Part II 5

I shudder. What a legacy. I can’t wrap my head around it. I scroll through the extensive list. I want something upbeat. Hmm, Beyoncé—doesn’t sound like Christian’s taste. Crazy in Love. Oh yes! How apt. I hit the repeat button and put it on loud. I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the fridge, and take out the eggs. I crack them open and begin to whisk, dancing the whole time. Raiding the fridge once more, I gather potatoes, ham, and—Yes!—peas from the freezer. All of these will do. Finding a pan, I place it on the stove, put in a little olive oil, and go back to whisking. No empathy, I muse. Is this unique to Christian? Maybe all men are like this, baffled by women. I just don’t know. Perhaps it’s not such a revelation. I wish Kate were home; she would know. She’s been in Barbados far too long. She should be back at the end of the week after her additional vacation with Elliot. I wonder if it’s still lust at first sight for them. One of the things I love about you. I stop whisking. He said it. Does that mean there are other things? I smile for the first time since seeing Mrs. Robinson—a genuine, heartfelt, face-splitting smile. Christian slips his arms around me, making me jump. “Interesting choice of music,” he purrs as he kisses me below my ear. “Your hair smells good.” He nuzzles my hair and inhales deeply. Desire uncurls in my belly. No. I shrug out of his embrace. “I’m still mad at you.” He frowns. “How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks, dragging a hand through his hair. I shrug. “At least until I’ve eaten.” His lips twitch with amusement. Turning, he picks up the remote control from the counter and switches off the music. “Did you put that on your iPod?” I ask. He shakes his head, his expression somber, and I know it was her—Ghost Girl. “Don’t you think she was trying to tell you something back then?” “Well, with hindsight, probably,” he says quietly. QED. No empathy. My subconscious folds her arms and smacks her lips in disgust. “Why’s it still on there?” “Why’s it still on there?” “I quite like the song. But if it offends you I’ll remove it.” “No, it’s fine. I like to cook to music.” “What would you like to hear?” “Surprise me.” He smirks at me and heads over to the iPod dock while I go back to my whisking. Moments later the hea一venly sweet, soulful voice of Nina Simone fills the room. It’s one of Ray’s fa一vorites: “I Put a Spell on You.” I flush, turning to gape at Christian. What is he trying to tell me? He put a spell on me a long time ago. Oh my . . . his look has changed, the levity gone, his eyes darker, intense. I watch him, enthralled as slowly, like the predator he is, he stalks me in time to the slow sultry beat of the music. He’s barefoot, wearing just an untucked white shirt, jeans, and a smoldering look. Nina sings, “you’re mine” as Christian reaches me, his Nina sings, “you’re mine” as Christian reaches me, his intention clear. “Christian, please,” I whisper, the whisk redundant in my hand. “Please what?” “Don’t do this.” “Do what?” “This.” He’s standing in front of me, gazing down at me. “Are you sure?” he breathes and reaching over, he takes the whisk from my hand and places it back in the bowl with the eggs. My heart is in my mouth. I don’t want this—I do want this—badly. He’s so frustrating. He’s so hot and desirable. I tear my gaze away from his spellbinding look. “I want you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “I love and I hate, and I love arguing with you. It’s very new. I need to know that we’re okay. It’s the only way I know how.” “My feelings for you ha一ven’t changed,” I whisper. His proximity is overwhelming, exhilarating. The familiar pull is there, all my synapses goading me toward him, my inner goddess at her most libidinous. Staring at the patch of hair in the V of his shirt, I bite my lip, helpless, driven by desire—I want to taste him there. He’s so close, but he doesn’t touch me. His heat is warming my skin. “I’m not going to touch you until you say yes,” he says softly. “But right now, after a really shitty morning, I want to bury myself in you and just forget everything but us.” Oh my . . . Us. A magical combination, a small potent pronoun that clinches the deal. I raise my head to stare at his beautiful yet serious face. “I’m going to touch your face,” I breathe, and see his surprise reflected briefly in his eyes before his acceptance registers. Lifting my hand, I caress his cheek, and run my fingertips across his stubble. He closes his eyes and exhales, leaning his face into my touch. He leans down slowly, and my lips automatically lift to meet his. He hovers over me. meet his. He hovers over me. “Yes or no, Anastasia?” he whispers. “Yes.” His mouth softly closes on mine, coaxing, coercing my lips apart as his arms fold around me, pulling me to him. His hand moves up my back, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of my head and tugging gently, while his other hand flattens on my behind, forcing me against him. I moan softly. “Mr. Grey.” Taylor coughs, and Christian releases me immediately. “Taylor,” he says, his voice frigid. I whirl round to see an uncomfortable Taylor standing on the threshold of the great room. Christian and Taylor stare at each other, some unspoken communication passing between them. “My study,” Christian snaps, and Taylor walks briskly across the room. “Rain check,” Christian whispers to me before following Taylor out of the room. following Taylor out of the room. I take a deep, steadying breath. Holy hell. Can I not resist him for one minute? I shake my head, disgusted at myself, grateful for Taylor’s interruption, embarrassing though it is. I wonder what Taylor has had to interrupt in the past. What’s he seen? I don’t want to think about that. Lunch. I’ll make lunch. I busy myself slicing potatoes. What does Taylor want? My mind races—is this about Leila? Ten minutes later, they emerge, just as the omelet is ready. Christian looks preoccupied as he glances at me. “I’ll brief them in ten,” he says to Taylor. “We’ll be ready,” Taylor answers and lea一ves the great room. I produce two warmed plates and place them on the kitchen island. “Lunch?” “Please,” Christian says as he perches on one of the bar stools. Now he’s watching me carefully. “Problem?” “No.” I scowl. He’s not telling me. I dish out lunch and sit down beside him, resigned to staying in the dark. “This is good,” Christian murmurs appreciatively as he takes a bite. “Would you like a glass of wine?” “No, thank you.” I need to keep a clear head around you, Grey. It does taste good, even though I’m not that hungry. But I eat, knowing Christian will nag if I don’t. Eventually Christian disrupts our brooding silence and switches on the classical piece I heard earlier. “What’s this?” I ask. “Canteloube, Songs of the Auvergne. This is called ‘Bailero.’ ” “It’s lovely. What language is it?” “It’s in old French—Occitan, in fact.” “You speak French, do you understand it?” Memories of the flawless French he spoke at his parents’ dinner come to mind . . . “Some words, yes.” Christian smiles, visibly relaxing. “Some words, yes.” Christian smiles, visibly relaxing. “My mother had a mantra: musical instrument, foreign language, martial art. Elliot speaks Spanish; Mia and I speak French. Elliot plays guitar, I play piano, and Mia the cello.” “Wow. And the martial arts?” “Elliot does Judo. Mia put her foot down at age twelve and refused.” He smirks at the memory. “I wish my mother had been that organized.” “Dr. Grace is formidable when it comes to the accomplishments of her children.” “She must be very proud of you. I would be.” A dark thought flashes across Christian’s face, and he looks momentarily uncomfortable. He regards me warily as if he’s in uncharted territory. “Ha一ve you decided what you’ll wear this evening? Or do I need to come and pick something for you?” His tone is suddenly brusque. Whoa! He sounds angry. Why? What ha一ve I said? “Um . . . not yet. Did you choose all those clothes?” “Um . . . not yet. Did you choose all those clothes?” “No, Anastasia, I didn’t. I ga一ve a list and your size to a personal shopper at Neiman Marcus. They should fit. Just so that you know, I ha一ve ordered additional security for this evening and the next few days. With Leila unpredictable and unaccounted for somewhere on the streets of Seattle, I think it’s a wise precaution. I don’t want you going out unaccompanied. Okay?” I blink at him. “Okay.” What happened to I-mustha一ve- you-now Grey? “Good. I’m going to brief them. I shouldn’t be long.” “They’re here?” “Yes.” Where? Collecting his plate, Christian places it in the sink and disappears from the room. What the hell was that about? He’s like several different people in one body. Isn’t that a symptom of schizophrenia? I must Google that. I clear my plate, wash up quickly, and head back up to my bedroom carrying the ANASTASIA ROSE STEELE dossier. Back in the walk-in closet, I pull out the three long evening dresses. Now, which one? Lying down on the bed, I gaze at my Mac, my iPad, and my Blackberry. I am overwhelmed with technology. I set about transferring Christian’s playlist from my iPad to the Mac, then fire up Google to surf the net. I’m lying across the bed looking at my Mac as Christian enters. “What are you doing?” he inquires softly. I panic briefly, wondering if I should let him see the website I’m on: Multiple Personality Disorder: The Symptoms. Stretching out beside me, he eyes the webpage with amusement. “On this site for a reason?” he asks nonchalantly. Brusque Christian has gone—playful Christian is back. How the hell am I supposed to keep up with this? “Research. Into a difficult personality.” I give him my most deadpan look. His lips twitch with a suppressed smile. “A difficult personality?” “My own pet project.” “I’m a pet project now? A sideline. Science experiment maybe. When I thought I was everything. Miss Steele, you wound me.” “How do you know it’s you?” “Wild guess.” He smirks. “It’s true that you are the only fucked-up, mercurial, control freak that I know, intimately.” “I thought I was the only person you know intimately.” He arches a brow. I flush. “Yes. That, too.” “Ha一ve you reached any conclusions yet?” I turn and gaze at him. He’s on his side stretched out beside me with his head resting on his elbow, his beside me with his head resting on his elbow, his expression soft, amused. “I think you’re in need of intense therapy.” He reaches up and gently tucks my hair behind my ears. “I think I’m in need of you. Here.” He hands me a tube of lipstick. I frown at him, perplexed. It’s harlot red, not my color at all. “You want me to wear this?” I squeak. He laughs. “No, Anastasia, not unless you want to. Not sure it’s your color,” he finishes dryly. He sits up on the bed cross-legged and drags his shirt off over his head. Oh my. “I like your road map idea.” I stare at him blankly. Road map? “The no-go areas,” he says by way of explanation. “Oh. I was kidding.” “I’m not.” “You want me to draw on you, with lipstick?” “It washes off. Eventually.” “It washes off. Eventually.” This means I could touch him freely. A small smile of wonder plays on my lips, and I smirk at him. “What about something more permanent like a Sharpie?” “I could get a tattoo.” His eyes are alight with humor. Christian Grey with a tatt? Marring his lovely body, when it’s marked in so many ways already? No way! “No to the tattoo!” I laugh to hide my horror. “Lipstick, then.” He grins. Shutting the Mac, I push it to the side. This could be fun. “Come.” He holds his hands out to me. “Sit on me.” I push my flats off my feet, scramble into a sitting position, and crawl over to him. He lies down on the bed but keeps his knees flexed. “Lean against my legs.” I clamber over him and sit astride as instructed. His eyes are wide and cautious. But he’s amused, too. “You seem—enthusiastic for this,” he comments wryly. “I’m always eager for information, Mr. Grey, and it means you’ll relax, because I’ll know where the boundaries lie.” He shakes his head, as if he can’t quite believe that he’s about to let me draw all over his body. “Open the lipstick,” he orders. Oh, he’s in über-bossy mode, but I don’t care. “Give me your hand.” I give him my other hand. “The one with the lipstick.” He rolls his eyes at me. “Are you rolling your eyes at me?” “Yep.” “That’s very rude, Mr. Grey. I know some people who get positively violent at eye-rolling.” “Do you now?” His tone is ironic. I give him my hand with the lipstick, and suddenly he sits up so we are nose to nose. “Ready?” he asks in a low, soft murmur that makes everything tighten and tense inside me. Oh wow. “Yes,” I whisper. His proximity is alluring, his toned “Yes,” I whisper. His proximity is alluring, his toned flesh close, his Christian-smell mixed with my bodywash. He guides my hand up to the curve of his shoulder. “Press down,” he breathes, and my mouth goes dry as he directs my hand down, from the top of his shoulder, around his arm socket then down the side of his chest. The lipstick lea一ves a broad, livid red streak it in its wake. He stops at the bottom of this ribcage then directs me across his stomach. He tenses and stares, seemingly impassive, into my eyes, but beneath his careful blank look, I see his restraint. His a一version is held in strict check, the line of his jaw is strained, and there’s tension around his eyes. Midway across his stomach he murmurs, “And up the other side.” He releases my hand. I mirror the line I’ve drawn on his left side. The trust he’s giving me is heady but tempered by the fact that I can I count his pain. Seven small, round white scars dot his chest, and it’s deep, dark purgatory to see this hideous, evil desecration of his beautiful body. Who would do this evil desecration of his beautiful body. Who would do this to a child? “There, done,” I whisper, containing my emotion. “No, you’re not,” he replies and traces a line with his long index finger around the base of his neck. I follow the line of his finger with a scarlet streak. Finishing, I gaze into the gray depths of his eyes. “Now my back,” he murmurs. He shifts so I ha一ve to climb off him, then he turns around on the bed and sits cross-legged with his back to me. “Follow the line from my chest, all the way round to the other side.” His voice is low and husky. I do as he says until a crimson line runs across the middle of his back, and as I do, I count more scars marring his beautiful body. Nine in all. Holy fuck. I ha一ve to fight the overwhelming need to kiss each one and stop the tears pooling in my eyes. What kind of animal would do this? His head is down, and his body tense as I complete the circuit round his back. “Around your neck, too?” I whisper. He nods, and I draw another line joining the first around the base of his neck beneath his hair. “Finished,” I murmur, and it looks like he’s wearing a bizarre skin-colored vest with a harlot-red trim. His shoulders slump as he relaxes, and he turns slowly to face me once again. “Those are the boundaries,” he says quietly, his eyes dark and pupils dilated . . . from fear? From lust? I want to hurl myself at him, but I restrain myself and gaze at him in wonder. “I can live with those. Right now I want to launch myself at you,” I whisper. He gives me a wicked smile and holds out his hands, a gesture of supplication. “Well, Miss Steele, I’m all yours.” I squeal with childish delight and catapult myself into his arms, knocking him flat. He twists, letting out a boyish laugh filled with relief that the ordeal is over. Somehow, I end up beneath him on the bed. “Now, about that rain check,” he breathes and his “Now, about that rain check,” he breathes and his mouth claims mine once more. My hands fist in his hair while my mouth is feverish against Christian’s, consuming him, relishing the feel of his tongue against mine. And he’s the same, devouring me. It’s hea一venly. Suddenly he drags me up and grasps the hem of my Tshirt, whipping it over my head and throwing it on the floor. “I want to feel you,” he says greedily against my mouth as his hands move behind me to undo my bra. In one smooth move, it’s off and he pitches it aside. smooth move, it’s off and he pitches it aside. He pushes me back down onto the bed, pressing me into the mattress, and his mouth and hand move to my breasts. My fingers curl into his hair as he takes one of my nipples between his lips and tugs hard. I cry out as the sensation sweeps through my body, spikes, and tightens all the muscles around my groin. “Yes, baby, let me hear you,” he murmurs against my overheated skin. Boy, I want him inside me, now. With his mouth, he toys with my nipple, pulling at it, making me squirm and writhe and yearn for him. I sense his longing mixed with— what? Veneration. It’s as if he’s worshipping me. He teases me with his fingers, my nipple growing hard and elongating under his skillful touch. His hand moves to my jeans, and he deftly undoes the button, tugs the zipper down, and slips his hand inside my panties, sliding his fingers against my sex. His breath hisses out as his finger glides into me. I push my pelvis up into the heel of his hand, and he responds, my pelvis up into the heel of his hand, and he responds, rubbing against me. “Oh, baby,” he breathes as he hovers over me, staring intently into my eyes. “You’re so wet.” His voice is filled with wonder. “I want you,” I murmur. His mouth joins with mine again, and I feel his hungry desperation, his need for me. This is new—it’s never been like this except perhaps when I came back from Georgia—and his words from earlier drift back to me . . . I need to know we’re okay. This is the only way I know how. The thought unra一vels me. To know that I ha一ve such an effect on him, that I can offer him so much solace, doing this—my inner goddess purrs with pure pleasure. He sits up, grasps the hem of my jeans, and tugs them off, followed by my panties. Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he stands, takes a foil packet out of his pocket, and tosses it at me, then removes his jeans and boxers in one swift motion. I rip the packet open greedily, and when he lies beside me again, I slowly roll the condom on to him. He grabs both my hands and rolls on to his back. “You. On top,” he orders, pulling me astride him. “I want to see you.” Oh. He guides me, and hesitantly I ease myself down onto him. He closes his eyes and flexes his hips to meet me, filling me, stretching me, his mouth forming a perfect O as he exhales. Oh, that feels so good—possessing him, possessing me. He holds my hands, and I don’t know if it’s to steady me or keep me from touching him, even though I ha一ve my road map. “You feel so good,” he murmurs. I rise again, heady with the power I ha一ve over him, watching Christian Grey slowly coming apart beneath me. He lets go of my hands and grabs my hips, and I place my hands on his arms. He thrusts into me sharply, causing me hands on his arms. He thrusts into me sharply, causing me to cry out. “That’s right, baby, feel me,” he says, his voice strained. I tip my head back and do exactly that. This is what he does so well. I move—countering his rhythm in perfect symmetry— numbing all thought and reason. I am just sensation lost in this void of pleasure. Up and down . . . again and again . . . Oh yes . . . Opening my eyes, I stare down at him, my breathing ragged, and he’s staring back at me, eyes blazing. “My Ana,” he mouths. “Yes,” I rasp. “Always.” He groans loudly, closing his eyes again, tipping his head back. Oh my . . . Seeing Christian undone is enough to seal my fate, and I come audibly, exhaustingly, spinning down and around, collapsing on top of him. “Oh, baby,” he groans as he finds his release, holding me still and letting go. me still and letting go. My head is on his chest in the no-go area, my cheek nestled against the springy hair on his sternum. I am panting, glowing, and I resist the urge to pucker my lips and kiss him. I just lie on top of him, catching my breath. He smoothes my hair, and his hand runs down my back, caressing me as his breathing calms. “You are so beautiful.” I lift my head to gaze at him, my expression skeptical. He frowns in response and sits up quickly, taking me by surprise, his arm sweeping round to hold me in place. I clutch his biceps as we are nose to nose. “You. Are. Beautiful,” he says again, his tone emphatic. “And you’re amazingly sweet sometimes.” I kiss him gently. He lifts me and eases out of me. I wince as he does. Leaning forward, he kisses me softly. “You ha一ve no idea how attractive you are, do you?” I flush. Why’s he going on about this? “All those boys pursuing you—that isn’t enough of a clue?” “Boys? What boys?” “You want the list?” Christian frowns. “The photographer, he’s crazy about you, that boy in the hardware store, your roommate’s older brother. Your boss,” he adds bitterly. “Oh, Christian, that’s just not true.” “Trust me. They want you. They want what’s mine.” He pulls me against him, and I lift my arms to his shoulders, my hands in his hair, regarding him with amusement. “Mine,” he repeats, his eyes glowing possessively. “Yes, yours.” I reassure him, smiling. He looks mollified, and I feel perfectly comfortable naked in his lap on a bed in the full light of a Saturday afternoon. Who would ha一ve thought? The lipstick marks remain on his would ha一ve thought? The lipstick marks remain on his exquisite body. I note some smears on the duvet cover though, and wonder briefly what Mrs. Jones will make of them. “The line is still intact,” I murmur and bra一vely trace the mark on his shoulder with my index finger. He stiffens, blinking suddenly. “I want to go exploring.” He regards me skeptically. “The apartment?” “No. I was thinking of the treasure map that we’ve drawn on you.” My fingers itch to touch him. His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he blinks with uncertainty. I rub my nose against his. “And what would that entail exactly, Miss Steele?” I lift my hand from his shoulder and run my fingertips down his face. “I just want to touch you everywhere I’m allowed.” Christian catches my index finger in his teeth, biting down gently. “Ow,” I protest and he grins, a low growl coming from “Ow,” I protest and he grins, a low growl coming from his throat. “Okay,” he says, releasing my finger, but his voice is laced with apprehension. “Wait.” He leans behind me, lifting me again, and removes his condom, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor beside the bed. “I hate those things. I’ve a good mind to call Dr. Greene around to give you a shot.” “You think the top ob-gyn in Seattle is going to come running?” “I can be very persuasive,” he murmurs, hooking my hair behind my ear. “Franco’s done a great job on your hair. I like these layers.” What? “Stop changing the subject.” He shifts me back so I’m straddling him, leaning on his propped-up knees, my feet on either side of his hips. He leans back on his arms. “Touch away,” he says without humor. He looks nervous, but he’s trying to hide it. Keeping my eyes on his, I reach down and trace my finger underneath the lipstick line, across his finely sculptured abdominal muscles. He flinches and I stop. “I don’t ha一ve to,” I whisper. “No, it’s fine. Just takes some . . . readjustment on my part. No one’s touched me for a long time,” he murmurs. “Mrs. Robinson?” The words pop unbidden out of my mouth, and amazingly, I manage to keep all bitterness and rancor out of my voice. He nods, his discomfort obvious. “I don’t want to talk about her. It will sour your good mood.” “I can handle it.” “No, you can’t, Ana. You see red whenever I mention her. My past is my past. It’s a fact. I can’t change it. I’m lucky that you don’t ha一ve one, because it would drive me crazy if you did.” I frown at him, but I don’t want to fight. “Drive you crazy? More than you are already?” I smile, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between us. His lips twitch. “Crazy for you,” he whispers. His lips twitch. “Crazy for you,” he whispers. My heart swells with joy. “Shall I call Dr. Flynn?” “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says dryly. Shifting back so he drops his legs, I place my fingers back on his stomach and let them drift across his skin. He stills once more. “I like touching you.” My fingers skate down to his na一vel then southward along his happy, happy trail. His lips part as his breathing changes, his eyes darken and his erection stirs and twitches beneath me. Holy cow. Round two. “Again?” I murmur. He smiles. “Oh yes, Miss Steele, again.” What a delicious way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I stand beneath the shower, absentmindedly washing myself, careful not to wet my tied-back hair, contemplating the last couple of hours. Christian and vanilla seem to be going couple of hours. Christian and vanilla seem to be going well. He’s revealed so much today. It’s staggering, trying to assimilate all the information and to reflect on what I’ve learned: his salary details—Whoa, he’s stinking rich, and for someone so young; it’s just extraordinary —and the dossiers he has on me and on all his brunette submissives. I wonder if they are all in that filing cabinet? My subconscious purses her lips at me and shakes her head—don’t even go there. I frown. Just a quick peek? And there’s Leila—with a gun, potentially, somewhere —and her crap taste in music still on his iPod. But even worse, Mrs. Paedo Robinson, I cannot wrap my head around her, and I don’t want to. I don’t want her to be a shimmering-haired specter in our relationship. He’s right, I do go off the deep end when I think of her, so perhaps it’s best if I don’t. I step out of the shower and dry myself, and I’m suddenly seized by unexpected anger. But who wouldn’t go off the deep end? What normal, But who wouldn’t go off the deep end? What normal, sane person would do that to a fifteen-year-old boy? How much has she contributed to his fuckedupness? I don’t understand her. And worse still, he says she helped him. How? I think of his scars, the stark physical embodiment of a horrific childhood and a sickening reminder of what mental scars he must bear. My sweet, sad Fifty Shades. He’s said such loving things today. He’s crazy for me. Staring at my reflection, I smile at the memory of his words, my heart brimming once more, and my face transforms with a ridiculous smile. Perhaps we can make this work. But how long will he want to do this without wanting to beat the crap out of me because I cross some arbitrary line? My smile dissolves. This is what I don’t know. This is the shadow that hangs over us. Kinky fuckery, yes, I can do that, but more? My subconscious stares at me blankly, for once offering no snarky words of wisdom. I head back to my bedroom to dress. Christian is downstairs getting ready, doing whatever he’s doing, so I ha一ve the bedroom to myself. As well as all the dresses in the closet, I ha一ve drawers full of new underwear. I select a black bustier corset creation with a price tag of five hundred forty dollars. It has silver trim like filigree and the briefest of panties to match. Thigh-high stockings, too, in a natural color, so fine, pure silk. Wow, they feel . . . slinky . . . and kind of hot . . . yeah. I am reaching for the dress when Christian enters unannounced. Whoa, you could knock! He stands immobilized, staring at me, gray eyes glimmering, hungrily. I blush crimson everywhere, it feels. He is wearing a white shirt and black suit pants, the neck of his shirt is open. I can see the lipstick line still in place, and he’s still staring. “Can I help you, Mr. Grey? I assume there is some purpose to your visit other than to gawk mindlessly at me.” “I am rather enjoying my mindless gawk, thank you, Miss Steele,” he murmurs darkly, stepping further into the room and drinking me in. “Remind me to send a personal room and drinking me in. “Remind me to send a personal note of thanks to Caroline Acton.” I frown. Who the hell is she? “The personal shopper at Neiman’s,” he says, spookily answering my unspoken question. “Oh.” “I’m quite distracted.” “I can see that. What do you want, Christian?” I give him my no-nonsense stare. He retaliates with his crooked smile and pulls the silver ball egg-things from his pocket, stopping me in my tracks. Holy shit! He wants to spank me? Now? Why? “It’s not what you think,” he says quickly. “Enlighten me,” I whisper. “I thought you could wear these tonight.” And the implications of that sentence hang between us as the idea sinks in. “To this event?” I’m shocked. He nods slowly, his eyes darkening. Oh my. Oh my. “Will you spank me later?” “No.” For a moment, I feel a tiny fleeting stab of disappointment. He chuckles. “You want me to?” I swallow. I just don’t know. “Well, rest assured I am not going to touch you like that, not even if you beg me.” Oh! This is news. “Do you want to play this game?” he continues, holding up the balls. “You can always take them out if it’s too much.” I gaze at him. He looks so wickedly tempting— unkempt, recently fucked hair, dark eyes dancing with erotic thoughts, that beautiful sculptured mouth, lips raised in a sexy, amused smile. “Okay,” I acquiesce softly. Hell, yes! My inner goddess has found her voice and is shouting from the rooftops. “Good girl,” Christian grins. “Come here, and I’ll put them in, once you’ve put your shoes on.” My shoes? I turn and glance at the dove gray suede stilettos that match the dress I’ve chosen to wear. Humor him! my inner goddess barks at me. He holds out his hand to support me while I step into the Christian Louboutin shoes, a steal at three-thousand two hundred ninety-five dollars. I must be at least five inches taller now. He leads me to the bedside and doesn’t sit, but walks over to the only chair in the room. Picking it up, he carries it over and places it in front of me. “When I nod, you bend down and hold on to the chair. Understand?” His voice is husky. “Yes.” “Good. Now open your mouth,” he orders, his voice still low. I do as I’m told, thinking that he’s going to put the balls in my mouth again to lubricate them. No, he slips his index finger in. finger in. Oh . . . “Suck,” he says. I reach up and clasp his hand, holding him steady, and do as I’m told—see, I can be obedient, when I want. He tastes of soap . . . hmm. I suck hard, and I’m rewarded when his eyes widen and his lips part as he inhales. I’m not going to need any lubricant at this rate. He puts the balls in his mouth as I fellate his finger, twirling my tongue round it. When he tries to withdraw it, I clamp my teeth down. He grins then shakes his head, admonishing me, so I let go. He nods, and I bend down and grasp the sides of the chair. He moves my panties to one side and very slowly slides a finger into me, circling leisurely, so I feel him, on all sides. I can’t help the moan that escapes from my lips. He withdraws his finger briefly and with tender care, inserts the balls one at a time, pushing them deep inside me. Once they are in position, he smoothes my panties back into place and kisses my backside. Running his hands back into place and kisses my backside. Running his hands up each of my legs from ankle to thigh, he gently kisses the top of each thigh where my hold-ups finish. “You ha一ve fine, fine legs, Miss Steele,” he murmurs. Standing, he grasps my hips and pulls my behind against him so I feel his erection. “Maybe I’ll ha一ve you this way when we get home, Anastasia. You can stand now.” I feel giddy, beyond aroused as the weight of the balls push and pull inside me. Leaning down from behind me Christian kisses my shoulder. “I bought these for you to wear to last Saturday’s gala.” He puts his arm around me and holds out his hand. In his palm rests a small red box with Cartier inscribed on the lid. “But you left me, so I never had the opportunity to give them to you.” Oh! “This is my second chance,” he murmurs, his voice stiff with some unnamed emotion. He’s nervous. Tentatively, I reach for the box and open it. Inside shines a pair of drop earrings. Each has four diamonds, one at the base, then a gap, then three perfectly spaced diamonds hanging one after the other. They’re beautiful, simple, and classic. What I would choose myself, if I were ever given the opportunity to shop at Cartier. “They’re lovely,” I whisper, and because they are second-chance earrings, I love them. “Thank you.” He relaxes against me as the tension lea一ves his body, and he kisses my shoulder again. “You’re wearing the silver satin dress?” he asks. “Yes? Is that okay?” “Of course. I’ll let you get ready.” He heads out the door without a backward glance. I ha一ve entered an alternate universe. The young woman staring back at me looks worthy of a red carpet. Her strapless, floor-length, silver satin gown is simply stunning. Maybe I’ll write to Caroline Acton myself. It’s fitted and flatters what little curves I ha一ve. flatters what little curves I ha一ve. My hair falls in soft wa一ves around my face, spilling over my shoulders to my breasts. I tuck one side behind my ear, revealing my second-chance earrings. I ha一ve kept my makeup to a minimum, a natural look. Eyeliner, mascara, a little pink blush, and pale pink lipstick. I don’t really need the blush. I am slightly flushed from the constant movement of the silver balls. Yes, they’ll guarantee I ha一ve some color in my cheeks tonight. Shaking my head at the audacity of Christian’s erotic ideas, I lean down to collect my satin wrap and silver clutch purse and go in search of my Fifty Shades. He is talking to Taylor and three other men in the hallway, his back to me. Their surprised, appreciative expressions alert Christian to my presence. He turns as I stand and wait awkwardly. Holy cow! My mouth dries. He looks stunning . . . Black dinner suit, black bow tie, and his expression as he gazes at me is one of awe. He strolls toward me and kisses my hair. kisses my hair. “Anastasia. You look breathtaking.” I flush at this compliment in front of Taylor and the other men. “A glass of champagne before we go?” “Please,” I murmur, far too quickly. Christian nods to Taylor who heads into the foyer with his three cohorts. In the great room, Christian retrieves a bottle of champagne from the fridge. “Security team?” I ask. “Close protection. They’re under Taylor’s control. He’s trained in that, too.” Christian hands me a champagne flute. “He’s very versatile.” “Yes, he is.” Christian smiles. “You look lovely, Anastasia. Cheers.” He raises his glass, and I clink it with mine. The champagne is a pale rose color. It tastes deliciously crisp and light. “How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes heated. “Fine, thank you.” I smile sweetly, giving nothing away, knowing full well he’s referring to the silver balls. He smirks at me. “Here, you’re going to need this.” He hands me a large velvet pouch that was resting on the kitchen island. “Open it,” he says between sips of champagne. Intrigued, I reach into the bag and pull out an intricate silver masquerade mask with cobalt blue feathers in a plume crowning the top. “It’s a masked ball,” he states matter-of-factly. “I see.” The mask is beautiful. A silver ribbon is threaded around the edges and exquisite silver filigree is etched around the eyes. “This will show off your beautiful eyes, Anastasia.” I grin at him, shyly. “Are you wearing one?” “Of course. They’re very liberating in a way,” he adds, raising an eyebrow, and he smirks. Oh. This is going to be fun. “Come. I want to show you something.” Holding out “Come. I want to show you something.” Holding out his hand, he leads me out into the hallway and to a door beside the stairs. He opens it, revealing a large room roughly the same size as his playroom, which must be directly above us. This one is filled with books. Wow, a library, every wall crammed floor to ceiling. In the center is a full-size billiard table illuminated by a long triangularprism- shaped Tiffany lamp. “You ha一ve a library!” I squeak in awe, overwhelmed with excitement. “Yes, the balls room as Elliot calls it. The apartment is quite spacious. I realized today, when you mentioned exploring, that I’ve never given you a tour. We don’t ha一ve time now, but I thought I’d show you this room, and maybe challenge you to a game of billiards in the not-toodistant future.” I grin at him. “Bring it on.” I secretly hug myself with glee. José and I bonded over pool. We’ve been playing for the last three years. I am ace with a cue. José has been a good teacher. years. I am ace with a cue. José has been a good teacher. “What?” Christian asks, amused. Oh! I really must stop expressing every emotion I feel the instant I feel it, I scold myself. “Nothing,” I say quickly. Christian narrows his eyes. “Well, maybe Doctor Flynn can uncover your secrets. You’ll meet him this evening.” “The expensive charlatan?” Holy shit. “The very same. He’s dying to meet you.” Christian takes my hand and gently skims his thumb across my knuckles as we sit in the back of the Audi heading north. I squirm, and feel the sensation in my groin. I resist the urge to moan, as Taylor is in the front, not wearing his iPod, with one of the security guys whose name I think is Sawyer. I am beginning to feel a dull, pleasurable ache deep in my belly, caused by the balls. Idly, I wonder, how long will I be able to manage without some, um . . . relief? I cross my legs. As I do, something that’s been niggling me in the back of my mind suddenly surfaces. “Where did you get the lipstick?” I ask Christian quietly. He smirks at me and points toward the front. “Taylor,” he mouths. I burst out laughing. “Oh.” And stop quickly—the balls. I bite my lip. Christian smiles at me, his eyes gleaming wickedly. He knows exactly what he’s doing, sexy beast that he is. “Relax,” he breathes. “If it’s too much . . .” His voice trails off, and he gently kisses each knuckle in turn, then gently sucks the tip of my little finger. Now I know he’s doing this on purpose. I close my eyes as dark desire unfolds throughout my body. I surrender briefly to the sensation, my muscles clenching deep inside me. Oh my. When I open my eyes again, Christian is regarding me When I open my eyes again, Christian is regarding me closely, a dark prince. It must be the dinner jacket and bow tie, but he looks older, sophisticated, a devastatingly handsome roué with licentious intent. He simply takes my breath away. I’m in his sexual thrall, and if I’m to believe him, he’s in mine. The thought brings a smile to my face, and his answering grin is blinding. “So what can we expect at this event?” “Oh, the usual stuff,” Christian says breezily. “Not usual for me,” I remind him. Christian smiles fondly and kisses my hand again. “Lots of people flashing their cash. Auction, raffle, dinner, dancing—my mother knows how to throw a party.” He smiles and for the first time all day, I allow myself to feel a little excited about this party. There is a line of expensive cars heading up the driveway of the Grey mansion. Long, pale pink paper lanterns hang over the drive, and as we inch closer in the Audi, I can see they are everywhere. In the early evening Audi, I can see they are everywhere. In the early evening light, they look magical, as if we’re entering an enchanted kingdom. I glance at Christian. How suitable for my prince —and my childish excitement blooms, eclipsing all other feelings. “Masks on,” Christian grins, and as he dons his simple black mask, my prince becomes something darker, more sensual. All I can see of his face is his beautiful chiseled mouth and strong jaw. Holy fuck . . . My heartbeat lurches at the sight of him. I fasten my mask and grin at him, ignoring the hunger deep in my body. Taylor pulls into the driveway, and a valet opens Christian’s door. Sawyer leaps out to open mine. “Ready?” Christian asks. “As I’ll ever be.” “You look beautiful, Anastasia.” He kisses my hand and exits the car. A dark green carpet runs along the lawn to one side of the house, leading to the impressive grounds at the rear. Christian has a protective arm around me, resting his hand on my waist, as we follow the green carpet with a steady stream of Seattle’s elite dressed in their finery and wearing all manner of masks the lanterns lighting the way. Two photographers marshal guests to pose for pictures against the backdrop of an ivy-strewn arbor. “Mr. Grey!” one of the photographers calls. Christian nods in acknowledgement and pulls me close as we pose quickly for a photo. How do they know it’s him? His trademark, unruly copper hair no doub一t. “Two photographers?” I ask Christian. “One is from the Seattle Times; the other is for a souvenir. We’ll be able to buy a copy later.” Oh, my picture in the press again. Leila briefly enters my mind. This is how she found me, posing with Christian. The thought is unsettling, though it’s comforting that I am unrecognizable beneath my mask. At the end of the line, white-suited servers hold trays of glasses brimming with champagne, and I’m grateful of glasses brimming with champagne, and I’m grateful when Christian passes me a glass—effectively distracting me from my dark thoughts. We approach a large white pergola hung with smaller versions of the paper lanterns. Beneath it, shines a black and white checkered dance floor surrounded by a low fence with entrances on three sides. At each entrance stand two elaborate ice sculptures of swans. The fourth side of the pergola is occupied by a stage where a string quartet is playing softly, a haunting, ethereal piece I don’t recognize. The stage looks set for a big band but as there’s no sign of the musicians yet. I figure this must be for later. Taking my hand, Christian leads me between swans onto the dance floor where the other guests are congregating, chatting over glasses of champagne. Toward the shoreline stands an enormous marquee, open on the side nearest to us so I can glimpse the formally arranged tables and chairs. There are so many! “How many people are coming?” I ask Christian, thrown by the scale of the marquee. thrown by the scale of the marquee. “I think about three hundred. You’ll ha一ve to ask my mother.” He smiles down at me, and maybe it’s because I can only see his smile that lights up his face, but my inner goddess swoons. “Christian!” A young woman appears out of the throng and throws her arms around his neck, and immediately I know it’s Mia. She’s dressed in a sleek, pale pink, full-length chiffon gown with a stunning, delicately detailed Venetian mask to match. She looks amazing. And for a moment, I ha一ve never felt so grateful for the dress Christian has given me. “Ana! Oh, darling, you look gorgeous!” She gives me a quick hug. “You must come and meet my friends. None of them can believe that Christian finally has a girlfriend.” I shoot a quick panicked glance at Christian, who shrugs in a resigned I-know-she’s-impossible-I-had-tolive- with-her-for-years way, and let Mia lead me over to a group of four young women, all expensively attired and impeccably groomed. Mia makes hasty introductions. Three of them are sweet and kind, but Lily, I think her name is, regards me sourly from beneath her red mask. “Of course we all thought Christian was gay,” she says snidely, concealing her rancor with a large, fake smile. Mia pouts at her. “Lily, beha一ve yourself. It’s obvious he has excellent taste in women. He was waiting for the right one to come along, and it wasn’t you!” Lily blushes the same color as her mask, as do I. Could this be any more uncomfortable? “Ladies, if I could claim my date back, please?” Snaking his arm around my waist, Christian pulls me to his side. All four women flush, grin and fidget, his dazzling smile doing what it always does. Mia glances at me and rolls her eyes, and I ha一ve to laugh. “Lovely to meet you,” I say as he drags me away. “Thank you,” I mouth at Christian when we’re some distance away. “I saw that Lily was with Mia. She is one nasty piece “I saw that Lily was with Mia. She is one nasty piece of work.” “She likes you,” I mutter dryly. He shudders. “Well, the feeling is not mutual. Come, let me introduce you to some people.” I spend the next half hour in a whirlwind of introductions. I meet two Hollywood actors, two more CEOs, and several eminent physicians. Holy shit . . . there is no way I am going to remember everyone’s name. Christian keeps me close at his side, and I’m grateful. Frankly, the wealth, the glamour, and the sheer la一vish scale of the event intimidates me. I ha一ve never been to anything like this in my life.