by E. L. James
As I slide into the SUV, laughing at Mia’s audacious catch, Christian bends to gather the hem of my dress. Once I’m safely in, he bids the waiting crowd farewell.
Taylor holds the car door open for him. “Congratulations, sir.”
“Thank you, Taylor,” Christian replies as he seats himself beside me.
As Taylor pulls away, our wedding guests shower the vehicle with rice. Christian grasps my hand and kisses my knuckles.
“So far so good, Mrs. Grey?”
“So far so wonderful, Mr. Grey. Where are we going?”
“Sea-Tac,” he says simply and smiles a sphinxlike smile.
Hmm … what is he planning?
Taylor does not head for the departure terminal as I expect but through a security gate and directly onto the tarmac. What? And then I see her—Christian’s jet … Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. in large blue lettering across her fuselage.
“Don’t tell me you’re misusing company property again!”
“Oh, I hope so, Anastasia.” Christian grins.
Taylor halts the Audi at the foot of the steps leading up to the plane and leaps out to open Christian’s door. They have a brief discussion, then Christian opens my door—and rather than stepping back to give me room to climb out, he leans in and lifts me.
Whoa! “What are you doing?” I squeak.
“Carrying you over the threshold,” he says.
“Oh.” Isn’t that supposed to be at home?
He carries me effortlessly up the steps, and Taylor follows with my small suitcase. He leaves it on the threshold of the plane before returning to the Audi. Inside the cabin, I recognize Stephan, Christian’s pilot, in his uniform.
“Welcome aboard, sir. Mrs. Grey.” He grins.
Christian puts me down and shakes Stephan’s hand. Beside Stephan stands a dark-haired woman in her—what? Early thirties? She’s also in uniform.
“Congratulations to you both,” Stephan continues.
“Thank you, Stephan. Anastasia, you know Stephan. He’s our captain today, and this is First Officer Beighley.”
She blushes as Christian introduces her and blinks rapidly. I want to roll my eyes. Another female completely captivated by my too-handsome-for-his-own-good husband.
“Delighted to meet you,” gushes Beighley. I smile kindly at her. After all—he is mine.
“All preparations complete?” Christian asks them both as I glance around the cabin. The interior is all pale maple and pale cream leather. It’s lovely. Another young woman in uniform stands at the other end of the cabin—a very pretty brunette.
“We have the all clear. Weather is good from here to Boston.”
Boston?
“Turbulence?”
“Not before Boston. There’s a weather front over Shannon that might give us a rough ride.”
Shannon? Ireland?
“I see. Well, I hope to sleep through it all,” says Christian matter-of-factly.
Sleep?
“We’ll get underway, sir,” Stephan says. “We’ll leave you in the capable care of Natalia, your flight attendant.” Christian glances in her direction and frowns, but turns to Stephan with a smile.
“Excellent,” he says. Taking my hand, he leads me to one of the sumptuous leather seats. There must be about twelve of them in total.
“Sit,” he says as he removes his jacket and undoes his fine sliver brocade vest. We sit in two single seats facing each other with a small, highly polished table between us.
“Welcome aboard, sir, ma’am, and congratulations.” Natalia is at our side, offering us each a glass of pink champagne.
“Thank you,” Christian says, and she smiles politely at us and retreats to the galley.
“Here’s to a happy married life, Anastasia.” Christian raises his glass to mine, and we clink. The champagne is delicious.
“Bollinger?” I ask.
“The same.”
“The first time I drank this it was out of teacups.” I grin.
“I remember that day well. Your graduation.”
“Where are we going?” I’m unable to contain my curiosity any longer.
“Shannon,” Christian says, his eyes alight with excitement. He looks like a small boy.
“In Ireland?” We’re going to Ireland!
“To refuel,” he adds, teasing.
“Then?” I prompt.
His grin broadens and he shakes his head.
“Christian!”
“London,” he says, gazing intently at me, trying to gauge my reaction.
I gasp. Holy cow. I thought maybe we’d be going to New York or Aspen or maybe the Caribbean. I can hardly believe it. My lifetime ambition has been to visit England. I’m lit up from within, incandescent with happiness.
“Then Paris.”
What?
“Then the South of France.”
Whoa!
“I know you’ve always dreamed of going to Europe,” he says softly. “I want to make your dreams come true, Anastasia.”
“You are my dreams come true, Christian.”
“Back at you, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers.
Oh my …
“Buckle up.”
I grin and do as I’m told.
As the plane taxis out onto the runway, we sip our champagne, grinning inanely at each other. I can’t believe it. At twenty-two years old, I’m finally leaving the United States and going to Europe—to London of all places.
Once we’re airborne, Natalia serves us yet more champagne and prepares our wedding feast. And what a feast it is—smoked salmon, followed by roast partridge with a green bean salad and dauphinoise potatoes, all cooked and served by the ever-efficient Natalia.
“Dessert, Mr. Grey?” she asks.
He shakes his head and runs his finger across his bottom lip as he looks questioningly at me, his expression dark and unreadable.
“No, thank you,” I murmur, unable to break eye contact with him. His lips curl up in a small, secret smile, and Natalia retreats.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I’d rather planned on having you for dessert.”
Oh … here?
“Come,” he says, rising from the table and offering me his hand. He leads me to the back of the cabin.
“There’s a bathroom here.” He points to a small door, then leads me on down a short corridor and through a door at the end.
Jeez … a bedroom. The cabin is cream and maple and the small double bed is covered in gold and taupe cushions. It looks very comfortable.
Christian turns and pulls me into his arms, gazing down at me.
“I thought we’d spend our wedding night at thirty-five thousand feet. It’s something I’ve never done before.”
Another first. I gape at him, my heart pounding … the mile high club. I’ve heard about this.
“But first I have to get you out of this fabulous dress.” His eyes glow with love and something darker, something I love … something that calls to my inner goddess. He takes my breath away.
“Turn around.” His voice is low, authoritative, and sexy as hell. How can he infuse so much promise into those two words? Willingly I comply and his hands move to my hair. Gently he pulls out each hairpin one at a time, his expert fingers making short work of the task. My hair falls in swaths over my shoulders, one lock at a time, covering my back and down to my breasts. I try to stand still and not squirm, but I’m aching for his touch. After our long, tiring but exciting day, I want him—all of him.
“You have such beautiful hair, Ana.” His mouth is close to my ear and I feel his breath, though his lips don’t touch me. When my hair is free of pins, he runs his fingers through it, gently massaging my scalp … oh my … I close my eyes and savor the sensation. His fingers travel on down, and he tugs, tilting my head back to expose my throat.
“You’re mine,” he breathes, and his teeth tug my ear lobe.
I groan.
“Hush now,” he admonishes. He sweeps my hair over my shoulder and trails a finger a
cross the top of my back from shoulder to shoulder, following the lace edge of my dress. I shiver in anticipation. He plants a tender kiss on my back above the first button on my dress.
“So beautiful,” he says as he deftly undoes the first button. “You have made me the happiest man alive today.” With infinite slowness, he unfastens each button, all the way down my back. “I love you so much.” Trailing kisses from the nape of my neck to the edge of my shoulder. Between each kiss he murmurs, “I. Want. You. So. Much. I. Want. To. Be. Inside. You. You. Are. Mine.”
Each word is intoxicating. I close my eyes and tilt my head, giving him easier access to my neck, and I fall further under the spell that is Christian Grey, my husband.
“Mine,” he whispers once more. He peels my dress down my arms so that it pools at my feet in a cloud of ivory silk and lace.
“Turn around,” he whispers, his voice suddenly hoarse. I do so and he gasps.
I’m dressed in a tight, blush-pink satin corset with garter straps, matching lacy briefs, and white silk stockings. Christian’s eyes travel greedily down my body, but he says nothing. He just gazes at me, his eyes wide with want.
“You like?” I whisper, aware of the shy blush creeping across my cheeks.
“More than like, baby. You look sensational. Here.” He holds out his hand and, taking it, I step out of my dress.
“Keep still,” he murmurs, and without taking his darkening eyes off mine, he runs his middle finger over my breasts, following the line of my corset. My breath shallows, and he repeats the journey over my breasts once more, his tantalizing finger sending tingles down my spine. He stops and twirls his index finger in the air, indicating that he wants me to turn around.
For him, right now, I’d do anything.
“Stop,” he says. I’m facing the bed, away from him. His arm encircles my waist, pulling me against him, and he nuzzles my neck. Gently he cups my breasts, toying with them, while his thumbs circle over my nipples so that they strain against the fabric of my corset.
“Mine,” he whispers.
“Yours,” I breathe.
Leaving my breasts bereft he runs his hands down my stomach, over my belly, and down to my thighs, his thumbs skimming my sex. I stifle a moan. His fingers skate down each garter, and with his usual dexterity, he simultaneously unhooks each one from my stockings. His hands travel around to my behind.
“Mine,” he breathes as his hands spread across my backside, the tips of his fingers brushing my sex.
“Ah.”
“Hush.” His hands travel down the backs of my thighs, and once more he unclips my garters.
Leaning down, he pulls back the cover on the bed. “Sit down.”
In his thrall, I do as I’m told, and he kneels at my feet and gently tugs off each of my white bridal Jimmy Choos. He grasps the top of my left stocking and slowly peels it off, running his thumbs down my leg … He repeats the process with my other stocking.
“This is like unwrapping my Christmas presents.” He smiles up at me through his long dark lashes.
“A present you’ve had already …”
He frowns in admonishment. “Oh no, baby. This time it’s really mine.”
“Christian, I’ve been yours since I said yes.” I scoot forward, cupping his beloved face in my hands. “I’m yours. I will always be yours, husband of mine. Now, I think you’re wearing too many clothes.” I bend to kiss him, and suddenly he leans up, kisses my lips, and grasps my head with his hands, his fingers threading into my hair.
“Ana,” he breathes. “My Ana.” His lips claim mine once more, his tongue invasively persuasive.
“Clothes,” I whisper, our breath mingling as I push back his vest and he struggles out of it, releasing me for a moment. He pauses, gazing at me, eyes wide, eyes wanting.
“Let me, please.” My voice is soft and cajoling. I want to undress my husband, my Fifty.
He sits back on his heels, and leaning forward I grasp his tie—his silver-gray tie, my favorite tie—and slowly undo it and pull it free. He raises his chin to let me tackle the top button of his white shirt; then once it’s undone, I move on to his cuffs. He’s wearing platinum cuff links—engraved with an entwined A and C—my wedding present to him. When I’ve removed them, he takes the cuff links from me and fists them in his hand. Then he kisses his fist and shoves them into his pants pocket.
“Mr. Grey, so romantic.”
“For you Mrs. Grey—hearts and flowers. Always.”
I take his hand and, glancing up through my lashes, kiss his plain platinum wedding ring. He groans and closes his eyes.
“Ana,” he whispers, and my name is a prayer.
Reaching up to his second shirt button and mirroring him from earlier, I plant a soft kiss on his chest as I undo each of them and whisper between each kiss, “You. Make. Me. So. Happy. I. Love. You.”
He groans, and in one swift move, he clasps me around the waist and lifts me onto the bed, following me down on it. His lips find mine, his hands curling around my head, holding me, stilling me as our tongues glory in each other. Abruptly Christian kneels up, leaving me breathless and wanting more.
“You are so beautiful … wife.” He runs his hands down my legs, then grasps my left foot. “You have such lovely legs. I want to kiss every inch of them. Starting here.” He presses his lips against my big toe and then grazes the pad with his teeth. Everything south of my waistline convulses. His tongue glides up my instep and his teeth skim my heel and up to my ankle. He trails kisses up the inside of my calf; soft wet kisses. I wriggle beneath him.
“Still, Mrs. Grey,” he warns, and suddenly he flips me onto my stomach and continues his leisurely journey with his mouth up the backs of my legs, to my thighs, my behind, and then he stops. I groan.
“Please …”
“I want you naked,” he murmurs and slowly unhooks my corset, one hook at a time. When it’s flat on the bed beneath me, he runs his tongue up the length of my spine.
“Christian, please.”
“What do you want, Mrs. Grey?” His words are soft and close to my ear. He’s almost lying on top of me … I can feel him hard against my behind.
“You.”
“And I you, my love, my life …,” he whispers, and before I know it, he’s flipped me onto my back. He stands swiftly and in one efficient move dispenses with his pants and boxer briefs so that he’s gloriously naked and looming large and ready over me. The small cabin is eclipsed by his dazzling beauty and his want and need of me. He leans down and peels off my panties, then gazes at me.
“Mine,” he mouths.
“Please,” I beg and he grins … a salacious, wicked, tempting, all-Fifty grin.
He crawls back onto the bed and trails kisses up my right leg this time … until he reaches the apex of my thighs. He pushes my legs wider apart.
“Ah … wife of mine,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on me. I close my eyes and surrender to his oh-so-adroit tongue. My hands fist in his hair as my hips swing and sway, slave to his rhythm, then buck off the small bed. He grabs my hips to still me … but doesn’t stop the delicious torture. I’m close, so close.
“Christian.” I moan.
“Not yet,” he breathes, and he moves up my body, his tongue dipping into my navel.
“No!” Damn! I sense his smile against my belly as his journey continues north.
“So impatient, Mrs. Grey. We have until we touch down on the Emerald Isle.” Reverentially he kisses my breasts and tugs my left nipple between his lips. Gazing up at me, his eyes are dark like a tropical storm as he teases me.
Oh my … I’d forgotten. Europe.
“Husband, I want you. Please.”
He looms up over me, his body covering mine, resting his weight on his elbows. He runs his nose down mine, and I run my hands down his strong, supple back to his fine, fine backside.
“Mrs. Grey … wife. We aim to please.” His lips brush. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
�
�Eyes open. I want to see you.”
“Christian … ah …,” I cry, as he slowly sinks into me.
“Ana, oh Ana,” he breathes, and he starts to move.
“WHAT THE HELL DO you think you’re doing?” Christian shouts, waking me from my very pleasant dream. He’s standing all wet and beautiful at the end of my sun lounge and glaring down at me.
What have I done? Oh no … I’m lying on my back … Crap, crap, crap, and he’s mad. Shit. He’s really mad.
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
I am suddenly very awake, my erotic dream forgotten.
“I was on my front. I must have turned over in my sleep,” I whisper weakly in my defense.
His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his sun lounge, and tosses it at me.
“Put this on!” he hisses.
“Christian, no one is looking.”
“Trust me. They’re looking. I’m sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying the show!” he snarls.
Holy shit! Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp my breasts in panic, hiding them. Ever since Charlie Tango’s sabotaged demise, we are constantly shadowed by damned security.
“Yes,” Christian snarls. “And some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot of you, too. Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked this time?”
Shit! The paparazzi! Fuck! As I hurriedly scramble into my top, all thumbs, the color drains from my face. I shudder. The unpleasant memory of being besieged by the paparazzi outside Seattle Independent Publishing after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome to mind—all part of the Christian Grey package.
“L’addition!” Christian snaps at the passing waitress. “We’re going,” he says to me.
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
Oh shit, he’s not to be argued with.
He pulls on his shorts, even though his trunks are dripping wet, then his gray T-shirt. The waitress is back in a moment with his credit card and the check.
Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops. Once the waitress has left, Christian snatches up his book and BlackBerry and masks his fury behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. He’s bristling with tension and anger. My heart sinks. Every other woman on the beach is topless—it’s not that big a crime. In fact, I look odd with my top on. I sigh inwardly, my spirits sinking. I thought Christian would see the funny side … sort of … Maybe if I’d stayed on my front, but his sense of humor has evaporated.
