by E. L. James
“Ah—” I moan incoherently as I reach out to clasp his arms. I try to lift myself off him for some welcome friction, but he holds me in place.
“All of me,” he whispers and tilts his pelvis, pushing himself into me all the way. I throw my head back and let out a strangled cry of pure pleasure.
“Let me hear you,” he murmurs. “No—don’t move, just feel.”
I open my eyes, my mouth frozen in a silent Ah! And he’s gazing at me, hooded, licentious gray eyes into dazed blue. He shifts, rolling his hips, but holds me in place.
I groan. His lips are at my throat, kissing me.
“This is my favorite place. Buried in you,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Please, move,” I plead.
“Slow, Mrs. Grey.” He flexes his hips again and pleasure radiates through me. I cup his face and kiss him, consuming him.
“Love me. Please, Christian.”
His teeth skim my jaw up to my ear. “Go,” he whispers, and he lifts me up and down. My inner goddess is unleashed, and I push him down on the ground and start to move, savoring the feeling of him inside me … riding him … riding him hard. With his hands around my waist he matches my rhythm. I have missed this … the heady feeling of him beneath me, inside me … the sun on my back, the sweet smell of fall in the air, the gentle autumnal breeze. It’s a heady fusion of senses: touch, taste, smell, and the sight of my beloved husband beneath me.
“Oh, Ana.” He groans, eyes closed, head back, mouth open.
Ah … I love this. And inside, I’m building … building … climbing … higher. Christian’s hands move to my thighs, and delicately his thumbs press at their apex, and I explode around him over and over and over and over, and I collapse, sprawled on his chest as he cries out in turn, letting go and calling out my name with love and joy.
HE CUDDLES ME AGAINST his chest, cradling my head. Hmm. Closing my eyes, I savor the feel of his arms around me. My hand is on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart as it slows and calms. I kiss and nuzzle him, and marvel briefly that not long ago he would not have let me do this.
“Better?” he whispers. I raise my head. He’s grinning broadly.
“Much. You?” My answering grin reflects his.
“I’ve missed you, Mrs. Grey.” He’s serious for a moment.
“Me, too.”
“No more heroics, eh?”
“No,” I promise.
“You should always talk to me,” he whispers.
“Back at you, Grey.”
He smirks. “Fair point well made. I’ll try.” He kisses my hair.
“I think we’re going to be happy here,” I whisper, closing my eyes again.
“Yep. You, me and … Blip. How do you feel, incidentally?”
“Fine. Relaxed. Happy.”
“Good.”
“You?”
“Yeah, all those things,” he murmurs.
I look up at him, trying to gauge his expression.
“What?” he asks.
“You know, you’re very bossy when we have sex.”
“Are you complaining?”
“No. I’m just wondering … you said you missed it.”
He stills, gazing at me. “Sometimes,” he whispers.
Oh. “Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that,” I murmur and kiss him lightly on his lips, curling around him like a vine. Images of us together, in the playroom; the Tallis, the table, on the cross, shackled to the bed … I love his kinky fuckery—our kinky fuckery. Yes. I can do that stuff. I can do that for him, with him. I can do that for me. My skin tingles as I remember the riding crop.
“I like to play, too,” I murmur, and glancing up, I’m treated to his shy smile.
“You know, I’d really like to test your limits,” he whispers.
“My limits for what?”
“Pleasure.”
“Oh, I think I’d like that.”
“Well, maybe when we get home,” he whispers, leaving that promise hanging between us.
I nuzzle him once more. I love him so.
It’s been two days since our picnic. Two days since the promise of well, maybe when we get home was made. Christian is still treating me like I’m made of glass. He still won’t let me go to work, so I have been working from home. I put the stack of query letters I’ve been reading aside on my desk and sigh. Christian and I haven’t been back in the playroom since I safe-worded. And he’s said he misses it. Well, so do I … especially now that he wants to explore my limits. I flush, thinking what that could possibly entail. I glance at the billiards table … Yes, I can’t wait to explore those.
My thoughts are interrupted by soft, lyrical music that fills the apartment. Christian is playing the piano; not one of his usual laments but a sweet melody, a hopeful melody—one that I recognize, but have never heard him play.
I tiptoe to the archway of the great room and watch Christian at the piano. It’s dusk. The sky is an opulent pink, and the light is reflected off his burnished copper hair. He looks his beautiful breathtaking self, concentrating as he plays, unaware of my presence. He’s been so forthcoming over the last few days, so attentive—offering small insights into his day, his thoughts, his plans. It’s as if he’s breached a dam and started talking.
I know he’ll come to check on me in a few minutes, and it gives me an idea. Excited, I steal away, hoping that he still hasn’t noticed me, and race to our room, stripping off my clothes as I go, until I’m wearing nothing but pale blue lace panties. I find a pale blue camisole and slip into it quickly. It will hide my bruise. Diving into the closet, I pull out Christian’s faded jeans—his playroom jeans, my favorite jeans—from the drawer. From my bedside table I pick up my BlackBerry, fold the jeans neatly, and kneel by the bedroom door. The door is ajar, and I can hear the strains of another piece, one I don’t know. But it’s another hopeful tune; it’s lovely. Quickly I type an e-mail.
* * *
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: My Husband’s Pleasure
Date: September 21 2011 20:45
To: Christian Grey
Sir
I await your instructions.
Yours always
Mrs. G x
I press “send.”
A few moments later the music stops abruptly. My heart lurches and starts pounding. I wait and wait and eventually my BlackBerry buzzes.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: My Husband’s Pleasure <——love this title, baby
Date: September 21 2011 20:48
To: Anastasia Grey
Mrs. G
I’m intrigued. I’ll come find you.
Be ready.
Christian Grey
Anticipative CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Be ready! My heart starts to pound and I begin to count. Thirty-seven seconds later the door opens. I’m looking down at his bare feet as they pause on the threshold. Hmm. He says nothing. For ages he says nothing. Oh shit. I resist the urge to look up at him and keep my eyes downcast.
Finally, he reaches down and picks up his jeans. He stays silent but heads into the walk-in closet while I remain stock-still. Oh my … this is it. My heart is thundering, and I relish the rush of adrenaline that spikes through my body. I squirm as my excitement builds. What will he do to me? A few moments later he’s back, wearing the jeans.
“So you want to play?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
He says nothing, and I risk a quick glance … up his jeans, his denim clad thighs, the soft bulge at his fly, the open button at the waist, his happy trail, his navel, his chiseled abdomen, his chest hair, his gray eyes blazing, and his head cocked to one side. He’s arching an eyebrow. Oh shit.
“Yes what?” he whispers.
Oh.
“Yes, Sir.”
His eyes soften. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and he caresses my head. “I think we’d better get you upstairs now,” he adds. My insides liquefy, and m
y belly clenches in that delicious way.
He takes my hand and I follow him through the apartment and up the stairs. Outside the playroom door, he halts and bends and kisses me gently before grasping my hair hard.
“You know, you’re topping from the bottom,” he murmurs against my lips.
“What?” I don’t understand what he’s talking about.
“Don’t worry. I’ll live with it,” he whispers, amused, and he runs his nose along my jaw and gently bites my ear. “Once inside, kneel, like I’ve shown you.”
“Yes … Sir.”
He gazes down at me, eyes shining with love, wonder, and wicked thoughts.
Jeez … Life is never going to be boring with Christian, and I’m in this for the long haul. I love this man: my husband, my lover, father of my child, my sometimes Dominant … my Fifty Shades.
EPILOGUE
* * *
The Big House, May 2014
I lie on our tartan picnic blanket and gaze up at the clear, blue, summer sky, my view framed by meadow flowers and tall green grasses. The heat of the afternoon summer sun warms my skin, my bones, and my belly, and I relax, my body turning to Jell-O. This is comfortable. Hell no … this is wonderful. I savor the moment, a moment of peace, a moment of pure and utter contentment. I should feel guilty for feeling this joy, this completeness, but I don’t. Life right here, right now, is good, and I’ve learned to appreciate it and live in the moment like my husband. I smile and squirm as my mind drifts to the delicious memory of last night at our home in Escala …
The strands of the flogger skim across my swollen belly at an aching, languorous pace.
“Have you had enough yet, Ana?” Christian whispers in my ear.
“Oh, please.” I beg, pulling on the restraints above my head as I stand blindfolded and tethered to the grid in the playroom.
The flogger’s sweet sting bites into my behind.
“Please what?”
I gasp. “Please, Sir.”
Christian places his hand over my ringing skin and rubs gently.
“There. There. There.” His words are soft. His hand moves south and around, and his fingers slide inside me.
I groan.
“Mrs. Grey,” he breathes, and his teeth pull on my earlobe. “You’re so ready.”
His fingers slide in and out of me, hitting that spot, that sweet, sweet spot again. The flogger clatters onto the floor and his hand moves over my belly and up to my breasts. I tense. They are sensitive.
“Hush,” Christian says, cupping one, and he gently brushes his thumb over my nipple.
“Ah.”
His fingers are gentle and enticing, and pleasure spirals out from my breast, down, down … deep down. I tilt my head back, pushing my nipple into his palm, and moan once more.
“I like to hear you,” Christian whispers. His erection is at my hip, the buttons of his fly pressing into my flesh as his fingers continue their relentless assault: in, out, in, out—keeping a rhythm. “Shall I make you come like this?” he asks.
“No.”
His fingers stop moving inside me.
“Really, Mrs. Grey? Is it up to you?” His fingers tighten around my nipple.
“No … No, Sir.”
“That’s better.”
“Ah. Please,” I beg.
“What do you want, Anastasia?”
“You. Always.”
He inhales sharply.
“All of you,” I add, breathless.
He eases his fingers out of me, pulls me around to face him, and removes the blindfold. I blink up into darkening gray eyes that burn into mine. His index fingers trace my bottom lip, and he pushes his index and middle fingers into my mouth, letting me taste the salty tang of my arousal.
“Suck,” he whispers. I swirl my tongue around and between his fingers.
Hmm … even I taste good on his fingers.
His hands skim up my arms to the cuffs above my head, and he unclips them, freeing me. Turning me around so I’m facing the wall, he tugs on my braid, pulling me into his arms. He angles my head to one side and skims his lips up my throat to my ear while holding me flush against him.
“I want in your mouth.” His voice is soft and seductive. My body, ripe and ready, clenches deep inside. The pleasure is sweet and sharp.
I moan. Turning to face him, I pull his head down to mine and kiss him hard, my tongue invading his mouth, tasting and savoring him. He groans, places his hands on my behind and tugs me against him, but only my pregnant belly touches him. I bite his jaw and trail kisses down his throat and run my fingers down to his jeans. He tilts his head back, exposing more of his throat to me, and I run my tongue down to his chest and through his chest hair.
“Ah.”
I tug the waistband of his jeans, the buttons popping, and he grasps my shoulders as I sink to my knees in front of him.
As I gaze up at him through my lashes, he stares down at me. His eyes are dark, his lips parted, and he inhales deeply when I free him and ensnare him with my mouth. I love doing this to Christian. Watching him come apart, hearing his breath hitch, and the soft moans he makes deep in his throat. I close my eyes and suck hard, pressing down on him, relishing his taste and his breathless gasp.
He grasps my head, stilling me, and I sheath my teeth with my lips and push him deeper into my mouth.
“Open your eyes and look at me,” he orders, his voice low.
Blazing eyes meet mine and he flexes his hips, filling my mouth to the back of my throat then withdrawing quickly. He pushes into me again and I reach up to grab him. He stops and holds me in place.
“Don’t touch or I’ll cuff you again. I just want your mouth,” he growls.
Oh my. Like that is it? I put my hands behind my back and gaze up at him innocently with my mouth full.
“Good girl,” he says, smirking down at me, his voice hoarse. He eases back, and holding me gently but firmly, he pushes into me again. “You have such a fuckable mouth, Mrs. Grey.” He closes his eyes and eases into my mouth as I squeeze him between my lips, running my tongue over and around him. I take him deeper and withdraw, again and again and again, the air hissing between his teeth.
“Ah! Stop,” he says, and he pulls out of me, leaving me wanting more. He grasps my shoulders and pulls me to my feet. Grabbing my braid, he kisses me hard, his persistent tongue greedy and giving at once. Suddenly he releases me, and before I know it, he’s lifted me into his arms and moved over to the four-poster. Gently, he lays me down so that my behind is just on the edge of the bed.
“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he orders. I do and pull him toward me. He leans down, hands either side of my head, and still standing, very slowly eases himself into me.
Oh, that feels so good. I close my eyes and revel in his slow possession.
“Okay?” he asks, his concern evident in his tone.
“Oh, God, Christian. Yes. Yes. Please.” I tighten my legs around him and push against him. He groans. I clasp his arms, and he flexes his hips slowly at first, in, out.
“Christian, please. Harder—I won’t break.”
He groans and starts to move, really move, pounding into me again and again. Oh, it’s heavenly.
“Yes,” I gasp, tightening my hold on him as I start to build … He moans, grinding into me with renewed determination … and I’m close. Oh, please. Don’t stop.
“Come on, Ana,” he groans through gritted teeth, and I explode around him, my orgasm going on and on and on. I call out his name and Christian stills, groaning loudly, as he climaxes inside me.
“Ana,” he cries.
CHRISTIAN LIES BESIDE ME, his hand caressing my belly, his long fingers splayed out wide.
“How’s my daughter?”
“She’s dancing.” I laugh.
“Dancing? Oh yes! Wow. I can feel her.” He grins as Blip Two somersaults inside me.
“I think she likes sex already.”
Christian frowns. “Really?” he says dryly. He moves so his l
ips are against my bump. “There’ll be none of that until you’re thirty, young lady.”
I giggle. “Oh, Christian, you are such a hypocrite.”
“No, I’m an anxious father.” He gazes up at me, his brow furrowed, betraying his anxiety.
“You’re a wonderful father, as I knew you would be.” I caress his lovely face, and he gives me his shy smile.
“I like this,” he murmurs, stroking then kissing my belly. “There’s more of you.”
I pout. “I don’t like more of me.”
“It’s great when you come.”
“Christian!”
“And I’m looking forward to the taste of breast milk again.”
“Christian! You are such a kinky—”
He swoops on me suddenly, kissing me hard, throwing his leg over mine, and grabbing my hands so they are above my head. “You love the kinky fuckery,” he whispers, and he runs his nose down mine.
I grin, caught in his infectious, wicked smile. “Yes, I love the kinky fuckery. And I love you. Very much.”
I jerk awake, woken by a high-pitched squeal of delight from my son, and even though I can’t see him or Christian, I grin like an idiot with my glee. Ted has woken from his nap, and he and Christian are romping nearby. I lie quietly, still marveling at Christian’s capacity for play. His patience with Teddy is extraordinary—much more so than with me. I snort. But then, that’s how it should be. And my beautiful little boy, the apple of his mother’s and father’s eyes, knows no fear. Christian, on the other hand, is still too overprotective—of both of us. My sweet, mercurial, controlling Fifty.
“Let’s find Mommy. She’s here in the meadow somewhere.”
Ted says something I don’t hear, and Christian laughs freely, happily. It’s a magical sound, filled with his paternal joy. I can’t resist. I struggle up onto my elbows to spy on them from my hiding place in the long grass.
