Текст книги "Fifty shades darker"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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came—listen, I should warn you—”

Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts him off. “José, the journalist

from the Portland Printz is here to see you. Come on.” She gives me a polite smile.

“How cool is this? The fame.” He grins, and I can’t help but grin back—he’s so happy.

“Catch you later, Ana.” He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to a young woman

standing by a tall lanky photographer.

José’s photographs are everywhere, and in some cases, blown up onto huge canvases.

There are both monochromes and colors. There’s an ethereal beauty to many of the land-

scapes. In one taken out near the lake at Vancouver, it’s early evening and pink clouds are

reflected in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by the tranquility and the

peace. It’s stunning.

Christian joins me, and I take a deep breath and swallow, trying to recover some of my

earlier equilibrium. He hands me my glass of white wine.

“Does it come up to scratch?” My voice sounds more normal.

He looks quizzically at me.

“The wine.”

“No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy’s quite talented, isn’t he?” Christian

is admiring the lake photo.

“Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?” I can’t help the pride in my

voice. His eyes glide impassively from the photograph to me.

“Christian Grey?” The photographer from the Portland Printz approaches Christian.

“Can I have a picture, sir?”

“Sure.” Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but he grabs my hand and pulls me to his

side. The photographer looks at both of us and can’t hide his surprise.

“Mr. Grey, thank you.” He snaps a couple of photos. “Miss . . . ?” he asks.

“Steele,” I reply.

“Thank you, Miss Steele.” He scurries off.

“I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet. There aren’t any. That’s why

Kate thought you were gay.”

Christian’s mouth twitches with a smile. “That explains your inappropriate question.

No, I don’t do dates, Anastasia—only with you. But you know that.” His eyes burn with

sincerity.

“So you never took your”—I glance around nervously to check no one can overhear

us—“subs out?”

“Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know.” He shrugs, his eyes not leaving mine.

Oh, so just in the playroom—his Red Room of Pain and his apartment. I don’t know

what to feel about that.

“Just you, Anastasia,” he whispers.

I blush and stare down at my fingers. In his own way, he does care about me.

“Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let’s look round.” He

holds his hand out to me, and I take it.

We wander past a few more prints, and I notice a couple nodding at me, smiling broadly

as if they know me. It must be because I’m with Christian, but one young man is blatantly

staring. Odd.

We turn the corner, and I can see why I’ve been getting strange looks. Hanging on the

far wall are seven huge portraits—of me.

I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining from my face. Me: pouting, laugh-

ing, scowling, serious, amused. All in super close up, all in black and white.

Holy crap!I remember José messing with the camera on a couple of occasions when

he was visiting and when I’d been out with him as driver and photographer’s assistant. He

took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these invasive candids.

I glance up at Christian, who is staring, transfixed, at each of the pictures in turn.

“Seems I’m not the only one,” he mutters cryptically, his mouth settling into a hard

line.I think he’s angry. Oh no.

“Excuse me,” he says, pinning me with his bright gray gaze for a moment. He turns and

heads to the reception desk.

What’s his problem now? I watch mesmerized as he talks animatedly with Miss Very

Short Hair and Red Lipstick. He fishes out his wallet and produces his credit card.

Shit.He must have bought one of them.

“Hey. You’re the muse. These photographs are terrific.” A young man with a shock of

bright blond hair startles me. I feel a hand at my elbow and Christian is back.

“You’re a lucky guy.” Blond Shock smirks at Christian, who gives him a cold stare.

“That I am,” he mutters darkly, as he pulls me over to one side.

“Did you just buy one of these?”

“One of these?” he snorts, not taking his eyes off them.

“You bought more than one?”

He rolls his eyes. “I bought them all, Anastasia. I don’t want some stranger ogling you

in the privacy of their home.”

My first inclination is to laugh. “You’d rather it was you?” I scoff.

He glares down at me, caught off guard by my audacity, I think, but he’s trying to hide

his amusement.

“Frankly, yes.”

“Pervert,” I mouth at him and bite my lower lip to prevent my smile.

His mouth drops open, and now his amusement is obvious. He strokes his chin thought-

fully.“Can’t argue with that assessment, Anastasia.” He shakes his head, and his eyes soften

with humor.

“I’d discuss it further with you, but I’ve signed an NDA.”

He sighs, gazing at me, and his eyes darken. “What I’d like to do to your smart mouth,”

he murmurs.

I gasp, knowing full well what he means. “You’re very rude.” I try to sound shocked

and succeed. Does he have no boundaries?

He smirks at me, amused, and then he frowns.

“You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don’t see you like that very

often.”

What? Whoa! Change of subject—talk about non sequitur—from playful to serious.

I flush and glance down at my fingers. He tilts my head back, and I inhale sharply at

the contact with his long fingers.

“I want you that relaxed with me,” he whispers. All trace of humor has gone.

Deep inside me that joy stirs again. But how can this be?We have issues.

“You have to stop intimidating me if you want that,” I snap.

“You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel,” he snaps back, eyes

blazing.

I take a deep breath. “Christian, you wanted me as a submissive. That’s where the

problem lies. It’s in the definition of a submissive—you e-mailed it to me once.” I pause,

trying to recall the wording. “I think the synonyms were, and I quote, ‘compliant, pliant,

amenable, passive, tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.’ I wasn’t supposed to

look at you. Not talk to you unless you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?”

I hiss at him.

He blinks, and his frown deepens as I continue.

“It’s very confusing being with you. You don’t want me to defy you, but then you like

my ‘smart mouth.’ You want obedience, except when you don’t, so you can punish me. I

just don’t know which way is up when I’m with you.”

He narrows his eyes. “Good point well made, as usual, Miss Steele.” His voice is

frigid. “Come, let’s go eat.”

“We’ve only been here for half an hour.”

“You’ve seen the photos; you’ve spoken to the boy.”

“His name is José.”

“You’ve spoken to José—the man who, the last time I met him, was trying to push his

tongue into your reluctant mouth while you were drunk and ill,” he snarls.

“He’s never hit me,” I spit at him.

Christian scowls at me, fury emanating from every pore. “That’s a low blow, Anasta-

sia,” he whispers menacingly.

I flush, and Christian runs his hands through his hair, bristling with barely contained

anger. I glare back at him.

“I’m taking you for something to eat. You’re fading away in front of me. Find the boy,

say good-bye.”

“Please, can we stay longer?”

“No. Go. Now. Say good-bye.”

I glare at him, my blood boiling. Mr. Damned Control Freak. Angry is good. Angry is

better than tearful.

I drag my gaze away from him and scan the room for José. He’s talking to a group of

young women. I stalk off toward him and away from Fifty. Just because he brought me

here, I have to do as he says? Who the hell does he think he is?

The girls are hanging on José’s every word. One of them gasps as I approach, no doubt

recognizing me from the portraits.

“José.”

“Ana. Excuse me, girls.” José grins at them and puts his arm around me, and on some

level I’m amused—José all smooth, impressing the ladies.

“You look mad,” he says.

“I have to go,” I mutter mulishly.

“You just got here.”

“I know but Christian needs to get back. The pictures are fantastic, José—you’re very

talented.”

He beams. “It was so cool seeing you.”

Jose sweeps me into a big bear hug, spinning me so I can see Christian across the gal-

lery. He’s scowling, and I realize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a very calculating

move, I wrap my arms around José’s neck. I think Christian is going to expire. His glare

darkens to something quite sinister, and slowly he makes his way toward us.

“Thanks for the warning about the portraits of me,” I mumble.

“Shit. Sorry, Ana. I should have told you. D’you like them?”

“Um . . . I don’t know,” I answer truthfully, momentarily knocked off balance by his

question.

“Well, they’re all sold, so somebody likes them. How cool is that? You’re a poster

girl.” He hugs me tighter still as Christian reaches us, glowering at me now, though fortu-

nately José doesn’t see.

José releases me. “Don’t be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr. Grey, good evening.”

“Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive.” Christian sounds icily polite. “I’m sorry we can’t

stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle. Anastasia?” He subtly stresses weand

takes my hand as he does so.

“Bye, José. Congratulations again.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and before I

know it Christian is dragging me out of the building. I know he’s boiling with silent wrath,

but so am I.

He looks quickly up and down the street then heads left and suddenly sweeps me into

a side alley, abruptly pushing me up against a wall. He grabs my face between his hands,

forcing me to look up into his ardent determined eyes.

I gasp, and his mouth swoops down. He’s kissing me, violently. Briefly our teeth clash,

then his tongue is in my mouth.

Desire explodes like the Fourth of July throughout my body, and I’m kissing him back,

matching his fervor, my hands knotting in his hair, pulling it, hard. He groans, a low sexy

sound in the back of his throat that reverberates through me, and his hand moves down my

body to the top of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through the plum dress.

I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last few days into our kiss, binding him to

me, and it hits me—in this moment of blinding passion—he’s doing the same, he feels the

same.

He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminous with desire, firing the already

heated blood that is pounding through my body. My mouth is slack as I try to drag precious

air into my lungs.

“You. Are. Mine,” he snarls, emphasizing each word. He pushes away from me and

bends, hands on his knees as if he’s run a marathon. “For the love of God, Ana.”

I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control the riotous reaction in my body, trying

to find my equilibrium again.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper once my breath has returned.

“You should be. I know what you were doing. Do you want the photographer, Anasta-

sia? He obviously has feelings for you.”

I flush and shake my head.

“No. He’s just a friend.”

“I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you . . . you

bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It’s very . . .” He frowns, grasping for

the word. “Unsettling.

“I like control, Ana, and around you that just”—he stands, his gaze intense—

“evaporates.” He waves his hand vaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deep

breath. He clasps my hand.

“Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat.”

He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.

“This place will have to do,” Christian grumbles. “We don’t have much time.”

The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen tablecloths, and walls the same

color as Christian’s playroom—deep blood red—with small gilt mirrors randomly placed,

white candles, and small vases of white roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the back-

ground about this thing called love. It’s very romantic.

The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove, and I sit, apprehensive and

wondering what he’s going to say.

“We don’t have long,” Christian says to the waiter as we sit. “So we’ll each have sirloin

steak cooked medium, béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever

the chef has; and bring me the wine list.”

“Certainly, sir.” The waiter, taken aback by Christian’s cool, calm efficiency, scuttles

off. Christian places his Blackberry on the table. Jeez, don’t I get a choice?

“And if I don’t like steak?”

He sighs. “Don’t start, Anastasia.”

“I am not a child, Christian.”

“Well, stop acting like one.”

It’s as if he’s slapped me. I blink at him. So this is how it will be, an agitated, fraught

conversation, albeit in a very romantic setting but certainly no hearts and flowers.

“I’m a child because I don’t like steak?” I mutter trying to conceal my hurt.

“For deliberately making me jealous. It’s a childish thing to do. Have you no regard

for your friend’s feelings, leading him on like that?” Christian presses his lips together in a

thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the wine list.

I blush—I hadn’t thought of that. Poor José—I certainly don’t want to encourage him.

Suddenly, I’m mortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thing to do. He glances

at the wine list.

“Would you like to choose the wine?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at me expectantly,

arrogance personified. He knows I know nothing about wine.

“You choose,” I answer, sullen but chastened.

“Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please.”

“Er . . . we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir.”

“A bottle then,” Christian snaps.

“Sir.” He retreats, subdued, and I don’t blame him. I frown at Fifty. What’s eating him?

Oh, me probably, and somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess rises sleep-

ily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep for a while.

“You’re very grumpy.”

He gazes at me impassively. “I wonder why that is?”

“Well, it’s good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the

future, wouldn’t you say?” I smile at him sweetly.

His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know

he’s trying to stifle his smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Apology accepted, and I’m pleased to inform you I haven’t decided to become a veg-

etarian since we last ate.”

“Since that was the last time you ate, I think that’s a moot point.”

“There’s that word again, moot.”

“Moot,” he mouths and his eyes soften with humor. He runs his hand through his hair,

and he’s serious again. “Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I’m a little nervous. I’ve

told you I want you back, and you’ve said . . . nothing.” His gaze is intense and expectant

while his candor is totally disarming. What the hell do I say to this?

“I’ve missed you . . . really missed you, Christian. The past few days have been . . .

difficult.” I swallow, and a lump in my throat swells as I recall my desperate anguish since

I left him.

This last week has been the worst in my life, the pain almost indescribable. Nothing

has come close. But reality hits home, winding me.

“Nothing’s changed. I can’t be what you want me to be.” I squeeze the words out past

the lump in my throat.

“You are what I want you to be,” he says, his soft voice emphatic.

“No, Christian, I’m not.”

“You’re upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you . . . So

did you. Why didn’t you safe word, Anastasia?” His tone changes, becoming accusatory.

What? Whoa—change of direction.I flush, blinking at him.

“Answer me.”

“I don’t know. I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, try-

ing to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind. You know . . . I forgot,” I whisper

ashamed, and I shrug apologetically.

Jeez, perhaps we could have avoided all this heartache.

“You forgot!” he gasps with horror, grabbing the sides of the table and glaring at me.

I wither under his stare.

Shit!He’s furious again. My inner goddess glares at me, too. See, you brought all this

on yourself!

“How can I trust you?” he says, his voice low. “Ever?”

The waiter arrives with our wine as we sit staring at each other, blue eyes to gray. Both

of us filled with unspoken recriminations, while the waiter removes the cork with an un-

necessary flourish and pours a little wine into Christian’s glass. Automatically Christian

reaches out and takes a sip.

“That’s fine.” His voice is curt.

Gingerly the waiter fills our glasses, placing the bottle on the table before beating a

hasty retreat. Christian has not taken his eyes off me the whole time. I am the first to crack,

breaking eye contact, picking up my glass and taking a large gulp. I barely taste it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, suddenly feeling stupid. I left because I thought we were incom-

patible, but he’s saying I could have stopped him?

“Sorry for what?” he says alarmed.

“Not using the safe word.”

He closes his eyes, as if in relief.

“We might have avoided all this suffering,” he mutters.

“You look fine.” More than fine. You look like you.

“Appearances can be deceptive,” he says quietly. “I’m anything but fine. I feel like the

sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. I’m in perpetual night here.”

I’m winded by his admission. Oh my, like me.

“You said you’d never leave, yet the going gets tough and you’re out the door.”

“When did I say I’d never leave?”

“In your sleep. It was the most comforting thing I’d heard in so long, Anastasia. It

made me relax.”

My heart constricts and I reach for my wine.

“You said you loved me,” he whispers. “Is that now in the past tense?” His voice is

low, laced with anxiety.

“No, Christian, it’s not.”

He gazes at me, and he looks so vulnerable as he exhales. “Good,” he murmurs.

I’m shocked by his admission. He’s had a change of heart. When I told him I loved

him before, he was horrified. The waiter is back. Briskly he places our plates in front of us

and scuttles away.

Holy hell. Food.

“Eat,” Christian commands.

Deep down I know I’m hungry, but right now, my stomach is in knots. Sitting across

from the only man I have ever loved and debating our uncertain future does not promote a

healthy appetite. I look dubiously at my food.

“So help me God, Anastasia, if you don’t eat, I will take you across my knee here in

this restaurant, and it will have nothing to do with my sexual gratification. Eat!”

Jeez, keep your hair on, Grey.My subconscious stares at me over her half-moon specs.

She is wholeheartedly in agreement with Fifty Shades.

“Okay, I’ll eat. Stow your twitching palm, please.”

He doesn’t smile but continues to glare at me. Reluctantly I lift my knife and fork and

slice into my steak. Oh, it’s mouthwateringly good. I am hungry, really hungry. I chew and

he visibly relaxes.

We eat our supper in silence. The music’s changed. A soft-voiced woman sings in the

background, her words echoing my thoughts.

I glance at Fifty. He’s eating and watching me. Hunger, longing, anxiety combined in

one hot look.

“Do you know who’s singing?” I try for some normal conversation.

Christian pauses and listens. “No . . . but she’s good, whoever she is.”

“I like her, too.”

Finally he smiles his private enigmatic smile. What’s he planning?

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Eat up,” he says mildly.

I have eaten half the food on my plate. I cannot eat any more. How can I negotiate this?

“I can’t manage any more. Have I eaten enough for Sir?”

He stares at me impassively, not answering, then glances at his watch.

“I am really full,” I add, taking a sip of the delicious wine.

“We have to go shortly. Taylor’s here, and you have to be up for work in the morning.”

“So do you.”

“I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia. At least you’ve eaten something.”

“Aren’t we going back via Charlie Tango?”

“No, I thought I might have a drink. Taylor will collect us. Besides, this way I have you

in the car all to myself for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?”

Oh, that’s his plan.

Christian summons the waiter to ask for the check, then picks up his Blackberry and

makes a call.

“We’re at Le Picotin, South West Third Avenue.” He hangs up.

Jeez, he’s curt over the phone.

“You’re very brusque with Taylor, in fact, with most people.”

“I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia.”

“You haven’t gotten to the point this evening. Nothing’s changed, Christian.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“This started with a proposition.”

“A different proposition.”

The waiter returns, and Christian hands over his credit card without checking the bill.

He gazes at me speculatively while the waiter swipes his card. Christian’s phone buzzes

once, and he peers at it.

He has a proposition? What now? A couple of scenarios run through my mind: kidnap,

working for him. No, nothing makes sense. Christian finishes paying.

“Come. Taylor’s outside.”

We stand and he takes my hand.

“I don’t want to lose you, Anastasia.” He kisses my knuckles tenderly, and the touch of

his lips on my skin resonates throughout my body.

Outside the Audi is waiting. Christian opens my door. Climbing in, I sink into the

plush leather. He heads to the driver’s side, Taylor steps out of the car and they talk briefly.

This isn’t their usual protocol. I’m curious. What are they talking about? Moments later,

they both climb in, and I glance at Christian who’s wearing his impassive face as he stares

ahead.

I allow myself a brief moment to examine his godlike profile: straight nose, sculptured

full lips, hair falling deliciously over his forehead. This divine man is surely not meant for

me. Soft music suddenly fills the rear of the car, an orchestral piece that I don’t know, and

Taylor pulls into the light traffic, heading for the I-5 and Seattle.

Christian shifts to face me. “As I was saying, Anastasia, I have a proposition for you.”

I glance nervously at Taylor.

“Taylor can’t hear you,” Christian reassures me.

“How?”

“Taylor,” Christian calls. Taylor doesn’t respond. He calls again, still no response.

Christian leans over and taps his shoulder. Taylor removes an ear bud I hadn’t noticed.

“Yes, sir?”

“Thank you, Taylor. It’s okay; resume your listening.”

“Sir.”

“Happy now? He’s listening to his iPod. Puccini. Forget he’s here. I do.”

“Did you deliberately ask him to do that?”

“Yes.”

Oh. “Okay, your proposition?”

Christian looks suddenly determined and businesslike. Holy shit.We’re negotiating a

deal. I listen attentively.

“Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no

kinky fuckery at all?”

My mouth drops open. “Kinky fuckery?” I squeak.

“Kinky fuckery.”

“I can’t believe you said that.” I glance nervously at Taylor.

“Well, I did. Answer me,” he says calmly.

I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplica-

tion begging me.

“I like your kinky fuckery,” I whisper.

“That’s what I thought. So what don’t you like?”

Not being able to touch you. You enjoying my pain, the bite of the belt . . .

“The threat of cruel and unusual punishment.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, you have all those canes and whips and stuff in your playroom, and they fright-

en the living daylights out of me. I don’t want you to use them on me.”

“Okay, so no whips or canes—or belts, for that matter,” he says sardonically.

I gaze at him puzzled. “Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?”

“Not as such, I’m just trying to understand you, get a clearer picture of what you do

and don’t like.”

“Fundamentally, Christian, it’s your joy in inflicting pain on me that’s difficult for me

to handle. And the idea that you’ll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line.”

“But it’s not arbitrary; the rules are written down.”

“I don’t want a set of rules.”

“None at all?”

“No rules.” I shake my head, but my heart is in my mouth. Where is he going with this?

“But you don’t mind if I spank you?”

“Spank me with what?”

“This.” He holds up his hand.

I squirm uncomfortably. “No, not really. Especially with those silver balls . . .” Thank

heavens it’s dark, my face is flaming and my voice trails off as I recall that night. Yeah . . .

I’d do that again.

He smirks at me. “Yes, that was fun.”

“More than fun,” I mutter.

“So you can deal with some pain.”

I shrug. “Yes, I suppose.” Oh, where is he going with this? My anxiety level has shot

up several magnitudes on the Richter scale.

He strokes his chin, deep in thought. “Anastasia, I want to start again. Do the vanilla

thing and then maybe, once you trust me more and I trust you to be honest and to commu-

nicate with me, we could move on and do some of the things that I like to do.”

I stare at him, stunned, with no thoughts in my head at all—like a computer crash. He

gazes at me anxiously, but I can’t see him clearly, as we’re shrouded in the Oregon dark-

ness. It occurs to me, finally, this is it.

He wants the light, but can I ask him to do this for me? And don’t I like the dark? Some

dark, sometimes. Memories of the Thomas Tallis night drift invitingly through my mind.

“But what about punishments?”

“No punishments.” He shakes his head. “None.”

“And the rules?”

“No rules.”

“None at all? But you have needs.”

“I need you more, Anastasia. These last few days have been purgatory. All my instincts

tell me to let you go, tell me I don’t deserve you.

“Those photos the boy took . . . I can see how he sees you. You look so untroubled

and beautiful, not that you’re not beautiful now, but here you sit. I see your pain. It’s hard

knowing that I’m the one who has made you feel this way.

“But I’m a selfish man. I’ve wanted you since you fell into my office. You are exqui-

site, honest, warm, strong, witty, beguilingly innocent; the list is endless. I am in awe of

you. I want you, and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twisting in my

dark soul.”

My mouth goes dry. Holy shit.My subconscious nods with satisfaction. If that isn’t

a declaration of love, I don’t know what is. And the words tumble out of me—a dam

breached.

“Christian, why do you think you have a dark soul? I would never say that. Sad maybe,

but you’re a good man. I can see that . . . you’re generous, you’re kind, and you’ve never

lied to me. And I haven’t tried very hard.

“Last Saturday was such a shock to my system. It was my wake-up call. I realized that

you’d been easy on me and that I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be. Then, after I

left, it dawned on me that the physical pain you inflicted was not as bad as the pain of losing

you. I do want to please you, but it’s hard.”

“You please me all the time,” he whispers. “How often do I have to tell you that?”

“I never know what you’re thinking. Sometimes you’re so closed off . . . like an island

state. You intimidate me. That’s why I keep quiet. I don’t know which way your mood is

going to go. It swings from north to south and back again in a nanosecond. It’s confusing

and you won’t let me touch you, and I want to so much to show you how much I love you.”

He blinks at me in the darkness, warily I think, and I can resist him no longer. I un-

buckle my seatbelt and scramble into his lap, taking him by surprise, and take his head in

my hands.

“I love you, Christian Grey. And you’re prepared to do all this for me. I’m the one

who is undeserving, and I’m just sorry that I can’t do all those things for you. Maybe with

time . . . I don’t know . . . but yes, I accept your proposition. Where do I sign?”

He snakes his arms around me and crushes me to him.

“Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he buries his nose in my hair.

We sit, our arms wrapped around each other, listening to the music—a soothing piano

piece—mirroring the emotions in the car, the sweet tranquil calm after the storm. I snuggle

into his arms, resting my head in the crook of his neck. He gently strokes my back.

“Touching is a hard limit for me, Anastasia,” he whispers.

“I know. I wish I understood why.”

After a while, he sighs, and in a soft voice he says, “I had a horrific childhood. One of

the crack whore’s pimps . . .” His voice trails off, and his body tenses as he recalls some

unimaginable horror. “I can remember that,” he whispers, shuddering.

Abruptly, my heart constricts as I remember the burn scars marring his skin. Oh, Chris-

tian.I tighten my arms around his neck.

“Was she abusive? Your mother?” My voice is low and soft with unshed tears.

“Not that I remember. She was neglectful. She didn’t protect me from her pimp.”

He snorts. “I think it was me who looked after her. When she finally killed herself, it

took four days for someone to raise the alarm and find us . . . I remember that.”

I cannot contain my gasp of horror. Holy mother fuck. Bile rises in my throat.

“That’s pretty fucked-up,” I whisper.

“Fifty shades,” he murmurs.

I turn my head and press my lips against his neck, seeking and offering solace as I

imagine a small, dirty, gray-eyed boy lost and lonely beside the body of his dead mother.

Oh, Christian.I breathe in his scent. He smells heavenly, my favorite fragrance in the

entire world. He tightens his arms around me and kisses my hair, and I sit wrapped in his

embrace as Taylor speeds into the night.

When I wake, we’re driving through Seattle.

“Hey,” Christian says softly.

“Sorry,” I murmur as I sit up, blinking and stretching. I am still in his arms, on his lap.

“I could watch you sleep forever, Ana.”

“Did I say anything?”

“No. We’re nearly at your place.”

Oh? “We’re not going to yours?”

“No.”

I sit up and gaze at him. “Why not?”

“Because you have work tomorrow.”

“Oh.” I pout.

He smirks at me. “Why, did you have something in mind?”

I flush. “Well, maybe.”

He chuckles. “Anastasia, I am not going to touch you again, not until you beg me to.”

“What!”

“So that you’ll start communicating with me. Next time we make love, you’re going to

have to tell me exactly what you want in fine detail.”

“Oh.” He shifts me off his lap as Taylor pulls up outside my apartment. Christian

climbs out and holds the car door open for me.

“I have something for you.” He moves to the back of the car, opens the trunk, and pulls

out a large gift-wrapped box. What the hell is this?

“Open it when you get inside.”

“You’re not coming in?”

“No, Anastasia.”

“So when will I see you?”

“Tomorrow.”

“My boss wants me to go for a drink with him tomorrow.”

Christian’s face hardens. “Does he, now?” His voice is laced with latent menace.