancing with erotic thoughts, his lips raised in a sexy, amused smile.
“Okay,” I acquiesce softly. Hell, yes! My inner goddess has found her voice and is shouting from the rooftops.
“Good girl,” Christian grins. “Come here, and I’ll put them in, once you’ve put your shoes on.”
My shoes? I turn and glance at the dove gray suede stilettos that match the dress I’ve chosen to wear.
Humor him!
He holds out his hand to support me while I step into the Christian Louboutin shoes, a steal at $3,295. I must be at least five inches taller now.
He leads me to the bedside and doesn’t sit, but walks over to the only chair in the room. Picking it up, he carries it over and places it in front of me.
“When I nod, you bend down and hold on to the chair. Understand?” His voice is husky.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now open your mouth,” he orders, his voice still low.
I do as I’m told, thinking that he’s going to put the balls in my mouth to lubricate them. No, he slips his index finger in.
Oh …
“Suck,” he says. I reach up and clasp his hand, holding him steady, and do as I’m told—see, I can be obedient, when I want.
He tastes of soap … hmm. I suck hard, and I’m rewarded when his eyes widen and his lips part as he inhales. I’m not going to need any lubricant at this rate. He puts the balls in his mouth as I fellate his finger, twirling my tongue around it. When he tries to withdraw it, I clamp my teeth down.
He grins then shakes his head, admonishing me, so I let go. He nods, and I bend down and grasp the sides of the chair. He moves my panties to one side and very slowly slides a finger into me, circling leisurely, so I feel him, on all sides. I can’t help the moan that escapes from my lips.
He withdraws his finger briefly and with tender care, inserts the balls one at a time, pushing them deep inside me. Once they are in position, he smoothes my panties back into place and kisses my backside. Running his hands up each of my legs from ankle to thigh, he gently kisses the top of each thigh where my thigh-highs end.
“You have fine, fine legs, Miss Steele,” he murmurs.
Standing, he grasps my hips and pulls my behind against him so I feel his erection.
“Maybe I’ll have you this way when we get home, Anastasia. You can stand now.”
I feel giddy, beyond aroused as the weight of the balls push and pull inside me. Leaning down from behind me Christian kisses my shoulder.
“I bought these for you to wear to last Saturday’s gala.” He puts his arm around me and holds out his hand. In his palm rests a small red box with Cartier inscribed on the lid. “But you left me, so I never had the opportunity to give them to you.”
Oh!
“This is my second chance,” he murmurs, his voice stiff with some unnamed emotion. He’s nervous.
Tentatively I reach for the box, and open it. Inside shines a pair of drop earrings. Each has four diamonds, one at the base, then a gap, then three perfectly spaced diamonds hanging one after the other. They’re beautiful, simple, and classic. What I would choose myself, if I were ever given the opportunity to shop at Cartier.
“They’re lovely,” I whisper, and because they are second-chance earrings, I love them. “Thank you.”
He relaxes against me as the tension leaves his body, and he kisses my shoulder again.
“You’re wearing the silver satin dress?” he asks.
“Yes. Is that okay?”
“Of course. I’ll let you get ready.” He heads out the door without a backward glance.
I HAVE ENTERED AN alternate universe. The young woman staring back at me looks worthy of a red carpet. Her strapless, floor-length, silver satin gown is simply stunning. Maybe I’ll write to Caroline Acton myself. It’s fitted, and flatters what few curves I have.
My hair falls in soft waves around my face, spilling over my shoulders to my breasts. I tuck one side behind my ear, revealing my second-chance earrings. I have kept my makeup to a minimum, a natural look. Eyeliner, mascara, a little pink blush, and pale pink lipstick.
I don’t really need the blush. I am a little flushed from the constant movement of the silver balls. Yes, they’ll guarantee I have some color in my cheeks tonight. Shaking my head at the audacity of Christian’s erotic ideas, I lean down to collect my satin wrap and silver clutch purse, and go in search of my Fifty Shades.
He is talking to Taylor and three other men in the hallway, his back to me. Their surprised, appreciative expressions alert Christian to my presence. He turns as I stand and wait awkwardly.
My mouth dries. He looks stunning … Black dinner suit, black bow tie, and his expression as he gazes at me is one of awe. He strolls toward me and kisses my hair.
“Anastasia. You look breathtaking.”
I flush at this compliment in front of Taylor and the other men.
“A glass of champagne before we go?”
“Please,” I murmur, far too quickly.
Christian nods to Taylor who heads into the foyer with his three cohorts.
In th
e great room, Christian retrieves a bottle of champagne from the fridge.
“Security team?” I ask.
“Close protection. They’re under Taylor’s control. He’s trained in that, too.” Christian hands me a champagne flute.
“He’s very versatile.”
“Yes, he is.” Christian smiles. “You look lovely, Anastasia. Cheers.” He raises his glass, and I clink it with mine. The champagne is a pale rose color. It tastes deliciously crisp and light.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes heated.
“Fine, thank you.” I smile sweetly, giving nothing away, knowing full well he’s referring to the silver balls.
He smirks.
“Here, you’re going to need this.” He hands me a large velvet pouch that was resting on the kitchen island. “Open it,” he says between sips of champagne. Intrigued, I reach into the bag and pull out an intricate silver masquerade mask with cobalt blue feathers in a plume crowning the top.
“It’s a masked ball,” he states matter-of-factly.
“I see.” The mask is beautiful. A silver ribbon is threaded around the edges, and exquisite silver filigree is etched around the eyes.
“This will show off your beautiful eyes, Anastasia.”
I grin at him shyly.
“Are you wearing one?”
“Of course. They’re very liberating in a way,” he adds, raising an eyebrow.
Oh. This is going to be fun.
“Come. I want to show you something.” Holding out his hand, he leads me out into the hallway and to a door beside the stairs. He opens it, revealing a large room roughly the same size as his playroom, which must be directly above us. This one is filled with books. Wow, a library, every wall crammed floor to ceiling. In the center is a full-sized billiard table illuminated by a long, triangular-prism-shaped Tiffany lamp.
“You have a library!” I squeak in awe, overwhelmed with excitement.
“Yes, the balls room, as Elliot calls it. The apartment is quite spacious. I realized today, when you mentioned exploring, that I’ve never given you a tour. We don’t have time now, but I thought I’d show you this room, and maybe challenge you to a game of billiards in the not-too-distant future.”
