Текст книги "Fifty shades darker"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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“Please let me go in,” I plead.

“Sorry, Miss Steele. This won’t take long.” Sawyer holds both hands up in a defensive

gesture. “Taylor and the guys are just coming into the apartment now.”

Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen avidly for the slightest sound, but

all I hear is my aggravated breathing. It’s loud and shallow, my scalp prickles, my mouth is

dry, and I feel faint. Please, let Christian be okay,I pray silently.

I have no idea how much time passes, and still we hear nothing. Surely no sound is

good—there are no gunshots. I begin pacing around the table in the foyer and examine the

paintings on the walls to distract myself.

I’ve never really looked at them before: all figurative paintings, all religious—the Ma-

donna and child, all sixteen of them. How odd?

Christian isn’t religious, is he? All of the paintings in the great room are abstracts—

these are so different. They don’t distract me for long– Where is Christian?

I stare at Sawyer and he watches me impassively.

“What’s happening?”

“No news, Miss Steele.”

Abruptly, the doorknob moves. Sawyer spins like a top and draws a gun from his

shoulder holster.

I freeze. Christian appears at the door.

“All clear,” he says, frowning at Sawyer, who puts his gun away immediately and steps

back to let me in.

“Taylor is overreacting,” Christian grumbles as he holds out his hand to me. I stand

gaping at him, unable to move, drinking in every little detail: his unruly hair, the tightness

round his eyes, the tense jaw, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. I think I must have

aged ten years. Christian frowns at me in concern, his eyes dark.

“It’s alright, baby.” He moves toward me, enveloping me in his arms, and kisses my

hair. “Come on, you’re tired. Bed.”

“I was so worried,” I murmur, rejoicing in his embrace and inhaling his sweet, sweet

scent with my head against his chest.

“I know. We’re all jumpy.”

Sawyer has disappeared, presumably into the apartment.

“Honestly, your exes are proving to be very challenging, Mr. Grey,” I mutter wryly.

Christian relaxes.

“Yes. They are.”

He releases me and taking my hand, leads me across the hallway and into the great

room.

“Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards. I don’t think she’s

here.”

“Why would she be here?” It makes no sense.

“Exactly.”

“Could she get in?”

“I don’t see how. But Taylor is overcautious sometimes.”

“Have you searched your playroom?” I whisper.

Christian glances quickly at me, his brow creasing. “Yes, it’s locked—but Taylor and

I checked.”

I take a deep, cleansing breath.

“Do you want a drink or anything?” Christian asks.

“No.” Fatigue sweeps through me—I just want to go to bed.

“Come. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted.” Christian’s expression softens.

I frown. Isn’t he coming, too? Does he want to sleep alone?

I’m relieved when he leads me into his bedroom. I place my clutch bag on the chest of

drawers and open it to empty the contents. I spy Mrs. Robinson’s note.

“Here.” I pass it to Christian. “I don’t know if you want to read this. I want to ignore

it.” Christian scans it briefly and his jaw tenses.

“I’m not sure what blanks she can fill in,” he says dismissively. “I need to talk to Tay-

lor.” He gazes down at me. “Let me unzip your dress.”

“Are you going to call the police about the car?” I ask as I turn around.

He sweeps my hair out of the way, his fingers softly grazing my naked back, and tugs

down my zipper.

“No. I don’t want the police involved. Leila needs help, not police intervention, and I

don’t want them here. We just have to double our efforts to find her.” He leans down and

plants a gentle kiss on my shoulder.

“Go to bed,” he orders and then he’s gone.

I lie, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to return. So much has happened today, so much

to process. Where to start?

I wake with a jolt—disorientated. Have I been asleep? Blinking in the dim glow the

hallway casts through the slightly open bedroom door, I notice that Christian is not with

me. Where is he? I glance up. Standing at the end of the bed is a shadow. A woman, maybe?

Dressed in black? It’s difficult to tell.

In my befuddled state, I reach across and switch on the bedside light, then turn back to

look but there’s no one there. I shake my head. Did I imagine it? Dream it?

I sit up and look around the room, a vague, insidious unease gripping me—but I am

quite alone.

I rub my face. What time is it? Where’s Christian? The alarm says it’s two fifteen in

the morning.

Climbing groggily out of bed, I set off to hunt him down, disconcerted by my overac-

tive imagination. I am seeing things now. It must be a reaction to the dramatic events of

the evening.

The main room is empty, the only light emanating from the three pendulum lamps

above the breakfast bar. But his study door is ajar, and I hear him on the phone.

“I don’t know why you’re calling at this hour. I have nothing to say to you . . . well, you

can tell me now. You don’t have to leave a message.”

I stand motionless by the door, eavesdropping guiltily. Who is he talking to?

“No, you listen. I asked you, and now I am telling you. Leave her alone. She’s nothing

to do with you. Do you understand?”

He sounds belligerent and angry. I hesitate to knock.

“I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the fuck alone. Do I need to put it in

triplicate for you? Are you hearing me? . . . Good. Good night.” He slams the phone down

on the desk.

Oh shit.I knock tentatively on the door.

“What?” he snarls, and I almost want to run and hide.

He sits at his desk with his head in his hands. He glances up, his expression ferocious,

but his face softens immediately when he sees me. His eyes are wide and cautious. Sud-

denly, he looks so tired and my heart constricts.

He blinks, and his eyes sweep down my legs and back again. I am wearing one of his

T-shirts.

“You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia,” he breathes. “But even in my T-shirt you

look beautiful.”

Oh, an unexpected compliment. “I missed you. Come to bed.”

He rises slowly out of the chair still in his white shirt and black dress pants. But now

his eyes are shining and full of promise . . . but there’s a trace of sadness, too. He stands in

front of me, staring intently but not touching me.

“Do you know what you mean to me?” he murmurs. “If something happened to you,

because of me . . .” His voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes across

his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable—his fear very much apparent.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I reassure him, my voice soothing. I reach up and

stroke his face, running my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It’s unexpectedly

soft. “Your beard grows quickly,” I whisper, unable to hide the wonder in my voice at this

beautiful, fucked-up man who stands before me.

I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers down his throat, to the faint

smudge of lipstick at the base of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his

lips parted. I run my index finger along the line, and he closes his eyes. His soft breathing

quickens. My fingers reach the edge of his shirt, and I run them down to the next fastened

button.

“I’m not going to touch you. I just want to undo your shirt,” I whisper.

His eyes open wide, regarding me with alarm. But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t

stop me. Very slowly I unfasten the button, holding the material away from his skin, and

move tentatively down to the next button, repeating the process—slowly, concentrating on

what I am doing.

I don’t want to touch him. Well, I do . . . but I won’t.On the fourth button, the red line

reappears, and I smile shyly up at him.

“Back on home territory.” I trace the line with my fingers before undoing the final but-

ton. I pull his shirt open and move to his cuffs, removing his black polished stone cufflinks

one at a time.

“Can I take your shirt off?” I ask, my voice low.

He nods, eyes still wide, as I reach up and pull his shirt over his shoulders. He frees his

hands so he’s standing in front of me naked from the waist up. With his shirt off, he seems

to recover his equilibrium. He smirks down at me.

“What about my pants, Miss Steele?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“In the bedroom. I want you in your bed.”

“Do you now? Miss Steele, you are insatiable.”

“I can’t think why.” I grab his hand, pull him from his study, and lead him to his bed-

room. The room is chilly.

“You opened the balcony door?” he asks, frowning down at me as we arrive in his

room.

“No.” I don’t remember doing that. I recall scanning the room when I woke. The door

was definitely closed.

Oh shit . . .All the blood rushes from my face, and I stare at Christian as my mouth

falls open.

“What?” he snaps, glaring at me.

“When I woke . . . there was someone in here,” I whisper. “I thought it was my imagi-

nation.”

“What?” He looks horrified and dashes to the balcony door, peers out, then steps back

into the room and locks the door behind him. “Are you sure? Who?” he asks his voice tight.

“A woman, I think. It was dark. I’d only just woken up.”

“Get dressed,” he snarls at me on his way back in. “Now!”

“My clothes are upstairs,” I whimper.

He pulls open one of the drawers in his chest of drawers and fishes out a pair of sweat-

pants.

“Put these on.” They are far too big, but he is not to be argued with.

He swipes a T-shirt, too, and quickly pulls it over his head. Grabbing the bedside

phone, he presses two buttons.

“She’s still fucking here,” he hisses down the phone.

Approximately three seconds later, Taylor and one of the other security guys, burst into

Christian’s bedroom. Christian gives them a précisof what has happened.

“How long ago?” Taylor demands, staring at me all businesslike. He’s still wearing his

jacket. Does this man ever sleep?

“About ten minutes,” I mutter, for some reason feeling guilty.

“She knows the apartment like the back of her hand,” says Christian. “I am taking An-

astasia away now. She’s hiding here somewhere. Find her. When is Gail back?

“Tomorrow evening, sir.”

“She’s not to return until this place is secure. Understand?” Christian snaps.

“Yes, sir. Will you be going to Bellevue?”

“I’m not leading this problem to my parents. Book me somewhere.”

“Yes. I’ll call you.”

“Aren’t we all overreacting slightly?” I ask.

Christian glowers at me. “She may have a gun,” he growls.

“Christian, she was standing at the end of the bed. She could have shot me then, if

that’s what she wanted to do.”

Christian pauses for a moment to rein in his temper, I think. In a menacingly soft voice

he says, “I’m not prepared to take the risk. Taylor, Anastasia needs shoes.”

Christian disappears into his closet while the security guy watches me. I can’t remem-

ber his name, Ryan maybe. He looks alternately down the hall and to the balcony windows.

Christian emerges a couple of minutes later with a leather messenger bag, wearing jeans

and his pinstriped blazer. He drapes a denim jacket around my shoulders.

“Come.” He clasps my hand tightly, and I have to practically run to keep up with his

long strides into the great room.

“I can’t believe she could hide somewhere in here,” I mutter, staring out the balcony

doors.

“It’s a big place. You haven’t seen it all yet.”

“Why don’t you just call her . . . tell her you want to talk to her?”

“Anastasia, she’s unstable, and she may be armed,” he says irritably.

“So we just run?”

“For now—yes.”

“Supposing she tries to shoot Taylor?”

“Taylor knows and understands guns,” he says with distaste. “He’ll be quicker with a

gun than she is.”

“Ray was in the army. He’s taught me to shoot.”

Christian raises his eyebrows and for a moment looks utterly bemused. “You, with a

gun?” he says incredulously.

“Yes.” I am affronted. “I can shoot, Mr. Grey, so you’d better beware. It’s not just crazy

ex-subs you need to worry about.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Miss Steele,” he answers dryly, amused, and it feels good to

know that even in this ridiculously tense situation, I can make him smile.

Taylor meets us in the foyer and hands me my small suitcase and my black Converse.

I am stunned that he’s packed me some clothes. I smile shyly at him with gratitude, and his

returning smile is swift and reassuring. Before I can stop myself—I hug him, hard. He’s

taken by surprise, and when I release him, he’s pink in both cheeks.

“Be careful,” I murmur.

“Yes, Miss Steele,” he mutters.

Christian frowns at me and then looks questioningly at Taylor, who smiles very slightly

and adjusts his tie.

“Let me know where I’m going.” Christian says.

Taylor reaches into his jacket, pulls out his wallet, and hands Christian a credit card.

“You might want to use this when you get there.”

Christian nods. “Good thinking.”

Ryan joins us. “Sawyer and Reynolds found nothing,” he says to Taylor.

“Accompany Mr. Grey and Miss Steele to the garage,” Taylor orders.

The garage is deserted. Well, it is nearly three in the morning. Christian ushers me into

the passenger seat of the R8 and puts my case and his bag in the trunk at the front of the car.

The Audi beside us is a complete mess—every tire slashed, white paint splattered all over

it. It’s chilling and makes me grateful that Christian is taking me somewhere else.

“A replacement will arrive on Monday,” Christian says bleakly when he’s seated be-

side me.

“How could she have known it was my car?”

He glances anxiously at me and sighs. “She had an Audi A3. I buy one for all my sub-

missives—it’s one of the safest cars in its class.”

Oh. “So, not so much a graduation present, then.”

“Anastasia, despite what I hoped, you have never been my submissive, so technically it

isa graduation present.” He pulls out of the parking space and speeds to the exit.

Despite what he hoped. Oh no . . .my subconscious shakes her head sadly. This is what

we come back to all the time.

“Are you still hoping?” I whisper.

The in-car phone buzzes. “Grey,” Christian snaps.

“Fairmont Olympic. In my name.”

“Thank you, Taylor. And, Taylor, be careful.”

Taylor pauses. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly, and Christian hangs up.

The streets of Seattle are deserted, and Christian roars up Fifth Avenue toward the I-5.

Once on the interstate, he floors the gas pedal, heading north. He accelerates so quickly I’m

momentarily thrown back in my seat.

I peek at him. He’s deep in thought, radiating a deadly brooding silence. He hasn’t

answered my question. He glances frequently at the rearview mirror, and I realize he’s

checking that we’re not being followed. Perhaps that’s why we’re on the I-5. I thought the

Fairmont was in Seattle.

I gaze out of the window, trying to rationalize my exhausted, overactive mind. If she’d

wanted to hurt me, she had ample opportunity in the bedroom.

“No. It’s not what I hope for, not anymore. I thought that was obvious.” Christian inter-

rupts my introspection, his voice soft.

I blink at him, pulling his denim jacket tighter around me, and I don’t know if the chill

is emanating from within me or from outside.

“I worry that, you know . . . that I’m not enough.”

“You’re more than enough. For the love of God, Anastasia, what do I have to do?”

Tell me about yourself. Tell me you love me.

“Why did you think I’d leave when I told you Dr. Flynn had told me all there was to

know about you?”

He sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment, and for the longest time he doesn’t

answer. “You cannot begin to understand the depths of my depravity, Anastasia. And it’s

not something I want to share with you.”

“And you really think I’d leave, if I knew?” My voice is high, incredulous. Doesn’t he

understand that I love him? “Do you think so little of me?”

“I know you’ll leave,” he says sadly.

“Christian . . . I think that’s very unlikely. I can’t imagine being without you.” Ever . . .

“You left me once—I don’t want to go there again.”

“Elena said she saw you last Saturday,” I whisper quietly.

“She didn’t.” He frowns.

“You didn’t go to see her, when I left?”

“No,” he snaps, irritated. “I just told you I didn’t—and I don’t like to be doubted,” he

scolds. “I didn’t go anywhere last weekend. I sat and made the glider you gave me. Took

me forever,” he adds quietly.

My heart clenches again. Mrs. Robinson said she saw him.

Did she or didn’t she? She’s lying. Why?

“Contrary to what Elena thinks, I don’t rush to her with all my problems, Anastasia. I

don’t rush to anybody. You may have noticed—I’m not much of a talker.” He tightens his

hold on the steering wheel.

“Carrick told me you didn’t talk for two years.”

“Did he now?” Christian’s mouth presses into a hard line.

“I kind of pumped him for information.” Embarrassed, I stare at my fingers.

“So what else did Daddy say?”

“He said your mom was the doctor who examined you when you were brought into the

hospital. After you were discovered in your apartment.”

Christian’s expression remains blank . . . careful.

“He said learning the piano helped. And Mia.”

His lips curl in a fond smile at the mention of her name. After a moment he says, “She

was about six months old when she arrived. I was thrilled, Elliot less so. He’d already had

to contend with my arrival. She was perfect.” The sweet, sad awe in his voice is affecting.

“Less so now, of course,” he mutters, and I recall her successful attempts at the ball to

thwart our lascivious intentions. It makes me giggle.

Christian gives me a sideways glance. “You find that amusing, Miss Steele?”

“She seemed determined to keep us apart.”

He laughs mirthlessly. “Yes, she’s quite accomplished.” He reaches across and squeez-

es my knee. “But we got there in the end.” He smiles then glances in the rearview mirror

once more. “I don’t think we’ve been followed.” He turns off the I-5 and heads back to

central Seattle.

“Can I ask you something about Elena?” We are stopped at some traffic lights.

He gazes at me warily. “If you must,” he mutters sullenly, but I don’t let his irritability

deter me.

“You told me ages ago that she loved you in a way you found acceptable. What did

that mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks.

“Not to me.”

“I was out of control. I couldn’t bear to be touched. I can’t bear it now. For a fourteen,

fifteen-year-old adolescent boy with hormones raging, it was a difficult time. She showed

me a way to let off steam.”

Oh.“Mia said you were a brawler.”

“Christ, what is it with my loquacious family? Actually—it’s you.” We’ve stopped at

more lights, and he narrows his eyes at me. “You inveigle information out of people.” He

shakes his head in mock disgust.

“Mia volunteered that information. In fact, she was very forthcoming. She was worried

you’d start a brawl in the marquee if you didn’t win me at the auction,” I mutter indignantly.

“Oh, baby, there was no danger of that. There was no way I would let anyone else

dance with you.”

“You let Dr. Flynn.”

“He’s always the exception to the rule.”

Christian pulls into the impressive, leafy driveway of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel and

parks near the front door, beside a quaint stone fountain.

“Come.” He climbs out of the car and retrieves our luggage. A valet rushes toward us,

looking surprised—no doubt at our late arrival. Christian tosses him the car keys.

“Name of Taylor,” he says. The valet nods and can’t contain his glee as he leaps into

the R8 and drives off. Christian takes my hand and strides into the lobby.

As I stand beside him at the reception desk, I feel utterly, utterly ridiculous. Here I

am, in Seattle’s most prestigious hotel, dressed in an oversized denim jacket, oversized

sweatpants, and an old T-shirt next to this elegant, beautiful, Greek god. No wonder the

receptionist is looking from one to the other as if the equation doesn’t add up. Of course,

she’s over-awed by Christian. I roll my eyes as she flushes crimson and stutters. Jeez, even

her hands are shaking.

“Do . . . you need a hand . . . with your bags, Mr. Taylor?” she asks, going scarlet again.

“No, Mrs. Taylor and I can manage.”

Mrs. Taylor!But I’m not wearing a ring. I put my hands behind my back.

“You’re in the Cascade Suite, Mr. Taylor, eleventh floor. Our bellboy will help with

your bags.”

“We’re fine,” Christian says curtly. “Where are the elevators?”

Miss Flushing Crimson explains, and Christian grasps my hand once more. I glance

briefly round the impressive, sumptuous lobby full of overstuffed chairs, deserted save for

a dark-haired woman sitting on a cozy sofa, feeding tidbits to her westie. She glances up

and smiles at us as we make our way to the elevators. So the hotel allows pets? Odd for a

place so grand!

The suite has two bedrooms, a formal dining room, and comes complete with grand

piano. A log fire blazes in the massive main room. Jeez . . .This suite is bigger than my

apartment.

“Well, Mrs. Taylor, I don’t know about you, but I’d really like a drink,” Christian mut-

ters, locking the front door securely.

In the bedroom, he puts my case and his satchel on the ottoman at the foot of the king-

size four-poster bed and leads me by the hand into the main room where the fire is burning

brightly. It’s a welcome sight. I stand and warm my hands while Christian fixes us both a

drink.

“Armagnac?”

“Please.”

After a moment, he joins me by the fire and hands me a crystal brandy glass.

“It’s been quite a day, huh?”

I nod and his gray eyes gaze at me searchingly, concerned.

“I’m okay,” I whisper reassuringly. “How about you?”

“Well, right now I’d like to drink this and then, if you’re not too tired, take you to bed

and lose myself in you.”

“I think that can be arranged, Mr. Taylor.” I smile shyly at him as he shuffles out of his

shoes and peels off his socks.

“Mrs. Taylor, stop biting your lip,” he whispers.

I blush into my glass. The Armagnac is delicious, leaving a burning warmth in its wake

as it glides silkily down my throat. When I glance up at Christian, he’s sipping his brandy,

watching me, his eyes dark—hungry.

“You never cease to amaze me, Anastasia. After a day like today—or yesterday, rath-

er—you’re not whining or running off into the hills screaming. I am in awe of you. You’re

very strong.”

“You’re a very good reason to stay,” I murmur. “I told you, Christian, I’m not going

anywhere, no matter what you’ve done. You know how I feel about you.”

His mouth twists as if he doubts my words, and his brow creases as if what I’m saying

is painful for him to hear. Oh, Christian, what do I have to do to make you realize how I

feel? Let him beat you,my subconscious sneers at me. I scowl inwardly at her.

“Where are you going to hang José’s portraits of me?” I try to lighten the mood.

“That depends.” His lips twitch. This is obviously a much more palatable topic of

conversation for him.

“On what?”

“Circumstances,” he says mysteriously. “His show’s not over yet, so I don’t have to

decide straight away.”

I cock my head to one side and narrow my eyes.

“You can look as sternly as you like, Mrs. Taylor. I’m saying nothing,” he teases.

“I may torture the truth from you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really, Anastasia, I don’t think you should make promises you

can’t fulfill.”

Oh my, is that what he thinks? I place my glass on the mantelpiece, reach over, and

much to Christian’s surprise, take his glass and place it beside mine.

“We’ll just have to see about that,” I murmur. Very bravely—emboldened by the bran-

dy, no doubt—I take Christian’s hand and pull him toward the bedroom. At the foot of the

bed I stop. Christian is trying to hide his amusement.

“Now you have me in here, Anastasia, what are you going to do with me?” he teases,

his voice low.

“I’m going to start by undressing you. I want to finish what I started earlier.” I reach

for the lapels on his jacket, careful not to touch him, and he doesn’t flinch but he’s holding

his breath.

Gently, I push his jacket over his shoulders, and his eyes stay on mine, all traces of

humor gone, as they grow larger, burning into me, wary and needful? There are so many

interpretations of his look. What is he thinking?I place his jacket on the ottoman.

“Now your T-shirt,” I whisper and lift it by the hem. He cooperates, raising his arms

and backing away, making it easier for me to pull it off. Once off, he gazes down at me,

intently, wearing just his jeans that hang so provocatively from his hips. The band of his

boxer briefs is visible.

My eyes move hungrily up across his taut stomach to the remains of the lipstick line,

faded and smudged, then up to his chest. I want nothing more than to run my tongue

through his chest hair to savor his taste.

“Now what?” he whispers, eyes blazing.

“I want to kiss you here.” I run my finger from hipbone to hipbone across his belly.

His lips part as he inhales sharply. “I’m not stopping you,” he breathes.

I take his hand. “You’d better lie down then,” I murmur and lead him to the side of the

four-poster bed. He seems bewildered, and it occurs to me that perhaps no one has taken

the lead with him since . . . her. No, don’t go there.

Lifting the covers, he sits on the edge of the bed, gazing up at me, waiting, his expres-

sion wary and serious. I stand before him and slip off his denim jacket and let it drop to the

floor, then I shuffle out of his sweatpants.

He rubs his thumb over the tips of his fingers. He’s itching to touch me, I can tell, but

he suppresses the urge. Taking a deep breath and beyond courageous, I reach for the hem

of my T-shirt and lift it over my head so I am naked before him. His eyes don’t leave mine,

but he swallows and his lips part.

“You are Aphrodite, Anastasia,” he murmurs.

I clasp his face in my hands, tip his head up, and bend to kiss him. He groans low in

his throat.

As I place my mouth on his, he grabs my hips, and before I know it, I am pinned be-

neath him, his legs forcing mine apart so that he’s cradled against my body between my

legs. He’s kissing me, ravaging my mouth, our tongues entwined. His hand trails from my

thigh, over my hip, along my belly to my breast, squeezing, kneading, and pulling entic-

ingly on my nipple.

I groan and tilt my pelvis involuntarily against him, finding a delicious friction against

the seam of his fly and his growing erection. He stops kissing me and gazes down at me

bemused and breathless. He flexes his hips so his erection pushes against me . . . . Yes. Right

there.

I close my eyes and moan, and he does it again, but this time I push back, relishing his

answering moan as he kisses me again. He continues the slow delicious torture—rubbing

me, rubbing him. And he’s right—getting lost in him—it’s intoxicating to the exclusion of

everything else. All my worries are obliterated.

I am here in this moment with him—my blood singing in my veins, thrumming loudly

through my ears, mixed with the sound of our panting breaths. I bury my hands in his

hair, holding him to my mouth, consuming him, my tongue as avaricious as his. I trail my

fingers down his arms, down his lower back to the waistband of his jeans and push my in-

trepid, greedy hands inside, urging him on and on—forgetting everything, except us.

“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 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 pos-

session. 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, savoring 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 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 have 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 leave me,” he 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 have you been watch-

ing me?”

“I could watch you sleep for hours, Anastasia. But I’ve only been here about five min-

utes.” 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