by E. L. James
Burns from what? I blanch at the realization, shock and revulsion coursing through me.
From cigarettes? Mrs. Robinson, his birth mother, who? Who did this to him? Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation, and I’m over-reacting – wild hope blossoms in my chest
– hope that I am wrong.
“What is it?” Christian’s face is wide-eyed with alarm.
“Your scars,” I whisper. “They’re not from chicken pox.”
I watch as in a split second he closes down, his stance changing from relaxed, calm, and at ease, to defensive – angry, even. He frowns, his face darkening, and his mouth presses into a thin, hard line.
“No, they’re not,” he snaps, but he does not elaborate further. He stands, holds his hand out for me, and hauls me to my feet.
“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is colder and scolding as he lets go of my hand.
I flush, chastened, and stare down at my fingers, and I know, I know that someone stubbed cigarettes out on Christian. I feel sick.
“Did she do that?” I whisper before I can stop myself.
He says nothing, so I’m forced to look at him. He’s glaring at me.
“She? Mrs. Robinson? She’s not an animal, Anastasia. Of course she didn’t. I don’t understand why you feel you have to demonize her.”
He’s standing there, naked, gloriously naked, with my blood on him… and we’re finally having this conversation. And I’m naked too – neither of us has anywhere to hide, except perhaps the bath. I take a deep breath, move past him, and step down into the water.
It is deliciously warm, soothing, and deep. I melt into the fragrant foam and stare up at him, hiding among the bubbles.
“I just wonder what you would be like if you hadn’t met her. If she hadn’t introduced you to your… um, lifestyle.”
He sighs and steps down into the bath opposite me, his jaw clenched with tension, his eyes frosty. As he gracefully submerges his body beneath the water, he’s careful not to touch me. Jeez – have I made him that mad?
He stares impassively at me, his face unreadable, saying nothing. Again the silence stretches between us, but I hold my counsel. It’s your turn Grey – I am not caving this time.
My subconscious is nervous, anxiously biting her nails – this could go either way. Christian and I stare at each other, but I am not backing down. Eventually, after what seems like a millennium, he shakes his head, and he smirks.
“I would probably have gone the way of my birth mother, had it not been for Mrs.
Robinson.”
Oh! I blink at him. Crack addict or whore? Possibly both?
“She loved me in a way I found… acceptable,” he adds with a shrug.
What the hell does that mean?
“Acceptable?” I whisper.
“Yes.” He stares intently at me. “She distracted me from the destructive path I found myself following. It’s very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you’re not perfect.”
Oh no. My mouth dries as I digest his words. He gazes as me, his expression unfathomable. He’s not going to tell me any more. How frustrating. Inside, I’m reeling – he sounds so full of self-loathing. And Mrs. Robinson loved him. Holy shit… does she still?
I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach.
“Does she still love you?”
“I don’t think so, not like that.” He frowns as if he hasn’t thought about the idea. “I keep telling you it was a long time ago. It’s in the past. I couldn’t change it even if I wanted to, which I don’t. She saved me from myself.” He’s exasperated and runs a wet hand through his hair. “I’ve never discussed this with anyone.” He pauses, “Except Dr.
Flynn, of course. And the only reason I’m talking about this now, to you, is because I want you to trust me.”
“I do trust you, but I do want to know you better, and whenever I try to talk to you, you distract me. There’s so much I want to know.”
“Oh for pity’s sake, Anastasia. What do you want to know? What do I have to do?” His eyes blaze, and though he doesn’t raise his voice, I know he’s trying to rein in his temper.
I glance quickly down at my hands, clear beneath the water as the bubbles have started to disperse.
“I’m just trying to understand, you’re such an enigma. Unlike anyone I’ve met before.
I’m glad you’re telling me what I want to know.”
Jeez – maybe it’s the Cosmopolitans making me brave, but suddenly I cannot bear the distance between us. I move through the water to his side and lean against him so we’re touching, skin to skin. He tenses and eyes me warily, as if I might bite. Well, that’s a turnaround. My inner goddess gazes at him in quiet, surprised speculation.
“Please don’t be angry with me,” I whisper.
“I am not angry with you, Anastasia. I’m just not used to this kind of talking – this probing. I only have this with Dr. Flynn and with–” He stops and frowns.
“With her. Mrs. Robinson. You talk to her?” I prompt, trying to rein in my own temper.
“Yes, I do.”
“What about?”
He shifts in the bath so that he’s facing me, causing the water to lap over the sides onto the floor. He places his arm around my shoulders, resting on the ledge of the bath.
“Persistent aren’t you?” he murmurs, a trace of irritation in his voice. “Life, the universe – business. Anastasia, Mrs. R and I go way back. We can discuss anything.”
“Me?” I whisper.
“Yes.” Gray eyes watch me carefully.
I bite my bottom lip, trying to curb the sudden rush of anger that surfaces.
“Why do you talk about me?” I endeavor not to sound whiney and petulant, but I don’t succeed. I know I should stop. I am pushing him too hard. My subconscious has her Edvard Munch face on again.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Anastasia.”
“What does that mean? Anyone who just didn’t automatically sign your paperwork, no questions asked?”
He shakes his head.
“I need advice.”
“And you take advice from Mrs. Paedo?” I snap. The hold on my temper is more tentative than I thought.
“Anastasia – enough,” he snaps back sternly, his eyes narrowing.
I’m skating on thin ice, and I’m heading into danger. “Or I’ll put you across my knee.
I have no sexual or romantic interest in her whatsoever. She’s a dear, valued friend and a business partner. That’s all. We have a past, a shared history, which was monumentally beneficial for me, though it fucked up her marriage – but that side of our relationship is over.”
Jeez – another part I just can’t understand. She was married as well. How did they get away with it for so long?
“And your parents never found out?”
“No,” he growls. “I’ve told you this.”
And I know that’s it. I cannot ask him any further questions about her because he will lose it with me.
“Are you done?” he snaps.
“For now.”
He takes a deep breath and visibly relaxes in front of me, like a great weight is lifted from his shoulders or something.
“Right – my turn,” he mutters, and his glare turns steely, speculative. “You haven’t responded to my email.”
I flush. Oh, I hate the spotlight on me, and it seems he’s going to get angry every time we have a discussion. I shake my head. Perhaps that’s how he feels about my questions, he’s not used to being challenged. The thought is revelatory, distracting, and unnerving.
“I was going to respond. But now you’re here.”
“You’d rather I wasn’t?” he breathes, his expression impassive again.
“No, I’m pleased,” I murmur.
“Good.” He gives me a genuine, relieved smile. “I’m pleased I’m here too – in spite of your interrogation. So, while it’s acceptable to grill me, you think you can claim some kind of diplomatic immunity just because
I’ve flown all this way to see you? I’m not buying it, Miss Steele. I want to know how you feel.”
Oh no…
“I told you. I am pleased you’re here. Thank you for coming all this way,” I say feebly.
“It’s my pleasure, Miss Steele.” His eyes shine as he leans down and kisses me gently.
I feel myself responding automatically. The water is still warm, the bathroom still steamy.
He stops and pulls back, gazing down at me.
“No. I think I want some answers first before we do any more.”
More? There’s that word again. And he wants answers… answers to what? I don’t have a secret past – I don’t have a harrowing childhood. What could he possibly want to know about me that he doesn’t already know?
I sigh, resigned.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, how you feel about our would-be arrangement, for starters.”
I blink at him. Truth or dare time – my subconscious and inner goddess glance nervously at one another. Hell, let’s go for truth.
“I don’t think I can do it for an extended period of time. A whole weekend being someone I’m not.” I flush and stare at my hands.
He tips my chin up, and he’s smirking at me, amused.
“No, I don’t think you could either.”
And part of me feels slightly affronted and challenged.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Yes, but in a good way,” he says with a small smile.
He leans down and kisses me softly, briefly.
“You’re not a great submissive,” he breathes as he holds my chin, his eyes dancing with humor.
I stare at him shocked, then I burst out laughing – and he joins me.
“Maybe I don’t have a good teacher.”
He snorts.
“Maybe. Perhaps I should be stricter with you.” He cocks his head to one side and gives me an artful smile.
I swallow. Jeez, no. But at the same time, my muscles clench deliciously deep inside.
It is his way of showing that he cares. Perhaps the only way he can show he cares – I realize that. He’s staring at me, gauging my reaction.
“Was it that bad when I spanked you the first time?”
I gaze back at him, blinking. Was it that bad? I remember feeling confused by my reaction. It hurt, but not that much in retrospect. He’s said over and over again it’s more in my head. And the second time… Well, that was good… hot.
“No, not really,” I whisper.
“It’s more the idea of it?” he prompts.
“I suppose. Feeling pleasure, when one isn’t supposed to.”
“I remember feeling the same. Takes a while to get your head around it.”
Holy hell. This was when he was a kid.
“You can always safe-word, Anastasia. Don’t forget that. And, as long as you follow the rules, which fulfill a deep need in me for control and to keep you safe, then perhaps we can find a way forward.”
“Why do you need to control me?”
“Because it satisfies a need in me that wasn’t met in my formative years.”
“So it’s a form of therapy?”
“I’ve not thought of it like that, but yes, I suppose it is.”
This I can understand. This will help.
“But, here’s the thing – one moment you say don’t defy me, the next you say you like to be challenged. That’s a very fine line to tread successfully.”
He gazes at me for a moment, then frowns.
“I can see that. But you seem to be doing fine so far.”
“But at what personal cost? I’m tied up in knots here.”
“I like you tied up in knots,” he smirks.
“That’s not what I meant!” I splash him in exasperation.
He gazes down at me, arching an eyebrow.
“Did you just splash me?”
“Yes.” Holy shit… that look.
“Oh, Miss Steele.” He grabs me and pulls me onto his lap, sloshing water all over the floor. “I think we’ve done enough talking for now.”
He clasps his hands on either side of my head and kisses me. Deeply. Possessing my mouth. Angling my head… controlling me. I moan against his lips. This is what he likes. This is what he’s so good at. Everything ignites inside me and my fingers are in his hair, holding him to me, and I’m kissing him back and saying I want you too the only way I know how. He groans, shifting me so I’m astride him, kneeling over him, his erection beneath me. He pulls back and looks at me, his eyes hooded, glowing and lustful. I drop my hands to grab on to the edge of the bath but he grips both my wrists and pulls my hands behind my back, holding them together in one hand.
“I’m going to have you now,” he whispers and lifts me so that I’m hovering over him.
“Ready?” he breathes.
“Yes,” I whisper, and he eases me on to him, slowly, exquisitely slowly… filling me…
watching me as he takes me.
I groan, closing my eyes, and I revel in the sensation, the stretching fullness. He flexes his hips, and I gasp, leaning forward, resting my forehead against his.
“Please let my hands go,” I whisper.
“Don’t touch me,” he pleads, and releasing my wrists, he grabs my hips.
Clasping the bath ledge, I move up and then down slowly, opening my eyes to gaze at him. He’s watching me. His mouth open slightly, his breathing halted, stilted – his tongue between his teeth. He looks so… hot. We’re wet and slippery and moving against each other. I lean down and kiss him. He closes his eyes. Tentatively, I bring my hands up to his head and run my fingers through his hair, not taking my lips from his mouth. This is allowed. He likes this. I like this. And we move together. I tug his hair, tipping his head back and deepen the kiss, riding him – faster, picking up the rhythm. I moan against his mouth. He starts to lift me faster, faster… holding my hips. Kissing me back. We are wet mouths and tongues, tangled hair, and moving hips. All sensation… all consuming again.
I am close… I am starting to recognize this delicious tightening… quickening. And the water… it’s swirling around us, our own whirlpool, a stirring vortex as our movements become more frantic… sloshing everywhere, mirroring what’s happening inside me… and I just don’t care.
I love this man. I love his passion, the effect I have on him. I love that he’s flown so far to see me. I love that he cares about me… he cares. It’s so unexpected, so fulfilling.
He is mine, and I am his.
“That’s right, baby,” he breathes.
And I come, my orgasm ripping through me, a turbulent, passionate, apogee that devours me whole. And suddenly Christian crushes me to him… his arms wrapped around my back as he finds his release.
“Ana, baby!” he cries, and it’s a wild invocation, stirring and touching the depths of my soul.
We lie staring at each other, gray eyes into blue, face to face, in the super king bed, both hugging our pillows on our fronts. Naked. Not touching. Just looking and admiring, covered by the sheet.
“Do you want to sleep?” Christian asks, his voice soft. He is beautiful; the mix of colors in his hair vivid against the white Egyptian cotton pillowcase, gray eyes, smoldering, expressive. He looks concerned.
“No. I’m not tired.” I feel strangely energized. It’s been so good to talk – I don’t want to stop.
“What do you want to do?” he asks.
“Talk.”
He smiles.
“About what?”
“Stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“What’s your favorite film?”
He grins.
“Today, it’s ‘The Piano’.”
His grin is infectious.
“Of course. Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt you can play? So many accomplishments, Mr. Grey.”
“And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele.”
<
br /> “So I am number seventeen.”
He frowns at me not comprehending.
“Seventeen?”
“Number of women you’ve um… had sex with.”
His lips quirk up, his eyes shining with incredulity.
“Not exactly.”
“You said fifteen,” My confusion is obvious.
“I was referring to the number of women in my playroom. I thought that’s what you meant. You didn’t ask me how many women I’d had sex with.”
“Oh.” Holy shit… there’s more… How? I gape at him. “Vanilla?”
“No. You are my one vanilla conquest,” he shakes his head, still grinning at me.
Why does he find this funny? And why am I grinning back at him like an idiot?
“I can’t give you a number. I didn’t put notches in the bedpost or anything.”
“What are we talking – tens, hundreds… thousands?” My eyes grow wilder as the numbers get larger.
“Tens. We’re in the tens, for pity’s sake.”
“All submissives?”
“Yes.”
“Stop grinning at me,” I scold him mildly, trying and failing to keep a straight face.
“I can’t. You’re funny.”
“Funny peculiar or funny ha ha?”
“A bit of both I think.” His words mirror mine.
“That’s a damned cheek, coming from you.”
He leans across and kisses the tip of my nose.
“This will shock you, Anastasia. Ready?”
I nod, wide-eyed, still with the stupid grin on my face.
“All submissives in training, when I was training. There are places in and around Seattle that one can go and practice. Learn to do what I do,” he says.
What?
“Oh.” I blink at him.
“Yep, I’ve paid for sex, Anastasia.”
“That’s nothing to be proud of,” I mutter haughtily. “And you’re right… I am deeply shocked. And cross that I can’t shock you.”
“You wore my underwear.”
“Did that shock you?”
“Yes.” My inner goddess pole-vaults over the fifteen-foot bar.
