by E. L. James
“Please,” I whimper. My nerve endings are screaming for release.
The buzzing stops and Christian kisses me. He runs his nose down mine. “You are the most frustrating woman I have ever met.”
No, No, No.
“Christian, I never promised to obey you. Please, please—”
He moves in front of me, grabs my behind and pushes his hips against me, making me gasp—his groin rubbing into mine, the buttons of his jeans pressing into me, barely containing his erection. With one hand he pulls off the blindfold and grasps my chin, and I blink up into his scorching eyes.
“You drive me crazy,” he whispers, flexing his hips against me once, twice, three times more, causing my body to spark—ready to burn. And again he denies me. I want him so badly. I need him so badly. I close my eyes and mutter a prayer. I can’t help but feel I’m being punished. I’m helpless and he’s ruthless. Tears spring to my eyes. I don’t know how far he’s going to take this.
“Please,” I whisper once more.
But he gazes down at me, implacable. He’s just going to continue. For how long? Can I play this game? No. No. No—I can’t do this. I know he’s not going to stop. He’s going to continue to torture me. His hand travels down my body once more. No … And the dam bursts—all the apprehension, the anxiety, and the fear from the last couple of days overwhelming me anew as tears spring to my eyes. I turn away from him. This is not love. It’s revenge.
“Red,” I whimper. “Red. Red.” The tears course down my face.
He stills. “No!” He gasps, stunned. “Jesus Christ, no.”
He moves quickly, unclipping my hands, clasping me around my waist and leaning down to unclip my ankles, while I put my head in my hands and weep.
“No, no, no. Ana, please. No.”
Picking me up, he moves to the bed, sitting down and cradling me in his lap while I sob inconsolably. I’m overwhelmed … my body wound up to breaking point, my mind a blank, and my emotions scattered to the wind. He reaches behind him, drags the satin sheet off the four-poster bed, and drapes it around me. The cool sheets feel alien and unwelcome against my sensitized skin. He wraps his arms around me, hugging me close, rocking me gently backward and forward.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Christian murmurs, his voice raw. He kisses my hair over and over again. “Ana, forgive me, please.”
Turning my face into his neck, I continue to cry, and it’s a cathartic release. So much has happened over the last few days—fires in computer rooms, car chases, careers planned out for me, slutty architects, armed lunatics in the apartment, arguments, his anger—and Christian has been away. I hate Christian going away … I use the corner of the sheet to wipe my nose and gradually become aware that the clinical tones of Bach are still echoing around the room.
“Please switch the music off.” I sniff.
“Yes, of course.” Christian shifts, not letting me go, and pulls the remote out of his back pocket. He presses a button and the piano music ceases, to be replaced by my shuddering breaths. “Better?” he asks.
I nod, my sobs easing. Christian wipes my tears away gently with his thumb.
“Not a fan of Bach’s Goldberg Variations?” he asks.
“Not that piece.”
He gazes down at me, trying and failing to hide the shame in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
“Why did you do that?” My voice is barely audible as I try to process my scrambled thoughts and feelings.
He shakes his head sadly and closes his eyes. “I got lost in the moment,” he says unconvincingly.
I frown at him, and he sighs. “Ana, orgasm denial is a standard tool in— You never—” He stops. I shift in his lap, and he winces.
Oh. I flush. “Sorry,” I mutter.
He rolls his eyes, then leans back suddenly, taking me with him, so that we’re both lying on the bed, me in his arms. My bra is uncomfortable, and I adjust it.
“Need a hand?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head. I don’t want him to touch my breasts. He shifts so he’s looking down at me, and tentatively raising his hand, he strokes his fingers gently down my face. Tears pool in my eyes again. How can he be so callous one minute and so tender the next?
“Please don’t cry,” he whispers.
I’m dazed and confused by this man. My anger has deserted me in my hour of need … I feel numb. I want to curl up in a ball and withdraw. I blink, trying to hold back my tears as I gaze into his harrowed eyes. I take a shuddering breath, my eyes not leaving his. What am I going to do with this controlling man? Learn to be controlled? I don’t think so …
“I never what?” I ask.
“Do as you’re told. You changed your mind; you didn’t tell me where you were. Ana, I was in New York, powerless and livid. If I’d been in Seattle I’d have brought you home.”
“So you are punishing me?”
He swallows, then closes his eyes. He doesn’t have to answer, and I know that punishing me was his exact intention.
“You have to stop doing this,” I murmur.
His brow furrows.
“For a start, you only end up feeling shittier about yourself.”
He snorts. “That’s true,” he mutters. “I don’t like to see you like this.”
“And I don’t like feeling like this. You said on the Fair Lady that you hadn’t married a submissive.”
“I know. I know.” His voice is soft and raw.
“Well stop treating me like one. I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I won’t be so selfish again. I know you worry about me.”
He gazes at me, scrutinizing me closely, his eyes bleak and anxious. “Okay. Good,” he says eventually. He leans down, but pauses before his lips touch mine, silently asking if it’s allowed. I raise my face to his, and he kisses me tenderly.
“Your lips are always so soft when you’ve been crying,” he murmurs.
“I never promised to obey you, Christian,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“Deal with it, please. For both our sakes. And I will try to be more considerate of your … controlling tendencies.”
He looks lost and vulnerable, completely at sea.
“I’ll try,” he murmurs, his voice burning with sincerity.
I sigh, a long shuddering sigh. “Please do. Besides, if I had been here …”
“I know,” he says and blanches. Lying back, he puts his free arm over his face. I curl around him and lay my head on his chest. We both lie silent for a few moments. His hand moves to the end of my braid. He pulls the tie from it, freeing my hair, and gently, rhythmically combs his fingers through it. This is what this is really about—his fear … his irrational fear for my safety. An image of Jack Hyde slumped on the floor in the apartment with a Glock comes to mind … well, maybe not so irrational, which reminds me …
“What did you mean earlier, when you said or?” I ask.
“Or?”
“Something about Jack.”
He peers down at me. “You don’t give up, do you?”
I rest my chin on his sternum, enjoying the soothing caress of his fingers in my hair.
“Give up? Never. Tell me. I don’t like being kept in the dark. You seem to have some overblown idea that I need protecting. You don’t even know how to shoot—I do. Do you think I can’t handle whatever it is you won’t tell me, Christian? I’ve had your stalker ex-sub pull a gun on me, your pedophile ex-lover harass me—and don’t look at me like that,” I snap when he scowls at me. “Your mother feels the same way about her.”
“You talked to my mother about Elena?” Christian’s voice raises a few octaves.
“Yes, Grace and I talked about her.”
He gapes at me.
“She’s very upset about it. Blames herself.”
“I can’t believe you spoke to my mother. Shit!” He lies down and puts his arm over his face again.
“I didn’t go into any specifics.”
“I should hope not. Grace doesn’t need all
the gory details. Christ, Ana. My dad, too?”
“No!” I shake my head vehemently. I don’t have that kind of relationship with Carrick. His comments about the prenup still sting. “Anyway, you’re trying to distract me—again. Jack. What about him?”
Christian lifts his arm briefly and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. Sighing, he puts his arm back over his face.
“Hyde is implicated in Charlie Tango’s sabotage. The investigators found a partial print—just partial, so they couldn’t make a match. But then you recognized Hyde in the server room. He has convictions as a minor in Detroit, and the prints matched his.”
My mind reels as I try to absorb this information. Jack brought down Charlie Tango? But Christian is on a roll. “This morning, a cargo van was found in the garage here. Hyde was the driver. Yesterday, he delivered some shit to that new guy who’s moved in. The guy we met in the elevator.”
“I don’t remember his name.”
“Me neither.” Christian says. “But that’s how Hyde managed to get into the building legitimately. He was working for a delivery company—”
“And? What’s so important about the van?”
Christian says nothing.
“Christian, tell me.”
“The cops found … things in the van.” He stops again and tightens his hold around me.
“What things?”
He’s quiet for several moments, and I open my mouth to prompt him, but he speaks. “A mattress, enough horse tranquilizer to take down a dozen horses, and a note.” His voice has softened to barely a whisper while horror and revulsion roll off him.
Holy fuck.
“Note?” My voice mirrors his.
“Addressed to me.”
“What did it say?”
Christian shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t know or that he won’t divulge its contents.
Oh.
“Hyde came here last night with the intention of kidnapping you.” Christian freezes, his face taut with tension. As he says those words, I recall the duct tape, and a shudder runs through me, though deep down this is not news to me.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Quite,” Christian says tightly.
I try to remember Jack in the office. Was he always insane? How did he think he could get away with this? I mean, he was pretty creepy, but this unhinged?
“I don’t understand why,” I murmur. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“I know. The police are digging further, and so is Welch. But we think Detroit is the connection.”
“Detroit?” I gaze at him, confused.
“Yeah. There’s something there.”
“I still don’t understand.”
Christian lifts his face and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. “Ana, I was born in Detroit.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
* * *
I thought you were born here in Seattle,” I murmur. My mind races. What does this have to do with Jack? Christian raises the arm covering his face, reaches behind him, and grabs one of the pillows. Placing it under his head, he settles back and gazes at me with a wary expression. After a moment he shakes his head.
“No. Elliot and I were both adopted in Detroit. We moved here shortly after my adoption. Grace wanted to be on the West Coast, away from the urban sprawl, and she got a job at Northwest Hospital. I have very little memory of that time. Mia was adopted here.”
“So Jack is from Detroit?”
“Yes.”
Oh … “How do you know?”
“I ran a background check when you went to work for him.”
Of course he did. “Do you have a manila file on him, too?” I smirk.
Christian’s mouth twists as he hides his amusement. “I think it’s pale blue.” His fingers continue to run through my hair. It’s soothing.
“What does it say in his file?”
Christian blinks. Reaching down he strokes my cheek. “You really want to know?”
“Is it that bad?”
He shrugs. “I’ve known worse,” he whispers.
No! Is he referring to himself? And the image I have of Christian as a small, dirty, fearful, lost boy comes to mind. I curl around him, holding him tighter, pulling the sheet over him, and I lay my cheek against his chest.
“What?” he asks, puzzled by my reaction.
“Nothing,” I murmur.
“No, no. This works both ways, Ana. What is it?”
I glance up, assessing his apprehensive expression. Resting my cheek upon his chest once more, I decide to tell him. “Sometimes I picture you as a child … before you came to live with the Greys.”
Christian stiffens. “I wasn’t talking about me. I don’t want your pity, Anastasia. That part of my life is done. Gone.”
“It’s not pity,” I whisper, appalled. “It’s sympathy and sorrow—sorrow that anyone could do that to a child.” I take a deep steadying breath as my stomach twists and tears prick my eyes anew. “That part of your life is not done, Christian—how can you say that? You live every day with your past. You told me yourself—fifty shades, remember?” My voice is barely audible.
Christian snorts and runs his free hand through his hair, though he remains silent and tense beneath me.
“I know it’s why you feel the need to control me. Keep me safe.”
“And yet you choose to defy me,” he murmurs, baffled, his hand stilling in my hair.
I frown. Holy cow! Do I do that deliberately? My subconscious removes her half-moon glasses and chews the end, pursing her lips and nodding. I ignore her. This is confusing—I’m his wife, not his submissive, not some company he’s acquired. I’m not the crack whore who was his mother … Fuck. The thought is sickening. Dr. Flynn’s words come back to me:
“Just keep doing what you’re doing. Christian is head over heels … It’s a delight to see.”
That’s it. I’m just doing what I’ve always done. Isn’t that what Christian found attractive in the first place?
Oh, this man is so confusing.
“Dr. Flynn said I should give you the benefit of the doubt. I think I do—I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s my way of bringing you into the here and now—away from your past,” I whisper. “I don’t know. I just can’t seem to get a handle on how far you’ll overreact.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Fucking Flynn,” he mutters to himself.
“He said I should continue to behave the way I’ve always behaved with you.”
“Did he now?” Christian says dryly.
Okay. Here goes nothing. “Christian, I know you loved your mom, and you couldn’t save her. It wasn’t your job to do that. But I’m not her.”
He freezes again. “Don’t,” he whispers.
“No, listen. Please.” I raise my head to stare into wide eyes that are paralyzed with fear. He’s holding his breath. Oh, Christian … My heart constricts. “I’m not her. I’m much stronger than she was. I have you, and you’re so much stronger now, and I know you love me. I love you, too,” I whisper.
His brow creases as if my words were not what he expected. “Do you still love me?” he asks.
“Of course I do. Christian, I will always love you. No matter what you do to me.” Is this the reassurance he wants?
He exhales and closes his eyes, placing his arm over his face again, but hugging me closer, too.
“Don’t hide from me.” Reaching up, I grasp his hand and pull his arm away from his face. “You’ve spent your life hiding. Please don’t, not from me.”
He looks at me with incredulity and frowns. “Hiding?”
“Yes.”
He shifts suddenly, rolling over onto his side and moving me so that I am lying beside him on the bed. He reaches up, smoothes my hair off my face, and tucks it behind my ear.
“You asked me earlier today if I hated you. I didn’t understand why, and now—” He stops, staring down at me as if I’m a complete conundrum.
“You still think I hate you?” Now my voice is inc
redulous.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not now.” He looks relieved. “But I need to know … why did you safe-word, Ana?”
I blanch. What can I tell him? That he frightened me. That I didn’t know if he’d stop. That I begged him—and he didn’t stop. That I didn’t want things to escalate … like—like that one time in here. I shudder as I recall him whipping me with his belt.
I swallow. “Because … because you were so angry and distant and … cold. I didn’t know how far you’d go.”
His expression is unreadable.
“Were you going to let me come?” My voice is barely a whisper, and I feel a blush steal over my cheeks, but I hold his gaze.
“No,” he says eventually.
Holy crap. “That’s … harsh.”
His knuckle gently grazes my cheek. “But effective,” he murmurs. He gazes down at me as if he’s trying to see into my soul, his eyes darkening. After an eternity, he murmurs, “I’m glad you did.”
“Really?” I don’t understand.
His lips twist in a sad smile. “Yes. I don’t want to hurt you. I got carried away.” He reaches down and kisses me. “Lost in the moment.” He kisses me again. “Happens a lot with you.”
Oh? And for some bizarre reason the thought pleases me … I grin. Why does that make me happy? He grins, too.
“I don’t know why you’re grinning, Mrs. Grey.”
“Me neither.”
He wraps himself around me and places his head on my chest. We are a tangle of naked and denim-clad limbs and satin red sheets. I stroke his back with one hand and run the fingers of my other hand through his hair. He sighs and relaxes in my arms.
“It means I can trust you … to stop me. I never want to hurt you,” he murmurs. “I need—” He halts.
“You need what?”
“I need control, Ana. Like I need you. It’s the only way I can function. I can’t let go of it. I can’t. I’ve tried … And yet, with you …” He shakes his head in exasperation.
I swallow. This is the heart of our dilemma—his need for control and his need for me. I refuse to believe these are mutually exclusive.
“I need you, too,” I whisper, hugging him tighter. “I’ll try, Christian. I’ll try to be more considerate.”
