by E. L. James
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to spank you, Anastasia?”
Everything south of my waist tightens deliciously. I realize I’ve wanted this since he threatened me during lunch, and neither the car chase nor our subsequent intimate encounter has sated this need.
“Yes.” My voice is a hoarse whisper.
“Why?”
Oh … do I have to have a reason? I shrug.
“Tell me,” he coaxes.
“Um …”
And from out of nowhere he smacks me hard.
“Ah!” I cry out.
“Hush now.”
He gently rubs my behind where he’s hit me. Then he leans over me, his hips digging into my backside, plants a kiss between my shoulder blades, and trails kisses across my back. He’s taken his shirt off, so his chest hair tickles my back, and his erection presses against me through the rough fabric of his jeans.
“Open your legs,” he orders.
I move my legs apart.
“Wider.”
I groan and spread my legs wider.
“Good girl,” he breathes. He traces his finger down my back, along the crack between my buttocks, and over my anus, which shrinks at his touch.
“We’re going to have with some fun with this,” he whispers.
Fuck!
His finger continues down over my perineum and slowly slides into me.
“I see you’re very wet, Anastasia. From earlier or from now?”
I groan and he eases his finger in and out of me, over and over. I push back on his hand, relishing the intrusion.
“Oh, Ana, I think it’s both. I think you love being here, like this. Mine.”
I do—oh, I do. He withdraws his finger and smacks me hard once more.
“Tell me,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and urgent.
“Yes, I do,” I whimper.
He smacks me hard once more so I cry out, then sticks two fingers inside me. He withdraws them immediately, spreading the moisture up, over, and around my anus.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, breathless. Oh my … is he going to fuck my ass?
“It’s not what you think,” he murmurs reassuringly. “I told you, one step at time with this, baby.” I hear the quiet spurt of some liquid, presumably from a tube, then his fingers are massaging me there again. Lubricating me … there! I squirm as my fear collides with my excitement of the unknown. He smacks me once more, lower, so he hits my sex. I groan. It feels … so good.
“Keep still,” he says. “And don’t let go.”
“Ah.”
“This is lube.” He spreads some more on me. I try not to wriggle beneath him, but my heart is pounding, my pulse haywire, as desire and anxiety pump through me.
“I have wanted to do this to you for some time now, Ana.”
I groan. And I feel something cool, metallically cool, run down my spine.
“I have a small present for you here,” Christian whispers.
An image from our show-and-tell springs to mind. Holy crap. A butt plug. Christian runs it down the parting between my buttocks.
Oh my.
“I am going to push this inside you, very slowly.”
I gasp, anticipation and anxiety charging through me.
“Will it hurt?”
“No, baby. It’s small. Once it’s inside you, I’m going to fuck you real hard.”
I practically convulse. Bending over me, he kisses me once more between my shoulder blades.
“Ready?” he whispers.
Ready? Am I ready for this?
“Yes,” I mutter quietly, my mouth dry. He runs another finger down past my ass and perineum and slips it inside me. Fuck, it’s his thumb. He cups my sex and his fingers gently caress my clitoris. I moan … it feels … good. And gently, while his fingers and thumb work their magic, he pushes the cold plug slowly into me.
“Ah!” I groan loudly at the unfamiliar sensation, my muscles protesting at the intrusion. He circles his thumb inside me and pushes the plug harder, and it slips in easily, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m so turned on or if he’s distracted me with his expert fingers, but my body seems to accept it. It’s heavy … and strange … there!
“Oh, baby.”
And I can feel it … where his thumb swirls inside me … and the plug presses against … oh, ah … He slowly twists the plug, eliciting a long drawn-out moan from me.
“Christian,” I mumble, his name a garbled mantra, as I adjust to the sensation.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. He runs his free hand down my side until it reaches my hip. Slowly he withdraws his thumb, and I hear the telltale sound of his zipper opening. Grasping my other hip, he pulls me back and parts my legs farther, his foot pushing against mine. “Don’t let go of the table, Ana,” he warns.
“No,” I gasp.
“Something rough? Tell me if I’m too rough. Understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper, and he slams into me and pulls me onto him at the same time, jolting the plug forward, deeper …
“Fuck!” I cry out.
He stills, his breathing harsher, and my panting matches his. I try to assimilate all the sensations: the delicious fullness, the tantalizing feeling that I am doing something forbidden, the erotic pleasure that spirals outward from deep within me. He pulls gently on the plug.
Oh my … I moan, and I hear his sharp intake of breath—a gasp of pure, unadulterated pleasure. It heats my blood. Have I ever felt so wanton … so—
“Again?” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“Stay flat,” he orders. He eases out of me and rams into me again.
Oh … I wanted this. “Yes,” I hiss.
And he picks up the pace, his breathing more labored, matching my own as he thrashes into me.
“Oh, Ana,” he gasps. He moves one of his hands from my hips and twists the plug again, tugging it slowly, pulling it out and pushing it back in. The feeling is indescribable, and I think I’m going to pass out on the table. He never misses a beat as he takes me, again and again, moving strong and hard inside me, my insides tightening and quivering.
“Oh fuck,” I moan. This is going to rip me apart.
“Yes, baby,” he hisses.
“Please,” I beg him, and I don’t know what for—to stop, to never stop, to twist the plug again. My insides are tightening around him and the plug.
“That’s right,” he breathes, and he slaps me hard on my right buttock, and I come—again and again, falling, falling, spinning, pulsing around and around—and Christian gently pulls the plug out.
“Fuck!” I scream, and Christian grabs my hips and climaxes loudly, holding me still.
THE WOMAN IS STILL singing. Christian always puts songs on repeat in here. Strange. I am curled in his arms on his lap, our legs tangled together, with my head resting against his chest. We’re on the floor of the playroom by the table.
“Welcome back,” he says, peeling the blindfold off me. I blink as my eyes adjust to the muted light. Tipping my chin back, he plants a soft kiss on my lips, his eyes focused on and anxiously searching mine. I reach up to caress his face. He smiles.
“Well, did I fulfill the brief?” he asks, amused.
I frown. “Brief?”
“You wanted rough,” he says gently.
I grin, because I just can’t help it. “Yes. I think you did …”
He raises his eyebrows and grins back at me. “I’m very glad to hear it. You look thoroughly well fucked and beautiful at this moment.” He caresses my face, his long fingers stroking my cheek.
“I feel it,” I purr.
He reaches down and kisses me tenderly, his lips soft and warm and giving against mine. “You never disappoint.” He leans back to gaze down at me. “How do you feel?” His voice is soft with concern.
“Good,” I murmur, feeling a flush creep across my face. “Thoroughly well fucked.” I smile shyly.
“Why, Mrs. Grey, you have a dirty, dirty mouth.” Christian feigns
an offended expression, but I can hear his amusement.
“That’s because I’m married to a dirty, dirty boy, Mr. Grey.”
He grins a ridiculously stupid grin and it’s infectious. “I’m glad you’re married to him.” He gently takes hold of my braid, lifts it to his lips, and kisses the end with reverence, his eyes glowing with love. Oh my … did I ever have a chance of resisting this man?
I reach for his left hand and plant a kiss on his wedding ring, a plain platinum band matching my own. “Mine,” I whisper.
“Yours,” he responds. He curls his arms around me and presses his nose into my hair. “Shall I run you a bath?”
“Hmm. Only if you join me in it.”
“Okay,” he says. He sets me onto my feet and stands up beside me. He’s still wearing his jeans.
“Will you wear your … er … other jeans?”
He frowns down at me. “Other jeans?”
“The ones you used to wear in here.”
“Those jeans?” he murmurs, blinking with perplexed surprise.
“You look very hot in them.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah … I mean, really hot.”
He smiles shyly. “Well, for you, Mrs. Grey, maybe I will.” He bends to kiss me, then grabs the small bowl on the table that contains the butt plug, the tube of lubricant, the blindfold, and my panties.
“Who cleans these toys?” I ask as I follow him over to the chest.
He frowns at me, as if not understanding the question. “Me. Mrs. Jones.”
“What?”
He nods, amused and embarrassed, I think. He switches off the music. “Well—um …”
“Your subs used to do it?” I finish his sentence. He gives me an apologetic shrug.
“Here.” He hands me his shirt and I put it on, wrapping it around myself. His scent still clings to the linen, and my chagrin about butt plug washing is forgotten. He leaves the items on the chest. Taking my hand, he unlocks the playroom door, then leads me out and downstairs. I follow him meekly.
The anxiety, the bad mood, the thrill, fear, and excitement of the car chase have all gone. I’m relaxed—finally sated and calm. As we enter our bathroom, I yawn loudly and stretch … at ease with myself for a change.
“What is it?” Christian asks as he turns on the faucet.
I shake my head.
“Tell me,” he asks softly. He spills jasmine bath oil into the running water, filling the room with its sweet, sensual scent.
I flush. “I just feel better.”
He smiles. “Yes, you’ve been in a strange mood today, Mrs. Grey.” Standing, he pulls me into his arms. “I know you’re worrying about these recent events. I’m sorry you’re caught up in them. I don’t know if it’s a vendetta, an ex-employee, or a business rival. If anything were to happen to you because of me—” His voice drops to a pained whisper. I curl my arms around him.
“What if something happens to you, Christian?” I voice my fear.
He gazes down at me. “We’ll figure this out. Now let’s get you out of this shirt and into this bath.”
“Shouldn’t you talk to Sawyer?”
“He can wait.” His mouth hardens, and I feel a sudden pang of pity for Sawyer. What’s he done to upset Christian?
Christian helps me out of his shirt, then frowns as I turn to him. My breasts still bear faded bruises from the love bites he gave me during our honeymoon, but I decide not to tease him about them.
“I wonder if Ryan has caught up with the Dodge?”
“We’ll see, after this bath. Get in.” He holds his hand out for me. I climb into the hot, fragrant water and sit tentatively.
“Ow.” My ass is tender, and the hot water makes me wince.
“Easy, baby,” Christian warns, but as he says it, the uncomfortable sensation melts away.
Christian strips and climbs in behind me, pulling me against his chest. I nestle between his legs, and we lie idle and content in the hot water. I run my fingers down his legs, and gathering my braid in one hand, he twirls it gently between his fingers.
“We need to go over the plans for the new house. Later this evening?”
“Sure.” That woman is coming back again. My subconscious gazes up from volume three of The Complete Works of Charles Dickens and glowers. I’m with my subconscious. I sigh. Unfortunately, Gia Matteo’s designs are breathtaking.
“I must get my things ready for work,” I whisper.
He stills. “You know you don’t have to go back to work,” he murmurs.
Oh no … not this again. “Christian, we’ve been through this. Please don’t resurrect that argument.”
He tugs my braid so my face tilts up and back. “Just saying …” He plants a soft kiss on my lips.
I PULL ON SWEATPANTS and a camisole and decide to fetch my clothes from the playroom. As I make my way across the hallway, I hear Christian’s raised voice from his study. I freeze.
“Where the fuck were you?”
Oh shit. He’s shouting at Sawyer. Cringing, I dash upstairs to the playroom. I really don’t want to hear what he has to say to him—I still find shouty Christian intimidating. Poor Sawyer. At least I get to shout back.
I gather up my clothes and Christian’s shoes, then notice the small porcelain bowl with the butt plug still on top of the museum chest. Well … I suppose I should clean it. I add it to the pile and make my way back downstairs. I glance nervously through the great room, but all is quiet. Thank heavens.
Taylor will be back tomorrow evening, and Christian is generally calmer when he’s around. Taylor is spending some quality time today and tomorrow with his daughter. I wonder idly if I’ll ever get to meet her.
Mrs. Jones comes out of the utility room. We startle each other.
“Mrs. Grey—I didn’t see you there.” Oh, I’m Mrs. Grey now!
“Hello, Mrs. Jones.”
“Welcome home and congratulations.” She smiles.
“Please call me Ana.”
“Mrs. Grey, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.”
Oh! Why must everything change just because I have a ring on my finger?
“Would you like to run through the menus for the week?” she asks, looking at me expectantly.
Menus?
“Um …” This is not a question I have ever anticipated being asked.
She smiles. “When I first worked for Mr. Grey, every Sunday evening I would run through the menus for the upcoming week with him and list anything he might need from the grocery store.”
“I see.”
“Shall I take those for you?”
She holds out her hands for my clothes.
“Oh … um. Actually I haven’t finished with these.” And they are hiding the bowl with the butt plug in it! I turn crimson. It’s a wonder I can look Mrs. Jones in the eye. She knows what we do—she cleans the room. Jeez, it’s just weird having no privacy.
“When you’re ready, Mrs. Grey. I’d be more than happy to run through things with you.”
“Thank you.” We are interrupted by an ashen-faced Sawyer; he stalks out of Christian’s study and briskly crosses the great room. He gives us both a brief nod, not looking either of us in the eye, and slinks into Taylor’s study. I’m grateful for his intervention, as I don’t wish to discuss menus or butt plugs with Mrs. Jones right now. Offering her a brief smile, I scurry back to the bedroom. Will I ever get used to having domestic staff at my beck and call? I shake my head … one day, maybe.
I dump Christian’s shoes on the floor and my clothes on the bed, and take the bowl with the butt plug into the bathroom. I eye it suspiciously. It looks innocuous enough, and surprisingly clean. I don’t want to dwell on that, and I wash it quickly with soap and water. Will that be enough? I’ll have to ask Mr. Sexpert if it should be sterilized or something. I shudder at the thought.
I LIKE THAT CHRISTIAN has turned the library over to me. It now houses an attractive white wooden desk I can work at. I take out my laptop and check my note
s on the five manuscripts I read on our honeymoon.
Yep, I have everything I need. Part of me dreads going back to work, but I can never tell Christian that. He’d seize on the opportunity to make me quit. I remember Roach’s apoplectic reaction when I told him I was getting married and to whom, and how, shortly afterward, my position was confirmed. I realize now it was because I was marrying the boss. The thought is unwelcome. I am no longer acting editor—I am Anastasia Steele, editor.
I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to tell Christian that I am not going to change my name at work. I think my reasons are solid. I need some distance from him, but I know there will be a fight when he finally realizes that. Perhaps I should discuss this with him tonight.
Sitting back in my chair, I start my final chore of the day. I glance at the digital clock on my laptop, which tells me it’s seven in the evening. Christian still hasn’t emerged from his study, so I have time. Taking the memory card out of the Nikon camera, I load it into the laptop to transfer the photographs. As the pictures upload, I reflect on the day. Is Ryan back? Or is he still on his way to Portland? Has he caught up with the mystery woman? Has Christian heard from him? I want some answers. I don’t care that he’s busy; I want to know what’s going on, and I suddenly feel a tad resentful that he’s keeping me in the dark. I rise, intending to go and confront him in his study, but as I do the photos from the last few days of our honeymoon pop up onscreen.
Holy crap!
Picture after picture of me. Asleep, so many of me asleep, my hair over my face or fanned out across the pillow, lips parted … shit—sucking my thumb. I haven’t sucked my thumb for years! So many photos. I had no idea he’d taken these. There are a few candid long shots, including one of me leaning over the rail of the yacht, staring moodily into the distance. How did I not notice him taking this? I smile at the photos of me curled up beneath him and laughing—my hair flying as I struggle, fighting his tickling, tormenting fingers. And there’s the one of him and me on the bed in the master cabin that he took at arm’s length. I am cuddled on his chest and he gazes at the camera, young, wide-eyed … in love. His other hand cups my head, and I am smiling like a love-struck fool, but I cannot take my eyes off Christian. Oh, my beautiful man, his ruffled just-fucked hair, his gray eyes glowing, his lips parted and smiling. My beautiful man who cannot bear to be tickled, who could not bear to be touched just a short while ago, yet now he tolerates my touch. I must ask him if he likes it, or whether he lets me touch him for my pleasure rather than his.
