Part II 8

“You’re going to unman me, Ana,” he whispers suddenly, breaking away from me and kneeling up. He briskly pulls down his jeans and hands me a foil packet. “You want me, baby, and I sure as hell want you. You “You want me, baby, and I sure as hell want you. You know what to do.” With anxious, dexterous fingers, I rip open the foil and unroll the condom over him. He grins down at me, his mouth open, eyes misty gray and full of carnal promise. Leaning over me, he rubs his nose against mine, his eyes closed, and deliciously, slowly, he enters me. I grasp his arms and tilt my chin up, reveling in the exquisitely full feeling of his possession. He runs his teeth along my chin, eases back, and then slides into me again— so slow, so sweet, so tender—his body pressing down on me, his elbows and his hands on either side of my face. “You make me forget everything. You are the best therapy,” he breathes, moving at an achingly leisurely pace, sa一voring every inch of me. “Please, Christian—faster,” I murmur, wanting more, now. “Oh no, baby. I need this slow.” He kisses me sweetly, gently biting my lower lip and absorbing my soft moans. I move my hands into his hair and surrender myself to I move my hands into his hair and surrender myself to his rhythm as slowly and surely my body climbs higher and higher and plateaus, then falls hard and fast as I come around him. “Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he lets go, my name a benediction on his lips as he finds his release. His head rests on my belly, his arms wrapped around me. My fingers forage in his unruly hair, and we lie like this for I don’t know how long. It’s so late and I am so tired, but I just want to enjoy the quiet serene after-glow of making love with Christian Grey, because that’s what we’ve done, gentle, sweet lovemaking. He’s come a long way, as ha一ve I, in such a short time. It’s almost too much to absorb. With all the fucked-up stuff, I am losing sight of his simple, honest journey with me. “I will never get enough of you. Don’t lea一ve me,” he murmurs and kisses my belly. murmurs and kisses my belly. “I’m not going anywhere, Christian, and I seem to remember that I wanted to kiss your belly,” I grumble sleepily. He grins against my skin. “Nothing stopping you now baby.” “I don’t think I can move I’m so tired.” Christian sighs and shifts reluctantly, coming to lie beside me with his head on his elbow and dragging the covers over us. He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing, warm, loving. “Sleep now, baby.” He kisses my hair and wraps his arm around me and I drift. When I open my eyes, light is filling the room, making me blink. My head is fuzzy from lack of sleep. Where am I? Oh—the hotel . . . “Hi,” Christian murmurs, smiling fondly at me. He’s lying beside me, fully dressed, on top of the bed. How long has he been here? Has he been studying me? Suddenly, I feel incredibly shy as my face heats under his steady gaze. “Hi,” I murmur, grateful that I am lying on my front. “How long ha一ve you been watching me?” “I could watch you sleep for hours, Anastasia. But I’ve only been here about five minutes.” He leans over and kisses me gently. “Dr. Greene will be here shortly.” “Oh.” I’d forgotten about Christian’s inappropriate intervention. “Did you sleep well?” he inquires mildly. “Certainly seemed like it to me, with all that snoring.” Oh, playful teasing Fifty. “I do not snore!” I pout petulantly. “No. You don’t.” He grins at me. The faint line of red lipstick is still visible around his neck. “Did you shower?” “No. Waiting for you.” “Oh . . . okay.” “What time is it?” “What time is it?” “Ten fifteen. I didn’t ha一ve the heart to wake you earlier.” “You told me you didn’t ha一ve a heart at all.” He smiles, sadly but doesn’t answer. “Breakfast is here —pancakes and bacon for you. Come, get up, I’m getting lonely out here.” He swats me sharply on my behind, making me jump, and rises from the bed. Hmm . . . Christian’s version of warm affection. As I stretch, I’m aware I ache all over . . . no doub一t a result of all the sex, dancing, and teetering in expensive high-heeled shoes. I stagger out of bed and make my way into the sumptuously appointed bathroom while going over the events of the previous day in my mind. When I come out, I don one of the over-fluffy bathrobes that hang on a brass peg in the bathroom. Leila—the girl who looks like me—that’s the most startling image my brain conjures for conjecture, that and her eerie presence in Christian’s bedroom. What did she want? Me? Christian? To do what? And why the fuck has want? Me? Christian? To do what? And why the fuck has she wrecked my car? Christian said I would ha一ve another Audi, like all his submissives. The thought is unwelcome. Since I was so generous with the money he ga一ve me, there’s not a lot I can do. I wander into the main room of the suite—no sign of Christian. I finally locate him in the dining room. I take a seat, grateful for the impressive breakfast laid before me. Christian is reading the Sunday papers and drinking coffee, his breakfast finished. He smiles at me. “Eat up. You’re going to need your strength today,” he teases. “And why is that? You going to lock me in the bedroom?” My inner goddess jerks awake suddenly, all disheveled with a just-fucked look. “Appealing as that idea is, I thought we’d go out today. Get some fresh air.” “Is it safe?” I ask innocently, trying and failing to keep the irony from my voice. Christian’s face falls, and his mouth presses in a line. “Where we’re going, it is. And it’s not a joking matter,” he adds sternly, narrowing his eyes. I flush and stare down at my breakfast. I don’t feel like being scolded after all the drama and such a late night. I eat my breakfast in silence, feeling petulant. My subconscious is shaking her head at me. Fifty doesn’t joke about my safety—I should know this by now. I want to roll my eyes at him, but I refrain. Okay, I’m tired and testy. I had a long day yesterday and not enough sleep. Why, oh why does he get to look as fresh as a daisy? Life is not fair. There’s a knock at the door. “That’ll be the good doctor,” Christian grumbles, obviously still smarting from my irony. He stalks from the table. Can’t we just ha一ve a calm, normal morning? I sigh hea一vily, lea一ving half my breakfast, and get up to greet Doctor Depo-Provera. We’re in the bedroom, and Dr. Greene is staring at me open-mouthed. She’s dressed more casually than last time in a pale pink cashmere twin set and black pants, and her fine blond hair is loose. “And you just stopped taking it? Just like that?” I flush, feeling beyond foolish. “Yes.” Could my voice be any smaller? “You could be pregnant,” she says matter-of-factly. What! The world falls away at my feet. My subconscious collapses on the floor retching, and I think I’m going to be sick, too. No! “Here, go pee in this.” She’s all business today— taking no prisoners. Meekly, I accept the small plastic container she’s offered and wander in a daze into the bathroom. No. No. No. No way . . . No way . . . Please no. No. What will Fifty do? I go pale. He’ll freak. No, please! I whisper a silent prayer. No, please! I whisper a silent prayer. I hand Dr. Greene my sample, and she carefully places a small white stick in it. “When did your period start?” How am I supposed to think about such minutiae when all I can do is stare anxiously at the white stick? “Er . . . Wednesday? Not the one just gone, the one before that. June first.” “And when did you stop taking the pill?” “Sunday. Last Sunday.” She purses her lips. “You should be okay,” she says sharply. “I can tell by your expression that an unplanned pregnancy would not be welcome news. So Medroxyprogesterone is a good idea if you can’t remember to take the pill every day.” She gives me a stern look, and I quail under her authoritative glare. Picking up the white stick, she peers at it. “You’re in the clear. You’ve not ovulated yet, so provided you’ve been taking proper precautions, you shouldn’t be pregnant. Now, let me counsel you about this shot. We discounted it last time because of the side effects, but quite frankly, the side effects of a child are farreaching and go on for years.” She smiles, pleased with herself and her little joke, but I can’t begin to respond— I’m too stunned. Dr. Greene launches into full disclosure mode about side effects, and I sit paralyzed with relief, not listening to a word. I think I’d tolerate any number of strange women standing at the end of my bed rather than confess to Christian that I might be pregnant. “Ana!” Dr. Greene snaps. “Let’s do this thing.” She pulls me out of my reverie, and I willingly roll up my sleeve. Christian closes the door behind her and gazes at me warily. “Everything okay?” he asks. I nod mutely, and he tilts his head to one side, his face tense with concern. “Anastasia, what is it? What did Dr. Greene say?” I shake my head. “You’re good to go in seven days,” I mutter. “Seven days?” “Yes.” “Ana, what’s wrong?” I swallow. “It’s nothing to worry about. Please, Christian, just lea一ve it.” Christian looms in front of me. He grasps my chin, tipping my head back, and stares emphatically into my eyes, trying to decipher my panic. “Tell me,” he snaps insistently. “There’s nothing to tell. I’d like to get dressed.” I pull my chin out of his reach. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frowning at me. “Let’s shower,” he says eventually. “Of course,” I mutter, distracted, and his mouth twists. “Come,” he says sulkily, clasping my hand firmly. He stalks toward the bathroom as I trail behind him. I am not the only one in a bad mood, it seems. Firing up the the only one in a bad mood, it seems. Firing up the shower, Christian quickly strips before turning to me. “I don’t know what’s upset you, or if you’re just badtempered through lack of sleep,” he says while unfastening my robe. “But I want you to tell me. My imagination is running away with me, and I don’t like it.” I roll my eyes at him, and he glares back at me, narrowing his eyes. Shit! Okay . . . here goes. “Dr. Greene scolded me about missing the pill. She said I could be pregnant.” “What?” He pales, and his hands freeze as he gazes at me, suddenly ashen. “But I’m not. She did a test. It was a shock, that’s all. I can’t believe I was that stupid.” He visibly relaxes. “You’re sure you’re not?” “Yes.” He blows out a deep breath. “Good. Yes, I can see that news like that would be very upsetting.” I frown. . . . upsetting? “I was more worried about your reaction.” your reaction.” He furrows his brow at me, puzzled. “My reaction? Well, naturally I’m relieved . . . it would be the height of carelessness and bad manners to knock you up.” “Then maybe we should abstain,” I snap. He gazes at me for a moment, bewildered, as if I’m some kind of science experiment. “You are in a bad temper this morning.” “It was just a shock, that’s all,” I repeat petulantly. Clasping the lapels of my robe, he pulls me into a warm embrace, kisses my hair, and presses my head against his chest. I’m distracted by his chest hair as it tickles my cheek. Oh, if I could just nuzzle him! “Ana, I’m not used to this,” he murmurs. “My natural inclination is to beat it out of you, but I seriously doub一t you want that.” Holy shit. “No, I don’t. This helps.” I hug Christian tighter, and we stand for an age in a strange embrace, Christian naked and me wrapped in a robe. I am once again floored by his honesty. He knows nothing about relationships, and neither do I, except what I’ve learned from him. Well, he’s asked for faith and patience; maybe I should do the same. “Come, let’s shower,” Christian says eventually, releasing me. Stepping back, he peels me out of my robe, and I follow him into the cascading water, holding my face up to the torrent. There’s room for both of us under the gargantuan showerhead. Christian reaches for the shampoo and starts washing his hair. He hands it to me and I follow suit. Oh, this feels good. Closing my eyes, I succumb to the cleansing, warming water. As I rinse off the shampoo, I feel his hands on me, soaping my body: my shoulders, my arms, under my arms, my breasts, my back. Gently he turns me around and pulls me against him as he continues down my body: my stomach, my belly, his skilled fingers between my legs—hmm—my behind. Oh, that feels good and so intimate. He turns me around to face him again. “Here,” he says quietly, handing me the body wash. “I “Here,” he says quietly, handing me the body wash. “I want you to wash off the remains of the lipstick.” My eyes open in a flurry and dart quickly to his. He’s staring at me intently, soaking wet and beautiful, his glorious, bright gray eyes giving nothing away. “Don’t stray far from the line, please,” he mutters tightly. “Okay,” I murmur, trying to absorb the enormity of what he’s just asked me to do—to touch him on the edge of the forbidden zone. I squeeze a small amount of soap on my hand, rub my hands together to create a lather, then place them on his shoulders and gently wash away the line of lipstick on each side. He stills and closes his eyes, his face impassive, but he’s breathing rapidly, and I know it’s not lust but fear. It cuts me to the quick. With trembling fingers, I carefully follow the line down the side of his chest, soaping and rubbing softly, and he swallows, his jaw tense as if his teeth are clenched. Oh! My heart constricts and my throat tightens. Oh no, I’m My heart constricts and my throat tightens. Oh no, I’m going to cry. I stop to add more soap to my hand and feel him relax in front of me. I can’t look up at him. I can’t bear to see his pain—it’s too much. I swallow. “Ready?” I murmur and the tension is loud and clear in my voice. “Yes,” he whispers, his voice husky, laced with fear. Gently, I place my hands on either side of his chest, and he freezes again. It’s too much. I am overwhelmed by his trust in me— overwhelmed by his fear, by the damage done to this beautiful, fallen, flawed man. Tears pool in my eyes and spill down my face, lost in the water from the shower. Oh, Christian! Who did this to you? His diaphragm moves rapidly with each shallow breath, his body is rigid, tension radiating off him in wa一ves as my hands move along the line, erasing it. Oh, if I could just erase your pain, I would—I’d do anything—and I want nothing more than to kiss every single scar I see, to kiss away those hideous years of neglect. But I know I can’t, and my tears fall unbidden down my cheeks. “No. Please, don’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice anguished as he wraps me tightly in his arms. “Please don’t cry for me.” And I burst into full-blown sobs, burying my face against his neck, as I think of a little boy lost in a sea of fear and pain, frightened, neglected, abused—hurt beyond all endurance. Pulling away, he clasps my head with both hands, tilts it backward, and leans down to kiss me. “Don’t cry, Ana, please,” he murmurs against my mouth. “It was long ago. I am aching for you to touch me, but I just can’t bear it. It’s too much. Please, please don’t cry.” “I want to touch you, too. More than you’ll ever know. To see you like this . . . so hurt and afraid, Christian . . . it wounds me deeply. I love you so much.” He runs his thumb across my bottom lip. “I know. I know,” he whispers. know,” he whispers. “You’re very easy to love. Don’t you see that?” “No, baby, I don’t.” “You are. And I do and so does your family. So do Elena and Leila—they ha一ve a strange way of showing it— but they do. You are worthy.” “Stop.” He puts his finger over my lips and shakes his head, an agonized expression on his face. “I can’t hear this. I’m nothing, Anastasia. I’m a husk of a man. I don’t ha一ve a heart.” “Yes, you do. And I want it, all of it. You’re a good man, Christian, a really good man. Don’t ever doub一t that. Look at what you’ve done . . . what you’ve achieved,” I sob. “Look what you’ve done for me . . . what you’ve turned your back on, for me,” I whisper. “I know. I know how you feel about me.” He gazes down at me, his eyes wide and panicked, and all we can hear is the steady stream of water as it flows over us in the shower. “You love me,” I whisper. “You love me,” I whisper. His eyes widen further and his mouth opens. He takes a huge breath as if winded. He looks tortured—vulnerable. “Yes,” he whispers. “I do.” I cannot contain my jubilation. My subconscious gapes at me open-mouthed—in stunned silence—and I wear a face-splitting grin as I gaze longingly up into Christian’s wide, tortured eyes. His soft sweet confession calls to me on some deep elemental level as if he’s seeking absolution; his three small words are my manna from hea一ven. Tears prick my eyes once more. Yes, you do. I know you do. It’s such a liberating realization as if a crushing millstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, fucked-up millstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, fucked-up man, whom I once thought of as my romantic hero— strong, solitary, mysterious—possesses all these traits, but he’s also fragile and alienated and full of self-loathing. My heart swells with joy but also pain for his suffering. And I know in this moment that my heart is big enough for both of us. I hope it’s big enough for both of us. I reach up to clasp his dear, dear, handsome face and kiss him gently, pouring all the love I feel into this one sweet connection. I want to devour him beneath the hot cascading water. Christian groans and encircles me in his arms, holding me as if I am the air he needs to breathe. “Oh, Ana,” he whispers hoarsely, “I want you, but not here.” “Yes,” I murmur fervently into his mouth. He switches off the shower and takes my hand, leading me out and enfolding me in my bathrobe. Grabbing a towel, he wraps it around his waist, then takes a smaller one and begins to gently dry my hair. When he’s satisfied, he swathes the towel around my head so that in the large he swathes the towel around my head so that in the large mirror over the sink I look like I’m wearing a veil. He’s standing behind me and our eyes meet in the mirror, smoldering gray to bright blue, and it gives me an idea. “Can I reciprocate?” I ask. He nods, though his brow creases. I reach for another towel from the plethora of fluffy towels stacked beside the vanity, and standing before him on tiptoe, I start to dry his hair. He bends forward, making the process easier, and as I catch the occasional glimpse of his face beneath the towel, I see he’s grinning at me like a small boy. “It’s a long time since anyone did this to me. A very long time,” he murmurs, but then frowns. “In fact I don’t think anyone’s ever dried my hair.” “Surely Grace did? Dried your hair when you were young?” He shakes his head, hampering my progress. “No. She respected my boundaries from day one, even though it was painful for her. I was very self-sufficient as a child,” he says quietly. I feel a swift kick in the ribs as I think of a small copper-haired child looking after himself because no one else cares. The thought is sickeningly sad. But I don’t want my melancholy to hijack this blossoming intimacy. “Well, I’m honored,” I gently tease him. “That you are, Miss Steele. Or maybe it is I who am honored.” “That goes without saying, Mr. Grey,” I respond tartly. I finish with his hair, reach for another small towel, and move round to stand behind him. Our eyes meet again in the mirror, and his watchful, questioning look prompts me to speak. “Can I try something?” After a moment, he nods. Warily, and very gently, I run the soft cloth down his left arm, soaking up the water that has beaded on his skin. Glancing up, I check his expression in the mirror. He blinks at me, his eyes burning into mine. I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips part I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips part infinitesimally. I dry his other arm in a similar fashion, trailing kisses around his bicep, and a small smile plays on his lips. Carefully, I wipe his back beneath the faint lipstick line, which is still visible. I hadn’t gotten round to washing his back. “Whole back,” he says quietly, “with the towel.” He takes a sharp breath and screws his eyes closed as I briskly dry him, careful to touch him only with the towel. He has such an attractive back—broad, sculptured shoulders, all the small muscles clearly defined. He really looks after himself. The beautiful sight is marred only by his scars. With difficulty, I ignore them and suppress my overwhelming urge to kiss each and every one. When I finish he exhales, and I lean forward and reward him with a kiss on his shoulder. Putting my arms around him, I dry his stomach. Our eyes meet once more in the mirror, his expression amused but wary, too. “Hold this.” I hand him a smaller face towel, and he “Hold this.” I hand him a smaller face towel, and he gives me a bemused frown. “Remember in Georgia? You made me touch myself using your hands,” I add. His face darkens, but I ignore his reaction and put my arms around him. Gazing at us both in the mirror—his beauty, his nakedness, and me with my covered hair—we look almost Biblical, as if from an Old Testament baroque painting. I reach for his hand, which he willingly entrusts to me, and guide it up to his chest to dry it, sweeping the towel slowly, awkwardly across his body. Once, twice—then again. He’s completely immobilized, rigid with tension, except for his eyes, which follow my hand clasped around his. My subconscious looks on with approval, her normally pursed mouth smiling, and I am the supreme puppet master. His anxiety ripples off his back in wa一ves, but he maintains eye contact, though his eyes are darker, more deadly. Showing their secrets maybe. Is this a place I want to go? Do I want to confront his demons? “I think you’re dry now,” I whisper as I drop my hand, gazing into the gray depths of his eyes in the mirror. His breathing is accelerated, lips parted. “I need you, Anastasia,” he whispers. “I need you, too.” And as I say the words, I am struck how true they are. I cannot imagine being without Christian, ever. “Let me love you,” he says hoarsely. “Yes,” I answer, and turning, he hauls me into his arms, his lips seeking mine, beseeching me, worshipping me, cherishing me . . . loving me. He trails his fingers up and down my spine as we gaze at each other, basking in our postcoital bliss, replete. We lie together, me on my front hugging my pillow, he on his side, and I am treasuring his tender touch. I know that right now he needs to touch me. I am a balm for him, a source of solace, and how could I deny him that? I feel exactly the same about him. “So you can be gentle,” I murmur. “Hmm . . . so it would seem, Miss Steele.” I grin. “You weren’t particularly the first time we . . . um, did this.” “No?” He smirks. “When, I robbed you of your virtue.” “I don’t think you robbed me,” I mutter haughtily —Jeez, I’m not a helpless maiden. “I think my virtue was offered up pretty freely and willingly. I wanted you, too, and if I remember correctly, I rather enjoyed myself.” I smile shyly at him, biting my lip. “So did I if I recall, Miss Steele. We aim to please,” he drawls and his face softens, serious. “And it means you’re mine, completely.” All trace of humor has vanished as he gazes at me. “Yes, I am,” I murmur back at him. “I wanted to ask you something.” “Go ahead.” “Go ahead.” “Your biological father . . . do you know who he was?” This thought has been bugging me. His brow creases, and then he shakes his head. “I ha一ve no idea. Wasn’t the sa一vage who was her pimp, which is good.” “How do you know?” “Something my dad . . . something Carrick said to me.” I gaze at my Fifty expectantly, waiting. He smirks at me. “So hungry for information, Anastasia,” he sighs, shaking his head. “The pimp discovered the crack whore’s body and phoned it in to the authorities. Took him four days to make the discovery though. He shut the door when he left . . . left me with her . . . her body.” His eyes cloud at the memory. I inhale sharply. Poor baby boy—the horror is too grim to contemplate. “Police interviewed him later. He denied flat out I was “Police interviewed him later. He denied flat out I was anything to do with him, and Carrick said he looked nothing like me.” “Do you remember what he did look like?” “Anastasia, this isn’t a part of my life I revisit very often. Yes, I remember what he looked like. I’ll never forget him.” Christian’s face darkens and hardens, becoming more angular, his eyes frosting with anger. “Can we talk about something else?” “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He shakes his head. “It’s old news, Ana. Not something I want to think about.” “So what’s this surprise, then?” I need to change the subject before he goes all Fifty on me. His expression lightens immediately. “Can you face going out for some fresh air? I want to show you something.” “Of course.” I marvel how quickly he turns—mercurial as ever. He grins at me with his boyish, carefree, I’m-only-twentyseven smile, and my heart lurches into my mouth. So it’s something close to his heart, I can tell. He swats me playfully on my behind. “Get dressed. Jeans will be good. I hope Taylor’s packed some for you.” He rises and pulls on his boxer briefs. Oh . . . I could sit here all day, watching him wander around the room. My inner goddess agrees, swooning as she ogles from her chaise longue. “Up,” he scolds, bossy as ever. I gaze at him, grinning. “Just admiring the view.” He rolls his eyes at me. As we dress, I notice that we move with the synchronization of two people who know each other well, each watchful and acutely aware of the other, exchanging the occasional shy smile and sweet touch. And it dawns on me that this is just as new for him as it is for me. “Dry your hair,” Christian orders once we’re dressed. “Domineering as ever.” I smirk at him, and he leans down to kiss my hair. down to kiss my hair. “That’s never going to change, baby. I don’t want you sick.” I roll my eyes at him, and his mouth twists in amusement. “My palms still twitch, you know, Miss Steele.” “I am glad to hear it, Mr. Grey. I was beginning to think you were losing your edge,” I retort. “I could easily demonstrate that is not the case, should you so wish.” Christian drags a large, cream, cable-knit sweater out of his bag and drapes it artfully over his shoulders. With his white T-shirt and jeans, his artfully rumpled hair, and now this, he looks as if he’s stepped out of the pages of a high-end glossy magazine. No one should look this good. And I don’t know if it’s the momentary distraction of his sheer perfect looks or the knowledge that he loves me, but his threat no longer fills me with dread. This is my Fifty Shades; this is the way he is. As I reach for the hairdryer, a tangible ray of hope As I reach for the hairdryer, a tangible ray of hope blossoms. We will find a middle way. We just ha一ve to recognize each other’s needs and accommodate them. I can do that, surely? I gaze at myself in the dresser mirror. I’m wearing the pale blue shirt that Taylor bought and had packed for me. My hair is a mess, my face flushed, my lips swollen—I touch them, remembering Christian’s searing kisses, and I can’t help a small smile as I stare. Yes, I do, he said. “Where are we going exactly?” I ask as we wait in the lobby for the parking valet. Christian taps the side of his nose and winks at me conspiratorially, looking like he’s desperately trying to contain his glee. Frankly, it’s very un-Fifty. He was like this when we went gliding—perhaps that’s what we’re doing. I beam back at him. He stares down his nose at me in that superior way he has with his lopsided grin. Leaning down, he kisses me gently. “Do you ha一ve any idea how happy you make me feel?” he murmurs. “Yes . . . I know exactly. Because you do the same for me.” The valet zooms up in Christian’s car, wearing a facesplitting grin. Jeez, everyone is so happy today. “Great car, sir,” he mumbles as he hands over the keys. Christian winks and gives him an obscenely large tip. I frown at him. Honestly. As we cruise through the traffic, Christian is deep in thought. A young woman’s voice comes over the loudspeakers; it has a beautiful, rich, mellow timbre, and I lose myself in her sad, soulful voice. “I need to make a detour. It shouldn’t take long,” he says absentmindedly, distracting me from the song. Oh, why? I’m intrigued to know the surprise. My inner goddess is bouncing about like a five-year-old. goddess is bouncing about like a five-year-old. “Sure,” I murmur. Something is amiss. Suddenly, he looks grimly determined. He pulls into the parking lot of large car dealership, stops the car, and turns to face me, his expression wary. “We need to get you a new car,” he says. I gape at him. Now? On a Sunday? What the hell? And this is a Saab dealership. “Not an Audi?” is, stupidly, the only thing I can think of to say, and bless him, he actually flushes. Holy cow—Christian, embarrassed. This is a first. “I thought you might like something else,” he mutters. He’s almost squirming. Oh, please . . . This is too valuable an opportunity not to tease him. I smirk. “A Saab?” “Yeah. A 9-3. Come.” “What is it with you and foreign cars?” “The Germans and the Swedes make the safest cars in the world, Anastasia.” the world, Anastasia.” Do they? “I thought you’d already ordered me another Audi A3?” He gives me a darkly amused look. “I can cancel that. Come.” Climbing smoothly out of the car, he strolls gracefully to my side and opens my door. “I owe you a graduation present,” he says softly and holds his hand out for me. “Christian, you really don’t ha一ve to do this.” “Yes, I do. Please. Come.” His tone says he’s not to be trifled with. I resign myself to my fate. A Saab? Do I want a Saab? I quite like the Audi Submissive Special. It was very nifty. Of course, now it’s under a ton of white paint . . . I shudder. And she’s still out there. I take Christian’s hand, and we wander into the showroom. Troy Turniansky, the salesman, is all over Fifty like a cheap suit. He can smell a sale. Weirdly his accent sounds mid-Atlantic, maybe British? It’s difficult to tell. “A Saab, sir? Pre-owned?” He rubs his hands with glee. “New.” Christian’s lips set into a hard line. New! “Did you ha一ve a model in mind, sir?” And he’s smarmy, too. “9-3 2.0T Sport Sedan.” “An excellent choice, sir.” “What color, Anastasia?” Christian inclines his head. “Er . . . black?” I shrug. “You really don’t need to do this.” He frowns. “Black’s not easily seen at night.” Oh, for hea一ven’s sake. I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. “You ha一ve a black car.” He scowls at me. “Bright canary yellow then.” I shrug. Christian makes a face—canary yellow is obviously not his thing. “What color do you want me to ha一ve?” I ask as if he’s a small child, which he is in many ways. The thought is a small child, which he is in many ways. The thought is unwelcome—sad and sobering at once. “Silver or white.” “Silver, then. You know I’ll take the Audi,” I add, chastened by my thoughts. Troy pales, sensing he’s losing a sale. “Perhaps you’d like the convertible, ma’am?” he asks, clapping his hands with enthusiasm. My subconscious is cringing in disgust, mortified by the whole buying-a-car business, but my inner goddess tackles her to the floor. Convertible? Drool! Christian frowns and peers at me. “Convertible?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. I flush. It’s like he has a direct hotline to my inner goddess, which of course, he has. It’s most inconvenient at times. I stare down at my hands. Christian turns to Troy. “What are the safety stats on the convertible?” Troy, sensing Christian’s vulnerability, heads in for the kill, reeling off all manner of statistics. kill, reeling off all manner of statistics. Of course, Christian wants me safe. It’s a religion with him, and like the zealot he is, he listens intently to Troy’s well-honed patter. Fifty really does care. Yes. I do. I remember his whispered, choked words from this morning, and a melting glow spreads like warm honey through my veins. This man—God’s gift to women —loves me. I find myself grinning goofily at him, and when he glances down at me, he’s amused yet puzzled by my expression. I just want to hug myself, I am so happy. “Whatever you’re high on, I’d like some, Miss Steele,” he murmurs as Troy heads off to his computer. “I’m high on you, Mr. Grey.” “Really? Well you certainly look intoxicated.” He kisses me briefly. “And thank you for accepting the car. That was easier than last time.” “Well, it’s not an Audi A3.” He smirks. “That’s not the car for you.” “I liked it.” “Sir, the 9-3? I’ve located one at our Beverly Hills dealership. We can ha一ve it here for you in a couple of days.” Troy glows with triumph. “Top of the range?” “Yes, sir.” “Excellent.” Christian produces his credit card, or is it Taylor’s? The thought is unnerving. I wonder how Taylor is, and if he’s located Leila in the apartment. I rub my forehead. Yes, there’s all of Christian’s baggage, too. “If you’ll come this way, Mr.”—Troy glances at the name on the card—“Grey.” Christian opens my door, and I climb back into the passenger seat. “Thank you,” I say when he’s seated beside me. He smiles. “You’re most welcome, Anastasia.” The music starts again as Christian starts the engine. “Who’s this?” I ask. “Eva Cassidy.” “She has a lovely voice.” “She does, she did.” “Oh.” “She died young.” “Oh.” “Are you hungry? You didn’t finish all your breakfast.” He glances quickly at me, disapproval outlined on his face. Uh-oh. “Yes.” “Lunch first, then.” Christian drives toward the waterfront then heads north along the Alaskan Way. It’s another beautiful day in Seattle. It’s been uncharacteristically fine for the last few weeks, I muse. Christian looks happy and relaxed as we sit back listening to Eva Cassidy’s sweet, soulful voice and cruise down the highway. Ha一ve I ever felt this comfortable in his company before? I don’t know. I am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won’t I am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won’t punish me, and he seems more comfortable with me, too. He turns left, following the coast road, and eventually pulls up in a parking lot opposite a vast marina. “We’ll eat here. I’ll open your door,” he says in such a way that I know it’s not wise to move, and I watch him move around the car. Will this ever get old? We stroll arm in arm to the waterfront where the marina stretches out in front of us. “So many boats,” I murmur in wonder. There are hundreds of them in all shapes and sizes, bobbing up and down on the calm, still waters of the marina. Out on the Sound there are dozens of sails in the wind, wea一ving to and fro, enjoying the fine weather. It’s a wholesome, outdoorsy sight. The wind has picked up a little, so I pull my jacket around me. “Cold?” he asks and pulls me tightly against him. “No, just admiring the view.” “No, just admiring the view.” “I could stare at it all day. Come, this way.” Christian leads me into a large seafront bar and makes his way to the counter. The décor is more New England than West Coast—white-limed walls, pale blue furnishings, and boating paraphernalia hanging everywhere. It’s a bright, cheery place. “Mr. Grey!” the barman greets Christian warmly. “What can I get you this afternoon?” “Dante, good afternoon.” Christian grins as we both slip onto bar stools. “This lovely lady is Anastasia Steele.” “Welcome to SP’s Place.” Dante gives me a friendly smile. He’s black and beautiful, his dark eyes assessing me and not finding me wanting, it seems. One large diamond stud winks at me from his ear. I like him immediately. “What would you like to drink, Anastasia?” I glance at Christian, who regards me expectantly. Oh, he’s going to let me choose. “Please, call me Ana, and I’ll ha一ve whatever Christian’s drinking.” I smile shyly at Dante. Fifty’s so much better at wine than I am. “I’m going to ha一ve a beer. This is the only bar in Seattle where you can get Adnam’s Explorer.” “A beer?” “Yes.” He grins at me. “Two Explorers, please, Dante.” Dante nods and sets up the beers on the bar. “They do a delicious seafood chowder here,” Christian says. He’s asking me. “Chowder and beer sounds great.” I smile at him. “Two chowders?” Dante asks. “Please.” Christian grins at him. We talk through our meal, as we never ha一ve before. Christian is relaxed and calm—he looks young, happy, and animated despite all that transpired yesterday. He recounts the history of Grey Enterprises Holdings, and the more he reveals, the more I sense his passion for fixing problem companies, his hopes for the technology he’s developing, and his dreams of making land in the third developing, and his dreams of making land in the third world more productive. I listen enraptured. He’s funny, clever, philanthropic, and beautiful, and he loves me. In turn, he plagues me with questions about Ray and my mom, about growing up in the lush forests of Montesano, and my brief stints in Texas and Vegas. He demands to know my fa一vorite books and films, and I’m surprised by how much we ha一ve in common. As we talk, it strikes me that he’s turned from Hardy’s Alec to Angel, debasement to high ideal in such a short space of time. It’s after two when we finish our meal. Christian settles the tab with Dante, who wishes us a fond farewell. “This is a great place. Thank you for lunch,” I say as Christian takes my hand and we lea一ve the bar. “We’ll come again,” he says, and we stroll along the waterfront. “I wanted to show you something.” “I know . . . and I can’t wait to see it, whatever it is.” We wander hand in hand along the marina. It is such a pleasant afternoon. People are out enjoying their Sunday —walking dogs, admiring the boats, watching their kids run along the promenade. As we head down the marina, the boats are getting progressively larger. Christian leads me on to the dock and stops in front of a huge catamaran. “I thought we’d go sailing this afternoon. This is my boat.” Holy cow. It must be at least forty, maybe fifty feet. Two sleek white hulls, a deck, a roomy cabin, and towering over them a very tall mast. I know nothing about boats, but I can tell this one is special. “Wow . . . ,” I murmur in wonder. “Built by my company,” he says proudly and my heart swells. “She’s been designed from the ground up by the very best na一val architects in the world and constructed here in Seattle at my yard. She has hybrid electric drives, asymmetric dagger boards, a square-topped mainsail—” “Okay . . . you’ve lost me, Christian.” He grins. “She’s a great boat.” “She looks mighty fine, Mr. Grey.” “That she does, Miss Steele.” “What’s her name?” He pulls me to the side so I can see her name: The Grace. I’m surprised. “You named her after your mom?” “Yes.” He cocks his head to one side, quizzical. “Why do you find that strange?” I shrug. I am surprised—he always seems ambivalent in her presence. “I adore my mom, Anastasia. Why wouldn’t I name a boat after her?” I flush. “No, it’s not that . . . it’s just . . .” Shit, how can I put this into words? “Anastasia, Grace Trevelyan sa一ved my life. I owe her everything.” I gaze at him, and let the reverence in his softly spoken admission wash over me. It’s obvious to me, for the first time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained ambivalence toward her? “Do you want to come aboard?” he asks, his eyes bright, excited. “Yes, please.” I smile. He looks delighted and delightful in one yummy scrumptious package. Grasping my hand, he strides up the small gangplank and leads me aboard so that we are standing on deck beneath a rigid canopy. To one side there’s a table and a U-shaped banquette covered in pale blue leather, which must seat at least eight people. I glance through the sliding doors to the interior of the cabin and jump, startled when I spy someone there. The tall blond man opens the sliding doors and emerges— all tanned, curly-haired and brown-eyed—wearing a faded pink short-sleeved polo shirt, shorts, and deck shoes. He must be in his early thirties. “Mac.” Christian beams. “Mr. Grey! Welcome back.” They shake hands. “Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my “Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele.” Girlfriend! My inner goddess performs a quick arabesque. She’s still grinning over the convertible. I ha一ve to get used to this—it’s not the first time he’s said it, but hearing him say it is still a thrill. “How do you do?” Liam and I shake hands. “Call me Mac,” he says warmly, and I can’t place his accent. “Welcome aboard, Miss Steele.” “Ana, please,” I mutter, flushing. He has deep brown eyes. “How’s she shaping up, Mac?” Christian interjects quickly, and for a moment, I think he’s talking about me. “She’s ready to rock and roll, sir,” Mac beams. Oh, the boat, The Grace. Silly me. “Let’s get underway, then.” “You going to take her out?” “Yep.” Christian flashes Mac a quick wicked grin. “Quick tour, Anastasia?” “Yes, please.” I follow him inside the cabin. An L-shaped cream leather sofa is directly in front of us, and above it, a massive curved window offers a panoramic view of the marina. To the left is the kitchen area—very well appointed, all pale wood. “This is the main saloon. Galley beside,” Christian says, wa一ving his hand in the direction of the kitchen. He takes my hand and leads me through the main cabin. It’s surprisingly spacious. The floor is the same pale wood. It looks modern and sleek and has a light, airy feel, but it’s all very functional, as if he doesn’t spend much time here. “Bathrooms on either side.” Christian points to two doors, then opens the small, oddly shaped door directly in front of us and steps in. We’re in a plush bedroom. Oh . . . It has a king-size cabin bed and is all pale blue linen and pale wood like his bedroom at Escala. Christian obviously chooses a theme and sticks to it. “This is the master cabin.” He gazes down at me, gray “This is the master cabin.” He gazes down at me, gray eyes glowing. “You’re the first girl in here, apart from family,” he smirks. “They don’t count.” I flush under his heated stare, and my pulse quickens. Really? Another first. He pulls me into his arms, his fingers tangling in my hair, and kisses me, long and hard. We’re both breathless when he pulls away. “Might ha一ve to christen this bed,” he whispers against my mouth. Oh, at sea! “But not right now. Come, Mac will be casting off.” I ignore the stab of disappointment as he takes my hand and leads me back through the saloon. He indicates another door. “Office in there, and at the front here, two more cabins.” “So how many can sleep on board?” “It’s a six-berth cat. I’ve only ever had the family on board, though. I like to sail alone. But not when you’re here. I need to keep an eye on you.” here. I need to keep an eye on you.” He delves into a chest and pulls out a bright red lifejacket. “Here.” Putting it over my head, he tightens all the straps, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You love strapping me in, don’t you?” “In any form,” he says, a wicked grin playing on his lips. “You are a pervert.” “I know.” He raises his eyebrows and his grin broadens. “My pervert,” I whisper. “Yes, yours.” Once secured, he grabs the sides of the jacket and kisses me. “Always,” he breathes, then releases me before I ha一ve a chance to respond. Always! Holy shit. “Come.” He grabs my hand and leads me outside, up some steps, and onto the upper deck to a small cockpit that houses a big steering wheel and a raised seat. At the prow of the boat, Mac is doing something with ropes. “Is this where you learned all your rope tricks?” I ask Christian innocently. “Clove hitches ha一ve come in handy,” he says, looking at me appraisingly. “Miss Steele, you sound curious. I like you curious, baby. I’d be more than happy to demonstrate what I can do with a rope.” He smirks at me, and I gaze back impassively as if he’s upset me. His face falls. “Gotcha.” I grin. His mouth twists and he narrows his eyes. “I may ha一ve to deal with you later, but right now, I’ve got to drive my boat.” He sits at the controls, presses a button, and the engines roar into life. Mac comes scooting back down the side of the boat, grinning at me, and jumps down to the deck below where he starts to unfasten a rope. Maybe he knows some rope tricks, too. The idea pops unwelcome into my head and I flush. My subconscious glares at me. Mentally I shrug at her and glance at Christian—I blame Fifty. He picks up the and glance at Christian—I blame Fifty. He picks up the receiver and radios the coastguard as Mac calls up that we are set to go. Once more, I am dazzled by Christian’s expertise. He’s so competent. Is there nothing that this man can’t do? Then I remember his earnest attempt to chop and dice a pepper in my apartment on Friday. The thought makes me smile.