by E. L. James
“Good.” His hand cups my sex. “No underwear, Mrs. Grey. I approve.” He kisses me again as his fingers weave more magic, his thumb skimming over my clitoris, tantalizing me, as he pushes his index finger inside me with exquisite slowness.
“We’re supposed to be making out.” I groan.
Christian stills. “I thought we were?”
“No. No sex.”
“What?”
“No sex …”
“No sex, huh?” He withdraws his hand from my sweatpants. “Here.” He traces my lips with his index finger, and I taste my slick saltiness. He pushes his finger into my mouth, mirroring what he was doing a moment earlier. Then he shifts so he’s between my legs, and his erection pushes against me. He thrusts, once, twice, and again. I gasp as the material of my sweatpants rubs in just the right way. He pushes once more, grinding into me.
“This what you want?” he murmurs and moves his hips rhythmically, rocking against me.
“Yes.” I moan.
His hand moves back to concentrate on my nipple once more and his teeth scrape along my jaw. “Do you know how hot you are, Ana?” His voice is hoarse as he rocks harder against me. I open my mouth to articulate a response and fail miserably, groaning loudly. He captures my mouth once more, tugging at my bottom lip with his teeth before plunging his tongue into my mouth again. He releases my other wrist and my hands travel greedily up his shoulders and into his hair as he kisses me. When I pull on his hair, he groans and raises his eyes to mine.
“Ah …”
“Do you like me touching you?” I whisper.
His brow furrows briefly as if he doesn’t understand the question. He stops grinding against me. “Of course I do. I love you touching me, Ana. I’m like a starving man at a banquet when it comes to your touch.” His voice hums with passionate sincerity.
Holy cow …
He kneels between my legs and drags me up to haul off my top. I’m naked beneath it. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he yanks it over his head and tosses it on the floor, then pulls me onto his kneeling lap, his arms clasped just above my behind.
“Touch me,” he breathes.
Oh my … Tentatively I reach up and brush the tips of my fingers through the smattering of chest hair over his sternum, over his burn scars. He inhales sharply and his pupils dilate, but it’s not with fear. It’s a sensual response to my touch. He watches me intently as my fingers float delicately over his skin, first to one nipple and then the other. They pucker beneath my caress. Leaning forward, I plant soft kisses on his chest, and my hands move to his shoulders, feeling the hard, sculptured lines of sinew and muscle. Whoa … he’s in good shape.
“I want you,” he murmurs, and it’s a green light to my libido. My fingers move into his hair, pulling his head back so I can claim his mouth, fire licking hot and high in my belly. He groans and pushes me back onto the couch. He sits up and rips off my sweatpants, undoing his fly at the same time.
“Home run,” he whispers, and swiftly he fills me.
“Ah …” I groan and he stills, grabbing my face between his hands.
“I love you, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and very slowly, very gently, he makes love to me until I come apart at the seams, calling his name and wrapping myself around him, never wanting to let him go.
I LAY SPRAWLED ON his chest. We’re on the floor of the TV room.
“You know, we completely bypassed third base.” My fingers trace the line of his pectoral muscles.
He laughs. “Next time.” He kisses the top of my head.
I look up to stare at the television screen, where the end credits for The X-Files play. Christian reaches for the remote and switches the sound back on.
“You liked that show?” I ask.
“When I was a kid.”
Oh … Christian as a kid … kickboxing and X Files and no touching.
“You?” he asks.
“Before my time.”
“You’re so young.” Christian smiles fondly. “I like making out with you, Mrs. Grey.”
“Likewise, Mr. Grey.” I kiss his chest, and we lie silently watching as The X-Files finish and the commercials come on.
“It’s been a heavenly three weeks. Car chases and fires and psycho ex-bosses notwithstanding. Like being in our own private bubble,” I mutter dreamily.
“Hmm,” Christian hums deep in his throat. “I’m not sure I’m ready to share you with the rest of the world yet.”
“Back to reality tomorrow,” I murmur, trying to keep the melancholy from my voice.
Christian sighs and runs his other hand through his hair. “Security will be tight—” I put my finger over his lips. I don’t want to hear this lecture again.
“I know. I’ll be good. I promise.” Which reminds me … I shift, propping myself up on my elbows to see him better. “Why were you shouting at Sawyer?”
He stiffens immediately. Oh shit.
“Because we were followed.”
“That wasn’t Sawyer’s fault.”
He gazes at me levelly. “They should never have let you get so far in front. They know that.”
I blush guiltily and resume my position, resting on his chest. It was my fault. I wanted to get away from them.
“That wasn’t—”
“Enough!” Christian is suddenly curt. “This is not up for discussion, Anastasia. It’s a fact, and they won’t let it happen again.”
Anastasia! I am Anastasia when I am in trouble just like at home with my mother.
“Okay,” I mutter, placating him. I don’t want to fight. “Did Ryan catch up with the woman in the Dodge?”
“No. And I’m not convinced it was a woman.”
“Oh?” I look up again.
“Sawyer saw someone with their hair tied back, but it was a brief look. He assumed it was a woman. Now, given that you’ve identified that fucker, maybe it was him. He wore his hair like that.” The disgust in Christian’s voice is palpable.
I don’t know what to make of this news. Christian runs his hand down my naked back, distracting me.
“If anything happened to you …,” he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.
“I know,” I whisper. “I feel the same about you.” I shiver at the thought.
“Come. You’re getting cold,” he says, sitting up. “Let’s go to bed. We can cover third base there.” He smiles a lascivious smile, as mercurial as ever, passionate, angry, anxious, sexy—my Fifty Shades. I take his hand and he pulls me to my feet, and without a stitch on, I follow him through the great room to the bedroom.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, CHRISTIAN squeezes my hand as we pull up outside SIP. He looks very much the powerful executive in his dark navy suit and matching tie, and I smile. He’s not been this smart since the ballet in Monte Carlo.
“You know you don’t have to do this?” Christian murmurs. I am tempted to roll my eyes at him.
“I know,” I whisper, not wanting Sawyer and Ryan to overhear me from the front of the Audi. He frowns and I smile.
“But I want to,” I continue. “You know this.” I lean up and kiss him. His frown doesn’t disappear. “What’s wrong?”
He glances uncertainly at Ryan as Sawyer climbs out of the car. “I’ll miss having you to myself.”
I reach up to caress his face. “Me, too.” I kiss him. “It was a wonderful honeymoon. Thank you.”
“Go to work, Mrs. Grey.”
“You, too, Mr. Grey.”
Sawyer opens the door. I squeeze Christian’s hand once more before I climb out onto the sidewalk. As I head into the building, I give him a little wave. Sawyer holds open the door and follows me in.
“Hi, Ana.” Claire smiles from behind the reception desk.
“Claire, hello.” I smile back.
“You look wonderful. Good honeymoon?”
“The best, thank you. How’s it been here?”
“Old man Roach is the same, but security has been stepped up and our server room is being overhauled. But Hannah will tell you
.”
Sure she will. I give Claire a friendly smile and head to my office.
Hannah is my assistant. She is tall, slim, and ruthlessly efficient to the point that sometimes I find her a little intimidating. But she’s sweet to me, in spite of the fact that she’s a couple of years older. She has my latte waiting—the only coffee I let her get for me.
“Hi, Hannah,” I say warmly.
“Ana, how was your honeymoon?”
“Fantastic. Here—for you.” I pop the small bottle of perfume I bought for her onto her desk, and she claps her hands with glee.
“Oh, thank you!” she says enthusiastically. “Your urgent correspondence is on your desk, and Roach would like to see you at ten. That’s all I have to report for now.”
“Good. Thank you. And thanks for the coffee.” Wandering into my office, I rest my briefcase on my desk and gaze at the piled up letters. I have a lot to do.
JUST BEFORE TEN THERE’S a timid tap on my door.
“Come in.”
Elizabeth looks around the door. “Hi, Ana. I just wanted to say welcome back.”
“Hey. I have to say, reading through all this correspondence, I wish I was back in the South of France.”
Elizabeth laughs, but her laughter is off, forced, and I cock my head to one side and gaze at her like Christian does to me.
“Glad you’re back safely,” she says. “I’ll see you in a few minutes at the meeting with Roach.”
“Okay,” I murmur, and she shuts the door behind her. I frown at the closed door. What was that about? I shrug it off. My e-mail pings—it’s a message from Christian.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Errant Wives
Date: August 22 2011 09:56
To: Anastasia Steele
Wife
I sent the e-mail below and it bounced.
And it’s because you haven’t changed your name.
Something you want to tell me?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Attachment:
* * *
From: Christian Grey
FW Subject: Bubble
Date: August 22 2011 09:32
To: Anastasia Grey
Mrs. Grey
Love covering all the bases with you.
Have a great first day back.
Miss our bubble already.
x
Christian Grey
Back in the Real World CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Shit. I hit reply immediately.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Don’t Burst the Bubble
Date: August 22 2011 09:58
To: Christian Grey
Husband
I am all for a baseball metaphor with you, Mr. Grey.
I want to keep my name here.
I’ll explain this evening.
I am going in to a meeting now.
Miss our bubble, too …
PS: Thought I had to use my BlackBerry?
Anastasia Steele
Editor, SIP
This is going to be such a fight. I can feel it. Sighing, I gather up my papers for the meeting.
THE MEETING LASTS FOR two hours. All the editors are there, plus Roach and Elizabeth. We discuss personnel, strategy, marketing, security, and year-end. As the meeting progresses, I grow more and more uncomfortable. There’s a subtle change in how my colleagues are treating me—a distance and deference that wasn’t there before I left for my honeymoon. And from Courtney, who heads up the nonfiction division, there’s downright hostility. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but it goes some way to explaining Elizabeth’s odd greeting this morning.
My mind drifts back to the yacht, then to the playroom, then to the R8 speeding away from the mystery Dodge on I-5. Perhaps Christian’s right … perhaps I can’t do this anymore. The thought is depressing—this is all I’ve ever wanted to do. If I can’t do this, what will I do? As I walk back to my office, I try to dismiss these dark thoughts.
When I sit down at my desk, I quickly check my e-mails. Nothing from Christian. I check my BlackBerry … Still nothing. Good. At least there’s been no adverse reaction to my e-mail. Perhaps we’ll discuss this tonight per my request. I find that hard to believe, but ignoring my uneasy feeling, I open the marketing plan I was given at the meeting.
AS IS OUR RITUAL on a Monday, Hannah comes into my office with a plate for my packed lunch courtesy of Mrs. Jones, and we sit and eat our lunches together, discussing what we want to achieve during the week. She brings me up to date with the office gossip, too, which—considering I’ve been away for three weeks—is sorely lacking. As we’re chatting, there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Roach opens the door, and standing beside him is Christian. I’m momentarily struck dumb. Christian shoots me a blazing look and stalks in, before smiling politely at Hannah.
“Hello, you must be Hannah. I’m Christian Grey,” he says. Hannah scrambles to her feet and holds out her hand.
“Mr. Grey. H-how nice to meet you,” she stutters as they shake hands. “Can I fetch you a coffee?”
“Please,” he says warmly. With a quick puzzled glance at me, she scuttles out of the office past Roach, who stands as dumbstruck as me on the threshold of my office.
“If you’ll excuse me, Roach, I’d like a word with Ms. Steele.” Christian hisses the S sibilantly … sarcastically.
This is why he’s here … Oh shit.
“Of course, Mr. Grey. Ana,” Roach mutters, shutting the door to my office as he departs. I recover my power of speech.
“Mr. Grey, how nice to see you.” I smile, far too sweetly.
“Ms. Steele, may I sit down?”
“It’s your company.” I wave at the chair Hannah vacated.
“Yes, it is.” He smiles wolfishly at me, the smile not reaching his eyes. His tone is clipped. He’s bristling with tension—I can feel it all around me. Fuck. My heart sinks.
“Your office is very small,” he says as he sits down facing my desk.
“It suits me.”
He regards me neutrally, but I know he’s mad. I take a deep breath. This is not going to be fun.
“So what can I do for you, Christian?”
“I’m just looking over my assets.”
“Your assets? All of them?”
“All of them. Some of them need rebranding.”
“Rebranding? In what way?”
“I think you know.” His voice is menacingly quiet.
“Please—don’t tell me you have interrupted your day after three weeks away to come over here and fight with me about my name.” I am not a freaking asset!
He shifts and crosses his legs. “Not exactly fight. No.”
“Christian, I’m working.”
“Looked like you were gossiping with your assistant to me.”
My cheeks heat. “We were going through our schedules,” I snap. “And you haven’t answered my question.”
There’s a knock on the door. “Come in!” I shout, too loudly.
Hannah opens the door and brings in a small tray. Milk jug, sugar bowl, coffee in a French press—she’s gone all out. She places the tray on my desk.
“Thank you, Hannah,” I mutter, embarrassed that I have just shouted so loudly.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Grey?” she asks, all breathless. I want to roll my eyes at her.
“No, thank you. That’s all.” He smiles his dazzling, panty-dropping smile at her. She flushes and exits simpering. Christian turns his attention back to me.
“Now, Ms. Steele, where were we?”
“You were rudely interrupting my work day to fight with me about my name.”
Christian blinks once—surprised, I think, by the vehemence in my voice. Deftly, he picks at an invisible piece of lint on his knee with long skilled fingers. It’s distracting. He’s doing it on purpose. I narrow my eyes at him.
“I like to make the odd impromptu visit. It keeps management on their toes, wives in their place. You know.” He shrugs, his mouth set in an arrogant line.
Wives in their place! “I had no idea you could spare the time,” I snap.
His eyes frost. “Why don’t you want to change your name here?” he asks, his voice deathly quiet.
“Christian, do we have to discuss this now?”
“I’m here. I don’t see why not.”
“I have a ton of work to do, having been away for the last three weeks.”
His eyes are cool and assessing—distant even. I marvel that he can appear so cold after last night, after the last three weeks. Shit. He must be mad—really mad. When will he learn not to overreact?
“Are you ashamed of me?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft.
“No! Christian, of course not.” I scowl. “This is about me—not you.” Jeez, he’s exasperating sometimes. Silly overbearing megalomaniac.
“How is this not about me?” He cocks his head to one side, genuinely perplexed, some of his detachment slipping as he stares at me with wide eyes, and I realize that he’s hurt. Holy fuck. I’ve hurt his feelings. Oh no … he’s the last person I want to hurt. I have to make him see my logic. I have to explain my reasoning for my decision.
“Christian, when I took this job, I’d only just met you,” I say patiently, struggling to find the right words. “I didn’t know you were going to buy the company—”
What can I say about that event in our brief history? His deranged reasons for doing so—his control freakery, his stalker tendencies gone mad, given completely free rein because he is so wealthy. I know he wants to keep me safe, but it’s his ownership of SIP that is the fundamental problem here. If he’d never interfered, I could continue as normal and not have to face the disgruntled and whispered recriminations of my colleagues. I put my head in my hands just to break eye contact with him.
