Текст книги "Fifty shades darker"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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He stifles his grin by biting his lower lip. He looks simply adorable . . . playful Chris-

tian toying with my libido. If only my seduction skills were better, I’d know what to do, but

not being able to touch him does hamper me.

My inner goddess narrows her eyes and looks thoughtful. We need to work on this.

As Christian and I gaze at each other—me hot, bothered and yearning and him, relaxed

and amused at my expense—I realize I have no food in the apartment.

“I could cook something—except we’ll have to go shopping.”

“Shopping?”

“For groceries.”

“You have no food here?” His expression hardens.

I shake my head. Crap, he looks quite angry.

“Let’s go shopping, then,” he says sternly as he turns on his heel and heads for the door,

opening it wide for me.

“When was the last time you were in a supermarket?”

Christian looks out of place, but he follows me dutifully, holding a shopping basket.

“I can’t remember.”

“Does Mrs. Jones do all the shopping?”

“I think Taylor helps her. I’m not sure.”

“Are you happy with a stir-fry? It’s quick.”

“Stir-fry sounds good.” Christian grins, no doubt figuring out my ulterior motive for a

speedy meal.

“Have they worked for you long?”

“Taylor, four years, I think. Mrs. Jones about the same. Why didn’t you have any food

in the apartment?”

“You know why,” I murmur, flushing.

“It was you who left me,” he mutters disapprovingly.

“I know,” I reply in a small voice, not wanting that reminder.

We reach the checkout and silently stand in line.

If I hadn’t left, would he have offered the vanilla alternative?I wonder idly.

“Do you have anything to drink?” He pulls me back to the present.

“Beer . . . I think.”

“I’ll get some wine.”

Oh dear. I’m not sure what sort of wine is available in Ernie’s Supermarket. Christian

remerges empty handed, grimacing with a look of disgust.

“There’s a good liquor store next door,” I say quickly.

“I’ll see what they have.”

Maybe we should just go to his place, then we wouldn’t have all this hassle. I watch as

he strolls purposefully and with easy grace out of the door. Two women coming in stop and

stare. Oh yes, eye my Fifty Shades, I think despondently.

I want the memory of him in my bed, but he’s playing hard to get. Maybe I should, too.

My inner goddess nods frantically in agreement. And as I stand in line, we come up with

a plan. Hmm . . .

Christian carries the grocery bags into the apartment. He’s carried them as we’ve walked

back to the apartment from the store. He looks odd. Not his usual CEO demeanor at all.

“You look very—domestic.”

“No one has ever accused me of that before,” he says dryly. He places the bags on the

kitchen island. As I start to unload them, he takes out a bottle of white wine and searches

for a corkscrew.

“This place is still new to me. I think the opener is in that drawer there.” I point with

my chin.

This feels so . . . normal. Two people, getting to know each other, having a meal. Yet

it’s so strange. The fear that I’d always felt in his presence has gone. We’ve already done

so much together, I blush just thinking about it, and yet I hardly know him.

“What are you thinking about?” Christian interrupts my reverie as he shrugs out of his

pinstripe jacket and places it on the couch.

“How little I know you, really.”

He gazes at me and his eyes soften. “You know me better than anyone.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Mrs. Robinson comes unbidden, and very unwelcome, into

my mind.

“It is, Anastasia. I am a very, very private person.”

He hands me a glass of white wine.

“Cheers,” he says.

“Cheers,” I respond taking a sip as he puts the bottle in the fridge.

“Can I help you with that?” he asks.

“No it’s fine . . . sit.”

“I’d like to help.” His expression is sincere.

“You can chop the vegetables.”

“I don’t cook,” he says, regarding the knife I hand him with suspicion.

“I imagine you don’t need to.” I place a chopping board and some red peppers in front

of him. He stares down at them in confusion.

“You’ve never chopped a vegetable?”

“No.”

I smirk at him.

“Are you smirking at me?”

“It appears this is something that I can do and you can’t. Let’s face it, Christian, I think

this is a first. Here, I’ll show you.”

I brush up against him and he steps back. My inner goddess sits up and takes notice.

“Like this.” I slice the red pepper, careful to remove the seeds.

“Looks simple enough.”

“You shouldn’t have any trouble with it,” I mutter ironically.

He gazes at me impassively for a moment then sets about his task as I continue to pre-

pare the diced chicken. He starts to slice, carefully, slowly. Oh my, we’ll be here all day.

I wash my hands and hunt for the wok, the oil, and the other ingredients I need, re-

peatedly brushing against him—my hip, my arm, my back, my hands. Small, seemingly

innocent touches. He stills each time I do.

“I know what you’re doing, Anastasia,” he murmurs darkly, still preparing the first

pepper.

“I think it’s called cooking,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes. Grabbing another knife, I

join him at the chopping board peeling and slicing garlic, shallots, and French beans, con-

tinually bumping against him.

“You’re quite good at this,” he mutters as he starts on his second red pepper.

“Chopping?” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Years of practice.” I brush against him again,

this time with my behind. He stills once more.

“If you do that again, Anastasia, I am going to take you on the kitchen floor.”

Oh, wow. It’s working. “You’ll have to beg me first.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe.”

He puts down his knife and saunters slowly over to me, his eyes burning. Leaning past

me, he switches the gas off. The oil in the wok quiets almost immediately.

“I think we’ll eat later,” he says. “Put the chicken in the fridge.”

This is not a sentence I had ever expected to hear from Christian Grey, and only he can

make it sound hot, really hot. I pick up the bowl of diced chicken, rather shakily place a

plate on top of it, and stow it in the fridge. When I turn back, he’s beside me.

“So you’re going to beg?” I whisper, bravely gazing into his darkening eyes.

“No, Anastasia.” He shakes his head. “No begging.” His voice is soft, seductive.

And we stand staring at each other, drinking each other in—the atmosphere charg-

ing between us, almost crackling, neither saying anything, just looking. I bite my lip as

desire for this beautiful man seizes me with a vengeance, igniting my blood, shallowing

my breath, pooling below my waist. I see my reactions reflected in his stance, in his eyes.

In a beat, he grabs me by my hips and pulls me to him as my hands reach for his hair

and his mouth claims me. He pushes me against the fridge, and I hear the vague protesting

rattle of bottles and jars from within as his tongue finds mine. I moan into his mouth, and

one of his hands moves into my hair, pulling my head back as we kiss, savagely.

“What do you want, Anastasia?” he breathes.

“You.” I gasp.

“Where?”

“Bed.”

He breaks free, scoops me into his arms, and carries me quickly and seemingly with-

out any strain into my bedroom. Setting me on my feet beside my bed, he leans down and

switches on my bedside lamp. He glances quickly round the room and hastily closes the

pale cream curtains.

“Now what?” he says softly.

“Make love to me.”

“How?”

Jeez.

“You have got to tell me, baby.”

Holy crap.“Undress me.” I am panting already.

He smiles and hooks his index finger into my open shirt, pulling me toward him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and without taking his blazing eyes off mine, slowly starts

to unbutton my shirt.

Tentatively I put my hands on his arms to steady myself. He doesn’t complain. His

arms are a safe area. When he’s finished with the buttons, he pulls my shirt over my shoul-

ders, and I let go of him to let the shirt fall to the floor. He reaches down to the waistband

of my jeans, pops the button, and pulls down the zipper.

“Tell me what you want, Anastasia.” His eyes smolder and his lips part as he takes

quick shallow breaths.

“Kiss me from here to here,” I whisper trailing my finger from the base of my ear,

down my throat. He smoothes my hair out of the line of fire and bends, leaving sweet soft

kisses along the path my finger took and then back again.

“My jeans and panties,” I murmur, and he smiles against my throat before he drops

to his knees in front of me. Oh, I feel so powerful. Hooking his thumbs into my jeans, he

gently pulls them and my panties down my legs. I step out of my pumps and my clothes so

that I’m left wearing only my bra. He stops and looks up at me expectantly, but he doesn’t

get up.

“What now, Anastasia?”

“Kiss me,” I whisper.

“Where?”

“You know where.”

“Where?”

Oh, he’s taking no prisoners. Embarrassed I quickly point at the apex of my thighs, and

he grins wickedly. I close my eyes, mortified, but at the same time beyond aroused.

“Oh, with pleasure,” he chuckles. He kisses me and unleashes his tongue, his joy-

inspiring expert tongue. I groan and fist my hands into his hair. He doesn’t stop, his tongue

circling my clitoris, driving me insane, on and on, round and round. Ahhh . . . it’s only

been . . . how long . . . ? Oh . . .

“Christian, please,” I beg. I don’t want to come standing up. I don’t have the strength.

“Please what, Anastasia?”

“Make love to me.”

“I am,” he murmurs, gently blowing against me.

“No. I want you inside me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please.”

He doesn’t stop his sweet, exquisite torture. I moan loudly.

“Christian . . . please.”

He stands and gazes down at me, and his lips glisten with the evidence of my arousal.

Holy cow . . .

“Well?” he asks.

“Well what?” I pant, staring up at him in frantic need.

“I’m still dressed.”

I gape at him in confusion.

Undress him? Yes, I can do this. I reach for his shirt and he steps back.

“Oh no,” he admonishes. Shit, he means his jeans.

Oh, and this gives me an idea. My inner goddess cheers loudly to the rafters, and I drop

to my knees in front of him. Rather clumsily and with shaking fingers, I undo his waistband

and fly, then yank down his jeans and boxers, and he springs free. Wow.

I peek up at him through my lashes, and he’s gazing at me with . . . what? Trepidation?

Awe? Surprise?

He steps out of his jeans and pulls off his socks, and I take hold of him in my hand and

squeeze tightly, pushing my hand back like he’s shown me before. He groans and tenses,

and his breath hisses through clenched teeth. Very tentatively, I put him in my mouth and

suck—hard. Mmm, he tastes good.

“Ahh. Ana . . . whoa, gently.”

He cups my head tenderly, and I push him deeper into my mouth, pressing my lips

together as tightly as I can, sheathing my teeth, and sucking hard.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

Oh, that’s a good, inspiring, sexy sound, so I do it again, pulling his length deeper,

swirling my tongue around the end. Hmm . . .I feel like Aphrodite.

“Ana, that’s enough. No more.”

I do it again– Beg, Grey, beg—and again.

“Ana, you’ve made your point,” he grunts through gritted teeth. “I do not want to come

in your mouth.”

I do it once more, and he bends down, grasps me by my shoulders, hauls me to my feet,

and tosses me on the bed. Dragging his shirt over his head, he then reaches down to his

discarded jeans, and like a good boy scout, produces a foil packet. He’s panting, like me.

“Take your bra off,” he orders.

I sit up and do as I’m told.

“Lie down. I want to look at you.”

I lie down, gazing up at him as he slowly rolls the condom on. I want him so badly. He

stares down at me and licks his lips.

“You are a fine sight, Anastasia Steele.” He bends over the bed and slowly crawls up

and over me, kissing me as he goes. He kisses each of my breasts and teases my nipples in

turn, while I groan and writhe beneath him, and he doesn’t stop.

No . . . Stop. I want you.

“Christian, please.”

“Please what?” he murmurs between my breasts.

“I want you inside me.”

“Do you now?”

“Please.”

Gazing at me, he pushes my legs apart with his and moves so that he’s hovering above

me. Without taking his eyes off mine, he sinks into me at a deliciously slow pace.

I close my eyes, relishing the fullness, the exquisite feeling of his possession, instinc-

tively tilting my pelvis up to meet him, to join with him, groaning loudly. He eases back

and very slowly fills me again. My fingers find their way into his silken unruly hair, and he

oh-so-slowly moves in and out again.

“Faster, Christian, faster . . . please.”

He gazes down at me in triumph and kisses me hard, then really starts to move– holy

cow, a punishing, relentless . . . oh fuck—and I know it will not be long. He sets a pounding

rhythm. I start to quicken, my legs tensing beneath him.

“Come on, baby,” he gasps. “Give it to me.”

His words are my undoing, and I explode, magnificently, mind-numbingly, into a mil-

lion pieces around him, and he follows calling out my name.

“Ana! Oh fuck, Ana!” He collapses on top of me, his head buried in my neck.

As sanity returns, I open my eyes and gaze up into the face of the man I love. Christian’s

expression is soft, tender. He strokes his nose against mine, bearing his weight on his

elbows, his hands holding mine by the side of my head. Sadly, I suspect that’s so I don’t

touch him. He plants a gentle kiss on my lips as he eases himself out of me.

“I’ve missed this,” he breathes.

“Me too,” I whisper.

He takes hold of my chin and kisses me hard. A passionate, beseeching kiss, asking for

what? I don’t know. It leaves me breathless.

“Don’t leave me again,” he implores, looking deep into my eyes, his face serious.

“Okay,” I whisper and smile at him. His answering smile is dazzling; relief, elation, and

boyish delight combined into one enchanting look that would melt the coldest of hearts.

“Thank you for the iPad.”

“You are most welcome, Anastasia.”

“What’s your favorite song on there?”

“Now that would be telling.” He grins. “Come cook me some food, wench. I’m fam-

ished,” he adds, sitting up suddenly and dragging me with him.

“Wench?” I giggle.

“Wench. Food, now, please.”

“Since you ask so nicely, sire, I’ll get right on to it.”

As I scramble out of bed, I dislodge my pillow, revealing the deflated helicopter bal-

loon underneath. Christian reaches for it and gazes up at me, puzzled.

“That’s my balloon,” I say, feeling proprietary as I reach for my robe and wrap it round

myself. Oh jeez . . . why did he have to find that?

“In your bed?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” I flush. “It’s been keeping me company.”

“Lucky Charlie Tango,” he says, in surprise.

Yes, I’m sentimental, Grey, because I love you.

“My balloon,” I say again and turn on my heel and head out to the kitchen, leaving him

grinning from ear to ear.

Christian and I sit on Kate’s persian rug, eating stir-fry chicken and noodles from white

china bowls with chopsticks and sipping chilled white Pinot Grigio. Christian leans against

the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He’s wearing his jeans and his shirt

with his just-fucked hair, and that’s all. The Buena Vista Social Club croons softly in the

background from Christian’s iPod.

“This is good,” he says appreciatively as he digs into his food.

I sit cross-legged beside him, eating greedily, beyond hungry, and admire his naked

feet.“I usually do all the cooking. Kate isn’t a great cook.”

“Did you your mother teach you?”

“Not really,” I scoff. “By the time I was interested in learning, my mom was living with

Husband Number Three in Mansfield, Texas. And Ray, well, he would’ve lived on toast

and takeout if it wasn’t for me.”

Christian gazes down at me. “You didn’t stay in Texas with your mom?”

“No. Steve, her husband and I, we didn’t get along. And I missed Ray. Her marriage

to Steve didn’t last long. She came to her senses, I think. She never talks about him,” I add

quietly. I think that’s a dark part of her life, which we’ve never discussed.

“So you came back to Washington to live with your stepfather.”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like you looked after him,” he says softly.

“I suppose.” I shrug.

“You’re used to taking care of people.”

The edge in his voice attracts my attention, and I glance up at him.

“What is it?” I ask, startled by his wary expression.

“I want to take care of you.” His luminous eyes glow with some unnamed emotion.

My heart rate spikes.

“I’ve noticed,” I whisper. “You just go about it in a strange way.”

His brow creases. “It’s the only way I know how,” he says quietly.

“I’m still mad at you for buying SIP.”

He smiles. “I know but you being mad, baby, wouldn’t stop me.”

“What am I going to say to my work colleagues, to Jack?”

He narrows his eyes. “That fucker better watch himself.”

“Christian!” I admonish. “He’s my boss.”

Christian’s mouth presses into a hard line. He looks like a recalcitrant schoolboy.

“Don’t tell them,” he says.

“Don’t tell them what?”

“That I own it. The heads of agreement was signed yesterday. The news is embargoed

for four weeks while the management at SIP makes some changes.”

“Oh . . . will I be out of a job?” I ask, alarmed.

“I sincerely doubt it,” Christian says wryly, trying to stifle his smile.

I scowl. “If I leave and find another job, will you buy that company, too?”

“You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” His expression alters, wary once more.

“Possibly. I’m not sure you’ve given me a great deal of choice.”

“Yes, I will buy that company, too.” He is adamant.

I scowl at him again. I am in a no-win situation here.

“Don’t you think you’re being a tad overprotective?”

“Yes. I am fully aware of how this looks.”

“Paging Dr. Flynn,” I murmur.

He puts down his empty bowl and gazes at me impassively. I sigh. I don’t want to fight.

Standing up, I reach for his bowl.

“Would you like dessert?”

“Now you’re talking!” he says, giving me a lascivious grin.

“Not me.” Why not me?My inner goddess wakes from her doze and sits upright, all

ears. “We have ice cream. Vanilla.” I snicker.

“Really?” Christian’s grin gets bigger. “I think we could do something with that.”

What?I stare at him dumbfounded as he gracefully gets to his feet.

“Can I stay?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“The night.”

“I assumed that you were.” I flush.

“Good. Where’s the ice cream?”

“In the oven.” I smile sweetly at him.

He cocks his head to one side, sighs, and shakes his head at me. “Sarcasm is the lowest

form of wit, Miss Steele.” His eyes glitter.

Oh shit. What’s he planning?

“I could still take you across my knee.”

I place the bowls in the sink. “Do you have those silver ball things?”

He pats his hands down his chest, belly, and the pockets of his jeans. “Funnily enough,

I don’t carry a spare set around with me. Not much call for them in the office.”

“I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Grey, and I thought you said that sarcasm was the lowest

form of wit.”

“Well, Anastasia, my new motto is if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

I gape at him– I can’t believe he’s just said that—and he looks sickeningly pleased

with himself as he grins at me. Turning, he opens the freezer and takes out the carton of

Ben & Jerry’s finest vanilla.

“This will do just fine.” He looks up at me, eyes dark. “Ben & Jerry’s & Ana.” He says

each word slowly, enunciating every syllable clearly.

Oh fucking my.I think my lower jaw is on the floor. He opens the cutlery drawer and

grabs a spoon. When he looks up, his are eyes hooded, and his tongue skims his top teeth.

Oh, that tongue.

I feel winded. Desire, dark, sleek, and wanton runs hot through my veins. We’re going

to have fun, with food.

“I hope you’re warm,” he whispers. “I’m going to cool you down with this. Come.” He

holds out his hand, and I place mine in his.

In my bedroom he places the ice cream on my bedside table, pulls the duvet off the bed,

and removes both the pillows, placing them all in a pile on the floor.

“You have a change of sheets, don’t you?”

I nod, watching him, fascinated. He holds up Charlie Tango.

“Don’t mess with my balloon,” I warn.

His lips quirk upward in half a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, baby, but I do want to

mess with you and these sheets.”

My body practically convulses.

“I want to tie you up.”

Oh.“Okay,” I whisper.

“Just your hands. To the bed. I need you still.”

“Okay,” I whisper again, incapable of anything more.

He strolls over to me, not taking his eyes off mine.

“We’ll use this.” He takes hold of my robe sash and with delicious, teasing slowness,

releases the bow, and gently pulls it free of the garment.

My robe falls open while I stand paralyzed under his heated gaze. After a moment, he

pushes the robe off my shoulders. It falls and pools at my feet so that I’m standing naked

before him. He strokes my face with the backs of his knuckles, and his touch resonates in

the depths of my groin. Bending, he kisses my lips briefly.

“Lie on the bed, face up,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening, burning into mine.

I do as I’m told. My room is shrouded in darkness except for the soft, insipid light from

my lamp.

Normally, I hate energy-saving bulbs—they are so dim—but being naked here, with

Christian, I’m grateful for the muted light. He stands by the bed gazing down at me.

“I could look at you all day, Anastasia,” he says, and with that crawls on to the bed, up

my body, and straddles me.

“Arms above your head,” he commands.

I comply and he fastens the end of my robe sash round my left wrist and threads the

end through the metal bars at the head of my bed. He pulls it tight so my left arm is flexed

above me. He then secures my right hand, tying the sash tightly.

When I’m tied-up, staring at him, he visibly relaxes. He likes me tethered. I can’t touch

him this way. It occurs to me that none of his subs would have touched him either—and

what’s more, they would never have the opportunity to. He would have always been in

control and at a distance. That’s why he likes his rules.

He climbs off me and bends to give me a quick peck on the lips. Then he stands and

lifts his shirt over his head. He undoes his jeans and drops them to the floor.

He is gloriously naked. My inner goddess is doing a triple axel dismount off the un-

even bars, and abruptly my mouth is dry. He really is beyond beautiful. He has a physique

drawn on classical lines: broad muscular shoulders, narrow hips, the inverted triangle. He

obviously works out. I could look at him all day. He moves to the end of the bed and grasps

my ankles, pulling me swiftly and sharply downward so that my arms are stretched out and

unable to move.

“That’s better,” he mutters.

Picking up the tub of ice cream, he climbs smoothly back onto the bed to straddle me

once more. Very slowly, he peels off the lid of the tub and dips the spoon in.

“Hmm . . . it’s still quite hard,” he says with a raised brow. Scooping out a spoonful of

the vanilla, he pops it into his mouth. “Delicious,” he murmurs, licking his lips. “Amazing

how good plain old vanilla can taste.” He gazes down at me and smirks. “Want some?” he

teases.

He looks so freaking hot, young and carefree—sitting on me and eating from a tub of

ice cream—eyes bright, face luminous. Oh what the hell is he going to do to me? As if I

can’t tell. I nod, shyly.

He scoops out another spoonful and offers me the spoon, so I open my mouth, then he

quickly pops it in his mouth again.

“This is too good to share,” he says, smiling wickedly.

“Hey,” I start in protest.

“Why, Miss Steele, do you like your vanilla?”

“Yes,” I say more forcefully than I mean and try in vain to buck him off.

He laughs. “Getting feisty, are we? I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Ice cream,” I plead.

“Well, as you’ve pleased me so much today, Miss Steele.” He relents and offers me

another spoonful. This time he lets me eat it.

I want to giggle. He’s really enjoying himself, and his good humor is infectious. He

scoops another spoonful and feeds me some more, then he does it again. Okay, enough.

“Hmm, well, this is one way to ensure you eat—force-feed you. I could get used to

this.”Taking another spoonful, he offers me more. This time I keep my mouth shut and shake

my head, and he lets it slowly melt on the spoon so that the melted ice cream drips, onto

my throat, onto my chest. He dips down and very slowly licks it off. My body lights up

with longing.

“Mmm. Tastes even better off you, Miss Steele.”

I pull against my restraints and the bed creaks ominously, but I don’t care—I’m burn-

ing with desire, it’s consuming me. He takes another spoonful and lets the ice cream dribble

onto my breasts. Then with the back of the spoon, he spreads it over each breast and nipple.

Oh . . . it’s cold.Each nipple peaks and hardens beneath the cool of the vanilla.

“Cold?” Christian asks softly and bends to lick and suckle all the ice cream off me once

more, his mouth hot compared to the cool of the ice.

Oh my.It’s torture. As it starts to melt, the ice cream runs off me in rivulets on to the

bed. His lips continue their slow torture, sucking hard, nuzzling, softly– Oh please!—I’m

panting.

“Want some?” And before I can confirm or deny his offer, his tongue is in my mouth,

and it’s cold and skilled and tastes of Christian and vanilla. Delicious.

And just as I am getting used to the sensation, he sits up again and trails a spoonful of

ice cream down the center of my body, across my stomach, and into my navel where he

deposits a large dollop of ice cream. Oh, this is chillier than before, but weirdly it burns.

“Now, you’ve done this before.” Christian’s eyes shine. “You’re going to have to stay

still, or there will be ice cream all over the bed.” He kisses each of my breasts and sucks

each of my nipples hard, then follows the line of ice cream down my body, sucking and

licking as he goes.

And I try, I try to stay still despite the heady combination of cold and his inflaming

touch. But my hips start to move involuntarily, gyrating to their own rhythm, caught up in

his cool vanilla spell. He shifts lower and starts eating the ice cream in my belly, swirling

his tongue into and around my navel.

I moan. Holy cow.It’s cold, it’s hot, it’s tantalizing, but he doesn’t stop. He trails the

ice cream further down my body, into my pubic hair, on to my clitoris. I cry out, loudly.

“Hush now,” Christian says softly as his magical tongue sets to work lapping up the

vanilla, and now I’m keening quietly.

“Oh . . . please . . . Christian.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he breathes as his tongue works its magic. He doesn’t stop, just

doesn’t stop, and my body is climbing—higher, higher. He slips one finger inside me, then

another and he moves them with agonizing slowness in and out.

“Just here,” he murmurs, and he rhythmically strokes the front wall of my vagina while

he continues the exquisite, relentless licking and sucking. Holy fucking cow.

I erupt unexpectedly into a mind-blowing orgasm that stuns all my senses, obliterating

all that’s happening outside of my body as I writhe and groan. Jeez, that was so quick.

I am vaguely aware that he has stopped his ministrations. He’s hovering over me, slid-

ing on a condom, and then he’s inside me, hard and fast.

“Oh yes!” He groans as he slams into me. He’s sticky—the residual melted ice cream

spreading between us. It’s a strangely distracting sensation, but one I can’t dwell on for

more than a few seconds as Christian suddenly pulls out of me and flips me over.

“This way,” he murmurs and abruptly is inside me once more, but he doesn’t start his

usual punishing rhythm straight away. He leans over, releases my hands, and pulls me

upright so I am practically sitting on him. His hands move up to my breasts, and he palms

them both, tugging gently on my nipples. I groan, tossing my head back against his shoul-

der. He nuzzles my neck, biting down, as he flexes his hips, deliciously slowly, filling me

again and again.

“Do you know how much you mean to me?” he breathes against my ear.

“No,” I gasp.

He smiles against my neck, and his fingers curl around my jaw and throat, holding me

fast for a moment.

“Yes, you do. I’m not going to let you go.”

I groan as he picks up speed.

“You are mine, Anastasia.”

“Yes, yours,” I pant.

“I take care of what’s mine,” he hisses and bites my ear.

I cry out.

“That’s right, baby, I want to hear you.” He snakes one hand around my waist while his

other hand grasps my hip, and he pushes into me harder, making me cry out again. And the

punishing rhythm starts. His breathing grows harsher and harsher, ragged, matching mine.

I feel the familiar quickening deep inside. Jeez again!

I am just sensation. This is what he does to me—takes my body and possesses it wholly

so that I think of nothing but him. His magic is powerful, intoxicating. I’m a butterfly

caught in his net, unable and unwilling to escape. I’m his . . . totally his.

“Come on, baby,” he growls through gritted teeth and on cue, like the sorcerer’s ap-

prentice I am, I let go, and we find our release together.

I am lying curled up in his arms on sticky sheets. His front is pressed to my back, his nose

in my hair.

“What I feel for you frightens me,” I whisper.

He stills. “Me too, baby,” he says quietly.

“What if you leave me?” The thought is horrific.

“I’m not going anywhere. I don’t think I could ever have my fill of you, Anastasia.”

I turn and gaze at him. His expression is serious, sincere. I lean over and kiss him gen-

tly. He smiles and reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ear.

“I’ve never felt the way I felt when you left, Anastasia. I would move heaven and earth

to avoid feeling like that again.” He sounds so sad, dazed even.

I kiss him again. I want to lighten our mood somehow, but Christian does it for me.

“Will you come with me to my father’s summer party tomorrow? It’s an annual charity

thing. I said I’d go.”

I smile, feeling suddenly shy.

“Of course I’ll come.” Oh shit. I have nothing to wear.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me,” he insists.

“I have nothing to wear.”

Christian looks momentarily uncomfortable.

“Don’t be mad, but I still have all those clothes for you at home. I am sure there are a

couple of dresses in there.”

I purse my lips. “Do you, now?” I mutter, my voice sardonic. I don’t want to fight with

him tonight. I need a shower.

The girl who looks like me is standing outside SIP. Hang on—she is me. I am pale and un-

washed, and all my clothes are too big; I’m staring at her, and she’s wearing my clothes—