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

by E. L. James

  “You really want to know?” He half smiles, his eyes alight with a salacious gleam.

  “Do I?” I gaze at him through my lashes as I take a sip of my wine.

  “The fuller your bladder, the more intense your orgasm, Ana.”

  I blush. “Oh. I see.” Holy cow, that explains a lot.

  He grins, looking far too knowing. Will I always be on the back foot with Mr. Sexpertise?

  “Yes. Well …” I desperately hunt around for a change of subject. He takes pity on me.

  “What do you want to do for the rest of the evening?” He cocks his head to one side and gives me his lopsided grin.

  Whatever you want, Christian. Put your theory to the test again? I shrug.

  “I know what I want to do,” he murmurs. Grabbing his glass of wine, he rises and holds his hand out to me. “Come.”

  I take his hand and he leads me into the main salon.

  His iPod is in the speaker dock on the dresser. He switches it on and selects a song.

  “Dance with me.” He pulls me into his arms.

  “If you insist.”

  “I insist, Mrs. Grey.”

  A slinky, cheesy melody starts. Is this a Latin rhythm? Christian grins down at me and starts to move, sweeping me off my feet and taking me with him around the salon.

  A man with a voice like warm melted caramel croons. It’s a song I know but can’t place. Christian dips me low, and I yelp in surprise and giggle. He smiles, his eyes filled with humor. Then he scoops me up and spins me under his arm.

  “You dance so well,” I say. “It’s like I can dance.”

  He gives me a sphinxlike smile but says nothing, and I wonder if it’s because he’s thinking of her … Mrs. Robinson, the woman who taught him how to dance—and how to fuck. She hasn’t crossed my mind for a while. Christian has not mentioned her since his birthday, and as far as I’m aware, their business relationship is over. Reluctantly though, I have to admit—she was some teacher.

  He dips me low again and plants a swift kiss on my lips.

  “I’d miss your love,” I murmur, echoing the lyrics.

  “I’d more than miss your love,” he says and spins me once more. Then he sings the words softly in my ear, making me swoon.

  The track ends and Christian gazes down at me, his eyes dark and luminous, all humor gone, and I’m suddenly breathless.

  “Come to bed with me?” he whispers, and it’s a heartfelt plea that tugs at my heart.

  Christian, you had me at “I do”—two and half weeks ago. But I know this is his way of apologizing and making sure all is well between us after our spat.

  WHEN I WAKE, THE sun is shining through the portholes and the water reflects shimmering patterns onto the cabin ceiling. Christian is nowhere to be seen. I stretch out and smile. Hmm … I’ll take a punishment fuck followed by makeup sex any day. I marvel at what it is to go to bed with two different men—angry Christian and sweet let-me-make-it-up-to-you-in-any-way-I-can Christian. It’s tricky to decide which of them I like the best.

  I rise and head for the bathroom. Opening the door, I find Christian inside shaving, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist. He turns and beams, not fazed that I am interrupting him. I have discovered that Christian will never lock the door if he is the only person in the room—the reason is sobering, and not one I want to dwell on.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Grey,” he says, radiating his good mood.

  “Good morning yourself.” I grin back as I watch him shave. I love watching him shave. He pulls up his chin and shaves beneath it, taking long deliberate strokes, and I find myself unconsciously mirroring his actions. Pulling my upper lip down just as he does, to shave his philtrum. He turns and smirks at me, one half of his face still covered in shaving soap.

  “Enjoying the show?” he asks.

  Oh, Christian, I could watch you for hours. “One of my all-time favorites,” I murmur, and he leans down and kisses me quickly, smearing shaving soap on my face.

  “Shall I do this to you again?” he whispers wickedly and holds up the razor.

  I purse my lips at him. “No,” I mutter, pretending to sulk. “I’ll wax next time.” I remember Christian’s joy in London when he’d discovered that during his one meeting there, I’d shaved off my pubic hair out of curiosity. Of course I hadn’t done it to Mr. Exacting’s high standards …

  “What the hell have you done?” Christian exclaims. He cannot keep his horrified amusement to himself. He sits up in bed in our suite at Brown’s Hotel near Piccadilly, switches on the bedside light, and gazes down at me, his mouth a startled O. It must be midnight. I blush the color of the sheets in the playroom and try to pull down my satin nightdress so he can’t see. He grabs my hand to stop me.

  “Ana!”

  “I—er … shaved.”

  “I can see that. Why?” He’s grinning from ear to ear.

  I cover my face with my hands. Why am I so embarrassed?

  “Hey,” he says softly and pulls my hand away. “Don’t hide.” He’s biting his lip so that he won’t laugh. “Tell me. Why?” His eyes dance with merriment. Why does he find this so funny?

  “Stop laughing at me.”

  “I’m not laughing at you. I’m sorry. I’m … delighted,” he says.

  “Oh …”

  “Tell me. Why?”

  I take a deep breath. “This morning, after you left for your meeting, I took a shower and was remembering all your rules.”

  He blinks. The humor in his expression has vanished, and he regards me cautiously.

  “And I was ticking them off one by one and how I felt about them, and I remembered the beauty salon, and I thought … this is what you’d like. I wasn’t brave enough to get a wax.” My voice disappears into a whisper.

  He stares at me, his eyes glowing—this time not with mirth at my folly, but with love.

  “Oh, Ana,” he breathes. He leans down and kisses me tenderly. “You beguile me,” he whispers against my lips and kisses me once more, clasping my face in both his hands.

  After a breathless moment, he pulls back and leans up on one elbow. The humor is back.

  “I think I should do a thorough inspection of your handiwork, Mrs. Grey.”

  “What? No.” He has to be kidding! I cover myself, protecting my recently deforested area.

  “Oh, no you don’t, Anastasia.” He grasps my hands and pries them away, moving nimbly so he’s between my legs and pinning my hands to my sides. He gives me a scorching look that could light dry tinder, but before I combust, he bends and skims his lips down my naked belly directly to my sex. I squirm beneath him, reluctantly resigned to my fate.

  “Well, what have we here?” Christian plants a kiss where, until this morning, I had pubic hair—then scrapes his bristly chin across me.

  “Ah!” I exclaim. Wow … that’s sensitive.

  Christian’s eyes dart to mine, full of salacious longing. “I think you missed a bit,” he mutters and tugs gently, right underneath.

  “Oh … Damn,” I mutter, hoping this will put an end to his frankly intrusive scrutiny.

  “I have an idea.” He leaps naked out of bed and heads to the bathroom.

  What on earth is he doing? He returns moments later, carrying a glass of water, a mug, my razor, his shaving brush, soap, and a towel. He puts the water, brush, soap, and razor on the bedside table and gazes down at me, holding the towel.

  Oh no! My subconscious slams down her Complete Works of Charles Dickens, leaps up from her armchair, and puts her hands on her hips.

  “No. No. No,” I squeak.

  “Mrs. Grey, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Lift your hips.” His eyes glow summer storm gray.

  “Christian! You are not shaving me.”

  He tilts his head to one side. “Why ever not?”

  I flush … isn’t it obvious? “Because … It’s just too …”

  “Intimate?” he whispers. “Ana, I crave intimacy with you—you know that. Besides, af
ter some of the things we’ve done, don’t get all squeamish on me now. And I know this part of your body better than you do.”

  I gape at him. Of all the arrogant … true, he does—but still. “It’s just wrong!” My voice is prissy and whiny.

  “This isn’t wrong—this is hot.”

  Hot? Really? “This turns you on?” I can’t keep the astonishment out of my voice.

  He snorts. “Can’t you tell?” He glances down at his arousal. “I want to shave you,” he whispers

  Oh, what the hell. I lie back, throwing my arm over my face so I don’t have to watch.

  “If it makes you happy, Christian, go ahead. You are so kinky,” I mutter, as I lift my hips, and he slips the towel beneath me. He kisses my inner thigh.

  “Oh, baby, how right you are.”

  I hear the slosh of water as he dips the shaving brush in the glass of water, then the soft swirl of the brush in the mug. He grasps my left ankle and parts my legs, and the bed dips as he sits between my legs. “I’d really like to tie you up right now,” he murmurs.

  “I promise to keep still.”

  “Good.”

  I gasp as he runs the lathered brush over my pubic bone. It’s warm. The water in the glass must be hot. I squirm a little. It tickles … but in a good way.

  “Don’t move,” Christian admonishes and applies the brush again. “Or I will tie you down,” he adds darkly, and a delicious shiver runs down my spine.

  “Have you done this before?” I ask tentatively when he reaches for the razor.

  “No.”

  “Oh. Good.” I grin.

  “Another first, Mrs. Grey.”

  “Hmm. I like firsts.”

  “Me, too. Here goes.” And with a gentleness that surprises me, he runs the razor over my sensitive flesh. “Keep still,” he says distractedly, and I know he’s concentrating hard.

  It’s only a matter of minutes before he grabs the towel and wipes all the excess lather off me.

  “There—that’s more like it,” he muses, and I finally lift my arm to look at him as he sits back to admire his handiwork.

  “Happy?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

  “Very.” He grins wickedly and slowly eases a finger inside me.

  “But that was fun,” he says, his eyes gently mocking.

  “For you maybe.” I try to pout—but he’s right … it was … arousing.

  “I seem to recall the aftermath was very satisfying.” Christian returns to finishing his shave. I glance quickly down at my fingers. Yes, it was. I had no idea that the absence of pubic hair could make such a difference.

  “Hey, I’m just teasing. Isn’t that what husbands who are hopelessly in love with their wives do?” Christian tips my chin up and gazes at me, his eyes suddenly filled with apprehension as he endeavors to read my expression.

  Hmm … payback time.

  “Sit,” I mutter.

  He stares, not understanding. I push him gently toward the lone white stool in the bathroom. Perplexed, he sits down, and I take the razor from him.

  “Ana,” he warns as he realizes my intention. I lean down and kiss him.

  “Head back,” I whisper.

  He hesitates.

  “Tit for tat, Mr. Grey.”

  He stares at me with wary, amused disbelief. “You know what you’re doing?” he asks, his voice low. I shake my head slowly, deliberately, trying to look as serious as possible. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, then tilts it back in surrender.

  Holy shit, he’s going to let me shave him. Tentatively I slide my hand into the damp hair at his forehead, gripping tightly to hold him still. He clenches his eyes closed and parts his lips as he inhales. Very gently, I stroke his razor up from his neck to his chin, revealing a path of skin beneath the lather. Christian exhales.

  “Did you think I was going to hurt you?”

  “I never know what you’re going to do, Ana, but no—not intentionally.”

  I run the razor up his neck again, clearing a wider path in the lather.

  “I would never intentionally hurt you, Christian.”

  He opens his eyes and circles his arms around me as I gently drag the razor down his cheek from the bottom of his sideburn.

  “I know,” he says, angling his face so I can shave the rest of his cheek. Two more strokes and I’ve finished.

  “All done, and not a drop of blood spilled.” I grin proudly.

  He runs his hand up my leg so that my nightdress rides up my thigh and pulls me onto his lap so that I’m astride him. I steady myself with my hands on his upper arms. He’s really very muscular.

  “Can I take you somewhere today?”

  “No sunbathing?” I arch a caustic brow at him.

  He licks his lips nervously. “No. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer something else.”

  “Well, since you’ve covered me in hickeys and effectively put the kibosh on that, sure, why not?”

  Wisely he chooses to ignore my tone. “It’s a drive, but it’s worth a visit from what I’ve read. My dad recommended we visit. It’s a hilltop village called Saint-Paul-de-Vence. There are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like.”

  I lean back and gaze at him. Art … he wants to buy art. How can I buy art?

  “What?” he asks.

  “I know nothing about art, Christian.”

  He shrugs and smiles at me indulgently. “We’ll buy only what we like. This isn’t about investment.”

  Investment? Jeez.

  “What?” he says again.

  I shake my head.

  “Look, I know we only got the architect’s drawings the other day—but there’s no harm in looking, and the town is an ancient, medieval place.”

  Oh, the architect. He had to remind me of her … Gia Matteo, a friend of Elliot’s who worked on Christian’s place in Aspen. During our meetings, she’d been all over Christian like a rash.

  “What now?” Christian exclaims. I shake my head. “Tell me,” he urges.

  How can I tell him that I don’t like Gia? My dislike is irrational. I don’t want to come across as a jealous wife.

  “You’re not still mad about what I did yesterday?” He sighs and nuzzles his face between my breasts.

  “No. I’m hungry,” I mutter, knowing full well that this will distract him from this line of questioning.

  “Why didn’t you say?” He eases me off his lap and stands.

  SAINT-PAUL-DE-VENCE IS A FORTIFIED medieval hilltop village, one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through the narrow cobblestone streets with my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. Taylor and either Gaston or Philippe—I can’t tell the difference between them—trail behind us. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules. It’s quite crowded with tourists, but I feel comfortable tucked under Christian’s arm. There is so much to see—little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and shops.

  In the first gallery, Christian gazes distractedly at the erotic photographs in front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his aviator specs. They are the work of Florence D’elle—naked women in various poses.

  “Not quite what I had in mind,” I mumble disapprovingly. They make me think of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever did destroy them.

  “Me neither,” Christian says, grinning down at me. He takes my hand, and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me.

  The next display is by a female painter who specializes in still lifes—fruit and vegetables super close up and in rich, glorious color.

  “I like those.” I point to three paintings of peppers. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment.” I giggle. Christian’s mouth twi
sts as he tries and fails to hide his amusement.

  “I thought I managed that quite competently,” he mutters. “I was just a bit slow, and anyway”—he pulls me into an embrace—“you were distracting me. Where would you put them?”

  “What?”

  Christian is nuzzling my ear. “The paintings—where would you put them?” He bites my earlobe and I feel it in my groin.

  “Kitchen,” I murmur.

  “Hmm. Nice idea, Mrs. Grey.”

  I squint at the price. Five thousand euros each. Holy shit!

  “They’re really expensive!” I gasp.

  “So?” He nuzzles me again. “Get used to it, Ana.” He releases me and saunters over to the desk where a young woman dressed entirely in white is gaping at him. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings. Five thousand euros … jeez.

  WE HAVE FINISHED LUNCH and are relaxing over coffee at the Hotel Le Saint Paul. The view of the surrounding countryside is stunning. Vineyards and fields of sunflowers form a patchwork across the plain, interspersed here and there with neat little French farmhouses. It’s such a clear, beautiful day we can see all the way to the sea, glinting faintly on the horizon. Christian interrupts my reverie.

  “You asked me why I braid your hair,” he murmurs. His tone alarms me. He looks … guilty.

  “Yes.” Oh, shit.

  “The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”

  Whoa! His birth mom.

  He gazes at me, his expression unreadable. My heart leaps into my mouth. What do I say when he says things like this?

  “I like it when you play with my hair.” My voice is hesitant.

  He regards me with uncertainty. “Do you?”

  “Yes.” It’s the truth. I grasp his hand. “I think you loved your birth mother, Christian.” His eyes widen and he stares at me impassively, saying nothing.

  Holy shit. Have I gone too far? Say something, Fifty—please. But he remains resolutely mute, gazing at me with fathomless gray eyes while the silence stretches between us. He looks lost.

  He glances down at my hand on his and he frowns.

  “Say something,” I whisper, because I cannot bear the silence any longer.