Текст книги "Fifty shades darker"
Автор книги: Erika Leonard James
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Эротика и секс
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
legs. My inner goddess is stripped naked and standing in line, ready and waiting and beg-
ging me to play catch-up. I pull the robe away from my shoulders, my eyes never leaving
his, and shrug, letting it fall billowing to the floor. His mesmerizing gray eyes heat, and he
runs his index finger over his lips as he gazes at me.
Slipping the spaghetti straps of my gown off my shoulders, I gaze at him for a beat,
then release them. My nightdress skims and ripples softly down my body, pooling at my
feet. I am naked and practically panting and oh-so-ready.
Christian pauses for a moment, and I marvel at the frankly carnal appreciation in his
expression. Standing up, he makes his way over to the chest and picks up his silver-gray
tie—my favorite tie. He pulls it through his fingers as he turns and strolls casually toward
me, a smile playing on his lips. When he stands in front of me, I expect him to ask for my
hands, but he doesn’t.
“I think you’re underdressed, Miss Steele,” he murmurs. He places the tie around my
neck, and slowly but dexterously ties it in what I assume is a fine Windsor knot. As he
tightens the knot, his fingers brush the base of my throat and electricity shoots through me,
making me gasp. He leaves the wide end of the tie long, long enough so the tip skims my
pubic hair.
“You look mighty fine now, Miss Steele,” he says and bends to kiss me gently on my
lips. It’s a swift kiss, and I want more, desire spiraling wantonly through my body.
“What shall we do with you now?” he says, and then picking up the tie, he yanks
sharply so that I’m forced forward into his arms. His hands dive into my hair and pull my
head back, and he really kisses me, hard, his tongue unforgiving and merciless. One of his
hands roams freely down my back to cup my behind. When he pulls away, he’s panting too
and gazing down at me, his eyes molten gray; and I’m left wanting, gasping for breath, my
wits thoroughly scattered. I’m sure my lips will be swollen after his sensual assault.
“Turn around,” he orders gently and I obey. Pulling my hair free of the tie, he quickly
braids and secures it. He tugs the braid so my head tilts up.
“You have beautiful hair, Anastasia,” he murmurs and kisses my throat, sending shiv-
ers running up and down my spine. “You just have to say stop. You know that, don’t you?”
he whispers against my throat.
I nod, my eyes closed, and relish his lips on me. He turns me round once more and
picks up the end of the tie.
“Come,” he says, tugging gently, leading me over to the chest where the rest of the
box’s contents are on display.
“Anastasia, these objects.” He holds up the butt plug. “This is a size too big. As an anal
virgin, you don’t want to start with this. We want to start with this.” He holds up his pinky
finger, and I gasp, shocked. Fingers . . . there?He smirks at me, and the unpleasant thought
of the anal fisting mentioned in the contract comes to mind.
“Just finger—singular,” he says softly with that uncanny ability he has to read my
mind. My eyes dart to his. How does he do that?
“These clamps are vicious.” He prods the nipple clamps. “We’ll use these.” He places
a different pair of clamps on the chest. They look like giant black hairpins, but with little
jet jewels hanging down. “They’re adjustable,” Christian murmurs, his voice laced with
gentle concern.
I blink up at him, wide-eyed. Christian, my sexual mentor. He knows so much more
about all this than I do. I’ll never catch up. I frown. He knows more than me about most
things . . . except cooking.
“Clear?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper, my mouth dry. “Are you going to tell me what you intend to do?”
“No. I’m making this up as I go along. This isn’t a scene, Ana.”
“How should I behave?”
His brow creases. “However you want to.”
Oh!
“Were you expecting my alter ego, Anastasia?” he asks, his tone vaguely mocking and
bemused at once. I blink at him.
“Well, yes. I like him,” I murmur. He smiles his private smile and reaches up to run his
thumb down my cheek.
“Do you now,” he breathes and runs his thumb across my lower lip. “I’m your lover,
Anastasia, not your Dom. I love to hear your laugh and your girlish giggle. I like you re-
laxed and happy, like you are in José’s photos. That’s the girl that fell into my office. That’s
the girl I fell in love with.”
Holy cow.My mouth drops open, and a welcome warmth blooms in my heart. It’s
joy—pure joy.
“But having said all that, I also like to do rude things to you, Miss Steele; and my alter
ego knows a trick or two. So, do as you’re told and turn around.” His eyes glint wickedly,
and the joy moves sharply south, seizing me tightly and gripping every sinew below my
waist. I do as I’m told. Behind me, he opens one of the drawers and a moment later he’s in
front of me again.
“Come,” he orders and tugs on the tie, leading me to the table. As we walk past the
couch, I notice for the first time that all the canes have vanished. It distracts me. Were they
there yesterday when I came in? I don’t remember. Did Christian move them? Mrs. Jones?
Christian interrupts my train of thought.
“I want you to kneel up on this,” he says when we’re at the table.
Oh, okay. What does he have in mind? My inner goddess can’t wait to find out—she’s
already scissor-kicked onto the table and is watching him with adoration.
He gently lifts me onto the table, and I fold my legs beneath me and kneel in front
of him, surprised by my own grace. Now we are eye to eye. He runs his hands down my
thighs, grasps my knees, and pulls my legs apart and stands directly in front of me. He
looks very serious, his eyes darker, hooded . . . lustful.
“Arms behind your back. I’m going to cuff you.”
He produces some leather cuffs from his back pocket and reaches around me. This is
it. Where’s he going to take me this time?
His proximity is intoxicating. This man is going to be my husband. Can one lust after
one’s husband like this? I don’t remember reading about that anywhere. I can’t resist him,
and I run my parted lips along his jaw, feeling the stubble, a heady combination of prickly
and soft, under my tongue. He stills and closes his eyes. His breathing falters and he pulls
back.“Stop. Or this will be over far quicker than either of us wants,” he warns. For a mo-
ment, I think he might be angry but then he smiles, and his heated eyes are alight with
amusement.
“You’re irresistible,” I pout.
“Am I now?” he says dryly.
I nod.
“Well—don’t distract me, or I’ll gag you.”
“I like distracting you,” I whisper, looking mulishly at him, and he cocks his eyebrow
at me.
“Or spank you.”
Oh! I try to hide my smile. There was a time, not very long ago, when I would have
been subdued by this threat. I would never have had the nerve to kiss him, unbidden, while
he was in this room. I realize now, I’m no longer intimidated by him. It’s a revelation. I grin
mischievously, and he smirks at me.
“Behave,” he growls and stands back, gazing at me and slaps the leather cuffs across
his palm. And the warning is there, implicit in his actions. I try for contrite, and I think I
succeed. He approaches me again.
“That’s better,” he breathes and leans behind me once more with the cuffs. I resist
touching him but inhale his glorious Christian scent, still fresh from last night’s shower.
Hmm . . .I should bottle this.
I expect him to cuff my wrists, but he attaches each cuff above my elbows. It makes me
arch my back, pushing my breasts forward, though my elbows are by no means together.
When he’s finished, he stands back to admire me.
“Feel okay?” he asks. It’s not the most comfortable of positions, but I’m so wired with
anticipation to see where he’s going with this that I nod, weak with wanting.
“Good.” He pulls the mask from his back pocket.
“I think you’ve seen enough now,” he murmurs. He slides the mask over my head,
covering my eyes. My breathing spikes. Wow.Why is not being able to see so erotic? I am
here, trussed up and kneeling on a table, waiting—sweet anticipation hot and heavy deep
in my belly. I can still hear, though, and the melodic steady beat of the track continues. It
resonates through my body. I hadn’t noticed before. He must have it on repeat.
Christian steps away. What is he doing? He moves back to the chest and opens a draw-
er, then closes it again. A moment later he’s back, and I sense him in front of me. There’s a
pungent, rich, musky scent in the air. It’s delicious, almost mouth-watering.
“I don’t want to ruin my favorite tie,” he murmurs. It slowly unravels as he undoes it.
I inhale sharply as the tail of the tie travels up my body, tickling me in its wake. Ruin
his tie? I listen acutely to determine what he’s going to do. He’s rubbing his hands together.
His knuckles suddenly brush over my cheek, down to my jaw following my jawline.
My body leaps to attention as his touch sends a delicious shiver through me. His hand
flexes over my neck, and it’s slick with sweet-smelling oil so his hand glides smoothly
down my throat, across my clavicle, and up to my shoulder, his fingers kneading gently as
they go. Oh, I’m getting a massage. Not what I expected.
He places his other hand on my other shoulder and begins another slow teasing journey
across my clavicle. I groan softly as he works his way down toward my increasingly aching
breasts, aching for his touch. It’s tantalizing. I arch my body further into his deft touch, but
his hands glide to my sides, slow, measured, in time to the beat of the music, and studiously
avoid my breasts. I groan, but I don’t know if it’s from pleasure or frustration.
“You are so beautiful, Ana,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, his mouth next
to my ear. His nose follows along my jaw as he continues to massage me—beneath my
breasts, across my belly, down . . . He kisses me fleetingly on my lips, then he runs his nose
down my neck, my throat. Holy cow, I’m on fire . . .his nearness, his hands, his words.
“And soon you’ll be my wife to have and to hold,” he whispers.
Oh my.
“To love and to cherish.”
Jeez.
“With my body, I will worship you.”
I tip my head back and moan. His fingers run through my pubic hair, over my sex, and
he rubs the palm of his hand against my clitoris.
“Mrs. Grey,” he whispers as his palm works against me.
I groan.
“Yes,” he breathes as his palm continues to tease me. “Open your mouth.”
My mouth is already open from panting. I open wider, and he slips a large cool metal
object between my lips. Shaped like an oversized baby’s pacifier, it has small grooves or
carvings, and what feels like a chain at the end. It’s big.
“Suck,” he commands softly. “I’m going to put this inside you.”
Inside me? Inside me where?My heart lurches into my mouth.
“Suck,” he repeats and he stops palming me.
No. Don’t stop, I want to shout, but my mouth is full. His oiled hands glide back up my
body and finally cup my neglected breasts.
“Don’t stop sucking.”
Gently he rolls my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, and they harden and
lengthen under his expert touch, sending synaptic waves of pleasure all the way to my
groin.
“You have such beautiful breasts, Ana,” he murmurs and my nipples harden further in
response. He murmurs his approval and I moan. His lips move down from my neck toward
one breast, trailing soft bites and sucks over and over, down toward my nipple, and sud-
denly I feel the pinch of the clamp.
“Ah!” I garble my groan through the device in my mouth. Holy cow, the feeling is ex-
quisite, raw, painful, pleasurable . . . oh—the pinch. Gently, he laves the restrained nipple
with his tongue, and as he does so, he applies the other. The bite of the second clamp is
equally harsh . . . but just as good. I groan loudly.
“Feel it,” he whispers.
Oh, I do. I do. I do.
“Give me this.” He tugs gently on the ornate metal pacifier in my mouth, and I release
it. His hands once more trail down my body, toward my sex. He’s re-oiled his hands. They
glide around to my backside.
I gasp. What’s he going to do? I tense up on my knees as he runs his fingers between
my buttocks.
“Hush, easy,” he breathes close to my ear and kisses my neck as his fingers stroke and
tease me.
What’s he going to do?His other hand glides down my belly to my sex, palming me
once more. He eases his fingers inside me, and I moan loudly, appreciatively.
“I’m going to put this inside you,” he murmurs. “Not here.” His fingers trail between
my buttocks, spreading oil. “But here.” He moves his fingers round and round, in and out,
hitting the front wall of my vagina. I moan and my restrained nipples swell.
“Ah.”
“Hush now.” Christian removes his fingers and slides the object into me. He cups my
face and kisses me, his mouth invading mine, and I hear a very faint click. Instantly the
plug inside me starts to vibrate– down there!I gasp. The feeling is extraordinary—beyond
anything I’ve felt before.
“Ah!”
“Easy,” Christian calms me, stifling my gasps with his mouth. His hands move down
and tug very gently on the clamps. I cry out loudly.
“Christian, please!”
“Hush, baby. Hang in there.”
This is too much—all this overstimulation, everywhere. My body starts to climb, and
on my knees, I’m unable to control the buildup. Oh my . . .Will I be able to handle this?
“Good girl,” he soothes.
“Christian,” I pant, sounding desperate even to my own ears.
“Hush, feel it, Ana. Don’t be afraid.” His hands are now on my waist, holding me, but I
can’t concentrate on his hands, what’s inside me, and the clamps, too. My body is building,
building to an explosion—with the relentless vibrations and the sweet, sweet torture of my
nipples. Holy hell.It will be too intense. His hands move from my hips, down and around,
slick and oiled, touching, feeling, kneading my skin—kneading my behind.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs and suddenly he gently pushes an anointed finger inside
me . . . there!Into my backside. Fuck.It feels alien, full, forbidden . . . but oh . . . so . . .
good. And he moves slowly, easing in and out, while his teeth graze my upturned chin.
“So beautiful, Ana.”
I’m suspended high—high above a wide, wide ravine, and I’m soaring then falling
giddily at the same time, plunging to the Earth. I can hold on no more, and I scream as
my body convulses and climaxes at the overwhelming fullness. As my body explodes, I’m
nothing but sensation—everywhere. Christian releases first one and then the other clamp,
causing my nipples to sing with a surge of sweet, sweet painful feeling, but it’s oh-so-
good and causing my orgasm, this orgasm, to go on and on. His finger stays where it is,
gently easing in and out.
“Argh!” I cry out, and Christian wraps himself around me, holding me, as my body
continues to pulse mercilessly inside.
“ No!” I shout again, pleading, and this time he tugs the vibrator out of me, and his
finger, too, as my body continues to convulse.
He unstraps one of the cuffs so that my arms fall forward. My head lolls on his shoul-
der, and I am lost, lost to all this overwhelming sensation. I’m all shattered breath, ex-
hausted desire and sweet, welcome oblivion.
Vaguely, I’m aware that Christian lifts me, carries me over to the bed, and lays me
down on the cool satin sheets. After a moment, his hands, still oiled, gently rub the backs
of my thighs, my knees, my calves, and my shoulders. I feel the bed dip as he stretches out
beside me.
He pulls the mask off, but I don’t have the energy to open my eyes. Finding my braid
he undoes the hair tie and leans forward, kissing me softly on my lips. Only my erratic
breathing disturbs the silence in the room and steadies as I float gently back to Earth. The
music has stopped.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs.
When I persuade one eye to open, he’s gazing down at me, smiling softly.
“Hi,” he says. I manage a grunt in response, and his smile broadens. “Rude enough for
you?”
I nod and give him a reluctant grin. Jeez, any ruder and I’d have to spank the pair of us.
“I think you’re trying to kill me,” I mutter.
“Death by orgasm.” He smirks. “There are worse ways to go,” he says but then frowns
ever so slightly as an unpleasant thought crosses his mind. It distresses me. I reach up and
caress his face.
“You can kill me like this anytime,” I whisper. I notice that he’s gloriously naked and
ready for action. When he takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, I lean up and capture his
face between my hands and pull his mouth to mine. He kisses me briefly, then stops.
“This is what I want to do,” he murmurs and reaches beneath his pillow for the music
center remote. He presses a button and the soft strains of a guitar echo round the walls.
“I want to make love to you,” he says gazing down at me, his gray eyes burning with
bright, loving sincerity. Softly in background, a familiar voice starts to sing “The First
Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” And his lips find mine.
As I tighten around him, finding my release once more, Christian unravels in my arms, his
head thrown back as he calls out my name. He clasps me tightly to his chest as we sit nose
to nose in the middle of his vast bed, me astride him. And in this moment—this moment of
joy with this man to this music—the intensity of my experience this morning in here with
him and all that has occurred during the past week overwhelms me anew, not just physi-
cally but emotionally. I am completely overcome with all these feelings. I am so deeply,
deeply in love with him. For the first time I’m offered a glimmer of understanding as to
how he feels about my safety.
Recalling his close call with Charlie Tango yesterday, I shudder at the thought and tears
pool in my eyes. If anything ever happened to him—I love him so. My tears run unchecked
down my cheeks. So many sides of Christian—his sweet, gentle persona and his rugged, I-
can-do-what-I-fucking-well-like-to-you-and-you’ll-come-like-a-train Dominant side—his
fifty shades—all of him. All spectacular. All mine. And I’m aware we don’t know each
other well, and we have a mountain of issues to overcome, but I know for each other, we
will—and we’ll have a lifetime to do it.
“Hey,” he breathes, clasping my head in his hands, gazing down at me. He’s still inside
me. “Why are you crying?” His voice is filled with concern.
“Because I love you so much,” I whisper. He half-closes his eyes as if drugged, absorb-
ing my words. When he opens them again, they blaze with his love.
“And I you, Ana. You make me . . . whole.” He kisses me gently as Roberta Flack
finishes her song.
We have talked and talked and talked, sitting upright together on the bed in the playroom,
me in his lap, our legs curled around each other. The red satin sheet is draped around us like
a royal cocoon, and I have no idea how much time has passed. Christian is laughing at my
impersonation of Katherine during the photo shoot at the Heathman.
“To think it could have been her who came to interview me. Thank the Lord for the
common cold,” he murmurs and kisses my nose.
“I believe she had flu, Christian,” I scold him, trailing my fingers idly through his chest
hair and marveling that he’s tolerating it so well. “All the canes have gone,” I murmur, re-
calling my distraction from earlier. He tucks my hair behind my ear for the umpteenth time.
“I didn’t think you’d ever get past that hard limit.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” I whisper wide-eyed at him, then find myself glancing over
at the whips, paddles and floggers lining the opposite wall. He follows my gaze.
“You want me to get rid of them, too?” He’s amused but sincere.
“Not the crop . . . the brown one. Or that suede flogger, you know.” I flush.
He smiles down at me.
“Okay, the crop and the flogger. Why, Miss Steele, you’re full of surprises.”
“As are you, Mr. Grey. It’s one of the things I love about you.” I kiss him gently at the
corner of his mouth.
“What else do you love about me?” he asks and his eyes widen.
I know it’s a huge deal for him to ask this question. It humbles me and I blink at him. I
love everything about him—even his fifty shades. I know that life with Christian will never
be boring.
“This.” I stroke my index finger across his lips. “I love this, and what comes out of
it, and what you do to me with it. And what’s in here.” I caress his temple. “You’re so
smart and witty and knowledgeable, competent in so many things. But most of all, I love
what’s in here.” I press my palm gently against his chest, feeling his steady, beating heart.
“You are the most compassionate man I’ve met. What you do. How you work. It’s awe-
inspiring,” I whisper.
“Awe-inspiring?” He’s puzzled, but there’s a trace of humor on his face. Then his face
transforms, and his shy smile appears as if he’s embarrassed, and I want to launch myself
at him. So I do.
I am dozing, wrapped in satin and Grey. Christian nuzzles me awake.
“Hungry?” he whispers
“Hmm, famished.”
“Me, too.”
I lean up to gaze down at him sprawled on the bed.
“It’s your birthday, Mr. Grey. I’ll cook you something. What would you like?”
“Surprise me.” He runs his hand down my back, stroking me gently. “I should check
my Blackberry for all the messages I missed yesterday.” He sighs and starts to sit up, and I
know this special time is over . . . for now.
“Let’s shower,” he says.
Who am I to turn down the birthday boy?
Christian is in his study on the phone. Taylor is with him, looking serious but casual in
jeans and a tight, black T-shirt. I busy myself in the kitchen fixing lunch. I have found salm-
on steaks in the fridge, and I’m poaching them with lemon, making a salad, and boiling
some baby potatoes. I feel extraordinarily relaxed and happy, on top of the world—literally.
Turning toward the large window, I stare out at the glorious blue sky. All that talking . . . all
that sexing . . . hmm.A girl could get used to that.
Taylor emerges from the study, interrupting my reverie. I turn down my iPod and take
out an ear bud.
“Hi, Taylor.”
“Ana.” He nods.
“Your daughter okay?”
“Yes, thanks. My ex-wife thought she had appendicitis, but she was overreacting as
usual.” Taylor rolls his eyes, surprising me. “Sophie’s fine, though she has a nasty stomach
bug.”“I’m sorry.”
He smiles.
“Has Charlie Tango been located?”
“Yes. The recovery team is on its way. She should be back at Boeing Field late tonight.”
“Oh, good.”
He gives me a tight smile. “Will that be all, ma’am?”
“Yes, yes of course.” I flush . . . will I ever get used to Taylor calling me ma’am? It
makes me feel so old, at least thirty.
He nods and heads out of the great room. Christian is still on the phone. I am waiting
for the potatoes to boil. It gives me an idea. Fetching my purse, I fish out my Blackberry.
There’s a text from Kate.
*C U this evening. Looking forward to a loooooong chat*
I text back.
*Same here*
It will be good to talk to Kate.
Calling up the e-mail program, I type a quick message to Christian.
From:Anastasia Steele
Subject:Lunch
Date:June 18, 2011 13:12
To:Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey
I am e-mailing to inform you that your lunch is nearly ready.
And that I had some mind-blowing, kinky fuckery earlier today.
Birthday kinky fuckery is to be recommended.
And another thing—I love you.
A x
(Your fiancée)
I listen carefully for a reaction, but he’s still on the phone. I shrug. Perhaps he’s just too
busy. My Blackberry vibrates.
From:Christian Grey
Subject:Kinky Fuckery
Date:June 18, 2011 13:15
To:Anastasia Steele
What aspect was most mind-blowing?
I’m taking notes.
Christian Grey
Famished and Wasting Away After the Mornings Exertions CEO, Grey Enterprises Hold-
ings Inc.
PS: I love your signature
PPS: What happened to the art of conversation?
From:Anastasia Steele
Subject:Famished?
Date:June 18, 2011 13:18
To:Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey
May I draw your attention to the first line of my previous e-mail informing you that your
lunch is indeed almost ready . . . so none of this famished and wasting away nonsense.
With regard to the mind-blowing aspects of the kinky fuckery . . . frankly—all of it. I’d be
interested in reading your notes. And I like my bracketed signature, too.
A x
(Your fiancée)
PS: Since when have you been so loquacious? And you’re on the phone!
I press send and look up, and he’s standing in front of me, smirking. Before I can say
anything, he bounds around the kitchen island, sweeps me up in his arms, and kisses me
soundly.
“That is all, Miss Steele,” he says, releasing me, and he saunters—in his jeans, bare
feet and untucked white shirt—back to his office, leaving me breathless.
I’ve made a watercress, cilantro, and sour cream dip to accompany the salmon, and I’ve
set the breakfast bar. I hate interrupting him while he’s working, but now I stand in the
doorway of his office. He’s still on the phone, all thoroughly fucked hair and bright gray
eyes—a visually nourishing feast. He looks up when he sees me and doesn’t take his eyes
off me. He frowns slightly, and I don’t know if it’s at me or because of his conversation.
“Just let them in and leave them alone. Do you understand, Mia?” he hisses and rolls
his eyes. “Good.”
I mime eating, and he grins at me and nods.
“I’ll see you later.” He hangs up. “One more call?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“That dress is very short,” he adds.
“You like it?” I give him a quick twirl. It’s one of Caroline Acton’s purchases. A soft
turquoise sundress, probably more suitable for the beach, but it’s such a lovely day on so
many levels. He frowns and my face falls.
“You look fantastic in it, Ana. I just don’t want anyone else to see you like that.”
“Oh!” I scowl at him. “We’re at home, Christian. No one but the staff.”
His mouth twists, and either he’s trying to hide his amusement or he really doesn’t
think that’s funny. But eventually he nods, reassured. I shake my head at him—he’s actu-
ally being serious? I head back to the kitchen.
Five minutes later, he’s back in front of me, holding the phone.
“I have Ray for you,” he murmurs, his eyes wary.
All the air leaves my body at once. I take the phone and cover the mouthpiece.
“You told him!” I hiss. Christian nods, and his eyes widen at my obvious look of dis-
tress. Shit!I take a deep breath. “Hi, Dad.”
“Christian has just asked me if he can marry you,” Ray says.
Oh Shit.The silence stretches between us as I desperately think what to say. Ray as
usual stays silent, giving me no clue as to his reaction to this news.
“What did you say?” I crack first.
“I said I wanted to talk to you. It’s kind of sudden, don’t you think, Annie? You’ve not
known him long. I mean, he’s a nice guy, knows his fishing . . . but so soon?” His voice is
calm and measured.
“Yes. It is sudden . . . hang on.” Hastily, I leave the kitchen area away from Christian’s
anxious gaze and head toward the great window. The doors to the balcony are open, and I
step out into the sunshine. I can’t quite walk to the edge. It’s just too far up.
“I know it’s sudden and all—but . . . well, I love him. He loves me. He wants to marry
me, and there’ll never be anyone else for me.” I flush thinking this is probably the most
intimate conversation I have ever had with my stepfather.
Ray is silent on the other end of the phone.
“Have you told your mother?”
“No.”
“Annie . . . I know he’s all kinds of rich and eligible, but marriage? It’s such a big step.
You’re sure?”
“He’s my happily ever after,” I whisper.
“Whoa.” Ray says after a moment, his tone softer.
“He’s everything.”
“Annie, Annie, Annie. You’re such a headstrong young woman. I hope to God you
know what you’re doing. Hand me back to him, will you?”
“Sure, Dad, and will you give me away at the wedding?” I ask quietly.
“Oh, honey.” His voice cracks, and he’s quiet for a few moments, the emotion in his
voice bringing tears to my eyes. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he says even-
tually.
Oh, Ray. I love you so much . . . I swallow, to keep from crying. “Thank you, Dad. I’ll
hand you back to Christian. Be gentle with him. I love him,” I whisper.
I think Ray is smiling on the other end of the line, but it’s hard to tell. It’s always hard
to tell with Ray.
“Sure thing, Annie. And come and visit this old man and bring that Christian with you.”
I march back into the room—pissed at Christian for not warning me—and hand him
the phone, my expression letting him know just how pissed I am. He’s amused as he takes
the phone and heads back into his study.
Two minutes later, he reappears.
“I have your stepfather’s rather begrudging blessing,” he says proudly, so proudly, in
fact, that it makes me giggle, and he grins at me. He’s acting like he’s just negotiated a
major new merger or acquisition, which I suppose on one level, he has.
“Damn, you’re a good cook, woman.” Christian swallows his last mouthful and raises his
glass of white wine to me. I blossom under his praise, and it occurs to me I’ll only get to
cook for him on weekends. I frown. I enjoy cooking. Perhaps I should have made him a
cake for his birthday. I check my watch. I still have time.
“Ana?” He interrupts my thoughts. “Why did you ask me not to take your photo?” His
question startles me all the more because his voice is deceptively soft.
Oh . . . shit.The photos. I stare down at my empty plate, twisting my fingers in my lap.
What can I say? I’d promised myself not to mention that I’d found his version of Readers’
Wives.
“Ana,” he snaps. “What is it?” He makes me jump, and his voice commands me to look
at him. When did I think he didn’t intimidate me?
“I found your photos,” I whisper.
His eyes widen in shock. “You’ve been in the safe?” he asks, incredulous.
“Safe? No. I didn’t know you had a safe.”
He frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“In your closet. The box. I was looking for your tie, and the box was under your
jeans . . . the ones you normally wear in the playroom. Except today.” I flush.
He gapes at me, appalled, and nervously runs his hand through his hair as he processes
this information. He rubs his chin, lost in thought, but he can’t mask the perplexed annoy-
ance etched on his face. Abruptly he shakes his head, exasperated—but amused, too—and
a faint smile of admiration kisses the corner of his mouth. He steeples his hands in front of
him and focuses on me once more.
“It’s not what you think. I’d forgotten all about them. That box has been moved. Those
