by E. L. James
He smiles shyly. “I’ve never seen her that way.” He blinks at the memory. “Yes, that was really something. She’s normally so self-possessed. It was quite a shock.”
“See? Everyone loves you.” I smile. “Perhaps now you’ll start believing it.” I lean down and kiss him gently. “Happy birthday, Christian. I’m glad you’re here to share your day with me. And you haven’t seen what I’ve got for you tomorrow … um … today.” I smirk.
“There’s more?” he says, astounded, and his face erupts into a breathtaking grin.
“Oh yes, Mr. Grey, but you’ll have to wait until then.”
I WAKE SUDDENLY FROM a dream or nightmare, and my pulse is thumping. I turn, panicked, and to my relief, Christian is fast asleep beside me. Because I’ve shifted, he stirs and reaches out in his sleep, draping his arm over me, and rests his head on my shoulder, sighing softly.
The room is flooded with light. It’s eight o’clock. Christian never sleeps this late. I lie back and let my racing heart calm. Why the anxiety? Is it the aftermath of last night?
I turn and stare at him. He’s here. He’s safe. I take a deep steadying breath and gaze at his lovely face. A face that is now so familiar, all its dips and shadows eternally etched on my mind.
He looks much younger when he’s asleep, and I grin because today he’s a whole year older. I hug myself, thinking about my present. Oooh … what will he do? Perhaps I should start by bringing him breakfast in bed. Besides, José may still be here.
I find José at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal. I can’t help but flush when I see him. He knows I’ve spent the night with Christian. Why do I suddenly feel so shy? It’s not as if I’m naked or anything. I’m wearing my floor-length silk wrap.
“Morning, José.” I smile, brazening it out.
“Hey, Ana!” His face lights up, genuinely pleased to see me. There’s no hint of teasing or salacious contempt in his expression.
“Sleep well?” I ask.
“Sure. Some view from up here.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty special.” Like the owner of this apartment. “Want a real man’s breakfast?” I tease.
“Love some.”
“It’s Christian’s birthday today—I’m making him breakfast in bed.”
“He awake?”
“No, I think he’s fried from yesterday.” I quickly glance away from him and head to the fridge so he can’t see my blush. Jeez, it’s only José. When I take the eggs and bacon out of the fridge, José is grinning at me.
“You really like him, don’t you?”
I purse my lips. “I love him, José.”
His eyes widen momentarily then he grins. “What’s not to love?” he asks, gesturing around the great room.
I scowl at him. “Gee, thanks!”
“Hey, Ana, just kidding.”
Hmm … will I always have this leveled at me? That I’m marrying Christian for his money?
“Seriously, I’m kidding. You’ve never been that kind of girl.”
“Omelet good for you?” I ask, changing the subject. I don’t want to argue.
“Sure.”
“And me,” Christian says as he saunters into the great room. Holy fuck, he’s wearing only pajama bottoms that hang in that totally hot way off his hips.
“José.” He nods.
“Christian.” José returns his nod solemnly.
Christian turns to me and smirks as I stare. He’s done this on purpose. I narrow my eyes, desperately trying to recover my equilibrium, and Christian’s expression alters subtly. He knows that I know what he’s up to, and he doesn’t care.
“I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.”
Swaggering over, he wraps his arm around me, tilts my chin up, and plants a loud wet kiss on my lips. Very un-Fifty!
“Good morning, Anastasia,” he says. I want to scowl at him and tell him to behave—but it’s his birthday. I flush. Why is he so territorial?
“Good morning, Christian. Happy birthday.” I give him a smile, and he smirks at me.
“I’m looking forward to my other present,” he says and that’s it. I flush the color of the Red Room of Pain and glance nervously at José, who looks like he’s swallowed something unpleasant. I turn away and start preparing the food.
“So what are your plans today, José?” Christian asks, seemingly casual as he sits down on a barstool.
“I’m heading up to see my dad and Ray, Ana’s dad.”
Christian frowns.
“They know each other?”
“Yeah, they were in the army together. They lost contact until Ana and I were in college together. It’s kinda cute. They’re best buds now. We’re going on a fishing trip.”
“Fishing?” Christian is genuinely interested.
“Yeah—some great catches in these coastal waters. The steelheads can grow way big.”
“True. My brother, Elliot, and I landed a thirty-four-pound steelhead once.”
They’re talking fishing? What is it about fishing? I have never understood it.
“Thirty-four pounds? Not bad. Ana’s father though, he holds the record. A forty-three-pounder.”
“You’re kidding! He never said.”
“Happy birthday, by the way.”
“Thanks. So, where do you like to fish?”
I zone out. This I do not need to know. But at the same time I’m relieved. See, Christian? José’s not so bad.
BY THE TIME JOSÉ makes to leave, both of them are much more relaxed with each other. Christian quickly changes into T-shirt and jeans, and barefoot, he accompanies José and me to the foyer.
“Thanks for letting me crash here,” José says to Christian as they shake hands.
“Anytime.” Christian smiles.
José hugs me quickly. “Stay safe, Ana.”
“Sure. Great to see you. Next time we’ll have a real evening out.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” He waves at us from inside the elevator and then he’s gone.
“See, he’s not so bad.”
“He still wants into your panties, Ana. But can’t say I blame him.”
“Christian, that’s not true!”
“You have no idea, do you?” He smirks down at me. “He wants you. Big-time.”
I frown. “Christian, he’s just a friend, a good friend.” And I’m suddenly aware that I sound like Christian when he’s talking about Mrs. Robinson. The thought is unsettling.
Christian holds up his hands in a placating gesture.
“I don’t want to fight,” he says softly.
Oh! We’re not fighting … are we? “Me neither.”
“You didn’t tell him we were getting married.”
“No. I figured I ought to tell Mom and Ray first.” Shit. It’s the first time I’ve thought about this since I said yes. Jeez—what are my parents going to say?
Christian nods. “Yes, you’re right. And I … um, I should ask your father.”
I laugh. “Oh, Christian—this isn’t the eighteenth century.”
Holy shit. What will Ray say? The thought of that conversation fills me with horror.
“It’s traditional.” Christian shrugs.
“Let’s talk about that later. I want to give you your other present.” My aim is to distract him. The thought of my present is burning a hole in my consciousness. I need to give it to him and see how he reacts.
He gives me his shy smile, and my heart skips a beat. For as long as I live, I’ll never tire of looking at that smile.
“You’re biting your lip again,” he says and pulls on my chin.
A thrill runs through my body as his fingers touch me. Without a word, and while I still have a modicum of courage, I take his hand and lead him back to the bedroom. I drop his hand, leaving him standing by the bed, and from under my side of the bed, I take out the two remaining gift boxes.
“Two?” he says, surprised.
I take a deep breath. “I bought this before the, um … incident yesterday. I’m not sure
about it now.” I quickly hand him one of the parcels before I can change my mind. He gazes at me, puzzled, sensing my uncertainty.
“Sure you want me to open it?”
I nod, anxious.
Christian tears off the packaging and gazes in surprise at the box.
“Charlie Tango,” I whisper.
He grins. The box contains a small wooden helicopter with a large, solar-powered rotor blade. He opens it up.
“Solar powered,” he murmurs. “Wow.” And before I know it he’s sitting on the bed assembling it. It snaps together quickly, and Christian holds it up in the palm of his hand. A blue wooden helicopter. He looks up at me and gives me his glorious, all-American-boy smile, then heads to the window so that the little helicopter is bathed in sunlight and the rotor starts to spin.
“Look at that,” he breathes, examining it closely. “What we can already do with this technology.” He holds it at eye level, watching the blades spin. He’s fascinated and fascinating to watch as he loses himself in thought, staring at the little helicopter. What is he thinking?
“You like it?”
“Ana, I love it. Thank you.” He grabs me and kisses me swiftly, then turns back to watch the rotor spin. “I’ll add it to the glider in my office,” he says distractedly, watching the blades spin. He moves his hand out of the sunlight, and the blades slows down and comes to a stop.
I can’t help my face-splitting grin, and I want to hug myself. He loves it. Of course, he’s all about alternative technologies. I’d forgotten that in my haste to buy it. Placing it on the chest of drawers, he turns to face me.
“It’ll keep me company while we salvage Charlie Tango.”
“Is it salvageable?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. I’ll miss her, otherwise.”
Her? I am shocked at myself for the small pang of jealousy I feel for an inanimate object. My subconscious snorts with derisive laughter. I ignore her.
“What’s in the other box?” he asks, his eyes wide with almost childish excitement.
Holy fuck. “I’m not sure if this present is for you or me.”
“Really?” he asks, and I know I have piqued his interest. Nervously I hand him the second box. He shakes it gently and we both hear a heavy rattle. He glances up at me.
“Why are you so nervous?” he asks, bemused. I shrug, embarrassed and excited as I flush. He raises an eyebrow.
“You have me intrigued, Miss Steele,” he whispers, and his voice runs right through me, desire and anticipation spawning in my belly. “I have to say I’m enjoying your reaction. What have you been up to?” He narrows his eyes speculatively.
I remain tight-lipped as I hold my breath.
He removes the lid of the box and takes out a small card. The rest of the contents are wrapped in tissue. He opens the card, and his eyes dart quickly to mine—widening with shock or surprise, I just don’t know.
“Do rude things to you?” he murmurs. I nod and swallow. He cocks his head to one side warily, assessing my reaction, and frowns. Then he turns his attention back to the box. He tears through the pale blue tissue paper and fishes out an eye mask, some nipple clamps, a butt plug, his iPod, his silver gray tie—and last but by no means least—the key to his playroom.
He gazes at me, his expression dark, unreadable. Oh shit. Is this a bad move?
“You want to play?” he asks softly.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“For my birthday?”
“Yes.” Could my voice sound any smaller?
Myriad emotions cross his face, none of which I can place, but he settles for anxious. Hmm … Not quite the reaction I was expecting.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“Not the whips and stuff.”
“I understand that.”
“Yes, then. I’m sure.”
He shakes his head and gazes down at the contents of the box. “Sex mad and insatiable. Well, I think we can do something with this lot,” he murmurs almost to himself, then puts the contents back in the box. When he glances at me again, his expression has completely changed. Holy cow, his eyes burn, and his mouth lifts in a slow erotic smile. He holds out his hand.
“Now,” he says, and it’s not a request. My belly clenches, tight and hard, deep, deep down.
I put my hand in his.
“Come,” he orders, and I follow him out of the bedroom, my heart in my mouth. Desire races slick and hot through my blood as my insides tighten with hungry anticipation. Finally!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
* * *
Christian pauses outside the playroom.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, his gaze heated yet anxious.
“Yes,” I murmur, smiling shyly at him.
His eyes soften. “Anything you don’t want to do?”
I’m derailed by his unexpected question, and my mind goes into overdrive. One thought occurs. “I don’t want you to take photos of me.”
He stills, and his expression hardens as he cocks his head to one side and eyes me speculatively.
Oh, shit. I think he’s going to ask me why, but fortunately he doesn’t.
“Okay,” he murmurs. His brow furrows as he unlocks the door, then stands aside to usher me into the room. I feel his eyes on me as he follows me inside and closes the door.
Placing the gift box on the chest of drawers, he takes out the iPod, switches it on, then waves at the music center on the wall so that the smoked glass doors glide silently open. He presses some buttons, and the sound of a subway train echoes around the room. He turns it down so that the slow, hypnotic electronic beat that follows becomes ambient. A woman starts to sing, I don’t know who she is but her voice is soft yet rasping and the beat is measured, deliberate … erotic. Oh my. It’s music to make love to.
Christian turns to face me as I stand in the middle of the room, my heart pounding, my blood singing in my veins, pulsing—or so it feels—in time to the music’s seductive beat. He saunters casually over to me and tugs on my chin so I’m no longer biting my lip.
“What do you want to do, Anastasia?” he murmurs, planting a soft chaste kiss at the corner of my mouth, his fingers still grasping my chin.
“It’s your birthday. Whatever you want,” I whisper. He traces his thumb along my lower lip, his brow creased once more.
“Are we in here because you think I want to be in here?” His words are softly spoken, but he regards me intently.
“No,” I whisper. “I want to be in here, too.”
His gaze darkens, growing bolder as he assesses my response. After what seems an eternity, he speaks.
“Oh, there are so many possibilities, Miss Steele.” His voice is low, excited. “But let’s start with getting you naked.” He pulls the sash of my robe so that it falls open, revealing my silk nightdress, then steps back and sits down nonchalantly on the arm of the chesterfield couch.
“Take your clothes off. Slowly.” He gives me a sensual, challenging look.
I swallow compulsively, pressing my thighs together. I’m already damp between my legs. My inner goddess is stripped naked and standing in line, ready and waiting and begging me to play catch-up. I pull the robe away from my shoulders, my eyes never leaving his, and shrug, letting it fall billowing to the floor. His mesmerizing gray eyes heat, and he runs his index finger over his lips as he gazes at me.
Slipping the spaghetti straps of my gown off my shoulders, I gaze at him for a beat, then release them. My nightdress skims and ripples softly down my body, pooling at my feet. I am naked and practically panting and oh-so-ready.
Christian pauses for a moment, and I marvel at the frankly carnal appreciation in his expression. Standing up, he makes his way over to the chest and picks up his silver gray tie—my favorite tie. He pulls it through his fingers as he turns and strolls casually toward me, a smile playing on his lips. When he stands in front of me, I expect him to ask for my hands, but he doesn’t.
“I think you’re underdressed, Miss Steele,” he murm
urs. He places the tie around my neck, and slowly but dexterously ties it in what I assume is a fine Windsor knot. As he tightens the knot, his fingers brush the base of my throat and electricity shoots through me, making me gasp. He leaves the wide end of the tie long, long enough so the tip skims my pubic hair.
“You look mighty fine now, Miss Steele,” he says and bends to kiss me gently on my lips. It’s a swift kiss, and I want more, desire spiraling wantonly through my body.
“What shall we do with you now?” he says, and then picking up the tie, he yanks sharply so that I’m forced forward into his arms. His hands dive into my hair and pull my head back, and he really kisses me, hard, his tongue unforgiving and merciless. One of his hands roams freely down my back to cup my behind. When he pulls away, he’s panting too and gazing down at me, his eyes molten gray; I’m left wanting, gasping for breath, my wits thoroughly scattered. I’m sure my lips will be swollen after his sensual assault.
“Turn around,” he orders gently and I obey. Pulling my hair free of the tie, he quickly braids and secures it. He tugs the braid so my head tilts up.
“You have beautiful hair, Anastasia,” he murmurs and kisses my throat, sending shivers running up and down my spine. “You just have to say stop. You know that, don’t you?” he whispers against my throat.
I nod, my eyes closed, and relish his lips on me. He turns me around once more and picks up the end of the tie.
“Come,” he says, tugging gently, leading me over to the chest where the rest of the box’s contents are on display.
“Anastasia, these objects.” He holds up the butt plug. “This is a size too big. As an anal virgin, you don’t want to start with this. We want to start with this.” He holds up his pinkie finger, and I gasp, shocked. Fingers … there? He smirks at me, and the unpleasant thought of the anal fisting mentioned in the contract comes to mind.
“Just finger—singular,” he says softly with that uncanny ability he has to read my mind. My eyes dart to his. How does he do that?
“These clamps are vicious.” He prods the nipple clamps. “We’ll use these.” He places a different pair of clamps on the chest. They look like giant black hairpins but with little jet jewels hanging down. “They’re adjustable,” Christian murmurs, his voice laced with gentle concern.
