fifty shades darker - droppdf · the right of e l james to be identified as the author of this work...

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ELJamesisaTVexecutive,wife, and mother of two,based inWestLondon.Sinceearly childhood, she dreamtofwritingstoriesthatreaderswould fall in love with, butput those dreams on hold to

focus on her family and hercareer.Shefinallypluckedupthe courage to put pen topaper with her first novel,FiftyShadesofGrey.

E L James is currentlyworkingonthesequeltoFiftyShades Darker and a newromantic thriller with asupernaturaltwist.

Ioweahugedebtofgratitudeto Sarah, Kay, and Jada.Thank you for all that youhavedoneforme.

Also HUGE thanks toKathleen and Kristi whostepped into the breach andsortedstuffout.

Thank you too to Niall, myhusband, my lover, and mybestfriend(mostofthetime).

Andabigshoutouttoallthe

wonderful,wonderfulwomenfromallovertheworldwhomI have had the pleasure ofmeeting since I started allthis, and whom I nowconsider friends, including:Ale, Alex, Amy, Andrea,Angela,Azucena,Babs,Bee,Belinda,Betsy,Brandy,Britt,Caroline, Catherine, Dawn,Gwen, Hannah, Janet, Jen,Jenn, Jill, Kathy, Katie,Kellie, Kelly, Liz, Mandy,

Margaret, Natalia, Nicole,Nora, Olga, Pam, Pauline,Raina, Raizie, Rajka, Rhian,Ruth, Steph, Susi, Tasha,Taylor andUna.And also tothe many, many talented,funny, warm women (andmen) I havemetonline.Youknowwhoyouare.

Thanks to Morgan and Jenn

forallthingsHeathman.

And finally, thank you toJanine, my editor. You rock.Thatisall.

He’s come back. Mommy’sasleeporshe’ssickagain.

I hide and curl up smallunderthetableinthekitchen.ThroughmyfingersIcanseeMommy.Sheisasleeponthecouch. Her hand is on thesticky green rug, and he’swearinghisbigbootswiththeshiny buckle and standingoverMommyshouting.

He hits Mommy with abelt.Getup!Getup!Youareone fucked-up bitch. You areone fucked-up bitch. You are

one fucked-up bitch. You areone fucked-up bitch. You areone fucked-up bitch. You areonefucked-upbitch.

Mommymakesasobbingnoise. Stop. Please stop.Mommy doesn’t scream.Mommycurlsupsmall.

I have my fingers in myears,andIclosemyeyes.Thesoundstops.

HeturnsandIcanseehisboots as he stomps into the

kitchen.He still has the belt.Heistryingtofindme.

He stoops down andgrins. He smells nasty. Ofcigarettes and drink. Thereyouare,youlittleshit.

A chilling wail wakes him.Christ! He’s drenched insweat and his heart ispounding.What the fuck? He

sits bolt upright in bed andputs his head in hands.Fuck.They’re back. The noise wasme.Hetakesadeepsteadyingbreath, trying to ridhismindand nostrils of the smell ofcheap bourbon and staleCamelcigarettes.

I have survived Day ThreePost-Christian, and my first

day at work. It has been awelcome distraction. Thetimehasflownbyinahazeofnew faces, work to do, andMr. Jack Hyde. Mr. JackHyde...hesmilesdownatme,hisblueeyestwinkling,asheleansagainstmydesk.

“Excellent work, Ana. Ithink we’re going to make agreatteam.”

Somehow, I manage tocurl my lips upward in a

semblanceofasmile.“I’llbeoff,ifthat’sokay

withyou,”Imurmur.“Of course, it’s five

thirty.I’llseeyoutomorrow.”“Goodnight,Jack.”“Goodnight,Ana.”Collecting my bag, I

shrugonmy jacket andheadfor thedoor.Out in theearlyeveningairofSeattle,Itakeadeep breath. It doesn’t begintofill thevoidinmychest,a

voidthat’sbeenpresentsinceSaturday morning, a painfulhollowreminderofmyloss.Iwalktowardthebusstopwithmyheaddown,staringatmyfeet and contemplating beingwithout my beloved Wanda,myoldBeetle...ortheAudi.

I shut the door on thatthought immediately. No.Don’t think about him. Ofcourse, I can afford a car—anice, new car. I suspect he

has been overgenerous in hispayment, and the thoughtleaves a bitter taste in mymouth,butIdismissitandtrytokeepmymindasnumbandas blank as possible. I can’tthinkabouthim.Idon’twanttostartcryingagain—notoutonthestreet.

Theapartmentisempty.ImissKate, and I imagineherlyingonabeachinBarbadossippingacoolcocktail.Iturn

on the flat-screen televisionso there’s noise to fill thevacuum and provide somesemblanceof company, but Idon’tlistenorwatch.Isitandstare blankly at the brickwall. I am numb. I feelnothing but the pain. HowlongmustIendurethis?

The door buzzer startlesmefrommyanguish,andmyheartskipsabeat.Whocouldthatbe?Ipresstheintercom.

“Delivery for Ms.Steele.” A bored,disembodied voice answers,and disappointment crashesthroughme. I listlesslymakemywaydownstairsandfindayoung man noisily chewinggum, holding a largecardboard box, and leaningagainst the front door. I signfor the package and take itupstairs.Theboxishugeandsurprisingly light. Inside are

two dozen long-stemmed,whiterosesandacard.

Congratulationsonyourfirstdayatwork.

Ihopeitwentwell.Andthankyoufortheglider.Thatwasverythoughtful.Ithasprideofplaceonmy

desk.Christian

I stare at the typed card,the hollow in my chestexpanding. No doubt, hisassistant sent this. Christianprobablyhadverylittle todowith it. It’s too painful tothink about. I examine theroses—theyarebeautiful,andIcan’tbringmyself to throwtheminthetrash.Dutifully,Imakemywayintothekitchentohuntdownavase.

And so a pattern develops:wake,work,cry,sleep.Well,try to sleep. I can’t evenescape him in my dreams.Gray burning eyes, his lostlook, his hair burnished andbright all hauntme. And themusic... so much music—Icannot bear to hear anymusic.Iamcarefultoavoiditat all costs. Even the jinglesin commercials make meshudder.

I have spoken to no one,notevenmymotherorRay.Idon’t have the capacity foridle talk now. No, I wantnoneofit.Ihavebecomemyown island state. A ravaged,war-torn land where nothinggrows and the horizons arebleak. Yes, that’s me. I caninteractimpersonallyatwork,butthat’sit.IfItalktoMom,I know I will break evenfurther—and I have nothing

lefttobreak.

Iamfindingitdifficulttoeat.By Wednesday lunchtime, Imanage a cup of yogurt, andit’s the first thing I’ve eatensince Friday. I am survivingon a newfound tolerance forlattes andDietCoke. It’s thecaffeinethatkeepsmegoing,butit’smakingmeanxious.

Jack has started to hoveroverme,irritatingme,askingme personal questions.Whatdoeshewant?I’mpolite,butI need to keep him at arm’slength.

I sit and begin trawlingthrough a pile ofcorrespondence addressed tohim,andI’mpleasedwiththedistraction of menial work.My e-mail pings, and Iquicklychecktoseewhoit’s

from.Holyshit.Ane-mailfrom

Christian.Oh no, not here...notatwork.

From:ChristianGreySubject:TomorrowDate:June8,201114:05To:AnastasiaSteele

DearAnastasiaForgivethisintrusionatwork.I

hopethatit’sgoingwell.Didyougetmyflowers?Inotethattomorrowisthegalleryopeningforyourfriend’sshow,andI’msureyou’venothadtimetopurchaseacar,andit’salongdrive.Iwouldbemorethanhappytotakeyou—shouldyouwish.Letmeknow.

ChristianGreyCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

Tears swim in my eyes. Ihastily leave my desk andbolttotherestroomtoescapeinto one of the stalls. José’sshow. Crap. I’d forgotten allabout it, and I promised himI’dgo.Shit,Christianisright;howamIgoingtogetthere?

I clutch my forehead.Why hasn’t José phoned?Come to think of it—whyhasn’t anyone phoned? I’vebeen so absentminded, I

haven’t noticed that my cellphonehasbeensilent.

Shit!Iamsuchanidiot!Istill have it on divert to theBlackberry. Holy hell.Christian’s been getting mycalls—unlesshe’sjustthrownthe Blackberry away. Howdidhegetmye-mailaddress?

He knows my shoe size,an e-mail address is hardlygoing to present him withmanyproblems.

Can I see him again?CouldIbearit?DoIwanttoseehim?Iclosemyeyesandtiltmyheadbackasgriefandlonginglancethroughme.OfcourseIdo.

Perhaps, perhaps I cantell him I’ve changed mymind... No, no, no. I cannotbe with someone who takespleasure in inflicting pain onme, someonewho can’t loveme.

Torturousmemoriesflashthrough my mind—thegliding, holding hands,kissing, the bathtub, hisgentleness,hishumor,andhisdark, brooding, sexy stare. Imisshim.It’sbeenfivedays,five days of agony that hasfeltlikeaneternity.

I wrap my arms aroundmy body, hugging myselftightly, holding myselftogether. Imiss him. I really

miss him... I love him.Simple.

I cry myself to sleep atnight, wishing I hadn’twalked out, wishing that hecould be different, wishingthat we were together. Howlong will this hideousoverwhelming feeling last? Iaminpurgatory.

AnastasiaSteele,youareatwork!Imustbestrong,butI want to go to José’s show,

anddeepdown,themasochistinmewants to seeChristian.Taking a deep breath, I headbacktomydesk.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:TomorrowDate:June8,201114:25To:ChristianGrey

HiChristianThankyoufortheflowers;they

arelovely.Yes,Iwouldappreciatealift.Thankyou.

AnastasiaSteeleAssistanttoJackHyde,CommissioningEditor,SIP

Checking my phone, I findthat it is still switched todivert. Jack is in a meeting,soIquicklycallJosé.

“Hi,José.It’sAna.”“Hello, stranger.” His

tone is so warm andwelcomingit’salmostenoughto push me over the edgeagain.

“I can’t talk long. Whattime should I be theretomorrowforyourshow?”

“You’re still coming?”Hesoundsexcited.

“Yes, of course.” I smilemyfirstgenuinesmileinfive

days as I picture his broadgrin.

“Seventhirty.”“Seeyouthen.Good-bye,

José.”“Bye,Ana.”


DearAnastasiaWhattimeshallIcollectyou?



José’sshowstartsat7:30.

Whattimewouldyousuggest?



DearAnastasiaPortlandissomedistance

away.Ishallcollectyouat5:45.Ilookforwardtoseeingyou.



Seeyouthen.


Oh my. I’m going to seeChristian, and for the firsttime in five days, my spiritslift a fraction and I allowmyself to wonder how he’sbeen.

Has he missed me?ProbablynotlikeI’vemissed

him. Has he found a newsubmissive from wherevertheycomefrom?Thethoughtis so painful that I dismiss itimmediately.Ilookatthepileof correspondence I need tosortforJackandtackleitasItry to push Christian out ofmymindoncemore.

That night in bed, I tossandturn, tryingtosleep.It isthe first time in a while Ihaven’tcriedmyselftosleep.

In my mind’s eye, Ivisualize Christian’s face thelast time I saw him as I lefthis apartment. His torturedexpression haunts me. Iremember he didn’twantmeto go, which was odd. WhywouldIstaywhenthingshadreachedsuchanimpasse?Wewereeachskirtingaroundourown issues—my fear ofpunishment, his fear of...what?Love?

Turningonmyside,Ihugmy pillow, filled with anoverwhelming sadness. Hethinks he doesn’t deserve tobe loved. Why does he feelthat way? Is it something todo with his upbringing? Hisbirthmom, the crackwhore?My thoughts plague me intothe early hours untileventually I fall into a fitful,exhaustedsleep.

Thedaydrags anddrags andJack is unusually attentive. Isuspectit’sKate’splumdressand the black high-heeledboots I’ve stolen from hercloset, but I don’t dwell onthe thought. I resolve to goclothes shopping with myfirst paycheck. The dress islooseronmethanitwas,butIpretendnottonotice.

Finally, it’s five thirty,and I collect my jacket and

purse, trying to quell mynerves.I’mgoingtoseehim!

“Do you have a datetonight?” Jack asks as hestrolls past my desk on hiswayout.

“Yes.No.Notreally.”He cocks an eyebrow at

me, his interest clearlypiqued.“Boyfriend?”

Iflush.“No,afriend.Anex-boyfriend.”

“Maybe tomorrow you’d

like tocomeforadrinkafterwork. You’ve had a stellarfirst week, Ana. We shouldcelebrate.” He smiles andsome unknown emotion flitsacross his face, making meuneasy.

Putting his hands in hispockets, he saunters throughthe double doors. I frown athis retreating back. Drinkswith the boss, is that a goodidea?

I shake my head. I haveaneveningofChristianGreytogetthroughfirst.HowamIgoing todo this? Ihurry intothe restroom to make last-minuteadjustments.

Inthelargemirroronthewall, I takea long,hard lookat my face. I am my usualpale self, dark circles roundmy too-large eyes. I lookgaunt,haunted.

Jeez, Iwish I knew how

to usemakeup. I apply somemascara and eyeliner andpinch my cheeks, hoping tobring some color their way.Tidying my hair so that ithangsartfullydownmyback,Itakeadeepbreath.Thiswillhavetodo.

NervouslyIwalkthroughthe foyer with a smile and awavetoClaireatreception.IthinksheandIcouldbecomefriends. Jack is talking to

Elizabeth as I head for thedoors. Smiling broadly, hehurriesovertoopenthemforme.

“After you, Ana,” hemurmurs.

“Thank you.” I smile,embarrassed.

Outside on the curb,Taylor is waiting. He opensthe rear door of the car. IglancehesitantlyatJackwhohas followed me out. He’s

lookingtowardtheAudiSUVindismay.

I turn and climb into theback, and there he sits—Christian Grey—wearing hisgray suit, no tie, his whiteshirt open at the collar. Hisgrayeyesareglowing.

My mouth dries. Helooks glorious except he’sscowlingatme.Ohno!

“Whendidyou lasteat?”hesnapsasTaylorcloses the

doorbehindme.Crap. “Hello, Christian.

Yes,it’snicetoseeyou,too.”“I don’twant your smart

mouthnow.Answerme.”Hiseyesblaze.

Holyshit. “Um... I had ayogurtatlunchtime.Oh—andabanana.”

“When did you last havea proper meal?” he asksacidly.

Taylor slips into the

driver’s seat, starts the car,andpullsoutintothetraffic.

I glance up and Jack iswavingatme,thoughhowhecan see me through the darkglass, I don’t know. I waveback.

“Who’s that?” Christiansnaps.

“My boss.” I peek up atthe beautifulman besideme,andhismouthispressedintoahardline.

“Well?Yourlastmeal?”“Christian, that really is

none of your concern,” Imurmur, feelingextraordinarilybrave.

“Whatever you doconcernsme.Tellme.”

No, it doesn’t. I groan infrustration, rolling my eyesheavenward, and Christiannarrowshiseyes.Andforthefirst time in a long time, Iwant to laugh. I try hard to

stiflethegigglethatthreatenstobubbleup.Christian’sfacesoftensasIstruggletokeepastraightface,andIseeatraceofasmilekisshisbeautifullysculpturedlips.

“Well?” he asks, hisvoicesofter.

“Pasta alla vongole, lastFriday,”Iwhisper.

Hecloseshiseyesasfuryand possibly regret, sweepsacross his face. “I see,” he

says,hisvoiceexpressionless.“Youlooklikeyou’velostatleast five pounds, possiblymore since then. Please eat,Anastasia,”hescolds.

I stare down at theknotted fingers in my lap.Why does he always makemefeellikeanerrantchild?

He shifts and turnstoward me. “How are you?”heasks,hisvoicestillsoft.

Well, I’m shit really... I

swallow.“If I toldyouIwasfine,I’dbelying.”

He inhales sharply. “Me,too,”hemurmursandreachesover and clasps my hand. “Imissyou,”headds.

Ohno.Skinagainstskin.“Christian,I—”“Ana,please.Weneedto

talk.”I’m going to cry. No.

“Christian, I... please... I’vecried so much,” I whisper,

tryingtokeepmyemotionsincheck

“Oh, baby, no.” He tugsmyhand,andbeforeIknowitI’m on his lap. He has hisarmsaroundme,andhisnoseis in my hair. “I’ve missedyou so much, Anastasia,” hebreathes.

I want to struggle out ofhis hold, to maintain somedistance, but his arms arewrapped around me. He’s

pressing me to his chest. Imelt.Oh,thisiswhereIwanttobe.

I rest my head againsthim, and he kisses my hairrepeatedly. This is home.Hesmells of linen, fabricsoftener, bodywash, andmyfavoritesmell—Christian.Foramoment,Iallowmyselftheillusion that all will be well,and it soothes my ravagedsoul.

A few minutes laterTaylor pulls to a stop at thecurb, even thoughwe’re stillinthecity.

“Come”—Christianshiftsmeoffhislap—“we’rehere.”

What?“Helipad—on the top of

this building.” Christianglances toward the buildingbywayofexplanation.

Ofcourse.CharlieTango.Taylor opens the door and I

slide out. He gives me awarm, avuncular smile thatmakes me feel safe. I smileback.

“I should give you backyourhandkerchief.”

“Keep it, Miss Steele,withmybestwishes.”

IflushasChristiancomesaround the car and takes myhand.He looksquizzicallyatTaylor who staresimpassively back at him,

revealingnothing.“Nine?”Christiansaysto

him.“Yes,sir.”Christiannodsasheturns

and leads me through thedouble doors into thegrandiosefoyer.Irevelinthefeelofhis largehandandhislong, skilled fingers curledaround mine. I feel thefamiliar pull—I am drawn,Icarustohissun.Ihavebeen

burnedalready,andyethereIamagain.

Reaching the elevators,he presses the call button. Ipeek up at him, and he’swearing his enigmatic halfsmile.As the doors open, hereleases my hand and ushersmein.

ThedoorscloseandIriska second peek. He glancesdown atme, gray eyes alive,and it’s there in the air

between us, that electricity.It’s palpable. I can almosttaste it, pulsing between us,drawingustogether.

“Ohmy,”IgaspasIbaskbrieflyintheintensityof thisvisceral,primalattraction.

“I feel it, too,” he says,hiseyescloudedandintense.

Desire pools dark anddeadlyinmygroin.Heclaspsmy hand and grazes myknuckleswithhisthumb,and

allmymusclesclenchtightly,deliciously,deepinsideme.

Holy cow. How can hestilldothistome?

“Please don’t bite yourlip,Anastasia,”hewhispers.

I gaze up at him,releasingmy lip. Iwanthim.Here, now, in the elevator.HowcouldInot?

“You know what it doestome,”hemurmurs.

Oh,Istillaffecthim.My

inner goddess stirs from herfive-daysulk.

Abruptly the doors open,breaking the spell, andwe’reon the roof. It’s windy, anddespite my black jacket, I’mcold. Christian puts his armaround me, pulling me intohis side,andwehurryacrossto where Charlie Tangostands in the center of thehelipad with its rotor bladesslowlyspinning.

A tall, blond, square-jawed man in a dark suitleaps out and, ducking low,runs toward us. Shakinghands with Christian, heshoutsabove thenoiseof therotors.

“Ready to go, sir. She’sallyours!”

“Allchecksdone?”“Yes,sir.”“You’ll collect her

aroundeightthirty?”

“Yes,sir.”“Taylor’swaitingforyou

outfront.”“Thank you, Mr. Grey.

Safe flight to Portland.Ma’am.” He salutes me.Without releasing me,Christian nods, ducks down,andleadsmetothehelicopterdoor.

Once inside he bucklesme firmly into my harness,cinching the straps tight. He

givesmeaknowinglookandhissecretsmile.

“Thisshouldkeepyouinyour place,” he murmurs. “ImustsayIdolikethisharnesson you. Don’t touchanything.”

I flush a deep crimson,and he runs his index fingerdown my cheek beforehanding me the headphones.I’dliketotouchyou,too,butyou won’t let me. I scowl at

him.Besides, he’s pulled thestraps so tight I can barelymove.

He sits in his seat andbuckleshimselfin,thenstartsrunning through all hispreflightchecks.He’s just socompetent. It’s very alluring.He puts on his headphonesand flips a switch and therotors speed up, deafeningme.

Turning, he gazes atme.

“Ready, baby?” His voiceechoes through theheadphones.

“Yes.”He grins his boyish grin.

Wow—I’venotseenitforsolong.

“Sea-Tac tower, this isCharlie Tango—Tango EchoHotel, cleared for takeoff toPortland via PDX. Pleaseconfirm,over.”

Thedisembodiedvoiceof

the air traffic controlleranswers,issuinginstructions.

“Roger, tower, CharlieTango set, over and out.”Christian flips two switches,grasps the stick, and thehelicopter rises slowly andsmoothly into the eveningsky.

Seattle and my stomachdrop away from us, andthere’ssomuchtosee.

“We’vechasedthedawn,

Anastasia,nowthedusk,”hisvoice comes through on theheadphones. I turn togapeathiminsurprise.

What does this mean?How is it thathecan say themost romantic things? Hesmiles, and I can’t help butsmileshylybackathim.

“As well as the eveningsun, there’s more to see thistime,”hesays.

The last timewe flew to

Seattle it was dark, but thisevening the view isspectacular, literally out ofthis world. We’re up amongthe tallest buildings, goinghigherandhigher.

“Escala’soverthere.”Hepoints toward the building.“Boeing there, and you canjustseetheSpaceNeedle.”

I crane my head. “I’veneverbeen.”

“I’ll take you—we can

eatthere.”What? “Christian, we

brokeup.”“I know. I can still take

you there and feed you.” Heglaresatme.

I shake my head andflush before taking a lessconfrontational approach.“It’s very beautiful up here,thankyou.”

“Impressive,isn’tit?”“Impressive that you can

dothis.”“Flattery from you,Miss

Steele? But I’m a man ofmanytalents.”

“I’m fully aware of that,Mr.Grey.”

He turns and smirks atme, and for the first time infive days, I relax a little.Perhapsthiswon’tbesobad.

“How’sthenewjob?”“Good, thank you.

Interesting.”

“What’syourbosslike?”“Oh, he’s okay.” How

can I tell Christian that Jackmakes me uncomfortable?Christian turns and gazes atme.

“What’swrong?”heasks.“Asidefromtheobvious,

nothing.”“Theobvious?”“Oh,Christian,youreally

areveryobtusesometimes.”“Obtuse? Me? I’m not

sure I appreciate your tone,MissSteele.”

“Well,don’tthen.”His lips twitch into a

smile. “I have missed yoursmartmouth.”

I gasp and I want toshout,I’vemissedyou—allofyou—not just your mouth!ButIkeepquietandgazeoutthe glass fishbowl that isCharlie Tango’s windshieldas we continue south. The

dusk is to our right, the sunlow on the horizon—large,blazing fiery orange—and Iam Icarus again, flying fartooclose.

The dusk has followed usfrom Seattle, and the sky isawash with opal, pinks, andaquamarines wovenseamlessly together as only

Mother Nature knows how.It’saclear,crispevening,andthe lightsofPortland twinkleand wink, welcoming us asChristian sets the helicopterdownon thehelipad.Weareon top of the strange brownbrickbuildinginPortlandweleftlessthanthreeweeksago.

Jeez,it’sbeenhardlyanytimeatall.YetIfeellikeI’veknown Christian for alifetime. He powers down

Charlie Tango, flippingvariousswitchessotherotorsstop,andeventuallyallIhearismyownbreathing throughthe headphones. Hmm.Briefly it reminds me of theThomas Tallis experience. Iblanch. Isodon’twant togothererightnow.

Christian unbuckles hisharness and leans across toundomine.

“Goodtrip,MissSteele?”

he asks, his voice mild, hisgrayeyesglowing.

“Yes, thank you, Mr.Grey,”Ireplypolitely.

“Well, let’s go see theboy’s photos.” He holds hishandouttomeandtakingit,IclimboutofCharlieTango.

Agray-hairedmanwithabeardwalks over tomeet us,smiling broadly, and Irecognize him as the old-timer from the last time we

werehere.“Joe.” Christian smiles

and releases my hand toshakeJoe’swarmly.

“Keep her safe forStephan. He’ll be alongaroundeightornine.”

“Will do, Mr. Grey.Ma’am,” he says, nodding atme. “Your car’s waitingdownstairs, sir. Oh, and theelevator’soutoforder;you’llneedtousethestairs.”

“Thankyou,Joe.”Christian takesmy hand,

and we head to theemergencystairs.

“Good thing for you thisis only three floors, in thoseheels,” he mutters to me indisapproval.

Nokidding.“Don’t you like the

boots?”“I like them very much,

Anastasia.”His gaze darkens

and I think he might saysomething else, but he stops.“Come.We’ll take it slow. Idon’t want you falling andbreakingyourneck.”

Wesitinsilenceasourdrivertakes us to the gallery. Myanxiety has returned fullforce, and I realize that ourtime in Charlie Tango has

been the eye of the storm.Christian is quiet andbrooding... apprehensiveeven; our lighter mood fromearlierhasdissipated.There’sso much I want to say, butthis journey is too short.Christianstarespensivelyoutthewindow.

“José is just a friend,” Imurmur.

Christian turns andgazesat me, his eyes dark and

guarded, giving nothingaway. His mouth—oh, hismouth is distracting, andunbidden. I remember it onme—everywhere. My skinheats.Heshiftsinhisseatandfrowns.

“Those beautiful eyeslook too large in your face,Anastasia. Please tell meyou’lleat.”

“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,”I answer automatically, a

platitude.“Imeanit.”“Do you now?” I cannot

keep the disdain out of myvoice.Honestly, the audacityof this man—this man whohasputme throughhell overthe last few days. No, that’swrong. I’ve put myselfthrough hell. No. It’s him. Ishakemyhead,confused.

“I don’t want to fightwith you, Anastasia. I want

you back, and I want youhealthy,”hesayssoftly.

What? What does thatmean? “But nothing’schanged.” You’re still fiftyshades.

“Let’s talk on the wayback.We’rehere.”

The car pulls up in frontof the gallery, and Christianclimbs out, leaving mespeechless. He opens the cardoor for me, and I clamber

out.“Why do you do that?”

My voice is louder than Iexpected.

“Do what?” Christian istakenaback.

“Say something like thatandthenjuststop.”

“Anastasia, we’re here.Where youwant to be. Let’sdo this and then talk. I don’tparticularly want a scene inthestreet.”

Iflushandglancearound.He’s right. It’s too public. Ipress my lips together as heglaresdownatme.

“Okay,” Imutter sulkily.Takingmyhand,heleadsmeintothebuilding.

We are in a convertedwarehouse—brickwalls,darkwood floors, white ceilings,andwhitepipework.It’sairyand modern, and there areseveral people wandering

across the gallery floor,sipping wine and admiringJosé’s work. For a moment,my troubles melt away as Igrasp that José has realizedhisdream.Waytogo,José!

“Good evening andwelcome to JoséRodriguez’sshow.” A young womandressed in black with veryshort brown hair, bright redlipstick, and large hoopedearrings greets us. She

glances briefly at me, thenmuch longer than is strictlynecessary at Christian, thenturnsback tome,blinkingassheblushes.

My brow creases. He’smine—orwas. I try hard notto scowl at her. As her eyesregain their focus, she blinksagain.

“Oh,it’syou,Ana.We’llwant your take on all this,too.”Grinning,shehandsme

abrochureanddirectsmetoatable laden with drinks andsnacks.

How does she know myname?

“You know her?”Christianfrowns.

I shakemyhead, equallypuzzled.

He shrugs, distracted.“What would you like todrink?”

“I’llhaveaglassofwhite

wine,thankyou.”Hisbrowfurrows,buthe

holds his tongue and headsfortheopenbar.

“Ana!”José comes barreling

throughathrongofpeople.Holycow!He’swearinga

suit.He looks good and he’sbeaming at me. He enfoldsme in his arms, hugging mehard.Andit’sallIcandonottoburstintotears.Myfriend,

myonly friendwhileKate isaway.Tearspoolinmyeyes.

“Ana, I’m so glad youmade it,” he whispers in myear, thenpausesandabruptlyholds me at arm’s length,staringatme.

“What?”“Hey are youokay?You

look, well, odd. Dios mio,haveyoulostweight?”

I blink back my tears.“José, I’m fine. I’m just so

happy for you.” Crap—nothim,too.“Congratulationsonthe show.”My voice waversasIseehisconcernetchedonhis oh-so-familiar face, but Ihavetoholdmyselftogether.

“Howdidyougethere?”heasks.

“Christianbroughtme,”Isay,suddenlyapprehensive.

“Oh.” José’s face fallsandhereleasesme.“Whereishe?”Hisexpressiondarkens.

“Over there, fetchingdrinks.” I nod in Christian’sdirection and see he’sexchanging pleasantries withsomeone waiting in line.Christian glances up when Ilook his way and our eyeslock. And in that briefmoment, I’m paralyzed,staring at the impossiblyhandsomemanwho gazes atme with some unfathomableemotion. His gaze hot,

burning into me, and we’relost for a moment staring ateachother.

Holycow...Thisbeautifulmanwantsmeback,anddeepdown inside me sweet joyslowlyunfurlslikeamorninggloryintheearlydawn.

“Ana!”Josédistractsme,and I’m dragged back to thehere and now. “I am so gladyou came—listen, I shouldwarnyou—”

Suddenly, Miss VeryShort Hair and Red Lipstickcuts him off. “José, thejournalist from the PortlandPrintz is here to see you.Come on.” She gives me apolitesmile.

“How cool is this? Thefame.” He grins, and I can’thelp but grin back—he’s sohappy. “Catch you later,Ana.” He kisses my cheek,andIwatchhimstrolloverto

ayoungwomanstandingbyatalllankyphotographer.

José’s photographs areeverywhere, and in somecases, blown up onto hugecanvases. There are bothmonochromes and colors.There’sanetherealbeauty tomany of the landscapes. InonetakenoutnearthelakeatVancouver,it’searlyeveningand pink clouds are reflectedin the stillness of the water.

Briefly, I’m transported bythe tranquility and thepeace.It’sstunning.

Christian joinsme, and Itake a deep breath andswallow, trying to recoversome of my earlierequilibrium.Hehandsmemyglassofwhitewine.

“Does it come up toscratch?” My voice soundsmorenormal.

He looks quizzically at

me.“Thewine.”“No.Rarelydoesatthese

kinds of events. The boy’squite talented, isn’t he?”Christianisadmiringthelakephoto.

“WhyelsedoyouthinkIasked him to take yourportrait?” I can’t help thepride in my voice. His eyesglide impassively from thephotographtome.

“Christian Grey?” Thephotographer from thePortland Printz approachesChristian. “Can I have apicture,sir?”

“Sure.” Christian hideshisscowl.Istepback,buthegrabs my hand and pulls metohisside.Thephotographerlooks at bothof us and can’thidehissurprise.

“Mr. Grey, thank you.”He snaps a coupleofphotos.

“Miss...?”heasks.“Steele,”Ireply.“Thank you, Miss

Steele.”Hescurriesoff.“I looked for pictures of

you with dates on theInternet. There aren’t any.That’swhyKatethoughtyouweregay.”

Christian’s mouthtwitches with a smile. “Thatexplains your inappropriatequestion. No, I don’t do

dates, Anastasia—only withyou.Butyouknowthat.”Hiseyesburnwithsincerity.

“So you never tookyour”—I glance aroundnervously to check no onecanoverhearus—“subsout?”

“Sometimes. Not ondates. Shopping, you know.”He shrugs, his eyes notleavingmine.

Oh, so just in theplayroom—hisRedRoom of

Pain and his apartment. Idon’tknowwhattofeelaboutthat.

“Just you,Anastasia,” hewhispers.

Iblushandstaredownatmy fingers. In his own way,hedoescareaboutme.

“Your friend here seemsmoreofalandscapeman,notportraits. Let’s look round.”Heholdshishandout tome,andItakeit.

We wander past a fewmore prints, and I notice acouple nodding at me,smiling broadly as if theyknowme.ItmustbebecauseI’m with Christian, but oneyoung man is blatantlystaring.Odd.

Weturnthecorner,andIcanseewhyI’vebeengettingstrangelooks.Hangingonthefar wall are seven hugeportraits—ofme.

I stare blankly at them,stupefied, the blood drainingfrom my face. Me: pouting,laughing, scowling, serious,amused.Allinsupercloseup,allinblackandwhite.

Holy crap! I rememberJosémessingwiththecameraon a couple of occasionswhen he was visiting andwhen I’d been out with himas driver and photographer’sassistant. He took snapshots,

or so I thought. Not theseinvasivecandids.

I glance up at Christian,who is staring, transfixed, ateachofthepicturesinturn.

“Seems I’m not the onlyone,” he mutters cryptically,hismouthsettlingintoahardline.

Ithinkhe’sangry.Ohno.“Excuse me,” he says,

pinning me with his brightgray gaze for a moment. He

turns and heads to thereceptiondesk.

What’shisproblemnow?I watch mesmerized as hetalks animatedly with MissVery Short Hair and RedLipstick. He fishes out hiswalletandproduceshiscreditcard.

Shit. He must haveboughtoneofthem.

“Hey. You’re the muse.These photographs are

terrific.”Ayoungmanwithashock of bright blond hairstartles me. I feel a hand atmy elbow and Christian isback.

“You’re a lucky guy.”Blond Shock smirks atChristian, who gives him acoldstare.

“That I am,” he muttersdarkly,ashepullsmeovertooneside.

“Didyou justbuyoneof

these?”“One of these?” he

snorts,nottakinghiseyesoffthem.

“You bought more thanone?”

He rolls his eyes. “Ibought them all, Anastasia. Idon’t want some strangerogling you in the privacy oftheirhome.”

My first inclination is tolaugh. “You’d rather it was

you?”Iscoff.He glares down at me,

caught off guard by myaudacity, I think, but he’stryingtohidehisamusement.

“Frankly,yes.”“Pervert,”Imouthathim

and bite my lower lip topreventmysmile.

His mouth drops open,and now his amusement isobvious. He strokes his chinthoughtfully.

“Can’t argue with thatassessment, Anastasia.” Heshakeshishead,andhiseyessoftenwithhumor.

“I’d discuss it furtherwith you, but I’ve signed anNDA.”

He sighs, gazing at me,and his eyes darken. “WhatI’d like to do to your smartmouth,”hemurmurs.

Igasp,knowingfullwellwhathemeans.“You’revery

rude.”I trytosoundshockedandsucceed.Doeshehavenoboundaries?

Hesmirksatme,amused,andthenhefrowns.

“Youlookveryrelaxedinthesephotographs,Anastasia.Idon’tseeyou like thatveryoften.”

What?Whoa! Change ofsubject—talk about nonsequitur—from playful toserious.

I flush and glance downat my fingers. He tilts myhead back, and I inhalesharplyatthecontactwithhislongfingers.

“I want you that relaxedwith me,” he whispers. Alltraceofhumorhasgone.

Deep inside me that joystirs again.But how can thisbe?Wehaveissues.

“You have to stopintimidating me if you want

that,”Isnap.“You have to learn to

communicateandtellmehowyoufeel,”hesnapsback,eyesblazing.

I take a deep breath.“Christian,youwantedmeasa submissive. That’s wherethe problem lies. It’s in thedefinition of a submissive—youe-mailedittomeonce.”Ipause, trying to recall thewording. “I think the

synonymswere, and I quote,‘compliant, pliant, amenable,passive, tractable, resigned,patient, docile, tame,subdued.’ I wasn’t supposedtolookatyou.Nottalktoyouunless you gave mepermissiontodoso.Whatdoyouexpect?”Ihissathim.

He blinks, and his frowndeepensasIcontinue.

“It’s very confusingbeing with you. You don’t

wantmetodefyyou,butthenyou like my ‘smart mouth.’You want obedience, exceptwhen you don’t, so you canpunishme. I just don’t knowwhich way is up when I’mwithyou.”

He narrows his eyes.“Good point well made, asusual,MissSteele.”Hisvoiceisfrigid.“Come,let’sgoeat.”

“We’ve only been hereforhalfanhour.”

“You’veseen thephotos;you’vespokentotheboy.”

“HisnameisJosé.”“You’ve spoken to José

—themanwho, the last timeImethim,wastryingtopushhistongueintoyourreluctantmouthwhile youwere drunkandill,”hesnarls.

“He’s never hit me,” Ispitathim.

Christian scowls at me,fury emanating from every

pore. “That’s a low blow,Anastasia,” he whispersmenacingly.

Iflush,andChristianrunshis hands through his hair,bristling with barelycontained anger. I glare backathim.

“I’m taking you forsomething to eat. You’refading away in front of me.Findtheboy,saygood-bye.”

“Please, can we stay

longer?”“No.Go.Now.Saygood-

bye.”I glare at him,my blood

boiling.Mr.DamnedControlFreak.Angry is good.Angryisbetterthantearful.

I drag my gaze awayfrom him and scan the roomfor José. He’s talking to agroup of young women. Istalk off toward him andawayfromFifty.Justbecause

hebroughtmehere,Ihavetodo as he says?Who the helldoeshethinkheis?

The girls are hanging onJosé’s every word. One ofthemgaspsas I approach,nodoubt recognizing me fromtheportraits.

“José.”“Ana. Excuseme, girls.”

José grins at them and putshis arm around me, and onsomelevelI’mamused—José

all smooth, impressing theladies.

“Youlookmad,”hesays.“I have to go,” I mutter

mulishly.“Youjustgothere.”“I know but Christian

needs to get back. Thepictures are fantastic, José—you’reverytalented.”

Hebeams.“Itwassocoolseeingyou.”

Josesweepsmeintoabig

bear hug, spinning me so Ican see Christian across thegallery.He’s scowling, and Irealize it’s because I’m inJosé’s arms. So in a verycalculatingmove, Iwrapmyarms around José’s neck. Ithink Christian is going toexpire. His glare darkens tosomething quite sinister, andslowly he makes his waytowardus.

“Thanks for the warning

about the portraits of me,” Imumble.

“Shit. Sorry, Ana. Ishould have told you. D’youlikethem?”

“Um... I don’t know,” Ianswer truthfully,momentarily knocked offbalancebyhisquestion.

“Well,they’reallsold,sosomebody likes them. Howcool is that? You’re a postergirl.”Hehugsmetighterstill

as Christian reaches us,gloweringatmenow,thoughfortunatelyJosédoesn’tsee.

José releases me. “Don’tbe a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr.Grey,goodevening.”

“Mr. Rodriguez, veryimpressive.”Christiansoundsicily polite. “I’m sorry wecan’tstaylonger,butweneedto head back to Seattle.Anastasia?” He subtlystresses we and takes my

handashedoesso.“Bye, José.

Congratulationsagain.”Igivehimaquickkissonthecheek,andbeforeIknowitChristianis dragging me out of thebuilding. Iknowhe’sboilingwithsilentwrath,butsoamI.

He looks quickly up anddown the street then headsleft and suddenly sweepsmeinto a side alley, abruptlypushingmeupagainstawall.

Hegrabsmyfacebetweenhishands, forcingme to lookupinto his ardent determinedeyes.

I gasp, and his mouthswoops down. He’s kissingme, violently. Briefly ourteethclash,thenhistongueisinmymouth.

Desire explodes like theFourthofJulythroughoutmybody, and I’m kissing himback,matchinghisfervor,my

hands knotting in his hair,pulling it, hard.He groans, alowsexysoundinthebackofhis throat that reverberatesthrough me, and his handmoves downmy body to thetop of my thigh, his fingersdiggingintomyfleshthroughtheplumdress.

I pour all the angst andheartbreak of the last fewdays into our kiss, bindinghimtome,andithitsme—in

this moment of blindingpassion—he’s doing thesame,hefeelsthesame.

He breaks off the kiss,panting. His eyes areluminous with desire, firingthe already heated blood thatispoundingthroughmybody.MymouthisslackasI trytodrag precious air into mylungs.

“You. Are. Mine,” hesnarls, emphasizing each

word. He pushes away fromme and bends, hands on hisknees as if he’s run amarathon. “For the love ofGod,Ana.”

I lean against the wall,panting, trying to control theriotous reaction in my body,tryingtofindmyequilibriumagain.

“I’m sorry,” I whisperoncemybreathhasreturned.

“You should be. I know

whatyouweredoing.Doyouwant the photographer,Anastasia? He obviously hasfeelingsforyou.”

I flush and shake myhead.

“No.He’sjustafriend.”“Ihavespentallmyadult

life trying to avoid anyextreme emotion. Yet you...you bring out feelings inmethatarecompletelyalien. It’svery...” He frowns, grasping

fortheword.“Unsettling.“I like control, Ana, and

around you that just”—hestands, his gaze intense—“evaporates.”Hewaveshishand vaguely, then runs itthrough his hair and takes adeep breath. He clasps myhand.

“Come, we need to talk,andyouneedtoeat.”

He leads me into a small,intimaterestaurant.

“This place will have todo,”Christiangrumbles.“Wedon’thavemuchtime.”

The restaurant looks fineto me. Wooden chairs, linentablecloths, and walls thesame color as Christian’splayroom—deep blood red—with small gilt mirrorsrandomly placed, whitecandles, and small vases ofwhite roses. Ella Fitzgeraldcroons softly in the

background about this thingcalled love. It’s veryromantic.

The waiter leads us to atable for two in a smallalcove, and I sit,apprehensive and wonderingwhathe’sgoingtosay.

“We don’t have long,”Christiansaystothewaiteraswe sit. “So we’ll each havesirloinsteakcookedmedium,béarnaisesauceifyouhaveit,

fries, and green vegetables,whatever the chef has; andbringmethewinelist.”

“Certainly, sir.” Thewaiter, taken aback byChristian’s cool, calmefficiency, scuttles off.Christian places hisBlackberryonthetable.Jeez,don’tIgetachoice?

“And if I don’t likesteak?”

He sighs. “Don’t start,

Anastasia.”“I am not a child,

Christian.”“Well, stop acting like

one.”It’sasifhe’sslappedme.

Iblinkathim.Sothisishowitwillbe,anagitated,fraughtconversation, albeit in a veryromantic settingbut certainlynoheartsandflowers.

“I’m a child because Idon’t like steak?” I mutter

tryingtoconcealmyhurt.“For deliberately making

me jealous. It’s a childishthing to do. Have you noregard for your friend’sfeelings, leading him on likethat?” Christian presses hislipstogetherinathinlineandscowls as the waiter returnswiththewinelist.

Iblush—Ihadn’tthoughtofthat.PoorJosé—Icertainlydon’twanttoencouragehim.

Suddenly, I’m mortified.Christianhasapoint;itwasathoughtless thing to do. Heglancesatthewinelist.

“Would you like tochoose the wine?” he asks,raising his eyebrows at meexpectantly, arrogancepersonified.HeknowsIknownothingaboutwine.

“You choose,” I answer,sullenbutchastened.

“Two glasses of the

Barossa Valley Shiraz,please.”

“Er... we only sell thatwinebythebottle,sir.”

“Abottlethen,”Christiansnaps.

“Sir.” He retreats,subdued, and I don’t blamehim.I frownatFifty.What’seatinghim?Oh,meprobably,andsomewhere in thedepthsof my psyche, my innergoddess rises sleepily,

stretches, and smiles. She’sbeenasleepforawhile.

“You’reverygrumpy.”He gazes at me

impassively. “I wonder whythatis?”

“Well,it’sgoodtosettherighttoneforanintimateandhonest discussion about thefuture, wouldn’t you say?” Ismileathimsweetly.

Hismouth presses into ahard line, but then, almost

reluctantly,his lips lift,andIknowhe’s trying to stiflehissmile.

“I’msorry,”hesays.“Apology accepted, and

I’m pleased to inform you Ihaven’t decided to become avegetariansincewelastate.”

“Since that was the lasttime you ate, I think that’s amootpoint.”

“There’sthatwordagain,moot.”

“Moot,” he mouths andhis eyes soften with humor.He runshishand throughhishair, and he’s serious again.“Ana,thelasttimewespoke,you left me. I’m a littlenervous.I’vetoldyouIwantyou back, and you’ve said...nothing.”His gaze is intenseand expectant while hiscandor is totally disarming.WhatthehelldoIsaytothis?

“I’vemissedyou... really

missed you, Christian. Thepast few days have been...difficult.” I swallow, and alumpinmythroatswellsasIrecall my desperate anguishsinceIlefthim.

This last week has beentheworst inmylife, thepainalmostindescribable.Nothinghas come close. But realityhitshome,windingme.

“Nothing’s changed. Ican’tbewhatyouwantmeto

be.” I squeeze thewords outpastthelumpinmythroat.

“YouarewhatIwantyoutobe,”hesays,hissoftvoiceemphatic.

“No,Christian,I’mnot.”“You’reupsetbecauseof

what happened last time. Ibehaved stupidly, and you...So did you.Why didn’t yousafe word, Anastasia?” Histone changes, becomingaccusatory.

What? Whoa—change ofdirection. I flush, blinking athim.

“Answerme.”“I don’t know. I was

overwhelmed.Iwastryingtobewhatyouwantedmetobe,trying to deal with the pain,and it went out ofmymind.You know... I forgot,” Iwhisperashamed,andIshrugapologetically.

Jeez, perhaps we could

have avoided all thisheartache.

“You forgot!” he gaspswith horror, grabbing thesidesof the tableandglaringat me. I wither under hisstare.

Shit! He’s furious again.My inner goddess glares atme, too.See,youbroughtallthisonyourself!

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

“Ever?”The waiter arrives with

ourwine aswe sit staring ateachother,blueeyestogray.Both of us filled withunspoken recriminations,while thewaiter removes thecork with an unnecessaryflourish and pours a littlewine into Christian’s glass.Automatically Christianreachesoutandtakesasip.

“That’s fine.” His voice

iscurt.Gingerly the waiter fills

ourglasses,placingthebottleon the table before beating ahasty retreat. Christian hasnot takenhiseyesoffme thewhole time. I am the first tocrack, breaking eye contact,picking up my glass andtaking a large gulp. I barelytasteit.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper,suddenlyfeelingstupid.I left

because I thought we wereincompatible,buthe’ssayingIcouldhavestoppedhim?

“Sorryforwhat?”hesaysalarmed.

“Not using the safeword.”

He closes his eyes, as ifinrelief.

“Wemight have avoidedallthissuffering,”hemutters.

“You look fine.” Morethanfine.Youlooklikeyou.

“Appearances can bedeceptive,” he says quietly.“I’manythingbut fine. I feellike the sun has set and notrisen for five days,Ana. I’minperpetualnighthere.”

I’m winded by hisadmission.Ohmy,likeme.

“You said you’d neverleave, yet the going getstough and you’re out thedoor.”

“WhendidIsayI’dnever

leave?”“Inyoursleep.Itwasthe

most comforting thing I’dheardinsolong,Anastasia.Itmademerelax.”

Myheart constricts and Ireachformywine.

“Yousaidyoulovedme,”he whispers. “Is that now inthe past tense?” His voice islow,lacedwithanxiety.

“No,Christian,it’snot.”He gazes at me, and he

looks so vulnerable as heexhales. “Good,” hemurmurs.

I’m shocked by hisadmission.He’shadachangeof heart. When I told him Iloved him before, he washorrified.Thewaiter isback.Brisklyheplacesourplatesinfrontofusandscuttlesaway.

Holyhell.Food.“Eat,” Christian

commands.

Deep down I know I’mhungry, but right now, mystomach is in knots. Sittingacross from the only man Ihaveeverlovedanddebatingour uncertain future does notpromote a healthy appetite. Ilookdubiouslyatmyfood.

“So help me God,Anastasia, if you don’t eat, Iwill takeyouacrossmykneehere in this restaurant, and itwill have nothing to dowith

mysexualgratification.Eat!”Jeez, keep your hair on,

Grey.Mysubconsciousstaresat me over her half-moonspecs. She is wholeheartedlyin agreement with FiftyShades.

“Okay,I’lleat.Stowyourtwitchingpalm,please.”

He doesn’t smile butcontinues to glare at me.Reluctantly I lift my knifeand fork and slice into my

steak. Oh, it’smouthwateringly good. I amhungry,reallyhungry.Ichewandhevisiblyrelaxes.

We eat our supper insilence.Themusic’schanged.Asoft-voicedwomansingsinthe background, her wordsechoingmythoughts.

I glance at Fifty. He’seating and watching me.Hunger, longing, anxietycombinedinonehotlook.

“Do you know who’ssinging?” I try for somenormalconversation.

Christian pauses andlistens.“No...butshe’sgood,whoeversheis.”

“Ilikeher,too.”Finally he smiles his

private enigmatic smile.What’sheplanning?

“What?”Iask.He shakeshis head. “Eat

up,”hesaysmildly.

Ihaveeatenhalfthefoodonmyplate.Icannoteatanymore. How can I negotiatethis?

“I can’t manage anymore. Have I eaten enoughforSir?”

He stares at meimpassively, not answering,thenglancesathiswatch.

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

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

“Sodoyou.”“I function on a lot less

sleep thanyoudo,Anastasia.At least you’ve eatensomething.”

“Aren’t we going backviaCharlieTango?”

“No, I thought I mighthave a drink. Taylor will

collectus.Besides,thiswayIhave you in the car all tomyself for a few hours, atleast. What can we do buttalk?”

Oh,that’shisplan.Christian summons the

waiter to ask for the check,then picks up his Blackberryandmakesacall.

“We’re at Le Picotin,South West Third Avenue.”Hehangsup.

Jeez, he’s curt over thephone.

“You’re very brusquewith Taylor, in fact, withmostpeople.”

“I just get to the pointquickly,Anastasia.”

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

“I have a proposition foryou.”

“This started with aproposition.”

“Adifferentproposition.”The waiter returns, and

Christian hands over hiscredit card without checkingthe bill. He gazes at mespeculativelywhilethewaiterswipes his card. Christian’sphone buzzes once, and hepeersatit.

He has a proposition?What now? A couple of

scenarios run through mymind: kidnap, working forhim. No, nothing makessense. Christian finishespaying.

“Come. Taylor’soutside.”

We stand and he takesmyhand.

“Idon’twanttoloseyou,Anastasia.” He kisses myknuckles tenderly, and thetouch of his lips onmy skin

resonates throughout mybody.

Outside the Audi iswaiting. Christian opens mydoor.Climbingin,Isinkintotheplushleather.Heheadstothedriver’sside,Taylorstepsout of the car and they talkbriefly. This isn’t their usualprotocol. I’m curious. Whatare they talking about?Moments later, they bothclimb in, and I glance at

Christian who’s wearing hisimpassive face as he staresahead.

I allow myself a briefmoment to examine hisgodlikeprofile:straightnose,sculptured full lips, hairfalling deliciously over hisforehead. This divineman issurelynotmeantforme.

Softmusic suddenly fillsthe rear of the car, anorchestral piece that I don’t

know, and Taylor pulls intothe light traffic, heading fortheI-5andSeattle.

Christian shifts to faceme. “As I was saying,Anastasia, I have apropositionforyou.”

I glance nervously atTaylor.

“Taylor can’t hear you,”Christianreassuresme.

“How?”“Taylor,” Christian calls.

Taylor doesn’t respond. Hecalls again, still no response.Christian leans over and tapshis shoulder.Taylor removesanearbudIhadn’tnoticed.

“Yes,sir?”“Thank you, Taylor. It’s

okay;resumeyourlistening.”“Sir.”“Happy now? He’s

listeningtohisiPod.Puccini.Forgethe’shere.Ido.”

“Didyoudeliberatelyask

himtodothat?”“Yes.”Oh. “Okay, your

proposition?”Christian looks suddenly

determined and businesslike.Holyshit.We’renegotiatingadeal.Ilistenattentively.

“Let me ask yousomethingfirst.Doyouwanta regular vanilla relationshipwithnokinkyfuckeryatall?”

My mouth drops open.

“Kinkyfuckery?”Isqueak.“Kinkyfuckery.”“I can’t believe you said

that.” I glance nervously atTaylor.

“Well, I did. Answerme,”hesayscalmly.

Iflush.Myinnergoddessisdownonbendedkneewithher hands clasped insupplicationbeggingme.

“I like your kinkyfuckery,”Iwhisper.

“That’s what I thought.Sowhatdon’tyoulike?”

Not being able to touchyou. You enjoying my pain,thebiteofthebelt...

“The threat of cruel andunusualpunishment.”

“Whatdoesthatmean?”“Well,youhaveallthose

canes andwhips and stuff inyour playroom, and theyfrighten the living daylightsoutofme.Idon’twantyouto

usethemonme.”“Okay, so no whips or

canes—or belts, for thatmatter,”hesayssardonically.

I gaze at him puzzled.“Are you attempting toredefinethehardlimits?”

“Not as such, I’m justtrying to understand you, geta clearerpictureofwhatyoudoanddon’tlike.”

“Fundamentally,Christian, it’s your joy in

inflicting pain on me that’sdifficult for me to handle.Andtheideathatyou’lldoitbecause I have crossed somearbitraryline.”

“Butit’snotarbitrary;therulesarewrittendown.”

“I don’t want a set ofrules.”

“Noneatall?”“No rules.” I shake my

head, but my heart is in mymouth. Where is he going

withthis?“But you don’tmind if I

spankyou?”“Spankmewithwhat?”“This.” He holds up his

hand.I squirm uncomfortably.

“No, not really. Especiallywith those silver balls...”Thank heavens it’s dark, myface is flamingandmyvoicetrailsoffasIrecallthatnight.Yeah...I’ddothatagain.

He smirks at me. “Yes,thatwasfun.”

“More than fun,” Imutter.

“So you can deal withsomepain.”

Ishrug.“Yes,Isuppose.”Oh, where is he going withthis? My anxiety level hasshot up several magnitudesontheRichterscale.

Hestrokeshischin,deepinthought.“Anastasia,Iwant

to start again.Do the vanillathing and then maybe, onceyoutrustmemoreandItrustyou to be honest and tocommunicate with me, wecould move on and do someofthethingsthatIliketodo.”

I stare at him, stunned,with no thoughts inmyheadatall—likeacomputercrash.Hegazesatmeanxiously,butI can’t see him clearly, aswe’reshroudedintheOregon

darkness. It occurs to me,finally,thisisit.

He wants the light, butcan I ask him to do this forme? And don’t I like thedark?Somedark,sometimes.Memories of the ThomasTallis night drift invitinglythroughmymind.

“But what aboutpunishments?”

“No punishments.” Heshakeshishead.“None.”

“Andtherules?”“Norules.”“None at all? But you

haveneeds.”“I need you more,

Anastasia. These last fewdayshavebeenpurgatory.Allmyinstinctstellmetoletyougo, tell me I don’t deserveyou.

“Those photos the boytook . . . I can see how hesees you. You look so

untroubled and beautiful, notthatyou’renotbeautifulnow,but here you sit. I see yourpain. It’s hard knowing thatI’m the one who has madeyoufeelthisway.

“But I’m a selfish man.I’ve wanted you since youfell into my office. You areexquisite, honest, warm,strong, witty, beguilinglyinnocent; thelist isendless.Iaminaweofyou.Iwantyou,

and the thought of anyoneelsehavingyouislikeaknifetwistinginmydarksoul.”

Mymouthgoesdry.Holyshit. My subconscious nodswith satisfaction. If that isn’ta declaration of love, I don’tknowwhatis.Andthewordstumble out of me—a dambreached.

“Christian, why do youthinkyouhaveadarksoul?Iwould never say that. Sad

maybe, but you’re a goodman. I can see that... you’regenerous, you’re kind, andyou’veneverliedtome.AndIhaven’ttriedveryhard.

“Last Saturday was suchashocktomysystem.Itwasmy wake-up call. I realizedthat you’d been easy on meand that I couldn’t be thepersonyouwantedme tobe.Then, after I left, it dawnedonme that the physical pain

you inflicted was not as badasthepainoflosingyou.Idowant to please you, but it’shard.”

“You please me all thetime,” he whispers. “Howoften do I have to tell youthat?”

“I never know whatyou’re thinking. Sometimesyou’resoclosedoff...likeanisland state. You intimidateme.That’swhyIkeepquiet.I

don’t know which way yourmood is going to go. Itswings from north to southand back again in ananosecond. It’s confusingand you won’t let me touchyou,andIwanttosomuchtoshow you how much I loveyou.”

He blinks at me in thedarkness,warilyIthink,andIcan resist him no longer. Iunbuckle my seatbelt and

scramble into his lap, takinghimby surprise, and takehisheadinmyhands.

“I love you, ChristianGrey.Andyou’repreparedtodoallthisforme.I’mtheonewho is undeserving, and I’mjust sorry that I can’t do allthose things for you. Maybewith time... I don’t know...but yes, I accept yourproposition. Where do Isign?”

He snakes his armsaroundmeandcrushesmetohim.

“Oh,Ana,”hebreathesasheburieshisnoseinmyhair.

Wesit,ourarmswrappedaround each other, listeningto the music—a soothingpiano piece—mirroring theemotionsinthecar,thesweettranquil calmafter the storm.I snuggle into his arms,restingmyhead in the crook

ofhisneck.Hegentlystrokesmyback.

“Touching isahard limitfor me, Anastasia,” hewhispers.

“I know. I wish Iunderstoodwhy.”

After a while, he sighs,andinasoftvoicehesays,“Ihadahorrificchildhood.Oneofthecrackwhore’spimps...”His voice trails off, and hisbody tenses as he recalls

someunimaginablehorror.“Ican remember that,” hewhispers,shuddering.

Abruptly, my heartconstricts as I remember theburn scars marring his skin.Oh, Christian. I tighten myarmsaroundhisneck.

“Was she abusive? Yourmother?” My voice is lowandsoftwithunshedtears.

“Not that I remember.She was neglectful. She

didn’t protect me from herpimp.”

Hesnorts.“I thinkitwasme who looked after her.When she finally killedherself, it took four days forsomeone to raise the alarmand find us... I rememberthat.”

Icannotcontainmygaspof horror. Holymother fuck.Bilerisesinmythroat.

“That’s pretty fucked-

up,”Iwhisper.“Fifty shades,” he

murmurs.I turnmyheadandpress

my lips against his neck,seekingandofferingsolaceasIimagineasmall,dirty,gray-eyed boy lost and lonelybeside the body of his deadmother.

Oh, Christian. I breathein his scent. He smellsheavenly, my favorite

fragrance in theentireworld.He tightens his arms aroundmeandkissesmyhair, and IsitwrappedinhisembraceasTaylorspeedsintothenight.

When I wake, we’re drivingthroughSeattle.

“Hey,” Christian sayssoftly.

“Sorry,”ImurmurasIsit

up, blinking and stretching. Iam still in his arms, on hislap.

“I couldwatchyou sleepforever,Ana.”

“DidIsayanything?”“No. We’re nearly at

yourplace.”Oh? “We’renot going to

yours?”“No.”I sit up and gaze at him.

“Whynot?”

“Because you haveworktomorrow.”

“Oh.”Ipout.He smirks at me. “Why,

did you have something inmind?”

Iflush.“Well,maybe.”He chuckles. “Anastasia,

I am not going to touch youagain, not until you beg meto.”

“What!”“So that you’ll start

communicating with me.Next time we make love,you’re going to have to tellmeexactlywhatyouwant infinedetail.”

“Oh.” He shifts me offhis lap as Taylor pulls upoutside my apartment.Christian climbs out andholds the car door open forme.

“I have something foryou.” He moves to the back

of the car, opens the trunk,and pulls out a large gift-wrappedbox.Whatthehellisthis?

“Open it when you getinside.”

“You’renotcomingin?”“No,Anastasia.”“So when will I see

you?”“Tomorrow.”“Mybosswantsmetogo

for a drink with him

tomorrow.”Christian’s face hardens.

“Doeshe,now?”Hisvoiceislacedwithlatentmenace.

“To celebrate my firstweek,”Iaddquickly.

“Where?”“Idon’tknow.”“Icouldpickyouupfrom

there.”“Okay... I’ll e-mail or

textyou.”“Good.”

HewalksmetothelobbydoorandwaitswhileIdigmykeys out of my purse. As Iunlock the door, he leansforward and cups my chin,tilting my head back. Hismouthhoversovermine,andclosing his eyes, he runs atrailofkissesfromthecornerofmyeyetothecornerofmymouth.

Asmallmoanescapesmymouthasmyinsidesmeltand

unfurl.“Until tomorrow,” he

breathes.“Goodnight,Christian,” I

whisper, and I hear the needinmyvoice.

Hesmiles.“In you go,” he orders,

andIwalk through the lobbycarrying my mysteriousparcel.

“Laters, baby,” he calls,then turns and with his easy

grace,headsbacktothecar.Once in the apartment, I

openthegiftboxandfindmyMacBook Pro laptop, theBlackberry, and anotherrectangularbox.Whatisthis?I unwrap the silver paper.Insideisablack,slim,leathercase.

Opening the case, I findan iPad.Holy shit... an iPad.Awhitecardisrestingonthescreenwithamessagewritten

inChristian’shandwriting:

Holy cow. I have aChristian Grey mix-tape intheguiseofahigh-endiPad.Ishakemyheadindisapprovalbecause of the expense, butdeep down I love it. Jack attheofficehasone,soIknowhowtheywork.

Iswitchitonandgaspasthewallpaper image appears:asmallmodelglider.Ohmy.It’s the Blanik L23 I gavehim, mounted on a glassstand and sitting on what IthinkisChristian’sdeskathisoffice.Igapeatit.

Hebuilt it!He reallydidbuild it. I remember now hementioned it in thenotewiththeflowers.I’mreeling,andIknowin that instant thathe’s

put a great deal of thoughtintothisgift.

I slide the arrow at thebottom of the screen tounlockitandgaspagain.Thebackground photograph is ofChristian and me at mygraduation in the marquee.It’s the one that appeared inthe Seattle Times. Christianlooks so handsome and Ican’t help my face-splittinggrin, as my inner goddess

curls up hugging herself onher chaise longue—Yes, andhe’smine!

With a swipe of myfinger, the icons shift, andseveral new ones appear onthe next screen. A Kindleapp, iBooks, Words—whateverthatis.

Holy shit! The BritishLibrary?Itouchtheiconanda menu appears: HistoricalCollection. Scrolling down, I

selectNovelsof the18thand19thCentury.Anothermenu.Itaponatitle:TheAmericanby Henry James. A newwindowopens,offeringmeascanned copy of the book toread.Holycrap—it’sanearlyedition, published in 1879,and it’s on my iPad! He’sboughtmetheBritishLibraryatatouchofabutton.

I exit quickly, knowingthatIcouldbelostinthisapp

for an eternity. I notice a“good food” app that makesmerollmyeyesandsmileatthesame time,anewsapp,aweather app, but his notementioned music. I go backto the main screen, hit theiPod icon and a playlistappears. I scroll through thesongs, and the listmakesmesmile. Thomas Tallis—I’mnot going to forget that in ahurry. I heard it twice, after

all, while he flogged andfuckedme.

“Witchcraft.” My gringets wider—dancing roundthe great room. The BachMarcellopiece—ohno,that’sway too sad for my moodright now. Hmm. JeffBuckley—yeah,I’veheardofhim. Snow Patrol—myfavorite band—and a songcalled“PrinciplesofLust”byEnigma. How Christian. I

smirk. Another called“Possession”... oh yes, veryFiftyShades.AndafewmoreIhaveneverheard.

Selecting a song thatcatchesmyeye, I pressplay.It’s called “Try” by NellieFurtado. She starts to sing,andhervoiceisasilkenscarfwrapping around me,envelopingme.Iliedownonmybed.

Does this mean

Christian’s going to try? Trythisnewrelationship?Idrinkin the lyrics, staring at theceiling, trying to understandhis turnaround. He missedme. I missed him. He musthave some feelings for me.He must. This iPad, thesesongs, these apps—he cares.He really cares. My heartswellswithhope.

The song ends and tearsspring to my eyes. I quickly

scroll to another—“TheScientist” by Coldplay—oneof Kate’s favorite bands. Iknowthetrack,butI’veneverreally listened to the lyricsbefore. I close my eyes andlet the words wash over andthroughme.

My tears start to flow. Ican’t stem them. If this isn’tan apology, what is it? Oh,Christian.

Or is this an invitation?

Willheanswermyquestions?Am I reading too much intothis? I am probably readingtoo much into this. Mysubconscious nods at me,tryingtohideherpity.

I dash my tears away. Ihave to e-mail him to thankhim. I leap off my bed tofetchthemeanmachine.

Coldplay continues as Isit cross-legged on my bed.TheMacpowersupandIlog

in.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:IPADDate:June9,201123:56To:ChristianGrey

You’vemademecryagain.IlovetheiPad.Ilovethesongs.IlovetheBritishLibraryApp.Iloveyou.Thankyou.

Goodnight.

Anaxx

From:ChristianGreySubject:iPadDate:June10,201100:03To:AnastasiaSteele

I’mgladyoulikeit.Iboughtoneformyself.Now,ifIwerethere,Iwouldkissawayyourtears.

ButI’mnot—sogotosleep.


Hisresponsemakesmesmile,still so bossy, still soChristian. Will that change,too? And I realize in thatmomentthatIhopenot.Ilikehim like this—commanding

—aslongasIcanstanduptohim without fear ofpunishment.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Mr.GrumpyDate:June10,201100:07To:ChristianGrey

Yousoundyourusualbossyandpossiblytense,possiblygrumpyself,Mr.Grey.

Iknowsomethingthatcouldeasethat.Butthen,you’renothere—youwouldn’tletmestay,andyouexpectmetobeg...Dreamon,Sir.

Anaxx

PS:IalsonotethatyouincludedtheStalker’sAnthem,“EveryBreathYouTake.”Idoenjoyyoursenseofhumor,butdoesDr.Flynnknow?

From:ChristianGreySubject:Zen-LikeCalmDate:June10,201100.10To:AnastasiaSteele

MyDearestMissSteeleSpankingoccursinvanillarelationships,too,youknow.Usuallyconsensuallyandinasexualcontext...butIammorethanhappytomakeanexception.You’llberelievedtoknowthatDr.Flynnalsoenjoysmysenseofhumor.

Now,pleasegotosleepasyouwon’tgetmuchtomorrow.

Incidentally—youwillbeg,trustme.AndIlookforwardtoit.

ChristianGreyTenseCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Goodnight,SweetDreams

Date:June10,201100:12To:ChristianGrey

Well,sinceyouasksonicely,andIlikeyourdeliciousthreat,IshallcurlupwiththeiPadthatyouhavesokindlygivenmeandfallasleepbrowsingintheBritishLibrary,listeningtothemusicthatsaysitforyou.

Axxx

From:ChristianGreySubject:OnemorerequestDate:June10,201100:15To:AnastasiaSteele

Dreamofme.x


Dream of you, Christian

Grey?Always.I changequickly intomy

pajamas,brushmyteeth,andslip into bed. Puttingmy earbuds in, I pull the flattenedCharlie Tango balloon fromunderneath my pillow andhugittome.

I am brimmingwith joy,a stupid, widemouthed grinon my face. What adifference a day can make.How am I ever going to

sleep?José Gonzalez starts to

singasoothingmelodywithahypnotic guitar riff, and Idrift slowly into sleep,marvelinghowtheworldhasrighted itself in one eveningand wondering idly if Ishould make a playlist forChristian.

The one good thing aboutbeing car-less is that on the

busonmywaytowork,Icanplugmyheadphones intomyiPad while it’s safely in mypurse and listen to all thewonderfultunesChristianhasgivenme.BythetimeIarriveat theoffice, Ihave themostludicrousgrinonmyface.

Jackglancesupatmeanddoesadoubletake.

“Good morning, Ana.You look... radiant.” Hisremark flusters me. How

inappropriate!“I slept well, thank you,

Jack.Goodmorning.”Hisbrowcrinkles.“Can you read these for

meandhavereportson themby lunchtime, please?” Hehands me four manuscripts.At my horrified expression,headds,“Justfirstchapters.”

“Sure,” I smile withrelief, and he gives me abroadsmileinreturn.

I switchon the computerto start work, finishing mylatte and eating a banana.There’s an e-mail fromChristian.

From:ChristianGreySubject:SoHelpMe...Date:June10,201108:05To:AnastasiaSteele

Idohopeyou’vehadbreakfast.

Imissedyoulastnight.


From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Oldbooks...Date:June10,201108:33To:ChristianGrey

IameatingabananaasItype.Ihavenothadbreakfastfor

severaldays,soitisastepforward.IlovetheBritishLibraryApp—IstartedrereadingRobinsonCrusoe...andofcourse,Iloveyou.Nowleavemealone—Iamtryingtowork.


From:ChristianGrey

Subject:Isthatallyou’veeaten?Date:June10,201108:36To:AnastasiaSteele

Youcandobetterthanthat.You’regoingtoneedyourenergyforbegging.


From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:PestDate:June10,201108:39To:ChristianGreyMr.Grey—Iamtryingtoworkforaliving—andit’syouthatwillbebegging.AnastasiaSteeleAssistanttoJackHyde,CommissioningEditor,SIP

From:ChristianGreySubject:BringitOn!

Date:June10,201108:36To:AnastasiaSteele

WhyMissSteele,Iloveachallenge...


I sit grinning at the screenlike an idiot. But I need toread these chapters for Jack

and write reports on all ofthem.Placingthemanuscriptsonmydesk,Ibegin.

At lunchtime I head tothe deli for a pastramisandwich and listen to theplaylist onmy iPad. First upthere’s Nitin Sawhney, someworld music called“Homelands”—it’sgood.Mr.Grey has an eclectic taste inmusic. I wander back,listening to a classical piece,

Fantasia on a Theme ofThomas Tallis by VaughnWilliams. Oh, Fifty has asense of humor, and I lovehim for it. Will this stupidgrineverleavemyface?

The afternoon drags. Idecide, in an unguardedmoment,toe-mailChristian.

From:AnastasiaSteele

Subject:Bored...Date:June10,201116:05To:ChristianGrey

Twiddlingmythumbs.Howareyou?Whatareyoudoing?


From:ChristianGrey

Subject:YourthumbsDate:June10,201116:15To:AnastasiaSteele

Youshouldhavecometoworkforme.Youwouldn’tbetwiddlingyourthumbs.IamsureIcouldputthemtobetteruse.InfactIcanthinkofanumberofoptions...Iamdoingtheusualhumdrummergersandacquisitions.It’sallverydry.Youre-mailsatSIPare

monitored.

ChristianGreyDistractedCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

Oh shit. I had no idea. Howthe hell does he know? Iscowl at the screen andquickly check the e-mailswe’vesent,deletingthemasIdo.

Promptly at five thirty,Jack is at my desk. It isDress-down Friday so he’swearing jeans and a blackshirt.Helooksverycasual.

“Drink,Ana?Weusuallylike to go for a quick one atthebaracrossthestreet.”

“We?”Iask,hopeful.“Yeah, most of us go...

youcoming?”For some unknown

reason,whichIdon’twantto

examine too closely, relieffloodsthroughme.

“I’d love to. What’s thebarcalled?”

“50s.”“You’rekidding.”He looks at me oddly.

“No. Some significance foryou?”

“No, sorry. I’ll join youoverthere.”

“Whatwould you like todrink?”

“Abeerplease.”“Cool.”I make my way to the

powder room and e-mailChristian from theBlackberry.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:You’llFitRightInDate:June10,201117:36To:ChristianGrey

WearegoingtoabarcalledFifty’s.TherichseamofhumorthatIcouldminefromthisisendless.Ilookforwardtoseeingyouthere,Mr.Grey.

Ax

From:ChristianGreySubject:HazardsDate:June10,201117:38To:AnastasiaSteele

Miningisavery,verydangerousoccupation.


From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Hazards?Date:June10,201117:40To:ChristianGrey

Andyourpointis?

From:ChristianGreySubject:Merely...Date:June10,201117:42To:AnastasiaSteele

Makinganobservation,MissSteele.I’llseeyoushortly.Soonersratherthanlaters,baby.


I checkmyself in themirror.What a difference a day canmake. I have more color inmy cheeks, andmy eyes areshining. It’s the ChristianGrey effect. A little e-mailsparringwithhimwilldothatto a girl. I grin at themirrorand straighten my pale blueshirt—the one Taylor boughtme.Iamwearingmyfavoritejeans today, too.Most of thewomen in the office wear

either jeansor floaty skirts. Iwillneedtoinvestinafloatyskirt or two. Perhaps I’ll dothat this weekend and bankthe check Christian gave meforWanda,myBeetle.

As I head out of thebuilding, I hear my namecalled.

“MissSteele?”Iturnexpectantly,andan

ashen young womanapproaches me cautiously.

She looks like a ghost—sopaleandstrangelyblank.

“MissAnastasia Steele?”she repeats, and her featuresstay static even though she’sspeaking.

“Yes?”She stops, staring at me

fromaboutthreefeetawayonthesidewalk,andIstareback,immobilized. Who is she?Whatdoesshewant?

“Can I help you?” I ask.

How does she know myname?

“No... I just wanted tolook at you.” Her voice iseerily soft. Like me, she hasdark hair that starklycontrasts with her fair skin.Her eyes are brown, likebourbon, but flat. There’s nolife in them at all. Herbeautiful face is pale, andetchedwithsorrow.

“Sorry—youhavemeata

disadvantage,” I say politely,trying to ignore the warningtingleupmyspine.Oncloserinspection, she looks odd,disheveled and uncared for.Herclothesare twosizes toobig, including her designertrenchcoat.

She laughs, a strange,discordant sound that onlyfeedsmyanxiety.

“WhatdoyouhavethatIdon’t?”sheaskssadly.

Myanxiety turns to fear.“I’msorry—whoareyou?”

“Me? I’m nobody.” Sheliftsherarmtodragherhandthrough her shoulder lengthhair, and as she does, thesleeveofhertrenchcoatridesup, revealing a soiledbandagearoundherwrist.

Holyfuck.“Goodday,MissSteele.”

Turning, she walks up thestreetas Istandrooted to the

spot. I watch as her slightframe disappears from view,lost amongst the workerspouring out of their variousoffices.

Whatwasthatabout?Confused, I cross the

street to the bar, trying toassimilate what has justhappened, while mysubconscious rears her uglyhead and hisses at me—Shehas something to do with

Christian.Fifty’s is a cavernous,

impersonal bar with baseballpennantsandpostershangingonthewall.Jackisatthebarwith Elizabeth, Courtney theother commissioning editor,two guys from finance, andClaire from reception. She iswearing her trademark silverhoopedearrings.

“Hi, Ana!” Jack handsmeabottleofBud.

“Cheers... thank you,” Imurmur, still shaken by myencounterwithGhostGirl.

“Cheers.” We clinkbottles, and he continues hisconversation with Elizabeth.Clairesmilessweetlyatme.

“So, how has your firstweekbeen?”sheasks.

“Good, thank you.Everyone seems veryfriendly.”

“Youseemmuchhappier

today.”I flush. “It’s Friday,” I

mutter quickly. “So—haveyouanyplansthisweekend?”

My patented distractiontechnique works and I’msaved. Claire turns out to beone of seven kids, and she’sgoing to a big family get-together in Tacoma. She

becomes quite animated, andI realize I haven’t spoken toanywomenmyownagesinceKateleftforBarbados.

Absently I wonder howKate is... and Elliot. I mustremember to ask Christian ifhe’sheardfromhim.Oh,andEthan her brother will beback nextTuesday, and he’llbestayinginourapartment.Ican’t imagine Christian isgoingtobehappyaboutthat.

My earlier encounter withstrange Ghost Girl slipsfurtherfrommymind.

During my conversationwith Claire, Elizabeth handsmeanotherbeer.

“Thanks,”Ismileather.Claireisveryeasytotalk

to—she likes to talk—andbeforeIknowit,Iamonmythirdbeer,courtesyofoneoftheguysfromfinance.

When Elizabeth and

Courtney leave, Jack joinsClaire and me. Where isChristian?Oneofthefinanceguys engages Claire inconversation.

“Ana,thinkyoumadetheright decision coming here?”Jack’s voice is soft, and he’sstanding a bit too close. ButI’ve noticed that he has atendency to do this witheveryone, even at the office.Mysubconsciousnarrowsher

eyes. You’re reading toomuch into this, sheadmonishesme.

“I’veenjoyedmyself thisweek,thankyou,Jack.Yes,Ithink I made the rightdecision.”

“You’re a very brightgirl,Ana.You’llgofar.”

I blush. “Thank you,” Imutter,becauseIdon’tknowwhatelsetosay.

“Doyoulivefar?”

“The Pike Marketdistrict.”

“Not far from me.”Smiling, he moves evencloser and leans against thebar, effectively trapping me.“Do you have any plans thisweekend?”

“Well...um—”I feel him before I see

him.It’sasifmywholebodyis highly attuned to hispresence. It relaxes and

ignites at the same time—aweird,internalduality—andIsense that strange pulsingelectricity.

Christian drapes his armaround my shoulder in aseemingly casual display ofaffection—but I knowdifferently. He is staking aclaim, and on this occasion,it’s very welcome. Softly hekissesmyhair.

“Hello, baby,” he

murmurs.I can’t help but feel

relieved, safe, and excitedwith his arm around me. Hedraws me to his side, and Iglance up at him while hestares at Jack, his expressionimpassive. Turning hisattentiontome,hegivesmeabrief crooked smile followedbyaswiftkiss.He’swearinghis navy pinstriped jacketoverjeansandanopenwhite

shirt.Helooksedible.Jack shuffles back

uncomfortably.“Jack,thisisChristian,”I

mumble apologetically. WhyamIapologizing?“Christian,Jack.”

“I’m the boyfriend,”Christian says with a small,cool smile that doesn’t reachhis eyes as he shakes Jack’shand.IglanceupatJackwhoismentallyassessing thefine

specimenofmanhoodinfrontofhim.

“I’m the boss,” Jackreplies arrogantly. “Ana didmentionanex-boyfriend.”

Oh, shit. You don’t wanttoplaythisgamewithFifty.

“Well, no longer ex,”Christian replies calmly.“Comeon,baby,timetogo.”

“Please, stay and join usfor a drink,” Jack sayssmoothly.

Idon’tthinkthat’sagoodidea. Why is this souncomfortable? I glance atClaire, who is, of coursestaring, open-mouthed andwith frankly carnalappreciation at Christian.WhenwillIstopcaringaboutthe effect he has on otherwomen?

“We have plans,”Christian replies with hisenigmaticsmile.

Wedo?Anda frissonofanticipation runs throughmybody.

“Another time, perhaps,”he adds. “Come,” he says tomeashetakesmyhand.

“See you Monday.” Ismileat Jack,Claire, and theguys from finance, tryinghard to ignore Jack’s less-than-pleased expression, andfollow Christian out of thedoor.

Taylor is at thewheel oftheAudiwaitingatthecurb.

“Whydid that feel likeapissing contest?” I askChristian asheopens the cardoorforme.

“Because it was,” hemurmurs and gives me hisenigmatic smile then shutsmydoor.

“Hello,Taylor,”Isayandour eyes meet in the reviewmirror.

“Miss Steele,” Tayloracknowledges with a genialsmile.

Christian slides in besideme, clasps my hand, andgently kisses my knuckles.“Hi,”hesayssoftly.

My cheeks turn pink,knowingthatTaylorcanhearus, grateful that he can’t seethe scorching, panty-combusting look thatChristian is giving me. It

takesallmyself-restraintnotto leap on him right here, inthebackseatofthecar.

Oh, the back seat of thecar...hmm.Myinnergoddessstrokes her chin gently inquietcontemplation.

“Hi,” I breathe, mymouthdry.

“Whatwould you like todothisevening?”

“I thought you said wehadplans.”

“Oh,IknowwhatI’dliketo do, Anastasia. I’m askingyouwhatyouwanttodo.”

Ibeamathim.“I see,” he says with a

wickedly salacious grin.“So... begging it is, then.Doyouwant to beg atmy placeoryours?”Hetiltshisheadtoonesideandsmileshisoh-so-sexysmileatme.

“Ithinkyou’rebeingverypresumptuous,Mr.Grey.But

bywayofachange,wecouldgo to my apartment.” I bitemy lip deliberately, and hisexpressiondarkens.

“Taylor, Miss Steele’s,please.”

“Sir,” Tayloracknowledges and he headsoffintothetraffic.

“So how has your daybeen?”heasks.

“Good.Yours?”“Good,thankyou.”

His ridiculously broadgrin reflects mine, and hekissesmyhandagain.

“You look lovely,” hesays.

“Asdoyou.”“Yourboss,JackHyde,is

hegoodathisjob?”Whoa! That’s a sudden

change in direction? I frown.“Why? This isn’t about yourpissingcontest?”

Christian smirks. “That

manwants into your panties,Anastasia,”hesaysdryly.

I go crimson as mymouth drops open, and Iglance nervously at Taylor.My subconscious inhalessharply,shocked.

“Well,hecanwantallhelikes... why are we evenhaving this conversation?You know I have no interestin himwhatsoever.He’s justmyboss.”

“That’s the point. Hewantswhat’smine. I need toknowifhe’sgoodathisjob.”

I shrug. “I think so.”Whereishegoingwiththis?

“Well, he’d better leaveyou alone, or he’ll findhimself on his ass on thesidewalk.”

“Oh, Christian, what areyou talking about?He hasn’tdone anything wrong.”...Yet.Hejuststandstooclose.

“He makes one move,you tellme. It’s called grossmoral turpitude—or sexualharassment.”

“Itwas just a drink afterwork.”

“Imeanit.Onemoveandhe’sout.”

“Youdon’thavethatkindof power.” Honestly! Andbefore I rollmyeyesathim,the realization hits me withtheforceofaspeedingfreight

truck.“Doyou,Christian?”Christian gives me his

enigmaticsmile.“You’re buying the

company,” I whisper inhorror.

His smile slips inresponse to the panic in myvoice.“Notexactly,”hesays.

“You’ve bought it. SIP.Already.”

He blinks at me, warily.“Possibly.”

“You have or youhaven’t?”

“Have.”What thehell? “Why?” I

gasp,appalled.Oh,thisjustistoomuch.

“Because I can,Anastasia.Ineedyousafe.”

“But you said youwouldn’t interfere in mycareer!”

“AndIwon’t.”I snatch my hand out of

his. “Christian...” Words failme.

“Areyoumadatme?”“Yes.OfcourseI’mmad

at you.” I seethe. “I mean,what kind of responsiblebusiness executive makesdecisions based on who theyare currently fucking?” Iblanch and glance nervouslyonce more at Taylor who isstoicallyignoringus.

Shit.Whatatimetohave

a brain-to-mouth filtermalfunction. Anastasia! Mysubconsciousglaresatme.

Christian opens hismouth then closes it againand scowls at me. I glare athim. The atmosphere in thecar plunges from warm withsweet reunion to frigid withunspokenwordsandpotentialrecriminations as we glowerateachother.

Fortunately, our

uncomfortable car journeydoesn’t last long, and Taylorpulls up outside myapartment.

I scramble out of the carquickly, not waiting foranyonetoopenthedoor.

IhearChristianmuttertoTaylor, “I think you’d betterwaithere.”

I sense him standingclosebehindmeasIstruggletofind thefrontdoorkeys in

mypurse.“Anastasia,” he says

calmly as if I’m somecorneredwildanimal.

I sigh and turn to facehim.Iamsomadathim,myanger is palpable—a darkentity threatening to chokeme.

“First, I haven’t fuckedyou for a while—a longwhile, itfeels—andsecond,Iwantedtogetintopublishing.

Of the four companies inSeattle, SIP is the mostprofitable,butit’sonthecuspand it’sgoing to stagnate—itneedstobranchout.”

Istarefrigidlyathim.Hiseyes are so intense,threatening even, but sexy ashell. I could get lost in theirsteelydepths.

“So you’re my bossnow,”Isnap.

“Technically, I’m your

boss’sboss’sboss.”“And, technically, it’s

gross moral turpitude—thefact that I am fucking myboss’sboss’sboss.”

“At the moment, you’rearguing with him.” Christianscowls.

“That’sbecausehe’ssuchanarse,”Ihiss.

Christian steps back instunned surprise. Oh shit.HaveIgonetoofar?

“An arse?” he murmursas his expression changes tooneofamusement.

Goddamnit!Iammadatyou,donotmakemelaugh!

“Yes.” I struggle tomaintain my look of moraloutrage.

“Anarse?”Christiansaysagain. This time his lipstwitchwitharepressedsmile.

“Don’t make me laughwhen I am mad at you!” I

shout.And he smiles, a

dazzling, full-toothed, all-American-boy smile, and Ican’t help it. I am grinningandlaughing,too.HowcouldInotbeaffectedby the joyIseeinhissmile?

“Just because I have astupiddamngrinonmy facedoesn’tmeanI’mnotmadashell at you,” I mutterbreathlessly, trying to

suppress my high-school-cheerleader giggling. ThoughIwasnevercheerleader—thebitter thought crosses mymind.

He leans in, and I thinkhe’s going to kissme but hedoesn’t. He nuzzles my hairandinhalesdeeply.

“As ever, Miss Steele,you are unexpected.” Heleans back and gazes at me,hiseyesdancingwithhumor.

“So are you going to inviteme in, or am I to be sentpacking for exercising mydemocratic right as anAmerican citizen,entrepreneur, and consumerto purchasewhatever I damnwellplease?”

“Haveyouspoken toDr.Flynnaboutthis?”

He laughs. “Are yougoing to let me in or not,Anastasia?”

I try for a grudging look—biting my lip helps—butI’m smiling as I open thedoor. Christian turns andwaves to Taylor, and theAudipullsaway.

It’s odd having ChristianGrey in the apartment. Theplacefeelstoosmallforhim.

I am still mad at him—

hisstalkingknowsnobounds,and it dawns onme that thisis how he knew about the e-mail beingmonitored at SIP.He probably knows moreabout SIP than I do. Thethoughtisunsavory.

WhatcanIdo?Whydoeshehavethisneedtokeepmesafe? I am a grown-up—sortof—for heaven’s sake. WhatcanIdotoreassurehim?

I gaze at his beautiful

faceashepacestheroomlikea caged predator, and myanger subsides. Seeing himhere in my space when Ithought we were over isheartwarming. More thanheartwarming, I love him,and my heart swells with anervous, heady elation. Heglances around, assessing hissurroundings.

“Niceplace,”hesays.“Kate’s parents bought it

forher.”Henodsdistractedly,and

his bold gray eyes come torestonmine,staringatme.

“Er... would you like adrink?” I mutter, flushingwithnerves.

“No, thank you,Anastasia.”Hiseyesdarken.

Oh crap. Why am I sonervous?

“Whatwould you like todo,Anastasia?”heaskssoftly

as he walks toward me, allferalandhot.“IknowwhatIwanttodo,”headdsinalowvoice.

I back up until I bumpagainst the concrete kitchenisland.

“I’mstillmadatyou.”“I know.” He smiles a

lopsidedapologeticsmileandI melt... Well, maybe not somad.

“Would you like

somethingtoeat?”Iask.He nods slowly. “Yes.

You,” he murmurs.Everything south of mywaistline clenches. I’mseduced by his voice alone,but that look, that hungry I-want-you-nowlook—ohmy.

He’s standing in front ofme, not quite touching,staring down into my eyesand bathing me in the heatthat’s radiating off his body.

I’m stiflingly hot, flustered,andmy legs are like jelly asdark desire courses throughme.Iwanthim.

“Have you eaten today?”hemurmurs.

“I had a sandwich atlunch,” I whisper. I don’twanttotalkfood.

He narrows his eyes.“Youneedtoeat.”

“I’m really not hungryrightnow...forfood.”

“What are you hungryfor,MissSteele?”

“I think you know, Mr.Grey.”

Heleansdown,andagainIthinkhe’sgoingtokissme,buthedoesn’t.

“Doyouwantme tokissyou,Anastasia?”hewhisperssoftlyinmyear.

“Yes,”Ibreathe.“Where?”“Everywhere.”

“You’regoing tohave tobe a bit more specific thanthat.ItoldyouIamnotgoingtotouchyouuntilyoubegmeandtellmewhattodo.”

My inner goddess iswrithing on her chaiselongue. I am lost; he’s notplayingfair.

“Please,”Iwhisper.“Pleasewhat?”“Touchme.”“Where,baby?”

He is so tantalizinglyclose,hisscentintoxicating.Ireachup,andimmediatelyhestepsback.

“No, no,” he chides, hiseyes suddenly wide andalarmed.

“What?”No...comeback.“No.” He shakes his

head.“Notatall?”Ican’tkeep

thelongingoutofmyvoice.He looks at me

uncertainly, and I’memboldenedbyhishesitation.I step toward him, and hesteps back, holding up hishandsindefense,butsmiling.

“Look, Ana.” It’s awarning,andherunshishandthroughhishair,exasperated.

“Sometimes you don’tmind,” I observe plaintively.“Perhaps I should find amarker pen, and we couldmapouttheno-goareas.”

He raises an eyebrow.“That’s not a bad idea.Where’syourbedroom?”

I nod in the direction. Ishe deliberately changing thesubject?

“Have you been takingyourpill?”

Ohshit.Mypill.His face falls at my

expression.“No,”Isqueak.“I see,” he says, and his

lips press into a thin line.“Come, let’s have somethingtoeat.”

Ohno!“Ithoughtweweregoing

to bed! I want to go to bedwithyou.”

“I know, baby.” Hesmiles, and suddenly dartingtoward me, he grabs mywrists and pulls me into hisarms so that his body ispressedagainstmine.

“You need to eat and sodo I,” he murmurs, burninggrayeyesgazingdownatme.“Besides... anticipation is thekey to seduction, and rightnow, I’m really into delayedgratification.”

Huh,sincewhen?“I’m seduced and Iwant

mygratificationnow.I’llbeg,please.” I soundwhiney.Myinner goddess is besideherself.

Hesmilesatmetenderly.“Eat.You’retooslender.”Hekisses my forehead andreleasesme.

This is a game, part ofsome evil plan. I scowl athim.

“I’m still mad that youbought SIP, and now I ammad at you because you’remakingmewait.”Ipout.

“You are one angry littlemadam, aren’t you? You’ll

feelbetterafteragoodmeal.”“I know what I’ll feel

betterafter.”“Anastasia Steele, I’m

shocked.” His tone is gentlymocking.

“Stop teasing me. Youdon’tfightfair.”

He stifles his grin bybitinghislowerlip.Helookssimply adorable... playfulChristian toying with mylibido. If only my seduction

skills were better, I’d knowwhattodo,butnotbeingableto touch him does hamperme.

My inner goddessnarrows her eyes and looksthoughtful.We need toworkonthis.

AsChristianandIgazeateachother—mehot,botheredand yearning and him,relaxed and amusedat myexpense—I realize I have no

foodintheapartment.“I could cook something

—except we’ll have to goshopping.”

“Shopping?”“Forgroceries.”“You have no food

here?” His expressionhardens.

Ishakemyhead.Crap,helooksquiteangry.

“Let’s go shopping,then,” he says sternly as he

turns on his heel and headsfor the door, opening itwideforme.

“Whenwas the last timeyouwereinasupermarket?”

Christian looks out ofplace, but he follows medutifully, holding a shoppingbasket.

“Ican’tremember.”

“Does Mrs. Jones do alltheshopping?”

“IthinkTaylorhelpsher.I’mnotsure.”

“Are you happy with astir-fry?It’squick.”

“Stir-fry sounds good.”Christian grins, no doubtfiguring out my ulteriormotiveforaspeedymeal.

“Have they worked foryoulong?”

“Taylor, four years, I

think. Mrs. Jones about thesame. Why didn’t you haveanyfoodintheapartment?”

“You know why,” Imurmur,flushing.

“Itwasyouwholeftme,”hemuttersdisapprovingly.

“I know,” I reply in asmall voice, notwanting thatreminder.

We reach the checkoutandsilentlystandinline.

If I hadn’t left, would he

have offered the vanillaalternative?Iwonderidly.

“Doyouhaveanythingtodrink?” He pulls me back tothepresent.

“Beer...Ithink.”“I’llgetsomewine.”Oh dear. I’m not sure

whatsortofwineisavailablein Ernie’s Supermarket.Christian remerges emptyhanded, grimacing with alookofdisgust.

“There’s a good liquorstore next door,” I sayquickly.

“I’llseewhattheyhave.”Maybeweshouldjustgo

tohisplace,thenwewouldn’thaveallthishassle.Iwatchashe strolls purposefully andwith easy grace out of thedoor.Twowomencoming instopandstare.Ohyes,eyemyFifty Shades, I thinkdespondently.

I want the memory ofhim in my bed, but he’splaying hard to get.Maybe Ishould, too. My innergoddess nods frantically inagreement.And as I stand inline,wecomeupwithaplan.Hmm...

Christian carries the grocerybagsintotheapartment.He’s

carriedthemaswe’vewalkedback to the apartment fromthe store. He looks odd. Nothis usual CEO demeanor atall.

“You look very—domestic.”

“Noonehaseveraccusedme of that before,” he saysdryly.He places the bags onthe kitchen island. As I starttounloadthem,hetakesoutabottle of white wine and

searchesforacorkscrew.“Thisplaceisstillnewto

me. I think the opener is inthat drawer there.” I pointwithmychin.

This feels so... normal.Two people, getting to knoweach other, having a meal.Yet it’s so strange. The fearthat I’d always felt in hispresence has gone. We’vealready done so muchtogether,Iblushjustthinking

about it, and yet I hardlyknowhim.

“What are you thinkingabout?” Christian interruptsmyreverieasheshrugsoutofhispinstripejacketandplacesitonthecouch.

“How little I know you,really.”

He gazes at me and hiseyes soften. “You know mebetterthananyone.”

“Idon’tthinkthat’strue.”

Mrs. Robinson comesunbidden, and veryunwelcome,intomymind.

“It is, Anastasia. I am avery,veryprivateperson.”

He hands me a glass ofwhitewine.

“Cheers,”hesays.“Cheers,” I respond

taking a sip as he puts thebottleinthefridge.

“Can I help you withthat?”heasks.

“Noit’sfine...sit.”“I’d like to help.” His

expressionissincere.“You can chop the

vegetables.”“I don’t cook,” he says,

regarding the knife I handhimwithsuspicion.

“I imagine you don’tneed to.” I place a choppingboard and some red peppersin front of him. He staresdownattheminconfusion.

“You’veneverchoppedavegetable?”

“No.”Ismirkathim.“Are you smirking at

me?”“It appears this is

something that I can do andyou can’t. Let’s face it,Christian, I think this is afirst.Here,I’llshowyou.”

I brush up against himand he steps back.My inner

goddess sits up and takesnotice.

“Likethis.”Islicetheredpepper,careful toremovetheseeds.

“Lookssimpleenough.”“You shouldn’t have any

trouble with it,” I mutterironically.

He gazes at meimpassively for a momentthen sets about his task as Icontinue toprepare thediced

chicken. He starts to slice,carefully, slowly. Oh my,we’llbehereallday.

I wash my hands andhuntforthewok,theoil,andthe other ingredients I need,repeatedly brushing againsthim—my hip, my arm, myback, my hands. Small,seemingly innocent touches.HestillseachtimeIdo.

“I know what you’redoing, Anastasia,” he

murmurs darkly, stillpreparingthefirstpepper.

“I think it’s calledcooking,”Isay,flutteringmyeyelashes. Grabbing anotherknife, I join him at thechopping board peeling andslicing garlic, shallots, andFrench beans, continuallybumpingagainsthim.

“You’re quite good atthis,” he mutters as he startsonhissecondredpepper.

“Chopping?” I bat myeyelashes at him. “Years ofpractice.”Ibrushagainsthimagain, this time with mybehind.Hestillsoncemore.

“If you do that again,Anastasia,Iamgoingtotakeyouonthekitchenfloor.”

Oh, wow. It’s working.“You’llhavetobegmefirst.”

“Isthatachallenge?”“Maybe.”He puts down his knife

and saunters slowly over tome,hiseyesburning.Leaningpastme, he switches the gasoff.Theoilinthewokquietsalmostimmediately.

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

This is not a sentence Ihad ever expected to hearfromChristianGrey,andonlyhe can make it sound hot,reallyhot.Ipickupthebowl

of diced chicken, rathershakilyplaceaplateontopofit, and stow it in the fridge.WhenIturnback,he’sbesideme.

“So you’re going tobeg?” I whisper, bravelygazing into his darkeningeyes.

“No, Anastasia.” Heshakes his head. “Nobegging.” His voice is soft,seductive.

And we stand staring ateach other, drinking eachother in—the atmospherecharging between us, almostcrackling, neither sayinganything, just looking. I bitemy lip as desire for thisbeautifulmanseizesmewitha vengeance, igniting myblood, shallowingmybreath,poolingbelowmywaist.Iseemy reactions reflected in hisstance,inhiseyes.

Inabeat,hegrabsmebymyhips andpullsme tohimasmyhandsreachforhishairandhismouthclaimsme.Hepushesmeagainst the fridge,and I hear the vagueprotestingrattleofbottlesandjarsfromwithinashistonguefinds mine. I moan into hismouth, and one of his handsmoves into my hair, pullingmy head back as we kiss,savagely.

“What do you want,Anastasia?”hebreathes.

“You.”Igasp.“Where?”“Bed.”He breaks free, scoops

me intohis arms, andcarriesme quickly and seeminglywithout any strain into mybedroom. Setting me on myfeet besidemy bed, he leansdown and switches on mybedside lamp. He glances

quickly round the room andhastily closes the pale creamcurtains.

“Now what?” he sayssoftly.

“Makelovetome.”“How?”Jeez.“Youhavegottotellme,

baby.”Holycrap.“Undressme.”

Iampantingalready.He smiles and hooks his

index finger into my openshirt,pullingmetowardhim.

“Goodgirl,”hemurmurs,and without taking hisblazingeyesoffmine,slowlystartstounbuttonmyshirt.

Tentatively I put myhands on his arms to steadymyself.Hedoesn’tcomplain.His arms are a safe area.When he’s finished with thebuttons, he pulls my shirtover my shoulders, and I let

goofhim to let the shirt falltothefloor.Hereachesdowntothewaistbandofmyjeans,pops the button, and pullsdownthezipper.

“Tellmewhat youwant,Anastasia.”His eyes smolderand his lips part as he takesquickshallowbreaths.

“Kiss me from here tohere,” I whisper trailing myfinger from the base of myear, down my throat. He

smoothes my hair out of thelineoffireandbends,leavingsweet soft kisses along thepathmyfinger tookand thenbackagain.

“Myjeansandpanties,”Imurmur, and he smilesagainst my throat before hedrops tohisknees in frontofme. Oh, I feel so powerful.Hooking his thumbs intomyjeans, he gently pulls themand my panties down my

legs. I stepoutofmypumpsand my clothes so that I’mleftwearingonlymybra.Hestops and looks up at meexpectantly, but he doesn’tgetup.

“Whatnow,Anastasia?”“Kissme,”Iwhisper.“Where?”“Youknowwhere.”“Where?”Oh, he’s taking no

prisoners. Embarrassed I

quickly point at the apex ofmy thighs, and he grinswickedly. I close my eyes,mortified, but at the sametimebeyondaroused.

“Oh, with pleasure,” hechuckles. He kisses me andunleasheshistongue,hisjoy-inspiring expert tongue. Igroan and fistmyhands intohis hair.He doesn’t stop, histongue circling my clitoris,drivingmeinsane,onandon,

round and round.Ahhh... it’sonlybeen...howlong...?Oh...

“Christian,please,”Ibeg.Idon’twanttocomestandingup.Idon’thavethestrength.

“Please what,Anastasia?”

“Makelovetome.”“I am,” he murmurs,

gentlyblowingagainstme.“No. I want you inside

me.”“Areyousure?”

“Please.”He doesn’t stop his

sweet, exquisite torture. Imoanloudly.

“Christian...please.”He stands and gazes

down at me, and his lipsglisten with the evidence ofmyarousal.

Holycow...“Well?”heasks.“Well what?” I pant,

staring up at him in frantic

need.“I’mstilldressed.”I gape at him in

confusion.Undress him?Yes, I can

do this. I reach for his shirtandhestepsback.

“Ohno,” he admonishes.Shit,hemeanshisjeans.

Oh,and thisgivesmeanidea. My inner goddesscheers loudly to the rafters,and I drop to my knees in

frontofhim.Ratherclumsilyand with shaking fingers, Iundo his waistband and fly,thenyankdownhisjeansandboxers, and he springs free.Wow.

Ipeekupathim throughmylashes,andhe’sgazingatmewith...what?Trepidation?Awe?Surprise?

He steps out of his jeansandpullsoffhissocks,andItakeholdof him inmyhand

and squeeze tightly, pushingmy hand back like he’sshownme before.He groansand tenses, and his breathhissesthroughclenchedteeth.Verytentatively,Iputhiminmy mouth and suck—hard.Mmm,hetastesgood.

“Ahh. Ana... whoa,gently.”

He cups my headtenderly, and I push himdeeper into my mouth,

pressing my lips together astightlyasIcan,sheathingmyteeth,andsuckinghard.

“Fuck,”hehisses.Oh, that’s a good,

inspiring,sexysound,soIdoit again, pulling his lengthdeeper, swirling my tonguearoundtheend.Hmm... I feellikeAphrodite.

“Ana, that’s enough. Nomore.”

Idoitagain—Beg,Grey,

beg—andagain.“Ana, you’ve made your

point,” he grunts throughgrittedteeth.“Idonotwanttocomeinyourmouth.”

Idoitoncemore,andhebends down, grasps me bymyshoulders,haulsmetomyfeet, and tosses me on thebed. Dragging his shirt overhis head, he then reachesdown to his discarded jeans,and like a good boy scout,

produces a foil packet. He’spanting,likeme.

“Take your bra off,” heorders.

I sit up and do as I’mtold.

“Liedown.Iwanttolookatyou.”

I lie down, gazing up athim as he slowly rolls thecondom on. I want him sobadly.He stares down atmeandlickshislips.

“You are a fine sight,Anastasia Steele.” He bendsover the bed and slowlycrawls up and over me,kissing me as he goes. Hekisseseachofmybreastsandteases my nipples in turn,while I groan and writhebeneath him, and he doesn’tstop.

No...Stop.Iwantyou.“Christian,please.”“Please what?” he

murmursbetweenmybreasts.“Iwantyouinsideme.”“Doyounow?”“Please.”Gazing at me, he pushes

my legs apart with his andmoves so that he’s hoveringaboveme.Withouttakinghiseyes off mine, he sinks intomeatadeliciouslyslowpace.

Iclosemyeyes,relishingthe fullness, the exquisitefeeling of his possession,

instinctively tiltingmypelvisup tomeet him, to join withhim, groaning loudly. Heeases back and very slowlyfills me again. My fingersfind theirway intohis silkenunruly hair, and he oh-so-slowly moves in and outagain.

“Faster, Christian,faster...please.”

He gazes down at me intriumph and kisses me hard,

then really starts to move—holy cow, a punishing,relentless... oh fuck—and Iknow itwill not be long.Hesets a pounding rhythm. Istart to quicken, my legstensingbeneathhim.

“Come on, baby,” hegasps.“Giveittome.”

His words are myundoing, and I explode,magnificently, mind-numbingly, into a million

pieces around him, and hefollowscallingoutmyname.

“Ana!Ohfuck,Ana!”Hecollapses on top of me, hisheadburiedinmyneck.

As sanity returns, I openmyeyesandgazeupintotheface

ofthemanIlove.Christian’sexpression is soft, tender.Hestrokeshisnoseagainstmine,bearing his weight on hiselbows, his hands holdingminebythesideofmyhead.Sadly, I suspect that’s so Idon’t touch him.He plants agentle kiss on my lips as heeaseshimselfoutofme.

“I’ve missed this,” hebreathes.

“Metoo,”Iwhisper.

Hetakesholdofmychinand kisses me hard. Apassionate, beseeching kiss,asking for what? I don’tknow.Itleavesmebreathless.

“Don’t leave me again,”he implores, looking deepintomyeyes,hisfaceserious.

“Okay,” I whisper andsmile at him. His answeringsmile is dazzling; relief,elation, and boyish delightcombinedintooneenchanting

look that would melt thecoldestofhearts.“ThankyoufortheiPad.”

“You are most welcome,Anastasia.”

“What’s your favoritesongonthere?”

“Now that would betelling.” He grins. “Comecook me some food, wench.I’m famished,” he adds,sitting up suddenly anddraggingmewithhim.

“Wench?”Igiggle.“Wench. Food, now,

please.”“Sinceyouasksonicely,

sire,I’llgetrightontoit.”AsIscrambleoutofbed,

I dislodge my pillow,revealing the deflatedhelicopter balloonunderneath.Christianreachesfor it and gazes up at me,puzzled.

“That’s my balloon,” I

say, feeling proprietary as Ireachformyrobeandwrapitroundmyself.Oh jeez... whydidhehavetofindthat?

“In your bed?” hemurmurs.

“Yes,” I flush. “It’s beenkeepingmecompany.”

“Lucky Charlie Tango,”hesays,insurprise.

Yes, I’m sentimental,Grey,becauseIloveyou.

“Myballoon,”Isayagain

andturnonmyheelandheadout to the kitchen, leavinghimgrinningfromeartoear.

Christian and I sit on Kate’spersian rug, eating stir-frychicken and noodles fromwhite china bowls withchopsticksandsippingchilledwhite PinotGrigio. Christianleans against the couch, his

long legs stretched out infront of him. He’s wearinghisjeansandhisshirtwithhisjust-fucked hair, and that’sall. The Buena Vista SocialClub croons softly in thebackground from Christian’siPod.

“This is good,” he saysappreciativelyashedigs intohisfood.

I sit cross-legged besidehim, eating greedily, beyond

hungry,andadmirehisnakedfeet.

“I usually do all thecooking. Kate isn’t a greatcook.”

“Did you your motherteachyou?”

“Notreally,”Iscoff.“Bythe time I was interested inlearning,mymomwaslivingwithHusbandNumberThreein Mansfield, Texas. AndRay,well, hewould’ve lived

on toast and takeout if itwasn’tforme.”

Christian gazes down atme.“Youdidn’tstayinTexaswithyourmom?”

“No. Steve, her husbandand I, we didn’t get along.And I missed Ray. Hermarriage to Steve didn’t lastlong.Shecametohersenses,Ithink.Shenevertalksabouthim,” I add quietly. I thinkthat’s a dark part of her life,

whichwe’veneverdiscussed.“So you came back to

Washingtontolivewithyourstepfather.”

“Yes.”“Sounds like you looked

afterhim,”hesayssoftly.“Isuppose.”Ishrug.“You’re used to taking

careofpeople.”The edge in his voice

attracts my attention, and Iglanceupathim.

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

“I want to take care ofyou.”Hisluminouseyesglowwithsomeunnamedemotion.

Myheartratespikes.“I’venoticed,”Iwhisper.

“You just go about it in astrangeway.”

His brow creases. “It’stheonlywayIknowhow,”hesaysquietly.

“I’m stillmad at you forbuyingSIP.”

He smiles. “I know butyou being mad, baby,wouldn’tstopme.”

“What am I going to sayto my work colleagues, toJack?”

He narrows his eyes.“That fucker better watchhimself.”

“Christian!” I admonish.“He’smyboss.”

Christian’smouthpressesintoahardline.Helookslikearecalcitrantschoolboy.

“Don’t tell them,” hesays.

“Don’ttellthemwhat?”“ThatIownit.Theheads

of agreement was signedyesterday. The news isembargoed for four weekswhilethemanagementatSIPmakessomechanges.”

“Oh... will I be out of a

job?”Iask,alarmed.“I sincerely doubt it,”

Christian says wryly, tryingtostiflehissmile.

I scowl. “If I leave andfindanotherjob,willyoubuythatcompany,too?”

“You’re not thinking ofleaving, are you?” Hisexpression alters, wary oncemore.

“Possibly. I’m not sureyou’vegivenmeagreatdeal

ofchoice.”“Yes, I will buy that

company, too.” He isadamant.

Iscowlathimagain.Iaminano-winsituationhere.

“Don’t you think you’rebeingatadoverprotective?”

“Yes.Iamfullyawareofhowthislooks.”

“Paging Dr. Flynn,” Imurmur.

He puts down his empty

bowl and gazes at meimpassively. I sigh. I don’twant to fight. Standing up, Ireachforhisbowl.

“Would you likedessert?”

“Nowyou’retalking!”hesays, giving me a lasciviousgrin.

“Not me.”Why not me?My inner goddess wakesfrom her doze and sitsupright, all ears. “We have

icecream.Vanilla.”Isnicker.“Really?”Christian’sgrin

getsbigger.“Ithinkwecoulddosomethingwiththat.”

What? I stare at himdumbfounded as hegracefullygetstohisfeet.

“CanIstay?”heasks.“Whatdoyoumean?”“Thenight.”“I assumed that you

were.”Iflush.“Good. Where’s the ice

cream?”“In the oven.” I smile

sweetlyathim.Hecockshisheadtoone

side, sighs, and shakes hishead at me. “Sarcasm is thelowest form of wit, MissSteele.”Hiseyesglitter.

Oh shit. What’s heplanning?

“I could still take youacrossmyknee.”

I place the bowls in the

sink. “Do you have thosesilverballthings?”

He pats his hands downhis chest, belly, and thepocketsofhisjeans.“Funnilyenough, I don’t carry a spareset around with me. Notmuch call for them in theoffice.”

“Iamverygladtohearit,Mr.Grey, and I thought yousaid that sarcasm was thelowestformofwit.”

“Well, Anastasia, mynewmottoisifyoucan’tbeat‘em,join‘em.”

I gape at him—I can’tbelieve he’s just said that—and he looks sickeninglypleased with himself as hegrins at me. Turning, heopens the freezer and takesout the carton of Ben &Jerry’sfinestvanilla.

“This will do just fine.”Helooksupatme,eyesdark.

“Ben & Jerry’s & Ana.” Hesays each word slowly,enunciating every syllableclearly.

Oh fucking my. I thinkmylowerjawisonthefloor.He opens the cutlery drawerand grabs a spoon.When helooksup,hisareeyeshooded,and his tongue skims his topteeth.Oh,thattongue.

I feel winded. Desire,dark, sleek, and wanton runs

hot throughmy veins.We’regoingtohavefun,withfood.

“Ihopeyou’rewarm,”hewhispers. “I’m going to coolyou down with this. Come.”He holds out his hand, and Iplacemineinhis.

Inmybedroomheplacesthe ice creamonmybedsidetable, pulls the duvet off thebed, and removes both thepillows,placingthemall inapileonthefloor.

“You have a change ofsheets,don’tyou?”

I nod, watching him,fascinated. He holds upCharlieTango.

“Don’t mess with myballoon,”Iwarn.

His lips quirk upward inhalf a smile. “Wouldn’tdream of it, baby, but I dowant to mess with you andthesesheets.”

My body practically

convulses.“Iwanttotieyouup.”Oh.“Okay,”Iwhisper.“Just your hands. To the

bed.Ineedyoustill.”“Okay,” Iwhisper again,

incapableofanythingmore.Hestrollsovertome,not

takinghiseyesoffmine.“We’llusethis.”Hetakes

hold of my robe sash andwith delicious, teasingslowness, releases the bow,

andgentlypulls it freeof thegarment.

MyrobefallsopenwhileI stand paralyzed under hisheatedgaze.Afteramoment,he pushes the robe off myshoulders.Itfallsandpoolsatmy feet so that I’m standingnakedbeforehim.Hestrokesmyfacewiththebacksofhisknuckles, and his touchresonatesinthedepthsofmygroin.Bending,hekissesmy

lipsbriefly.“Lieonthebed,faceup,”

he murmurs, his eyesdarkening,burningintomine.

IdoasI’mtold.Myroomis shrouded in darknessexcept for the soft, insipidlightfrommylamp.

Normally, I hate energy-saving bulbs—they are sodim—but being naked here,with Christian, I’m gratefulforthemutedlight.Hestands

by the bed gazing down atme.

“I could look at you allday,Anastasia,”he says, andwiththatcrawlsontothebed,up my body, and straddlesme.

“Armsaboveyourhead,”hecommands.

I comply and he fastensthe end of my robe sashround my left wrist andthreads the end through the

metal bars at theheadofmybed. He pulls it tight so myleft arm is flexed above me.He then secures my righthand,tyingthesashtightly.

WhenI’mtied-up,staringathim,hevisiblyrelaxes.Helikes me tethered. I can’ttouchhimthisway.Itoccursto me that none of his subswould have touched himeither—and what’s more,they would never have the

opportunity to. He wouldhave always been in controlandatadistance.That’swhyhelikeshisrules.

He climbs off me andbends to give me a quickpeck on the lips. Then hestands and lifts his shirt overhishead.Heundoeshisjeansanddropsthemtothefloor.

He is gloriously naked.My inner goddess is doing atriple axel dismount off the

unevenbars,andabruptlymymouth is dry. He really isbeyond beautiful. He has aphysique drawn on classicallines: broad muscularshoulders, narrow hips, theinverted triangle. Heobviouslyworks out. I couldlookathimallday.Hemovesto the end of the bed andgraspsmyankles,pullingmeswiftly and sharplydownward so that my arms

are stretched out and unabletomove.

“That’s better,” hemutters.

Picking up the tub of icecream, he climbs smoothlybackonto thebed to straddleme once more. Very slowly,hepeelsoffthelidofthetubanddipsthespoonin.

“Hmm... it’s still quitehard,” he says with a raisedbrow. Scooping out a

spoonful of the vanilla, hepops it into his mouth.“Delicious,” he murmurs,licking his lips. “Amazinghow good plain old vanillacan taste.”Hegazesdownatme and smirks. “Wantsome?”heteases.

Helookssofreakinghot,young and carefree—sittingonme and eating from a tubof ice cream—eyes bright,face luminous. Oh what the

hell ishegoing todo tome?AsifIcan’ttell.Inod,shyly.

He scoops out anotherspoonful and offers me thespoon, so I open my mouth,thenhequicklypopsit inhismouthagain.

“This is too good toshare,” he says, smilingwickedly.

“Hey,”Istartinprotest.“Why, Miss Steele, do

youlikeyourvanilla?”

“Yes,” I say moreforcefullythanImeanandtryinvaintobuckhimoff.

He laughs. “Gettingfeisty, arewe? Iwouldn’t dothatifIwereyou.”

“Icecream,”Iplead.“Well, as you’ve pleased

me so much today, MissSteele.”Herelentsandoffersme another spoonful. Thistimeheletsmeeatit.

I want to giggle. He’s

really enjoying himself, andhisgoodhumor is infectious.He scoops another spoonfuland feeds me some more,then he does it again.Okay,enough.

“Hmm, well, this is oneway to ensure you eat—force-feed you. I could getusedtothis.”

Taking another spoonful,heoffersmemore.This timeI keep my mouth shut and

shakemyhead,andhelets itslowly melt on the spoon sothat the melted ice creamdrips, onto my throat, ontomy chest. He dips down andvery slowly licks it off. Mybodylightsupwithlonging.

“Mmm. Tastes evenbetteroffyou,MissSteele.”

I pull against myrestraints and the bed creaksominously,butIdon’tcare—I’m burning with desire, it’s

consuming me. He takesanother spoonful and lets theice cream dribble onto mybreasts.Thenwiththebackofthe spoon, he spreads it overeachbreastandnipple.

Oh... it’s cold. Eachnipple peaks and hardensbeneath the cool of thevanilla.

“Cold?” Christian askssoftly and bends to lick andsuckle all the ice cream off

meoncemore,hismouthhotcompared to the cool of theice.

Ohmy. It’s torture.As itstarts to melt, the ice creamruns offme in rivulets on tothe bed. His lips continuetheir slow torture, suckinghard, nuzzling, softly—Ohplease!—I’mpanting.

“Want some?” Andbefore I can confirmordenyhisoffer,his tongue is inmy

mouth, and it’s cold andskilledandtastesofChristianandvanilla.Delicious.

And just as I am gettingused to the sensation, he sitsupagainandtrailsaspoonfulof icecreamdownthecenterof my body, across mystomach, and into my navelwhere he deposits a largedollop of ice cream.Oh, thisis chillier than before, butweirdlyitburns.

“Now, you’ve done thisbefore.” Christian’s eyesshine. “You’re going to haveto stay still, or there will beice cream all over the bed.”Hekisseseachofmybreastsandsuckseachofmynippleshard, then follows the lineofice cream down my body,sucking and licking as hegoes.

And I try, I try to staystill despite the heady

combination of cold and hisinflamingtouch.Butmyhipsstart to move involuntarily,gyratingtotheirownrhythm,caught up in his cool vanillaspell. He shifts lower andstarts eating the ice cream inmybelly,swirlinghis tongueintoandaroundmynavel.

I moan. Holy cow. It’scold, it’s hot, it’s tantalizing,buthedoesn’t stop.He trailsthe ice cream further down

mybody, intomypubichair,on to my clitoris. I cry out,loudly.

“Hush now,” Christiansays softly as his magicaltongue sets to work lappingup the vanilla, and now I’mkeeningquietly.

“Oh... please...Christian.”

“I know, baby, I know,”he breathes as his tongueworks its magic. He doesn’t

stop, just doesn’t stop, andmybodyisclimbing—higher,higher. He slips one fingerinside me, then another andhe moves them withagonizing slowness in andout.

“Just here,” hemurmurs,and he rhythmically strokesthe front wall of my vaginawhile he continues theexquisite, relentless lickingand sucking. Holy fucking

cow.I erupt unexpectedly into

a mind-blowing orgasm thatstuns all my senses,obliterating all that’shappening outside of mybody as I writhe and groan.Jeez,thatwassoquick.

I am vaguely aware thathe has stopped hisministrations. He’s hoveringover me, sliding on acondom,and thenhe’s inside

me,hardandfast.“Oh yes!” He groans as

heslamsintome.He’ssticky—the residual melted icecream spreading between us.It’s a strangely distractingsensation, but one I can’tdwellonformorethanafewsecondsasChristiansuddenlypulls out ofme and flipsmeover.

“This way,” he murmursand abruptly is inside me

once more, but he doesn’tstart his usual punishingrhythm straight away. Heleans over, releases myhands, and pulls me uprightso I ampractically sitting onhim. His hands move up tomy breasts, and he palmsthemboth, tugginggently onmy nipples. I groan, tossingmy head back against hisshoulder. He nuzzles myneck, biting down, as he

flexes his hips, deliciouslyslowly, filling me again andagain.

“Doyouknowhowmuchyoumeantome?”hebreathesagainstmyear.

“No,”Igasp.He smiles against my

neck, and his fingers curlaround my jaw and throat,holding me fast for amoment.

“Yes, you do. I’m not

goingtoletyougo.”I groan as he picks up

speed.“You are mine,

Anastasia.”“Yes,yours,”Ipant.“I take care of what’s

mine,”hehissesandbitesmyear.

Icryout.“That’s right, baby, I

wanttohearyou.”Hesnakesone hand around my waist

while his other hand graspsmy hip, and he pushes intomeharder,makingmecryoutagain. And the punishingrhythm starts. His breathinggrows harsher and harsher,ragged,matchingmine.Ifeelthe familiar quickening deepinside.Jeezagain!

I am just sensation. Thisiswhathedoestome—takesmy body and possesses itwholly so that I think of

nothingbuthim.Hismagicispowerful, intoxicating. I’m abutterfly caught in his net,unable and unwilling toescape.I’mhis...totallyhis.

“Come on, baby,” hegrowls through gritted teethandoncue,likethesorcerer’sapprentice Iam, I letgo,andwefindourreleasetogether.

I am lying curled up in hisarms on sticky sheets. Hisfront is pressed to my back,hisnoseinmyhair.

“What I feel for youfrightensme,”Iwhisper.

Hestills.“Metoo,baby,”hesaysquietly.

“What if you leaveme?”Thethoughtishorrific.

“I’mnotgoinganywhere.I don’t think I could everhave my fill of you,

Anastasia.”I turn and gaze at him.

His expression is serious,sincere. I lean over and kisshim gently. He smiles andreaches up to tuck my hairbehindmyear.

“I’veneverfeltthewayIfeltwhenyouleft,Anastasia.I would move heaven andearthtoavoidfeelinglikethatagain.” He sounds so sad,dazedeven.

Ikisshimagain.Iwanttolighten our mood somehow,butChristiandoesitforme.

“Will you comewithmeto my father’s summer partytomorrow? It’s an annualcharitything.IsaidI’dgo.”

I smile, feeling suddenlyshy.

“OfcourseI’llcome.”Ohshit.Ihavenothingtowear.

“What?”“Nothing.”

“Tellme,”heinsists.“Ihavenothingtowear.”Christian looks

momentarilyuncomfortable.“Don’tbemad,butIstill

haveallthoseclothesforyouathome.Iamsurethereareacoupleofdressesinthere.”

Ipursemylips.“Doyou,now?” I mutter, my voicesardonic.Idon’twanttofightwith him tonight. I need ashower.

Thegirlwholookslikemeisstanding outside SIP. Hangon—sheisme.Iampaleandunwashed,andallmyclothesaretoobig;I’mstaringather,andshe’swearingmyclothes—happy,healthy.

“WhatdoyouhavethatIdon’t?”Iaskher.

“Whoareyou?”“I’m nobody... Who are

you? Are you nobody,too...?”

“Thenthere’sapairofus—don’ttell,they’dbanishus,youknow...”[1]Shesmiles,aslow, evil grimace thatspreads across her face, andit’s so chilling that I start toscream.

“Jesus, Ana!” Christian isshakingmeawake.

Iamsodisorientated.I’m

athome...inthedark...inbedwith Christian. I shake myhead,tryingtoclearmymind.

“Baby, are you okay?You were having a baddream.”

“Oh.”He switches on the lamp

so we’re bathed in its dimlight. He gazes down at me,hisfaceetchedwithconcern.

“Thegirl,”Iwhisper.“What is it?What girl?”

heaskssoothingly.“Therewasagirloutside

SIPwhen I left this evening.She looked likeme... butnotreally.”

Christianstills,andasthelight from the bedside lampwarms up, I see his face isashen.

“When was this?” hewhispers, dismayed. He sitsup,staringdownatme.

“When I left this

afternoon.Doyouknowwhosheis?”

“Yes.” He runs a handthroughhishair.

“Who?”Hismouth presses into a

hardline,buthesaysnothing.“Who?”Ipress.“It’sLeila.”I swallow. The ex-sub! I

remember Christian talkingabout her before we wentgliding. Suddenly, he’s

radiating tension. Somethingisgoingon.

“Thegirlwhoput‘Toxic’onyouriPod?”

He glances at meanxiously.

“Yes,” he says. “Did shesayanything?”

“She said, ‘what do youhave that I don’t have?’ andwhen I asked who she was,shesaid,‘nobody.’”

Christian closes his eyes

as if in pain. Oh no.What’shappened? What does shemeantohim?

My scalp prickles asadrenalinespikes throughmybody.Whatifshemeansalotto him? Perhaps he missesher?Iknowsolittleabouthispast... um, relationships. Shemusthavehadacontract,andshewouldhavedonewhathewanted, given him what heneededgladly.

Ohno—whenIcan’t.Thethoughtmakesmenauseous.

Climbing out of bed,Christian drags on his jeansand heads into the mainroom. A glance at my alarmclock shows it’s five in themorning. I roll out of bed,puttinghiswhiteshirton,andfollowhim.

Holy shit, he’s on thephone.

“Yes, outside SIP,

yesterday... early evening,”he says quietly. He turns tome as I move toward thekitchenandasksmedirectly,“Whattimeexactly?”

“About ten to six?” Imumble.Who on earth is hecalling at this hour? What’sLeila done? He relays theinformation to whoever’s onthe line, not taking his eyesoff me, his expression darkandearnest.

“Find out how... Yes... Iwouldn’t have said so, butthen Iwouldn’thave thoughtshecoulddo this.”Hecloseshiseyesas ifhe’s inpain.“Idon’t know how thatwill godown...Yes, I’ll talk toher...Yes... I know... Follow it upand let me know. Just findher,Welch—she’s in trouble.Findher.”Hehangsup.

“Doyouwantsometea?”I ask. Tea, Ray’s answer to

everycrisisandtheonlythinghedoeswell in thekitchen.Ifillthekettlewithwater.

“Actually, I’d like to goback to bed.” His look tellsmethatit’snottosleep.

“Well, I need some tea.Wouldyouliketojoinmefora cup?” I want to knowwhat’sgoingon.Iwillnotbesidetrackedbysex.

Herunshishandthroughhishairinexasperation.“Yes,

please,”hesays,butIcantellhe’sirritated.

I put the kettle on thestove and busy myself withteacups and the teapot. Myanxiety level has shot todefconone.Ishegoingtotellme the problem? Or am Igoingtohavetodig?

Isensehiseyesonme—sensehisuncertainty,andhisangerispalpable.Iglanceup,and his eyes glitter with

apprehension.“Whatisit?”Iasksoftly.Heshakeshishead.“You’re not going to tell

me?”He sighs and closes his

eyes.“No.”“Why?”“Because it shouldn’t

concernyou.Idon’twantyoutangledupinthis.”

“Itshouldn’tconcernme,butitdoes.Shefoundmeand

accosted me outside myoffice. How does she knowabout me? How does sheknowwhereIwork?IthinkIhave a right to know what’sgoingon.”

He runs a hand throughhis hair again, radiatingfrustrationas ifwagingsomeinternalbattle.

“Please?”Iasksoftly.His mouth sets into a

hard line, and he rolls his

eyesatme.“Okay,” he says,

resigned.“Ihavenoideahowshe found you. Maybe thephotographofus inPortland,I don’t know.” He sighsagain, and I sense hisfrustration is directed athimself.

I wait patiently, pouringboiling water into the teapotas he paces back and forth.Afterabeathecontinues.

“WhileIwaswithyouinGeorgia, Leila turned up atmy apartment unannouncedandmade a scene in front ofGail.”

“Gail?”“Mrs.Jones.”“What do you mean,

‘madeascene’?”He glares at me,

appraising.“Tellme.You’rekeeping

something back.”My tone is

moreforcefulthanIfeel.He blinks at me,

surprised. “Ana, I—” hestops.

“Please?”He sighs in defeat. “She

made a haphazard attempt toopenavein.”

“Oh no!” That explainsthebandageonherwrist.

“Gail got her to hospital.But Leila discharged herselfbeforeIcouldgetthere.”

Crap. What does thismean?Suicidal?Why?

“Theshrinkwhosawhercalleditatypicalcryforhelp.He didn’t believe her to betruly at risk—one step fromsuicidal ideation,hecalledit.But I’m not convinced. I’vebeentryingtotrackherdownsince then to get her somehelp.”

“Did she say anything toMrs.Jones?”

Hegazesatme.Helooksreallyuncomfortable.

“Not much,” he sayseventually, but I know he’snottellingmeeverything.

I distract myself withpouring tea into teacups. SoLeila wants back intoChristian’slifeandchoosesasuicide attempt to attract hisattention?Whoa... scary. Buteffective. Christian leftGeorgiatobeatherside,but

shedisappearsbeforehegetsthere?Howodd.

“You can’t find her?Whataboutherfamily?”

“They don’t knowwhereshe is. Neither does herhusband.”

“Husband?”“Yes,” he says

distractedly, “she’s beenmarriedforabouttwoyears.”

What? “So she was withyouwhile shewasmarried?”

Holy fuck. He really has noboundaries.

“No!GoodGod, no.Shewas with me nearly threeyears ago. Then she left andmarried this guy shortlyafterward.”

Oh.“Sowhyisshetryingtogetyourattentionnow?”

Heshakeshisheadsadly.“I don’t know. All we’vemanaged to find out is thatshe ran out on her husband

aboutfourmonthsago.”“Letmeget this straight.

She hasn’t been yoursubmissiveforthreeyears?”

“About two and a halfyears.”

“Andshewantedmore.”“Yes.”“Butyoudidn’t?”“Youknowthis.”“Sosheleftyou.”“Yes.”“Sowhyisshecomingto

younow?”“I don’t know.” And the

toneofthisvoicetellsmethatheatleasthasatheory.

“Butyoususpect...”His eyes narrow

perceptibly with anger. “Isuspectithassomethingtodowithyou.”

Me? What would shewantwithme?“WhatdoyouhavethatIdon’t?”

I stare at Fifty,

magnificentlynakedfromthewaist up. I have him; he’smine.That’swhatIhave,andyetshe looked likeme:samedark hair and pale skin. Ifrown at the thought. Yes...what do I have that shedoesn’t?

“Why didn’t you tell meyesterday?”heaskssoftly.

“I forgot about her.” Ishrug apologetically. “Youknow, drinks after work, at

theendofmyfirstweek.Youturning up at the bar andyour... testosterone rushwithJack,andthenwhenwewerehere.Itslippedmymind.Youhave a habit of making meforgetthings.”

“Testosterone rush?” Hislipstwitch.

“Yes. The pissingcontest.”

“I’ll show you atestosteronerush.”

“Wouldn’t you ratherhaveacupoftea?”

“No, Anastasia, Iwouldn’t.”

His eyes burn into me,scorchingmewithhisI-want-you-and-I-want-you-nowlook.Fuck...it’ssohot.

“Forget about her.Come.” He holds out hishand.

My inner goddess doesthreebackflipsoverthegym

floorasIgrasphishand.

I wake, too warm, and I’mwrapped around a nakedChristian Grey. Even thoughhe’s fast asleep, he’s holdingme close. Soft morning lightfilters through the curtains.My head is on his chest,myleg tangledwith his,my armacrosshisstomach.

I raise my head slightly,scaredthatImightwakehim.Helookssoyoung,sorelaxedinsleep,soutterlybeautiful.Ican’t quite believe thisAdonisismine,allmine.

Hmm... Reaching up, Itentatively stroke his chest,runningmyfingertipsthroughthesmatteringofhair,andhedoesn’tstir.Holycow.Ican’tquite believe it. He’s reallymine—for a few more

preciousmoments.Ileanoverand tenderly kiss one of hisscars. He moans softly butdoesn’t wake, and I smile. Ikiss another and his eyesopen.

“Hi.” I grin at him,guiltily.

“Hi,” he answers warily.“Whatareyoudoing?”

“Looking at you.” I runmy fingers down his happytrail. He captures my hand,

narrowshiseyes, thensmilesa brilliant Christian-at-easesmile, and I relax.My secrettouchingstayssecret.

Oh... why won’t you letmetouchyou?

Suddenly he moves ontop of me, pressing me intothe mattress, his hands onmine,warningme.Hestrokesmynosewithhis.

“I think you’re up to nogood, Miss Steele,” he

accusesbuthissmileremains.“I like being up to no

goodnearyou.”“You do?” he asks and

kissesme lightly on the lips.“Sex or breakfast?” he asks,his eyes dark but full ofhumor. His erection isdiggingintome,andItiltmypelvisuptomeethim.

“Good choice,” hemurmurs against my throat,ashetrailskissesdowntomy

breast.

I stand at my chest ofdrawers,staringatmymirror,trying to coax my hair intosome semblance of style—really, it’s just too long. I’min jeans and a T-shirt, andChristian, freshly showered,isdressingbehindme.Igazeathisbodyhungrily.

“Howoftendoyouworkout?”Iask.

“Every weekday,” hesays,buttoninghisfly.

“Whatdoyoudo?”“Run,weights, kickbox.”

Heshrugs.“Kickbox?”“Yes, I have a personal

trainer, an ex-Olympiccontender who teaches me.His name is Claude. He’sverygood.You’dlikehim.”

Iturntogazeathimashestarts to button up his whiteshirt.

“What do you mean I’dlikehim?”

“You’d like him as atrainer.”

“Why would I need apersonal trainer? I have youto keep me fit.” I smirk athim.

He saunters over andwraps his arms around me,

his darkening eyes meetingmineinthemirror.

“ButIwantyoufit,baby,for what I have inmind. I’llneedyoutokeepup.”

Iflushasmemoriesoftheplayroom flood my mind.Yes... theRedRoomofPainis exhausting. Is he going tolet me back in there? Do Iwanttogobackin?

Of course you do! Myinner goddess screams at me

fromherchaiselongue.I stare into his

unfathomable, mesmerizinggrayeyes.

“Youknowyouwantto,”hemouthsatme.

I flush, and theundesirablethoughtthatLeilacould probably keep upslithers invidious andunwelcome into my mind. Ipress my lips together andChristianfrownsatme.

“What?” he asks,concerned.

“Nothing.” I shake myheadathim.“Okay,I’llmeetClaude.”

“You will?” Christian’sface lights up in astoundeddisbelief. His expressionmakesmesmileHelookslikehe’s won the lottery, thoughChristian’s probably neverevenboughta ticket—hehasnoneed.

“Yes, jeez—if it makesyouthathappy,”Iscoff.

He tightens his armsaround me and kisses mycheek. “You have no idea,”he whispers. “So—whatwouldyouliketodotoday?”He nuzzles me, sendingdelicious tingles through mybody.

“I’d like to get my haircut,andum...Ineedtobankacheckandbuyacar.”

“Ah,”he saysknowinglyand bites his lip. Taking onehand offme, he reaches intohisjeanspocketandholdsupthekeytomylittleAudi.

“It’s here,” he saysquietly, his expressionuncertain.

“What do youmean, it’shere?” Boy. I sound angry.Crap. I am angry. Mysubconscious glares at him.Howdarehe!

“Taylor brought it backyesterday.”

I open my mouth thencloseitandrepeattheprocesstwice, but I have beenrendered speechless. He’sgiving me back the car.Double crap. Why didn’t Iforesee this? Well, two canplayatthatgame.Ifishintheback pocket ofmy jeans andpullouttheenvelopewithhischeck.

“Here,thisisyours.”Christian looks at me

quizzically, then recognizingthe envelope, raises both hishands and steps away fromme.

“Oh no. That’s yourmoney.”

“No, it isn’t. I’d like tobuythecarfromyou.”

His expression changescompletely. Fury—yes, fury—sweepsacrosshisface.

“No, Anastasia. Yourmoney,yourcar,”hesnapsatme.

“No, Christian. Mymoney, your car. I’ll buy itfromyou.”

“I gave you that car foryourgraduationpresent.”

“Ifyou’dgivenmeapen—that would be a suitablegraduationpresent.YougavemeanAudi.”

“Do you really want to

argueaboutthis?”“No.”“Good—here are the

keys.” He puts them on thechestofdrawers.

“That’s not what Imeant!”

“End of discussion,Anastasia.Don’tpushme.”

I scowl at him, theninspiration hits me. Takingthe envelope, I rip it in two,then two again and drop the

contents into my waste bin.Oh,thatfeelsgood.

Christian gazes at meimpassively, but I know I’vejust lit the blue touch paperand should stand well back.Hestrokeshischin.

“You are, as ever,challenging,Miss Steele,” hesays dryly. He turns on hisheel and stalks into theotherroom.ThatisnotthereactionIexpected.Iwasanticipating

fullscaleArmageddon.Istareat myself in the mirror andshrug,decidingonaponytail.

My curiosity is piqued.WhatisFiftydoing?Ifollowhim into the room, and he’sonthephone.

“Yes, twenty-fourthousanddollars.Directly.”

Heglancesupatme,stillimpassive.

“Good... Monday?Excellent... No that’s all,

Andrea.”Hesnapsthephoneshut.“Deposited in your bank

account,Monday.Don’tplaygameswithme.”He’sboilingmad,butIdon’tcare.

“Twenty-four thousanddollars!” I’m almostscreaming.“Andhowdoyouknowmyaccountnumber?”

MyiretakesChristianbysurprise.

“Iknoweverythingabout

you, Anastasia,” he saysquietly.

“There’s no way my carwas worth twenty-fourthousanddollars.”

“Iwouldagreewithyou,but it’s about knowing yourmarket, whether you’rebuying or selling. Somelunatic out there wanted thatdeath trapandwaswilling topay that amount of money.Apparently,it’saclassic.Ask

Taylor if you don’t believeme.”

I glower at him and heglowers back, two angrystubbornfoolsglaringateachother.

And I feel it, the pull—the electricity between us—tangible,drawingustogether.Suddenly he grabs me andpushes me up against thedoor, his mouth on mine,claiming me hungrily, one

hand on my behind pressingmetohisgroinand theotherin the nape of my hair,tugging my head back. Myfingers are in his hair,twistinghard,holdinghim tome. He grinds his body intomine, imprisoning me, hisbreathing ragged. I feel him.Hewantsme, and I’mheadyand reeling with excitementasIacknowledgehisneedforme.

“Why, why do you defyme?” he mumbles betweenhisheatedkisses.

My blood sings in myveins. Will he always havethis effect on me? And I onhim?

“Because I can.” I’mbreathless. I feel rather thansee his smile against myneck, and he presses hisforeheadtomine.

“Lord,Iwanttotakeyou

now,butI’moutofcondoms.I can never get enough ofyou. You’re a maddening,maddeningwoman.”

“And you make memad,” I whisper. “In everyway.”

He shakes his head.“Come. Let’s go out forbreakfast.AndIknowaplaceyoucangetyourhaircut.”

“Okay,” I acquiesce andjust like that, our fight is

over.

“I’ll get this.” I pick up thetab for breakfast before hedoes.

Hescowlsatme.“You have to be quick

aroundhere,Grey.”“You’re right, I do,” he

says sourly, though I thinkhe’steasing.

“Don’tlooksocross.I’mtwenty-four thousand dollarsricher than I was thismorning. I can afford”—Iglance at the check—“twenty-two dollars andsixty-seven cents forbreakfast.”

“Thank you,” he saysgrudgingly. Oh, the sulkyschoolboyisback.

“Wheretonow?”“You really want your

haircut?”“Yes,lookatit.”“You look lovely to me.

Youalwaysdo.”Iblushandstaredownat

myfingersknottedinmylap.“And there’s your father’sfunctionthisevening.”

“Remember, it’s blacktie.”

OhJeez.“Whereisit?”“At my parents’ house.

They have a marquee. You

know,theworks.”“What’sthecharity?”Christian rubs his hands

down his thighs, lookinguncomfortable.

“It’s a drug rehabprogram for parents withyoung kids called CopingTogether.”

“Sounds like a goodcause,”Isaysoftly.

“Come, let’s go.” Hestands,effectivelyhaltingthat

topic of conversation andholdsouthishand.As I takeit, he tightens his fingersaroundmine.

It’s strange. He’s sodemonstrative in some waysand yet so closed in others.He leads me out of therestaurant,andwewalkdownthestreet. It isa lovely,mildmorning. The sun is shining,and the air smells of coffeeandfreshlybakedbread.

“Wherearewegoing?”“Surprise.”Oh, okay. I don’t really

likesurprises.Wewalk for two blocks,

and the stores becomedecidedly more exclusive. Ihaven’t yet had anopportunity to explore, butthis really is just around thecorner from where I live.Kate will be pleased. Thereareplentyof smallboutiques

to feed her fashion passion.Actually, Ineed tobuysomefloatyskirtsforwork.

Christian stops outside alarge, slick-looking beautysalon and opens the door forme. It’s called Esclava. Theinterior is all white andleather. At the stark whitereception desk sits a youngblondwomaninacrispwhiteuniform. She glances up asweenter.

“Good morning, Mr.Grey,” she says brightly,color rising in her cheeks asshebatshereyelashesathim.It’s the Grey effect, but sheknowshim!How?

“HelloGreta.”Andheknowsher.What

isthis?“Is this the usual, sir?”

she asks politely. She’swearingverypinklipstick.

“No,” he says quickly,

withanervousglanceatme.The usual? What does

thatmean?Holyfuck!It’sRuleno6,

thedamnedbeauty salon.Allthewaxingnonsense...shit!

This iswherehebroughtall his subs? Maybe Leila,too? What the hell am Isupposedtomakeofthis?

“MissSteelewilltellyouwhatshewants.”

I glare at him. He’s

introducing the Rules bystealth. I’ve agreed to thepersonal trainer—and nowthis?

“Why here?” I hiss athim.

“I own this place, andthreemorelikeit.”

“You own it?” I gasp insurprise. Well, that’sunexpected.

“Yes. It’s a sideline.Anyway—whatever you

want,youcanhaveithere,onthe house. All sorts ofmassage; Swedish, shiatsu,hot stones, reflexology,seaweed baths, facials, allthat stuff that women like—everything. It’s done here.”He waves his long-fingeredhanddismissively.

“Waxing?”He laughs. “Yeswaxing,

too. Everywhere,” hewhispers conspiratorially,

enjoyingmydiscomfort.I blush and glance at

Greta, who is looking at meexpectantly.

“I’d like a haircut,please.”

“Certainly,MissSteele.”Greta is all pink lipstick

and bustling Germanicefficiency as she checks hercomputerscreen.

“Franco is free in fiveminutes.”

“Franco’s fine,” saysChristian reassuringly to me.I am trying towrapmyheadaround this. Christian GreyCEOownsa chainofbeautysalons.

I peek up at him, andsuddenly he blanches—something, or someone, hascaught his eye. I turn to seewherehe’slooking,andrightat the back of the salon asleek platinum blonde has

appeared, closing a doorbehind her and speaking tooneofthehairstylists.

Platinum Blonde is tall,tanned,lovely,andinherlatethirties or forties—it’sdifficulttotell.She’swearingthe same uniform as Greta,but in black. She looksstunning.Herhairshineslikea halo, cut in sharp bob. Assheturns,shecatchessightofChristianandsmilesathim,a

dazzling smile of warmrecognition.

“Excuse me,” Christianmumbleshurriedly.

He strides quicklythrough the salon, past thehair stylists all inwhite, pastthe apprentices at the sinks,andover toher, toofarawayfor me to hear theirconversation. PlatinumBlonde greets him withobvious affection, kissing

both his cheeks, her handsrestingonhisupperarms,andtheytalkanimatedlytogether.

“MissSteele?”Greta the receptionist is

tryingtogetmyattention.“Hang on a moment,

please.” I watch Christian,fascinated.

Platinum Blonde turnsandlooksatme,andgivesmethesamedazzlingsmile,asifshe knows me. I smile

politelyback.Christian looks upset

about something. He’sreasoningwithher,andshe’sacquiescing, holding herhandsupandsmilingathim.He’s smiling at her—clearlythey know each other well.Perhaps they’ve workedtogether for a long time?Maybe she runs the place;after all, she has a certainlookofauthority.

Then it hits me like awrecking ball, and I know,deep down in my gut on avisceral level, I knowwho itis. It’s her. Stunning, older,beautiful.

It’sMrs.Robinson.

[1]EmilyDickinson,“I’mNobody!Whoareyou?”first

stanza.

“Greta, who is Mr. Greytalking to?” My scalp is

trying to leave the building.It’s prickling withapprehension, and mysubconscious is screaming atme to follow it. But I soundnonchalantenough.

“Oh, that’sMrs.Lincoln.She owns the placewithMr.Grey.” Greta seems morethanhappytoshare.

“Mrs.Lincoln?”IthoughtMrs.Robinsonwasdivorced.Perhaps she’s remarried to

somepoorsap.“Yes. She’s not usually

here, but one of ourtechnicians is sick today soshe’sfillingin.”

“Do you know Mrs.Lincoln’sfirstname?”

Greta looks up at me,frowning, and purses herbright pink lips, questioningmy curiosity. Shit, perhapsthisisasteptoofar.

“Elena,”shesays,almost

reluctantly.I’m swamped by a

strangesenseofreliefthatmyspidey sense has not let medown.

Spidey sense? Mysubconscious snorts, Paedosense.

They are still deep indiscussion. Christian istalking rapidly to Elena, andshe looks worried, nodding,grimacing, and shaking her

head. Reaching out, she rubshis arm soothingly whilebiting her lip. Another nod,and she glances at me andoffers me a small reassuringsmile.

I can only stare at herstony-faced. I think I’m inshock. How could he bringmehere?

She murmurs somethingtoChristian,andhelooksmywaybrieflythenturnsbackto

herandreplies.Shenods,andI think she’s wishing himluck,butmylip-readingskillsaren’thighlydeveloped.

Fifty strides back to me,anxiety etched on his face.Damn right. Mrs. Robinsonreturns to the back room,closingthedoorbehindher.

Christian frowns. “Areyou okay?” he asks, but hisvoiceisstrained,cautious.

“Not really. You didn’t

want to introduce me?” Myvoicesoundscold,hard.

Hismouthdropsopen,helooksasifI’vepulledtherugfromunderhisfeet.

“ButIthought—”“For a bright man,

sometimes...”Words failme.“I’dliketogo,please.”

“Why?”“You know why.” I roll

myeyes.Hegazesdownatme,his

eyesburning.“I’m sorry,Ana. I didn’t

know she’d be here. She’snever here. She’s opened anew branch at the BravernCenter,andthat’swhereshe’snormally based. Someonewassicktoday.”

I turn on my heel andheadforthedoor.

“We won’t need Franco,Greta,”Christiansnapsasweheadoutofthedoor.Ihaveto

suppresstheimpulsetorun.Iwanttorunfastandfaraway.Ihaveanoverwhelmingurgetocry.Ijustneedtogetawayfromallthisfuckedupness.

Christian walkswordlesslybesidemeasI tryto mull all this over in myhead. Wrapping my armsprotectively aroundmyself, Ikeepmyheaddown,avoidingthe trees on SecondAvenue.Wisely,hemakesnomoveto

touchme.Mymindisboilingwith unanswered questions.WillMr.Evasivefessup?

“You used to take yoursubsthere?”Isnap.

“Some of them, yes,” hesaysquietly,histoneclipped.

“Leila?”“Yes.”“The place looks very

new.”“It’s been refurbished

recently.”

“Isee.SoMrs.Robinsonmetallyoursubs.”

“Yes.”“Did they know about

her?”“No. None of them did.

Onlyyou.”“ButI’mnotyoursub.”“No, youmost definitely

arenot.”I stop and face him. His

eyes are wide, fearful. Hislips are pressed into a hard,

uncompromisingline.“Can you see how

fucked-upthis is?”Iglareupathim,myvoicelow.

“Yes.I’msorry.”Andhehasthegracetolookcontrite.

“I want to get my haircut, preferably somewherewhere you haven’t fuckedeither the staff or theclientele.”

Heflinches.“Now, if you’ll excuse

me.”“You’renotrunning.Are

you?”heasks.“No, I just want a damn

haircut. Somewhere I canclosemyeyes,havesomeonewash my hair, and forgetabout all this baggage thataccompaniesyou.”

Herunshishandthroughhis hair. “I can have Francocome to the apartment, oryourplace,”hesaysquietly.

“She’sveryattractive.”Heblinks.“Yes,sheis.”“Isshestillmarried?”“No. She divorced about

fiveyearsago.”“Why aren’t you with

her?”“Because that’s over

between us. I’ve told youthis.” His brow creasessuddenly. Holding his fingerup, he fishes his Blackberryout of his jacket pocket. It

must be vibrating because Idon’thearitring.

“Welch,” he snaps, thenlistens. We are standing onSecondAvenue,andIgazeinthe direction of the larchsapling in front of me, itsleavesthenewestgreen.

Peoplebustlepastus,lostin their Saturday morningchores. No doubtcontemplating their ownpersonal dramas. Iwonder if

they include stalker ex-submissives, stunning ex-Dommes,andamanwhohasno concept of privacy underUnitedStateslaw.

“Killed in a car crash?When?” Christian interruptsmyreverie.

Oh no. Who? I listenmoreclosely.

“That’s twice thatbastard’s not beenforthcoming. He must know.

Doeshehaveno feelings forher whatsoever?” Christianshakes his head in disgust.“This is beginning to makesense... no... explains why,but not where.” Christianglances around us as ifsearching for something, andI find myself mirroring hisactions. Nothing catches myeye. There are just theshoppers, the traffic, and thetrees.

“She’s here,” Christiancontinues. “She’s watchingus... Yes... No. Two or four,twenty-fourseven...Ihaven’tbroached that yet.” Christianlooksatmedirectly.

Broachedwhat? I frown,at him and he regards mewarily.

“What...,” he whispersandpales,hiseyeswidening.“I see. When?... Thatrecently? But how?... No

background checks?... I see.E-mailthename,address,andphotos if you have them...twenty-four seven, from thisafternoon. Liaise withTaylor.”Christianhangsup.

“Well?” I ask,exasperated. Is he going totellme?

“ThatwasWelch.”“Who’sWelch?”“Mysecurityadvisor.”“Okay. So what’s

happened?”“Leila left her husband

about three months ago andran off with a guy who waskilled in a car accident fourweeksago.”

“Oh.”“The asshole shrink

should have found that out,”hesaysangrily.“Grief,that’swhatthisis.Come.”Heholdsout his hand, and Iautomatically place mine in

his before I snatch it awayagain.

“Waitaminute.Wewereinthemiddleofadiscussion,about us. About her, yourMrs.Robinson.”

Christian’s face hardens.“She’s not my Mrs.Robinson.Wecan talk aboutitatmyplace.”

“I don’t want to go toyour place. Iwant to getmyhaircut!”Ishout.IfIcanjust

focusonthisonething...He grabs his Blackberry

from his pocket again anddials a number. “Greta,ChristianGrey.IwantFrancoat my place in an hour. AskMrs. Lincoln... Good.” Heputs his phone away. “He’scomingatone.”

“Christian... !” I splutter,exasperated.

“Anastasia, Leila isobviously suffering a

psychoticbreak.Idon’tknowif it’s you or me she’s after,or what lengths she’spreparedtogoto.We’llgotoyour place, pick up yourthings,andyoucanstaywithme until we’ve tracked herdown.”

“WhywouldIwanttodothat?”

“SoIcankeepyousafe.”“But—”Heglaresatme.“Youare

comingbacktomyapartmentifIhavetodragyoutherebyyourhair.”

I gape at him... this isbeyondbelief.FiftyShadesinGloriousTechnicolor.

“I think you’reoverreacting.”

“Idon’t.Wecancontinueour discussion back at myplace.Come.”

I foldmyarmsandglareathim.Thishasgonetoofar.

“No,”Istatestubbornly.Ihavetomakeastand.

“You can walk or I cancarryyou.Idon’tmindeitherway,Anastasia.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Iscowl at him. Surely hewouldn’t make a scene onSecondAvenue?

Hehalfsmilesatme,butthe smile doesn’t reach hiseyes.

“Oh,baby,webothknow

that if you throw down thegauntlet I’ll be only toohappytopickitup.”

Weglareat eachother—andabruptlyhesweepsdown,clasps me round my thighs,andliftsme.BeforeIknowit,Iamoverhisshoulder.

“Putmedown!”Iscream.Oh,itfeelsgoodtoscream.

He starts striding alongSecondAvenue,ignoringme.Clasping his arm firmly

around my thighs, he swatsmybehindwithhisfreehand.

“Christian!” I shout.Peoplearestaring.Couldthisbe any more humiliating?“I’llwalk!I’llwalk.”

He puts me down, andbefore he’s even stoodupright, I stomp off in thedirection of my apartment,seething, ignoring him. Ofcourse, he’s by my side inmoments, but I continue to

ignorehim.WhatamIgoingtodo?Iamsoangry,butI’mnot even sure what I amangry about—there’s somuch.

As I stalk back home, Imakeamentallist:

1. Shouldercarrying—unacceptableforanyoneovertheageofsix.

2. Takingmetothesalonthatheownswithhisex-lover—howstupidcanhebe?

3. Thesameplacehetookhissubmissives—samestupidityatworkhere.

4. Notevenrealizingthatthiswasabadidea—andhe’ssupposedtobea

brightguy.5. Havingcrazyex-

girlfriends.CanIblamehimforthat?Iamsofurious;yes,Ican.

6. Knowingmybankaccountnumber—that’sjusttoostalkerybyhalf.

7. BuyingSIP—he’sgotmoremoneythansense.

8. InsistingIstaywithhim—thethreatfromLeilamustbeworsethanhefeared...hedidn’tmentionthatyesterday.

Ohno,realizationdawns.Something’s changed. Whatcould that be? I halt, andChristian halts with me.“What’s happened?” I

demand.Heknitshisbrow.“What

doyoumean?”“WithLeila.”“I’vetoldyou.”“No, you haven’t.

There’s something else. Youdidn’t insist that Igo toyourplace yesterday. So what’shappened?”

Heshiftsuncomfortably.“Christian! Tell me!” I

snap.

“Shemanagedtoobtainaconcealed weapons permityesterday.”

Oh shit. I gaze at him,blinking, and feel the blooddraining from my face as Iabsorbthisnews.Imayfaint.Suppose she wants to killhim?No.

“Thatmeans shecan justbuyagun,”Iwhisper.

“Ana,”hesays,hisvoicefullofconcern.Heplaceshis

hands on my shoulders,pulling me close to him. “Idon’tthinkshe’lldoanythingstupid,but—Ijustdon’twanttotakethatriskwithyou.”

“Not me... what aboutyou?”Iwhisper.

He frowns down at me,and I wrap my arms aroundhim and hug him hard, myface against his chest. Hedoesn’tseemtomind.

“Let’s get back,” he

murmurs, and he reachesdownandkissesmyhair,andthat’sit.Allmyfuryisgone,but not forgotten. Dissipatedunderthethreatofsomeharmcoming to Christian. Thethoughtisunbearable.

SolemnlyIpackasmallcaseand place my Mac, theBlackberry, my iPad, and

Charlie Tango in mybackpack.

“CharlieTango’scoming,too?”Christianasks.

I nod and he givesme asmall,indulgentsmile.

“EthanisbackTuesday,”Imutter.

“Ethan?”“Kate’s brother. He’s

staying here until he finds aplaceinSeattle.”

Christian gazes at me

blankly, but I notice thefrostinesscreepintohiseyes.

“Well, it’s good thatyou’ll be staying with me.Give him more room,” hesaysquietly.

“I don’t know that he’sgotkeys.I’llneedtobebackthen.”

Christian gazes at meimpassivelybutsaysnothing.

“That’severything.”Hegrabsmycase,andwe

head out the door. As wewalk around to the back ofthe building to the parkinglot, I’m aware that I amlooking over my shoulder. Idon’t know if my paranoiahas takenoveror if someonereally is watching me.ChristianopensthepassengerdooroftheAudiandlooksatmeexpectantly.

“Are you getting in?” heasks.

“IthoughtIwasdriving.”“No.I’lldrive.”“Something wrong with

my driving? Don’t tell meyou know what I scored onmy driving test... I wouldn’tbe surprised with yourstalking tendencies.” Maybehe knows that I just scrapedthroughthewrittentest.

“Get in the car,Anastasia,”hesnapsangrily.

“Okay.” I hastily climb

in.Honestly,chill,willyou?Perhaps he has the same

uneasy feeling, too. Somedark sentinel watching us—well, a pale brunette withbrown eyes who has anuncanny resemblance toyourstrulyandquitepossiblyaconcealedfirearm.

Christiansetsoffintothetraffic.

“Were all yoursubmissivesbrunettes?”

Hefrownsandglancesatme quickly. “Yes,” hemutters.Hesoundsuncertain,and I imagine him thinking,where’sshegoingwiththis?

“Ijustwondered.”“I told you. I prefer

brunettes.”“Mrs. Robinson isn’t a

brunette.”“That’s probably why,”

he mutters. “She put me offblondesforever.”

“You’rekidding,”Igasp.“Yes. I’m kidding,” he

replies,exasperated.I stare impassively out

thewindow,spyingbrunetteseverywhere, none of themLeila,though.

So, he only likesbrunettes.Iwonderwhy?DidMrs. Extraordinarily-Glamorous-In-Spite-Of-Being-Old Robinson reallyput himoff blondes? I shake

my head—ChristianMindfuckGrey.

“Tellmeabouther.”“What do you want to

know?” Christian’s browfurrows,andhistoneofvoicetriestowarnmeoff.

“Tell me about yourbusinessarrangement.”

Hevisiblyrelaxes,happyto talk about work. “I am asilent partner. I’m notparticularly interested in the

beauty business, but she’sbuilt it into a successfulventure. I just invested andhelpedgetherstarted.”

“Why?”“Iowedittoher.”“Oh?”“When I dropped out of

Harvard, she lent me ahundred grand to start mybusiness.”

Holy fuck... she’s rich,too.

“Youdroppedout?”“Itwasn’tmything.Idid

twoyears.Unfortunately,myparents were not sounderstanding.”

Ifrown.Mr.GreyandDr.Grace Trevelyandisapproving, I can’t pictureit.

“Youdon’t seem tohavedone toobadlydroppingout.Whatwasyourmajor?”

“Politics and

Economics.”Hmm...figures.“So she’s rich?” I

murmur.“Shewas a bored trophy

wife,Anastasia.Herhusbandwaswealthy—bigintimber.”He smirks. “He wouldn’t letherwork.Youknow,hewascontrolling. Some men arelike that.” He gives me aquicksidewaysgrin.

“Really? A controlling

man, surely a mythicalcreature?”Idon’t thinkIcansqueeze any more sarcasmintomyresponse.

Christian’s grin getsbigger.

“She lent you herhusband’smoney?”

He nods and a smallmischievoussmileappearsonhislips.

“That’sterrible.”“He got his own back,”

Christian says darkly as hepulls into the undergroundgarageatEscala.

Oh?“How?”Christianshakeshishead

as if recalling a particularlysour memory and parksbesidetheAudiQuattroSUV.“Come—Franco will be hereshortly.”

IntheelevatorChristianpeersdown at me. “Still mad atme?”heasksmatter-of-factly.

“Very.”He nods. “Okay,” he

says, and stares straightahead.

Taylor is waiting for uswhenwe arrive in the foyer.How does he always know?Hetakesmycase.

“Has Welch been intouch?”Christianasks.

“Yes,sir.”“And?”“Everything’sarranged.”“Excellent. How’s your

daughter?”“She’s fine, thank you,

sir.”“Good. We have a

hairdresser arriving at one—FrancoDeLuca.”

“Miss Steele,” Taylornodsatme.

“Hi, Taylor. You have a

daughter?”“Yesma’am.”“Howoldisshe?”“She’sseven.”Christian gazes at me

impatiently.“She lives with her

mother,”Taylorclarifies.“Oh,Isee.”Taylorsmilesatme.This

is unexpected. Taylor’s afather?IfollowChristianintothe great room, intrigued by

thisinformation.Iglancearound.Ihaven’t

beenheresinceIwalkedout.“Areyouhungry?”I shake my head.

Christian gazes at me for abeatanddecidesnottoargue.

“I have to make a fewcalls. Make yourself athome.”

“Okay.”Christian disappears into

his study, leaving me

standing in the huge artgallery he calls home andwondering what to do withmyself.

Clothes! Picking up mybackpack, I wander upstairstomybedroomandcheckoutthe walk-in closet. It’s stillfullofclothes—allbrandnewwith price tags still attached.Three long evening dresses,three cocktail dresses, andthreemoreforeverydaywear.

All this must have cost afortune.

Icheckthetagononeofthe evening dresses: $2,998.Holyfuck.Isinktothefloor.

This isn’t me. I put myhead inmy hands and try toprocess the last few hours.It’sexhausting.Why,ohwhyhave I fallen for someonewho is plain crazy—beautiful,sexyasfuck,richerthanCroesus, and crazywith

acapitalK?I fishmyBlackberry out

ofmy backpack and call mymom.

“Ana,honey!It’sbeensolong.Howareyou,darling?”

“Oh,youknow...”“What’swrong?Still not

worked it out withChristian?”

“Mom,it’scomplicated.Ithink he’s nuts. That’s theproblem.”

“Tell me about it. Men,there’s just no reading themsometimes. Bob’s wonderingifourmovetoGeorgiawasagoodone.”

“What?”“Yeah,he’stalkingabout

goingbacktoVegas.”Oh, someone else has

problems. I’m not the onlyone.

Christian appears in thedoorway. “There you are. I

thought you’d run off.” Hisreliefisobvious.

I hold my hand up toindicate that I’m on thephone. “Sorry, Mom, I havetogo.I’llcallagainsoon.”

“Okay, honey—take careofyourself.Loveyou!”

“Loveyou,too,Mom.”I hang up and gaze at

Fifty. He frowns, lookingstrangelyawkward.

“Why are you hiding in

here?”heasks.“I’m not hiding. I’m

despairing.”“Despairing?”“Of all this,Christian.” I

wavemyhand in thegeneraldirectionoftheclothes.

“CanIcomein?”“It’syourcloset.”He frowns again and sits

down, cross-legged, facingme.

“They’re just clothes. If

youdon’t like them I’ll sendthemback.”

“You’re a lot to take on,youknow?”

He blinks at me andscratches his chin... hisstubbly chin.My fingers itchtotouchhim.

“I know. I’m trying,” hemurmurs.

“You’reverytrying.”“As are you, Miss

Steele.”

“Why are you doingthis?”

His eyes widen and hiswary look returns. “Youknowwhy.”

“No,Idon’t.”He runs a hand through

his hair. “You are onefrustratingfemale.”

“You could have a nicebrunette submissive. Onewho’dsay,‘howhigh?’everytimeyousaidjump,provided

ofcourse shehadpermissionto speak. So why me,Christian?Ijustdon’tgetit.”

He gazes at me for amoment, and I have no ideawhathe’sthinking.

“You make me look atthe world differently,Anastasia. You don’t wantme formymoney.You giveme...hope,”hesayssoftly.

What? Mr. Cryptic isback.“Hopeofwhat?”

He shrugs. “More.” Hisvoice is low andquiet. “Andyou’re right. I am used towomen doing exactly what Isay,whenIsay,doingexactlywhat I want. It gets oldquickly. There’s somethingabout you, Anastasia, thatcalls to me on some deeplevelIdon’tunderstand.It’sasiren’scall.Ican’tresistyou,andIdon’twanttoloseyou.”Hereachesforwardandtakes

my hand. “Don’t run, please—havealittlefaithinmeandalittlepatience.Please.”

He looks so vulnerable...Jeez, it’s disturbing. Leaningup on my knees, I bendforward and kiss him gentlyonhislips.

“Okay. Faith andpatience,Icanlivewiththat.”

“Good.BecauseFranco’shere.”

Franco is small, dark, andgay.Ilovehim.

“Such beautiful hair!” hegushes with an outrageous,probablyfakeItalianaccent.Ibet he’s from Baltimore orsomewhere, but hisenthusiasm is infectious.Christian leads us both intohisbathroom,exitshurriedly,and reenters carrying a chairfromhisroom.

“I’llleaveyoutwotoit,”

hemutters.“Grazie, Mr. Grey.”

Franco turns to me. “Bene,Anastasia, what shall we dowithyou?”

Christian is sitting on hiscouch,plowing throughwhatlook like spreadsheets. Soft,mellow classicalmusic driftsthrough the great room. A

woman sings passionately,pouring her soul into thesong. It’s breathtaking.Christian glances up andsmiles, distracting me fromthemusic.

“See! I tell you he likeit,”Francoenthuses.

“You look lovely, Ana,”Christiansaysappreciatively.

“My work ‘ere is done,”Francoexclaims.

Christianrisesandstrolls

toward us. “Thank you,Franco.”

Franco turns, grasps meinanoverwhelmingbearhug,and kisses both my cheeks.“Never let anyone else becutting your hair, bellissimaAnastasia!”

I laugh, slightlyembarrassed by hisfamiliarity. Christian showshim to the foyer door andreturnsmomentslater.

“I’m glad you kept itlong,” he says as he walkstoward me, his eyes bright.Hetakesastrandbetweenhisfingers.

“So soft,” he murmurs,gazingdownatme.“Areyoustillmadatme?”

Inodandhesmiles.“What precisely are you

madatmeabout?”Irollmyeyes.“Youwant

thelist?”

“There’salist?”“Alongone.”“Can we discuss it in

bed?”“No.” I pout at him

childishly.“Over lunch, then. I’m

hungry, and not just forfood,” he gives me asalacioussmile.

“Iamnotgoingtoletyoudazzle me with yoursexpertise.”

Hestiflesasmile.“Whatis bothering you specifically,MissSteele?Spititout.”

Okay.“What’s bothering me?

Well, there’s your grossinvasion of my privacy, thefactthatyoutookmetosomeplacewhere your ex-mistressworks and you used to takeall your lovers to have theirbits waxed, you manhandledmeinthestreetlikeIwassix

years old—and to cap it all,you let your Mrs. Robinsontouch you!” My voice hasrisentoacrescendo.

He raises his eyebrows,andhisgoodhumorvanishes.

“That’s quite a list. Butjust to clarify once more—she’snotmyMrs.Robinson.”

“She can touch you,” Irepeat.

He purses his lips. “Sheknowswhere.”

“Whatdoesthatmean?”He runs both hands

through his hair and closeshis eyes briefly, as if he’sseeking divine guidance ofsomekind.Heswallows.

“You and I don’t haveanyrules. Ihaveneverhadarelationship without rules,and I never know whereyou’re going to touchme. Itmakes me nervous. Yourtouch completely—” He

stops, searching for thewords. “It justmeansmore...somuchmore”

More? His answer’scompletely unexpected,throwingme,andthere’sthatlittle word with the bigmeaning hanging between usagain.

My touchmeans...more.Holy cow. How am Isupposed to resist when hesays this stuff? Gray eyes

search mine, watching,apprehensive.

Tentatively I reach outand apprehension shifts toalarm. Christian steps backandIdropmyhand.

“Hardlimit,”hewhispersurgently, a pained, panickedlookonhisface.

I can’t help but feel acrushing disappointment.“Howwould you feel if youcouldn’ttouchme?”

“Devastated anddeprived,” he saysimmediately.

Oh, my Fifty Shades.Shakingmyhead,Iofferhima small, reassuring smile andherelaxes.

“You’ll have to tell meexactly why this is a hardlimit,oneday,please.”

“One day,” he murmursand seems to snap out of hisvulnerabilityinananosecond.

How can he switch soquickly? He’s the mostcapriciouspersonIknow.

“So, the rest of your list.Invading your privacy.” Hismouth twists as hecontemplatesthis.“BecauseIknow your bank accountnumber?”

“Yes,that’soutrageous.”“I do background checks

on all my submissives. I’llshow you.” He turns and

headsforhisstudy.I dutifully follow him,

dazed. From a locked filingcabinet, he pulls a manilafolder. Typed on the tab:AnastasiaRoseSteele.

Holyfuckingshit.Iglareathim.

He shrugs apologetically.“You can keep it,” he saysquietly.

“Well, gee, thanks,” Isnap. I flick through the

contents.Hehasacopyofmybirth certificate, for heaven’ssake, my hard limits, theNDA, the contract—Jeez—my social security number,resume,employmentrecords.

“So you knew I workedatClayton’s?”

“Yes.”“It wasn’t a coincidence.

Youdidn’tjustdropby?”“No.”I don’t know whether to

beangryorflattered.“This is fucked-up. You

knowthat?”“I don’t see it that way.

What I do, I have to becareful.”

“Butthisisprivate.”“I don’t misuse the

information. Anyone can gethold of it if they have half amind to, Anastasia. To havecontrol—I need information.It’s how I’ve always

operated.” He gazes at me,his expression guarded andunreadable.

“You do misuse theinformation. You depositedtwenty-four thousand dollarsthat I didn’t want into myaccount.”

His mouth presses in ahard line. “I told you.That’swhat Taylor managed to getfor your car. Unbelievable, Iknow,butthereyougo.”

“ButtheAudi...”“Anastasia, do you have

any idea howmuchmoney Imake?”

I flush, of course not.“Why should I? I don’t needto know the bottom line ofyour bank account,Christian.”

Hiseyessoften.“Iknow.That’soneofthethingsIloveaboutyou.”

I gaze at him, shocked.

Loveaboutme?“Anastasia, I earn

roughly one hundredthousanddollarsanhour.”

My mouth drops open.Thatisanobsceneamountofmoney.

“Twenty-four thousanddollars is nothing. The car,the Tess books, the clothes,they’renothing.”Hisvoiceissoft.

I gaze at him. He really

hasnoidea.Extraordinary.“If you were me, how

would you feel about allthis... largesse coming yourway?”Iask.

He stares at me blankly,andthereitis,hisproblemina nutshell—empathy or thelack thereof. The silencestretchesbetweenus.

Finally, he shrugs. “Idon’tknow,”hesays,andhelooksgenuinelybemused.

My heart swells. This isit, the crux of his FiftyShades, surely. He can’t puthimself in my shoes. Well,nowIknow.

“It doesn’t feel great. Imean, you’re very generous,but it makes meuncomfortable. I have toldyouthisenoughtimes.”

Hesighs.“Iwant togiveyoutheworld,Anastasia.”

“I just want you,

Christian. Not all the add-ons.”

“They’repartofthedeal.PartofwhatIam.”

Oh, this is goingnowhere.

“Shall we eat?” I ask.This tension between us isdraining.

Hefrowns.“Sure.”“I’llcook.”“Good.Otherwise there’s

foodinthefridge.”

“Mrs. Jones isoff on theweekends? So you eat coldcutsmostweekends?”

“No.”“Oh?”He sighs. “My

submissives cook,Anastasia.”

“Oh, of course.” I flush.How could I be so stupid? Ismile sweetly at him. “WhatwouldSirliketoeat?”

He smirks. “Whatever

Madam can find,” he saysdarkly.

Inspecting the impressivecontents of the fridge, Idecide on Spanish omelet.There are even cold potatoes—perfect.It’squickandeasy.Christian is still in his study,nodoubtinvadingsomepoor,unsuspecting fool’s privacy

and compiling information.Thethoughtisunpleasantandleaves a bitter taste in mymouth. My mind is reeling.Hereallyknowsnobounds.

IneedmusicifI’mgoingto cook, and I’m going tocook unsubmissively! IwanderovertotheiPoddockbeside the fireplace and pickup Christian’s iPod. I betthere are more of Leila’schoicesonhere,—Idreadthe

veryidea.Where is she? I wonder.

Whatdoesshewant?Ishudder.Whatalegacy.

Ican’twrapmyheadaroundit.

I scroll through theextensive list. I wantsomething upbeat. Hmm,Beyoncé—doesn’t sound likeChristian’s taste. Crazy inLove.Ohyes!Howapt. I hittherepeatbuttonandputiton

loud.I sashay back to the

kitchenandfindabowl,openthe fridge, and take out theeggs. I crack them open andbegin to whisk, dancing thewholetime.

Raiding the fridge oncemore, Igatherpotatoes,ham,and—Yes!—peas from thefreezer. All of these will do.Finding a pan, I place it onthestove,put ina littleolive

oil,andgobacktowhisking.No empathy, I muse. Is

this unique to Christian?Maybe all men are like this,baffled by women. I justdon’t know. Perhaps it’s notsucharevelation.

I wish Kate were home;she would know. She’s beeninBarbadosfartoolong.Sheshould be back at the end ofthe week after her additionalvacationwithElliot.Iwonder

ifit’sstilllustatfirstsightforthem.

One of the things I loveaboutyou.

I stop whisking. He saidit. Does that mean there areother things? I smile for thefirst time since seeing Mrs.Robinson—a genuine,heartfelt,face-splittingsmile.

Christian slips his armsaroundme,makingmejump.

“Interesting choice of

music,”hepurrs ashekissesmebelowmyear.“Yourhairsmellsgood.”Henuzzlesmyhairandinhalesdeeply.

Desire uncurls in mybelly.No. I shrug out of hisembrace.

“I’mstillmadatyou.”He frowns. “How long

are you going to keep thisup?”heasks,draggingahandthroughhishair.

I shrug. “At least until

I’veeaten.”His lips twitch with

amusement.Turning,hepicksup the remote control fromthe counter and switches offthemusic.

“DidyouputthatonyouriPod?”Iask.

He shakes his head, hisexpression somber, and Iknowitwasher—GhostGirl.

“Don’tyouthinkshewastrying to tell you something

backthen?”“Well, with hindsight,

probably,”hesaysquietly.qed. No empathy. My

subconscious folds her armsand smacks her lips indisgust.

“Why’sitstillonthere?”“Iquitelikethesong.But

if it offends you I’ll removeit.”

“No, it’s fine. I like tocooktomusic.”

“Whatwould you like tohear?”

“Surpriseme.”He smirks at me and

heads over to the iPod dockwhile I go back to mywhisking.

Moments later theheavenlysweet,soulfulvoiceof Nina Simone fills theroom. It’s one of Ray’sfavorites: “I Put a Spell onYou.”

Iflush,turningtogapeatChristian. What is he tryingto tellme?Heput a spell onmealongtimeago.Ohmy...his look has changed, thelevity gone, his eyes darker,intense.

Iwatchhim,enthralledasslowly,likethepredatorheis,he stalks me in time to theslowsultrybeatofthemusic.He’sbarefoot,wearingjustanuntucked white shirt, jeans,

andasmolderinglook.Nina sings, “you’re

mine” as Christian reachesme,hisintentionclear.

“Christian, please,” Iwhisper, thewhiskredundantinmyhand.

“Pleasewhat?”“Don’tdothis.”“Dowhat?”“This.”He’s standing in front of

me,gazingdownatme.

“Are you sure?” hebreathes and reaching over,he takes the whisk from myhandandplacesitbackinthebowlwiththeeggs.Myheartis inmymouth. Idon’twantthis—Idowantthis—badly.

He’s so frustrating. He’ssohotanddesirable.Itearmygaze away from hisspellbindinglook.

“I want you, Anastasia,”he murmurs. “I love and I

hate, and I love arguingwithyou. It’s very new. I need toknowthatwe’reokay.It’stheonlywayIknowhow.”

“My feelings for youhaven’tchanged,”Iwhisper.

His proximity isoverwhelming, exhilarating.The familiar pull is there, allmy synapses goading metoward him, my innergoddess at her mostlibidinous. Staring at the

patch of hair in theV of hisshirt, I bite my lip, helpless,driven by desire—I want totastehimthere.

He’s so close, but hedoesn’t touchme.Hisheat iswarmingmyskin.

“I’m not going to touchyou until you say yes,” hesays softly. “But right now,afterareallyshittymorning,Iwant to bury myself in youandjustforgeteverythingbut

us.”Oh my... Us. A magical

combination, a small potentpronoun that clinches thedeal. I raisemyhead tostareat his beautiful yet seriousface.

“I’mgoing to touchyourface,” I breathe, and see hissurprise reflected briefly inhiseyesbeforehisacceptanceregisters.

Liftingmyhand, Icaress

his cheek, and run myfingertips across his stubble.He closes his eyes andexhales, leaninghis face intomytouch.

He leans down slowly,andmylipsautomaticallyliftto meet his. He hovers overme.

“Yes or no, Anastasia?”hewhispers.

“Yes.”His mouth softly closes

on mine, coaxing, coercingmylipsapartashisarmsfoldaround me, pulling me tohim. His handmoves upmyback, fingers tangling in thehair at the back of my headand tugginggently,whilehisother hand flattens on mybehind, forcing me againsthim.Imoansoftly.

“Mr. Grey.” Taylorcoughs, and Christianreleasesmeimmediately.

“Taylor,” he says, hisvoicefrigid.

I whirl round to see anuncomfortable Taylorstanding on the threshold ofthegreat room.ChristianandTaylor stare at each other,some unspokencommunication passingbetweenthem.

“My study,” Christiansnaps, and Taylor walksbrisklyacrosstheroom.

“Rain check,” Christianwhispers to me beforefollowing Taylor out of theroom.

I take a deep, steadyingbreath. Holy hell. Can I notresist him for one minute? Ishake my head, disgusted atmyself, grateful for Taylor’sinterruption, embarrassingthoughitis.

IwonderwhatTaylorhashad to interrupt in the past.

What’sheseen?Idon’twanttothinkaboutthat.Lunch.I’llmake lunch. I busy myselfslicing potatoes. What doesTaylorwant?Mymind races—isthisaboutLeila?

Ten minutes later, theyemerge, just as the omelet isready. Christian lookspreoccupied as he glances atme.

“I’llbrieftheminten,”hesaystoTaylor.

“We’ll be ready,” Tayloranswers and leaves the greatroom.

I produce two warmedplates and place them on thekitchenisland.

“Lunch?”“Please,” Christian says

as he perches on one of thebar stools. Now he’swatchingmecarefully.

“Problem?”“No.”

I scowl. He’s not tellingme. I dish out lunch and sitdownbesidehim,resignedtostayinginthedark.

“This is good,” Christianmurmursappreciativelyashetakesabite.“Wouldyoulikeaglassofwine?”

“No, thank you.” I needto keep a clear head aroundyou,Grey.

It does taste good, eventhough I’m not that hungry.

But I eat, knowing ChristianwillnagifIdon’t.EventuallyChristian disrupts ourbroodingsilenceandswitcheson theclassicalpiece Iheardearlier.

“What’sthis?”Iask.“Canteloube,Songsofthe

Auvergne. This is called‘Bailero.’”

“It’s lovely. Whatlanguageisit?”

“It’s in old French—

Occitan,infact.”“You speak French, do

you understand it?”Memories of the flawlessFrench he spoke at hisparents’ dinner come tomind...

“Some words, yes.”Christian smiles, visiblyrelaxing. “My mother had amantra: musical instrument,foreign language,martial art.Elliot speaks Spanish; Mia

and I speak French. Elliotplaysguitar,Iplaypiano,andMiathecello.”

“Wow. And the martialarts?”

“Elliot does Judo. Miaput her foot down at agetwelve and refused.” Hesmirksatthememory.

“I wish my mother hadbeenthatorganized.”

“Dr. Grace is formidablewhen it comes to the

accomplishments of herchildren.”

“Shemust beveryproudofyou.Iwouldbe.”

A dark thought flashesacross Christian’s face, andhe looks momentarilyuncomfortable. He regardsme warily as if he’s inunchartedterritory.

“Have you decided whatyou’ll wear this evening? Ordo I need to come and pick

somethingforyou?”Histoneissuddenlybrusque.

Whoa! He sounds angry.Why?WhathaveIsaid?

“Um... not yet. Did youchooseallthoseclothes?”

“No,Anastasia,Ididn’t.Igavea listandyoursize toapersonal shopper at NeimanMarcus.Theyshouldfit. Justso that you know, I haveordered additional securityfor this evening and the next

few days. With Leilaunpredictable andunaccounted for somewhereon the streets of Seattle, Ithinkit’sawiseprecaution.Idon’t want you going outunaccompanied.Okay?”

I blink at him. “Okay.”What happened to I-must-have-you-nowGrey?

“Good.I’mgoingtobriefthem.Ishouldn’tbelong.”

“They’rehere?”

“Yes.”Where?Collecting his plate,

Christianplacesit in thesinkand disappears from theroom.What thehellwas thatabout? He’s like severaldifferent people in onebody.Isn’t that a symptom ofschizophrenia?ImustGooglethat.

Iclearmyplate,washupquickly, andheadbackup to

my bedroom carrying theAnastasia Rose Steeledossier. Back in the walk-incloset, I pull out the threelong evening dresses. Now,whichone?

Lying down on the bed, Igaze at my Mac, my iPad,and my Blackberry. I amoverwhelmed with

technology. I set abouttransferring Christian’splaylist frommy iPad to theMac, then fire up Google tosurfthenet.

I’m lying across the bedlooking at my Mac asChristianenters.

“Whatareyoudoing?”heinquiressoftly.

Ipanicbriefly,wonderingif I should let him see thewebsite I’m on: MultiplePersonality Disorder: TheSymptoms.

Stretchingoutbesideme,he eyes the webpage withamusement.

“On this site for areason?” he asksnonchalantly.

Brusque Christian hasgone—playful Christian is

back. How the hell am Isupposed to keep up withthis?

“Research.Intoadifficultpersonality.” I give him mymostdeadpanlook.

His lips twitch with asuppressedsmile.“Adifficultpersonality?”

“Myownpetproject.”“I’m a pet project now?

A sideline. Scienceexperiment maybe. When I

thought I was everything.MissSteele,youwoundme.”

“How do you know it’syou?”

“Wildguess.”Hesmirks.“It’struethatyouarethe

only fucked-up, mercurial,control freak that I know,intimately.”

“I thoughtIwastheonlypersonyouknowintimately.”Hearchesabrow.

Iflush.“Yes.That,too.”

“Have you reached anyconclusionsyet?”

I turn and gaze at him.He’sonhissidestretchedoutbeside me with his headresting on his elbow, hisexpressionsoft,amused.

“Ithinkyou’reinneedofintensetherapy.”

Hereachesupandgentlytucksmyhairbehindmyears.

“I think I’m in need ofyou. Here.” He hands me a

tubeoflipstick.Ifrownathim,perplexed.

It’sharlotred,notmycoloratall.

“You want me to wearthis?”Isqueak.

He laughs. “No,Anastasia, not unless youwant to. Not sure it’s yourcolor,”hefinishesdryly.

He sits up on the bedcross-legged and drags hisshirt off over his head. Oh

my. “I like your road mapidea.”

I stare at him blankly.Roadmap?

“The no-go areas,” hesaysbywayofexplanation.

“Oh.Iwaskidding.”“I’mnot.”“Youwantmetodrawon

you,withlipstick?”“It washes off.

Eventually.”ThismeansIcouldtouch

him freely. A small smile ofwonderplaysonmylips,andIsmirkathim.

“What about somethingmore permanent like aSharpie?”

“Icouldgetatattoo.”Hiseyesarealightwithhumor.

Christian Grey with atatt?Marringhislovelybody,when it’smarked insomanywaysalready?Noway!

“No to the tattoo!” I

laughtohidemyhorror.“Lipstick, then.” He

grins.Shutting theMac, I push

it to the side. This could befun.

“Come.” He holds hishandsouttome.“Sitonme.”

I push my flats off myfeet, scramble into a sittingposition, and crawl over tohim.Heliesdownonthebedbutkeepshiskneesflexed.

“Leanagainstmylegs.”I clamber over him and

sit astride as instructed. Hiseyes are wide and cautious.Buthe’samused,too.

“You seem—enthusiasticforthis,”hecommentswryly.

“I’m always eager forinformation,Mr.Grey,and itmeans you’ll relax, becauseI’ll know where theboundarieslie.”

He shakeshishead, as if

he can’t quite believe thathe’s about to letmedrawalloverhisbody.

“Open the lipstick,” heorders.

Oh, he’s in über-bossymode,butIdon’tcare.

“Givemeyourhand.”Igivehimmyotherhand.“The one with the

lipstick.”He rollshis eyes atme.

“Are you rolling your

eyesatme?”“Yep.”“That’s very rude, Mr.

Grey. I know some peoplewho get positively violent ateye-rolling.”

“Do you now?”His toneisironic.

Igivehimmyhandwiththe lipstick, and suddenly hesitsupsowearenosetonose.

“Ready?” he asks in alow, softmurmur thatmakes

everything tighten and tenseinsideme.Ohwow.

“Yes,” I whisper. Hisproximity is alluring, histoned flesh close, hisChristian-smell mixed withmybodywash.Heguidesmyhand up to the curve of hisshoulder.

“Press down,” hebreathes,andmymouthgoesdry as he directs my handdown, from the top of his

shoulder, around his armsocket then down the side ofhis chest. The lipstick leavesa broad, livid red streak it inits wake. He stops at thebottom of this ribcage thendirects me across hisstomach. He tenses andstares, seemingly impassive,intomyeyes,butbeneathhiscareful blank look, I see hisrestraint.

His aversion is held in

strict check, the line of hisjaw is strained, and there’stension around his eyes.Midway across his stomachhe murmurs, “And up theother side.” He releases myhand.

I mirror the line I’vedrawn on his left side. Thetrusthe’sgivingme isheadybuttemperedbythefactthatIcan I count his pain. Sevensmall, round white scars dot

his chest, and it’s deep, darkpurgatorytoseethishideous,evil desecration of hisbeautiful body. Who woulddothistoachild?

“There,done,”Iwhisper,containingmyemotion.

“No, you’re not,” hereplies and traces a linewithhis long index finger aroundthebaseofhisneck.Ifollowthe line of his finger with ascarlet streak. Finishing, I

gaze into the gray depths ofhiseyes.

“Now my back,” hemurmurs.Heshifts so Ihaveto climb off him, then heturns around on the bed andsits cross-legged with hisbacktome.

“Followthelinefrommychest,allthewayroundtotheother side.”His voice is lowandhusky.

I do as he says until a

crimson line runs across themiddle of his back, and as Ido, I count more scarsmarring his beautiful body.Nineinall.

Holyfuck. Ihave to fightthe overwhelming need tokiss each one and stop thetears pooling in my eyes.What kind of animal woulddo this? His head is down,and his body tense as Icompletethecircuitroundhis

back.“Aroundyourneck,too?”

Iwhisper.He nods, and I draw

another line joining the firstaround the base of his neckbeneathhishair.

“Finished,” I murmur,anditlookslikehe’swearinga bizarre skin-colored vestwithaharlot-redtrim.

Hisshouldersslumpasherelaxes, and he turns slowly

tofacemeonceagain.“Those are the

boundaries,” he says quietly,his eyes dark and pupilsdilated... from fear? Fromlust? Iwant tohurlmyselfathim,butIrestrainmyselfandgazeathiminwonder.

“I can live with those.Right now I want to launchmyselfatyou,”Iwhisper.

He gives me a wickedsmileandholdsouthishands,

agestureofsupplication.“Well, Miss Steele, I’m

allyours.”I squeal with childish

delight and catapult myselfinto his arms, knocking himflat. He twists, letting out aboyishlaughfilledwithreliefthat the ordeal is over.Somehow, I end up beneathhimonthebed.

“Now, about that raincheck,” he breathes and his

mouth claims mine oncemore.

My hands fist in his hairwhile my mouth is feverish

against Christian’s,consuming him, relishing thefeel of his tongue againstmine. And he’s the same,devouringme.It’sheavenly.

Suddenlyhedragsmeupandgrasps thehemofmyT-shirt, whipping it over myhead and throwing it on thefloor.

“I want to feel you,” hesays greedily against mymouth as his hands move

behindmetoundomybra.Inonesmoothmove,it’soffandhepitchesitaside.

Hepushesmebackdownontothebed,pressingmeintothe mattress, and his mouthandhandmovetomybreasts.My fingers curl into his hairashetakesoneofmynipplesbetween his lips and tugshard.

Icryoutas thesensationsweeps through my body,

spikes, and tightens all themusclesaroundmygroin.

“Yes, baby, let me hearyou,”hemurmursagainstmyoverheatedskin.

Boy, I want him insideme,now.Withhismouth,hetoys with my nipple, pullingat it, makingme squirm andwrithe and yearn for him. Isensehis longingmixedwith—what?Veneration.It’sasifhe’sworshippingme.

He teases me with hisfingers, my nipple growinghardandelongatingunderhisskillful touch. His handmoves to my jeans, and hedeftlyundoesthebutton,tugsthezipperdown,andslipshishand inside my panties,slidinghisfingersagainstmysex.

His breath hisses out ashis finger glides into me. Ipush my pelvis up into the

heel of his hand, and heresponds,rubbingagainstme.

“Oh, baby,” he breathesashehoversoverme,staringintently into my eyes.“You’resowet.”Hisvoiceisfilledwithwonder.

“Iwantyou,”Imurmur.His mouth joins with

mine again, and I feel hishungry desperation, his needforme.

This is new—it’s never

been like this except perhapswhen I came back fromGeorgia—andhiswordsfromearlier drift back to me... Ineed to know we’re okay.This is the only way I knowhow.

Thethoughtunravelsme.Toknow that I have such aneffectonhim,thatIcanofferhim so much solace, doingthis—myinnergoddesspurrswith pure pleasure. He sits

up, grasps the hem of myjeans, and tugs them off,followedbymypanties.

Keepinghiseyesfixedonmine, he stands, takes a foilpacketoutofhispocket, andtosses it atme, then removeshis jeans and boxers in oneswiftmotion.

I rip the packet opengreedily, and when he liesbesidemeagain,Islowlyrollthe condom on to him. He

grabsbothmyhandsandrollsontohisback.

“You.Ontop,”heorders,pulling me astride him. “Iwanttoseeyou.”

Oh.He guides me, and

hesitantlyIeasemyselfdownonto him.He closes his eyesand flexes his hips to meetme,fillingme,stretchingme,his mouth forming a perfectOasheexhales.

Oh, that feels so good—possessing him, possessingme.

Heholdsmyhands,andIdon’t know if it’s to steadymeorkeepmefromtouchinghim, even though I have myroadmap.

“You feel so good,” hemurmurs.

I rise again, heady withthe power I have over him,watching Christian Grey

slowly coming apart beneathme. He lets go of my handsand grabs my hips, and Iplacemy hands on his arms.He thrusts into me sharply,causingmetocryout.

“That’s right, baby, feelme,” he says, his voicestrained.

Itipmyheadbackanddoexactly that. This is what hedoessowell.

I move—countering his

rhythm in perfect symmetry—numbing all thought andreason. I am just sensationlost in this void of pleasure.Up and down... again andagain...Ohyes...Openingmyeyes,Istaredownathim,mybreathing ragged, and he’sstaring back at me, eyesblazing.

“MyAna,”hemouths.“Yes,”Irasp.“Always.”Hegroansloudly,closing

his eyes again, tipping hishead back. Oh my... SeeingChristianundoneisenoughtoseal my fate, and I comeaudibly, exhaustingly,spinning down and around,collapsingontopofhim.

“Oh,baby,”hegroansashe finds his release, holdingmestillandlettinggo.

Myheadisonhischestinthe no-go area, my cheeknestled against the springy

hair on his sternum. I ampanting,glowing,andI resistthe urge to pucker my lipsandkisshim.

I just lie on top of him,catching my breath. Hesmoothes my hair, and hishand runs down my back,caressingmeashisbreathingcalms.

“Youaresobeautiful.”I lift my head to gaze at

him,myexpressionskeptical.

He frowns in response andsitsupquickly, takingmebysurprise, his arm sweepinground to holdme in place. Iclutch his biceps as we arenosetonose.

“You.Are.Beautiful,”hesaysagain,histoneemphatic.

“And you’re amazinglysweetsometimes.” Ikisshimgently.

Heliftsmeandeasesoutof me. I wince as he does.

Leaning forward, he kissesmesoftly.

“You have no idea howattractiveyouare,doyou?”

I flush. Why’s he goingonaboutthis?

“All those boys pursuingyou—that isn’t enough of aclue?”

“Boys?Whatboys?”“You want the list?”

Christian frowns. “Thephotographer, he’s crazy

about you, that boy in thehardware store, yourroommate’s older brother.Yourboss,”headdsbitterly.

“Oh,Christian,that’sjustnottrue.”

“Trust me. They wantyou. They want what’smine.” He pulls me againsthim,andIliftmyarmstohisshoulders, my hands in hishair, regarding him withamusement.

“Mine,” he repeats, hiseyesglowingpossessively.

“Yes, yours.” I reassurehim, smiling. He looksmollified,andIfeelperfectlycomfortable naked in his laponabedinthefull lightofaSaturday afternoon. Whowould have thought? Thelipstick marks remain on hisexquisite body. I note somesmears on the duvet coverthough, and wonder briefly

whatMrs.Joneswillmakeofthem.

“Thelineisstillintact,”Imurmurandbravelytracethemarkonhisshoulderwithmyindex finger. He stiffens,blinkingsuddenly.“Iwant togoexploring.”

He regards meskeptically.

“Theapartment?”“No.Iwasthinkingofthe

treasure map that we’ve

drawn on you.” My fingersitchtotouchhim.

His eyebrows lift insurprise, and he blinks withuncertainty. I rub my noseagainsthis.

“And what would thatentailexactly,MissSteele?”

I lift my hand from hisshoulder and run myfingertipsdownthisface.

“I justwant to touchyoueverywhereI’mallowed.”

Christian catches myindex finger in his teeth,bitingdowngently.

“Ow,” I protest and hegrins, a low growl comingfromhisthroat.

“Okay,” he says,releasing my finger, but hisvoice is laced withapprehension. “Wait.” Heleans behind me, lifting meagain, and removes hiscondom, dropping it

unceremoniouslyon thefloorbesidethebed.

“I hate those things. I’vea good mind to call Dr.Greene around to give you ashot.”

“You think the top ob-gyn in Seattle is going tocomerunning?”

“I can be verypersuasive,” he murmurs,hooking my hair behind myear. “Franco’s done a great

job on your hair. I like theselayers.”

What?“Stop changing the

subject.”HeshiftsmebacksoI’m

straddlinghim,leaningonhispropped-upknees,myfeetoneither side of his hips. Heleansbackonhisarms.

“Touch away,” he sayswithout humor. He looksnervous, but he’s trying to

hideit.Keepingmyeyesonhis,I

reach down and trace myfingerunderneath the lipstickline, across his finelysculptured abdominalmuscles. He flinches and Istop.

“I don’t have to,” Iwhisper.

“No, it’s fine. Just takessome... readjustment on mypart.Noone’stouchedmefor

alongtime,”hemurmurs.“Mrs. Robinson?” The

words pop unbidden out ofmy mouth, and amazingly, Imanage tokeepallbitternessandrancoroutofmyvoice.

He nods, his discomfortobvious.“Idon’twanttotalkabout her. It will sour yourgoodmood.”

“Icanhandleit.”“No,youcan’t,Ana.You

see red whenever I mention

her.Mypastismypast.It’safact. I can’t change it. I’mlucky that you don’t haveone, because it would drivemecrazyifyoudid.”

I frown at him, but Idon’t want to fight. “Driveyoucrazy?Morethanyouarealready?” I smile, hoping tolighten the atmospherebetweenus.

His lips twitch. “Crazyforyou,”hewhispers.

Myheartswellswithjoy.“ShallIcallDr.Flynn?”“Idon’tthinkthatwillbe

necessary,”hesaysdryly.Shiftingbacksohedrops

his legs, I place my fingersback on his stomach and letthemdriftacrosshisskin.Hestillsoncemore.

“Iliketouchingyou.”Myfingers skate down to hisnavel then southward alonghis happy, happy trail. His

lips part as his breathingchanges, his eyes darken andhiserectionstirsandtwitchesbeneathme.Holycow.Roundtwo.

“Again?”Imurmur.Hesmiles.“Ohyes,Miss

Steele,again.”

What a delicious way tospendaSaturdayafternoon.I

stand beneath the shower,absentmindedly washingmyself,carefulnottowetmytied-back hair, contemplatingthe last couple of hours.Christianandvanillaseemtobegoingwell.

He’s revealed so muchtoday. It’s staggering, tryingto assimilate all theinformation and to reflect onwhat I’ve learned: his salarydetails—Whoa, he’s stinking

rich, and for someone soyoung; it’s justextraordinary—and the dossiers he has onme and on all his brunettesubmissives.Iwonderif theyareallinthatfilingcabinet?

My subconscious pursesher lipsatmeandshakesherhead—don’t even go there. Ifrown.Justaquickpeek?

And there’s Leila—withagun,potentially,somewhere—andhercraptasteinmusic

still on his iPod. But evenworse,Mrs.PaedoRobinson,I cannot wrap my headaround her, and I don’twantto. I don’t want her to be ashimmering-haired specter inour relationship.He’s right, IdogooffthedeependwhenIthink of her, so perhaps it’sbestifIdon’t.

I step out of the showerand dry myself, and I’msuddenly seized by

unexpectedanger.Butwhowouldn’t gooff

the deep end? What normal,sanepersonwoulddo that toa fifteen-year-old boy? Howmuch has she contributed tohis fuckedupness? I don’tunderstand her. And worsestill, he says shehelpedhim.How?

I think of his scars, thestarkphysicalembodimentofa horrific childhood and a

sickening reminder of whatmental scars he must bear.My sweet, sad Fifty Shades.He’s said such loving thingstoday.He’scrazyforme.

Staringatmyreflection,Ismile at the memory of hiswords, my heart brimmingonce more, and my facetransforms with a ridiculoussmile. Perhaps we can makethiswork.Buthow longwillhe want to do this without

wanting to beat the crap outof me because I cross somearbitraryline?

My smile dissolves. Thisiswhat Idon’tknow.This isthe shadow that hangs overus.Kinky fuckery,yes, I candothat,butmore?

My subconscious staresat me blankly, for onceoffering no snarky words ofwisdom. I head back to mybedroomtodress.

Christian is downstairsgettingready,doingwhateverhe’s doing, so I have thebedroom to myself. As wellasallthedressesinthecloset,I have drawers full of newunderwear. I select a blackbustier corset creationwith apricetagoffivehundredfortydollars. Ithas silver trim likefiligree and the briefest ofpanties to match. Thigh-highstockings, too, in a natural

color,sofine,puresilk.Wow,they feel... slinky... and kindofhot...yeah.

I am reaching for thedress when Christian entersunannounced. Whoa, youcould knock! He standsimmobilized, staring at me,gray eyes glimmering,hungrily. I blush crimsoneverywhere, it feels. He iswearing a white shirt andblack suit pants, the neck of

hisshirtisopen.Icanseethelipsticklinestillinplace,andhe’sstillstaring.

“Can I help you, Mr.Grey?Iassumethereissomepurpose to your visit otherthan to gawk mindlessly atme.”

“Iamratherenjoyingmymindless gawk, thank you,Miss Steele,” he murmursdarkly, stepping further intotheroomanddrinkingmein.

“Remind me to send apersonal note of thanks toCarolineActon.”

I frown.Who the hell isshe?

“The personal shopper atNeiman’s,” he says, spookilyanswering my unspokenquestion.

“Oh.”“I’mquitedistracted.”“I can see that.What do

you want, Christian?” I give

himmyno-nonsensestare.He retaliates with his

crooked smile and pulls thesilverballegg-thingsfromhispocket, stopping me in mytracks.Holyshit!Hewantstospankme?Now?Why?

“It’snotwhatyouthink,”hesaysquickly.

“Enlighten me,” Iwhisper.

“I thought you couldwearthesetonight.”

And the implications ofthat sentence hang betweenusastheideasinksin.

“To this event?” I’mshocked.

Henods slowly, his eyesdarkening.

Ohmy.“Will you spank me

later?”“No.”For a moment, I feel a

tiny fleeting stab of

disappointment.He chuckles. “You want

meto?”I swallow. I just don’t

know.“Well, rest assured I am

not going to touch you likethat,notevenifyoubegme.”

Oh!Thisisnews.“Doyouwanttoplaythis

game?”hecontinues,holdinguptheballs.“Youcanalwaystake them out if it’s too

much.”Igazeathim.Helooksso

wickedly tempting—unkempt, recently fuckedhair, dark eyes dancing witherotic thoughts, thatbeautifulsculptured mouth, lips raisedinasexy,amusedsmile.

“Okay,” I acquiescesoftly. Hell, yes! My innergoddess has found her voiceand is shouting from therooftops.

“Good girl,” Christiangrins. “Come here, and I’llput them in, onceyou’veputyourshoeson.”

My shoes? I turn andglanceatthedovegraysuedestilettos that match the dressI’vechosentowear.

Humor him! my innergoddessbarksatme.

He holds out his hand tosupport me while I step intothe Christian Louboutin

shoes, a steal at three-thousandtwohundredninety-fivedollars.Imustbeatleastfiveinchestallernow.

He leads me to thebedside and doesn’t sit, butwalks over to the only chairintheroom.Pickingitup,hecarriesitoverandplacesitinfrontofme.

“When I nod, you benddown and hold on to thechair.Understand?”Hisvoice

ishusky.“Yes.”“Good. Now open your

mouth,” he orders, his voicestilllow.

IdoasI’mtold, thinkingthat he’s going to put theballs in my mouth again tolubricate them. No, he slipshisindexfingerin.

Oh...“Suck,” he says. I reach

up and clasp his hand,

holdinghimsteady,anddoasI’m told—see, I can beobedient,whenIwant.

Hetastesofsoap...hmm.Isuckhard,andI’mrewardedwhenhis eyeswiden and hislipspartasheinhales.I’mnotgoingtoneedanylubricantatthis rate.Heputs theballs inhis mouth as I fellate hisfinger, twirling my tongueround it. When he tries towithdrawit,Iclampmyteeth

down.He grins then shakes his

head, admonishing me, so Ilet go. He nods, and I benddown and grasp the sides ofthe chair. He moves mypanties to one side and veryslowlyslidesafingerintome,circling leisurely, so I feelhim,onallsides.Ican’thelpthe moan that escapes frommylips.

He withdraws his finger

briefly and with tender care,insertstheballsoneatatime,pushingthemdeepinsideme.Once they are inposition, hesmoothes my panties backinto place and kisses mybackside. Running his handsup each of my legs fromankle to thigh, he gentlykisses the top of each thighwheremyhold-upsfinish.

“Youhavefine,finelegs,MissSteele,”hemurmurs.

Standing, he grasps myhips and pulls my behindagainst him so I feel hiserection.

“MaybeI’llhaveyouthisway when we get home,Anastasia. You can standnow.”

I feel giddy, beyondaroused as the weight of theballspushandpullinsideme.Leaning down from behindme Christian kisses my

shoulder.“Iboughttheseforyouto

weartolastSaturday’sgala.”He puts his arm around meandholdsouthishand.Inhispalm rests a small red boxwithCartier inscribedon thelid. “But you left me, so Inever had the opportunity togivethemtoyou.”

Oh!“This is my second

chance,” he murmurs, his

voice stiff with someunnamed emotion. He’snervous.

Tentatively, I reach forthe box and open it. Insideshinesapairofdropearrings.Eachhas four diamonds, oneat the base, then a gap, thenthree perfectly spaceddiamonds hanging one afterthe other. They’re beautiful,simple, and classic. What Iwould choose myself, if I

were ever given theopportunitytoshopatCartier.

“They’re lovely,” Iwhisper,andbecausetheyaresecond-chance earrings, Ilovethem.“Thankyou.”

He relaxes againstme asthe tension leaves his body,and he kisses my shoulderagain.

“You’re wearing thesilversatindress?”heasks.

“Yes?Isthatokay?”

“Of course. I’ll let youget ready.”He heads out thedoor without a backwardglance.

I have entered an alternateuniverse. The young womanstaring back at me looksworthy of a red carpet. Herstrapless, floor-length, silversatin gown is simply

stunning.Maybe I’llwrite toCaroline Acton myself. It’sfitted and flatters what littlecurvesIhave.

My hair falls in softwaves around my face,spillingovermyshoulders tomy breasts. I tuck one sidebehindmy ear, revealingmysecond-chance earrings. Ihave kept my makeup to aminimum, a natural look.Eyeliner, mascara, a little

pink blush, and pale pinklipstick.

I don’t really need theblush. I am slightly flushedfrom the constant movementofthesilverballs.Yes,they’llguarantee I have some colorin my cheeks tonight.Shaking my head at theaudacity of Christian’s eroticideas, I lean down to collectmy satin wrap and silverclutchpurseandgoinsearch

ofmyFiftyShades.He is talking to Taylor

and three other men in thehallway, his back to me.Their surprised, appreciativeexpressions alert Christian tomy presence. He turns as Istandandwaitawkwardly.

Holy cow! My mouthdries. He looks stunning...Black dinner suit, black bowtie, and his expression as hegazesatmeisoneofawe.He

strolls toward me and kissesmyhair.

“Anastasia. You lookbreathtaking.”

Iflushatthiscomplimentin front of Taylor and theothermen.

“A glass of champagnebeforewego?”

“Please,” I murmur, fartooquickly.

Christian nods to Taylorwhoheadsintothefoyerwith

histhreecohorts.In the great room,

Christianretrievesabottleofchampagnefromthefridge.

“Securityteam?”Iask.“Close protection.

They’re under Taylor’scontrol. He’s trained in that,too.” Christian hands me achampagneflute.

“He’sveryversatile.”“Yes, he is.” Christian

smiles. “You look lovely,

Anastasia.Cheers.”Heraiseshis glass, and I clink it withmine. The champagne is apale rose color. It tastesdeliciouslycrispandlight.

“How are you feeling?”heasks,hiseyesheated.

“Fine,thankyou.”Ismilesweetly,givingnothingaway,knowing full well he’sreferringtothesilverballs.

Hesmirksatme.“Here, you’re going to

need this.” He hands me alarge velvet pouch that wasresting on the kitchen island.“Open it,” he says betweensipsofchampagne.Intrigued,I reach into the bag and pullout an intricate silvermasquerademaskwithcobaltblue feathers in a plumecrowningthetop.

“It’s a masked ball,” hestatesmatter-of-factly.

“I see.” The mask is

beautiful. A silver ribbon isthreaded around the edgesandexquisitesilverfiligreeisetchedaroundtheeyes.

“Thiswill showoff yourbeautifuleyes,Anastasia.”

Igrinathim,shyly.“Areyouwearingone?”“Of course.They’re very

liberatinginaway,”headds,raising an eyebrow, and hesmirks.

Oh. This is going to be

fun.“Come. I want to show

you something.”Holding outhishand,heleadsmeoutintothe hallway and to a doorbesidethestairs.Heopensit,revealing a large roomroughly the same size as hisplayroom, which must bedirectlyaboveus.Thisoneisfilled with books. Wow, alibrary, every wall crammedfloor to ceiling. In the center

is a full-size billiard tableilluminated by a longtriangular-prism-shapedTiffanylamp.

“You have a library!” Isqueak in awe, overwhelmedwithexcitement.

“Yes, the balls room asElliot calls it. The apartmentis quite spacious. I realizedtoday, when you mentionedexploring, that I’ve nevergiven you a tour. We don’t

have timenow,but I thoughtI’d show you this room, andmaybe challenge you to agame of billiards in the not-too-distantfuture.”

Igrinathim.“Bring it on.” I secretly

hug myself with glee. Joséand I bonded over pool.We’ve been playing for thelastthreeyears.Iamacewitha cue. José has been a goodteacher.

“What?” Christian asks,amused.

Oh! I really must stopexpressing every emotion Ifeel the instant I feel it, Iscoldmyself.

“Nothing,”Isayquickly.Christian narrows his

eyes.“Well, maybe Doctor

Flynn can uncover yoursecrets.You’llmeet him thisevening.”

“The expensivecharlatan?”Holyshit.

“The very same. He’sdyingtomeetyou.”

Christian takes my hand andgentlyskimshisthumbacrossmyknuckles aswe sit in theback of the Audi headingnorth. I squirm, and feel thesensationinmygroin.Iresist

theurgetomoan,asTaylorisin the front, not wearing hisiPod,withoneofthesecurityguys whose name I think isSawyer.

I am beginning to feel adull,pleasurableachedeepinmybelly,causedbytheballs.Idly,Iwonder,howlongwillI be able to manage withoutsome,um...relief?Icrossmylegs. As I do, somethingthat’sbeennigglingmeinthe

back of my mind suddenlysurfaces.

“Where did you get thelipstick?” I ask Christianquietly.

He smirks at me andpoints toward the front.“Taylor,”hemouths.

I burst out laughing.“Oh.”And stopquickly—theballs.

I bite my lip. Christiansmiles at me, his eyes

gleaming wickedly. Heknows exactly what he’sdoing,sexybeastthatheis.

“Relax,” he breathes. “Ifit’s too much...” His voicetrailsoff,andhegentlykisseseach knuckle in turn, thengently sucks the tip of mylittlefinger.

Now I know he’s doingthis on purpose. I close myeyes as dark desire unfoldsthroughout my body. I

surrender briefly to thesensation, my musclesclenchingdeepinsideme.Ohmy.

When I open my eyesagain, Christian is regardingme closely, a dark prince. Itmustbethedinnerjacketandbow tie, but he looks older,sophisticated, a devastatinglyhandsome roué withlicentiousintent.

He simply takes my

breathaway.I’minhissexualthrall, and if I’m to believehim, he’s in mine. Thethoughtbrings a smile tomyface, and his answering grinisblinding.

“So what can we expectatthisevent?”

“Oh, the usual stuff,”Christiansaysbreezily.

“Not usual for me,” Iremindhim.

Christian smiles fondly

and kisses my hand again.“Lotsofpeopleflashingtheircash. Auction, raffle, dinner,dancing—my mother knowshow to throw a party.” Hesmiles and for the first timeallday,Iallowmyselftofeela little excited about thisparty.

There is a line ofexpensivecarsheadingupthedriveway of the Greymansion. Long, pale pink

paper lanterns hang over thedrive, and as we inch closerintheAudi,Icanseetheyareeverywhere. In the earlyevening light, they lookmagical, as if we’re enteringan enchanted kingdom. Iglance at Christian. Howsuitable for my prince—andmy childish excitementblooms, eclipsing all otherfeelings.

“Masks on,” Christian

grins, and as he dons hissimpleblackmask,myprincebecomes something darker,moresensual.

AllIcanseeofhisfaceishis beautiful chiseled mouthandstrongjaw.

Holyfuck...Myheartbeatlurches at the sight of him. Ifasten my mask and grin athim,ignoringthehungerdeepinmybody.

Taylor pulls into the

driveway, and a valet opensChristian’s door. Sawyerleapsouttoopenmine.

“Ready?”Christianasks.“AsI’lleverbe.”“You look beautiful,

Anastasia.” He kisses myhandandexitsthecar.

A dark green carpet runsalongthelawntoonesideofthe house, leading to theimpressive grounds at therear. Christian has a

protective arm around me,restinghishandonmywaist,aswefollowthegreencarpetwith a steady stream ofSeattle’selitedressedintheirfineryandwearingallmannerofmasksthelanternslightingthe way. Two photographersmarshal guests to pose forpictures against the backdropofanivy-strewnarbor.

“Mr. Grey!” one of thephotographerscalls.Christian

nods in acknowledgementandpullsmecloseasweposequickly for a photo.How dothey know it’s him? Histrademark,unrulycopperhairnodoubt.

“Two photographers?” IaskChristian.

“One is from the SeattleTimes; the other is for asouvenir. We’ll be able tobuyacopylater.”

Oh, my picture in the

press again. Leila brieflyentersmymind. This is howshe found me, posing withChristian. The thought isunsettling, though it’scomforting that I amunrecognizable beneath mymask.

At the end of the line,white-suited servers holdtrays of glasses brimmingwith champagne, and I’mgrateful when Christian

passes me a glass—effectively distracting mefrommydarkthoughts.

We approach a largewhite pergola hung withsmaller versions of the paperlanterns. Beneath it, shines ablack and white checkereddance floor surrounded by alow fence with entrances onthree sides.At each entrancestand two elaborate icesculptures of swans. The

fourth side of the pergola isoccupied by a stage where astring quartet is playingsoftly, a haunting, etherealpiece I don’t recognize. Thestagelookssetforabigbandbut as there’s no sign of themusicians yet. I figure thismust be for later.Takingmyhand, Christian leads mebetween swans onto thedance floor where the otherguests are congregating,

chatting over glasses ofchampagne.

Toward the shorelinestandsanenormousmarquee,openonthesidenearesttoussoIcanglimpsetheformallyarranged tables and chairs.Therearesomany!

“How many people arecoming?” I ask Christian,thrown by the scale of themarquee.

“I think about three

hundred. You’ll have to askmymother.”Hesmilesdownatme,andmaybeit’sbecauseI can only see his smile thatlights up his face, but myinnergoddessswoons.

“Christian!”A youngwoman appears

out of the throng and throwsherarmsaroundhisneck,andimmediatelyIknowit’sMia.She’sdressedinasleek,palepink, full-length chiffon

gown with a stunning,delicately detailed Venetianmask to match. She looksamazing.Andforamoment,Ihaveneverfeltsogratefulforthe dress Christian has givenme.

“Ana! Oh, darling, youlookgorgeous!”Shegivesmeaquickhug.“Youmustcomeandmeetmyfriends.Noneofthem can believe thatChristian finally has a

girlfriend.”I shoot a quick panicked

glance at Christian, whoshrugs in a resigned I-know-she’s-impossible-I-had-to-live-with-her-for-years way,andletMialeadmeovertoagroup of four youngwomen,all expensively attired andimpeccablygroomed.

Mia makes hastyintroductions. Three of themaresweetandkind,butLily,I

thinkhernameis,regardsmesourly from beneath her redmask.

“OfcourseweallthoughtChristian was gay,” she sayssnidely,concealingherrancorwithalarge,fakesmile.

Miapoutsather.“Lily, behave yourself.

It’s obvious he has excellenttaste in women. He waswaiting for the right one tocome along, and it wasn’t

you!”Lily blushes the same

color as her mask, as do I.Could this be any moreuncomfortable?

“Ladies, if I could claimmy date back, please?”Snaking his arm around mywaist, Christian pulls me tohis side. All four womenflush, grin and fidget, hisdazzling smile doing what italways does. Mia glances at

me and rolls her eyes, and Ihavetolaugh.

“Lovely to meet you,” Isayashedragsmeaway.

“Thank you,” I mouth atChristian when we’re somedistanceaway.

“IsawthatLilywaswithMia.Sheisonenastypieceofwork.”

“She likesyou,” Imutterdryly.

He shudders. “Well, the

feeling is not mutual. Come,letmeintroduceyoutosomepeople.”

Ispendthenexthalfhourin a whirlwind ofintroductions. I meet twoHollywood actors, two moreCEOs, and several eminentphysicians.Holy shit... thereis no way I am going toremembereveryone’sname.

Christian keepsme closeat his side, and I’m grateful.

Frankly, the wealth, theglamour,andthesheerlavishscaleof theevent intimidatesme. I have never been toanythinglikethisinmylife.

The white-suited serversmoveeffortlessly through thegrowingcrowdofguestswithbottles of champagne,topping off my glass withworrying regularity. I mustnotdrinktoomuch.Imustnotdrink too much, I repeat to

myself, but I’m beginning tofeel light-headed,and Idon’tknow if it’s the champagne,the charged atmosphere ofmystery and excitementcreated by the masks, or thesecret silver balls. The dullache below my waist isbecoming impossible toignore.

“So you work at SIP?”asksabaldinggentlemaninahalf-bear—or is it a dog?—

mask. “Heard rumors of ahostiletakeover.”

I flush.There isahostiletakeoverfromamanwhohasmoremoneythansenseandisastalkerparexcellence.

“I’m just a lowlyassistant, Mr. Eccles. Iwouldn’t know about thesethings.”

Christian says nothingandsmilesblandlyatEccles.

“Ladies and gentlemen!”

The master of ceremonies,wearing an impressive blackand white harlequin mask,interrupts us. “Please takeyourseats.Dinnerisserved.”

Christian takesmy hand,andwe follow the chatteringcrowdtothelargemarquee.

The interior is stunning.Three enormous, shallowchandeliers throw rainbow-colored sparkles over theivorysilkliningoftheceiling

and walls. There must be atleast thirty tables, and theyremind me of the privatediningroomat theHeathman—crystal glasses, crispwhitelinen covering the tables andchairs, and in the center, anexquisitedisplayofpalepinkpeonies gathered around asilvercandelabra.Wrappedingossamer silk beside it is abasketofgoodies.

Christian consults the

seatingplanandleadsmetoatable in the center. Mia andGrace are already in situ,deep in conversation with ayoung man I don’t know.Grace is wearing ashimmeringmintgreengownwith a Venetian mask tomatch.She looksradiant,notstressedatall, andshegreetsmewarmly.

“Ana, how delightful tosee you again! And looking

sobeautiful,too.”“Mother,” Christian

greets her stiffly and kissesheronbothcheeks.

“Oh, Christian, soformal!” she scolds himteasingly.

Grace’s parents,Mr. andMrs.Trevelyan,joinusatourtable. They seem exuberantand youthful, though it’sdifficult to tell beneath theirmatchingbronzemasks.They

aredelightedtoseeChristian.“Grandmother,

Grandfather,may I introduceAnastasiaSteele?”

Mrs.Trevelyanisalloverme like a rash. “Oh, he’sfinally found someone, howwonderfulandsopretty!WellIdohopeyoumakeanhonestman of him,” she gushes,shakingmyhand.

Holy cow. I thank theheavensformymask.

“Mother,don’tembarrassAna.” Grace comes to myrescue.

“Ignorethesillyoldcoot,m’dear.” Mr. Trevelyanshakesmy hand. “She thinksbecauseshe’ssoold,shehasa God-given right to saywhatever nonsense pops intothatwoollyheadofhers.”

“Ana, this is my date,Sean.” Mia shyly introducesheryoungman.Hegivesme

awickedgrin,andhisbrowneyes dance with amusementasweshakehands.

“Pleased to meet you,Sean.”

Christian shakes Sean’shand as he regards himshrewdly. Don’t tell me thatpoor Mia suffers from heroverbearing brother, too. IsmileatMiainsympathy.

Lance and Janine,Grace’s friends, are the last

couple at our table, but thereisstillnosignofMr.Grey.

Abruptly, there’s thehissof a microphone, and Mr.Grey’s voice booms over thePA system, causing thebabbleofvoicestodiedown.Carrick stands on a smallstage at one end of themarquee, wearing animpressive,gold,Punchinellomask.

“Welcome, ladies and

gentleman, to our annualcharity ball. I hope that youenjoy what we have laid outforyoutonightandthatyou’lldigdeepintoyourpockets tosupport the fantastic workthat our team does withCoping Together. As youknow,it’sacausethatisveryclose tomywife’sheart, andmine.”

I peek nervously atChristian, who is staring

impassively, I think, at thestage. He glances at me andsmirks.

“I’ll hand you over nowto ourmaster of ceremonies.Pleasebe seated, andenjoy,”Carrickfinishes.

Polite applause follows,then the babble in the tentstarts again. I am seatedbetween Christian and hisgrandfather. I admire thesmall white place card with

fine silver calligraphy thatbears my name as a waiterlights the candelabra with along taper. Carrick joins us,kissing me on both cheeks,surprisingme.

“Good to see you again,Ana,”hemurmurs.He reallylooks very striking in hisextraordinarygoldmask.

“Ladies and gentlemen,please nominate a tablehead,”theMCcallsout.

“Ooo—me, me!” saysMia immediately, bouncingenthusiasticallyinherseat.

“Inthecenterofthetableyou will find an envelope,”the MC continues. “Wouldeveryone find, beg, borrow,or steal a bill of the highestdenomination you canmanage, write your name onit, and place it inside theenvelope.Tableheads,pleaseguard these envelopes

carefully.Wewillneed themlater.”

Holy crap. I haven’tbrought anymoneywithme.How stupid—it’s a charityevent!

Fishing out his wallet,Christian produces twohundred-dollarbills.

“Here,”hesays.What?“I’ll pay you back,” I

whisper.

Hismouthtwistsslightly,and I know he’s not happy,but he doesn’t comment. Isign my name using hisfountainpen—it’sblack,witha white flower motif on thecap—and Mia passes theenveloperound.

In front of me I findanother card inscribed withsilvercalligraphy—ourmenu.

Well, that accounts forthenumberofcrystalglassesin every size that crowd my

place setting. Our waiter isback, offering wine andwater. Behind me, the sidesof the tent throughwhichweentered are being closed,whileatthefront,twoserverspull back the canvas,revealing the sunset overSeattle and MeydenbauerBay.

It’s an absolutelybreathtaking view, thetwinkling lights of Seattle in

the distance and the orange,dusky calm of the bayreflectingtheopalsky.Wow.It’ssocalmandpeaceful.

Tenservers,eachholdinga plate, come to standbetween us. On a silent cue,they serve us our starters incomplete synchronization,then vanish again. Thesalmon looksdelicious,andIrealizeIamfamished.

“Hungry?” Christian

murmurssoonlyIcanhear.Iknowhe’snotreferringtothefood,andthemusclesdeepinmybellyrespond.

“Very,”Iwhisper,boldlymeeting his gaze, andChristian’s lips part as heinhales.

Ha!See...twocanplayatthisgame.

Christian’s grandfatherengages me in conversationimmediately. He’s a

wonderful oldman, soproudof his daughter and threechildren.

It is weird to think ofChristian as a child. Thememory of his burn scarscome unbidden to my mind,butIquicklyquashit.Idon’twanttothinkaboutthatnow,though ironically, it’s thereasonbehindthisparty.

IwishKatewasherewithElliot. She would fit in so

well—the sheer number offorks and knives laid outbefore her wouldn’t dauntKate—she would commandthe table. I imagine herduking it out with Mia overwho should be table head.Thethoughtmakesmesmile.

The conversation at thetable ebbs and flows.Mia isentertaining, as usual, andquiteeclipsespoorSean,whomostly stays quiet like me.

Christian’s grandmother isthemost vocal. She, too, hasa biting sense of humor,usually at the expense of herhusband. I begin to feel alittlesorryforMr.Trevelyan.

Christian and Lance talkanimatedly about a deviceChristian’s company isdeveloping, inspired bySchumacher’sprincipleSmallisBeautiful.It’shardtokeepup.Christian seems intenton

empowering impoverishedcommunities all over theworld with wind-uptechnology—devices thatneednoelectricityorbatteriesandminimalmaintenance.

Watchinghiminfullflowis astonishing. He’spassionate and committed toimprovingthelivesofthelessfortunate. Through histelecommunicationscompany,he’sintentonbeing

firsttomarketwithawind-upmobilephone.

Whoa. I had no idea. Imean I knew about hispassion about feeding theworld,butthis...

Lance seems unable tocomprehend Christian’s planto give the technology awayand not patent it. I wondervaguely how Christian madeall his money if he’s sowillingtogiveitallaway.

Throughout dinner asteady stream of men insmartly tailored dinnerjackets and dark masks stopby the table, keen to meetChristian,shakehishand,andexchange pleasantries. Heintroducesmetosomebutnotothers.I’mintriguedtoknowhow and why he makes thedistinction.

During one suchconversation, Mia leans

acrossandsmiles.“Ana,willyouhelpinthe

auction?”“Of course,” I respond

onlytoowilling.By the time dessert is

served, night has fallen, andI’m really uncomfortable. Ineed to get rid of the balls.Before I can excuse myself,the master of ceremoniesappearsatourtable,andwithhim—ifI’mnotmistaken—is

MissEuropeanPigtails.What’s her name?

Hansel,Gretel...Gretchen.She’s masked of course,

but I know it’s herwhenhergaze doesn’t move beyondChristian. She blushes, andselfishly I’m beyond pleasedthat Christian doesn’tacknowledgeheratall.

The MC asks for ourenvelope and with a verypracticed and eloquent

flourish, asks Grace to pullout the winning bill. It’sSean’s, and the silk-wrappedbasketisawardedtohim.

I applaud politely, butI’m finding it impossible toconcentrate on any more oftheproceedings.

“If you’ll excuse me,” ImurmurtoChristian.

Helooksatmeintently.“Doyouneedthepowder

room?”

Inod.“I’ll show you,” he says

darkly.When I stand, all the

other men round the tablestand with me. Oh, suchmanners.

“No, Christian! You’renottakingAna—Iwill.”

Mia isonher feetbeforeChristiancanprotest.Hisjawtenses, I know he’s notpleased. Quite frankly,

neitheramI.Ihave...needs.Ishrug apologetically at him,and he sits down quickly,resigned.

On our return, I feel alittle better, though the reliefofremovingtheballshasnotbeen as instantaneous as I’dhoped. They’re now stashedsafelyinmyclutchpurse.

Why did I think I couldlast thewhole evening? I amstill yearning—perhaps I can

persuadeChristiantotakemetotheboathouselater.Iflushat the thought and glance athim as I take my seat. Hestares at me, the ghost of asmilecrossinghislips.

Phew... he’s no longermadatamissedopportunity,though maybe I am. I feelfrustrated—irritable even.Christian squeezes my hand,andwebothlistenattentivelyto Carrick, who is back on

stage talking about CopingTogether.Christianpassesmeanother card—a list of theauction prizes. I scan themquickly.

Holy shit. I blink up atChristian.

“You own property inAspen?”Ihiss.Theauctionisunderway,andIhavetokeepmyvoicedown.

Henods, surprisedatmyoutburstandirritated,Ithink.He puts his finger to his lipstosilenceme.

“Do you have propertyelsewhere?” I whisper.Henods again and inclines his

headtoonesideinawarning.The whole room erupts

with cheering and applause;oneoftheprizeshasgonefortwelvethousanddollars.

“I’ll tell you later,”Christian says quietly. “Iwantedtocomewithyou,”headdsrathersulkily.

Well, you didn’t. I poutand I realize that I’m stillquerulous, and no doubt, it’sthe frustrating effect of the

balls.MymooddarkensafterseeingMrs. Robinson on thelistofgenerousdonors.

I glance around themarquee to see if I can spother,butIcan’tseehertelltalehair. Surely Christian wouldhave warned me if she wasinvitedtonight.Isitandstew,applauding when necessary,as each lot is sold forastonishing amounts ofmoney.

The bidding moves toChristian’s place in Aspenand reaches twenty thousanddollars.

“Going once, goingtwice,”theMCcalls.

And I don’t know whatpossessesme, but I suddenlyhear my own voice ringingoutclearlyoverthethrong.

“Twenty-four thousanddollars!”

Every mask at the table

turns to me in shockedamazement, the biggestreaction of all coming frombeside me. I hear his sharpintake of breath and feel hiswrathwashingovermelikeatidalwave.

“Twenty-four thousanddollars, to the lovely lady insilver, going once, goingtwice...Sold!”

Holyshit,didIreally justdothat? It must be the alcohol.

I’vehadchampagneplusfourglasses of four differentwines. I glance up atChristian who’s busyapplauding.

Crap,he’sgoingtobesoangry,andwe’vebeengettingon sowell.My subconscioushas finally decided to makean appearance, and she’swearing her Edvard MunchScreamface.

Christian leans over to

me, a large fake smileplastered across his face. Hekisses my cheek and thenmoves closer to whisper inmy ear in a very cold,controlledvoice.

“Idon’tknowwhethertoworshipatyourfeetorspankthelivingshitoutofyou.”

Oh, I know what I wantright now. I gaze up at him,blinking throughmymask. Ijustwish Icould readwhat’s

inhiseyes.“I’ll take option two,

please,” I whisper franticallyas the applause dies down.His lips part as he inhalessharply. Oh that chiseledmouth—Iwantitonme,now.Iacheforhim.Hegivesmearadiant sincere smile thatleavesmebreathless.

“Suffering, are you?We’ll have to see what wecan do about that,” he

murmurs as he runs hisfingersalongmyjaw.

Histouchresonatesdeep,deep inside where that achehas spawned and grown. Iwant to jumphim right here,rightnow,butwesitback towatch theauctionof thenextlot.

I can barely sit still.Christian drapes an armaround my shoulders, histhumb rhythmically stroking

my back, sending delicioustingles down my spine. Hisfree hand clasps mine,bringing it to his lips, thenlettingitrestonhislap.

Slowly andsurreptitiously, so I don’trealizehisgameuntil it’s toolate,heeasesmyhanduphislegandagainsthiserection.Igasp, and my eyes dart inpanicaroundthetable,butalleyes are fixed on the stage.

Thankheavensformymask.Taking full advantage, I

slowlycaresshim,lettingmyfingers explore. Christiankeeps his hand over mine,hidingmyboldfingers,whilehis thumb skates softly overthe nape of my neck. Hismouth opens as he gaspssoftly, and it’s the onlyreaction I can see to myinexperienced touch. But itmeans so much. He wants

me. Everything south of mynavel contracts. This isbecomingunbearable.

AweekbyLakeAdrianainMontanaisthefinallotforauction. Of course Mr. andDr. Grey have a house inMontana, and the biddingescalates rapidly, but I ambarelyawareof it. I feelhimgrowing beneath my fingers,and it makes me feel sopowerful.

“Sold, for one hundredten thousand dollars!” theMC declares victoriously.The whole room bursts intoapplause, and reluctantly Ifollow as does Christian,ruiningourfun.

He turns to me and hislips twitch. “Ready?” hemouths over the rapturouscheering.

“Yes,”Imouthback“Ana!” Mia calls. “It’s

time!”What? No. Not again!

“Timeforwhat?”“The First Dance

Auction. Come on!” Shestands and holds out herhand.

IglanceatChristianwhois, I think, scowling at Mia,and I don’t knowwhether tolaughorcry,butit’slaughterthat wins. I succumb to acatharticbubbleof schoolgirl

giggles, as we are thwartedonce more by the tall, pinkpowerhousethatisMiaGrey.Christian peers at me, andafterabeat,there’saghostofasmileonhislips.

“The first dance will bewithme,okay?And itwon’tbe on the dance floor,” hemurmurslasciviouslyintomyear. My giggles subside asanticipation fans the flamesof my need. Oh, yes! My

inner goddess performs aperfect triple Salchow in hericeskates.

“I look forward to it.” Ilean over and plant a soft,chaste kiss on his mouth.Glancing around, I realizethat our fellow guests at thetable are astonished. Ofcourse, they’ve never seenChristianwithadatebefore.

Hesmilesbroadlyatme.Andhelooks...happy.Wow.

“Come on, Ana,” Mianags.Takingheroutstretchedhand, I follow her onto thestage where ten more youngwomenhaveassembled,andInote with vague unease thatLilyisoneofthem.

“Gentlemen,thehighlightof the evening!” the MCbooms over the babble ofvoices. “Themoment you’veall been waiting for! Thesetwelve lovely ladies have all

agreed to auction their firstdancetothehighestbidder!”

Ohno.Iblushfromheadto toe. I hadn’t realizedwhatthismeant.Howhumiliating!

“It’s for a good cause,”Miahissesatme,sensingmydiscomfort. “Besides,Christianwillwin.”Sherollsher eyes. “I can’t imaginehim letting anyone outbidhim.Hehasn’ttakenhiseyesoffyouallevening.”

Yes, focus on the goodcause,andChristianisboundtowin.Let’s face it,he’snotshortofadimeortwo.

But it means spendingmore money on you! mysubconscious snarls at me.But I don’t want to dancewith anyone else—I can’tdancewithanyoneelse—andit’s not spending money onme, he’s donating it to thecharity. Like the twenty-four

thousanddollarshe’salreadyspent? My subconsciousnarrowshereyes.

Shit. I seem to havegotten away with myimpulsive bid. Why am Iarguingwithmyself?

“Now, gentlemen, praygatherround,andtakeagoodlook at what could be yoursfor the first dance. Twelvecomely and compliantwenches.”

Jeez! I feel like I’m in ameat market. I watch,horrified, as at least twentymen make their way to thestagearea,Christianincluded,moving with easy gracebetween the tables andpausingtosayafewhellosontheway.Oncethebiddersareassembled,theMCbegins.

“Ladies and gentlemen,in the tradition of themasqueradeweshallmaintain

themysterybehindthemasksandstick to firstnamesonly.First up we have the lovelyJada.”

Jada is giggling like aschoolgirl, too. Maybe Iwon’t be so out of place.She’sdressedhead to foot innavy taffeta with amatchingmask. Two young men stepforward expectantly. LuckyJada.

“Jada speaks fluent

Japanese, is a qualifiedfighterpilot, andanOlympicgymnast... hmm.” The MCwinks. “Gentleman,what amIbid?”

Jada gapes, astounded atthe MC; obviously, he’stalking complete garbage.She grins shyly back at thetwocontenders.

“A thousandbucks!”onecalls.

Very quickly the bidding

escalates to five thousanddollars.

“Going once... goingtwice... sold!” the MCdeclares loudly, “to thegentlemaninthemask!”Andof course all the men arewearing masks so there arehoots of laughter, applause,and cheering. Jada beams ather purchaser and quicklyexitsthestage.

“See? This is fun!”

whispers Mia. “I hopeChristian wins you, though...Wedon’twant a brawl,” sheadds.

“Brawl?” I answerhorrified.

“Oh yes. He was veryhot-headed when he wasyounger.”Sheshudders.

Christian brawling?Refined, sophisticated, likes-Tudor-choral-musicChristian? I can’t see it. The

MCdistractsmewithhisnextintroduction—a youngwoman in red,with long jet-blackhair.

“Gentlemen, may Ipresent the wonderfulMariah.Whatarewegoingtodo about Mariah? She’s anexperienced matador, playsthe cello to concert standard,and she’s a champion pole-vaulter... how about that,gentlemen? What am I bid,

please, for a dance with thedelightfulMariah?”

Mariah glares at theMCand someone yells, veryloudly, “Three thousanddollars!” It’s a masked manwithblondhairandbeard.

There is one counter-bid,but Mariah sells for fourthousanddollars.

Christian iswatchingmelike a hawk. BrawlerTrevelyan-Grey—who would

haveknown?“How long ago?” I ask

Mia.She glances at me,

nonplussed.“How long ago was

Christianbrawling?”“Early teens. Drove my

parents crazy, coming homewith cut lips and black eyes.He was expelled from twoschools. He inflicted someserious damage on his

opponents.”Igapeather.“Hasn’t he told you?”

Shesighs.“Hegotquiteabadrep among my friends. Hewasreallypersonanongrataforafewyears.Butitstoppedwhenhewasabout fifteenorsixteen.”Sheshrugs.

Holy fuck. Another pieceofthejigsawfallsintoplace.

“So,whatamIbidforthegorgeousJill?”

“Four thousand dollars,”a deep voice calls from theleft side. Jill squeals indelight.

I stoppayingattention totheauction.SoChristianwasin that kind of trouble atschool, fighting. I wonderwhy. I stare at him. Lily iswatchingusclosely.

“And now, allow me tointroducethebeautifulAna.”

Oh shit, that’s me. I

glancenervously atMia, andshe shoos me center stage.Fortunately, Idon’t fallover,butstandembarrassedashellon display for everyone.WhenIlookatChristian,he’ssmirkingatme.Thebastard.

“Beautiful Ana plays sixmusical instruments, speaksfluentMandarin, and is keenonyoga...well,gentlemen—”Beforehecanevenfinishhissentence Christian interrupts

him, glaring at the MCthroughhismask.

“Ten thousanddollars.” Ihear Lily’s gasp of disbeliefbehindme.

Ohfuck.“Fifteen.”What?Weallturnasone

to a tall, impeccably dressedmanstandingtotheleftofthestage. I blink at Fifty. Shit,what will he make of this?But he’s scratching his chin

and giving the stranger anironic smile. It’s obviousChristian knows him. Thestranger nods politely atChristian.

“Well, gentlemen! Wehavehighrollersinthehousethis evening.” The MC’sexcitement emanates throughhisharlequinmaskasheturnstobeamatChristian.Thisisagreat show, but it’s at myexpense.Iwanttowail.

“Twenty,” countersChristianquietly.

The babble of the crowdhas died. Everyone is staringat me, Christian, and Mr.Mysteriousbythestage.

“Twenty-five,” thestrangersays.

Could this be any moreembarrassing?

Christian stares at himimpassively,buthe’samused.All eyes are on Christian.

What’s he going to do? Myheart is in my mouth. I feelsick.

“One hundred thousanddollars,” he says his voiceringing clear and loudthroughthemarquee.

“What the fuck?” Lilyhissesaudiblybehindme,andageneralgaspofdismayandamusement ripples throughthecrowd.Thestrangerholdshis hands up in defeat,

laughing, and Christiansmirks at him. From thecorner of my eye, I can seeMia bouncing up and downwithglee.Mysubconsciousisgazing at Christian, utterlygobsmacked.

“One-hundred thousanddollars for the lovely Ana!Going once... going twice...”TheMCstaresatthestrangerwho shakes his head withmock regret and bows

chivalrously.“Sold!” theMCcriesout

triumphantly.In a deafening round of

applause and cheering,Christian steps forward totake my hand and help mefrom the stage. He gazes atmewith an amused grin as Imake my way down, kissesthe back of my hand thentucks it into the crook of hisarm,andleadsmetowardthe

marquee’sexit.“Whowasthat?”Iask.He gazes down at me.

“Someoneyoucanmeetlater.Right now, I want to showyou something. We haveabout thirtyminutesuntil theFirstDanceAuction finishes.Thenwe have to be back onthe dance floor so that I canenjoy that dance I’ve paidfor.”

“A very expensive

dance,” I mutterdisapprovingly.

“I’m sure it’ll be wortheverysinglecent.”Hesmilesdownatmewickedly.Oh,hehas a glorious smile, and theache is back, blossoming inmybody.

We’re out on the lawn. Ithoughtwewouldbeheadingto the boathouse, butdisappointingly we seem tobeheadingforthedancefloor

where the big band is nowsetting up. There are at leasttwenty musicians, and a fewguests are milling about,furtively smoking—but sincemost of the action is back inthemarquee,wedon’tattracttoomuchattention.

Christian leadsme to therearofthehouseandopensaFrenchwindowleadingintoalarge comfortable sittingroom that I’ve not seen

before.Hewalks through thedeserted hall toward thesweeping staircase with itselegant, polished woodenbalustrade. Taking my handfromthecrookofhisarm,heleads me up to the secondfloorandupanotherflightofstairs to the third.Opening awhitedoor,heushersmeintooneofthebedrooms.

“This wasmy room,” hesays quietly, standing by the

door and locking it behindhim.

It’s large, stark, andsparsely furnished.Thewallsarewhiteasisthefurniture;aspacious double bed, a deskand chair, shelves crammedwith books and lined withvarious trophies forkickboxing by the look ofthem. The walls are hungwith movie posters: TheMatrix, Fight Club, The

Truman Show, and twoframedposters featuringkickboxers. One is namedGuiseppe DeNatale—I’veneverheardofhim.

Butwhatcatchesmyeyeis the white pin board abovethe desk, studded with amyriad of photographs,Marinerspennants,andticketstubs. It’s a slice of youngChristian. My eyes comeback to the magnificent,

beautiful man now standinginthecenterof theroom.Helooks atme darkly, broodingandsexy.

“I’veneverbroughtagirlinhere,”hemurmurs.

“Never?”Iwhisper.Heshakeshishead.I swallow convulsively,

and the ache that has beenbothering me for the lastcouple of hours is roaringnow, raw and wanting.

Seeinghimstanding thereonthe royal blue carpet in thatmask... it’s beyond erotic. Iwant him. Now. Any way Ican get him. I have to resistlaunching myself at him andripping his clothes off. Hewaltzesovertomeslowly.

“We don’t have long,Anastasia, and the way I’mfeelingrightthismoment,wewon’tneedlong.Turnround.Let me get you out of that

dress.”I turn and stare at the

door,gratefulthathe’slockedit.Bendingdownhewhisperssoftly in my ear, “Keep themaskon.”

I groan as my bodyclenches in response. He’snoteventouchedmeyet.

He grasps the top of mydress, his fingers slidingagainst my skin, and thetouch reverberates through

mybody. Inoneswiftmove,he opens the zipper.Holdingmydress,hehelpsmetostepout of it, then turns anddrapes it artfully over thebackofachair.Removinghisjacket, he places it over mydress.Hepauses,andstaresatme for a moment, drinkingme in. I’m in thebasqueandmatchingpanties, and I revelinhissensuousgaze.

“You know, Anastasia,”

he says softly as he stalkstowardme, undoing his bowtie so it hangs from eithersideofhisneck,thenundoingthe top three buttons of hisshirt. “I was so mad whenyou bought my auction lot.All manner of ideas ranthrough my head. I had toremind myself thatpunishment is off the menu.But then you volunteered.”Hegazesdownatmethrough

his mask. “Why did you dothat?”hewhispers.

“Volunteer? I don’tknow.Frustration...toomuchalcohol... worthy cause,” Imutter meekly, shrugging.Maybetogethisattention?

Ineededhimthen.Ineedhim more now. The ache isworse, and I know he cansoothe it, calm this roaring,salivating beast in me withthe beast in him. His mouth

presses into a line, and heslowly licks his upper lip. Iwantthattongueonme.

“I vowed to myself Iwould not spank you again,evenifyoubeggedme.”

“Please,”Ibeg.“But then I realized,

you’re probably veryuncomfortableatthemoment,andit’snotsomethingyou’reused to.” He smirks at meknowingly, arrogant bastard,

but I don’t carebecausehe’sabsolutelyright.

“Yes,”Ibreathe.“So, there might be a

certain...latitude.IfIdothis,you must promise me onething.”

“Anything.”“You will safe word if

you need to, and I will justmakelovetoyou,okay?”

“Yes.” I’m panting. Iwanthishandsonme.

He swallows, then takesmy hand, and moves towardthe bed. Throwing the duvetaside, he sits down, grabs apillow, and places it besidehim. He gazes up at mestanding beside him andsuddenly tugs hard on myhand so that I fall across hislap. He shifts slightly so mybodyisrestingonthebed,mychest on the pillow,my facetooneside.Leaningover,he

sweeps my hair over myshoulder and runshis fingersthroughtheplumeoffeathersonmymask.

“Put your hands behindyourback,”hemurmurs.

Oh!He removeshisbowtieandusesittoquicklybindmy wrists so that my handsaretiedbehindme,restinginthesmallofmyback.

“You really want this,Anastasia?”

I close my eyes. This isthefirst timesinceImethimthat I reallywant this. Ineedit.

“Yes,”Iwhisper.“Why?”heaskssoftlyas

he caresses my behind withhispalm.

I groan as soon as hishandmakes contact withmyskin.Idon’tknowwhy...Youtellmenottooverthink.Aftera day like today—arguing

about themoney, Leila,Mrs.Robinson, thedossier onme,the roadmap, this lavishparty, themasks, thealcohol,the silverballs, theauction...Iwantthis.

“DoIneedareason?”“No,baby,youdon’t,”he

says. “I’m just trying tounderstand you.” His lefthand curls round my waist,holding me in place as hispalm leaves my behind and

lands hard, just above thejunction of my thighs. Thepain connects directly withtheacheinmybelly

Ohman...Imoan loudly.He hits me again, in exactlythesameplace.Igroanagain.

“Two,” he murmurs.“We’llgowithtwelve.”

Oh my! This feelsdifferent than the last time—so carnal, so... necessary.Hecaresses my behind with his

long-fingered hands, and I’mhelpless, trussed up andpressed into the mattress, athis mercy, and of my ownfree will. He hits me again,slightlytotheside,andagain,to theother side, thenpausesasheslowlypeelsmypantiesdown andpulls themoff.Hegently trails his palm acrossmy behind again beforecontinuing my spanking—each stinging smack taking

the edge off my need—orfueling it—I don’t know. Isurrender myself to therhythm of blows, absorbingeachone,savoringeachone.

“Twelve,” he murmurshis voice low and harsh. Hecaressesmybehindagainandtrailshisfingersdowntowardmysexandslowlysinks twofingers inside me, movingthem in a circle, round andround and round, torturing

me.I moan loudly as my

body takes over, and I comeandcome,convulsingaroundhis fingers. It’s so intense,unexpected,andquick.

“That’s right, baby,” hemurmurs appreciatively. Heuntiesmywrists,keepinghisfingers inside me as I liepantingandspentoverhim.

“I’ve not finished withyou yet, Anastasia,” he says

and shifts without removinghis fingers. He eases myknees on to the floor so thatnowI’mleaningoverthebed.Hekneelsonthefloorbehindmeandundoeshiszipper.Heslides his fingers out of me,andIhearthefamiliartearofa foil packet. “Open yourlegs,” he growls and Icomply. He strokes mybehindandeasesintome.

“This is going to be

quick, baby,” he murmursand grabbing my hips, heeasesoutthenslamsintome.

“Ah!” I cry out but thefullness is heavenly. He’shitting the bellyache squareon, again and again,eradicatingitwitheachsharp,sweet thrust. The feeling ismind-blowing, just what Ineed. I push back to meethim,thrustforthrust.

“Ana, no,” he grunts,

trying to stillme.But Iwanthim too much, and I grindagainst him, matching himthrustforthrust.

“Ana, shit,” he hisses ashe comes, and the torturedsound sets me off again,spiraling into a healingorgasm that goes on and onandwringsmeoutandleavesmespentandbreathless.

Christian bends andkissesmyshoulderthenpulls

out of me. Placing his armsaroundme, he rests his headinthemiddleofmyback,andwelielikethis,bothkneelingat the bedside, for what?Seconds? Minutes even asour breathing calms. Mybellyache has disappeared,and all I feel is a soothing,satisfyingserenity.

Christian stirs and kissesmyback. “Ibelieveyouowemeadance,MissSteele,”he

murmurs.“Hmm,” I respond,

savoring the absence ofachiness and basking in theafterglow.

Hesitsbackonhisheelsandpullsmeoffthebedontohislap.“Wedon’thavelong.Comeon.”Hekissesmyhairandforcesmetostand.

I grumble but sit backdown on the bed and collectmypantiesfromthefloorand

scoopthemon.LazilyIwalkto the chair to retrieve mydress. I note withdispassionate interest that Idid not remove my shoesduring our illicit tryst.Christianistyinghisbowtie,having finished straighteninghimselfandthebed.

As I slip my dress backon, I check out thephotographsonthepinboard.Christianasasullenteenwas

gorgeous even then: withElliot and Mia on the skislopes; on his own in Paris,theArc de Triomphe servingasagiveawaybackground;inLondon; New York; theGrandCanyon;SydneyOperaHouse; even the Great Wallof China. Master Grey waswelltraveledatayoungage.

There are ticket stubs tovarious concerts: U2,Metallica, TheVerve, Sheryl

Crow, the New YorkPhilharmonic performingProkofiev’sRomeoandJuliet—what an eclecticmix!Andin the corner, there’s apassport-sizephotographofayoung woman. It’s in blackandwhite.Shelooksfamiliar,but for the lifeofme, Ican’tplaceher.NotMrs.Robinson,thankheavens.

“Who’sthis?”Iask.“No one of

consequence,” he mutters ashe slips on his jacket andstraightenshisbowtie.“ShallIzipyouup?”

“Please.Thenwhy issheonyourpinboard?”

“An oversight on mypart. How’s my tie?” Heraises his chin like a smallboy,andIgrinandstraightenitforhim.

“Nowit’sperfect.”“Like you,” he murmurs

and grabs me, kissing mepassionately. “Feelingbetter?”

“Much, thank you, Mr.Grey.”

“The pleasure was allmine,MissSteele.”

Theguestsareassemblingonthe dance floor. Christiangrins at me—we’ve made it

justintime—andheleadsmeontothecheckeredfloor.

“And now, ladies andgentlemen, it’s time for thefirstdance.Mr.andDr.Grey,areyouready?”Carricknodsinagreement,hisarmsaroundGrace.

“Ladiesandgentlemenofthe First Dance Auction, areyou ready?” We all nod inagreement. Mia is withsomeone I don’t recognize. I

wonder what happened toSean?

“Then we shall begin.Takeitaway,Sam!”

Ayoungmanstrollsontothe stage amid warmapplause, turns to the bandbehind him and snaps hisfingers. The familiar strainsof “I’ve Got You UnderMySkin”filltheair.

Christian smiles down atme,takesmeinhisarms,and

startstomove.Oh,hedancesso well, making it easy tofollow.Wegrinateachotherlike idiots as he whirls mearoundthedancefloor.

“I love this song,”Christian murmurs, gazingdown at me. “Seems veryfitting.” He’s no longergrinning,butserious.

“You’re under my skin,too,”Irespond.“Oryouwereinyourbedroom.”

He purses his lips buthe’s unable to hide hisamusement.

“Miss Steele,” headmonishes me teasingly, “Ihad no idea you could be socrude.”

“Mr.Grey,neitherdidI.Ithink it’s all my recentexperiences.They’vebeenaneducation.”

“For both of us.”Christianisseriousagain,and

itcould justbe the twoofusand the band.We are in ourownprivatebubble.

As the song finishes webothapplaud.Sam the singerbows graciously andintroduceshisband.

“MayIcutin?”I recognize themanwho

bid on me at the auction.Christian grudgingly lets mego,buthe’samused,too.

“Bemyguest.Anastasia,

this is John Flynn. John,Anastasia.”

Shit!Christian smirks at me

and wanders off to one sideofthedancefloor.

“How do you do,Anastasia?” Dr. Flynn sayssmoothly, and I realize he’sBritish.

“Hello,”Istutter.The band strikes up

another song, and Dr. Flynn

pulls me into his arms. He’smuch younger than Iimagined, though I can’t seehisface.He’swearingamasksimilar to Christian’s. He’stall, but not as tall asChristian, and he doesn’tmove with Christian’s easygrace.

What do I say to him?Why is Christian so fucked-up?Why did he bid onme?It’s the only thing I want to

ask him, but somehow thatseemsrude.

“I’mglad to finallymeetyou, Anastasia. Are youenjoyingyourself?”heasks.

“Iwas,”Iwhisper.“Oh. I hope I’m not

responsible for your changeof heart.” He gives me abrief, warm smile that putsmealittlemoreatease.

“DoctorFlynn,you’retheshrink.Youtellme.”

He grins. “That’s theproblem, isn’t it? The shrinkbit?”

I giggle. “I’m worriedwhatImightreveal,soI’malittle self-conscious andintimidated.AndreallyIonlywant to ask you aboutChristian.”

Hesmiles.“First,thisisapartysoI’mnotonduty,”hewhispers conspiratorially.“And second, I really can’t

talk to you about Christian.Besides,” he teases, “we’dneeduntilChristmas.”

Igaspinshock.“That’s a doctor’s joke,

Anastasia.”I flush, embarrassed, and

then feel slightly resentful.He’s making a joke atChristian’s expense. “You’vejustconfirmedwhatI’vebeensaying to Christian... thatyou’re an expensive

charlatan,”Iadmonishhim.Dr. Flynn snorts with

laughter. “Youcouldbeontosomethingthere.”

“You’reBritish?”“Yes. Originally from

London.”“How did you find

yourselfhere?”“Happycircumstance.”“You don’t give much

away,doyou?”“There’s not much to

give away. I’m really a verydullperson.”

“That’s very self-deprecating.”

“It’s a British trait. Partofournationalcharacter.”

“Oh.”“And I could accuse you

ofthesame,Anastasia.”“That I’m a dull person,

too,Dr.Flynn?”He snorts. “No,

Anastasia,thatyoudon’tgive

muchaway.”“There’s not much to

giveaway.”Ismile.“I sincerely doubt that.”

Heunexpectedlyfrowns.I flush, but the music

finishesandChristianisoncemore by my side. Dr. Flynnreleasesme.

“It’s been a pleasure tomeet you, Anastasia.” Hegives me his warm smileagain, and I feel that I’ve

passed some kind of hiddentest.

“John.”Christiannodsathim.

“Christian.” Dr. Flynnreturns his nod, turns on hisheel, and disappears throughthecrowd.

Christian pulls me intohisarmsforthenextdance.

“He’smuchyoungerthanIexpected,”Imurmurtohim.“Andterriblyindiscreet.”

Christian cocks his headtooneside.“Indiscreet?”

“Oh yes, he told meeverything,”Itease.

Christian tenses. “Well,inthatcase,I’llgetyourbag.I’m sure you want nothingmoretodowithme,”hesayssoftly.

Istop.“Hedidn’t tellmeanything!” My voice fillswithpanic.

Christian blinks before

relieffloodshisface.Hepullsmeintohisarmsagain.“Thenlet’s enjoy this dance.” Hebeams down, reassuring me,thenspinsmeround.

Whywouldhe think thatI’d want to leave? It makesnosense.

We dance for two morenumbers,andIrealizeIneedtherestroom.

“Iwon’tbelong.”AsImakemywaytothe

powder room, I remember Ihave left my purse on thedinner table, so I head downtothemarquee.WhenIenter,it’sstilllitbutquitedeserted,except for a couple at theotherend,whoreallyoughttoget a room! I reach for mybag.

“Anastasia?”A soft voice startles me,

and I turn to see a womandressedinalong,tight,black

velvet gown. Her mask isunique. It covers her face toher nose but also covers herhair. It’s stunning withelaborategoldfiligree.

“I’m so glad you’re onyour own,” she says softly.“I’vebeenwanting to talk toyouallevening.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t knowwhoyouare.”

She pulls the mask fromherfaceandreleasesherhair.

Shit!It’sMrs.Robinson.“I’m sorry, I startled

you.”Igapeather.Holycow—

what the fuck does thiswomanwant?

I don’t know what thesocial conventions are formeeting known molesters ofchildren. She’s smilingsweetlyandgesturing formeto sit at the table. Andbecause I am lacking any

sphere of reference, I do asshe asks out of stunnedpoliteness, grateful that I amstillwearingmymask.

“I’llbebrief,Anastasia.Iknowwhatyouthinkofme...Christian’stoldme.”

Igazeatherimpassively,givingnothingaway,but I’mpleased that she knows. Itsaves me telling her, andshe’s cutting to the chase.Part of me is beyond

intriguedastowhatshecouldhavetosay.

Shepauses,glancingovermy shoulder. “Taylor’swatchingus.”

Ipeekaround to seehimscanning the tent by thedoorway.Sawyeriswithhim.They are looking anywherebutatus.

“Look, we don’t havelong,” she says hurriedly. “Itmust be obvious to you that

Christianis inlovewithyou.I have never seen him likethis, ever.” She emphasizesthelastword.

What? Loves me? No.Why is she telling me? Toreassure me? I don’tunderstand.

“He won’t tell youbecause he probably doesn’trealize it himself,notwithstanding what I’vesaid to him, but that’s

Christian. He’s not veryattuned to any positivefeelingsandemotionshemayhave.Hedwellsfartoomuchon the negative. But thenyou’ve probably worked thatout for yourself. He doesn’tthinkhe’sworthy.”

I am reeling. Christianloves me? He hasn’t said it,and thiswomanhas toldhimthat’s how he feels? Howbizarre.

A hundred images dancethrough my head: the iPad,thegliding, flying to seeme,all his actions, hispossessiveness, one hundredthousand dollars for a dance.Isthislove?

And hearing it from thiswoman,havingherconfirmitfor me is, frankly,unwelcome. I’d ratherhear itfromhim.

My heart constricts. He

feelsunworthy?Why?“I’ve never seen him so

happy, and it’s obvious thatyou have feelings for him,too.”Abriefsmileflitsacrossher lips. “That’s great, and Iwish you both the best ofeverything. But what Iwanted to say is if you hurthim again, I will find you,lady,anditwon’tbepleasantwhenIdo.”

Shestaresatme,ice-cold

blue eyes boring into myskull, trying to get undermymask. Her threat is soastonishing, so off the wallthat an involuntary,disbelieving giggle escapesme. Of all the things shecould say to me, this is theleastexpected.

“You think this is funny,Anastasia?” she splutters indismay. “You didn’t see himlastSaturday.”

My face falls anddarkens. The thought ofChristian unhappy is not apalatable one, and lastSaturday I left him.Hemusthave gone to her. The ideamakesmequeasy.WhyamIsitting here listening to thisshit fromherofallpeople? Islowly rise, gazing at herintently.

“I’m laughing at youraudacity, Mrs. Lincoln.

Christian and I have nothingto do with you. And if I doleave him and you comelooking for me, I’ll bewaiting—don’t doubt it.AndmaybeI’llgiveyouatasteofyourownmedicineonbehalfof the fifteen-year-old childyou molested and probablyfucked-upevenmore thanhealreadywas.”

Hermouthfallsopen.“Now if you’ll excuse

me,Ihavebetterthingstodothan waste my time withyou.” I turn on my heel,adrenalineandangercoursingthrough my body, and stalktoward the entrance of thetentwhereTaylor isstandingjust as Christian arrives,looking flustered andworried.

“There you are,” hemutters,thenfrownswhenheseesElena.

I stride past him, sayingnothing, giving him theopportunitytochoose—herorme. He makes the rightchoice.

“Ana,” he calls. I stopandfacehimashecatchesupwith me. “What’s wrong?”He gazes down at me,concernetchedonhisface.

“Whydon’tyouaskyourex?”Ihissacidly.

Hismouth twists and his

eyes frost. “I’m asking you,”he says, his voice soft butwith an undertone ofsomething far moremenacing.

Weglareateachother.Okay, I can see thiswill

end in a fight if I don’t tellhim. “She’s threatening tocome after me if I hurt youagain—probably with awhip,”Isnapathim.

Relief flashes across his

face, his mouth softeningwithhumor.“Surelytheironyof that isn’t lostonyou?”hesays,andIcantellhe’stryinghardtostiflehisamusement.

“This isn’t funny,Christian!”

“No,you’reright.I’lltalktoher.”Headoptshisseriousface, though he’s stillsuppressinghisamusement.

“You will do no suchthing.” I fold my arms, my

angerspikingagain.He blinks at me,

surprisedbymyoutburst.“Look, I know you’re

tied up with her financially,forgivethepun,but—”Istop.WhatamIaskinghimtodo?Giveherup?Stopseeingher?Can I do that? “I need therestroom.” I glare up at him,mymouthsetinagrimline.

He sighs and cocks hishead to one side. Could he

look any hotter? Is it themaskorjusthim?

“Please don’t be mad. Ididn’t know she was here.Shesaidshewasn’tcoming.”Histoneisplacatingasifhe’stalking to a child. Reachingup he runs his thumb alongmy pouting bottom lip.“Don’t let Elena ruin ourevening, please, Anastasia.She’sreallyoldnews.”

Old being the operative

word,Ithinkuncharitably,ashetipsmychinupandgentlygrazeshislipsagainstmine.Isigh in agreement, blinkingupathim.Hestraightensandtakesmyelbow.

“I’ll accompany you tothepowderroomsoyoudon’tgetinterruptedagain.”

He leads me across thelawn toward the luxurioustemporary restrooms. Miasaid they had been delivered

fortheoccasion,butIhadnoidea they came in deluxeversions.

“I’ll wait here for you,baby,”hemurmurs.

When I come out, mymood has moderated. I havedecided not to let Mrs.Robinson blight my eveningbecause that’s probablywhatshewants.Christianisonthephone some distance awayandoutofearshotof thefew

people laughing and chattingnearby.AsIgetcloser, Icanhearhim.He’sveryterse.

“Why did you changeyour mind? I thought we’dagreed. Well, leave heralone... This is the firstregular relationship I’ve everhad, and I don’t want youjeopardizing it through somemisplaced concern for me.Leave.Her.Alone.Imeanit,Elena.” He pauses, listening.

“No, of course not.” Hefrownsdeeplyashesaysthis.Glancing up, he sees meregardinghim.“Ihave togo.Goodnight.” He presses theoffbutton.

I cock my head to oneside and raise an eyebrow athim.Whyishephoningher?

“How’stheoldnews?”“Cranky,” he replies

sardonically.“Doyouwanttodance somemore?Orwould

youliketogo?”Heglancesathis watch. “The fireworksstartinfiveminutes.”

“Ilovefireworks.”“We’ll stay and watch

them,then.”Heputshisarmsaround me and pulls meclose. “Don’t let her comebetweenus,please.”

“She cares about you,” Imutter.

“Yes, and I her... as afriend.”

“I think it’s more than afriendshiptoher.”

His brow furrows.“Anastasia,ElenaandI... it’scomplicated. We have ashared history. But it is justthat, history. As I’ve said toyou time and time again,she’s a good friend. That’sall.Please, forget abouther.”Hekissesmyhair,andintheinterest of not ruining ourevening, I let it go. I am just

tryingtounderstand.Wewanderhand inhand

back to the dance floor. Thebandisstillinfullswing.

“Anastasia.”I turn to find Carrick

standingbehindus.“I wondered if you’d do

me the honor of the nextdance.” Carrick holds hishand out to me. Christianshrugs and smiles, releasingmy hand, and I let Carrick

leadmeontothedancefloor.Sam the bandleader launchesinto “Come Fly with Me,”and Carrick puts his armaround my waist and gentlywhirlsmeintothethrong.

“I wanted to thank youfor the generous contributiontoourcharity,Anastasia.”

From his tone, I suspectthis ishis roundaboutwayofaskingwhetherIcanaffordit.

“Mr.Grey—”

“CallmeCarrick,please,Ana.”

“I’mdelighted tobeableto contribute. I unexpectedlycame into some money. Idon’tneedit.Andit’ssuchaworthycause.”

He smiles down at me,andIseizetheopportunityforsome innocent inquiries.Carpediem,mysubconscioushissesfrombehindherhand.

“Christiantoldmealittle

about his past, so I think it’sappropriate to support yourwork,”Iadd,hopingthatthismight encourage Carrick togive me a small insight intothemysterythatishisson.

Carrickissurprised.“Didhe? That’s unusual. Youcertainly have had a verypositive effect on him,Anastasia. I don’t think I’veever seen him so, so...buoyant.”

Iflush.“Sorry, I didn’t mean to

embarrassyou.”“Well, in my limited

experience, he’s a veryunusualman,”Imurmur.

“He is,” Carrick agreesquietly.

“Christian’s earlychildhood sounds hideouslytraumatic, from what he’stoldme.”

Carrick frowns, and I

worry if I’veoverstepped themark.

“Mywifewas thedoctoron duty when the policebrought him in.Hewas skinand bones, and badlydehydrated. He wouldn’tspeak.”Carrickfrownsagain,lost in the awful memory,despite the up-tempo musicsurrounding us. “In fact, hedidn’t speak for nearly twoyears. It was playing the

piano that eventuallybroughthim out of himself. Oh, andMia’s arrival, of course.”Hesmilesdownatmefondly.

“He plays beautifully.And he’s accomplished somuch, you must be veryproud of him.” I sounddistracted. Holy Shit. Didn’tspeakfortwoyears.

“Immensely so. He’s avery determined, verycapable, very bright young

man. But between you andme,Anastasia,it’sseeinghimlike he is this evening—carefree, acting his age—that’s the real thrill for hismother and me. We werebothcommentingonittoday.I believe we have you tothankforthat.”

I think I blush to myroots.WhatamIsupposedtosaytothis?

“He’salwaysbeensucha

loner.Weneverthoughtwe’dsee him with anyone.Whatever you’re doing,please don’t stop. We’d liketo see him happy.” He stopssuddenly as if he’soverstepped the mark. “I’msorry, I don’t mean to makeyouuncomfortable.”

Ishakemyhead.“I’dliketo see him happy, too,” Imutter,unsureofwhatelsetosay.

“Well,I’mverygladyoucamethisevening.It’sbeenareal pleasure seeing the twoofyoutogether.”

As the final strains of“Come Fly with Me” fadeaway, Carrick releases meand bows, and I curtsey,mirroringhiscivility.

“That’s enough dancingwitholdmen.”Christianisatmy side again. Carricklaughs.

“Less of the ‘old,’ son.I’ve been known to havemymoments.” Carrick winks atme playfully and sauntersintothecrowd.

“I think my dad likesyou,”Christianmuttersashewatches his father minglewiththecrowd..

“What’s not to like?” Ipeek coquettishly up at himthroughmylashes.

“Good point well made,

Miss Steele.” He pulls meinto an embrace as the bandstarts to play “It Had to BeYou.”

“Dance with me,” hewhispersseductively.

“With pleasure, Mr.Grey.” I smile in response,andhe sweepsmeacross thedanceflooroncemore.

At midnight, we stroll downtowardtheshorebetweenthemarquee and the boathousewhere the other partygoersare gathered to watch thefireworks. The MC, back incharge, has permitted theremoval of masks, the betterto see the display. Christianhas his arm around me, butI’m aware that Taylor andSawyerarecloseby,probablybecause we’re in the crowd

now. They are lookinganywherebutat thedocksidewhere two pyrotechniciansdressed in black are makingtheir final preparations.SeeingTaylor remindsmeofLeila. Perhaps she’s here.Shit. The thought chills myblood, and I huddle closer toChristian. He gazes down atmeashepullsmecloser.

“Youokay,baby?Cold?”“I’m fine.” I glance

quicklybehindusandseetheother two security guys,whose names I forget,standingcloseby.Movingmeinfrontofhim,Christianputsbothhisarmsaroundmeovermyshoulders.

Suddenly, a stirringclassical soundtrack boomsoverthedockandtworocketssoar into the air, explodingwith a deafening bang overthe bay, lighting it all in a

dazzling canopy of sparklingorange and white that’sreflected in a glitteringshower over the still calmwater of the bay. My jawdropsasseveralmorerocketsfire into the air and explodeinakaleidoscopeofcolor.

I can’t recall ever seeinga display this impressive,except perhaps on television,and it never looks this goodonTV.They’reallintimeto

the music. Volley aftervolley, bang after bang, andlight after light as the crowdanswerswithgaspsandooohsand ahhs. It is out of thisworld.

Onthepontooninthebayseveral silver fountains oflight shoot up twenty feet inthe air, changing colorthroughblue,red,orange,andback to silver—andyetmorerockets explode as themusic

reachesitscrescendo.My face is beginning to

ache from the ridiculousgrinofwonderplasteredacrossit.IglanceatFifty,andhe’sthesame, marveling like a childat the sensational show. Forthe finale a volley of sixrockets shoot into the darkand explode simultaneously,bathing us in a gloriousgolden light as the crowderupts into frantic,

enthusiasticapplause.“Ladies and gentlemen,”

theMCcallsoutasthecheersand whistles fade. “Just onenote toaddat theendof thiswonderful evening; yourgenerosity has raised a totalofonemillion,eighthundredand fifty three thousanddollars!”

Spontaneous applauseerupts again, and out on thepontoon, amessage lights up

in silver streams of sparksformingthewordsThankYouFrom Coping Together,sparkling and shimmeringoverthewater.

“Oh,Christian... thatwaswonderful.” I grin up at himand he bends down to kissme.

“Time to go,” hemurmurs, a broad smile onhis beautiful face, and hiswordsholdsomuchpromise.

Suddenly, I feel verytired.

Heglancesupagain,andTaylor is close, the crowddispersing around us. Theydon’t speak but somethingpassesbetweenthem.

“Staywithmeamoment.Taylorwantsustowaitwhilethecrowddisperses.”

Oh.“I think that firework

display probably aged him a

hundredyears,”headds.“Doesn’t he like

fireworks?”Christian gazes down at

me fondly and shakes hisheadbutdoesn’telaborate.

“So,Aspen,”hesays,andIknowhe’s trying todistractmefromsomething.Itworks.

“Oh... I haven’t paid formybid,”Igasp.

“Youcansendacheck.Ihavetheaddress.”

“Youwerereallymad.”“Yes,Iwas.”I grin. “I blame you and

yourtoys.”“You were quite

overcome, Miss Steele. AmostsatisfactoryoutcomeifIrecall.”Hesmilessalaciously.“Incidentally, where arethey?”

“The silver balls? In mybag.”

“I’d like themback.”He

smirksdownatme.“Theyarefar too potent a device to beleftinyourinnocenthands.”

“WorriedImightbequiteovercome again, maybe withsomebodyelse?”

His eyes glitterdangerously. “I hope that’snotgoingtohappen,”hesays,acooledgetohisvoice.“Butno, Ana. I want all yourpleasure.”

Whoa. “Don’t you trust

me?”“Implicitly. Now, can I

havethemback?”“I’llthinkaboutit.”He narrows his eyes at

me.There’smusiconcemore

fromthedancefloorbutit’saDJplayingathumpingdancenumber, the bass poundingoutarelentlessbeat.

“Doyouwanttodance?”“I’m really tired,

Christian. I’d like to go, ifthat’sokay.”

Christian glances atTaylor,whonods,andwesetoff toward the house,following a couple ofdrunken guests. I’m gratefulwhen Christian takes myhand—my feet are achingfrom the dizzying height andtight confinement of myshoes.

Mia comes bounding up

tous. “You’renotgoing, areyou? The real music’s justbeginning. Come on, Ana.”Shegrabsmyhand.

“Mia,” Christianadmonishes her. “Anastasia’stired. We’re going home.Besides, we have a big daytomorrow.”

Wedo?Mia pouts but

surprisingly doesn’t pushChristian.

“You must come bysometime next week. Maybewecanhitthemall?”

“Sure, Mia.” I grin,though in the back of mymind I’m wondering howsince I have to work for aliving.

Shegivesmeaquickkissthen hugs Christian fiercely,taking us both by surprise.More astoundingly still, sheplaces her hands directly on

thelapelsofhisjacket,andhejust gazes down at her,indulgently.

“I like seeing you thishappy,”shesayssweetlyandkisses him on the cheek.“Bye. You guys have fun.”She skips off toward herwaitingfriends—amongthemLily, who looks even moresour-facedwithouthermask.

IwonderidlywhereSeanis.

“We’ll say goodnight tomy parents before we leave.Come.” Christian leads methroughagaggleofguests toGraceandCarrick,whowishusfondandwarmfarewells.

“Please do come again,Anastasia, it’s been lovelyhavingyouhere,”saysGracekindly.

Iamalittleoverwhelmedby both her and Carrick’sreaction.Fortunately,Grace’s

parents have retired for theevening, so at least I amsparedtheirenthusiasm.

Quietly, Christian and Iwalkhandinhandtothefrontof the housewhere countlesscarsare linedupandwaitingto collect guests. I glance upat Fifty.He looks happy andrelaxed.It’sarealpleasuretosee him this way, though Isuspectit’sunusualaftersuchanextraordinaryday.

“Areyouwarmenough?”heasks.

“Yes, thankyou.” Iclaspmysatinwrap.

“I really enjoyed thisevening, Anastasia. Thankyou.”

“Metoo,somepartsmorethanothers.”Igrin.

He grins and nods, thenhisbrowcreases. “Don’tbiteyour lip,” hewarns in awaythatmakesmybloodsing.

“What did you meanaboutabigdaytomorrow?”Iasktodistractmyself.

“Dr.Greeneiscomingtosort you out. Plus, I have asurpriseforyou.”

“Dr.Greene!”Ihalt.“Yes.”“Why?”“Because I hate

condoms,” he says quietly.Hiseyesglintinthesoftlightfrom the paper lanterns,

gaugingmyreaction.“It’smybody,” Imutter,

annoyed that he hasn’t askedme.

“It’s mine, too,” hewhispers.

I gaze up at him asvarious guests pass by,ignoring us. He looks soearnest.Yes,mybodyishis...heknowsitbetterthanIdo.

I reach up, and heflinches ever so slightly but

stays still. Grasping thecornerofhisbowtie,Ipullsoit unravels, revealing the topbutton of his shirt. Gently Iundoit.

“Youlookhotlikethis,”Iwhisper. Actually he lookshotallthetime,butreallyhotlikethis.

Hesmirksatme.“Ineedtogetyouhome.Come.”

At thecar,SawyerhandsChristian an envelope. He

frownsatitandglancesatmeas Taylor ushersme into thecar.Taylor looksrelievedforsomereason.Christianclimbsin and hands me theenvelope, unopened, asTaylorandSawyer take theirseatsinthefront.

“It’s addressed to you.One of the staff gave it toSawyer. No doubt from yetanother ensnared heart.”Christian’smouth twists. It’s

obvious this is an unpleasantconcepttohim.

Istareatthenote.Whoisthis from?Ripping it open, Iread it quickly in the dimlight.Holyshit,it’sfromher!Why won’t she leave mealone?

Fuck,she’ssigneditMrs.Robinson! He told her. Thebastard.

“Youtoldher?”“Toldwho,what?”“That I call her Mrs.

Robinson,”Isnap.“It’s from Elena?”

Christianisshocked.“Thisisridiculous,” he grumbles,running a hand through hishair, and I can tell he’sirritated. “I’ll deal with her

tomorrow. Or Monday,” hemuttersbitterly.

AndthoughI’mashamedto admit it, a very small partof me is pleased. Mysubconscious nods sagely.Elena is pissing himoff, andthis can only be good—surely.Idecidetosaynothingfornowbut stashhernote inmy bag, and in a gestureguaranteed to lighten hismood, I hand him back the

balls.“Until next time,” I

murmur.Heglancesatme,andit’s

hard to see his face in thedark, but I think he’ssmirking. He reaches formyhandandsqueezesit.

Igazeoutof thewindowinto the darkness, reflectingonthislongday.I’velearnedso much about him, gleanedsomanymissingdetails—the

salons, the road map, hischildhood—but there’s stillso much more to discover.AndwhataboutMrs.R?Yes,shecaresforhim,anddeeply,it would appear. I can seethat, and he cares for her—but not in the same way. Idon’t know what to thinkanymore.Allthisinformationismakingmyheadhurt.

ChristianwakesmejustaswepullupoutsideEscala. “Do Ineedtocarryyouin?”heasksgently.

Ishakemyheadsleepily.Noway.

As we stand in theelevator, I lean against him,putting my head against hisshoulder. Sawyer stands infront of us, shiftinguncomfortably.

“It’sbeenalongday,eh,

Anastasia?”Inod.“Tired?”Inod.“You’re not very

talkative.”Inodandhegrins.“Come. I’ll put you to

bed.”Hetakesmyhandasweexit theelevator,butwestopin the foyer when Sawyerholdsuphishand.Inthatsplitsecond, I am instantly wide

awake. Sawyer talks into hissleeve. I had no idea that hewaswearingaradio.

“Willdo,T,”hesaysandturns to face us. “Mr. Grey,thetiresonMs.Steele’sAudihave been slashed and paintthrownalloverit.”

Holy shit. My car! Whowould do that? And I knowthe answer as soon as thequestion materializes in mymind. Leila. I glance up at

Christian,andheblanches.“Taylor isconcerned that

theperpmayhaveenteredtheapartment and may still bethere. He wants to makesure.”

“I see,” Christianwhispers. “What’s Taylor’splan?”

“He’s coming up in theservice elevator with Ryanand Reynolds. They’ll do asweep then give us the all

clear. I’m to wait with you,sir.”

“Thank you, Sawyer.”Christian tightens his armaround me. “This day justgets better and better,” hesighs bitterly, nuzzling myhair. “Listen, I can’t standhere and wait. Sawyer, takecareofMissSteele.Don’tlether in until you have the allclear. I am sure Taylor isoverreacting. She can’t get

intotheapartment.”What? “No, Christian—

youhave to staywithme,” Iplead.

Christian releases me.“Doasyou’retold,Anastasia.Waithere.”

No!“Sawyer?” Christian

says.Sawyer opens the foyer

doortoletChristianentertheapartmentthenshutsthedoor

behind him and stands infrontofit,staringimpassivelydownatme.

Holy shit. Christian! Allmanner of horrific outcomesrun throughmymind,butallIcandoisstandandwait.

Sawyer talks into his sleeveagain.

“Taylor, Mr. Grey hasentered the apartment.” Heflinches and grabs theearpiece, pulling it outofhisear, presumably receivingsomepowerfulinvectivefromTaylor.

Oh no—if Taylor isworried...

“Please let me go in,” Iplead.

“Sorry,MissSteele.Thiswon’t take long.” Sawyer

holds both hands up in adefensive gesture. “Taylorand theguys are just comingintotheapartmentnow.”

Oh. I feel so impotent.Standing stock-still, I listenavidlyfortheslightestsound,but all I hear is myaggravated breathing. It’sloud and shallow, my scalpprickles, my mouth is dry,and I feel faint. Please, letChristian be okay, I pray

silently.Ihavenoideahowmuch

timepasses,andstillwehearnothing. Surely no sound isgood—therearenogunshots.I begin pacing around thetable in the foyer andexamine the paintings on thewallstodistractmyself.

I’ve never really lookedat them before: all figurativepaintings, all religious—theMadonna and child, all

sixteenofthem.Howodd?Christian isn’t religious,

is he?All of thepaintings inthegreatroomareabstracts—these are so different. Theydon’t distract me for long—WhereisChristian?

I stare at Sawyer and hewatchesmeimpassively.

“What’shappening?”“Nonews,MissSteele.”Abruptly, the doorknob

moves. Sawyer spins like a

topanddrawsagunfromhisshoulderholster.

I freeze. Christianappearsatthedoor.

“All clear,” he says,frowningatSawyer,whoputshis gun away immediatelyandstepsbacktoletmein.

“Taylor is overreacting,”Christian grumbles as heholds out his hand to me. Istandgapingathim,unabletomove,drinking inevery little

detail: his unruly hair, thetightness round his eyes, thetensejaw,thetoptwobuttonsof his shirt undone. I think Imust have aged ten years.Christian frowns at me inconcern,hiseyesdark.

“It’s alright, baby.” Hemovestowardme,envelopingmeinhisarms,andkissesmyhair. “Comeon, you’re tired.Bed.”

“I was so worried,” I

murmur, rejoicing in hisembrace and inhaling hissweet, sweet scent with myheadagainsthischest.

“I know. We’re alljumpy.”

Sawyer has disappeared,presumably into theapartment.

“Honestly, your exes areproving to be verychallenging, Mr. Grey,” Imutter wryly. Christian

relaxes.“Yes.Theyare.”He releases me and

taking my hand, leads meacross the hallway and intothegreatroom.

“Taylor and his crew arechecking all the closets andcupboards.Idon’tthinkshe’shere.”

“Why would she behere?”Itmakesnosense.

“Exactly.”

“Couldshegetin?”“I don’t see how. But

Taylor is overcautioussometimes.”

“Haveyousearchedyourplayroom?”Iwhisper.

Christianglancesquicklyat me, his brow creasing.“Yes,it’slocked—butTaylorandIchecked.”

I take a deep, cleansingbreath.

“Do youwant a drink or

anything?”Christianasks.“No.” Fatigue sweeps

throughme—Ijustwanttogotobed.

“Come.Letmeputyoutobed. You look exhausted.”Christian’s expressionsoftens.

I frown. Isn’thecoming,too? Does he want to sleepalone?

I’m relieved when heleadsme into his bedroom. I

place my clutch bag on thechest of drawers and open itto empty the contents. I spyMrs.Robinson’snote.

“Here.” I pass it toChristian. “I don’t know ifyouwant to read this. Iwanttoignoreit.”

Christian scans it brieflyandhisjawtenses.

“I’mnotsurewhatblanksshe can fill in,” he saysdismissively. “I need to talk

toTaylor.”Hegazesdownatme. “Let me unzip yourdress.”

“Areyougoingtocallthepoliceaboutthecar?”IaskasIturnaround.

Hesweepsmyhairoutofthe way, his fingers softlygrazing my naked back, andtugsdownmyzipper.

“No. I don’t want thepolice involved. Leila needshelp, not police intervention,

and I don’t want them here.We just have to double ourefforts to find her.”He leansdownandplantsagentlekissonmyshoulder.

“Go to bed,” he ordersandthenhe’sgone.

I lie, staring at the ceiling,waiting for him to return. Somuchhashappenedtoday,so

much to process. Where tostart?

I wake with a jolt—disorientated. Have I beenasleep? Blinking in the dimglow the hallway caststhrough the slightly openbedroom door, I notice thatChristian is not with me.Where is he? I glance up.Standingattheendofthebedis a shadow. A woman,maybe?Dressedinblack?It’s

difficulttotell.In my befuddled state, I

reach across and switch onthe bedside light, then turnback to look but there’s noone there. I shake my head.DidIimagineit?Dreamit?

I sit up and look aroundthe room, a vague, insidiousunease gripping me—but Iamquitealone.

Irubmyface.Whattimeisit?Where’sChristian?The

alarm says it’s two fifteen inthemorning.

Climbing groggily out ofbed, I set off to hunt himdown, disconcerted by myoveractive imagination. I amseeingthingsnow.Itmustbea reaction to the dramaticeventsoftheevening.

Themainroomisempty,theonlylightemanatingfromthe three pendulum lampsabove the breakfast bar. But

his study door is ajar, and Ihearhimonthephone.

“Idon’tknowwhyyou’recalling at this hour. I havenothing to say to you...well,you can tell me now. Youdon’t have to leave amessage.”

I standmotionlessby thedoor, eavesdropping guiltily.Whoishetalkingto?

“No, you listen. I askedyou, and now I am telling

you. Leave her alone. She’snothing to do with you. Doyouunderstand?”

Hesoundsbelligerentandangry.Ihesitatetoknock.

“I know you do. But Imeanit,Elena.Leaveherthefuckalone.DoIneedtoputitintriplicateforyou?Areyouhearing me?... Good. Goodnight.” He slams the phonedownonthedesk.

Oh shit. I knock

tentativelyonthedoor.“What?” he snarls, and I

almostwanttorunandhide.He sits at his desk with

his head in his hands. Heglances up, his expressionferocious,buthisfacesoftensimmediately when he seesme. His eyes are wide andcautious. Suddenly, he looksso tired and my heartconstricts.

He blinks, and his eyes

sweep down my legs andbackagain.IamwearingoneofhisT-shirts.

“You should be in satinor silk, Anastasia,” hebreathes.“ButeveninmyT-shirtyoulookbeautiful.”

Oh, an unexpectedcompliment. “I missed you.Cometobed.”

Herisesslowlyoutofthechair still in his white shirtand black dress pants. But

nowhiseyesare shiningandfullofpromise...butthere’satrace of sadness, too. Hestands in frontofme, staringintentlybutnottouchingme.

“Do you knowwhat youmean to me?” he murmurs.“If something happened toyou, because of me...” Hisvoice trails off, his browcreasing, and the pain thatflashes across his face isalmost palpable.He looks so

vulnerable—his fear verymuchapparent.

“Nothing’s going tohappen to me,” I reassurehim, my voice soothing. Ireach up and stroke his face,running my fingers throughthe stubble on his cheek. It’sunexpectedly soft. “Yourbeard grows quickly,” Iwhisper, unable to hide thewonder in my voice at thisbeautiful,fucked-upmanwho

standsbeforeme.I trace the line of his

bottom lip then trail myfingersdownhisthroat,tothefaintsmudgeoflipstickatthebase of his neck. He gazesdownatme,stillnottouchingme, his lips parted. I runmyindex finger along the line,and he closes his eyes. Hissoft breathing quickens. Myfingers reach the edge of hisshirt,andIrunthemdownto

thenextfastenedbutton.“I’m not going to touch

you.Ijustwanttoundoyourshirt,”Iwhisper.

His eyes open wide,regardingmewithalarm.Buthe doesn’t move, and hedoesn’tstopme.VeryslowlyIunfastenthebutton,holdingthe material away from hisskin, and move tentativelydown to the next button,repeating the process—

slowly,concentratingonwhatIamdoing.

Idon’twanttotouchhim.Well, I do... but I won’t. Onthefourthbutton,theredlinereappears, and I smile shylyupathim.

“Backonhometerritory.”I trace the line with myfingers before undoing thefinal button. I pull his shirtopen and move to his cuffs,removing his black polished

stonecufflinksoneatatime.“Can I take your shirt

off?”Iask,myvoicelow.He nods, eyes still wide,

asIreachupandpullhisshirtover his shoulders. He freeshishands sohe’s standing infront of me naked from thewaist up. With his shirt off,he seems to recover hisequilibrium.He smirksdownatme.

“What about my pants,

MissSteele?”heasks,raisinganeyebrow.

“In the bedroom. I wantyouinyourbed.”

“Do you now? MissSteele,youareinsatiable.”

“I can’t think why.” Igrab his hand, pull him fromhisstudy,andleadhimtohisbedroom.Theroomischilly.

“Youopenedthebalconydoor?” he asks, frowningdown at me as we arrive in

hisroom.“No.” I don’t remember

doing that. I recall scanningthe room when I woke. Thedoorwasdefinitelyclosed.

Oh shit... All the bloodrushes from my face, and Istare at Christian as mymouthfallsopen.

“What?” he snaps,glaringatme.

“When I woke... therewas someone in here,” I

whisper.“Ithoughtitwasmyimagination.”

“What?” He lookshorrified and dashes to thebalconydoor,peersout, thenstepsback into the roomandlocks the door behind him.“Are you sure? Who?” heaskshisvoicetight.

“Awoman,Ithink.Itwasdark.I’donlyjustwokenup.”

“Get dressed,” he snarlsat me on his way back in.

“Now!”“Myclothesareupstairs,”

Iwhimper.Hepullsopenoneof the

drawers in his chest ofdrawers and fishesout apairofsweatpants.

“Put these on.” They arefartoobig,butheisnottobearguedwith.

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

phone, he presses twobuttons.

“She’sstillfuckinghere,”hehissesdownthephone.

Approximately threesecondslater,Taylorandoneof the other security guys,burst into Christian’sbedroom. Christian givesthem a précis of what hashappened.

“How long ago?” Taylordemands, staring at me all

businesslike. He’s stillwearing his jacket.Does thismaneversleep?

“About ten minutes,” Imutter, for some reasonfeelingguilty.

“She knows theapartmentlikethebackofherhand,” says Christian. “I amtaking Anastasia away now.She’shidingheresomewhere.Findher.WhenisGailback?

“Tomorrowevening,sir.”

“She’s not to returnuntilthis place is secure.Understand?” Christiansnaps.

“Yes, sir. Will you begoingtoBellevue?”

“I’m not leading thisproblemtomyparents.Bookmesomewhere.”

“Yes.I’llcallyou.”“Aren’t we all

overreactingslightly?”Iask.Christian glowers at me.

“She may have a gun,” hegrowls.

“Christian, she wasstandingattheendofthebed.Shecouldhaveshotmethen,if that’s what she wanted todo.”

Christian pauses for amomenttoreininhistemper,I think. In amenacingly softvoice he says, “I’m notprepared to take the risk.Taylor, Anastasia needs

shoes.”Christian disappears into

his closet while the securityguy watches me. I can’tremember his name, Ryanmaybe. He looks alternatelydown the hall and to thebalcony windows. Christianemerges a couple ofminuteslaterwithaleathermessengerbag, wearing jeans and hispinstripedblazer.Hedrapesadenim jacket around my

shoulders.“Come.” He clasps my

hand tightly, and I have topractically run to keep upwith his long strides into thegreatroom.

“Ican’tbelieveshecouldhide somewhere in here,” Imutter, staring out thebalconydoors.

“It’s a big place. Youhaven’tseenitallyet.”

“Why don’t you just call

her...tellheryouwanttotalktoher?”

“Anastasia, she’sunstable, and she may bearmed,”hesaysirritably.

“Sowejustrun?”“Fornow—yes.”“Supposing she tries to

shootTaylor?”“Taylor knows and

understands guns,” he sayswith distaste. “He’ll bequicker with a gun than she

is.”“Ray was in the army.

He’staughtmetoshoot.”Christian raises his

eyebrows and for a momentlooksutterlybemused. “You,with a gun?” he saysincredulously.

“Yes.” I amaffronted. “Icanshoot,Mr.Grey,soyou’dbetter beware. It’s not justcrazy ex-subs you need toworryabout.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,Miss Steele,” he answersdryly, amused, and it feelsgood to know that even inthis ridiculously tensesituation, I can make himsmile.

Taylor meets us in thefoyerandhandsmemysmallsuitcase and my blackConverse. I am stunned thathe’spackedmesomeclothes.I smile shyly at him with

gratitude, and his returningsmile is swift and reassuring.Before I can stop myself—Ihughim,hard.He’stakenbysurprise, and when I releasehim,he’spinkinbothcheeks.

“Becareful,”Imurmur.“Yes, Miss Steele,” he

mutters.Christian frowns at me

and then looks questioninglyat Taylor, who smiles veryslightlyandadjustshistie.

“LetmeknowwhereI’mgoing.”Christiansays.

Taylor reaches into hisjacket, pulls out his wallet,and hands Christian a creditcard.

“You might want to usethiswhenyougetthere.”

Christian nods. “Goodthinking.”

Ryan joins us. “SawyerandReynoldsfoundnothing,”hesaystoTaylor.

“Accompany Mr. Greyand Miss Steele to thegarage,”Taylororders.

The garage is deserted.Well, it isnearly three in themorning.Christianushersmeinto thepassengerseatof theR8andputsmycaseandhisbaginthetrunkatthefrontofthecar.TheAudibesideusisa complete mess—every tireslashed,whitepaintsplatteredall over it. It’s chilling and

makes me grateful thatChristian is taking mesomewhereelse.

“A replacement willarriveonMonday,”Christiansaysbleaklywhenhe’sseatedbesideme.

“How could she haveknownitwasmycar?”

He glances anxiously atme and sighs. “She had anAudiA3.Ibuyoneforallmysubmissives—it’s one of the

safestcarsinitsclass.”Oh. “So, not so much a

graduationpresent,then.”“Anastasia,despitewhatI

hoped, you have never beenmysubmissive,sotechnicallyitisagraduationpresent.”Hepullsoutoftheparkingspaceandspeedstotheexit.

Despite what he hoped.Oh no... my subconsciousshakesherheadsadly.Thisiswhatwecomebacktoallthe

time.“Areyou still hoping?” I

whisper.The in-car phone buzzes.

“Grey,”Christiansnaps.“Fairmont Olympic. In

myname.”“Thankyou,Taylor.And,

Taylor,becareful.”Taylorpauses.“Yes,sir,”

hesaysquietly,andChristianhangsup.

The streets of Seattle are

deserted, and Christian roarsupFifthAvenuetowardtheI-5. Once on the interstate, hefloors the gas pedal, headingnorth. He accelerates soquickly I’m momentarilythrownbackinmyseat.

I peek at him.He’s deepinthought,radiatingadeadlybrooding silence. He hasn’tanswered my question. Heglances frequently at therearviewmirror,andIrealize

he’s checking that we’re notbeing followed. Perhapsthat’swhywe’reontheI-5.Ithought the Fairmont was inSeattle.

Igazeoutofthewindow,trying to rationalize myexhausted, overactive mind.If she’d wanted to hurt me,shehadampleopportunity inthebedroom.

“No.It’snotwhatIhopefor, not anymore. I thought

that was obvious.” Christianinterrupts my introspection,hisvoicesoft.

Iblinkathim,pullinghisdenim jacket tighter aroundme, and I don’t know if thechill is emanating fromwithinmeorfromoutside.

“Iworrythat,youknow...thatI’mnotenough.”

“You’re more thanenough.For the loveofGod,Anastasia,what do I have to

do?”Tell me about yourself.

Tellmeyouloveme.“Why did you think I’d

leave when I told you Dr.Flynn had told me all therewastoknowaboutyou?”

He sighsheavily, closinghis eyes for a moment, andfor the longest time hedoesn’t answer. “You cannotbegin to understand thedepths of my depravity,

Anastasia. And it’s notsomething I want to sharewithyou.”

“AndyoureallythinkI’dleave,ifIknew?”Myvoiceishigh, incredulous.Doesn’theunderstand that I love him?“Do you think so little ofme?”

“Iknowyou’llleave,”hesayssadly.

“Christian...Ithinkthat’sveryunlikely.Ican’timagine

beingwithoutyou.”Ever...“You left me once—I

don’twanttogothereagain.”“Elena said she saw you

last Saturday,” I whisperquietly.

“Shedidn’t.”Hefrowns.“Youdidn’tgotoseeher,

whenIleft?”“No,” he snaps, irritated.

“IjusttoldyouIdidn’t—andIdon’tliketobedoubted,”hescolds.“Ididn’tgoanywhere

lastweekend. I sat andmadetheglideryougaveme.Tookmeforever,”headdsquietly.

My heart clenches again.Mrs. Robinson said she sawhim.

Did she or didn’t she?She’slying.Why?

“Contrary to what Elenathinks, I don’t rush to herwith all my problems,Anastasia. I don’t rush toanybody. You may have

noticed—I’m not much of atalker.” He tightens his holdonthesteeringwheel.

“Carrick told me youdidn’ttalkfortwoyears.”

“Did he now?”Christian’s mouth pressesintoahardline.

“I kind of pumped himfor information.”Embarrassed, I stare at myfingers.

“Sowhat else didDaddy

say?”“He said your mom was

thedoctorwhoexaminedyouwhen you were brought intothe hospital. After you werediscovered in yourapartment.”

Christian’s expressionremainsblank...careful.

“He said learning thepianohelped.AndMia.”

His lips curl in a fondsmile at the mention of her

name. After a moment hesays, “She was about sixmonthsoldwhenshearrived.I was thrilled, Elliot less so.He’d already had to contendwith my arrival. She wasperfect.” The sweet, sad awein his voice is affecting.“Less sonow,of course,”hemutters, and I recall hersuccessfulattemptsattheballto thwart our lasciviousintentions. It makes me

giggle.Christian gives me a

sideways glance. “You findthatamusing,MissSteele?”

“She seemed determinedtokeepusapart.”

He laughs mirthlessly.“Yes, she’s quiteaccomplished.” He reachesacrossandsqueezesmyknee.“Butwegotthereintheend.”Hesmilesthenglancesintherearviewmirroroncemore.“I

don’t think we’ve beenfollowed.”HeturnsofftheI-5 and heads back to centralSeattle.

“CanIaskyousomethingabout Elena?” We arestoppedatsometrafficlights.

He gazes at me warily.“If you must,” he mutterssullenly, but I don’t let hisirritabilitydeterme.

“You told me ages agothat she loved you in a way

you found acceptable. Whatdidthatmean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” heasks.

“Nottome.”“I was out of control. I

couldn’tbeartobetouched.Ican’t bear it now. For afourteen, fifteen-year-oldadolescent boy withhormones raging, it was adifficulttime.Sheshowedmeawaytoletoffsteam.”

Oh.“Miasaidyouwereabrawler.”

“Christ, what is it withmy loquacious family?Actually—it’s you.” We’vestoppedatmorelights,andhenarrowshiseyesatme.“Youinveigle information out ofpeople.” He shakes his headinmockdisgust.

“Mia volunteered thatinformation. In fact, she wasvery forthcoming. She was

worriedyou’dstartabrawlinthemarqueeifyoudidn’twinme at the auction,” I mutterindignantly.

“Oh, baby, there was nodanger of that.Therewas noway I would let anyone elsedancewithyou.”

“YouletDr.Flynn.”“He’s always the

exceptiontotherule.”Christian pulls into the

impressive,leafydrivewayof

the Fairmont Olympic Hotelandparksnearthefrontdoor,beside a quaint stonefountain.

“Come.” He climbs outof the car and retrieves ourluggage. A valet rushestoward us, looking surprised—nodoubtatourlatearrival.Christian tosses him the carkeys.

“Name of Taylor,” hesays.Thevaletnodsandcan’t

contain his glee as he leapsinto the R8 and drives off.Christian takes my hand andstridesintothelobby.

As I stand beside him atthe reception desk, I feelutterly, utterly ridiculous.Here I am, in Seattle’s mostprestigious hotel, dressed inan oversized denim jacket,oversized sweatpants, and anold T-shirt next to thiselegant,beautiful,Greekgod.

Nowonderthereceptionistislookingfromonetotheotherasiftheequationdoesn’taddup. Of course, she’s over-awed by Christian. I roll myeyes as she flushes crimsonand stutters. Jeez, even herhandsareshaking.

“Do... youneed a hand...withyourbags,Mr.Taylor?”sheasks,goingscarletagain.

“No, Mrs. Taylor and Icanmanage.”

Mrs.Taylor!But I’mnotwearing a ring. I put myhandsbehindmyback.

“You’re in the CascadeSuite, Mr. Taylor, eleventhfloor. Our bellboy will helpwithyourbags.”

“We’re fine,” Christiansays curtly. “Where are theelevators?”

Miss Flushing Crimsonexplains,andChristiangraspsmyhandoncemore.Iglance

briefly round the impressive,sumptuous lobby full ofoverstuffed chairs, desertedsaveforadark-hairedwomansittingonacozysofa,feedingtidbits to her westie. Sheglancesupandsmilesatusaswe make our way to theelevators.Sothehotelallowspets? Odd for a place sogrand!

The suite has twobedrooms, a formal dining

room, and comes completewith grand piano. A log fireblazes in the massive mainroom. Jeez... This suite isbiggerthanmyapartment.

“Well, Mrs. Taylor, Idon’tknowaboutyou,butI’dreally likeadrink,”Christianmutters, locking the frontdoorsecurely.

In the bedroom, he putsmy case and his satchel ontheottomanatthefootofthe

king-size four-posterbedandleadsmebythehandintothemain room where the fire isburning brightly. It’s awelcome sight. I stand andwarm my hands whileChristian fixes us both adrink.

“Armagnac?”“Please.”Afteramoment,he joins

mebythefireandhandsmeacrystalbrandyglass.

“It’s been quite a day,huh?”

I nod and his gray eyesgaze at me searchingly,concerned.

“I’m okay,” I whisperreassuringly. “How aboutyou?”

“Well, right now I’d liketo drink this and then, ifyou’renottootired,takeyouto bed and lose myself inyou.”

“I think that can bearranged,Mr.Taylor.”Ismileshyly at him as he shufflesoutofhisshoesandpeelsoffhissocks.

“Mrs. Taylor, stop bitingyourlip,”hewhispers.

Iblushintomyglass.TheArmagnac is delicious,leaving a burning warmth inits wake as it glides silkilydown my throat. When Iglance up at Christian, he’s

sipping his brandy, watchingme,hiseyesdark—hungry.

“You never cease toamazeme,Anastasia.Afteradayliketoday—oryesterday,rather—you’renotwhiningorrunning off into the hillsscreaming. I am in awe ofyou.You’reverystrong.”

“You’re a very goodreason to stay,” Imurmur.“Itold you, Christian, I’m notgoing anywhere, no matter

whatyou’vedone.YouknowhowIfeelaboutyou.”

Hismouth twistsas ifhedoubts my words, and hisbrow creases as if what I’msaying is painful for him tohear.Oh,Christian,whatdoIhave to do to make yourealizehowIfeel?

Let him beat you, mysubconscious sneers at me. Iscowlinwardlyather.

“Where are you going to

hangJosé’sportraitsofme?”Itrytolightenthemood.

“That depends.” His lipstwitch. This is obviously amuchmorepalatabletopicofconversationforhim.

“Onwhat?”“Circumstances,” he says

mysteriously. “His show’snot over yet, so I don’t havetodecidestraightaway.”

I cock my head to onesideandnarrowmyeyes.

“You can look as sternlyasyou like,Mrs.Taylor. I’msayingnothing,”heteases.

“I may torture the truthfromyou.”

He raises an eyebrow.“Really, Anastasia, I don’tthink you should makepromisesyoucan’tfulfill.”

Oh my, is that what hethinks? I place my glass onthe mantelpiece, reach over,and much to Christian’s

surprise, take his glass andplaceitbesidemine.

“We’ll just have to seeabout that,” I murmur. Verybravely—emboldened by thebrandy, no doubt—I takeChristian’shandandpullhimtoward the bedroom. At thefoot of the bed I stop.Christianis tryingtohidehisamusement.

“Now you have me inhere,Anastasia,whatareyou

going to do with me?” heteases,hisvoicelow.

“I’m going to start byundressing you. I want tofinishwhatIstartedearlier.”Ireach for the lapels on hisjacket, careful not to touchhim,andhedoesn’tflinchbuthe’sholdinghisbreath.

Gently, I push his jacketover his shoulders, and hiseyes stay onmine, all tracesofhumorgone, as theygrow

larger,burningintome,waryand needful? There are somany interpretations of hislook.What is he thinking? Iplace his jacket on theottoman.

“Now your T-shirt,” Iwhisperandliftitbythehem.He cooperates, raising hisarms and backing away,making it easier for me topullitoff.Onceoff,hegazesdownatme,intently,wearing

just his jeans that hang soprovocatively from his hips.The band of his boxer briefsisvisible.

My eyes move hungrilyupacrosshis taut stomach tothe remains of the lipstickline,fadedandsmudged,thenuptohischest.Iwantnothingmore than to run my tonguethroughhischesthairtosavorhistaste.

“Now what?” he

whispers,eyesblazing.“Iwanttokissyouhere.”

Irunmyfingerfromhipbonetohipboneacrosshisbelly.

Hislipspartasheinhalessharply. “I’m not stoppingyou,”hebreathes.

I take his hand. “You’dbetter lie down then,” Imurmur and lead him to theside of the four-poster bed.He seems bewildered, and itoccurs tome that perhapsno

one has taken the lead withhimsince...her.No,don’tgothere.

Liftingthecovers,hesitsontheedgeofthebed,gazingup at me, waiting, hisexpression wary and serious.I stand before him and slipoffhisdenimjacketandletitdrop to the floor, then Ishuffleoutofhissweatpants.

He rubs his thumb overthe tips of his fingers. He’s

itchingtotouchme,Icantell,but he suppresses the urge.Taking a deep breath andbeyond courageous, I reachforthehemofmyT-shirtandlift it over my head so I amnaked before him. His eyesdon’t leave mine, but heswallowsandhislipspart.

“You are Aphrodite,Anastasia,”hemurmurs.

I clasp his face in myhands, tip his head up, and

bend to kiss him. He groanslowinhisthroat.

As I placemymouth onhis, he grabs my hips, andbeforeIknowit,Iampinnedbeneathhim, his legs forcingmine apart so that he’scradled against my bodybetween my legs. He’skissing me, ravaging mymouth,ourtonguesentwined.His hand trails from mythigh,overmyhip,alongmy

bellytomybreast,squeezing,kneading, and pullingenticinglyonmynipple.

Igroanandtiltmypelvisinvoluntarily against him,finding a delicious frictionagainst the seam of his flyandhis growing erection.Hestops kissing me and gazesdown at me bemused andbreathless.He flexeshishipssohiserectionpushesagainstme....Yes.Rightthere.

I close my eyes andmoan, and he does it again,but this time I push back,relishinghis answeringmoanas he kisses me again. Hecontinues the slow delicioustorture—rubbingme, rubbinghim.And he’s right—gettinglost in him—it’s intoxicatingtotheexclusionofeverythingelse. All my worries areobliterated.

Iamhereinthismoment

with him—my blood singingin my veins, thrummingloudly through my ears,mixedwith the sound of ourpanting breaths. I bury myhandsinhishair,holdinghimtomymouth,consuminghim,my tongue as avaricious ashis. I trail my fingers downhis arms, down his lowerback to the waistband of hisjeans and push my intrepid,greedy hands inside, urging

him on and on—forgettingeverything,exceptus.

“You’re going to unmanme, Ana,” he whisperssuddenly, breaking awayfrommeandkneelingup.Hebriskly pulls down his jeansandhandsmeafoilpacket.

“Youwantme,baby,andI sure as hellwant you.Youknowwhattodo.”

With anxious, dexterousfingers,Iripopenthefoiland

unroll the condom over him.He grins down at me, hismouth open, eyesmisty grayand full of carnal promise.Leaningoverme,herubshisnose against mine, his eyesclosed, and deliciously,slowly,heentersme.

I grasp his arms and tiltmy chin up, reveling in theexquisitely full feeling of hispossession.He runs his teethalong my chin, eases back,

andthenslidesintomeagain—soslow,sosweet,sotender—hisbodypressingdownonme,hiselbowsandhishandsoneithersideofmyface.

“You make me forgeteverything. You are the besttherapy,”hebreathes,movingatanachingly leisurelypace,savoringeveryinchofme.

“Please, Christian—faster,” I murmur, wantingmore,now.

“Ohno,baby.Ineedthisslow.”Hekissesmesweetly,gently biting my lower lipandabsorbingmysoftmoans.

Imovemyhandsintohishair and surrender myself tohis rhythm as slowly andsurelymybodyclimbshigherandhigherandplateaus, thenfalls hard and fast as I comearoundhim.

“Oh,Ana,”hebreathesashe lets go, my name a

benediction on his lips as hefindshisrelease.

His head rests on my belly,hisarmswrappedaroundme.My fingers forage in hisunruly hair, and we lie likethis for I don’t know howlong. It’s so lateand Iamsotired,butIjustwanttoenjoythequietsereneafter-glowof

making love with ChristianGrey, because that’s whatwe’ve done, gentle, sweetlovemaking.

He’scomealongway,ashave I, in such a short time.It’s almost too much toabsorb. With all the fucked-up stuff, I am losing sightofhis simple, honest journeywithme.

“I will never get enoughof you. Don’t leave me,” he

murmursandkissesmybelly.“I’mnotgoinganywhere,

Christian, and I seem toremember that I wanted tokiss your belly,” I grumblesleepily.

Hegrinsagainstmyskin.“Nothing stopping you nowbaby.”

“Idon’tthinkIcanmoveI’msotired.”

Christian sighsand shiftsreluctantly, coming to lie

beside me with his head onhis elbow and dragging thecovers over us. He gazesdown at me, his eyesglowing,warm,loving.

“Sleep now, baby.” Hekissesmyhair andwrapshisarmaroundmeandIdrift.

WhenIopenmyeyes,lightisfilling the room, making me

blink.Myheadisfuzzyfromlack of sleep. Where am I?Oh—thehotel...

“Hi,”Christianmurmurs,smiling fondly at me. He’slying beside me, fullydressed, on top of the bed.How long has he been here?Has he been studying me?Suddenly, I feel incrediblyshy as my face heats underhissteadygaze.

“Hi,” I murmur, grateful

that I am lying onmy front.“How long have you beenwatchingme?”

“I couldwatchyou sleepforhours,Anastasia.ButI’veonly been here about fiveminutes.” He leans over andkissesmegently.“Dr.Greenewillbehereshortly.”

“Oh.”I’dforgottenaboutChristian’s inappropriateintervention.

“Didyousleepwell?”he

inquires mildly. “Certainlyseemedlikeit tome,withallthatsnoring.”

Oh,playfulteasingFifty.“I do not snore!” I pout

petulantly.“No. You don’t.” He

grinsatme.The faint lineofred lipstick is still visiblearoundhisneck.

“Didyoushower?”“No.Waitingforyou.”“Oh...okay.”

“Whattimeisit?”“Ten fifteen. I didn’t

have the heart to wake youearlier.”

“You toldme you didn’thaveaheartatall.”

He smiles, sadly butdoesn’t answer. “Breakfast ishere—pancakes and baconfor you. Come, get up, I’mgetting lonely out here.” Heswats me sharply on mybehind,makingmejump,and

risesfromthebed.Hmm... Christian’s

versionofwarmaffection.As I stretch, I’m aware I

ache all over... no doubt aresultofall the sex,dancing,and teetering in expensivehigh-heeled shoes. I staggeroutofbedandmakemywayinto the sumptuouslyappointed bathroom whilegoing over the events of theprevious day in my mind.

When I come out, I don oneof the over-fluffy bathrobesthat hang on a brass peg inthebathroom.

Leila—thegirlwholookslike me—that’s the moststartling image my brainconjures for conjecture, thatand her eerie presence inChristian’s bedroom. Whatdidshewant?Me?Christian?To do what? And why thefuckhasshewreckedmycar?

Christian said I wouldhaveanotherAudi,likeallhissubmissives. The thought isunwelcome. Since I was sogenerous with the money hegave me, there’s not a lot Icando.

I wander into the mainroomofthesuite—nosignofChristian.Ifinallylocatehimin the dining room. I take aseat, grateful for theimpressive breakfast laid

before me. Christian isreading the Sunday papersand drinking coffee, hisbreakfast finished.He smilesatme.

“Eat up.You’re going toneedyourstrengthtoday,”heteases.

“And why is that? Yougoing to lock me in thebedroom?”Myinnergoddessjerks awake suddenly, alldisheveledwitha just-fucked

look.“Appealing as that idea

is, I thought we’d go outtoday.Getsomefreshair.”

“Is it safe?” I askinnocently, trying and failingto keep the irony from myvoice.

Christian’sfacefalls,andhis mouth presses in a line.“Where we’re going, it is.Andit’snotajokingmatter,”headdssternly,narrowinghis

eyes.I flushandstaredownat

mybreakfast.Idon’tfeellikebeing scolded after all thedramaandsuchalatenight.Ieat my breakfast in silence,feelingpetulant.

My subconscious isshakingherheadatme.Fiftydoesn’t joke aboutmy safety—Ishouldknowthisbynow.Iwanttorollmyeyesathim,butIrefrain.

Okay,I’mtiredandtesty.I had a long day yesterdayand not enough sleep. Why,ohwhydoeshegettolookasfresh as a daisy? Life is notfair.

There’s a knock at thedoor.

“That’ll be the gooddoctor,” Christian grumbles,obviously still smarting frommy irony.He stalks from thetable.

Can’t we just have acalm,normalmorning?Isighheavily, leaving half mybreakfast,andgetuptogreetDoctorDepo-Provera.

We’re in the bedroom, andDr. Greene is staring at meopen-mouthed. She’s dressedmore casually than last timein apalepink cashmere twin

set and black pants, and herfineblondhairisloose.

“And you just stoppedtakingit?Justlikethat?”

I flush, feeling beyondfoolish.

“Yes.” Could my voicebeanysmaller?

“Youcouldbepregnant,”shesaysmatter-of-factly.

What! The world fallsaway at my feet. Mysubconsciouscollapsesonthe

floorretching,andIthinkI’mgoingtobesick,too.No!

“Here, go pee in this.”She’s all business today—takingnoprisoners.

Meekly, I accept thesmall plastic container she’sofferedandwander inadazeinto the bathroom. No. No.No. No way... No way...Pleaseno.No.

Whatwill Fifty do? I gopale.He’llfreak.

No, please! I whisper asilentprayer.

I hand Dr. Greene mysample, and she carefullyplaces a small white stick init.

“When did your periodstart?”

How am I supposed tothink about such minutiaewhen all I can do is stareanxiouslyatthewhitestick?

“Er... Wednesday? Not

the one just gone, the onebeforethat.Junefirst.”

“Andwhen did you stoptakingthepill?”

“Sunday.LastSunday.”Shepursesherlips.“You should be okay,”

she says sharply. “I can tellby your expression that anunplanned pregnancy wouldnot be welcome news. SoMedroxyprogesterone is agood idea if you can’t

remember to take the pillevery day.” She gives me astern look, and I quail underher authoritative glare.Picking up the white stick,shepeersatit.

“You’re in the clear.You’ve not ovulated yet, soprovided you’ve been takingproper precautions, youshouldn’t be pregnant. Now,letmecounselyouaboutthisshot. We discounted it last

time because of the sideeffects, but quite frankly, thesideeffectsofachildarefar-reaching and go on foryears.” She smiles, pleasedwith herself and her littlejoke, but I can’t begin torespond—I’mtoostunned.

Dr.Greene launches intofull disclosure mode aboutside effects, and I sitparalyzed with relief, notlisteningtoaword.IthinkI’d

tolerate any number ofstrange women standing attheendofmybedratherthanconfess to Christian that Imightbepregnant.

“Ana!”Dr.Greenesnaps.“Let’s do this thing.” Shepulls me out of my reverie,and I willingly roll up mysleeve.

Christian closes the doorbehind her and gazes at mewarily. “Everything okay?”heasks.

Inodmutely,andhetiltshishead tooneside,his facetensewithconcern.

“Anastasia, what is it?WhatdidDr.Greenesay?”

Ishakemyhead.“You’regood to go in seven days,” Imutter.

“Sevendays?”

“Yes.”“Ana,what’swrong?”I swallow. “It’s nothing

to worry about. Please,Christian,justleaveit.”

Christian looms in frontof me. He grasps my chin,tipping my head back, andstares emphatically into myeyes, trying to decipher mypanic.

“Tell me,” he snapsinsistently.

“There’s nothing to tell.I’dliketogetdressed.”Ipullmychinoutofhisreach.

Hesighsandrunsahandthrough his hair, frowning atme. “Let’s shower,” he sayseventually.

“Of course,” I mutter,distracted, and his mouthtwists.

“Come,” he says sulkily,claspingmy hand firmly.Hestalkstowardthebathroomas

I trail behind him. I am nottheonlyoneinabadmood,itseems. Firing up the shower,Christian quickly stripsbeforeturningtome.

“I don’t know what’supset you, or if you’re justbad-temperedthroughlackofsleep,” he says whileunfastening my robe. “But Iwant you to tell me. Myimagination is running awaywithme,andIdon’tlikeit.”

Irollmyeyesathim,andhe glares back at me,narrowing his eyes. Shit!Okay...heregoes.

“Dr. Greene scolded meabout missing the pill. ShesaidIcouldbepregnant.”

“What?” He pales, andhis hands freeze as he gazesatme,suddenlyashen.

“But I’m not. She did atest.Itwasashock,that’sall.I can’t believe I was that

stupid.”He visibly relaxes.

“You’resureyou’renot?”“Yes.”He blows out a deep

breath.“Good.Yes,Icanseethat news like that would beveryupsetting.”

I frown. ...upsetting? “Iwasmoreworriedaboutyourreaction.”

He furrows his brow atme, puzzled. “My reaction?

Well,naturallyI’mrelieved...it would be the height ofcarelessnessandbadmannerstoknockyouup.”

“Then maybe we shouldabstain,”Isnap.

He gazes at me for amoment, bewildered, as ifI’m some kind of scienceexperiment.“Youareinabadtemperthismorning.”

“It was just a shock,that’sall,”Irepeatpetulantly.

Claspingthelapelsofmyrobe,hepullsmeintoawarmembrace, kissesmy hair, andpresses my head against hischest. I’m distracted by hischest hair as it tickles mycheek. Oh, if I could justnuzzlehim!

“Ana, I’m not used tothis,” he murmurs. “Mynaturalinclinationistobeatitout of you, but I seriouslydoubtyouwantthat.”

Holy shit. “No, I don’t.This helps.” I hug Christiantighter, and we stand for anage in a strange embrace,Christian naked and mewrappedinarobe.Iamonceagain flooredbyhis honesty.He knows nothing aboutrelationships, and neither doI, except what I’ve learnedfrom him. Well, he’s askedforfaithandpatience;maybeIshoulddothesame.

“Come, let’s shower,”Christian says eventually,releasingme.

Stepping back, he peelsme out of my robe, and Ifollowhimintothecascadingwater, holdingmy faceup tothe torrent. There’s room forboth of us under thegargantuan showerhead.Christian reaches for theshampoo and starts washinghis hair. He hands it to me

andIfollowsuit.Oh, this feels good.

Closing my eyes, I succumbto the cleansing, warmingwater. As I rinse off theshampoo, I feel his hands onme, soaping my body: myshoulders, my arms, undermy arms, my breasts, myback. Gently he turns mearound and pulls me againsthimashecontinuesdownmybody:mystomach,mybelly,

his skilled fingers betweenmy legs—hmm—my behind.Oh, that feels good and sointimate.He turnsmearoundtofacehimagain.

“Here,” he says quietly,handingmethebodywash.“Iwant you to wash off theremainsofthelipstick.”

Myeyesopen ina flurryand dart quickly to his.He’sstaringatmeintently,soakingwet and beautiful, his

glorious, bright gray eyesgivingnothingaway.

“Don’t stray far from theline, please,” he mutterstightly.

“Okay,”Imurmur,tryingto absorb the enormity ofwhathe’sjustaskedmetodo—totouchhimontheedgeoftheforbiddenzone.

Isqueezeasmallamountof soap onmy hand, rubmyhands together to create a

lather,thenplacethemonhisshoulders and gently washaway the line of lipstick oneachside.Hestillsandcloseshis eyes, his face impassive,but he’s breathing rapidly,and I know it’s not lust butfear.Itcutsmetothequick.

With trembling fingers, Icarefully follow the linedown the side of his chest,soaping and rubbing softly,and he swallows, his jaw

tense as if his teeth areclenched. Oh! My heartconstricts and my throattightens.Ohno, I’mgoing tocry.

Istoptoaddmoresoaptomyhandandfeelhimrelaxinfrontofme.Ican’tlookupathim. I can’t bear to see hispain—it’s too much. Iswallow.

“Ready?” I murmur andthe tension is loud and clear

inmyvoice.“Yes,” he whispers, his

voicehusky,lacedwithfear.Gently, Iplacemyhands

on either side of his chest,andhefreezesagain.

It’s too much. I amoverwhelmed by his trust inme—overwhelmed by hisfear, by the damage done tothis beautiful, fallen, flawedman.

Tears pool in my eyes

and spill downmy face, lostinthewaterfromtheshower.Oh, Christian! Who did thistoyou?

His diaphragm movesrapidly with each shallowbreath, his body is rigid,tension radiating off him inwaves as my hands movealongtheline,erasingit.Oh,ifIcouldjusteraseyourpain,I would—I’d do anything—andIwantnothingmorethan

tokisseverysinglescarIsee,to kiss away those hideousyearsofneglect.ButIknowIcan’t, and my tears fallunbiddendownmycheeks.

“No. Please, don’t cry,”he murmurs, his voiceanguished as he wraps metightly in his arms. “Pleasedon’tcryforme.”AndIburstinto full-blown sobs, buryingmyfaceagainsthisneck,asIthink of a little boy lost in a

sea of fear and pain,frightened, neglected, abused—hurtbeyondallendurance.

Pulling away, he claspsmyheadwithbothhands,tiltsit backward, and leans downtokissme.

“Don’tcry,Ana,please,”he murmurs against mymouth.“Itwaslongago.Iamaching for you to touch me,butIjustcan’tbearit.It’stoomuch. Please, please don’t

cry.”“Iwanttotouchyou,too.

More than you’ll ever know.Toseeyoulikethis...sohurtand afraid, Christian... itwoundsmedeeply.Iloveyousomuch.”

Herunshisthumbacrossmy bottom lip. “I know. Iknow,”hewhispers.

“You’re very easy tolove.Don’tyouseethat?”

“No,baby,Idon’t.”

“You are. And I do andso does your family. So doElenaandLeila—theyhaveastrange way of showing it—buttheydo.Youareworthy.”

“Stop.”Heputshisfingerover my lips and shakes hishead, anagonizedexpressiononhisface.“Ican’thearthis.I’mnothing,Anastasia.I’mahuskofaman.Idon’thaveaheart.”

“Yes,youdo.AndIwant

it, all of it. You’re a goodman,Christian, a reallygoodman. Don’t ever doubt that.Look at what you’ve done...whatyou’veachieved,”Isob.“Look what you’ve done forme...whatyou’veturnedyourback on, for me,” I whisper.“Iknow.Iknowhowyoufeelaboutme.”

Hegazesdownatme,hiseyeswide and panicked, andallwe can hear is the steady

stream of water as it flowsoverusintheshower.

“You love me,” Iwhisper.

His eyes widen furtherand his mouth opens. Hetakes a huge breath as ifwinded. He looks tortured—vulnerable.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Ido.”

I cannot contain myjubilation. My subconscious

gapesatmeopen-mouthed—in stunned silence—and Iwearaface-splittinggrinasIgaze longingly up intoChristian’s wide, torturedeyes.

Hissoftsweetconfessioncalls to me on some deepelemental level as if he’sseeking absolution; his threesmall words are my mannafromheaven.Tears prickmyeyesoncemore.Yes, youdo.

Iknowyoudo.It’s such a liberating

realization as if a crushingmillstone has been tossedaside.This beautiful, fucked-upman,whomIoncethoughtof as my romantic hero—strong,solitary,mysterious—possesses all these traits, buthe’salsofragileandalienatedand full of self-loathing.Myheartswellswithjoybutalsopain for his suffering. And I

knowinthismomentthatmyheart is big enough for bothof us. I hope it’s big enoughforbothofus.

I reach up to clasp hisdear, dear, handsome faceand kiss him gently, pouringalltheloveIfeelintothisonesweet connection. I want todevour him beneath the hotcascading water. Christiangroansandencirclesmeinhisarms, holding me as if I am

theairheneedstobreathe.“Oh, Ana,” he whispers

hoarsely,“Iwantyou,butnothere.”

“Yes,” I murmurferventlyintohismouth.

He switches off theshower and takes my hand,leadingmeoutandenfoldingmeinmybathrobe.Grabbinga towel, he wraps it aroundhiswaist,thentakesasmallerone and begins to gently dry

myhair.Whenhe’ssatisfied,he swathes the towel aroundmy head so that in the largemirror over the sink I looklike I’mwearingaveil.He’sstanding behind me and oureyes meet in the mirror,smoldering gray to brightblue,anditgivesmeanidea.

“Can I reciprocate?” Iask.

Henods,thoughhisbrowcreases. I reach for another

towel from the plethora offluffy towels stacked besidethe vanity, and standingbeforehimontiptoe,Istarttodry his hair. He bendsforward, making the processeasier, and as I catch theoccasionalglimpseofhisfacebeneath the towel, I see he’sgrinning at me like a smallboy.

“It’s a long time sinceanyonedidthistome.Avery

long time,” he murmurs, butthen frowns. “In fact I don’tthinkanyone’severdriedmyhair.”

“SurelyGracedid?Driedyour hair when you wereyoung?”

He shakes his head,hamperingmyprogress.

“No. She respected myboundaries from day one,eventhoughitwaspainfulforher.Iwasveryself-sufficient

asachild,”hesaysquietly.I feel a swift kick in the

ribs as I think of a smallcopper-haired child lookingafter himself because no oneelse cares. The thought issickeningly sad. But I don’twant my melancholy tohijack this blossomingintimacy.

“Well, I’m honored,” Igentlyteasehim.

“That you are, Miss

Steele.Ormaybe it is Iwhoamhonored.”

“That goes withoutsaying,Mr.Grey,” I respondtartly.

I finish with his hair,reachforanothersmalltowel,and move round to standbehind him. Our eyes meetagain in the mirror, and hiswatchful, questioning lookpromptsmetospeak.

“CanItrysomething?”

Afteramoment,henods.Warily,andverygently,Irunthe soft cloth down his leftarm, soaking up the waterthat has beaded on his skin.Glancing up, I check hisexpression in the mirror. Heblinksatme,hiseyesburningintomine.

I lean forward and kisshis bicep, and his lips partinfinitesimally.Idryhisotherarm in a similar fashion,

trailing kisses around hisbicep,andasmallsmileplaysonhis lips.Carefully, Iwipehis back beneath the faintlipstick line, which is stillvisible. Ihadn’tgotten roundtowashinghisback.

“Whole back,” he saysquietly, “with the towel.”Hetakes a sharp breath andscrews his eyes closed as Ibriskly dry him, careful totouch him only with the

towel.Hehas suchanattractive

back—broad, sculpturedshoulders, all the smallmuscles clearly defined. Hereallylooksafterhimself.Thebeautifulsightismarredonlybyhisscars.

With difficulty, I ignorethem and suppress myoverwhelming urge to kisseach and every one.When Ifinish he exhales, and I lean

forwardandrewardhimwithakissonhisshoulder.Puttingmy arms around him, I dryhis stomach. Our eyes meetonce more in the mirror, hisexpression amused butwary,too.

“Holdthis.”Ihandhimasmaller face towel, and hegives me a bemused frown.“Remember inGeorgia?Youmademe touchmyself usingyourhands,”Iadd.

His face darkens, but Iignore his reaction and putmyarmsaroundhim.Gazingat us both in themirror—hisbeauty, his nakedness, andme with my covered hair—welookalmostBiblical,asiffrom an Old Testamentbaroquepainting.

I reach for his hand,whichhewillinglyentruststome, and guide it up to hischest to dry it, sweeping the

towel slowly, awkwardlyacross his body. Once, twice—then again. He’scompletely immobilized,rigidwith tension, except forhis eyes, which follow myhandclaspedaroundhis.

My subconscious lookson with approval, hernormally pursed mouthsmiling, and I am thesupreme puppet master. Hisanxietyripplesoffhisbackin

waves, but he maintains eyecontact, though his eyes aredarker,moredeadly.Showingtheirsecretsmaybe.

Is this a place I want togo?DoIwanttoconfronthisdemons?

“Ithinkyou’redrynow,”Iwhisperas Idropmyhand,gazingintothegraydepthsofhis eyes in the mirror. Hisbreathing is accelerated, lipsparted.

“I need you, Anastasia,”hewhispers.

“Ineedyou,too.”AndasI say the words, I am struckhow true they are. I cannotimagine being withoutChristian,ever.

“Let me love you,” hesayshoarsely.

“Yes,” I answer, andturning, he haulsme into hisarms, his lips seeking mine,beseeching me, worshipping

me, cherishing me... lovingme.

He trails his fingers up anddownmyspineaswegazeateach other, basking in ourpostcoital bliss, replete. Welie together, me onmy fronthuggingmypillow,heonhisside, and I am treasuring histender touch. I know that

right now he needs to touchme. I am a balm for him, asource of solace, and howcould I denyhim that? I feelexactlythesameabouthim.

“Soyoucanbegentle,”Imurmur.

“Hmm... so it wouldseem,MissSteele.”

I grin. “You weren’tparticularly the first timewe...um,didthis.”

“No?” He smirks.

“When,Irobbedyouofyourvirtue.”

“Idon’tthinkyourobbedme,” I mutter haughtily—Jeez, I’m not a helplessmaiden. “I think my virtuewas offered up pretty freelyand willingly. I wanted you,too, and if I remembercorrectly, I rather enjoyedmyself.”Ismileshylyathim,bitingmylip.

“SodidIifIrecall,Miss

Steele.Weaimtoplease,”hedrawls and his face softens,serious.“Anditmeansyou’remine, completely.” All traceof humor has vanished as hegazesatme.

“Yes, I am,” I murmurbackathim.“Iwantedtoaskyousomething.”

“Goahead.”“Your biological father...

do you know who he was?”This thought has been

buggingme.His brow creases, and

then he shakes his head. “Ihave no idea. Wasn’t thesavage who was her pimp,whichisgood.”

“Howdoyouknow?”“Something my dad...

something Carrick said tome.”

I gaze at my Fiftyexpectantly, waiting. Hesmirksatme.

“So hungry forinformation, Anastasia,” hesighs,shakinghishead.“Thepimp discovered the crackwhore’s body and phoned itin to the authorities. Tookhim four days to make thediscoverythough.Heshutthedoor when he left... left mewith her... her body.” Hiseyescloudatthememory.

I inhale sharply. Poorbaby boy—the horror is too

grimtocontemplate.“Police interviewed him

later.HedeniedflatoutIwasanything todowithhim,andCarrick said he lookednothinglikeme.”

“Do you remember whathedidlooklike?”

“Anastasia, this isn’t apart ofmy life I revisit veryoften. Yes, I remember whathe looked like. I’ll neverforget him.” Christian’s face

darkens and hardens,becoming more angular, hiseyes frosting with anger.“Can we talk aboutsomethingelse?”

“I’msorry.Ididn’tmeantoupsetyou.”

He shakeshis head. “It’sold news, Ana. Notsomething I want to thinkabout.”

“So what’s this surprise,then?” I need to change the

subject before he goes allFifty on me. His expressionlightensimmediately.

“Can you face going outfor some fresh air? Iwant toshowyousomething.”

“Ofcourse.”Imarvel how quickly he

turns—mercurial as ever. Hegrins at me with his boyish,carefree, I’m-only-twenty-seven smile, and my heartlurches into my mouth. So

it’s something close to hisheart,Icantell.Heswatsmeplayfullyonmybehind.

“Get dressed. Jeans willbe good. I hope Taylor’spackedsomeforyou.”

He rises andpullsonhisboxerbriefs.Oh... I couldsithere all day, watching himwanderaround theroom.Myinner goddess agrees,swooning as she ogles fromherchaiselongue.

“Up,”hescolds,bossyasever.Igazeathim,grinning.

“Justadmiringtheview.”Herollshiseyesatme.Aswedress,Inoticethat

we move with thesynchronization of twopeoplewho know each otherwell, each watchful andacutely aware of the other,exchanging the occasionalshy smile and sweet touch.And itdawnsonme that this

is justasnewforhimasit isforme.

“Dry your hair,”Christian orders once we’redressed.

“Domineering as ever.” Ismirk at him, and he leansdowntokissmyhair.

“That’s never going tochange, baby. I don’t wantyousick.”

Irollmyeyesathim,andhis mouth twists in

amusement.“My palms still twitch,

youknow,MissSteele.”“Iamgladtohearit,Mr.

Grey. I was beginning tothink you were losing youredge,”Iretort.

“I could easilydemonstrate that is not thecase, should you so wish.”Christian drags a large,cream,cable-knitsweateroutof his bag and drapes it

artfully over his shoulders.With his white T-shirt andjeans, his artfully rumpledhair, and now this, he looksas if he’s stepped out of thepages of a high-end glossymagazine.

No one should look thisgood.AndIdon’tknowifit’sthemomentary distraction ofhis sheerperfect looksor theknowledge that he lovesme,but his threat no longer fills

me with dread. This is myFifty Shades; this is the wayheis.

As I reach for thehairdryer, a tangible ray ofhope blossoms.Wewill finda middle way. We just haveto recognize each other’sneeds and accommodatethem.Icandothat,surely?

I gaze at myself in thedresser mirror. I’m wearingthepaleblueshirtthatTaylor

bought and had packed forme. My hair is a mess, myfaceflushed,my lipsswollen—Itouchthem,rememberingChristian’s searing kisses,andIcan’thelpasmallsmileasIstare.Yes,Ido,hesaid.

“Where are we goingexactly?” Iaskaswewait inthe lobby for the parking

valet.Christian taps the sideof

his nose and winks at meconspiratorially, looking likehe’s desperately trying tocontainhisglee.Frankly, it’sveryun-Fifty.

Hewaslikethiswhenwewent gliding—perhaps that’swhat we’re doing. I beamback at him.He stares downhisnoseatmeinthatsuperiorwayhehaswithhis lopsided

grin.Leaningdown,hekissesmegently.

“Do you have any ideahow happy you make mefeel?”hemurmurs.

“Yes... I know exactly.Becauseyoudo the same forme.”

The valet zooms up inChristian’s car, wearing aface-splitting grin. Jeez,everyoneissohappytoday.

“Great car, sir,” he

mumblesashehandsoverthekeys. Christian winks andgiveshimanobscenely largetip.

Ifrownathim.Honestly.

As we cruise through thetraffic, Christian is deep inthought. A young woman’svoice comes over theloudspeakers; it has a

beautiful, rich, mellowtimbre, and I lose myself inhersad,soulfulvoice.

“Ineedtomakeadetour.It shouldn’t take long,” hesays absentmindedly,distractingmefromthesong.

Oh,why?I’mintriguedtoknow the surprise. My innergoddess is bouncing aboutlikeafive-year-old.

“Sure,” I murmur.Something is amiss.

Suddenly, he looks grimlydetermined.

Hepulls into theparkinglot of large car dealership,stops the car, and turns tofaceme,hisexpressionwary.

“We need to get you anew car,” he says. I gape athim.

Now? On a Sunday?What the hell? And this is aSaabdealership.

“Not an Audi?” is,

stupidly, theonly thing I canthinkoftosay,andblesshim,heactuallyflushes.

Holy cow—Christian,embarrassed.Thisisafirst.

“Ithoughtyoumightlikesomething else,” he mutters.He’salmostsquirming.

Oh, please... This is toovaluableanopportunitynottoteasehim.Ismirk.“ASaab?”

“Yeah.A9-3.Come.”“What is itwith you and

foreigncars?”“The Germans and the

Swedes make the safest carsintheworld,Anastasia.”

Do they? “I thoughtyou’d already ordered meanotherAudiA3?”

He gives me a darklyamused look. “I can cancelthat. Come.” Climbingsmoothly out of the car, hestrolls gracefully to my sideandopensmydoor.

“I owe you a graduationpresent,” he says softly andholdshishandoutforme.

“Christian, you reallydon’thavetodothis.”

“Yes, I do. Please.Come.” His tone says he’snottobetrifledwith.

I resign myself to myfate. A Saab? Do I want aSaab? I quite like the AudiSubmissive Special. It wasverynifty.

Ofcourse,nowit’sundera ton of white paint... Ishudder. And she’s still outthere.

I take Christian’s hand,and we wander into theshowroom.

Troy Turniansky, thesalesman,isalloverFiftylikea cheap suit. He can smell asale. Weirdly his accentsounds mid-Atlantic, maybeBritish?It’sdifficulttotell.

“A Saab, sir? Pre-owned?” He rubs his handswithglee.

“New.” Christian’s lipssetintoahardline.

New!“Didyouhaveamodelin

mind,sir?”Andhe’ssmarmy,too.

“9-32.0TSportSedan.”“An excellent choice,

sir.”“What color,Anastasia?”

Christianinclineshishead.“Er... black?” I shrug.

“You reallydon’t need todothis.”

He frowns. “Black’s noteasilyseenatnight.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Iresist the temptation to rollmy eyes. “You have a blackcar.”

Hescowlsatme.“Bright canary yellow

then.”Ishrug.

Christianmakesa face—canary yellow is obviouslynothisthing.

“Whatcolordoyouwantmetohave?”Iaskasifhe’sasmall child, which he is inmany ways. The thought isunwelcome—sad andsoberingatonce.

“Silverorwhite.”“Silver, then. You know

I’ll take the Audi,” I add,chastenedbymythoughts.

Troy pales, sensing he’slosinga sale. “Perhapsyou’dliketheconvertible,ma’am?”he asks, clapping his handswithenthusiasm.

My subconscious iscringing in disgust,mortifiedby the whole buying-a-carbusiness, but my innergoddess tackles her to thefloor.Convertible?Drool!

Christian frowns andpeers at me. “Convertible?”

heasks,raisinganeyebrow.I flush. It’s like he has a

direct hotline to my innergoddess,whichof course, hehas.It’smostinconvenientattimes. I stare down at myhands.

Christian turns to Troy.“What are the safety statsontheconvertible?”

Troy, sensing Christian’svulnerability,headsinforthekill, reelingoffallmannerof

statistics.Of course, Christian

wantsmesafe. It’sa religionwith him, and like the zealothe is, he listens intently toTroy’s well-honed patter.Fiftyreallydoescare.

Yes.Ido.Irememberhiswhispered, choked wordsfrom this morning, and amelting glow spreads likewarm honey through myveins. This man—God’s gift

towomen—lovesme.I find myself grinning

goofily at him, and when heglances down at me, he’samused yet puzzled by myexpression.Ijustwanttohugmyself,Iamsohappy.

“Whatever you’re highon, I’d like some, MissSteele,” hemurmurs as Troyheadsofftohiscomputer.

“I’m high on you, Mr.Grey.”

“Really? Well youcertainly look intoxicated.”He kisses me briefly. “Andthank you for accepting thecar.Thatwaseasier than lasttime.”

“Well, it’s not an AudiA3.”

He smirks. “That’s notthecarforyou.”

“Ilikedit.”“Sir,the9-3?I’velocated

one at our Beverly Hills

dealership. We can have ithere for you in a couple ofdays.” Troy glows withtriumph.

“Topoftherange?”“Yes,sir.”“Excellent.” Christian

produceshiscreditcard,orisit Taylor’s? The thought isunnerving. I wonder howTaylor is, and if he’s locatedLeila in the apartment. I rubmy forehead.Yes, there’s all

ofChristian’sbaggage,too.“Ifyou’llcome thisway,

Mr.”—Troy glances at thenameonthecard—“Grey.”

Christianopensmydoor,andI climb back into thepassengerseat.

“Thankyou,” Isaywhenhe’sseatedbesideme.

Hesmiles.

“You’re most welcome,Anastasia.”

ThemusicstartsagainasChristianstartstheengine.

“Who’sthis?”Iask.“EvaCassidy.”“Shehasalovelyvoice.”“Shedoes,shedid.”“Oh.”“Shediedyoung.”“Oh.”“Are you hungry? You

didn’t finish all your

breakfast.” He glancesquickly at me, disapprovaloutlinedonhisface.

Uh-oh.“Yes.”“Lunchfirst,then.”Christian drives toward

the waterfront then headsnorthalongtheAlaskanWay.It’s another beautiful day inSeattle. It’s beenuncharacteristically fine forthelastfewweeks,Imuse.

Christian looks happy

and relaxed as we sit backlistening to Eva Cassidy’ssweet, soulful voice andcruise down the highway.Have I ever felt thiscomfortable in his companybefore?Idon’tknow.

I am less nervous of hismoods, confident that hewon’t punish me, and heseemsmorecomfortablewithme, too. He turns left,following thecoast road, and

eventually pulls up in aparking lot opposite a vastmarina.

“We’lleathere. I’llopenyourdoor,”hesaysinsuchawaythatIknowit’snotwiseto move, and I watch himmove around the car. Willthisevergetold?

We stroll arm in arm to the

waterfront where the marinastretchesoutinfrontofus.

“So many boats,” Imurmurinwonder.Therearehundreds of them in allshapes and sizes, bobbingupand down on the calm, stillwaters of themarina.Out ontheSoundtherearedozensofsails in thewind,weaving toand fro, enjoying the fineweather. It’s a wholesome,outdoorsysight.Thewindhas

pickedupalittle,soIpullmyjacketaroundme.

“Cold?”heasksandpullsmetightlyagainsthim.

“No, just admiring theview.”

“Icouldstareatitallday.Come,thisway.”

Christian leadsme into alarge seafront bar andmakeshis way to the counter. Thedécor is more New Englandthan West Coast—white-

limed walls, pale bluefurnishings, and boatingparaphernalia hangingeverywhere. It’s a bright,cheeryplace.

“Mr. Grey!” the barmangreets Christian warmly.“What can I get you thisafternoon?”

“Dante, good afternoon.”Christian grins as we bothslip onto bar stools. “Thislovely lady is Anastasia

Steele.”“Welcome to SP’s

Place.” Dante gives me afriendlysmile.He’sblackandbeautiful, his dark eyesassessingme andnot findingme wanting, it seems. Onelarge diamond stud winks atme from his ear. I like himimmediately.

“Whatwould you like todrink,Anastasia?”

IglanceatChristian,who

regards me expectantly. Oh,he’sgoingtoletmechoose.

“Please,callmeAna,andI’llhavewhateverChristian’sdrinking.” I smile shyly atDante.Fifty’ssomuchbetteratwinethanIam.

“I’m going to have abeer. This is the only bar inSeattle where you can getAdnam’sExplorer.”

“Abeer?”“Yes.” He grins at me.

“Two Explorers, please,Dante.”

Dante nods and sets upthebeersonthebar.

“They do a deliciousseafood chowder here,”Christiansays.

He’saskingme.“Chowder and beer

soundsgreat.”Ismileathim.“Two chowders?” Dante

asks.“Please.” Christian grins

athim.We talk through our

meal, as we never havebefore. Christian is relaxedand calm—he looks young,happy, and animated despiteall that transpired yesterday.He recounts the history ofGrey Enterprises Holdings,and the more he reveals, themore I sense his passion forfixing problem companies,his hopes for the technology

he’s developing, and hisdreamsofmakinglandinthethird world more productive.I listen enraptured. He’sfunny, clever, philanthropic,and beautiful, and he lovesme.

In turn, he plagues mewithquestionsaboutRayandmy mom, about growing upin the lush forests ofMontesano, and my briefstintsinTexasandVegas.He

demandstoknowmyfavoritebooks and films, and I’msurprised by how much wehaveincommon.

Aswe talk, it strikesmethathe’sturnedfromHardy’sAlectoAngel,debasementtohigh ideal in such a shortspaceoftime.

It’s after two when wefinish our meal. Christiansettles the tab with Dante,who wishes us a fond

farewell.“This is a great place.

Thank you for lunch,” I sayas Christian takes my handandweleavethebar.

“We’ll come again,” hesays, andwe stroll along thewaterfront.“Iwantedtoshowyousomething.”

“I know... and I can’twaittoseeit,whateveritis.”

We wander hand in handalongthemarina.It issuchapleasantafternoon.Peopleareout enjoying their Sunday—walking dogs, admiring theboats,watchingtheirkidsrunalongthepromenade.

As we head down themarina, the boats are gettingprogressively larger.Christian leads me on to thedock and stops in front of ahugecatamaran.

“I thought we’d gosailing thisafternoon.This ismyboat.”

Holy cow. It must be atleast forty, maybe fifty feet.Two sleek white hulls, adeck, a roomy cabin, andtoweringoverthemaverytallmast. I know nothing aboutboats,butIcantellthisoneisspecial.

“Wow...,” I murmur inwonder.

“Built by my company,”hesaysproudlyandmyheartswells. “She’s been designedfrom the ground up by thevery best naval architects inthe world and constructedhere in Seattle at my yard.Shehashybridelectricdrives,asymmetric dagger boards, asquare-toppedmainsail—”

“Okay... you’ve lost me,Christian.”

He grins. “She’s a great

boat.”“She looks mighty fine,

Mr.Grey.”“That she does, Miss

Steele.”“What’shername?”Hepullsmetothesideso

I can see her name: TheGrace. I’m surprised. “Younamedherafteryourmom?”

“Yes.”Hecockshisheadto one side, quizzical. “Whydoyoufindthatstrange?”

Ishrug. Iamsurprised—he always seems ambivalentinherpresence.

“I adore my mom,Anastasia. Why wouldn’t Inameaboatafterher?”

I flush. “No, it’s notthat... it’s just...” Shit, howcanIputthisintowords?

“Anastasia, GraceTrevelyan saved my life. Iowehereverything.”

Igazeathim,andlet the

reverenceinhissoftlyspokenadmissionwashoverme. It’sobvious to me, for the firsttime, that he loves hismom.Whythenhisstrangestrainedambivalencetowardher?

“Do you want to comeaboard?” he asks, his eyesbright,excited.

“Yes,please.”Ismile.He looks delighted and

delightful in one yummyscrumptious package.

Graspingmyhand,hestridesup the small gangplank andleads me aboard so that weare standingondeckbeneatharigidcanopy.

To one side there’s atable and a U-shapedbanquette covered in paleblue leather,whichmust seatatleasteightpeople.Iglancethrough the sliding doors tothe interior of the cabin andjump, startled when I spy

someonethere.Thetallblondman opens the sliding doorsand emerges—all tanned,curly-haired and brown-eyed—wearingafadedpinkshort-sleevedpoloshirt,shorts,anddeckshoes.Hemustbeinhisearlythirties.

“Mac.”Christianbeams.“Mr. Grey! Welcome

back.”Theyshakehands.“Anastasia, this is Liam

McConnell. Liam, my

girlfriend,AnastasiaSteele.”Girlfriend! My inner

goddess performs a quickarabesque. She’s stillgrinningovertheconvertible.Ihavetogetusedtothis—it’snot thefirst timehe’ssaid it,buthearinghimsayitisstillathrill.

“Howdo you do?”LiamandIshakehands.

“Call me Mac,” he sayswarmly,andIcan’tplacehis

accent. “Welcome aboard,MissSteele.”

“Ana, please,” I mutter,flushing.He has deep browneyes.

“How’s she shaping up,Mac?” Christian interjectsquickly, and for amoment, Ithinkhe’stalkingaboutme.

“She’s ready to rock androll,sir,”Macbeams.Oh,theboat,TheGrace.Sillyme.

“Let’s get underway,

then.”“You going to take her

out?”“Yep.” Christian flashes

Mac a quick wicked grin.“Quicktour,Anastasia?”

“Yes,please.”I follow him inside the

cabin. An L-shaped creamleathersofaisdirectlyinfrontofus,andaboveit,amassivecurved window offers apanoramic view of the

marina. To the left is thekitchen area—very wellappointed,allpalewood.

“This is themain saloon.Galley beside,” Christiansays, waving his hand in thedirectionofthekitchen.

He takes my hand andleads me through the maincabin. It’s surprisinglyspacious. The floor is thesame pale wood. It looksmodern and sleek and has a

light, airy feel, but it’s allvery functional, as if hedoesn’t spend much timehere.

“Bathrooms on eitherside.”Christianpoints to twodoors, then opens the small,oddlyshapeddoordirectlyinfront of us and steps in.We’re in a plush bedroom.Oh...

It has a king-size cabinbedand isallpaleblue linen

and pale wood like hisbedroom at Escala. Christianobviously chooses a themeandstickstoit.

“This is the mastercabin.”Hegazesdownatme,gray eyes glowing. “You’rethe first girl in here, apartfrom family,” he smirks.“Theydon’tcount.”

I flush under his heatedstare,andmypulsequickens.Really? Another first. He

pulls me into his arms, hisfingers tangling in my hair,andkissesme,longandhard.We’re both breathless whenhepullsaway.

“Might have to christenthisbed,”hewhispersagainstmymouth.

Oh,atsea!“But not right now.

Come, Mac will be castingoff.” I ignore the stab ofdisappointment as he takes

my hand and leads me backthrough the saloon. Heindicatesanotherdoor.

“Office in there, and atthe front here, two morecabins.”

“So howmany can sleeponboard?”

“It’s a six-berth cat. I’veonly ever had the family onboard, though. I like to sailalone. But not when you’rehere.Ineedtokeepaneyeon

you.”He delves into a chest

and pulls out a bright redlifejacket.

“Here.” Putting it overmy head, he tightens all thestraps, a faint smile playingonhislips.

“You love strapping mein,don’tyou?”

“Inanyform,”hesays,awicked grin playing on hislips.

“Youareapervert.”“I know.” He raises his

eyebrows and his grinbroadens.

“Mypervert,”Iwhisper.“Yes,yours.”Once secured, he grabs

the sides of the jacket andkisses me. “Always,” hebreathes, then releases mebefore I have a chance torespond.

Always!Holyshit.

“Come.” He grabs myhandandleadsmeoutside,upsome steps, and onto theupperdecktoasmallcockpitthat houses a big steeringwheel and a raised seat. Atthe prow of the boat,Mac isdoingsomethingwithropes.

“Is this where youlearnedallyour rope tricks?”IaskChristianinnocently.

“Clove hitches havecome in handy,” he says,

looking at me appraisingly.“Miss Steele, you soundcurious. I like you curious,baby.I’dbemorethanhappytodemonstratewhat Icandowith a rope.” He smirks atme, and I gaze backimpassively as if he’s upsetme.Hisfacefalls.

“Gotcha.”Igrin.His mouth twists and he

narrowshiseyes.“Imayhaveto deal with you later, but

right now, I’ve got to drivemy boat.” He sits at thecontrols,pressesabutton,andtheenginesroarintolife.

Maccomesscootingbackdown the side of the boat,grinning at me, and jumpsdown to the deck belowwhere he starts to unfasten arope.Maybe he knows somerope tricks, too. The ideapops unwelcome into myheadandIflush.

My subconscious glaresatme.MentallyIshrugatherand glance at Christian—IblameFifty.He picks up thereceiver and radios thecoastguard as Mac calls upthatwearesettogo.

Oncemore, IamdazzledbyChristian’sexpertise.He’ssocompetent.Istherenothingthatthismancan’tdo?ThenIrememberhisearnestattemptto chop and dice a pepper in

myapartmentonFriday.Thethoughtmakesmesmile.

Slowly, Christian easesThe Grace out of her berthand toward the marinaentrance. Behind us, a smallcrowd has gathered on thedockside to watch ourdeparture. Small children arewaving,andIwaveback.

Christianglancesoverhisshoulder, then pulls mebetween his legs and points

outvariousdialsandgadgetsin the cockpit. “Grab thewheel,” he orders, bossy asever,butIdoasI’mtold.

“Aye, aye, captain!” Igiggle.

Placing his hands snuglyover mine, he continues tosteer our course out of themarina, and within a fewminutes, we are out on theopen sea, slap into the coldblue waters of Puget Sound.

Away from the shelterof themarina’s protective wall, thewind is stronger, and the seapitchesandrollsbeneathus.

I can’t help but grin,feelingChristian’sexcitement—thisissuchfun.Wemakealarge curve until we areheading west toward theOlympic Peninsula, thewindbehindus.

“Sail time,” Christiansays, excited. “Here—you

take her. Keep her on thiscourse.”

What? He grins, reactingtothehorrorinmyface.

“Baby, it’s really easy.Holdthewheelandkeepyoureye on the horizon over thebow. You’ll do great; youalwaysdo.Whenthesailsgoup, you’ll feel the drag. Justhold her steady. I’ll signallike this”—he makes aslashing motion across his

throat—“and you can cut theengines. This button here.”He points to a large blackbutton.“Understand?”

“Yes.” I nod frantically,feeling panicky. Jeez—Ihadn’t expected to doanything!

He kisses me quickly,thenhestepsoffhiscaptain’schair and bounds up to thefront of theboat to joinMacwhere he starts unfurling

sails, untying ropes, andoperating winches andpulleys. They work welltogether in a team, shoutingvariousnauticaltermstoeachother,andit’swarmingtoseeFifty interacting withsomeone else in such acarefreemanner.

Perhaps Mac is Fifty’sfriend. He doesn’t seem tohave many, as far as I cantell, but then, I don’t have

manyeither.Well,nothereinSeattle. The only friend Ihave is on vacation sunningherself in St. James on thewestcoastofBarbados.

Ihavea suddenpang forKate. I miss my roommatemore than I thought I wouldwhen she left. I hope shechanges hermind and comeshomewithherbrotherEthan,rather than prolong her staywith Christian’s brother

Elliot.Christian and Mac hoist

the mainsail. It fills andbillowsoutasthewindseizesit hungrily, and the boatlurches suddenly, zippingforward. I feel it through thewheel.Whoa!

They get to work on theheadsail, and I watchfascinated as it flies up themast. The wind catches it,stretchingittaut.

“Hold her steady, baby,and cut the engines!”Christiancriesouttomeoverthe wind, motioning me toswitch off the engines. I canonlyjusthearhisvoice,butInod enthusiastically, gazingat the man I love, allwindswept, exhilarated, andbracing himself against thepitchandyawoftheboat.

I press the button, theroar of the engines ceases,

and The Grace soars towardthe Olympic Peninsula,skimmingacrossthewaterasif she’s flying. Iwant toyelland scream and cheer—thishas to be one of the mostexhilarating experiences ofmy life—except perhaps theglider, and maybe the RedRoomofPain.

Holy cow, this boat canmove! I stand firm, graspingthe wheel, fighting the

rudder, and Christian isbehind me once more, hishandsonmine.

“Whatdoyou think?”heshoutsabovethesoundofthewindandthesea.

“Christian! This isfantastic.”

He beams, grinning fromeartoear.“Youwaituntilthespinney’sup.”Hepointswithhis chin towardMac,who isunfurling the spinnaker—a

sail that’s a dark, rich red. Itreminds me of the walls intheplayroom.

“Interesting color,” Ishout.

He gives me a wolfishgrin and winks. Oh, it’sdeliberate.

The spinneyballoonsout—alarge,oddellipticalshape—putting The Grace inoverdrive. Finding her head,shespeedsovertheSound.

“Asymmetrical sail. Forspeed.”Christiananswersmyunaskedquestion.

“It’s amazing.” I canthinkofnothingbettertosay.I have the most ridiculousgrin on my face as we whipthrough the water, headingfor the majesty of theOlympic Mountains andBainbridge Island. Glancingback, I see Seattle shrinkingbehind us, Mount Rainier in

thefardistance.I had not really

appreciatedhowbeautifulandrugged Seattle’s surroundinglandscape is—verdant, lush,andtemperate,tallevergreensandclifffacesjuttingouthereand there. It has a wild butserenebeautyonthisglorioussunnyafternoonthattakesmybreath away. The stillness isstunning compared to ourspeed as we whip across the

water.“Howfastarewegoing?”“She’sdoing15knots.”“Ihavenoideawhatthat

means.”“It’s about 17 miles an

hour.”“Isthatall?Itfeelsmuch

faster.”He squeezes my hands,

smiling. “You look lovely,Anastasia. It’s good to seesome color in your cheeks...

and not from blushing. Youlook like you do in José’sphotos.”

Iturnandkisshim.“Youknowhow to show

agirlagoodtime,Mr.Grey.”“We aim to please,Miss

Steele.” He scoops my hairoutof thewayandkisses theback of my neck, sendingdelicious tingles down myspine. “I like seeing youhappy,” he murmurs and

tightenshisarmsaroundme.I gaze out over the wide

bluewater,wonderingwhatIcould possibly have done inthepasttohavefortunesmileanddeliverthisbeautifulmantome.

Yes,you’realuckybitch,my subconscious snaps. Butyou have your work cut outwith him. He’s not going towant this vanilla crapforever... you’re going to

have to compromise. I glarementally at her snarky,insolent face and rest myhead against Christian’schest.ButdeepdownIknowmysubconscious is right,butIbanish the thoughts. Idon’twanttospoilmyday.

An hour later, we areanchoredinasmall,secluded

cove off Bainbridge Island.Mac has gone ashore in theinflatable—for what, I don’tknow—but I have mysuspicionsbecauseassoonasMac starts the outboardengine, Christian grabs myhandandpracticallydragsmeinto his cabin, a man with amission.

Nowhestandsbeforeme,exuding his intoxicatingsensuality as his deft fingers

makequickworkofthestrapsonmylifejacket.Hetossesittoonesideandgazesintentlydown at me, eyes dark,dilated.

I’malready lost andhe’sbarely touchedme.He raiseshis hand tomy face, and hisfingersmove downmy chin,the columnofmy throat,mysternum, searingmewith histouch, to the first button ofmyblueblouse.

“I want to see you,” hebreathes and dexterouslyundoes the button. Bending,he plants a soft kiss on myparted lips. I ampanting andeager, aroused by the potentcombination of hiscaptivating beauty, his rawsexuality in the confines ofthis cabin, and the gentlesway of the boat. He standsback.

“Strip for me,” he

whispers,eyesburning.Oh my. I’m only too

happy to comply.Not takingmy eyes off his, I slowlyundo each button, savoringhisscorchinggaze.Oh,thisisheady stuff. I can see hisdesire—it’s evident on hisface...andelsewhere.

I let my shirt fall to thefloorandreachforthebuttononmyjeans.

“Stop,”heorders.“Sit.”

Isitdownontheedgeofthe bed, and in one fluidmovement he’s on his kneesin front of me, undoing thelacesoffirstoneandthentheother sneaker, pulling eachoff, followed by my socks.Hepicksupmy left footandraisingit,plantsasoftkissonthe pad of my big toe, thengrazeshisteethagainstit.

“Ah!”ImoanasIfeeltheeffect inmygroin.Hestands

in one smooth move, holdshishandout tome,andpullsmeupoffthebed.

“Continue,” he says andstandsbacktowatchme.

I ease the zipper of myjeans down and hook mythumbs in thewaistband as Isashay then slide the denimdown my legs. A soft smileplaysonhislips,buthiseyesremaindark.

And I don’t know if it’s

because he made love to methis morning, and I meanreally made love to me,gently, sweetly, or if it washis impassioned declaration—yes...Ido—butIdon’tfeelembarrassed at all. I want tobe sexy for this man. Hedeserves sexy—hemakesmefeelsexy.

Okay,it’snewtome,butI’mlearningunderhisexperttutelage. And then again, so

much is new to him, too. Itbalances the seesaw betweenus,alittle,Ithink.

Iamwearingsomeofmynewunderwear—awhitelacythong and matching bra—adesigner brand with a pricetagtomatch.Istepoutofmyjeansandstand there forhimin the lingerie he’s paid for,but I no longer feel cheap. Ifeelhis.

Reaching behind I

unhook my bra, sliding thestraps down my arms, anddrop it on top ofmy blouse.Slowly,Islipmypantiesoff,lettingthemfalltomyankles,and step out of them,surprisedbymygrace.

Standing before him, Iam naked and unashamed,and I know it’s because helovesme.Inolongerhavetohide. He says nothing, justgazes at me. All I see is his

desire, his adoration even,andsomethingelse,thedepthofhisneed—thedepthofhisloveforme.

Hereachesdown,liftsthehem of his cream-coloredsweater, and pulls it over hishead,followedbyhisT-shirt,revealing his chest, nevertaking his bold gray eyes offmine. His shoes and socksfollow before he grasps thebuttonofhisjeans.

Reachingover,Iwhisper,“Letme.”

Hislipspursebrieflyintoanooh shape, and he smiles.“Bemyguest.”

I step toward him, slipmyfearlessfingersinsidethewaistband of his jeans, andtug so he’s forced to take astep closer to me. He gaspsinvoluntarily at myunexpected audacity thensmilesdownatme.Iundothe

button,butbeforeIunziphimI let my fingers wander,tracing his erection throughthe soft denim.He flexes hishipsintomypalmandcloseshiseyesbriefly, relishingmytouch.

“You’re getting so bold,Ana, so brave,” he whispersandclaspsmyfacewithbothhands, bending to kiss medeeply.

I put my hands on his

hips—half on his cool skinand half on the low-slungwaistband of his jeans. “Soare you,” I murmur againsthis lips as my thumbs rubslow circles on his skin, andhesmiles.

“Gettingthere.”I move my hands to the

front of his jeans and pulldownthezipper.Myintrepidfingers move through hispubichairtohiserection,and

Igrasphimtightly.Hemakesalowsoundin

his throat, his sweet breathwashing over me, and hekissesmeagain, lovingly.Asmy hand moves over him,around him, stroking him,squeezinghimtightly,heputshisarmsaroundme,hisrighthand flat against the middleof my back and his fingersspread.Hislefthandisinmyhair,holdingmetohismouth.

“Oh,Iwantyousomuch,baby,”hebreathes, and stepsback suddenly to remove hisjeansandboxersinoneswift,agilemove.Heisafine,finesight in or out of clothes,everysingleinchofhim.

He is perfect.His beautydesecratedonlybyhisscars,Ithink sadly.And they run somuchdeeperthanhisskin.

“What’swrong,Ana?”hemurmurs and gently strokes

mycheekwithhisknuckles.“Nothing. Love me,

now.”He pulls me into his

arms,kissingme,twistinghishands into my hair. Ourtongues entwined, he walksme backward to the bed andgently lowers me onto it,following me down so thathe’slyingbymyside.

He runs his nose alongmy jawline as my hands

movetohishair.“Do you have any idea

how exquisite your scent is,Ana?It’sirresistible.”

His words do what theyalways do—flamemy blood,quicken my pulse—and hetrails his nose down mythroat, across my breasts,kissingmereverentiallyashedoes.

“You are so beautiful,”hemurmurs, as he takes one

of my nipples in his mouthandsoftlysuckles.

Imoanasmybodybowsoffthebed.

“Letmehearyou,baby.”His hand trails down to

my waist, and I glory in thefeelofhistouch,skintoskin—his hungry mouth at mybreasts and his skilled longfingerscaressingandstrokingme, cherishing me. Movingover my hips, over my

behind, and down my leg tomy knee, and all this timehe’s kissing and sucking mybreasts—ohmy.

Grasping my knee, hesuddenly hitches my leg up,curling it over his hips,making me gasp, and I feelratherthanseehisrespondinggrinagainstmyskin.Herollsover so that Iamastridehimandhandsmeafoilpacket.

Ishiftback,takinghimin

my hands, and I just can’tresist him in all his glory. Ibendandkisshim,takinghimin my mouth, swirling mytongue around him, thensucking hard. He groans andflexes his hips so that he’sdeeperinmymouth.

Mmm... he tastes good. Iwant him insideme. I sit upand gaze at him; he’sbreathless, mouth open,watchingmeintently.

Hurriedly I tear open thecondom and unroll it overhim. He holds out his handsfor me. I take one and withmy other hand, positionmyselfoverhim, thenslowlyclaimhimasmine.

He groans low in histhroat,closinghiseyes.

The feel of him in me...stretching... filling me—Imoan softly—it’s divine. Heplaces his hands on my hips

andmovesmeup,down,andpushes into me.Oh... it’s sogood.

“Oh,baby,”hewhispers,and suddenly he sits up sowe’re nose to nose, and thesensation is extraordinary—so full. I gasp, grabbing hisupper arms as he clasps myhead in his hands and gazesintomyeyes—hisintenseandgray,burningwithdesire.

“Oh, Ana. What you

make me feel,” he murmursand kisses me passionatelywithferventardor.Ikisshimback,dizzywiththedeliciousfeeling of him buried deepinsideme.

“Oh, I love you,” Imurmur. He groans as ifpained to hearmywhisperedwords and rolls over, takingme with him withoutbreaking our preciouscontact, so that I’m lying

beneath him. Iwrapmy legsaroundhiswaist.

He stares down at mewith adoring wonder, and Iam sure I mirror hisexpression as I reach up tocaresshisbeautifulface.Veryslowly, he starts to move,closing his eyes as he doesandmoaningsoftly.

The gentle sway of theboat and the peace and quiettranquility of the cabin are

broken only by our mingledbreathsashemovesslowlyinand out of me, so controlledand so good—it’s heavenly.He puts his arm over myhead, his hand on my hair,andhecaressesmyfacewiththe other as he bends to kissme.

I’mcocoonedbyhim, ashe loves me, slowly movingin and out, savoring me. Itouch him—sticking to the

boundaries—his arms, hishair, his lower back, hisbeautiful behind—and mybreathing accelerates as hissteady rhythm pushes mehigher and higher. He’skissing my mouth, my chin,myjaw,thennibblingmyear.Icanhearhisstaccatobreathswitheachgentle thrustofhisbody.

Mybodystarts toquiver.Oh... This feeling that I now

know so well... I am close...Oh...

“That’sright,baby...giveitupforme...Please...Ana,”hemurmursandhiswordsaremyundoing.

“Christian,” I call out,and he groans as we bothcometogether.

“Macwill be back soon,” hemurmurs.

“Hmm.”My eyes flickeropen to meet his soft graygaze. Lord, his eyes are anamazing color—especiallyhere, out on the sea—reflecting the light bouncingoff the water through thesmallportholesintothecabin.

“As much as I’d like tolie here with you allafternoon, he’ll need a handwith the dinghy.” Leaningover, Christian kisses me

tenderly. “Ana, you look sobeautiful right now, allmussed up and sexy. Makesme want you more.” Hesmilesandrisesfromthebed.I lay on my front admiringtheview.

“You ain’t so badyourself, captain.” I smackmy lips in admiration andhegrins.

I watch him movegracefully about the cabin as

he dresses. He really isdivinelybeautiful,andwhat’smore, he’s just made suchsweetlovetomeagain.Icanhardly believe my goodfortune. I can’t quite believethatthismanismine.Hesitsdownbesidemetoputonhisshoes.

“Captain, eh?” he saysdryly. “Well, I ammaster ofthisvessel.”

I cock my head to one

side. “You aremaster ofmyheart, Mr. Grey.” And mybody...andmysoul.

He shakes his headincredulously and bends tokiss me. “I’ll be on deck.There’s a shower in thebathroomifyouwantone.Doyouneedanything?Adrink?”heasks solicitously,andall Ican do is grin at him. Is thisthe same man? Is this thesameFifty?

“What?”hesays,reactingtomystupidgrin.

“You.”“Whataboutme?”“Who are you and what

have you done withChristian?”

He lips twitchwithasadsmile.

“He’s not very far away,baby,” he says softly, andthere’satouchofmelancholyin his voice that makes me

instantly regret asking thequestion.Butheshakesitoff.“You’ll see him soonenough”—he smirks at me—“especiallyifyoudon’tgetup.” Reaching over, hesmacks me hard on mybehindsoIyelpandlaughatthesametime.

“Youhadmeworried.”“DidI,now?”Christian’s

brow creases. “You do giveoff some mixed signals,

Anastasia. How’s a mansupposed to keep up?” Heleans down and kisses meagain. “Laters, baby,” headds, and with a dazzlingsmile, he gets up and leavesmetomyscatteredthoughts.

WhenIsurfaceondeck,Macis back on board, but hedisappears onto the upper

deck as I open the saloondoors. Christian is on hisBlackberry. Talking towhom?Iwonder.Hewandersover and pulls me close,kissingmyhair.

“Great news... good.Yeah... Really? The fireescape stairwell?... I see...Yes,tonight.”

He hits the end button,and the soundof the enginesfiring up startles me. Mac

mustbeinthecockpitabove.“Time to head back,”

Christian says, kissing meonce more as he straps meintomylifejacket.

The sun is low in the skybehind us as we make ourwaybacktothemarina,andIreflect on a wonderfulafternoon. Under Christian’s

careful,patienttuition,Ihavenow stowed a mainsail, aheadsail,andaspinnakerandlearned to tie a reef knot,clove hitch, and sheepshank.His lips were twitchingthroughoutthelesson.

“I may tie you up oneday,”Imuttercrabbily.

His mouth twists withhumor.“You’llhave tocatchmefirst,MissSteele.”

His words bring tomind

him chasing me round theapartment, the thrill, then thehideous aftermath. I frownandshudder.After that,I lefthim.

Would I leave him againnow that he’s admitted helovesme? I gaze up into hiscleargray eyes.Could I everleave him again—no matterwhat he did to me? Could Ibetray him like that? No. Idon’tthinkIcould.

He’s given me a morethoroughtourofthisbeautifulboat, explaining all theinnovative designs andtechniques, and the high-quality materials used tobuild it. I remember theinterview when I first methim. I picked up then on hispassion for ships. I thoughthis love was only for theocean-going freighters hiscompany builds—not for

super-sexy,sleekcatamarans,too.

And, of course, he’smadesweet,unhurriedlovetome. I shake my head,rememberingmybodybowedand wanting beneath hisexpert hands. He is anexceptional lover, I’msure—though, of course, I have nocomparison. But Kate wouldhave raved more if it wasalways like this; it’s not like

hertoholdbackondetails.Buthowlongwillthisbe

enough for him? I just don’tknow, and the thought isunnerving.

Now he sits, and I standin the safe circle of his armsfor hours, it seems, incomfortable, companionablesilence as The Grace glidescloserandcloser toSeattle. Ihave the wheel, Christianadvising on adjustments

everysooften.“Thereispoetryinsailing

as old as the world,”[1] hemurmursinmyear.

“That sounds like aquote.”

I sense his grin. “It is.AntoinedeSaint-Exupéry.”

“Oh... I adore The LittlePrince.”

“Me,too.”

It is early evening asChristian, his hands still onmine, steers us into themarina. There are lightswinking from the boats,reflecting off the darkwater,but it is still light—a balmy,bright evening, an overturefor what is sure to be aspectacularsunset.

A crowd gathers on thedockside as Christian slowlyturns the boat around in a

relatively small space. Hedoesitwitheaseandreversessmoothly into the sameberthweleftearlier.Macjumpsonto the dock and ties TheGracesecurelytoabollard.

“Back again,” Christianmurmurs.

“Thank you,” I murmurshyly. “That was a perfectafternoon.”

Christian grins. “Ithought so, too. Perhaps we

can enroll you in sailingschool,sowecangooutforafewdays,justthetwoofus.”

“I’d love that. We canchristen the bedroom againandagain.”

He leans forward andkisses me under my ear.“Hmm... I lookforward to it,Anastasia,” he whispers,making every single hairfollicle on my body stand toattention.

Howdoeshedothat?“Come, the apartment is

clean.Wecangoback.”“Whataboutourthingsat

thehotel?”“Taylor has collected

themalready.”Oh!When?“Earlier today, after he

did a sweep of The Gracewith his team.” Christiananswers my unspokenquestion.

“Doesthatpoormaneversleep?”

“He sleeps.” Christianquirks an eyebrow at me,puzzled. “He’s just doinghisjob, Anastasia, which he’svery good at. Jason is a realfind.”

“Jason?”“JasonTaylor.”I remember when I

thought Taylor was his firstname. Jason.It suits him—

solid, reliable. For somereasonitmakesmesmile.

“You’re fond ofTaylor,”Christian says, eyeing mewithspeculation.

“I suppose I am.” Hisquestion derails me. Hefrowns. “I’m not attracted tohim, if that’s why you’refrowning.Stop.”

Christian is almostpouting—sulky.

Jeez, he’s such a child

sometimes. “I think Taylorlooks after you very well.That’s why I like him. Heseems kind, reliable andloyal. He has an avuncularappealtome.”

“Avuncular?”“Yes.”“Okay, avuncular.”

Christian is testing the wordandmeaning.Ilaugh.

“Oh, Christian, grow up,forheaven’ssake.”

His mouth drops open,surprisedbymyoutburst,butthen he frowns as ifconsidering my statement.“I’m trying,” he sayseventually.

“That you are. Very.” Ianswersoftlybutthenrollmyeyesathim.

“What memories youevoke when you roll youreyes at me, Anastasia.” Hegrins.

I smirk at him. “Well, ifyou behave yourself, maybewe can relive some of thosememories.”

His mouth twists withhumor.“Behavemyself?”Heraises his eyebrows. “Really,Miss Steele—what makesyou think I want to relivethem?”

“Probably the way youreyes lit up like ChristmaswhenIsaidthat.”

“You know me so wellalready,”hesaysdryly.

“I’d like to know youbetter.”

He smiles softly. “And Iyou,Anastasia.”

“Thanks, Mac.” ChristianshakesMcConnell’shandandstepsonthedock.

“Always a pleasure, Mr.

Grey, and good-bye. Ana,greattomeetyou.”

I shake his hand shyly.HemustknowwhatChristianand Iwere up to on the boatwhilehewentashore.

“Good day, Mac, andthankyou.”

Hegrinsatmeandwinks,making me flush. Christiantakesmy hand, andwewalkup the dock to the marina’spromenade.

“Where’s Mac from?” Iask,curiousabouthisaccent.

“Ireland... NorthernIreland,” Christian correctshimself.

“Isheyourfriend?”“Mac?Heworks forme.

HelpedbuildTheGrace.”“Do you have many

friends?”He frowns. “Not really.

Doing what I do... I don’tcultivate friendships. There’s

only—” He stops, his frowndeepening, and I know hewas going to mention Mrs.Robinson.

“Hungry?”heasks,tryingtochangethesubject.

I nod. Actually, I’mfamished.

“We’ll eat where I leftthecar.Come.”

NexttoSP’sisasmallItalianbistrocalledBee’s.ItremindsmeoftheplaceinPortland—a few tables and booths, thedécor very crisp andmodernwith a large black andwhitephotograph of a turn-of-the-century fiesta serving as amural.

ChristianandIareseatedin a booth, poring over themenuandsippingadeliciouslightFrascati.When I glance

up from the menu, havingmademychoice,Christian isgazingatmespeculatively.

“What?”Iask.“You look lovely,

Anastasia. The outdoorsagreeswithyou.”

I flush. “I feel ratherwind-burned to tell the truth.But I hada lovely afternoon.A perfect afternoon. Thankyou.”

Hesmiles,hiseyeswarm.

“Mypleasure,”hemurmurs.“Can I ask you

something?” I decide on afact-findingmission.

“Anything, Anastasia.Youknowthat.”Hecockshishead to one side, lookingdelicious.

“Youdon’t seem tohavemanyfriends.Whyisthat?”

Heshrugsandfrowns.“Itold you, I don’t really havetime. I have business

associates—though that’svery different fromfriendships,Isuppose.Ihavemyfamilyandthat’sit.ApartfromElena.”

I ignore the mention ofthe bitch-troll. “No malefriendsyourownagethatyoucan go out with and let offsteam?”

“YouknowhowI liketolet off steam, Anastasia.”Christian’s mouth twists.

“And I’ve been working,buildingupthebusiness.”Helooks puzzled. “That’s all Ido—except sail and flyoccasionally.”

“Notevenincollege?”“Notreally.”“JustElena,then?”He nods, his expression

wary.“Mustbelonely.”His lips curl in a small

wistful smile. “What would

you like to eat?” he asks,changingthesubjectagain.

“I’m going for therisotto.”

“Good choice.” Christiansummons the waiter, puttinganendtothatconversation.

After we’ve placed ourorder, I shift uncomfortablyin my seat, staring at myknotted fingers. If he’s in atalkingmood, I need to takeadvantage.

I have to talk to himabout his expectations, abouthis,um...needs.

“Anastasia, what’swrong?Tellme.”

I glance up into hisconcernedface.

“Tell me,” he says moreforcefully, and his concernevolves into what? Fear?Anger?

Itakeadeepbreath.“I’mjust worried that this isn’t

enoughforyou.Youknow,toletoffsteam.”

His jaw tenses and hiseyes harden. “Have I givenyou any indication that thisisn’tenough?”

“No.”“Thenwhy do you think

that?”“Iknowwhatyou’relike.

What you... um... need,” Istutter.

He closes his eyes and

rubs his forehead with longfingers.

“What do I have to do?”Hisvoiceisominouslysoftasif he’s angry, and my heartsinks.

“No, you misunderstand—you have been amazing,and I know it’s just been afewdays,but Ihope I’mnotforcing you to be someoneyou’renot.”

“I’m still me, Anastasia

—in all my fifty shades offuckedupness.Yes, I have tofight the urge to becontrolling... but that’s mynature, how I’ve dealt withmy life.Yes, I expectyou tobehave a certain way, andwhen you don’t it’s bothchallenging and refreshing.WestilldowhatI like todo.You let me spank you afteryour outrageous bidyesterday.”He smiles fondly

at the memory. “I enjoypunishing you. I don’t thinkthe urge will ever go... butI’m trying, and it’s not ashard as I thought it wouldbe.”

I squirm and flush,remembering our illicit trystin his childhood bedroom. “Ididn’t mind that,” I whisper,smilingshyly.

“Iknow.”Hislipscurlinareluctantsmile.“Neitherdid

I. But let me tell you,Anastasia, this is all new tome and these last few dayshavebeenthebestinmylife.I don’t want to changeanything.”

Oh!“They’vebeenthebestin

my life, too, withoutexception,”Imurmurandhissmile broadens. My innergoddess nods frantically inagreement—and nudges me

hard.Okay,okay.“So you don’t want to

takemeintoyourplayroom?”He swallows and pales,

alltraceofhumorgone.“No,Idon’t.”

“Why not?” I whisper.This is not the answer Iexpected.

And yes, there it is, thatlittlepinchofdisappointment.Myinnergoddessstompsoffpouting,herarmscrossedlike

anangrytoddler.“Thelasttimewewerein

there you left me,” he saysquietly.“Iwillshyawayfromanythingthatcouldmakeyouleave me again. I wasdevastated when you left. Iexplained that. I never wantto feel like that again. I’vetold you how I feel aboutyou.”Hisgrayeyesarewideandintensewithhissincerity.

“Butithardlyseemsfair.

It can’t be very relaxing foryou—to be constantlyconcerned about how I feel.You’ve made all thesechanges for me, and I... Ithink I should reciprocate insome way. I don’t know—maybe... try... some role-playinggames,” I stutter,myface as crimson as the wallsoftheplayroom.

Why is this so hard totalk about? I have done all

mannerofkinkyfuckerywiththisman,thingsIhadn’tevenheard of a few weeks ago,things that I would neverhavethoughtpossible,yetthehardest of all is talking tohim.

“Ana,youdoreciprocate,more than you know. Please,pleasedon’tfeellikethis.”

Gone is carefreeChristian.His eyes arewidernowwithalarm,andit’sgut-

wrenching. “Baby, it’s onlybeen one weekend,” hecontinues. “Give us sometime. I thought a great dealaboutus lastweekwhenyouleft.Weneedtime.Youneedtotrustme,andIyou.Maybein timewecan indulge,but Ilike how you are now. I likeseeing you this happy, thisrelaxed and carefree,knowingthatIhadsomethingtodowithit.Ihavenever—”

He stops and runs his handthroughhishair.“Wehavetowalk before we can run.”Suddenlyhesmirks.

“What’ssofunny?”“Flynn. He says that all

the time. I never thought I’dbequotinghim.”

“AFlynnism.”Christian laughs.

“Exactly.”The waiter arrives with

our starters and bruschetta,

andourconversationchangestackasChristianrelaxes.

But when the unfeasiblylargeplatesareplacedbeforeus, I can’t help think how Ihave thought of Christiantoday—relaxed, happy andcarefree. At least he’slaughingnow,ateaseagain.

I breathe an inward sighof reliefashe startsquizzingme about places I’ve been.This is a short discussion,

since I have never beenanywhere except thecontinentalUS. Christian, onthe other hand, has traveledthe world. We slip into aneasier, happier conversation,talking about all the placeshe’svisited.

After our tasty and fillingmeal,Christiandrivesbackto

Escala, Eva Cassidy’s gentlesweet voice singing over thespeakers. It allows me apeacefulinterludeinwhichtothink. I have had a mind-blowingday.Dr.Greene,ourshower, Christian’sadmission,makingloveatthehotelandontheboat,buyingthe car. Even Christianhimselfhasbeensodifferent.It’s as if he’s letting go ofsomething or rediscovering

something—Idon’tknow.Whoknewhecouldbeso

sweet?Didhe?WhenIglanceathim,he,

too, looks lost in thought. Itstrikesme then that heneverreally had an adolescence—anormal one anyway. I shakemyhead.

My mind drifts back totheballanddancingwithDr.Flynn and Christian’s fearthat Flynn had told me all

about him. Christian is stillhiding something from me.How can we move on if hefeelsthatway?

HethinksImightleaveifI knowhim.He thinks that Imight leave if he’s himself.Oh, this man is socomplicated.

As we get closer to hishome, he starts radiatingtension until it becomespalpable. As we drive, he

scans the sidewalks and sidealleys, his eyes dartingeverywhere, and I knowhe’slooking for Leila. I startlooking, too. Every youngbrunette is a suspect, but wedon’tseeher.

When he pulls into thegarage, hismouth is set in atense, grim line. I wonderwhywe’vecomebackhereifhe’sgoing tobesowaryanduptight. Sawyer is in the

garage, patrolling. Thedefiled Audi is gone. Hecomes to open my door asChristian pulls in beside theSUV.

“Hello, Sawyer,” Imurmurmygreeting.

“Miss Steele.” He nods.“Mr.Grey.”

“No sign?” Christianasks.

“No,sir.”Christiannods,graspsmy

hand, and heads for theelevator. I know his brain isworking overtime—he’sdistracted.Oncewe’re insideheturnstome.

“Youarenotallowedoutof here alone. Youunderstand?”hesnaps.

“Okay.” Jeez—keep yourhair on. But his attitudemakes me smile. I want tohug myself—now this man,all domineering and short

withmeIknow.ImarvelthatI would have found it sothreateningonlyaweekorsoagowhenhespoketomethisway. But now, I understandhim so much better. This ishis coping mechanism. He’sstressedaboutLeila,helovesme, and he wants to protectme.

“What’s so funny?” hemurmurs, a hint ofamusementinhisexpression.

“Youare.”“Me? Miss Steele? Why

amIfunny?”hepouts.Christianpoutingis...hot.“Don’tpout.”“Why?” He’s even more

amused.“Because it has the same

effectonmeasIhaveonyouwhenIdothis.”Ibitemylipdeliberately.

He raises his eyebrows,surprised and pleased at the

same time. “Really?” Hepoutsagainandleansdowntogivemeaswiftchastekiss.

I raise my lips to meethis, and in the nanosecondwhen our lips touch, thenature of the kiss changes—wildfire spreading throughmy veins from this intimatepoint of contact, driving metohim.

Suddenly,my fingers arecurlinginhishairashegrabs

meandpushesmeagainsttheelevator wall, his handsframingmy face,holdingmeto his lips as our tonguesthrash against each other.And I don’t know if it’s theconfines of the elevatormaking everything muchmorereal,butIfeelhisneed,hisanxiety,hispassion.

Holy shit. I want him,here,now.

The elevator pings to a

halt,thedoorsslideopen,andChristiandragshis face frommine, his hips still pinningme to the wall, his erectiondiggingintome.

“Whoa,” he murmurspanting.

“Whoa,” I mirror him,dragging a welcome breathintomylungs.

He gazes at me, eyesblazing.“Whatyoudotome,Ana.”Hetracesmylowerlip

withhisthumb.Out of the corner of my

eye,Taylorstepsbackwardsohe’s no longer inmy line ofsight. I reach up and kissChristian at the corner of hisbeautifullysculpturedmouth.

“What you do to me,Christian.”

He steps back and takesmy hand, his eyes darkernow, hooded. “Come,” heorders.

Taylorisstillinthefoyer,waitingdiscreetlyforus.

“Good evening, Taylor,”Christiansayscordially.

“Mr.Grey,MissSteele.”“I was Mrs. Taylor

yesterday.” I grin at Taylor,whoflushes.

“Thathasaniceringtoit,Miss Steele,” Taylor saysmatter-of-factly.

“Ithoughtso,too.”Christian tightens his

hold on my hand, scowling.“If you two have quitefinished, I’d like a debrief.”HeglaresatTaylor,whonowlooks uncomfortable, and Icringe inwardly. I haveoversteppedthemark.

“Sorry,” I mouth atTaylor, who shrugs andsmileskindlybeforeI turntofollowChristian.

“I’ll bewithyou shortly.I justwantawordwithMiss

Steele,” Christian says toTaylor, and I know I’m introuble.

Christian leads me intohis bedroom and closes thedoor.

“Don’tflirtwiththestaff,Anastasia,”hescolds.

I open my mouth todefend myself—then close itagain, thenopen it.“Iwasn’tflirting. I was being friendly—thereisadifference.”

“Don’t be friendly withthe staff or flirt with them. Idon’tlikeit.”

Oh. Good-bye, carefreeChristian. “I’m sorry,” Imutter and stare down atmyfingers. He hasn’t made mefeel like a child all day.Reaching down he cups mychin, pulling my head up tomeethiseyes.

“YouknowhowjealousIam,”hewhispers.

“You have no reason tobe jealous, Christian. Youownmebodyandsoul.”

He blinks as if he’sfinding this fact hard toprocess. He leans down andkisses me quickly, but withnone of the passion weexperiencedamomentagointheelevator.

“I won’t be long. Makeyourself at home,” he sayssulkily and turns, leavingme

standing in his bedroom,dazedandconfused.

Why on earth would hebejealousofTaylor? I shakemyheadindisbelief.

Glancing at the alarmclock, I notice it’s just aftereight. I decide to get myclothes ready for worktomorrow. I head upstairs tomyroomandopen thewalk-in closet. It’s empty. All theclothes have gone. Oh no!

Christianhastakenmeatmyword and disposed of theclothes.Shit.

My subconscious glaresatme.Well, that will be youandyourbigmouth.

Why did he take me atmy word? My mother’sadvice comes back to hauntme, “Men are so literal,darling.”Ipout,staringattheempty space. There weresomelovelyclothes, too, like

the silver dress Iwore to theball.

I wander disconsolatelyinto the bedroom, Wait amoment—what is going on?The iPad is gone. Where’smy Mac? Oh no. My firstuncharitable thought is thatLeilamayhavestolenthem.

Iflybackdownstairsandback into Christian’sbedroom. On the bedsidetable are my Mac, my iPad,

andmysatchel.It’sallhere.I open thewalk-in closet

door. My clothes are here—all of them—sharing spacewith Christian’s clothes.When did this happen?Whydoesheneverwarnmebeforehedoesthingslikethis?

I turn, and he’s standinginthedoorway.

“Oh, they managed themove,”hemutters,distracted.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Hisfaceisgrim.“Taylor thinks Leila was

getting in through theemergency stairwell. Shemusthavehadakey.All thelocks have been changednow.Taylor’s teamhasdoneasweepofeveryroomintheapartment. She’s not here.”He stops and runs a handthrough his hair. “I wish Iknew where she was. She’sevading all our attempts to

find her when she needshelp.” He frowns, and myearlier pique vanishes. I putmyarmsaroundhim.Foldingme into his embrace, hekissesmyhair.

“Whatwill you dowhenyoufindher?”Iask.

“Dr.Flynnhasaplace.”“What about her

husband?”“He’s washed his hands

of her.” Christian’s tone is

bitter. “Her family is inConnecticut. I think she’svery much on her own outthere.”

“That’ssad.”“Are you okay with all

yourstuffbeinghere?Iwantyou to share my room,” hemurmurs.

Whoa, quick change ofdirection.

“Yes.”“Iwantyousleepingwith

me. I don’t have nightmareswhenyou’rewithme.”

“Youhavenightmares?”“Yes.”I tightenmyhold around

him. Holy cow. Morebaggage. My heart contractsforthisman.

“I was just getting myclothes ready for worktomorrow,”Imutter.

“Work!” Christianexclaims as if it’s a dirty

word, and he releases me,glaring.

“Yes, work,” I reply,confusedbyhisreaction.

He stares at me withcomplete incomprehension.“ButLeila—she’sout there,”he pauses. “I don’twant youtogotowork.”

What?“That’sridiculous,Christian. I have to go towork.”

“No,youdon’t.”

“Ihaveanewjob,whichI enjoy. Of course I have togo to work.” What does hemean?

“No, you don’t,” herepeats,emphatically.

“DoyouthinkIamgoingto stay here twiddling mythumbs while you’re offbeing Master of theUniverse?”

“Frankly...yes.”Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty...

givemestrength.“Christian,Ineedtogoto

work.”“No,youdon’t.”“Yes. I. Do.” I say it

slowlyasifhe’sachild.Hescowlsatme.“It’snot

safe.”“Christian... I need to

work for a living, and I’ll befine.”

“No, you don’t need towork for a living—and how

doyouknowyou’llbefine?”He’salmostshouting.

Whatdoeshemean?He’sgoingtosupportme?Oh,thisis beyond ridiculous—I’veknown him for what—fiveweeks?

He’sangrynow,hisgrayeyesstormyandflashing,butIdon’tgiveashit.

“For heaven’s sake,Christian,Leilawas standingat the end of your bed, and

shedidn’tharmme,andyes,I do need to work. I don’twanttobebeholdentoyou.Ihave my student loans topay.”

Hismouth presses into agrimline,asIplacemyhandsonmyhips.Iamnotbudgingonthis.Whothefuckdoeshethinkheis?

“I don’t want you goingtowork.”

“It’s not up to you,

Christian. This is not yourdecisiontomake.”

Herunshishandthroughhis hair as he stares at me.Seconds, minutes tick by asweglareateachother.

“Sawyer will come withyou.”

“Christian, that’s notnecessary. You’re beingirrational.”

“Irrational?” he growls.“Eitherhecomeswithyou,or

Iwill be really irrational andkeepyouhere.”

He wouldn’t, would he?“How,exactly?”

“Oh, I’d find a way,Anastasia.Don’tpushme.”

“Okay!” I concede,holding up both my hands,placating him. Holy fuck—Fifty is back with avengeance.

We stand, scowling ateachother.

“Okay—Sawyer cancomewithmeifitmakesyoufeelbetter.”Iconcederollingmy eyes. Christian narrowshisandtakesamenacingstepin my direction. Iimmediately step back. Hestopsandtakesadeepbreath,closeshiseyes,andrunsbothhishandsthroughhishair.Ohno. Fifty is well and trulywoundup.

“ShallIgiveyouatour?”

A tour? Are you kiddingme?“Okay,”Imutterwarily.Anotherchangeoftack—Mr.Mercurialisbackintown.HeholdsouthishandandwhenItake it, he squeezes minesoftly.

“Ididn’tmeantofrightenyou.”

“You didn’t. I was justgettingreadytorun,”Iquip.

“Run?” Christian eyeswiden.

“I’mjoking!”Ohjeez.He leads me out of the

closet,andItakeamomenttocalmdown.Adrenalineisstillcoursingthroughmybody.Afight with Fifty is not to beundertakenlightly.

Hegivesmeatouroftheapartment, showing me thevarious rooms. Along withtheplayroomand three sparebedrooms upstairs, I’mintrigued to find that Taylor

and Mrs. Jones have a wingto themselves—a kitchen,spacious living area, and abedroomeach.Mrs.Joneshasnotyetreturnedfromvisitingher sister who lives inPortland.

Downstairs,theroomthatcatchesmyeyeisoppositehisstudy—a TV room with atoo-large plasma screen andassorted games consoles. It’scozy.

“So you do have anXbox?”Ismirk.

“Yes, but I’m crap at it.Elliot always beats me. Thatwasfunny,whenyouthoughtI meant this room was myplayroom.”Hegrinsdownatme his snit-fit forgotten.Thank heavens he’srecoveredhisgoodmood.

“I’m glad you find meamusing, Mr. Grey,” Irespondhaughtily.

“That you are, MissSteele—when you’re notbeing exasperating, ofcourse.”

“I’musuallyexasperatingwhen you’re beingunreasonable.”

“Me?Unreasonable?”“Yes, Mr. Grey.

Unreasonable could be yourmiddlename.”

“I don’t have a middlename.”

“Unreasonablewouldsuitthen.”

“Ithinkthat’samatterofopinion,MissSteele.”

“Iwould be interested inDr. Flynn’s professionalopinion.”

Christiansmirks.“IthoughtTrevelyanwas

yourmiddlename.”“No.Surname.”“Butyoudon’tuseit.”“It’stoolong.Come,”he

commands. I follow him outof the TV room through thegreat room to the maincorridor past the utility roomandanimpressivewinecellarand into Taylor’s own large,well-equipped office. Taylorstands when we enter.There’s room in here for ameeting table that seats six.Aboveonedesk is a bankofmonitors. I had no idea theapartment had CCTV. It

appears to monitor thebalcony, stairwell, serviceelevator,andfoyer.

“Hi, Taylor. I’m justgivingAnastasiaatour.”

Taylor nods but doesn’tsmile. I wonder if he’s beentold off, too, and why is hestill working? When I smileat him, he nods politely.Christiangrabsmyhandoncemore and leads me to thelibrary.

“And, of course, you’vebeeninhere.”Christianopensthedoor.Ispythegreenbaizeofthebilliardtable.

“Shall we play?” I ask.Christiansmiles,surprised.

“Okay. Have you playedbefore?”

“A few times,” I lie, andhe narrows his eyes, cockinghisheadtooneside.

“You’re a hopeless liar,Anastasia. Either you’ve

neverplayedbeforeor—”I lick my lips.

“Frightened of a littlecompetition?”

“Frightenedofalittlegirllike you?” Christian scoffsgood-naturedly.

“Awager,Mr.Grey.”“You’re that confident,

Miss Steele?” He smirks,amused and incredulous atonce. “What would you liketowager?”

“If Iwin, you’ll takemebackintotheplayroom.”

He gazes at me as if hecan’t quite comprehendwhatI’vesaid.“And if Iwin?”heasks after several shell-shockedbeats.

“Thenit’syourchoice.”His mouth twists as he

contemplates his answer.“Okay,deal.”Hesmirks.“Doyou want to play pool,English snooker or carom

billiards?”“Pool, please. I don’t

knowtheothers.”Fromacupboardbeneath

one of the bookshelves,Christian takes out a largeleather case. Inside the poolballs are nested in velvet.Quickly and efficiently, herackstheballsonthebaize.Idon’t think I’ve ever playedpool on such a large tablebefore. Christian handsme a

cueandsomechalk.“Would you like to

break?”He feignspoliteness.He’s enjoying himself—hethinkshe’sgoingtowin.

“Okay.” I chalk the endof my cue, and blow theexcess chalk off—staring upat Christian through mylashes. His eyes darken as Ido.

Ilineuponthewhiteballandwithaswiftcleanstroke,

hit the center ball of thetriangle square on with suchforce thata stripedball spinsandplungesintothetoprightpocket.I’vescatteredtherestoftheballs.

“I choose stripes,” I sayinnocently, smiling coyly atChristian.Hismouthtwistsinamusement.

“Be my guest,” he sayspolitely.

I proceed to pocket the

next three balls in quicksuccession. Inside, I’mdancing. At this moment, Iam so grateful to José forteachingme toplaypoolandplay it well. Christianwatches impassively, givingnothing away, but hisamusement seems to ebb. Imiss the green stripe by ahairsbreadth.

“You know, Anastasia, Icould stand here and watch

you leaning and stretchingacross this billiard table allday,”hesaysappreciatively.

I flush. Thank heavens Iam wearing my jeans. Hesmirks.He’stryingtoputmeoffmygame, thebastard.Hepulls his cream sweater overhis head, tosses it onto theback of a chair, and grins atme, as he saunters over totakehisfirstshot.

He bends low over the

table. My mouth goes dry.Oh, I see what he means.Christian in tight jeans andwhite T-shirt, bending, likethat...issomethingtobehold.I quite lose my train ofthought.He sinks four solidsrapidly, thenfoulsbysinkingthewhite.

“A very elementarymistake,Mr.Grey,”Itease.

He smirks. “Ah, MissSteele, I am but a foolish

mortal. Your go, I believe.”Hewavesatthetable.

“You’renottryingtoloseareyou?”

“Oh no. Forwhat I haveinmindastheprize,Iwanttowin, Anastasia.” He shrugscasually. “But then, I alwayswanttowin.”

Inarrowmyeyesathim.Right then... I’m so glad I’mwearing my blue blouse,whichispleasinglylow-cut.I

stalk around the table,bending low at everyavailableopportunity—givingChristian an eyeful of mybehind and my cleavagewheneverIcan.Twocanplayatthatgame.Iglanceathim.

“I know what you’redoing,”hewhispers,hiseyesdark.

I tilt my headcoquettishly to one side,gently fondling my cue,

running my hand up anddown it slowly. “Oh. I amjust deciding where to takemy next shot,” I murmurdistractedly.

Leaning across, I hit theorange stripe into a betterposition. I thenstanddirectlyinfrontofChristianand takethe rest from underneath thetable. I lineupmynext shot,leaningrightover thetable.Ihear Christian’s sharp intake

of breath, and of course, Imiss.Shit.

Hecomestostandbehindmewhile Iamstillbentoverthe table andplaceshishandonmybackside.Hmm...

“Are you waving thisaround to taunt me, MissSteele?” And he smacksme,hard.

I gasp. “Yes,” I mutter,becauseit’strue.

“Be careful what you

wishfor,baby.”I rub my behind as he

wanders to the other end ofthe table, leans over, andtakes his shot. Jeez, I couldlook at him all day. He hitstheredball,anditshootsintothe left side pocket.He aimsfor theyellow, top right, anditjustmisses.Igrin.

“Red Room here wecome,”Itaunthim.

He merely raises an

eyebrow and directs me tocontinue. Imake quickworkof the green stripe and bysomefluke,managetoknockinthefinalorangestripe.

“Name your pocket,”Christianmurmurs,andit’sasif he’s talking aboutsomething else, somethingdarkandrude.

“Top left-hand.” I takeaimover theblack,hit it,butmiss.Itskirtswide.Damn.

Christiansmilesawickedgrinasheleansoverthetableandmakes shortwork of thetwo remaining solids. I ampractically panting, watchinghim,his lithebodystretchingover the table.Hestandsandchalks his cue, his eyesburningintome.

“IfIwin...”Ohyes?“Iamgoingtospankyou,

then fuck you over this

billiardtable.”Holy shit. Every single

muscle south of my navelclencheshard.

“Topright,”hemurmurs,pointing to the black, andbendstotaketheshot.

[1]1deSaint-Exupéry,Antoine.NightFlight.TranslatedbyStuartGilbert.NewJersey:PrenticeHall,June1932.(Firstpublishedin1931undertheoriginaltitleofVolde

nuit.)

With easy grace, Christiantaps the white ball so that it

glidesacross the table,kissesthe black and oh-so-slowlytheblack rolls, teeterson theedge, and finally drops intothe top right pocket of thebilliardtable.

Damn.Hestands,andhismouth

twists in a triumphant I-so-own-you-Steele smile.Putting down his cue, hesaunters casually toward me,all tousled hair, jeans, and

whiteT-shirt.Hedoesn’tlooklike a CEO—he looks like abadboy from thewrongsideof town. Holy cow, he’s sofuckingsexy.

“You’renotgoingtobeasore loser, are you?” hemurmurs, barely containinghisgrin.

“Depends how hard youspankme,”Iwhisper,holdingontomycueforsupport.Hetakes my cue and puts it to

oneside,hookshisfingerintothetopofmyshirt,andpullsmetowardhim.

“Well, let’s count yourmisdemeanors, Miss Steele.”Hecountsonhislongfingers.“One, making me jealous ofmy own staff. Two, arguingwithme aboutworking.Andthree,wavingyourdelectablederriere at me for the lasttwentyminutes.”

Hiseyesglowasoftgray

with excitement, and leaningdown, he rubs his noseagainstmine. “Iwant you totakeyour jeans and thisveryfetching shirt off. Now.” Heplants a feather-soft kiss onmy lips, wandersnonchalantlyovertothedoor,andlocksit.

Ohmy.Whenhe turnsandgazes

atme,hiseyesareburning.Istand paralyzed like a

complete zombie, my heartpounding, my bloodpumping,notactuallyable tomove amuscle. Inmymind,all I can think is—this is forhim—the thought repeatinglike a mantra over and overagain.

“Clothes,Anastasia.Youappear to still be wearingthem. Take them off—or Iwilldoitforyou.”

“Youdoit.”Ifinallyfind

my voice, and it sounds lowandheated.Christiangrins.

“Oh, Miss Steele. It’s adirtyjob,butIthinkIcanrisetothechallenge.”

“You normally rise tomostchallenges,Mr.Grey.”Iraise an eyebrowathim, andhesmirks.

“Why, Miss Steele,whatever do youmean?” Onhiswayovertome,hepausesat the small desk built into

one of the bookshelves.Reachingover,hepicksupatwelve-inchPerspexruler.Heholds each end and flexes it,hiseyesnotleavingmine.

Holy shit—hisweaponofchoice.Mymouthgoesdry.

Suddenly, I’m hot andbothered and damp in all theright places. Only Christiancould turnme onwith just alook and the flex of a ruler.He slips it into the back

pocket of his jeans andambles towardme,eyesdarkand full of promise.Withoutsayingaword,hedropstohisknees in front of me andstarts to undo my laces,quickly and efficiently,dragging both my Converseand socks off. I lean on theside of the billiard table so Idon’t fall. Gazing down athimasheundoesmylaces,Imarvelatthedepthoffeeling

that I have for this beautifulflawedman.Ilovehim.

He grabs my hips, slipshisfingersintothewaistbandof my jeans, and undoes thebutton and zipper. He peersup through his long lashes,grinning his most salaciousgrin as he slowly peels myjeans off. I step out of them,glad that I’m wearing thesepretty, pretty panties, and hegrasps the back of my legs

and runs his nose along theapex of my thighs. Ipracticallymelt.

“Iwanttobequiteroughwithyou,Ana.You’llhavetotell me to stop if it’s toomuch,”hebreathes.

Oh my. He kisses me...there.Imoansoftly.

“Safeword?”Imurmur.“No, no safe word, just

tellme to stop, and I’ll stop.Understand?” He kisses me

again, nuzzling me.Oh, thatfeels good. He stands, hisstare intense. “Answer me,”he orders his voice velvetsoft.

“Yes, yes, I understand.”I’mpuzzledbyhisinsistence.

“You’ve been droppinghints and giving me mixedsignalsallday,Anastasia,”hesays. “You said you wereworriedI’dlostmyedge.I’mnot sure what you meant by

that, and I don’t know howserious youwere, butwe aregoingtofindout.Idon’twanttogoback into theplayroomyet, so we can try this now,but if you don’t like it, youmust promise to tell me.” Aburning intensity born of hisanxiety replaces his earliercockiness.

Whoa, please don’t beanxious, Christian. “I’ll tellyou. No safe word,” I

reiteratetoreassurehim.“We’relovers,Anastasia.

Lovers don’t need safewords.” He frowns. “Dothey?”

“I guess not,” I murmur.Jeez—how do I know? “Ipromise.”

He searches my face foranycluethatImightlackthecourage of my convictions,and I’m nervous but excited,too. I’mmuch happier to do

this, knowing that he lovesme. It’s very simple to me,andrightnow,Idon’twanttooverthinkit.

A slow smile stretchesacross his face, and he startstounbuttonmyshirt,hisdeftfingersmakingshortworkofit, though he doesn’t take itoff. He leans over and picksupthecue.

Ohfuck,what’shegoingtodowith that?A frisson of

fearrunsthroughme.“You play well, Miss

Steele. I must say I’msurprised. Why don’t yousinktheblack?”

Myfearforgotten,Ipout,wondering why the hell heshould be surprised—sexy,arrogant bastard. My innergoddessislimberingupinthebackground, doing her floorexercises—a great fat smileonherface.

I position the white ball.Christian strolls back aroundthe table and stands rightbehind me as I lean over totake my shot. He places hishand on my right thigh andrunshis fingersupanddownmyleg,up tomybehindandback again, lightly strokingme.

“I am going to miss ifyou keep doing that,” Iwhisper,closingmyeyesand

relishingthefeelofhishandsonme.

“Idon’tcareifyouhitormiss, baby. I just wanted tosee you like this—partiallydressed, stretched out onmybilliard table. Do you haveanyideahowhotyoulookatthemoment?”

I flush, and my innergoddessgrabsarosebetweenher teeth and starts to tango.Takingadeepbreath,Itryto

ignore him and line up myshot. It’s impossible. Hecaressesmybehind,overandoveragain.

“Top left,” I murmur,then hit the white ball. Hesmacksmehard, squarelyonmybackside.

It’ssounexpected,Iyelp.The white hits the black,which bounces off thecushion wide of the pocket.Christian caressesmy behind

again.“Oh, I think you need to

try that again,” he whispers.“You should concentrate,Anastasia.”

Iampantingnow,excitedbythisgame.Hestrollstotheend of the table, sets up theblackballagain,thenrunsthewhite ball back down tome.Helookssocarnal,darkeyedwith a lascivious smile.HowcouldIeverresistthisman?I

catch the ball and line it up,readytostrikeagain.

“Uh-uh,” he admonishes.“Justwait.”Oh,hejust lovesprolonging the agony. Hewanders back and standsbehindme again. I closemyeyesoncemoreashestrokesmy left thigh this time thenfondlesmybacksideagain.

“Takeaim,”hebreathes.I can’t helpmymoan as

desire twists and turns inside

me. And I try, really try, tothinkaboutwhereIshouldhitthe black with the white. Ishiftslightlytomyright,andhe follows me. I bend overthe table once more. Usingevery last vestige of innerstrength—which hasdiminished considerablysince I know what willhappenonceIstrikethewhiteball—I take aim and hit thewhiteagain.Christiansmacks

meoncemore,hard.Ow! I miss again. “Oh

no!”Igroan.“Oncemore,baby.Andif

youmissthistime,I’mreallygoingtoletyouhaveit.”

What?Havewhat?He sets up the black ball

once more and walks,achingly slow, back to meuntilhe’sstandingbehindme,caressing my backside oncemore.

“You can do it,” hecoaxes.

Oh—not when you’redistracting me like this. Ipushmybehindbackagainsthis hand, and he smacks melightly.

“Eager,Miss Steele?” hemurmurs.

Yes.Iwantyou.“Well, let’s get rid of

these.” He gently slides mypanties down my thighs and

off. I can’t seewhat he doeswith them, but he leaves mefeelingexposedasheplantsasoftkissoneachcheek.

“Taketheshot,baby.”Iwanttowhimper,thisis

so not going to happen. Iknow I am going to miss. Ilineupthewhite,hitit,andinmy impatience, miss theblack completely. I wait forthe blow—but it doesn’tcome. Instead he leans right

over me, flattening meagainst the table, takes thecueoutofmyhandand rollsit to the side cushion. I canfeel him, hard, against mybackside.

“You missed,” he sayssoftlyinmyear.Mycheekispressed against the baize.“Put your hands flat on thetable.”

Idoashesays.“Good. I’m going to

spankyounowandnexttime,maybe youwon’t.”He shiftsso he’s standing to my leftside, his erection against myhip.

I groan and my heartleaps into my mouth. Mybreath comes in short pantsand a hot, heavy excitementcourses through my veins.Gently, he caresses mybehind and curls his otherhand around the nape of my

neck,hisfingersfistinginmyhair, his elbow at my back,holding me down. I amcompletelyhelpless.

“Open your legs,” hemurmursandforamoment,Ihesitate. And he smacks mehard—with the ruler! Thenoise is harsher than thesting, and it takes me bysurprise. I gasp, and he hitsmeagain.

“Legs,”heorders. Iopen

my legs, panting. The rulerstrikes again. Ow—it stings,but its crack across my skinsoundsworsethanitfeels.

I close my eyes andabsorb the pain. It’s not toobad,andChristian’sbreathingbecomes harsher.He hitsmeagainandagain,and Imoan.Iamnotsurehowmanymorestrokes I can bear—buthearing him, knowing howturned on he is, feeds my

arousalandmywillingnesstocontinue.Iamcrossingtothedark side, a place in mypsycheIdon’tknowwellbuthave visited before in theplayroom—with the Tallis.The ruler strikes once more,and I moan loudly, andChristian groans in response.He hits me again—andagain... and once more...harder this time—and Iwince.

“Stop.” The word is outofmymouthbeforeI’mevenaware that I’ve said it.Christian drops the rulerimmediatelyandreleasesme.

“Enough?”hewhispers.“Yes.”“Iwanttofuckyounow,”

hesays,hisvoicestrained.“Yes,” I murmur with

longing.Heundoeshisfly,asI lie panting on the table,knowingthathe’sgoingtobe

rough.I marvel once more at

how I have managed—andyes, enjoyed— what he’sdone to me up to this point.It’ssodarkbutsohim.

He eases two fingersinsidemeandmovestheminacircularmotion.Thefeelingisexquisite.Closingmyeyes,Irevelinthesensation.Ihearthe telltale rip of foil, thenhe’s standing behind me,

between my legs, pushingthemwider.

Slowly he sinks intome,fillingme.Ihearhisgroanofpurepleasure,and it stirsmysoul. He grasps my hipsfirmly,easesoutofmeagain,andthis timeslamsbackintome,causingmetocryout.Hestillsforamoment.

“Again?”heaskssoftly.“Yes... I’m fine. Lose

yourself...takemewithyou,”

Imurmurbreathlessly.He moans low in his

throat, eases out of me oncemore,thenslamsintome,andrepeats this over and overslowly, deliberately—apunishing, brutal, heavenlyrhythm.

Oh fucking my... Myinsides begin to quicken. Hefeelsit,too,andincreasestherhythm, pushing me, higher,harder, faster—and I

surrender, exploding aroundhim—a draining, soul-grabbing orgasm that leavesmespentandexhausted.

I’m vaguely aware thatChristian, too, is letting go,calling my name, his fingersdigging into my hips, andthenhestillsandcollapsesonme.Wesinktothefloor,andhecradlesmeinhisarms.

“Thank you, baby,” hebreathes, covering my

upturned face in soft feather-light kisses. I open my eyesand gaze up at him, and hewrapshisarmstighteraroundme.

“Yourcheekispinkfromthe baize,” he murmurs,rubbing my face tenderly.“Howwasthat?”Hiseyesarewideandcautious.

“Teeth-clenchinglygood,” I mutter. “I like itrough,Christian,andI like it

gentle, too. I like that it’swithyou.”

He closes his eyes andhugsmeeventighter.

Jeez,I’mtired.“You never fail, Ana.

You are beautiful, bright,challenging, fun, sexy, and Ithank divine providenceeverydaythatitwasyouthatcametointerviewmeandnotKatherine Kavanagh.” Hekisses my hair. I smile and

yawn against his chest. “I’mwearing you out,” hecontinues.“Come.Bath, thenbed.”

We are both in Christian’sbath, facing each other chin-deepinfoam,thesweetscentof jasmine enveloping us.Christian is massaging myfeet,oneatatime.Itfeelsso

gooditshouldbeillegal.“Can I ask you

something?”Imurmur.“Of course. Anything,

Ana,youknowthat.”I take a deep breath and

situp,flinchingonlyslightly.“Tomorrow—when I go

to work—can Sawyer justdeliver me to the front doorof theoffice thenpickmeupattheendoftheday?Please,Christian.Please,”Iplead.

His hands still as hisbrow creases. “I thought weagreed,”hegrumbles.

“Please,”Ibeg.“Whataboutlunchtime?”“I’ll make myself

something to take from hereso I don’t have to go out,please.”

He kisses my instep. “Ifinditverydifficulttosaynoto you,” he mutters as if hesenses this is a failingonhis

part.“Youwon’tgoout?”“No.”“Okay.”I beam at him. “Thank

you.” I lean up onto myknees, sloshing watereverywhere,andkisshim.

“You’re most welcome,Miss Steele. How’s yourbehind?”

“Sore. But not too bad.Thewaterissoothing.”

“I’mgladyou toldme to

stop,”hesays,gazingatme.“Soismybehind.”Hegrins.

I stretch out in bed, so tired.It’sonlytenthirty,butitfeelslike three in the morning.Thishastobeoneofthemostexhausting weekends of mylife.

“Didn’t Ms. Acton

provide any nightwear?”Christianasks,hisvoicelacedwith disapproval as he staresdownatme.

“I have no idea. I likewearing your T-shirts,” Imumblesleepily.

His face softens, and heleans over and kisses myforehead.

“I need to work. But Idon’t want to leave youalone. Can I use your laptop

tologintotheoffice?WillIdisturb you if I work fromhere?”

“S’notmylaptop.”Idrift.

Thealarmclickson,startlingme awake with the trafficnews.Christian is still asleepbesideme.Rubbingmyeyes,I glance at the clock. Sixthirty—tooearly.

It’srainingoutsideforthefirst time in ages, and thelight is muted and mellow.I’m cozy and comfortable inthis vast modern monolithwith Christian at my side. Istretch and turn to thedeliciousmanbesideme.Hiseyes spring open and heblinkssleepily.

“Goodmorning.” I smileand caress his face, leaningdowntokisshim.

“Good morning, baby. Iusuallywakebeforethealarmgoes off,” he murmurs inwonder.

“It’ssetsoearly.”“That it is,Miss Steele.”

Christiangrins.“Ihavetogetup.” He kisses me, and thenhe’supandoutofbed.Iflopback against the pillows.Wow,wakinguponaschoolday next to Christian Grey.How did this all happen? I

closemyeyesanddoze.“Come on, sleepyhead,

get up.” Christian leans overme.He’sshaved,clean,fresh—Hmm,hesmellssogood—in a crisp white shirt andblacksuit,notie—theCEOisback. Holy Moses, he looksgoodlikethis,too.

“What?”heasks.“Iwishyou’dcomeback

tobed.”Hislipspart,surprisedby

my come-on, and he smilesalmost shyly. “You areinsatiable, Miss Steele. Asmuch as that idea appeals, Ihave an eight thirtymeeting,soIhavetogoshortly.”

Oh,I’vesleptforanotherhourorso.Shit. I leapoutofbed, much to Christian’samusement.

I shower and dress quickly,wearing the clothes I set outyesterday: a fitted, graypencil skirt; pale-gray silkshirt; and high-heeled blackpumps, all care of my newwardrobe. I brush my hairand carefully put it up, thenwanderouttothegreatroom,not really knowing what toexpect. How am I going togettowork?

Christian is sipping

coffee at the breakfast bar.Mrs. Jones is in the kitchenmakingpancakesandbacon.

“You look lovely,”Christianmurmurs.Wrappingan arm aroundme, he kissesme undermy ear.Out of thecorner of my eye, I catchMrs.Jones’ssmile.Iflush.

“Good morning, MissSteele,” she says as sheplacespancakesandbaconinfrontofme.

“Oh, thank you. Goodmorning,” Imumble. Jeez—Icouldgetusedtothis.

“Mr. Grey says you’dliketotakelunchwithyoutowork.Whatwouldyouliketoeat?”

IglanceatChristian,whois trying very hard not tosmirk. I narrow my eyes athim.

“A sandwich... salad. Ireallydon’tmind.”Ibeamat

Mrs.Jones.“I’ll rustle up a packed

lunchforyou,ma’am.”“Please, Mrs. Jones, call

meAna.”“Ana.” She smiles and

turnstomakemetea.Wow...thisissocool.I turn and cockmy head

at Christian, challenging him—goon,accusemeofflirtingwithMrs.Jones.

“I have to go, baby.

Taylor will come back anddrop you at work withSawyer.”

“Onlytothedoor.”“Yes. Only to the door.”

Christian rolls his eyes. “Becareful,though.”

I glance around and spyTaylor standing in theentranceway.Christianstandsand kisses me, grasping mychin.

“Laters,baby.”

“Have a good day at theoffice,dear,”Icallafterhim.He turns and flashes me hisbeautiful smile then he’sgone.Mrs. Joneshandsmeacupoftea,andsuddenlyIfeelawkwardwithjustthetwoofushere.

“How long have youworked forChristian?” I ask,thinking I ought to makesomekindofconversation.

“Four years or so,” she

says pleasantly, as she setsabout making my packedlunch.

“You know, I can dothat,” I mutter, embarrassedthat she should be doing thisforme.

“You eat your breakfast,Ana. This is what I do. Ienjoyit.It’snicetolookaftersomeone other than Mr.Taylor and Mr. Grey.” Shesmilesverysweetlyatme.

My cheeks pink withpleasure, and I want tobombard this woman withquestions.Shemust know somuch about Fifty, andalthoughhermanneriswarmand friendly, it’s also veryprofessional. IknowI’llonlyembarrassbothofusifIstartquizzing her, so I finish mybreakfast in a reasonablycomfortable silence,punctuated only by her

questions on my foodpreferencesforlunch.

Twenty-fiveminuteslaterSawyer appears at theentrance to the great room. Ihave brushed my teeth, andI’mwaiting to go. Clutchingmybrownpaperlunchbag—Ican’t even remember mymom doing this for me—SawyerandIheadtothefirstfloor via the elevator. He’svery taciturn, too, giving

nothing away. Taylor iswaiting in the Audi, and Iclimb into the rear passengerseat when Sawyer opens thedoor.

“Goodmorning,Taylor,”Isaybrightly.

“MissSteele.”Hesmiles.“Taylor, I’m sorry about

yesterday and myinappropriateremarks.IhopeIdidn’tgetyouintotrouble.”

Taylor frowns in

bemusement at me from therearview mirror as he pullsoutintotheSeattletraffic.

“Miss Steele, I’m rarelyin trouble,” he saysreassuringly.

Oh good. MaybeChristian didn’t tell him off.Justme,then,Ithinksourly.

“I’m glad to hear it,Taylor.”Ismile.

Jack gazes at me, assessingmyappearance,asImakemywaytomydesk.

“Morning, Ana. Goodweekend?”

“Yes,thanks.You?”“Itwasgood.Get settled

in—I have work for you todo.”

Inodandsitdownatmycomputer. It seems likeyearssince Iwasatwork. I switchon my computer and fire up

my e-mail program—and ofcoursethere’sane-mailfromChristian.

From:ChristianGreySubject:BossDate:June13,201108:24To:AnastasiaSteele

Goodmorning,MissSteeleIjustwantedtosaythankyouforawonderfulweekendin

spiteofallthedrama.Ihopeyouneverleave,ever.AndjusttoremindyouthatthenewsofSIPisembargoedforfourweeks.Deletethise-mailassoonasyou’vereadit.

YoursChristianGrey,CEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.&Yourboss’sboss’sboss.

Hope Inever leave?Doeshewant me to move in? HolyMoses... I barely know theman.Ipressdelete.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:BossyDate:June13,2011:09:03To:ChristianGrey

DearMr.GreyAreyouaskingmetomovein

withyou?Andofcourse,Irememberedthattheevidenceofyourepicstalkingcapabilitiesisembargoedforanotherfourweeks.DoImakeacheckouttoCopingTogetherandsendtoyourdad?Pleasedon’tdeletethise-mail.Pleaserespondtoit.

ILYxxx


“Ana!”Jackmakesmejump.“Yes,” I flush, and Jack

frownsatme.“Everythingokay?”“Sure.”Iscrambleupand

take my notebook into hisoffice.

“Good. As you probablyremember, I’m going to thatCommissioning FictionSymposium inNewYork onThursday. I have tickets andreservations, but I’d like you

tocomewithme.”“ToNewYork?”“Yes. We’ll need to go

Wednesday and stayovernight. I think you’ll findit a very educationalexperience.”His eyes darkenashe says this, but his smileis polite. “Would you makethe necessary travelarrangements? And book anadditional room at the hotelwhere I am staying? I think

Sabrina,mypreviousPA,leftall the details handysomewhere.”

“Okay.” I smilewanlyatJack.

Crap. I wander back tomydesk.ThisisnotgoingtogodownwellwithFifty—butthe fact is, I want to go. Itsounds like a realopportunity, and I’m sure IcankeepJackatarm’slengthif that’s his ulterior motive.

Back at my desk there’s aresponsefromChristian.

From:ChristianGreySubject:Me,Bossy?Date:June13,201109:07To:AnastasiaSteele

Yes.Please.

ChristianGrey,CEO,GreyEnterprises

HoldingsInc.

Jeez... he does want me tomove in. Oh, Christian—it’stoosoon.Iputmyheadinmyhands to try and recover mywits. This is all I need aftermy extraordinary weekend. Ihaven’t had a moment tomyself to think through andunderstand all that I have

experienced and discoveredtheselasttwodays.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:FlynnismsDate:June13,2011:09:20To:ChristianGrey

ChristianWhathappenedtowalkingbeforewerun?Canwetalkaboutthistonight,

please?I’vebeenaskedtogotoaconferenceinNewYorkonThursday.ItmeansanovernightstayonWednesday.Justthoughtyoushouldknow.Ax


From:ChristianGreySubject:WHAT?Date:June13,201109:21To:AnastasiaSteele

Yes.Let’stalkthisevening.Areyougoingonyourown?


From:AnastasiaSteele

Subject:NoBoldShoutyCapitalsonaMondayMorning!Date:June13,2011:09:30To:ChristianGrey

Canwetalkaboutthistonight?Ax


From:ChristianGrey

Subject:YouHaven’tSeenShoutyYet.Date:June13,201109:35To:AnastasiaSteele

Tellme.Ifit’swiththesleazeballyouworkwith,thentheanswerisno,overmydeadbody.


Myheartsinks.Shit—it’slikehe’smydad.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:NoYOUhaven’tseenshoutyyet.Date:June13,201109:46To:ChristianGrey

Yes.ItiswithJack.Iwanttogo.It’sanexcitingopportunityforme.

AndIhaveneverbeentoNewYork.Don’tgetyourknickersinatwist.


From:ChristianGreySubject:NoYOUhaven’tseenshoutyyet.Date:June13,201109:50

To:AnastasiaSteele

AnastasiaIt’snotmyfuckingknickersIamworriedabout.TheanswerisNO.


“No!” I shout at mycomputer, causing the entire

office to come to a standstilland stare at me. Jack peersoutfromhisoffice.

“Everything all right,Ana?”

“Yes.Sorry,”Imutter.“Ier... just didn’t save adocument.” I am scarletwithembarrassment. He smiles atme but with a puzzledexpression. I take severaldeepbreathsandquicklytypearesponse.Iamsomad.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:FiftyShadesDate:June13,201109:55To:ChristianGrey

ChristianYouneedtogetagrip.IamNOTgoingtosleepwithJack—notforalltheteainChina.ILOVEyou.That’swhathappenswhenpeopleloveeachother.TheyTRUSTeachother.Idon’tthinkyouaregoingto

SLEEPWITH,SPANK,FUCK,orWHIPanyoneelse.IhaveFAITHandTRUSTinyou.PleaseextendthesameCOURTESYtome.Ana


Isitwaitingforhisresponse.Nothing arrives. I call the

airline and book a ticket formyself, ensuring I amon thesameflightasJack.Ihearthepingofnewmail.

From:Lincoln,ElenaSubject:LunchDateDate:June13,201110:15To:AnastasiaSteele

DearAnastasiaIwouldreallyliketohavelunch

withyou.Ithinkwegotoffonthewrongfoot,andI’dliketomakethatright.Areyoufreesometimethisweek?

ElenaLincoln

Holy crap—not Mrs.Robinson! How the hell didshe find out my e-mailaddress?Iputmyheadinmyhands. Can this day get any

worse?My phone rings and

wearily I lift my head frommy hands and answer,glancing at the clock. It isonlytentwenty,andalreadyIwish I hadn’t left Christian’sbed.

“JackHyde’soffice,AnaSteelespeaking.”

An achingly familiarvoicesnarlsatme,“Willyouplease delete the last e-mail

you sent me and try to be alittlemorecircumspectinthelanguage you use in yourwork e-mail? I told you, thesystem is monitored. I shallendeavor todosomedamagelimitation from here.” Hehangsup.

Holyfuck...Isitstaringatthephone.Christianhunguponme.Thatmanisstompingall over my fledgling career,and he hangs up on me? I

glareat thereceiver,andif itwasn’t completely inanimate,I know it would shrivel inhorror under my witheringstare.

I open my e-mails anddeletetheoneIsenthim.It’snot that bad. I just mentionspankingandwell,whipping.Jeez,ifhe’ssoashamedofit,hedamnwellshouldn’tdoit.I pickupmyBlackberry andcallhismobile.

“What?”hesnaps.“IamgoingtoNewYork

whetheryou like itornot,” Ihiss.

“Don’tcount—”Ihangup,cuttinghimoff

mid-sentence. Adrenaline iscoursing through my body.There—thattoldhim.Iamsomad.

I take a deep breath,trying to compose myself.Closing my eyes, I imagine

that Iam inmyhappyplace.Hmm... a boat cabin withChristian. I shake the imageoff as I am toomad at Fiftyright now for him to beanywhere near my happyplace.

Opening my eyes, Icalmlyreachformynotebookandcarefullyrunthroughmytodo list. I takea long,deepbreath, my equilibriumrestored.

“Ana!” Jack shouts,startlingme.“Don’tbookthatflight!”

“Oh, too late. I’ve doneit,”Ireplyashestridesoutofhis office over to me. Helooksmad.

“Look, there’s somethinggoing on. For some reason,suddenly, all travel andhotelexpenses for staff have to beapproved by seniormanagement. This has come

rightfromthetop.Iamgoingup to see old Roach.Apparently, amoratoriumonall spending has just beenimplemented. I don’tunderstand it.” Jack pinchesthe bridge of his nose andcloseshiseyes.

Most of the blood drainsfrommyfaceandknotsforminmystomach.Fifty!

“Take my calls. I’ll gosee what Roach has to say.”

He winks at me and stridesoff to see his boss—not theboss’sboss.

Damn it. ChristianGrey... My blood starts toboilagain.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Whathaveyoudone?Date:June13,201110:43To:ChristianGrey

Pleasetellmeyouwon’tinterferewithmywork.Ireallywanttogotothisconference.Ishouldn’thavetoaskyou.Ihavedeletedtheoffendinge-mail.


From:ChristianGrey

Subject:Whathaveyoudone?Date:June13,201110:46To:AnastasiaSteele

Iamjustprotectingwhatismine.Thee-mailthatyousorashlysentiswipedfromtheSIPservernow,asaremye-mailstoyou.Incidentally,Itrustyouimplicitly.It’shimIdon’ttrust.


I check to see if I still havehis e-mails, and they havedisappeared. This man’sinfluence knows no bounds.How does he do this? Whodoes he know that canstealthily delve into thedepths of SIP’s servers andremove e-mails? I am so outofmyleaguehere.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:GrownUpDate:June13,201110:43To:ChristianGrey

ChristianIdon’tneedprotectingfrommyownboss.Hemaymakeapassatme,butIshallsayno.Youcannotinterfere.It’swrongandcontrollingonsomanylevels.

AnastasiaSteeleAssistanttoJackHyde,

CommissioningEditor,SIP

From:ChristianGreySubject:TheAnswerisNODate:June13,201110.50To:AnastasiaSteele

AnaIhaveseenhow“effective”youareatfightingoffunwantedattention.Irememberthat’showIhadthepleasureofspendingmyfirstnightwithyou.

Atleastthephotographerhasfeelingsforyou.Thesleazeball,ontheotherhand,doesnot.Heisaserialphilanderer,andhewilltrytoseduceyou.AskhimwhathappenedtohispreviousPAandtheonebeforethat.Idon’twanttofightaboutthis.IfyouwanttogotoNewYork,I’lltakeyou.Wecangothisweekend.Ihaveanapartmentthere.


Oh,Christian!That’snot thepoint. He’s so damnfrustrating.And of course hehas an apartment there.Where else does he ownproperty? Trust him to bringup José.Will I ever live thatdown? I was drunk, forheaven’ssake.Iwouldn’tgetdrunkwithJack.

I shake my head at thescreen, but figure I cannotcontinue to argue with him

over e-mail. I shall have tobide my time until thisevening. I check the clock.Jackisstillnotbackfromhismeeting with Jerry, and Ineed to deal with Elena. Iread her e-mail again anddecide that the best way tohandle it is to send it toChristian. Let himconcentrateonherratherthanme.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:FWLunchdateorIrritatingBaggageDate:June13,201111:15To:ChristianGrey

ChristianWhileyouhavebeenbusyinterferinginmycareerandsavingyourassfrommycarelessmissives,Ireceivedthefollowinge-mailfromMrs.Lincoln.Ireallydon’twanttomeetwithher—evenifIdid,Iamnotallowedtoleavethis

building.Howshegotholdofmye-mailaddress,Idon’tknow.WhatwouldyousuggestIdo?Here-mailisbelow:

DearAnastasia,Iwouldreallyliketohavelunchwithyou.Ithinkwegotoffonthewrongfoot,andI’dliketomakethatright.Areyoufreesometimethisweek?ElenaLincoln



From:ChristianGreySubject:IrritatingBaggageDate:June13,201111:23To:AnastasiaSteele

Don’tbemadatme.Ihaveyourbestinterestsatheart.Ifanythinghappenedtoyou,Iwouldneverforgivemyself.I’lldealwithMrs.Lincoln.


From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:LatersDate:June13,2011:11:32To:ChristianGrey

Canwepleasediscussthistonight?Iamtryingtowork,andyourcontinuedinterferenceisvery

distracting.


JackreturnsaftermiddayandtellsmethatNewYorkisoffformethoughheisstillgoingandthere’snothinghecandotochangeseniormanagementpolicy. He strides into his

office, slamming the door,obviously furious.Why is hesoangry?

Deep down, I know hisintentions are less thanhonorable,butIamsureIcandeal with him, and I wonderwhat Christian knows aboutJack’s previous PAs. I parkthese thoughts and continuewith some work, but resolveto try to make Christianchange his mind, though the

prospectsarebleak.At one o’clock, Jack

pokes his head out of theofficedoor.

“Ana, please could yougoandgetmesomelunch?”

“Sure. What would youlike?”

“Pastrami on rye, holdthemustard.I’llgiveyouthemoneywhenyou’reback.”

“Anythingtodrink?”“Coke, please. Thanks,

Ana.”HeheadsbackintohisofficeasIreachformypurse.

Crap. I promisedChristianIwouldn’tgoout.Isigh. He’ll never know, andI’llbequick.

Claire from receptionoffersme her umbrella sinceitisstillpouringwithrain.AsIheadoutofthefrontdoors,Ipullmyjacketaroundmeandtake a furtive glance in bothdirections from beneath the

overlarge golf umbrella.Nothingseemsamiss.There’snosignofGhostGirl.

I march briskly, and Ihope inconspicuously, downthe block to the deli.However, the closer I get tothe deli, the more I have acreepy sense that I am beingwatched,and Idon’tknow ifit’smy heightened feeling ofparanoia or a reality. Shit. Ihopeit’snotLeilawithagun.

It’sjustyourimagination,my subconscious snaps.Whothe hell wouldwant to shootyou?

Within fifteen minutes, Iam back—safe, sound butrelieved. I think Christian’sextreme paranoia and hisoverprotective vigilance isbeginningtogettome.

As I take Jack’s lunch into him, he glances up fromthephone.

“Ana, thanks. Sinceyou’re not coming with me,I’m going to need you towork late. We need to getthese briefs ready.Hope youdon’t have plans.”He smilesupatmewarmly,andIflush.

“No, that’s fine,” I saywith a bright smile and asinking heart. This is notgoing to go down well.Christianwillfreak,I’msure.

As I head back to my

desk I decide not to tell himimmediately, otherwise hemight have time to interfereinsomeway.Isitandeatthechicken salad sandwichMrs.Jones made for me. It’sdelicious. Shemakes ameansandwich.

Of course, if I moved inwith Christian, she wouldmake lunch for me everyweekday. The idea isunsettling. I have never had

dreamsofobscenewealthandall the trappings—only love.To find someone who lovesmeanddoesn’t try tocontrolmy every move. The phonerings.

“JackHyde’soffice—”“You assured me you

wouldn’t go out,” Christianinterrupts me, his voice coldandhard.

My heart sinks for themillionth time this day. Shit.

Howthehelldoesheknow?“Jack sent me out for

somelunch.Icouldn’tsayno.Are you having mewatched?”My scalp pricklesat the notion. No wonder Ifelt so paranoid—someonewaswatching me.Thethoughtmakesmeangry.

“This is why I didn’twant you going back towork,”Christiansnaps.

“Christian,please.You’re

being”—So Fifty—“sosuffocating.”

“Suffocating?” hewhispers,surprised.

“Yes. You have to stopthis. I’ll talk to you thisevening. Unfortunately, Ihave to work late because Ican’tgotoNewYork.”

“Anastasia, I don’t wantto suffocate you,” he saysquietly,appalled.

“Well, you are. I have

work to do. I’ll talk to youlater.” I hang up, feelingdrained and vaguelydepressed.

After our wonderfulweekend,therealityishittinghome. Ihavenever feltmorelike running. Running tosome quiet retreat so I canthink about this man, abouthow he is, and about how todealwithhim.Ononelevel,Iknowhe’sbroken—Icansee

that clearly now—and it’sboth heartbreaking andexhausting. From the smallpieces of preciousinformation that he’s givenme about his life, Iunderstand why. An unlovedchild; a hideously abusiveenvironment; a mother whocouldn’t protect him, whomhe couldn’t protect, andwhodiedinfrontofhim.

Ishudder.MypoorFifty.

Iamhis,butnottobekeptinsomegilded cage.Howam Igoingtomakehimseethis?

Withaheavyheart,Idragone of the manuscripts Jackwants me to summarize intomylapandcontinuetoread.Ican thinkofnoeasysolutionto Christian’s fucked-upcontrolissues.Iwilljusthaveto talk to him later, face toface.

Halfanhourlater,Jacke-

mails me a document that Ineed to tidy up and polish,ready for printing tomorrowin time for his conference. Itwill takemenot just the restoftheafternoonbutwellintothe evening, too. I set towork.

WhenIlookup,it’safterseven and the office isdeserted, though the light inJack’s office is still on. Ihadn’t noticed everyone

leaving, but I am nearlyfinished. I e-mail thedocumentbacktoJackforhisapprovalandcheckmyinbox.There’s nothing new fromChristian,soIquicklyglanceat my Blackberry, and itstartles me by buzzing—it’sChristian.

“Hi,”Imurmur.“Hi, when will you be

finished?”“Byseventhirty,Ithink.”

“I’llmeetyououtside.”“Okay.”Hesoundsquiet,nervous

even. Why? Wary of myreaction?

“I’mstillmadatyou,butthat’s all,” I whisper. “Wehavealottotalkabout.”

“Iknow.Seeyouatseventhirty.”

Jack comes out of hisoffice.

“I have to go. See you

later.”Ihangup.I look up at Jack as he

strollscasuallytowardme.“I just need a couple of

tweaks. I’ve e-mailed thebriefbacktoyou.”

HeleansovermewhileIretrieve the document, ratherclose—uncomfortably close.His arm brushes mine.Accidentally?I flinch,buthepretends not to notice. Hisotherarmrestsonthebackof

mychair,touchingmyback.Isit up so I’m not leaningagainstthebackrest.

“Pages sixteen andtwenty-three, and that shouldbeit,”hemurmurs,hismouthinchesfrommyear.

My skin crawls at hisproximity, but I choose toignore it. Opening thedocument, I shakily start onthechanges.He’sstillleaningover me, and all my senses

are hyperaware. It’sdistractingandawkward,andinside I am screaming, Backoff!

“Once this is done, it’llbe good to go to print. Youcan organize that tomorrow.Thank you for staying lateand doing this, Ana.” Hisvoice is smooth, gentle, likehe’s talking to a woundedanimal.Mystomachtwists.

“I think the least I could

doisrewardyouwithaquickdrink. You deserve one.” Hetucks a strand of my hairthat’s come loose from myhair tie behind my ear andgentlycaressesthelobe.

Icringegrittingmyteeth,and I jerk my head away.Shit! Christian was right.Don’ttouchme.

“Actually, I can’t thisevening.” Or any otherevening,Jack.

“Just a quick one?” hecoaxes.

“No, I can’t. But thankyou.”

Jacksitsontheendofmydeskandfrowns.Alarmbellssound loudly in my head. Iamonmyownintheoffice.Icannot leave. I glancenervously at the clock.Another five minutes beforeChristianisdue.

“Ana, I thinkwemake a

great team. I’m sorry that Icouldn’t pull off this NewYork trip. It won’t be thesamewithoutyou.”

I’msure itwon’t. I smileweakly up at him, because Ican’t think of what to say.Andforthefirsttimeallday,I feel the tiniesthintof reliefthatIamnotgoing.

“So,didyouhaveagoodweekend?”heaskssmoothly.

“Yes, thanks.” Where is

hegoingwiththis?“Seeyourboyfriend?”“Yes.”“Whatdoeshedo?”Ownsyourass...“He’sin

business.”“That’s interesting.What

kindofbusiness?”“Oh,hehashisfingersin

allsortsofpies.”Jack cocks his head to

onesideasheleansintowardme, invading my personal

space—again.“You’re being very coy,

Ana.”“Well, he’s in

telecommunications,manufacturing, andagriculture.”

Jack raises his eyebrows.“So many things. Who doesheworkfor?”

“Heworksforhimself.Ifyou’re happy with thedocument, I’d like to go, if

that’sokay?”He leans back. My

personalspaceissafeagain.“Of course. Sorry, I

didn’tmeantokeepyou,”hesaysdisingenuously.

“What time does thebuildingclose?”

“Security is here untileleven.”

“Good.” I smile, andmysubconscious flops down inher armchair, relieved to

knowthatwearenotaloneinthe building. Switching offmy computer, I grab mypurse and stand up, ready toleave.

“Youlikehimthen?Yourboyfriend?”

“I love him,” I answer,looking Jack squarely in theeye.

“I see.” Jack frowns andhe stands up from my desk.“What’shissurname?”

Iflush.“Grey.ChristianGrey,” I

mumble.Jack’smouthdropsopen.

“Seattle’s richest bachelor?ThatChristianGrey?”

“Yes. The same.” Yes,that Christian Grey, yourfuturebosswhowillhaveyoufor breakfast if you invademypersonalspaceagain.

“I thought he lookedfamiliar,” Jack says darkly

and his brow creases again.“Well,he’saluckyman.”

Iblinkathim.WhatdoIsaytothat?

“Have a good evening,Ana.” Jack smiles, but thesmile doesn’t touch his eyes,andhewalksstifflybackintohisofficewithoutabackwardglance.

I let out a long sigh ofrelief. Well, that problemmight be solved. Fiftyworks

his magic again. Just hisname is my talisman, and ithas this man retreating withhis tail between his legs. Iallow myself a smallvictorious smile. You see,Christian? Even your nameprotectsme—youdidn’thaveto go to all that trouble ofclampingdownonexpenses.Itidy my desk and check mywatch. Christian should beoutside.

The Audi is parked upagainst the sidewalk, andTaylor leaps out to open therear passenger door. I havenever been so pleased to seehim, and I scramble into thecaroutoftherain.

Christian is in the rearseat, gazing at me, his eyeswide andwary.He’s bracinghimselfformyanger,hisjawtightandtense.

“Hi,”Imurmur.

“Hi,” he repliescautiously. He reaches overand grasps my hand,squeezing it tightly, and myheart thaws a little. I’m soconfused. I haven’t evenworkedoutwhatIneedtosaytohim.

“Are you still mad?” heasks.

“I don’t know,” Imurmur. He raises my handand lightly grazes my

knuckles with soft butterflykisses.

“It’s been a shitty day,”hesays.

“Yes, ithas.”But for thefirst time since he left forworkthismorning,Ibegintorelax. Just being in hiscompany is a soothing balm,andalltheshitfromJack,andthesnarkye-mailstoandfro,andthenuisancethatisElenafadeintothebackground.It’s

justmeandmycontrol freakinthebackofthecar.

“It’s better now thatyou’re here,” he murmurs.We sit in silence as Taylorweaves through the eveningtraffic, both of us broodingand contemplative; but I feelChristian slowly unwindbesidemeashe,too,relaxes,gently running his thumbacrossmyknuckles ina soft,soothingrhythm.

Taylor drops us outsidethe apartment building, andwe both duck inside, out ofthe rain. Christian claspsmyhand as we wait for theelevator, his eyes scanningthefrontofthebuilding.

“I take it you haven’tfoundLeilayet.”

“No. Welch is stilllooking for her,” he muttersdespondently.

The elevator arrives and

inwe step. Christian glancesdown at me, his gray eyesunreadable.Oh,he just looksglorious—tousled hair, whiteshirt,darksuit.Andsuddenlyit’s there, fromnowhere, thatfeeling.Ohmy—the longing,the lust, the electricity. If itwere visible, it would be anintense blue aura around andbetweenusit’ssostrong.Hislipspartashegazesatme.

“Do you feel it?” he

breathes.“Yes.”“Oh, Ana.” He groans

and he grabs me, his armssnakingaroundme,onehandat the nape of my neck,tipping my head back as hislipsfindmine.Myfingersarein his hair and caressing hischeek as he pushes me backagainsttheelevatorwall.

“I hate arguing withyou,” hebreathes againstmy

mouth, and there’s adesperate, passionate qualityto his kiss thatmirrorsmine.Desire explodes inmy body,all the tension of the dayseeking an outlet, strainingagainst him, seeking more.We’re all tongues andbreathing and hands andtouch and sweet, sweetsensation.Hishand is onmyhip,andabruptlyhe’spullingup my skirt, his fingers

strokingmythighs.“Sweet Jesus, you’re

wearing stockings.” Hemoansinappreciativeaweashis thumb caresses the fleshabove my stocking line. “Iwanttoseethis,”hebreathes,andhepullsmyskirtrightup,exposing the tops of mythighs.

Steppingback,hereachesover topress thestopbutton,and the elevator coasts

smoothly to a halt betweenthe twenty-second andtwenty-third floors. His eyesaredark,lipsparted,andhe’sbreathingashardasamI.Wegaze at each other, nottouching.Iamgratefulforthewallagainstmyback,holdingme up while I bask in thisbeautiful man’s sensual,carnalappraisal.

“Take your hair down,”he orders, his voice husky. I

reach up and undo the tie,releasing my hair so ittumbles in a thick cloudaround my shoulders to mybreasts. “Undo the top twobuttons of your shirt,” hewhispers, his eyes wildernow.

He makes me feel sowanton.My inner goddess iswrithing on her chaiselongue,waiting,wanting,andpanting. I reach up and undo

eachbutton,achingly,slowly,sothatthetopsofmybreastsaretantalizinglyrevealed.

He swallows. “Do youhave any idea how alluringyoulookrightnow?”

Very deliberately, I bitemy lip and shake my head.He closes his eyes briefly,and when he opens themagain, they are blazing. Hesteps forward and places hishands on the elevator walls

on either side of my face.He’s as close as he can bewithouttouchingme.

I tipmy face up tomeethis gaze, and he leans downand runs his nose againstmine, so it’s theonlycontactbetweenus.Iamsohotintheconfinesof thiselevatorwithhim.Iwanthim—now.

“I think you do, MissSteele. I think you like todrivemewild.”

“Do I drive youwild?” Iwhisper.

“In all things, Anastasia.You are a siren, a goddess.”And he reaches for me,grasping my leg above myknee and hitching it aroundhis waist, so that I amstanding on one leg, leaninginto him. I feel him againstme, feel him hard andwantingabovetheapexofmythighs as he runs his lips

downmy throat. Imoan andwrap my arms around hisneck.

“I’m going to take younow, Anastasia,” he breathesand I arch my back inresponse, pressing myselfagainst him, eager for thefriction. He groans deep andlow in the back of his throatand boosts me higher as heundoeshisfly.

“Hold tight, baby,” he

murmurs, and magicallyproducesafoilpacketthatheholdsinfrontofmymouth.Itakeitbetweenmyteeth,andhe tugs, so that between us,weripitopen.

“Good girl.” He stepsbackafractionasheslidesonthe condom. “God, I can’twaitforthenextsixdays,”hegrowlsandgazesdownatmethrough hooded eyes. “I dohope you’re not overly fond

of these panties.” He tearsthrough them with his adeptfingers, and they disintegratein his hands. My blood ispoundingthroughmyveins.Iampantingwithneed.

His words areintoxicating, all my angstfrom the day forgotten. It’sjust him andme, doingwhatwe do best. Without takinghis eyes off mine, he sinksslowly into me. My body

bowsandItiltmyheadback,closingmyeyes,relishingthefeel of him inside me. Hepulls back and then movesinto me again, so slow, sosweet.Igroan.

“You’re mine,Anastasia,” he murmursagainstmythroat.

“Yes. Yours. When willyou accept that?” I pant. Hegroans and starts to move,reallymove.And I surrender

myself to his relentlessrhythm, savoring each pushand pull, his raggedbreathing, his need for me,reflectingmine.

It makes me feelpowerful, strong, desired andloved—loved by thiscaptivating,complicatedman,whomIloveinreturnwithallmy heart. He pushes harderand harder, his breathingragged, losing himself inme

asIlosemyselfinhim.“Oh, baby,” Christian

moans, his teeth grazing myjaw, and I comehard aroundhim. He stills, clutches me,and follows suit, whisperingmyname.

Now that Christian is spent,calm and kissing me gently,hisbreathingeases.Heholds

me upright against theelevator wall, our foreheadspressed together, and mybody is like jelly, weak butgratifyingly sated from myclimax.

“Oh, Ana,” he murmurs.“I need you so much.” Hekissesmyforehead.

“AndIyou,Christian.”Releasing me, he

straightensmyskirtanddoesup the two buttons on my

shirt, then punches thecombination into the keypadthat starts the elevator again.It rises with a jolt so that Ireachoutandclasphisarms.

“Taylor will bewonderingwhereweare,”hegrinslasciviouslyatme.

Oh crap. I drag myfingers through my hair in avain attempt to combat thejust-fuckedlook,thengiveupandtieitinaponytail.

“You’ll do.” Christiansmirks as he does up his flyand puts the condom in hispantspocket.

Once more he looks theembodiment of an Americanentrepreneur, and since hishairlooksjustfuckedmostofthe time, there’s very littledifference. Except now he’ssmiling, relaxed, his eyescrinkling with boyish charm.Are all men this easily

placated?Taylor is waiting when

thedoorsopen.“Problem with the

elevator,” Christian murmursas we both step out, and Icannot lookeitherof theminthe face. I scurry through thedouble doors to Christian’sbedroom in search of somefreshunderwear.

When I return, Christian hasremoved his jacket and issitting at the breakfast barchattingwithMrs.Jones.Shesmiles kindly at me as sheputs out two plates of hotfood for us. Mmm, it smellsdelicious—coqauvin,ifIamnotmistaken.Iamfamished.

“Enjoy,Mr. Grey, Ana,”shesaysandleavesustoit.

Christian fetches a bottleofwhitewinefromthefridge,

andaswesitandeat,hetellsme about how much nearerhe’s getting to perfecting asolar-powered mobile phone.He’s animated and excitedaboutthewholeproject,andIknow then thathehasn’thadanentirelyshittyday.

I ask him about hisproperties. He smirks, and itturns out he only has theapartment in New York andAspen, and Escala. Nothing

else. When we’re done, Icollecthisplateandmineandtakethemtosink.

“Leave that.Gailwill doit,”hesays.Iturnandgazeathim, and he’s watching meintently.Will I ever get usedto having someone clean upafterme?

“Well, now that you aremore docile, Miss Steele,shallwetalkabouttoday?”

“I think you’re the one

who’s more docile. I thinkI’m doing a good job intamingyou.”

“Tamingme?” he snorts,amused. When I nod, hefrownsas if reflectingonmywords.“Yes.Maybeyouare,Anastasia.”

“You were right aboutJack,”Imurmur,seriousnow,and I lean across the kitchenisland gauging his reaction.Christian’s face falls and his

eyesharden.“Has he tried anything?”

hewhispers,hisvoicedeathlycold.

I shake my head toreassure him. “No, and hewon’t, Christian. I told himtodaythatI’myourgirlfriend,andhebackedrightoff.”

“You’resure?Icouldfirethefucker.”Christianscowls.

Isigh,emboldenedbymyglass of wine. “You really

have to letme fightmy ownbattles. You can’t constantlysecond-guess me and try toprotect me. It’s stifling,Christian. I’ll never flourishwith your incessantinterference. I need somefreedom.Iwouldn’tdreamofmeddlinginyouraffairs.”

He blinks atme. “I onlywant you safe, Anastasia. Ifanything happened to you, I—”Hestops.

“Iknow,andIunderstandwhy you feel so driven toprotect me. And part of melovesit.IknowthatifIneedyou, you’ll be there, as I amforyou.Butifwearetohaveanyhopeofafuturetogether,youhavetotrustmeandtrustmy judgment.Yes, I’ll get itwrong sometimes—I’ll makemistakes,butIhavetolearn.”

He stares at me, hisexpression anxious, spurring

me to walk round to him sothat I am standing betweenhis legs while he sits on thebarstool.Grabbinghishands,I put them around me andplacemyhandsonhisarms.

“You can’t interfere inmy job. It’s wrong. I don’tneed you charging in like awhiteknighttosavetheday.Iknow you want to controleverything, and I understandwhy, but you can’t. It’s an

impossiblegoal...youhavetolearn to let go.” I reach upand stroke his face as hegazes at me, his eyes wide.“And if you can do that—give me that—I’ll move inwithyou,”Iaddsoftly.

He inhales sharply,surprised. “You’d do that?”hewhispers.

“Yes.”“But you don’t know

me.” He frowns and sounds

choked and panicky all of asudden,veryun-Fifty.

“Iknowyouwellenough,Christian. Nothing you tellme about yourself willfrighten me away.” I gentlyrun my knuckles across hischeek. His expression turnsfrom anxious to dubious.“Butifyoucouldjusteaseuponme,”Iplead.

“I’m trying, Anastasia. Icouldn’t juststandbyand let

you go to New York withthat... sleazeball. He has analarming reputation.None ofhis assistants have lastedmore than threemonths, andthey’re never retained by thecompany. I don’t want thatfor you, baby.” He sighs. “Idon’t want anything tohappen to you. You beinghurt... the thought fills mewith dread. I can’t promisenot to interfere,not if I think

you’ll come to harm.” Hepauses and takes a deepbreath. “I love you,Anastasia. I will doeverything in my power toprotectyou.Icannotimaginemylifewithoutyou.”

Holy cow. My innergoddess, my subconscious,and I all gape at Fifty inshock.

Jeez, three little words.My world stands still, tilts,

thenspinsonanewaxis;andI savor the moment, gazinginto his sincere, beautifulgrayeyes.

“I love you, too,Christian.” I lean over andkiss him, and the kissdeepens.

Entering unseen, Taylorclears his throat. Christianpulls back, gazing intently atme. He stands, his armaroundmywaist.

“Yes?” he snaps atTaylor.

“Mrs. Lincoln is on herwayup,sir.”

“What?”Taylor shrugs

apologetically. Christiansighs heavily and shakes hishead.

“Well, this should beinteresting,” he mutters andgives me a crooked grin ofresignation.

Fuck! Why can’t thatdamned woman leave usalone?

“Didyoutalktohertoday?”Iask Christian as we wait

forMrs.Robinson’sarrival.“Yes.”“Whatdidyousay?”“I said that you didn’t

want to see her, and that Iunderstoodyourreasonswhy.I also told her that I didn’tappreciate her going behindmy back.” His gaze isimpassive, giving nothingaway.

Oh,good. “What did shesay?”

“She brushed it off in awaythatonlyElenacan.”Hismouth flattens to a crookedline.

“Whydoyou think she’shere?”

“I have no idea.”Christianshrugs.

Taylor enters the greatroom again. “Mrs. Lincoln,”heannounces.

Andheresheis...Why isshe so damned attractive?

She’s dressed entirely inblack: tight jeans,a shirt thatemphasizesherperfectfigure,and a halo of bright, glossyhair.

Christian pulls me close.“Elena,” he says, his tonepuzzled.

Shegapesatmeinshock,frozentothespot.Sheblinksbefore findingher softvoice.“I’m sorry. I didn’t realizeyou had company, Christian.

It’s Monday,” she says as ifthisexplainswhyshe’shere.

“Girlfriend,” he says byway of explanation and tiltshis head to one side andsmirks.

She smiles, a slow,beaming smile directedentirely at him. It’sunnerving.

“Of course. Hello,Anastasia. I didn’t knowyou’d be here. I know you

don’t want to talk to me. Iacceptthat.”

“Do you?” I assertquietly, gazing at her andtaking all of us by surprise.With a slight frown, shemovesfartherintotheroom.

“Yes, I get the message.I’mnotheretoseeyou.LikeI said, Christian rarely hascompany during the week.”She pauses. “I have aproblem,andIneedtotalkto

Christianaboutit.”“Oh?” Christian

straightensup.“Doyouwantadrink?”

“Yes, please,” shemurmursgratefully.

Christian fetches a glasswhile Elena and I standawkwardly gazing at eachother.Shefidgetswithalargesilver ring on her middlefinger, while I don’t knowwhere to look. Finally, she

gives me a small tight smileand approaches the kitchenisland and sits on the barstool at the end. Sheobviously knows the placewell and feels comfortablemovingaroundhere.

Do I stay?Do I go?Oh,this is so difficult. Mysubconscious scowls at thewomanwithhermosthostileharpyface.

There’s so much I want

to say to this woman, andnoneofitcomplimentary.Butshe’s Christian’sfriend—hisonly friend—and for all myloathingof thiswoman, Iaminnately polite. Deciding tostay, I sit as gracefully as Ican manage on the stoolChristian’svacated.Christianpours wine into each of ourglassesandsitsbetweenusatthe breakfast bar. Can’t hefeelhowweirdthisis?

“What’sup?”heasksher.Elena looks nervously at

me, and Christian reachesoverandclaspsmyhand.

“Anastasia’s with menow,” he says to her silentqueryandsqueezesmyhand.I flush, andmysubconsciousbeams at him, harpy faceforgotten.

Elena’s face softens as ifshe’s pleased for him.Reallypleased for him. Oh, I don’t

understandthiswomanatall,and I’m uncomfortable andedgyinherpresence.

She takes a deep breathand shifts, perching on theedge of her bar stool andlookingagitated.Sheglancesnervously down at her handsand starts manically twistingthe large silver ring aroundand around on her middlefinger.

Jeez, what’s wrong with

her? Is itmy presence?Do Ihave that effect on her?Because I feel the sameway—I don’twant her here. Sheraises her head and looksChristiansquarelyintheeye.

“I’mbeingblackmailed.”Holy shit. Not what I

expected out of her mouth.Christian stiffens. Hassomeonefoundoutaboutherpenchant for beating andfucking underage boys? I

suppressmy revulsion, and afleeting thought aboutchickens coming home toroost crosses my mind. Mysubconscious rubs her handstogether with ill-disguisedglee.Good.

“How?” Christian asks,hishorrorclearinhisvoice.

She reaches into heroversized, patent-leather,designer purse, pulls out anote,andhandsittohim.

“Put it down, lay it out.”Christian points to thebreakfastbarcounterwithhischin.

“Youdon’twanttotouchit?’

“No.Fingerprints.”“Christian, you know I

can’t go to the police withthis.”

Why am I listening tothis? Is she fucking someotherpoorboy?

She lays the note out forhim,andhebendstoreadit.

“They’re only asking forfive thousand dollars,” hesays almost absentmindedly.“Any idea who it might be?Someoneinthecommunity?”

“No,”shesaysinhersoftsweetvoice.

“Linc?”Linc?Who’sthat?“What—after all this

time? I don’t think so,” she

grumbles.“DoesIsaacknow?”“Ihaven’ttoldhim.”Who’sIsaac?“I think he needs to

know,” Christian says. Sheshakes her head, and now Ifeel I’m intruding. I wantnone of this. I try to retrievemy hand from Christian’sgrasp,buthejusttightenshisholdandturnstogazeatme.

“What?”heasks.

“I’m tired. I think I’ll gotobed.”

His eyes search mine,looking forwhat? Censure?Acceptance?Hostility?Ikeepmy expression as bland aspossible.

“Okay,”hesays.“Iwon’tbelong.”

He releases me and Istand. Elena watches mewarily. I stay tightlipped andreturn her gaze, giving

nothingaway.“Goodnight, Anastasia.”

Shegivesmeasmallsmile.“Goodnight,” I mutter,

my voice sounds cold. I turnto leave. The tension is toomuchformetobear.AsIexitthe room they continue theirconversation.

“I don’t think there’s agreat deal I can do, Elena,”Christiansaystoher.“Ifit’saquestion of money.” His

voice trails off. “I could askWelchtoinvestigate.”

“No, Christian, I justwantedtoshare,”shesays.

When I am out of theroom, I hear her say, “Youlookveryhappy.”

“I am,” Christianresponds.

“Youdeservetobe.”“Iwishthatweretrue.”“Christian,”shescolds.I freeze, listening

intently.Ican’thelpit.“Does she know how

negative you are aboutyourself? About all yourissues.”

“She knows me betterthananyone.”

“Ouch!Thathurts.”“It’s the truth, Elena. I

don’thavetoplaygameswithher.And Imean it, leaveheralone.”

“Whatisherproblem?”

“You... What we were.What we did. She doesn’tunderstand.”

“Makeherunderstand.”“It’s in the past, Elena,

andwhywouldIwanttotainther with our fucked-uprelationship? She’s good andsweet and innocent, and bysomemiracleshelovesme.”

“It’s no miracle,Christian,” Elena scoffsgood-naturedly.“Havealittle

faith in yourself. You reallyare quite a catch. I’ve toldyou often enough. And sheseems lovely, too. Strong.Someonetostanduptoyou.”

I can’t hear Christian’sresponse. So I’m strong, amI? I certainly don’t feel thatway.

“Don’t you miss it?”Elenacontinues.

“What?”“Yourplayroom.”

Istopbreathing.“That really is none of

your fucking business,”Christiansnaps.

Oh.“I’msorry.” Elena snorts

insincerely.“I think you’d better go.

And please, call before youcomeagain.”

“Christian, I am sorry,”she says, and from her tone,thistimeshemeansit.“Since

when are you so sensitive?”She’sscoldinghimagain.

“Elena, we have abusiness relationship whichhas profited us bothimmensely.Let’skeep it thatway.Whatwasbetweenusispart of the past. Anastasia ismy future, and I won’tjeopardize it in any way, socutthefuckingcrap.”

Hisfuture!“Isee.”

“Look,I’msorryforyourtrouble. Perhaps you shouldride it out and call theirbluff.”Histoneissofter.

“Idon’twanttoloseyou,Christian.”

“I’m not yours to lose,Elena,”hesnapsagain.

“That’s not what Imeant.”

“What did you mean?”He’sbrusque,angry.

“Look, I don’t want to

argue with you. Yourfriendshipmeansalot tome.I’ll back off from Anastasia.ButI’mhereifyouneedme.Ialwayswillbe.”

“Anastasia thinks thatyou saw me last Saturday.You called, that’s all. Whydidyoutellherotherwise?”

“I wanted her to knowhowupsetyouwerewhensheleft. I don’t want her to hurtyou.”

“She knows. I’ve toldher. Stop interfering.Honestly, you’re like amother hen.” Christiansounds more resigned, andElena laughs, but there’s asadtonetoherlaugh.

“I know. I’m sorry. Youknow I care about you. Inever thought you’d end upfalling in love,Christian. It’svery gratifying to see. But Icouldn’t bear it if she hurt

you.”“I’lltakemychances,”he

says dryly. “Now are yousureyoudon’twantWelchtosniffaround?”

She sighs heavily. “Isuppose it wouldn’t do anyharm.”

“Okay.I’llcallhiminthemorning.”

Ilistentothembickering,tryingtofigurethisout.Theydo sound like old friends, as

Christian says. Just friends.And she cares about him—maybe too much.Well, whowouldn’t,iftheyknewhim?

“Thank you, Christian.AndIamsorry.Ididn’tmeanto intrude. I’ll go. Next timeI’llcall.”

“Good.”She’s going! Shit! I

scamper up the hallway toChristian’s bedroom and sitdown on the bed. Christian

entersafewmomentslater.“She’s gone,” he says

warily,gaugingmyreaction.Igazeupathim,tryingto

framemyquestion.“Willyoutell me all about her? I amtryingtounderstandwhyyouthink she helped you.” Ipause, thinking carefullyabout my next sentence. “Iloathe her, Christian. I thinkshe did you untold damage.Youhavenofriends.Didshe

keepthemawayfromyou?”He sighs and runs his

handthroughhishair.“Why the fuck do you

want toknowabouther?Wehad a very long-standingaffair,shebeattheshitoutofmeoften,andIfuckedherinall sorts of ways you can’tevenimagine,endofstory.”

Ipale.Shit,he’sangry—withme.Iblinkathim.“Whyareyousoangry?”

“Because all of that shitisover!”heshouts,gloweringat me. He sighs inexasperation and shakes hishead.

I blanch. Shit. I lookdownatmyhands,knottedinmy lap. I just want tounderstand.

He sits down beside me.“What do you want toknow?”heaskswearily.

“You don’t have to tell

me.Idon’tmeantointrude.”“Anastasia,it’snotthat.I

don’t like talking about thisshit.I’velivedinabubbleforyears with nothing affectingme and not having to justifymyself to anyone. She’salways been there as aconfidante.Andnowmypastandmyfuturearecollidingina way I never thoughtpossible.”

I glance at him and he’s

staringatme,hiseyeswide.“I never thought I had a

future with anyone,Anastasia.Yougivemehopeand have me thinking aboutall sorts of possibilities.” Hedriftsoff.

“I was listening,” Iwhisperand starebackdownatmyhands.

“What? To ourconversation?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” He soundsresigned.

“Shecaresforyou.”“Yes,shedoes.AndIfor

her in my own way, but itdoesn’t come close to how Ifeelaboutyou. If that’swhatthisisabout.”

“I’m not jealous.” I’mwounded thathewould thinkthat—or am I? Shit. Maybethat’swhatthisis.“Youdon’tloveher,”Imurmur.

Hesighsagain.Hereallyispissed.“Alongtimeago,Ithought I lovedher,”he saysthroughgrittedteeth.

Oh. “When we were inGeorgia...yousaidyoudidn’tloveher.”

“That’sright.”Ifrown.“I loved you then,

Anastasia,” he whispers.“You’re the only person I’dfly three thousand miles to

see.”Oh my. I don’t

understand. He still wantedme as a sub then.My frowndeepens.

“The feelings I have foryou are very different fromanyIeverhadforElena,”hesaysbywayofexplanation.

“Whendidyouknow?”He shrugs. “Ironically, it

wasElenawhopointeditouttome.Sheencouragedmeto

gotoGeorgia.”I knew it! I knew it in

Savannah. I gaze at him,blankly.

What do Imake of this?Maybe sheison my side andjustworriedthatI’llhurthim.The thought is painful. Iwould never want to hurthim. She’s right—he’s beenhurtenough.

Perhapsshe’snotsobad.Ishakemyhead.Idon’twant

toaccepthisrelationshipwithher. I disapprove.Yes, that’swhat this is. She’s anunsavory character whopreyed on a vulnerableadolescent, robbing him ofhis teenage years, no matterwhathesays.

“So you desired her?Whenyouwereyounger.”

“Yes.”Oh.“She taught me a great

deal.Shetaughtmetobelieveinmyself.”

Oh.“Butshealsobeattheshitoutofyou.”

He smiles fondly. “Yes,shedid.”

“Andyoulikedthat?”“AtthetimeIdid.”“So much that you

wantedtodoittoothers?”His eyes grow wide and

serious.“Yes.”“Did she help you with

that?”“Yes.”“Didshesubforyou?”“Yes.”Holy fuck. “Do you

expect me to like her?” Myvoice sounds brittle andbitter.

“No. Though it wouldmake my life a hell of a loteasier,”hesayswearily.“Idounderstandyourreticence.”

“Reticence! Jeez,

Christian—if that were yourson,howwouldyoufeel?”

Heblinksatmeasthoughhe doesn’t comprehend thequestion.Hefrowns.“Ididn’thave to staywith her. Itwasmy choice, too, Anastasia,”hemurmurs.

This is getting menowhere.

“Who’sLinc?”“Herex-husband.”“LincolnTimber?”

“The very same,” hesmirks.

“AndIsaac?”“Hercurrentsubmissive.”Ohno.“He’s in his mid-

twenties, Anastasia. Youknow—a consenting adult,”he adds quickly, correctlydeciphering my look ofdisgust.

I flush. “Your age,” Imutter.

“Look, Anastasia, as Isaid to her, she’s part ofmypast. You are my future.Don’t let her come betweenus,please.Andquitefrankly,I’m really bored of thissubject.I’mgoingtodosomework.” He stands and gazesdown at me. “Let it go.Please.”

I stare mulishly up athim.

“Oh, I almost forgot,”he

adds.“Yourcararrivedadayearly. It’s in the garage.Taylorhasthekey.”

Whoa...theSaab?“CanIdriveittomorrow?”

“No.”“Whynot?”“Youknowwhynot.And

that reminds me. If you aregoingtoleaveyouroffice,letme know. Sawyerwas there,watchingyou.ItseemsIcan’ttrust you to look after

yourself at all.” He scowlsdown atme,makingme feellike an errant child—again.AndIwouldarguewithhim,but he’s pretty worked upoverElena, and I don’twanttopushhimanyfurther,butIcan’tresistonecomment.

“Seems I can’t trust youeither,” Imutter. “You couldhave told me Sawyer waswatchingme.”

“Do you want to fight

aboutthat,too?”hesnaps.“Iwasn’t awarewewere

fighting. I thought we werecommunicating,” I mumblepetulantly.

Hecloseshiseyesbrieflyashe struggles tocontainhistemper. I swallow andwatchanxiously.Jeez,thiscouldgoeitherway.

“Ihavetowork,”hesaysquietly, and with that, heleavestheroom.

Iexhale.Ihadn’trealizedI’dbeenholdingmybreath.Iflop back onto the bed,staringattheceiling.

Can we ever have anormal conversation withoutit disintegrating into anargument?It’sexhausting.

We justdon’tknoweachother that well. Do I reallywant tomove inwithhim? Idon’t even know if I shouldmake him a cup of tea or

coffee while he’s working.ShouldIdisturbhimatall? Ihaveno ideaofhis likes anddislikes.

Evidentlyhe’sboredwiththe whole Elena thing—he’sright, Ineed tomoveon.Letit go.Well, at least he’s notexpecting me to be friendswith her, and I hope thatshe’ll now stop hassling meforameeting.

I get off the bed and

wander to the window.Unlockingthebalconydoor,Iopen it and stroll over to theglass railing. Its transparencyis unnerving.The air’s chillyandfresh,asI’mupsohigh.

I gaze out over thetwinkling lights of Seattle.He’s so far removed fromeverything up here in hisfortress. Answerable to noone. He’d just told me heloves me, then all this crap

comes up because of thatdreadful woman. I roll myeyes. His life is socomplicated. He’ssocomplicated.

With a heavy sigh and alast glance at Seattle spreadlikeclothsofgoldatmyfeet,IdecidetocallRay.Ihaven’tspokentohimforawhile.It’sa brief conversation as perusual,butIascertainhe’sfineand that I’m interrupting an

importantsoccermatch.“Hope all is well with

Christian,” he says casually,and I know he’s fishing forinformationbutdoesn’treallywanttoknow.

“Yeah.We’recool.”Sortof, and I’m moving in withhim. Though we haven’tdiscussedatimetable.

“Loveyou,Dad.”“Loveyou,too,Annie.”I hang up and checkmy

watch. It’s only ten.Becauseof our discussion, I amfeeling strangely innervatedandrestless.

I shower quickly, andback in the bedroom, decideto wear one of thenightdresses that CarolineActon procured for me fromNeiman Marcus. Christian’salwaysmoaningaboutmyT-shirts. There are three. Ichoose the pale pink and put

it on over my head. Thefabric skims across my skin,caressing and clinging tomeasit fallsaroundmybody.Itfeels luxurious—the finest,thinnest satin. Holy crap. Inthemirror,Ilooklikea1930smovie star. It’s long, elegant—andveryun-me.

I grab thematching robeanddecidetohuntoutabookinthelibrary.Icouldreadonmy iPad—but right now, I

want the comfort andreassurance of a physicalbook. I’ll leave Christianalone. Perhaps he’ll recoverhis good humor once he’sfinishedworking.

Therearesomanybooksin Christian’s library.Scanningeverytitlewill takeforever.Iglanceoccasionallyat thebilliard table and flushas I recall our previousevening. I smile when I see

that the ruler is still on thefloor.Pickingitup,Iswatmypalm.Ow!Itstings.

Why can’t I take a littlemore pain for my man?Disconsolately, I place it onthe desk and continue myhuntforagoodread.

Most of the books arefirst editions. How can hehave amassed a collectionlikethisinsuchashorttime?Perhaps Taylor’s job

description includes bookbuying. I settle on Rebeccaby Daphne Du Maurier. Ihaven’t read this for a longtime. I smile as I curl up inone of the overstuffedarmchairs and read the firstline:

LastnightIdreamtIwenttoManderleyagain...

I am jostled awake asChristianliftsmeinhisarms.

“Hey,”hemurmurs,“youfell asleep. I couldn’t findyou.” He nuzzles my hair.Sleepily, I put my armsaround his neck and breatheinhisscent—oh,hesmellssogood—as he carriesme backto the bedroom. He lays medown on the bed and coversme.

“Sleep, baby,” he

whispers and he presses hislipsagainstmyforehead.

I wake suddenly from adisturbing dream and ammomentarily disorientated. Ifind myself anxiouslychecking the end of the bed,but there’s no one there.Driftingfromthegreatroom,I hear the faint strains of a

complex melody from thepiano.

What time is it? I checkthe alarm clock—two in themorning.HasChristiancometo sleep at all? I disentanglemylegsfrommyrobe,whichI’mstillwearing,andclamberoutofbed.

Inthegreatroom,Istandin the shadows, listening.Christianislosttothemusic.He looks safe and secure in

his bubble of light. And thetune he plays has a liltingmelody,partsofwhichsoundfamiliar, but so elaborate.Jeez, he’s good. Why doesthis always take me bysurprise?

The whole scene looksdifferent somehow, and Irealize that the piano lid isdown, giving me anunhindered view.He glancesupandoureyeslock,hisgray

and softly luminous in thediffuseglowof the lamp.Hecontinues to play, notfalteringatall,as Imakemyway over to him. His eyesfollow me, drinking me in,burning brighter. As I reachhim,hestops.

“Whydidyoustop?Thatwaslovely.”

“Do you have any ideahowdesirableyoulookatthemoment?” he says, his voice

soft.Oh. “Come to bed,” I

whisper and his eyes heat asheholdsouthishand.WhenItake it, he tugs unexpectedlysoIfallintohislap.Hewrapshis arms around me andnuzzles my neck behind myear,sendingshiversdownmyspine.

“Why do we fight?” hewhispers, as his teeth grazemyearlobe.

Holycow.Myheartskipsa beat, then starts pounding,coursing heat throughout mybody.

“Becausewe’regettingtoknow each other, and you’restubborn and cantankerousand moody and difficult,” Imurmur breathlessly, shiftingmy head to give him betteraccess tomy throat. He runshisnosedownmyneck,andIfeelhissmile.

“I’m all those things,Miss Steele. It’s a wonderyouputupwithme.”HenipsmyearlobeandImoan.“Isitalwayslikethis?”hesighs.

“Ihavenoidea.”“Me neither.” He yanks

thesashofmyrobesoitfallsopen, and his hand skimsdown my body, over mybreast. My nipples hardenbeneath his gentle touch andstrain against the satin. He

continues down tomywaist,downtomyhip.

“You feel so fine underthis material, and I can seeeverything—even this.” Hetugsgentlyonmypubichairthrough the fabric, makingmegasp,whilehisotherhandfists in my hair at my nape.Pulling my head back, hekissesme, his tongueurgent,relentless, needy. I moan inresponse and caress his dear,

dear face. His hand gentlypulls my nightdress up,slowly, tantalizingly untilhe’s fondling my nakedbehind and then running histhumbnaildowntheinsideofmythigh.

Suddenly he rises,startling me, and he lifts mebodily onto the piano. Myfeet rest on the keys,sounding discordant,disjointed notes, and his

hands skim up my legs andpart my knees. He grabs myhands.

“Lie back,” he orders,holding my hands while Isinkbackontopofthepiano.The lid is hard anduncompromising against myback. He lets go and pushesmy legs openwider,my feetdancing over the keys, overthelowerandhighernotes.

Ohboy.Iknowwhathe’s

going to do, and theanticipation... I groan loudlyashekisses the insideofmyknee, then kisses and sucksand nips his way higher upmy leg tomy thigh.Thesoftsatin of my nightgown riseshigher, skimming over mysensitized skin, as he pushesthe fabric. I flexmy feetandthe chords sound again.Closingmy eyes, I surrendermyself to him as his mouth

reaches the apex of mythighs.

He kisses me... there...Oh boy... then gently blowsbefore his tongue circles myclitoris. He pushes my legswider. I feel so open—soexposed. He holds me inplace, his hands just abovemy knees as his tonguetortures me, giving noquarter, no respite... noreprieve. Tiltingmy hips up,

meeting and matching hisrhythm,Iamconsumed.

“Oh,Christian,please.” Imoan.

“Oh no, baby, not yet,”he teases, but I feel myselfquicken as does he, and hestops.

“No,”Iwhimper.“This is my revenge,

Ana,” he growls softly.“Argue with me, and I amgoing to take it out on your

body somehow.” He trailskisses along my belly, hishandstravelingupmythighs,stroking, kneading,tantalizing.Histonguecirclesmy navel as his hands—andhisthumbs...ohhisthumbs—reach the summit of mythighs.

“Ah!” I cry out as hepushes one inside me. Theother persecutes me, slowly,agonizingly, circling round

and round. My back archesoff the piano as I writhebeneathhistouch.It’salmostunbearable.

“Christian!” I cry,spiraling out of control withneed.

He takes pity onme andstops.Liftingmy feet off thekeys, he pushes me; andsuddenly, I’m slidingeffortlessly up the piano,gliding on satin, and he’s

followingmeupthere,brieflykneeling betweenmy legs toroll on a condom.He hoversover me and I’m panting,gazingupathimwith ragingneed, and I realize he’snaked.When did he take offhisclothes?

He stares down at me,and there’s wonder in hiseyes, wonder and love andpassion,andit’sbreathtaking.

“Iwantyousobadly,”he

says and very slowly,exquisitely,hesinksintome.

Iamsprawledontopofhim,wrung out, my limbs heavyand languid,aswe lieon topof his grand piano. Oh my.He’smuchmorecomfortableto lie on than the piano.Carefulnottotouchhischest,I rest my cheek against him

and keep perfectly still. Hedoesn’tobject,andI listentohis breathing as it slows likemine. Gently he strokes myhair.

“Do you drink tea orcoffee in the evening?” I asksleepily.

“What a strangequestion,”hesaysdreamily.

“I thought I could bringyou tea in your study, andthen I realized I didn’t know

whatyouwouldlike.”“Oh,Isee.Waterorwine

in the evening, Ana. ThoughmaybeIshouldtrytea.”

His hand movesrhythmically down my back,strokingmetenderly.

“We really know verylittle about each other,” Imurmur.

“I know,” he says, andhisvoiceismournful.Isituptogazeathim.

“What is it?” I ask. Heshakes his head as if to ridhimself of some unpleasantthought,andraisinghishand,he caresses my cheek, hiseyesbrightandearnest.

“I loveyou,AnaSteele,”hesays.

The alarm blasts onwith thesixamtrafficnews,andIamrudely awakened from mydisturbing dream of over-blond and dark-hairedwomen. I can’t grasp whatit’s about, and I’mimmediately distractedbecause Christian Grey is

wrappedaroundme like silk,hisunruly-hairedheadonmychest,hishandonmybreast,his leg over me, holding medown.He’sstillasleep,andIam too warm. But I ignoremy discomfort, tentativelyreachinguptorunmyfingersgently through his hair, andhe stirs. Raising bright grayeyes, he grins sleepily.Holycow...he’sadorable.

“Good morning,

beautiful,”hesays.“Goodmorning,beautiful

yourself.” I smile back athim. He kisses me,disentangles himself, andleansuponhiselbow,staringdownatme.

“Sleepokay?”heasks.“Yes, despite the

interruption to my sleep lastnight.”

His grin broadens.“Hmm.Youcaninterruptme

like that anytime.”He kissesmeagain.

“How about you? Didyousleepwell?”

“Ialwayssleepwellwithyou,Anastasia.”

“Nomorenightmares?”“No.”I frown and chance a

question. “What are yournightmaresabout?”

His browcreases andhisgrin fades. Shit—my stupid

curiosity.“They’re flashbacks of

myearlychildhood,orsoDr.Flynnsays.Somevivid,somelessso.”Hisvoicedropsanda distant, harrowed lookcrosses his face.Absentmindedly,hebeginstotrace my collarbone with hisfinger,distractingme.

“Do youwake up cryingandscreaming?”I tryinvaintojoke.

He looks atme, puzzled.“No, Anastasia. I’ve nevercried. As far as I canremember.” He frowns, as ifreachingintothedepthsofhismemories.Oh no—that’s toodark a place to go at thishour,surely.

“Doyouhave anyhappymemories of yourchildhood?” I ask quickly,mainly to distract him. Helooks pensive for a moment,

still running his finger alongmyskin.

“I recall the crackwhorebaking.Irememberthesmell.A birthday cake I think. Forme. And then there’s Mia’sarrival with my mom anddad. My mom was worriedabout my reaction, but Iadored baby Miaimmediately. My first wordwasMia.Iremembermyfirstpiano lesson. Miss Kathie,

my tutor, was awesome. Shekept horses, too.” He smileswistfully.

“You said your momsavedyou.How?”

Hisreverieisbroken,andhe gazes at me as if I don’tunderstand the elementarymathoftwoplustwo.

“She adopted me,” hesays simply. “I thought shewasanangelwhenIfirstmether.Shewasdressedinwhite

andsogentleandcalmassheexamined me. I’ll neverforgetthat.Ifshe’dsaidnoorif Carrick had said no...” Heshrugs and glances over hisshoulder at the alarm clock.“Thisisallalittledeepforsoearly in the morning,” hemutters.

“I have made a vow togettoknowyoubetter.”

“Did you now, MissSteele?I thoughtyouwanted

to know if I preferred coffeeortea.”Hesmirks.“Anyway,I can think of one way youcan get to know me.” Hepushes his hips suggestivelyagainstme.

“IthinkIknowyouquitewell enough that way.” Myvoice is haughty andscolding, and it makes himsmilemorebroadly.

“Idon’tthinkI’llevergettoknowyouwellenoughthat

way,” he murmurs. “Thereare definite advantages towaking up beside you.” Hisvoice is soft and bone-meltinglyseductive.

“Don’t you have to getup?” My voice is low andhusky.Jeez, what he does tome...

“Not this morning. Onlyone place I want to be uprightnow,MissSteele.”Andhiseyessparklesalaciously.

“Christian!” I gasp,shocked. He shifts suddenlyso that he’s on top of me,pressing me into the bed.Grabbingmy hands, he pullsthem up abovemy head andbeginstokissmythroat.

“Oh, Miss Steele.” Hesmiles against my skin,sending delicious tinglesthrough me, as his handtravels down my body andstarts to slowly hitch up my

satin nightdress. “Oh, whatI’d like to do to you,” hemurmurs.

And I am lost,interrogationover.

Mrs. Jones sets down mybreakfast of pancakes andbacon, and for Christian anomeletandbacon.Wesitsideby side at the bar in a

comfortablesilence.“When am I going to

meet your trainer, Claude,and put him through hispaces?” I ask. Christianglancesdownatme,grinning.

“Depends if you want togotoNewYorkthisweekendor not—unless you’d like tosee him early one morningthisweek. I’ll askAndrea tocheck on his schedule andcomebacktoyou.”

“Andrea?”“MyPA.”Oh yes. “One of your

manyblondes,”Iteasehim.“She’s not mine. She

worksforme.You’remine.”“Iworkforyou,”Imutter

sourly.He grins as if he’s

forgotten. “So you do.” Hisbeamingsmileisinfectious.

“MaybeClaudecanteachmetokickbox,”Iwarn.

“Oh yeah? Fancy yourchances against me?”Christian raises an eyebrow,amused. “Bring it on, MissSteele.” He is so damnedhappy compared toyesterday’s foul mood afterElena left. It’s totallydisarming.Maybe it’s all thesex... perhaps that’s what’smakinghimsobuoyant.

Iglancebehindmeatthepiano, savoring the memory

oflastnight.“Youputthelidofthepianobackup.”

“I closed it last night soasnottodisturbyou.Guessitdidn’t work, but I’m glad itdidn’t.” Christian’s lipstwitch intoa lascivioussmileashetakesabiteofomelet.Igocrimsonandsmirkbackathim.

Ohyes...funtimesonthepiano.

Mrs.Jonesleansoverand

placesapaperbagcontainingmy lunch in front of me,makingmeflushguiltily.

“For later, Ana. Tunaokay?”

“Ohyes.Thankyou,Mrs.Jones.”Igiveherashysmile,which she reciprocateswarmly before leaving thegreat room. I suspect it’s togiveussomeprivacy.

“Can I ask yousomething?” I turn back to

Christian.His amused expression

slips.“Ofcourse.”“And you won’t be

angry?”“IsitaboutElena?”“No.”“ThenIwon’tbeangry.”“But I now have a

supplementaryquestion.”“Oh?”“Whichisabouther.”He rolls his eyes.

“What?” he says, and nowhe’sexasperated.

“WhydoyougetsomadwhenIaskyouabouther?”

“Honestly?”Iscowlathim.“Ithought

youwerealwayshonestwithme.”

“Iendeavortobe.”Inarrowmyeyesathim.

“That sounds like a veryevasiveanswer.”

“Iamalwayshonestwith

you,Ana.Idon’twanttoplaygames. Well, not those sortsofgames,”hequalifies,ashiseyesheat.

“What sort of games doyouwanttoplay?”

He inclines his head toone side and smirks at me.“Miss Steele, you are soeasilydistracted.”

Igiggle.He’s right.“Mr.Grey, you are distracting onsomanylevels.”Igazeathis

dancinggrayeyesalightwithhumor.

“Myfavoritesoundinthewhole world is your giggle,Anastasia. Now—what wasyour original question?” heasks smoothly, and I thinkhe’s laughing at me. I try totwist my mouth to show mydispleasure,but I likeplayfulFifty—he’s fun. I love someearly morning banter. Ifrown, trying to recall my

question.“Oh yes. You only saw

yoursubsontheweekends?”“Yes, that’s correct,” he

saysregardingmenervously.Igrinathim.“So,nosex

duringtheweek.”He laughs. “Oh, that’s

wherewe’regoingwiththis.”He looks vaguely relieved.“Why do you think I workouteveryweekday?”Nowhereallyislaughingatme,butI

don’t care. I want to hugmyself with glee. Anotherfirst—well,severalfirsts.

“You look very pleasedwithyourself,MissSteele.”

“Iam,Mr.Grey.”“You should be.” He

grins. “Now eat yourbreakfast.”

Oh, bossy Fifty... he’sneverfaraway.

We are in the back of theAudi. Taylor is driving withthe intention of droppingmeoff at work, then Christian.Sawyerisridingshotgun.

“Didn’t you say yourroommate’s brother wasarriving today?” Christianasks, almost casually, hisvoice and expression givingnothingaway.

“Oh, Ethan,” I gasp. “Iforgot. Oh Christian, thank

you for reminding me. I’llhave to go back to theapartment.”

His face falls. “Whattime?”

“I’m not sure what timehe’sarriving.”

“I don’t want you goinganywhere on your own,” hesayssharply.

“I know,” I mutter andresist rollingmy eyes atMr.Over-Reaction.“WillSawyer

be spying—um... patrollingtoday?” I glance slyly inSawyer’s direction to see thebacksofhisearsturnred.

“Yes,” Christian snaps,hiseyesglacial.

“IfIwasdrivingtheSaabit would be easier,” I mutterpetulantly.

“Sawyer will have a car,andhecandriveyou toyourapartment, depending onwhattime.”

“Okay.IthinkEthanwillprobably contact me duringthe day. I’ll let you knowwhattheplansarethen.”

He gazes at me, sayingnothing. Oh, what is hethinking?

“Okay,” he acquiesces.“Nowhere on your own. Doyouunderstand?”Hewavesalongfingeratme.

“Yes,dear,”Imutter.There’satraceofasmile

onhisface.“Andmaybeyoushould just use yourBlackberry—I’ll e-mail youonit.ThatshouldpreventmyIT guy having a thoroughlyinteresting morning, okay?”Hisvoiceissardonic.

“Yes, Christian.” I can’tresist. I rollmy eyes at him,andhesmirksatme.

“Why Miss Steele, I dobelieve you’re making mypalmtwitch.”

“Ah, Mr. Grey, yourperpetually twitching palm.Whatarewegoingtodowiththat?”

He laughs and then isdistracted by his Blackberry,which must be on vibratebecause it doesn’t ring. Hefrowns when he sees thecallerID.

“What is it?” he snapsinto the phone, then listensintently.Iusetheopportunity

tostudyhislovelyfeatures—his straight nose, his hairhanging scruffily over hisforehead. I am distractedfrom my surreptitious oglingby his expression, whichturns from incredulity toamusement.Ipayattention.

“You’re kidding... For ascene...Whendidhetellyouthis?” Christian chuckles,almostreluctantly.“No,don’tworry. You don’t have to

apologize. I’m glad there’s alogical explanation. It didseem a ridiculously lowamountofmoney...Ihavenodoubt you’ve something evilandcreativeplannedforyourrevenge. Poor Isaac.” Hesmiles. “Good... Good-bye.”He snaps the phone shut andglances at me. His eyes aresuddenlywary,butoddly,helooksrelieved,too.

“Whowasthat?”Iask.

“You really want toknow?”heasksquietly.

And, Iknow.Ishakemyhead and stare out mywindow at the gray Seattleday, feeling forlorn. Whycan’tsheleavehimalone?

“Hey.”Hereachesformyhand and kisses each of myknuckles in turn, andsuddenly he’s sucking mylittlefinger,hard.Thenbitingitsoftly.

Whoa!Hehasahotlinetomy groin, I gasp and glancenervously at Taylor andSawyer,thenatChristian,andhis eyes aredarker.Hegivesmeaslowcarnalsmile.

“Don’t sweat it,Anastasia,” he murmurs.“She’s in the past.” And heplants a kiss in the center ofmy palm, sending tingleseverywhere, and mymomentary pique is

forgotten.

“Morning,Ana,”Jackmuttersas I make my way to mydesk.“Nicedress.”

I flush. The dress is partof my new wardrobe,courtesy of my incrediblyrich boyfriend. It’s asleeveless shift dress of paleblue linen, quite fitted, and

I’m wearing cream high-heeled sandals. Christianlikes heels, I think. I smilesecretly at the thought butquickly recover my blandprofessional smile for myboss.

“Goodmorning,Jack.”I set about ordering a

messenger to take hisbrochure to the printers. Hepops his head around hisofficedoor.

“Could I have a coffee,please,Ana?”

“Sure.” Iwander into thekitchenandbumpintoClairefrom reception, who is alsofixingcoffee.

“Hey, Ana,” she sayscheerfully.

“Hi,Claire.”Wechatbrieflyabouther

extended-family gatheringover theweekend,which sheenjoyedimmensely,andItell

her about sailing withChristian.

“Your boyfriend is sodreamy, Ana,” she says, hereyesglazingover.

I am tempted to roll myeyesather.

“He’snotbad-looking,”Ismile and we both startlaughing.

“You took your time!” Jacksnaps when I bring in hiscoffee.

Oh! “I’m sorry.” I flushthen frown. I took the usualamount of time. What’s hisproblem? Perhaps he’snervousaboutsomething.

He shakes his head.“Sorry,Ana.Ididn’tmeantobarkatyou,honey.”

Honey?“There’ssomethinggoing

on at senior managementlevel, and Idon’t knowwhatit is. Keep your ear to theground, okay? If you hearanything—I know how yougirls talk.” He grins at me,and I feel slightly sick. Hehas no idea how we “girls”talk. Besides, I know what’shappening.

“You’ll let me know,right?”

“Sure,” I mutter. “I’ve

sent the brochure to theprinters. It will be back bytwoo’clock.”

“Great. Here.” He handsmeapileofmanuscripts.“Allthese need synopses of thefirstchapter,thenfiling.”

“I’llgetonit.”I am relieved to step out

of his office and sit down atmy desk.Oh, it’s hard beingintheknow.Whatwillhedowhenhefindsout?Myblood

runscold.SomethingtellsmeJack will be annoyed. Iglance atmyBlackberry andsmile.There’sane-mailfromChristian.

From:ChristianGreySubject:SunriseDate:June14,201109:23To:AnastasiaSteele

Ilovewakinguptoyouinthe

morning.

ChristianGreyCompletely&UtterlySmittenCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

I thinkmy face splits in twowith my grin, and my innergoddess back-flips over herchaiselongue.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:SundownDate:June14,201109:35To:ChristianGrey

DearCompletely&UtterlySmittenIlovewakinguptoyou,too.ButIlovebeinginbedwithyouandinelevatorsandonpianosandbilliardtablesandboatsanddesksandshowersandbathtubsandstrangewoodencrosseswithshacklesandfour-posterbedswithredsatin

sheetsandboathousesandchildhoodbedrooms.

YoursSexMadandInsatiablexx

From:ChristianGreySubject:WetHardwareDate:June14,201109:37To:AnastasiaSteele

DearSexMadandInsatiableI’vejustspatcoffeeallovermy

keyboard.Idon’tthinkthat’severhappenedtomebefore.Idoadmireawomanwhoconcentratesongeography.AmItoinferyoujustwantmeformybody?

ChristianGreyCompletely&UtterlyShockedCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Giggling—andwettooDate:June14,2011:09:42To:ChristianGrey

DearCompletely&UtterlyShockedAlways.Ihaveworktodo.Stopbotheringme.SM&Ixx

From:ChristianGrey

Subject:DoIhaveto?Date:June14,201109:50To:AnastasiaSteele

DearSM&IAsever,yourwishismycommand.Lovethatyouaregigglingandwet.Laters,baby.x

ChristianGrey,Completely&UtterlySmitten,ShockedandSpellboundCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

I put the Blackberry downandgetonwithmywork.

Atlunchtime,Jackasksmetogo down to the deli for hislunch.IcallChristianassoonasIleaveJack’soffice.

“Anastasia.” He answersimmediately, his voicewarmand caressing.How is it thatthis man can make me melt

overthephone?“Christian, Jack has

askedmetogethislunch.”“Lazybastard,”Christian

gripes.I ignore him and

continue. “So I’m going toget it. It might be handy ifyou gave me Sawyer’snumber, so I don’t have tobotheryou.”

“It’snobother,baby.”“Areyouonyourown?”

“No.Therearesixpeoplestaring at me at the momentwondering who the hell I’mtalkingto.”

Shit... “Really?” I gasp,panicked.

“Yes. Really. Mygirlfriend,” he announcesawayfromthephone.

Holy cow! “Theyprobablyallthoughtyouweregay,youknow.”

He laughs. “Yeah,

probably.”Ihearhisgrin.“Er—I’dbettergo.”Iam

sure he can tell howembarrassed I am to beinterruptinghim.

“I’ll let Sawyer know.”He laughs again. “Have youheardfromyourfriend?”

“Not yet. You’ll be thefirsttoknow,Mr.Grey.”

“Good.Laters,baby.”“Bye, Christian.” I grin.

Every time he says that, it

makes me smile... so un-Fifty, but somehow so him,too.

When I exit moments later,Sawyer is waiting on thedoorstepofthebuilding.

“Miss Steele,” he greetsmeformally.

“Sawyer.” I nod inresponse and together we

headdowntothedeli.I don’t feel as

comfortablewithSawyerasIdo with Taylor. Hecontinuallyscansthestreetaswe make our way along theblock. It actually makes memore nervous, and I findmyselfmirroringhisactions.

IsLeilaoutthere?OrareweallinfectedbyChristian’sparanoia? Is this part of hisfifty shades? What I’d give

for half an hour of candiddiscussionwithDr.Flynn, tofindout.

There’s nothing amiss,just lunchtime Seattle—people rushing for lunch,shopping, meeting friends. Iwatchtwoyoungwomenhugastheymeetup.

I miss Kate. It’s onlybeentwoweekssincesheleftfor her vacation, but it feelslikethelongesttwoweeksof

my life. So much hashappened—she’ll neverbelieve me when I tell her.Well, tell her the editedNDA-compliant version. Ifrown. I’ll have to talk toChristian about that. Whatwould Kate make of it? Iblanchatthethought.Perhapsshe’ll be back with Ethan. Ifeel a rush of excitement atthe thought, but I think it’sunlikely. She’d stay on with

Elliotsurely.“Where do you stand

when you’re waiting andwatching outside?” I askSawyer aswe get in line forlunch. Sawyer is in front ofme, facing the door,continually monitoring thestreetandanyonewhocomesin.It’sunnerving.

“I sit in the coffee shopdirectly across the street,MissSteele.”

“Doesn’t it get veryboring?”

“Not to me, ma’am. It’swhatIdo,”hesaysstiffly.

I flush. “Sorry, I didn’tmean to imply...” My voicetrails off at his kind,understandingexpression.

“Please,Miss Steele.Myjob is to protect you. Andthat’swhatI’lldo.”

“So,nosignofLeila?”“No,ma’am.”

I frown. “How do youknowwhatshelookslike?”

“I’ve seen herphotograph.”

“Oh, do you have it onyou?”

“No,ma’am.”Hetapshisskull. “Committed tomemory.”

Of course. I’d really liketo examine a photograph ofLeila to seewhat she lookedlikebeforeshebecameGhost

Girl. I wonder if Christianwould let me have a copy?Yes,heprobablywould—formysafety.Ihatchaplan,andmy subconscious gloats andnodsapprovingly.

The brochures arrive back attheoffice, and I have to say,they look great. I take oneinto Jack’s office. His eyes

light up, and I don’t know ifit’s at me or the brochure. Ichoose to believe it’s thelatter.

“These look great, Ana.”Idly, he flicks through it.“Yeah, good job. Are youseeing your boyfriend thisevening?”His lip curls ashesaysboyfriend.

“Yes.We live together.”It’ssortofthetruth.Well,wedoatthemoment.AndIhave

officially agreed to move in,so it’s not much of a whitelie.Ihopethat it’senoughtothrowhimoffthescent.

“Would he object to youcomingout for aquickdrinktonight?Tocelebrateallyourhardwork?”

“I have a friend comingin from out of town tonight,and we’re all going out fordinner.”And I’ll be busyeverynight,Jack.

“I see.” He sighs,exasperated. “Maybe whenI’m back from New York,huh?”Heraiseshiseyebrowsin expectation, and his gazedarkenssuggestively.

Oh no. I smile,noncommittal, stifling ashudder.

“Would you like somecoffeeortea?”Iask.

“Coffee, please.” Hisvoice is low and husky as if

he’s asking for somethingelse.Fuck.He’snotgoing toback off. I can see that now.Oh...Whattodo?

I breathe a long sigh ofrelief when I am out of hisoffice. He makes me tense.Christian is right about him,and part ofme is pissed thatChristianisrightabouthim.

Isitdownatmydeskandmy Blackberry rings—anumberIdon’trecognize.

“AnaSteele.”“Hi, Steele!” Ethan’s

drawl catches memomentarilyoffguard.

“Ethan!Howareyou?” Ialmostsquealwithdelight.

“Glad to be back. I amseriously fed up withsunshine and rum punches,and my baby sister beinghopelessly in love with thebigguy.It’sbeenhell,Ana.”

“Yeah! Sea, sand, sun,

and rumpunches sounds likeDante’s Inferno.” I giggle.“Whereareyou?”

“I’m at Sea-Tac, waitingfor my bag. What are youdoing?”

“I’m at work. Yes, I amgainfully employed,” Irespondtohisgasp.“Doyouwanttocomehereandcollectthekeys?Icanmeetyoulaterattheapartment.”

“Sounds great. I’ll see

you in about 45 minutes, anhour maybe? What’s theaddress?”

IgivehimSIP’saddress.“Seeyousoon,Ethan.”“Laters,” he says and

hangs up. What? Not Ethan,too?Anditdawnsonmethathe’s just spent a week withElliot. I quickly type an e-mailtoChristian.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:VisitorsfromSunnyClimes.Date:June14,2011:14:55To:ChristianGrey

DearestCompletely&UtterlySS&SEthanisback,andhe’scomingheretocollectkeystotheapartment.I’dreallyliketomakesurehe’ssettledinokay.Whydon’tyoucollectmeafterwork?Wecangotothe

apartmentthenwecanALLgooutforamealmaybe?Mytreat?YourAnaxStillSM&I


From:ChristianGreySubject:DinnerOut


Iapproveofyourplan.Exceptthepartaboutyoupaying!Mytreat.I’llcollectyouat6:00.xPS:Whyaren’tyouusingyourBlackberry!!!

ChristianGreyCompletelyandUtterlyAnnoyed,CEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:BossinessDate:June14,2011:15:11To:ChristianGrey

Oh,don’tbesocrustyandcross.It’sallincode.I’llseeyouat6:00.Anax


From:ChristianGreySubject:MaddeningWomanDate:June14,201115:18To:AnastasiaSteele

Crustyandcross!I’llgiveyoucrustyandcross.Andlookforwardtoit.

ChristianGreyCompletelyandUtterlyMoreAnnoyed,butsmilingforsomeunknownreason,CEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Promises.Promises.Date:June14,2011:15:23To:ChristianGrey

Bringiton,Mr.GreyIlookforwardtoittoo.;DAnax


He doesn’t reply, but then Idon’t expect him to. Iimagine him moaning aboutmixed signals, and thethought makes me smile. Idaydream briefly about whathe might do to me but findmyself shifting about in mychair.Mysubconsciousgazesatmedisapprovinglyoverherhalf-moonspecs—getonwithyourwork.

A little later, my phonebuzzes. It’s Claire atreception.

“There’s a real cute guyin reception to see you. Wemust go out for drinkssometime, Ana. You sureknowsomehunkyguys,”shehisses conspiratoriallythroughthephone.

Ethan!Grabbingmykeysfrommypurse,Ihurryouttothefoyer.

Holy shit—sun-bleachedblond hair, a tan to die for,and glowing hazel eyes gazeup at me from the greenleather couch.As soon as hesees me, his mouth dropsopen, and he’s on his feetcomingtowardme.

“Wow, Ana.” He frownsatmeashebendstogivemehug.

“You look well.” I grinupathim.

“You look... wow—different. Worldly, moresophisticated. What’shappened?Youchangedyourhair? Clothes? I don’t know,Steele,butyoulookhot!”

I blush furiously. “Oh,Ethan. I’m just in my workclothes,” I scold as Clairelooks on with an archedeyebrowandawrysmile.

“HowwasBarbados?”“Fun,”hesays.

“When’sKateback?”“SheandElliotareflying

back Friday. They’re prettydamn serious about eachother.”Ethanrollshiseyes.

“I’vemissedher.”“Yeah? How have you

beendoingwithMr.Mogul?”“Mr. Mogul?” I snicker.

“Well, it’s been interesting.He’s takingusout fordinnerthisevening.”

“Cool.” Ethan seems

genuinelypleased.Phew!“Here.” I hand him the

keys. “You have theaddress?”

“Yeah. Laters.”He leansoverandkissesmycheek.

“Elliot’sexpression?”“Yeah, kind of grows on

you.”“It does. Laters.” I smile

athimashecollectshislargeshoulderbag frombeside thegreen couch and exits the

building.When I turn, Jack is

watchingmefromthefarsideof the foyer, his expressionunreadable.Ismilebrightlyathim and head back to mydesk, feeling his eyes onmethe whole time. This isbeginning to get on mynerves.Whattodo?Ihavenoidea. I’ll have to wait untilKate is back. She’s bound tocome up with a plan. The

thought dispels my bleakmood,andIpickup thenextmanuscript.

At five to six, my phonebuzzes.It’sChristian.

“Crusty andCross here,”he says and I grin.He’s stillplayful Fifty. My innergoddessisclappingherhandswithgleelikeasmallchild.

“Well, this is Sex MadandInsatiable.Itakeityou’reoutside?”Iaskdryly.

“I am indeed, MissSteele. Looking forward toseeing you.” His voice iswarm and seductive, andmyheartflutterswildly.

“Ditto, Mr. Grey. I’ll berightout.”Ihangup.

Iswitchoffmycomputerand gather up my purse andcreamcardigan.

“I’m off now, Jack,” Icallthrough.

“Okay, Ana. Thanks fortoday, honey! Have a greatevening.”

“You,too.”Whycan’thebelikethat

all the time? I don’tunderstandhim.

The Audi is parked at the

curb,andChristianclimbsoutas I approach.He’s takenoffhis jacket, and he’s wearinghis gray pants, my favoriteones that hang from his hips—in that way. How can thisGreekgodbemeantforme?Ifind myself grinning like aloon in answer to his ownidioticgrin.

He’sspentthewholedayactinglikeaboyfriendinlove—in love with me. This

adorable, complex, flawedmanisinlovewithme,andIwith him. Joy burstsunexpectedlyinsideme,andIsavor the moment as I feelbriefly that I could conquertheworld.

“MissSteele,youlookascaptivating as you did thismorning.”Christian pullsmeinto his arms and kisses mesoundly.

“Mr.Grey,sodoyou.”

“Let’s go get yourfriend.” He smiles down atmeandopensthecardoor.

As Taylor heads to theapartment, Christian fills meinonhisday—amuchbetteronethanyesterday,itseems.Igaze at him adoringly as heattempts to explain somebreakthrough theenvironmental sciencedepartment at WSU inVancouver has made. His

wordsmeanverylittletome,but I’m captivated by hispassion and interest in thissubject.Maybethisiswhatitwill be like, good days andbad days, and if the gooddays are like this, I won’thavemuchtocomplainabout.Hehandsmeasheetofpaper.

“These are the times thatClaude is free thisweek,”hesays.

Oh!Thetrainer.

As we pull up to myapartment building, he fisheshis Blackberry from hispocket.

“Grey,” he answers.“Ros, what is it?” He listensintently,andIcan tell it’saninvolvedconversation.

“I’llgoandgetEthan.I’llbe two minutes,” I mouth atChristian and hold up twofingers.

He nods, obviously

distracted by the call. Tayloropensmydoor,smilingatmewarmly. I grin at him, evenTaylor’sfeelingit.Ipresstheentry phone and shouthappilyintoit.

“Hi, Ethan, it’s me. Letmein.”

The door buzzes, and Ihead upstairs to theapartment. It occurs to methat I have not been heresinceSaturdaymorning.That

seemssolongago.Ethanhaskindly left the front dooropen. I step into theapartment, and I don’t knowwhy,butIfreezeinstinctivelyassoonasIstepinside.Itakea moment to realize it’sbecause the pale, wan figurestanding by the kitchenisland, holding a smallrevolver is Leila, and she’sgazingimpassivelyatme.

Holyfuck.She’s here, gazing at me

with an unnerving blankexpression, holding a gun.Mysubconsciousswoonsintoadeadfaint,andIdon’tthinkevensmellingsaltswillbringherback.

IblinkrepeatedlyatLeilaas my mind goes intooverdrive. How did she getin? Where’s Ethan? Holyshit!WhereisEthan?

Acreepingcoldfeargripsmy heart, and my scalp

prickles as each and everyfollicle on my head tightenswith terror. What if she’sharmedhim?Istartbreathingrapidly as adrenaline andbone-numbing dread coursethroughmybody.Keepcalm,keep calm—I repeat themantra over and over in myhead.

She tilts her head to oneside, regarding me as if I’man exhibit in a freak show.

Jeez,I’mnotthefreakhere.It feels like an eon has

passed while I process allthis, though in reality it isonly a split second. Leila’sexpression remains blank,and her appearance is asscruffyandill-kemptasever.She’s still wearing thatgrubby trench coat, and shelooksdesperatelyinneedofawash.Her hair is greasy andlank, plastered against her

head, andher eyesare adullbrown, cloudy, and vaguelyconfused.

Despite the fact that mymouth has no moisture in itwhatsoever, I attempt tospeak. “Hi. Leila, isn’t it?” Irasp. She smiles, but it’s adisturbing curl of her lipratherthanatruesmile.

“She speaks,” shewhispers, and her voice issoft and hoarse at the same

time,aneeriesound.“Yes, I speak,” I say

gently as if to a child. “Areyou here alone?”Where isEthan? My heart pounds atthe thought that he mighthavecometosomeharm.

Herfacefalls,somuchsothat I think she’s about toburstintotears—shelookssoforlorn.

“Alone,” she whispers.“Alone.” And the depth of

sadness in that one word isheart wrenching. What doesshemean?Iamalone?She’salone? She’s alone becauseshe’s harmed Ethan? Oh...no... I have to fight thechoking fear clawing at mythroatastearsthreaten.

“What are you doinghere? Can I help you?” Mywords are a calm, gentleinterrogation despite thesuffocatingfear inmy throat.

Her brow furrows as if she’scompletely befuddled by myquestions. But she makes noviolentmoveagainstme.Herhand is still relaxed aroundher gun. I take a differenttack, trying to ignore mytighteningscalp.

“Would you like sometea?”Why am I asking her ifshe wants tea? It’s Ray’sanswer to any emotionalsituation, resurfacing

inappropriately. Jeez, he’dhave a fit if he sawme rightthisminute.Hisarmytrainingwould have kicked in, andhe’d have disarmed her bynow. She’s not actuallypointing that gun at me.Perhaps I can move. Sheshakes her head and tilts itfrom side to side as ifstretchingherneck.

I take a deep preciouslungful of air, trying to calm

my panicked breathing, andmove toward the kitchenisland. She frowns as if shecan’tquiteunderstandwhat Iamdoingandshiftsalittlesoshe isstill facingme. I reachthekettle andwith a shakinghand fill it from the faucet.As I move, my breathingeases.Yes, if shewantedmedead, surely she would haveshotmebynow.Shewatchesme with an absent, bemused

curiosity. As I switch on thekettle, I’m plagued by thethought ofEthan. Is he hurt?Tiedup?

“Is there anyone else inthe apartment?” I asktentatively.

She inclinesherhead theotherway,andwithherrighthand—the hand not holdingthe revolver—she grabs astrandofherlonggreasyhairand starts twirling and

fiddling with it, pulling andtwisting. It’s obviously anervoushabit,andwhileIamdistractedbythis,Iamstruckonceagainbyhowmuchsheresembles me. I hold mybreath, waiting for heranswer, the anxiety buildingtoanalmostunbearablepitch.

“Alone. All alone,” shemurmurs. I find thiscomforting. Maybe Ethanisn’t here. The relief is

empowering.“Are you sure you don’t

wantteaorcoffee?”“Not thirsty,” she

answers softly, and she takesa cautious step toward me.My feeling of empowermentevaporates. Fuck!I startpanting with fear again,feeling it surge thick andrough through my veins. Inspite of this and feelingbeyondbrave,Iturnandfetch

a couple of cups from thecupboard.

“WhatdoyouhavethatIdon’t?” she asks, her voiceassuming the singsongintonationofachild.

“What do you mean,Leila?” I ask as gently as Ican.

“Master—Mr. Grey—heletsyoucallhimbyhisgivenname.”

“I’m not his submissive,

Leila. Er... MasterunderstandsthatIamunable,inadequate to fulfill thatrole.”

She tilts her head to theother side. It’s whollyunnerving and unnatural as agesture.

“In-ad-e-quate.”Sheteststhe word, sounding it out,seeing how it feels on hertongue.“ButMasterishappy.I have seen him. He laughs

and smiles. These reactionsarerare...veryrareforhim.”

Oh.“Youlooklikeme.”Leila

changes tack, surprising me,hereyesseeming to focusonmeproperlyforthefirsttime.“Master likes obedient oneswho look like you and me.Theothers, all the same... allthe same... andyetyou sleepinhisbed.Isawyou.”

Shit! She was in the

room.Ididn’timagineit.“You saw me in his

bed?”Iwhisper.“IneversleptinMaster’s

bed,”shemurmurs.She’slikea fallen etherealwraith.Halfaperson.Shelookssoslight,and in spite of the fact thatshe’s holding a gun, Isuddenly feel overwhelmedwith sympathy for her. Herhands flex around theweapon, andmy eyeswiden,

threatening to pop from myhead.

“WhydoesMasterlikeuslike this? It makes me thinksomething... something...Master is dark... Master is adarkman,butIlovehim.”

No,no,he’snot. Ibristleinternally. He’s not dark.He’s a good man, and he’snot in the dark. He’s joinedme in the light. And nowshe’shere,tryingtodraghim

back with some warped ideathatsheloveshim.

“Leila, do you want togive me the gun?” I asksoftly. Her hand grips ittightly,andshehugsittoherchest.

“This is mine. It’s all Ihave left.” She gentlycaressesthegun.“Soshecanjoinherlove.”

Holy shit!Which love—Christian? It’s like she’s

punchedmeinthestomach.Iknow he will be heremomentarily to find outwhat’skeepingme.Doesshemean to shoot him? Thethought is so horrific, I feelmythroatswellandacheasahugeknotformsthere,almostchoking me, matching thefear that’s balled tightly inmystomach.

Right on cue the doorbursts open, and Christian is

standing in the doorway,Taylorbehindhim.

Glancing at me briefly,Christian’s eyes sweep overme from head to toe, and Inotice the small spark ofrelief in his look. But hisrelief is fleeting as his gazedarts to Leila and stills,focusingonher,notwaveringin the slightest. He glares ather with an intensity I havenotseenbefore,hiseyeswild,

wide,angry,andscared.Ohno...ohno.Leila’s eyes widen, and

for a moment, it seems herreason returns. She blinksrapidly while her handtightens once more aroundthegun.

My breath catches inmythroat, and my heart startsthumping so loud that I hearthe blood pounding in myears.No,no,no!

My world teetersprecariously in the hands ofthis poor, fucked-up woman.Will she shoot? Both of us?Christian? The thought iscrippling.

But after an eternity, astimehangssuspendedaroundus,herheaddipsslightlyandshe gazes up at him, throughher long lashes, herexpressioncontrite.

Christian holds up his

hand, signaling to Taylor tostay where he is. Taylor’sblanched face betrays hisfury. I have never seen himlikethis,buthestandsstock-still as Christian and Leilastareateachother.

I realize I’m holdingmybreath. What will she do?What will he do? But theyjust continue to stare at eachother. Christian’s expressionisraw,fullofsomeunnamed

emotion. It could be pity,fear,affection...or is it love?No,please,notlove!

His eyes bore into her,and agonizingly slowly, theatmosphere in the apartmentchanges. The tension isbuilding so that I can sensetheir connection, the chargebetweenthem.

No! Suddenly I feel I’mthe interloper, intruding onthem as they stand gazing at

eachother.I’manoutsider—a voyeur, spying on aforbidden, intimate scenebehindclosedcurtains.

Christian’s intense gazeburns brighter, and hisbearing changes subtly. Helooks taller, more angularsomehow, colder, and moredistant. I recognize thisstance.I’veseenhimlikethisbefore—inhisplayroom.

My scalp prickles anew.

This is Dominant Christian,and how at ease he looks.Whether he was born to ormadeforthisrole,Ijustdon’tknow, but with a sinkingheartandsickenedstomach,Iwatch as Leila responds, herlips parting, her breathingpickingupasthefirstflushofcolor stains her cheeks. No!It’s such an unwelcomeglimpse into his past,agonizingtowitness.

Finally, he mouths awordather.Ican’tmakeoutwhat it is, but the effect onLeilaisimmediate.Shedropstotheflooronherknees,herheadbowed,andthegunfallsand skitters uselessly acrossthewoodenfloor.Holyfuck.

Christian walks calmlyover to where the gun hasfallenandbendsgracefullytopick itup.Heregards itwithill-disguiseddisgustthenslips

it into his jacket pocket. Hegazes once more at Leila asshekneelscompliantlybesidethekitchenisland.

“Anastasia, go withTaylor,” he commands.Taylor crosses the thresholdandstaresatme.

“Ethan,”Iwhisper.“Downstairs.” He

respondsmatter-of-factly, hiseyesneverleavingLeila.

Downstairs. Not here.

Ethan’s okay. Relief floodshard and fast through myblood,and for a moment IthinkI’mgoingtofaint.

“Anastasia,” Christian’stoneisclippedinwarning.

I blink at him, and I’msuddenly unable to move. Idon’t want to leave him—leavehimwithher.Hemovesto stand beside Leila as shekneels at his feet. He’shovering over her,

protectively. She’s so still,it’sunnatural.Ican’ttakemyeyes off the two of them—together...

“For the love of God,Anastasia, will you do asyou’re told for once in yourlife andgo!” Christian’s eyeslockwithmineasheglowersat me, his voice a blisteringcold shard of ice. The angerbeneath the quiet, deliberatedelivery of his words is

palpable.Angryatme?Surelynot.

Please—No!I feel like he’sslapped me hard. Why doeshewanttostaywithher?

“Taylor. Take MissSteeledownstairs.Now.”

Taylor nods at him as IstareatChristian.

“Why?”Iwhisper.“Go. Back to the

apartment.” His eyes blazefrostily at me. “I need to be

alonewithLeila.”He says iturgently.

I think he’s trying toconvey some kind ofmessage, but I’m so thrownby all that’s happened thatI’mnotsure.IglancedownatLeilaandnoticeaverysmallsmile cross her lips, butotherwise she remains trulyimpassive. A completesubmissive. Fuck!My heartchills.

This is what he needs.This is what he likes. No!Iwanttowail.

“Miss Steele. Ana.”Taylor holds his hand out tome, imploringme to come. Iam immobilized by thehorrific spectacle before me.It confirms my worst fearsand plays on all myinsecurities: Christian andLeila together—theDomandhissub.

“Taylor,”Christianurges,and Taylor leans down andscoopsmeintohisarms.ThelastthingIseeasweleaveisChristian gently strokingLeila’s head as he murmurssomethingsoftlytoher.

No!As Taylor carries me

downthestairs,Ilielimplyinhis arms trying to graspwhat’s happened in the lastten minutes—was it longer?

Or shorter? The concept oftimehasdesertedme.

ChristianandLeila,Leilaand Christian... together?What is he doing with hernow?

“Jesus, Ana! What thefuckisgoingon?”

IamrelievedtoseeEthanas he paces the small lobby,still carrying his largeshoulder bag. Oh, thankheavens he’s okay!When

Taylor sets me down, Ipractically throw myself atEthan, wrapping my armsaroundhisneck.

“Ethan.Oh, thankGod!”Ihughim,holdinghimclose.I was so worried, and for abrief moment, I enjoy somerespite from my rising panicat what is unfolding upstairsinmyapartment.

“What the fuck is goingon,Ana?Who’sthisguy?”

“Oh, sorry,Ethan, this isTaylor. He works withChristian. Taylor, this isEthan, my roommate’sbrother.”

Theynodateachother.“Ana, upstairs, what’s

going on? I was fishing forthe apartment keys whenthese guys jumped out ofnowhere and grabbed them.OneofthemwasChristian...”Ethan’svoicetrailsoff.

“You were late... ThankGod.”

“Yeah. I met a friendfrom Pullman—we had aquick drink. Upstairs, what’sgoingon?”

“There’s a girl, an ex ofChristian’s. Inourapartment.She’s gone postal, andChristian is...” My voicecracks, and tears pool in myeyes.

“Hey,” Ethan whispers

and pulls me close oncemore.“Hasanyonecalledthecops?”

“No, it’s not like that.” Isob into his chest and nowI’ve started, I can’t stopcrying, the tension of thislatest episode releasingthrough my tears. Ethantightens his arms aroundme,butIsensehisbemusement.

“Hey,Ana, let’sgogetadrink.” He pats my back

awkwardly. Abruptly, I feelawkward, too, andembarrassed, and in allhonesty, I want to be onmyown.ButInod,acceptinghisoffer.Iwanttobeawayfromhere, away from whatever’sgoingonupstairs.

IturntoTaylor.“Was the apartment

checked?”Iaskhimtearfully,wipingmynosewiththebackofmyhand.

“This afternoon.” Taylorshrugs apologetically as hehandsmeahandkerchief.Helooks devastated. “I’m sorry,Ana,”hemurmurs.

Ifrown.Jeez,helookssoguilty. I don’t want to makehimfeelworse.

“She does seem to havean uncanny ability to evadeus,”headdsscowlingagain.

“EthanandIwillgoforaquickdrinkthenheadbackto

Escala.”Idrymyeyes.Taylorshuffles fromfoot

to foot uncomfortably. “Mr.Greywanted you to go backto the apartment,” he saysquietly.

“Well, we know whereLeilaisnow.”Ican’tkeepthebitterness out of my voice.“So, no need for all thesecurity. Tell Christian we’llseehimlater.”

Taylor opens his mouth

to speak and then wiselyclosesitagain.

“Do you want to leaveyourbagwithTaylor?” IaskEthan.

“No,I’llkeepitwithme,thanks.”

Ethan nods at Taylor,then ushers me out of thefront door. Too late, Iremember that I’ve left mypurse in the back of Audi. Ihavenothing.

“Mypurse—”“Don’t worry,” Ethan

murmurs, his face full ofconcern. “It’s cool, it’s onme.”

We choose a bar across thestreet, settling onto woodenbar stools by the window. Iwant to see what’s going on—who’s coming, and more

importantly who’s going.Ethan hands me a bottle ofbeer.

“Troublewithanex?”hesaysgently.

“It’s a bit morecomplicated than that,” Imutter, abruptly guarded. Ican’t talk about this—I havesigned anNDA.And for thefirst time, I really resent thatfact and that Christian’s saidnothingaboutrescindingit.

“I’ve got time,” Ethansays kindly and takes a longslugofhisbeer.

“She’s an ex, fromyearsback.Sheleftherhusbandforsome guy. Then a couple ofweeksorsoagohewaskilledinacarcrash,andnowshe’scome after Christian.” Ishrug.There, thatdidn’tgivetoomuchaway.

“Comeafterhim?”“Shehadagun.”

“Whatthefuck!”“She didn’t actually

threaten anyone with it. Ithink she meant to harmherself.But that’swhy Iwassoworriedaboutyou.Ididn’tknow if you were in theapartment.”

“I see. She soundsunstable.”

“Yes,sheis.”“And what’s Christian

doingwithhernow?”

The blood drains frommy face and bile rises inmythroat. “I don’t know,” Iwhisper.

Ethan’s eyes widen—atlasthe’sgotit.

This is the crux of myproblem. What thefuckaretheydoing?Talking,Ihope. Just talking. Yet all Ican see in my mind’s eye ishis hand, tenderly strokingherhair.

She’s disturbed andChristian cares about her,that’sallthisis,Irationalize.But in the back ofmymind,my subconscious is shakingherheadsadly.

It’smore than that.Leilawasabletofulfillhisneedsina way I cannot. The thoughtisdepressing.

Itrytofocusonallwe’vedoneinthelastfewdays—hisdeclaration of love, his flirty

humor, his playfulness. ButElena’s words keep comingback to taunt me. It’s truewhat they say abouteavesdroppers.

Don’t you miss it... yourplayroom?

Ifinishmybeerinrecordtime, and Ethan lines upanother. I am not much of acompanion, but to his credithe stays with me, chatting,trying to lift my spirits,

talking about Barbados, andKate and Elliot’s antics,which is wonderfullydistracting. But it’s just that—adistraction.

My mind, my heart, mysoul are all still in thatapartment with my FiftyShades and the woman whoused to be his submissive.Awoman who thinks she stillloves him. A woman wholookslikeme.

During our third beer, alarge cruiser with heavily-tintedwindowspulls upnextto the Audi in front of theapartment. I recognize Dr.Flynn as he climbs out,accompanied by a womandressedinwhatlooklikepalebluescrubs. IglimpseTaylorasheletstheminthroughthefrontdoor.

“Who’s that?” Ethanasks.

“His name’s Dr. Flynn.Christianknowshim.”

“Whatkindofdoctor?”“Ashrink.”“Oh.”Webothwatch,andafew

minutes later they are back.Christian is carrying Leilawho iswrapped in ablanket.What? I watch horrified astheyallclimbintothecruiser,anditspeedsaway.

Ethan glances at me

sympathetically, and I feeldesolate,completelydesolate.

“Can I have something abitstronger?”IaskEthan,myvoicesmall.

“Sure. What would youlike?”

“Abrandy.Please.”Ethannodsandretreatsto

the bar. I gaze through thewindow at the front door.Moments later Tayloremerges, climbs into the

Audi, and heads off towardEscala... after Christian? Idon’tknow.

Ethan places a largebrandyinfrontofme.

“Come on, Steele. Let’sgetdrunk.”

SoundslikethebestofferI’vehadinawhile.Weclinkglasses, and I take a gulp oftheburningamber liquid, thefiery heat a welcomedistraction from the hideous

blossomingpaininmyheart.It’slate,andIfeelfuzzy.

EthanandIarelockedoutofthe apartment. He insists onwalking me back to Escala,buthewon’tstay.He’scalledthefriendhemetearlierforadrink and arranged to crashwithhim.

“So, this is where theMogul lives.” Ethanwhistlesthroughhisteeth,impressed.

Inod.

“Sureyoudon’twantmeto come in with you?” heasks.

“No,Ineedtofacethis—orjustgotobed.”

“Seeyoutomorrow?”“Yes. Thanks, Ethan.” I

hughim.“You’ll work it out,

Steele,” he murmurs againstmy ear. He releases me andwatcheswhileIheadintothebuilding.

“Laters,” he calls. I offerhimaweaksmileandawavethen press the button to calltheelevator.

The elevator doors open,and I step into Christian’sapartment. Taylor is notwaiting, which is unusual.Opening the double doors, Ihead toward the great room.Christian is on the phone,pacing the room near thepiano.

“She’s here,” he snaps.Heturns toglareatmeasheswitches off his phone.“Where the fuck have youbeen?”hegrowlsbutdoesn’tmakeamovetowardme.

Holy crap, he’s angrywith me? He’s the one thatjust spent God knows howlong with his loony ex-girlfriend, and he’sangrywithme?

“Have you been

drinking?”heasks,appalled.“A bit.” I didn’t think it

wasthatobvious.He gasps and runs his

handthroughhishair.“I toldyou to come back here.”Hisvoice is menacingly quiet.“It’s now fifteen after ten.I’vebeenworriedaboutyou.”

“I went for a drink orthree with Ethan while youattendedtoyourex,”Ihissathim.“Ididn’tknowhowlong

you were going to be... withher.”

He narrows his eyes andtakes a fewpaces towardmebutstops.

“Why do you say it thatlikethat?”

Ishrugandstaredownatmyfingers.

“Ana, what’s wrong?”And for the first time, I hearsomethingotherthanangerinhisvoice.What?Fear?

Iswallow,tryingtoworkout what I want to say.“Where’s Leila?” I asklookingupathim.

“In a psychiatric hospitalinFremont,”hesays,andhisface is scrutinizing mine.“Ana,what is it?”Hemovestowardmeuntilhe’sstandingright in frontofme. “What’swrong?”hebreathes.

Ishakemyhead.“I’mnogoodforyou.”

“What?” he breathes, hiseyes widening in alarm.“Whydoyouthinkthat?Howcanyoupossiblythinkthat?”

“I can’t be everythingyouneed.”

“You are everything Ineed.

“Just seeing you withher...”Myvoicetrailsoff.

“Why do you do this tome? This is not about you,Ana.It’sabouther.”Hetakes

a sharp breath, running hishand through his hair again.“At themoment she’s averysickgirl.”

“But I felt it... what youhadtogether.”

“What? No.” He reachesfor me, and I step backinstinctively. He drops hishand, blinking at me. Helooks as though he’s seizedwithpanic.

“You’re running?” he

whispers as his eyes widenwithfear.

I say nothing as I try tocollectmyscatteredthoughts.

“Youcan’t,”hepleads.“Christian... I—” I

struggle to collect mythoughts.WhatamItryingtosay? I need time, time toprocessthis.Givemetime.

“No.No!”hesays.“I...”He looks wildly around

theroom.Forinspiration?Fordivine intervention? I don’tknow.

“You can’t go. Ana, Iloveyou!”

“I love you, too,Christian,it’sjust—”

“No... no!” he says indesperation and puts bothhandsonhishead.

“Christian...”“No,” he breathes, his

eyes wide with panic, and

suddenly he drops to hisknees in front of me, headbowed, long-fingered handsspread out on his thighs. Hetakes a deep breath anddoesn’tmove.

What? “Christian, whatareyoudoing?”

He continues to staredown,notlookingatme.

“Christian!What are youdoing?” My voice is high-pitched. He doesn’t move.

“Christian, look at me!” Icommandinpanic.

His head sweeps upwithout hesitation, and heregardsmepassivelywithhiscool gray gaze—he’s almostserene...expectant.

Holy Fuck... Christian.Thesubmissive.

Christian on his knees atmyfeet, holding me with his

steadygraygaze, is themostchilling and sobering sight Ihaveeverseen—moresothanLeilaandhergun.Thevaguealcoholic fuzziness I’msuffering from evaporates inaninstantandisreplacedbyapricklingscalpandacreepingsense of doom as the blooddrainsfrommyface.

I inhale sharply withshock.No.No, this iswrong,sowrongandsodisturbing.

“Christian, please, don’tdothis.Idon’twantthis.”

He continues to regardme passively, not moving,sayingnothing.

Oh fuck. My poor Fifty.Myheartsqueezesandtwists.What thehell have I done tohim?Tearsprickmyeyes.

“Whyareyoudoingthis?Talktome,”Iwhisper.

Heblinksonce.“Whatwouldyoulikeme

to say?” he says softly,blandly, and for a momentI’mrelievedthathe’stalking,butnotlikethis—no.No.

Tearsbegintooozedownmycheeks,andsuddenlyitistoo much to see him in thesameprostratepositionasthepathetic creature that wasLeila. The image of apowerful man who’s reallystill a little boy, who washorrifically abused and

neglected, who feelsunworthy of love from hisperfect family and hismuch-less-than perfect girlfriend...my lost boy... it’sheartbreaking.

Compassion, loss, anddespairall swell inmyheart,and I feelachokingsenseofdesperation. I am going tohave to fight to bring himback,tobringbackmyFifty.

The thought of me

dominating anyone isappalling. The thought ofdominating Christian isnauseating.Itwouldmakemelikeher—thewomanwhodidthistohim.

Ishudderat that thought,fightingthebileinmythroat.NowaycanIdothat.NowaydoIwantthat.

As my thoughts clear, Ican see only one way. Nottakingmyeyesoffhis,Isink

tomykneesinfrontofhim.Thewoodenfloorishard

againstmy shins, and I dashmy tears away roughly withthebackofmyhand.

Like this, we are equals.We’re on a level.This is theonly way I’m going toretrievehim.

His eyes widenfractionally as I stare up athim, but beyond that hisexpression and stance don’t

change.“Christian, you don’t

havetodothis,”Iplead.“I’mnotgoingtorun.I’vetoldyouand told you and told you, Iwon’t run.” All that’shappened... it’soverwhelming. I just needsome time to think... sometime to myself.Why do youalways assume the worst?”My heart clenches againbecause I know; it’s because

he’s so doubting, so full ofself-loathing.

Elena’swordscomebacktohauntme.“Doessheknowhow negative you are aboutyourself? About all yourissues?”

Oh,Christian. Fear gripsmy heart once more and Istart babbling, “I was goingto suggest going back to myapartment this evening. Younever give me any time...

time to just think thingsthrough,” I sob, and a ghostof a frown crosses his face.“Justtimetothink.Webarelyknoweachother, and all thisbaggage that comes withyou... Ineed... Ineed time tothink it through. And nowthatLeila is...well,whatevershe is... she’s off the streetsandnota threat... I thought...I thought...” My voice trailsoff and I stare at him. He

regards me intently and Ithinkhe’slistening

“SeeingyouwithLeila...”Iclosemyeyesasthepainfulmemory of his interactionwith his ex-sub gnaws atmeanew.“Itwassuchashock.Ihad a glimpse into howyourlife has been... and...” I gazedown at my knotted fingers,tears still trickling down mycheeks.“Thisisaboutmenotbeinggoodenoughforyou.It

was an insight into your life,andIamsoscaredyou’llgetbored with me, and thenyou’ll go... and I’ll end uplike Leila... a shadow.BecauseIloveyou,Christian,andifyouleaveme,itwillbelikeaworldwithoutlight.I’llbe in darkness. I don’t wantto run. I’m just so frightenedyou’llleaveme...”

I realize as I say thesewords to him—in the hope

that he’s listening—what myreal problem is. I just don’tget why he likes me. I havenever understood why helikesme.

“I don’t understand whyyou find me attractive,” Imurmur. “You’re, well,you’re you... and I’m...” Ishrug and gaze up at him. “Ijust don’t see it. You’rebeautiful and sexy andsuccessfulandgoodandkind

and caring—all those things—andI’mnot.AndIcan’tdothe things you like to do. Ican’tgiveyouwhatyouneed.Howcouldyoubehappywithme?HowcanIpossiblyholdyou?”Myvoice is awhisperasIexpressmydarkestfears.“I have never understoodwhat you see in me. Andseeing you with her, itbroughtallthathome.”Isniffand wipe my nose with the

back of my hand, gazing athisimpassiveexpression.

Oh,he’s soexasperating.Talktome,damnit!

“Are you going to kneelhereallnight?BecauseI’lldoit,too,”Isnapathim.

I think his expressionsoftens—maybe he looksvaguely amused. But it’s sohardtotell.

I could reach across andtouch him, but thiswould be

a gross abuse of the positionhe’s put me in. I don’t wantthat,butIdon’tknowwhathewants, orwhat he’s trying tosay to me. I just don’tunderstand.

“Christian, please,please... talk to me,” Ibeseech him, wringing myhands in my lap. I amuncomfortable on my knees,but I continue to kneel,staring into his serious,

beautiful, gray eyes, and Iwait.

Andwait.Andwait.“Please,” I beg once

more.His intense gaze darkens

suddenlyandheblinks.“I was so scared,” he

whispers.Oh, thank the Lord!

Inside, my subconsciousstaggers back into her

armchair, saggingwithrelief,andtakesalargeswigofgin.

He’s talking! Gratitudeoverwhelms me, and Iswallow,tryingtocontainmyemotionandthefreshboutoftearsthatthreatens.

Hisvoiceissoftandlow.“When I saw Ethan arriveoutside, Iknewsomeonehadlet you into your apartment.BothTaylorandIleaptoutofthe car.We knew and to see

hertherelikethatwithyou—and armed. I think I died athousand deaths, Ana.Someone threatening you...allmyworst fears realized. Iwas so angry, with her, withyou, with Taylor, withmyself.”

He shakes his headrevealinghisagony.“Ididn’tknowhowvolatileshewouldbe.Ididn’tknowwhattodo.I didn’t know how she’d

react.” He stops and frowns.“And then she gave me aclue; she looked so contrite.AndIjustknewwhatIhadtodo.”Hepauses,gazingatme,tryingtogaugemyreaction.

“Goon,”Iwhisper.Heswallows.“Seeingher

in that state, knowing that Imight have something to dowith her mentalbreakdown...” He closes hiseyes once more. “She was

always so mischievous andlively.” He shudders andtakesaraspingbreath,almostlike a sob. This is torture tolisten to, but I kneel,attentive, lapping up thisinsight.

“Shemight have harmedyou.And itwouldhavebeenmy fault.”His eyes drift off,filled with uncomprehendinghorror, and he’s silent oncemore.

“But she didn’t,” Iwhisper. “And you weren’tresponsible for her being inthat state, Christian.” I blinkupathim,encouraginghimtocontinue.

Then it dawns on meafresh that everything he didwas to keep me safe, andperhapsLeila,too,becausehealso cares for her. But howmuch does he care for her?The question lingers in my

head,unwelcome.Hesayshelovesme,but thenhewassoharsh,throwingmeoutofmyownapartment.

“Ijustwantedyougone,”he murmurs, with hisuncanny ability to read mythoughts.“Iwantedyouawayfrom the danger, and... You.Just. Wouldn’t. Go,” hehisses throughclenched teethand shakes his head. Hisexasperationispalpable.

He gazes at me intently.“AnastasiaSteele,youarethemost stubborn woman Iknow.” He closes his eyesand shakes his head oncemoreindisbelief.

Oh,he’sback.Ibreathealong,cleansingsighofrelief.

He opens his eyes again,and his expression is forlorn—sincere. “You weren’tgoingtorun?”heasks.

“No!”

He closes his eyes againand his whole body relaxes.Whenheopenshiseyes,Icanseehispainandanguish.

“I thought—” He stops.“Thisisme,Ana.Allofme...and I’mallyours.Whatdo Ihave to do to make yourealizethat?TomakeyouseethatIwantyouanywayIcangetyou.ThatIloveyou.”

“I love you, too,Christian,andtoseeyoulike

this is...” I choke and mytears start afresh. “I thoughtI’dbrokenyou.”

“Broken? Me? Oh no,Ana. Just the opposite.” Hereaches out and takes myhand. “You’re my lifeline,”hewhispers,andhekissesmyknuckles before pressing mypalmagainsthis.

With his eyes wide andfulloffear,hegentlytugsmyhand and places it on his

chest over his heart—in theforbiddenzone.Hisbreathingquickens.Hisheartisbeatinga frantic, pounding tattoobeneath my fingers. Hedoesn’t take his eyes offmine; his jaw is tense, histeethclenched.

Igasp.OhmyFifty!He’slettingmetouchhim.Andit’slikealltheairinmylungshasvaporized—gone. The bloodispoundinginmyearsasthe

rhythm of my heart rises tomatchhis.

He releases my hand,leaving it in place over hisheart. I flex my fingersslightly, feeling the warmthof his skin beneath the thinfabric of his shirt. He’sholding his breath. I can’tbear it. I make to move myhand.

“No,” he says quicklyand places his hand once

moreovermine,pressingmyfingersagainsthim.“Don’t.”

Emboldenedbythesetwowords,Ishuffleclosersoourknees are touching andtentatively raise my otherhandsothatheknowsexactlywhat I intend todo.Hiseyesgrow wider but he doesn’tstopme.

GentlyIstarttoundothebuttonsonhisshirt.It’strickywith one hand. I flex my

fingers beneath his hand andheletsgo,allowingmetouseboth hands to undo his shirt.My eyes don’t leave his as Ipull his shirt open, revealinghischest.

Heswallows,andhislipspart as his breathingincreases, and I sense hisrising panic, but he doesn’tpull away. Is he still in submode?Ihavenoidea.

Should I do this? I don’t

want to hurt him, physicallyormentally.Thesightofhimlike this, offering himself tome,hasbeenawake-upcall.

I reach up, andmy handhovers over his chest, and Istare at him... asking hispermission. Very subtly hetilts his head to one side,steeling himself inanticipationofmytouch,andthetensionradiatesfromhim,but this timeit’snot inanger

—it’sinfear.Ihesitate.CanIreallydo

thistohim?“Yes,” he breathes—

againwiththeweirdabilitytoanswer my unspokenquestions.

I extend my fingertipsintohischesthairandlightlybrushthemdownhissternum.He closes his eyes, and hisface creases as if he’sexperiencingintolerablepain.

It’sunbearable towitness, soIliftmyfingersimmediately,buthequicklygrabsmyhandandreplacesitfirmly,flatonhisbarechestsothatthehairticklesmypalm.

“No,” he says, his voicestrained.“Ineedto.”

His eyes are screwed upso tightly. This must beagony.It’strulytormentingtowatch. Carefully I let myfingersstrokeacrosshischest

to his heart,marveling at thefeelofhim, terrified that thisisasteptoofar.

He opens his eyes, andthey are gray fire, blazing atme.

Holy cow. His look isblistering, feral, beyondintense, and his breathing israpid. It stirs my blood. Isquirmunderhisgaze.

Hehasn’tstoppedme,soIrunmyfingertipsacrosshis

chest again, and his mouthgoesslack.He’spanting,andIdon’tknowifit’sfromfear,orsomethingelse.

I’ve wanted to kiss himthereforsolongthatIleanupon my knees and hold hisgaze for a moment, makingmy intention perfectly clear.Then Ibendandgentlyplanta soft kiss above his heart,feeling his warm, sweet-smelling skin beneath my

lips.His strangled groan

movesme somuch that I sitback on my heels, fearful ofwhat I’ll seeonhis face.Hiseyesarescrewedtightlyshut,buthehasn’tmoved.

“Again,” he whispers,andIleanintohischestoncemore,thistimetokissoneofhisscars.Hegasps,andIkissanother and another. Hegroans loudly, and suddenly

his arms are aroundme, andhishandisinmyhair,pullingmyhead up painfully so thatmy lips meet his insistentmouth. And we’re kissing,my fingers knotting into hishair.

“Oh, Ana,” he breathes,and he twists and pulls medownontothefloorsothatIam underneath him. I bringmy hands up to cup hisbeautiful face, and in that

moment,Ifeelhistears.He’scrying...no.No!“Christian, please, don’t

cry.ImeantitwhenIsaidI’dnever leave you. I did. If Igave you any otherimpression, I’m so sorry...please, please forgive me. Ilove you. I will always loveyou.”

He looms over me,gazing down into my face,and his expression is so

pained.“Whatisit?”Hiseyesgrowlarger.“What is this secret that

makes you think I’ll run forthe hills?Thatmakes you sodetermined to believe I’llgo?” I plead, my voicetremulous. “Tell me,Christian,please...”

He sits up, though thistimehecrosseshislegsandIfollow suit, my legs

outstretched. Vaguely Iwonder ifwe can get off thefloor? But I don’t want tointerrupt his train of thought.He’s finally going to confideinme.

He gazes down at me,andhe looksutterlydesolate.Ohshit—it’sbad.

“Ana...” He pauses,searching for the words, hisexpression pained... Oh?Wherethehellisthisgoing?

He takes a deep breathand swallows. “I’m a sadist,Ana. I like to whip littlebrown-haired girls like youbecause you all look like thecrack whore—my birthmother. I’m sure you canguess why.” He says it in arush as if he’s had thesentence inhishead fordaysand days and is desperate toberidofit.

Myworldstops.Ohno.

This is not what Iexpected. This is bad.Reallybad. I gaze at him, trying tounderstand the implicationofwhat he’s just said. It doesexplain why we all look thesame.

My immediate thought isthatLeilawasright—“Masterisdark.”

I recall the firstconversation I had with himabouthistendencieswhenwe

were in the Red Room ofPain.

“You said youweren’t asadist,”Iwhisper,desperatelytrying to understand... makesomeexcuseforhim.

“No, I said I was aDominant. If I lied to you, itwas a lie of omission. I’msorry.”Helooksbrieflydownathismanicuredfingernails.

I think he’s mortified.Mortified about lying tome?

Oraboutwhatheis?“Whenyouaskedmethat

question, I had envisioned avery different relationshipbetween us,” he murmurs. Ican tell byhis gaze that he’sterrified.

Then it hits me like awreckingball.Ifhe’sasadist,he reallyneedsall thatwhippingandcaningshit.Ohfuck. I put my head in myhands.

“So it’s true,” I whisper,glancing up at him. “I can’tgive you what you need.”This is it—this really doesmeanweareincompatible.

The world starts fallingaway at my feet, collapsingaroundmeaspanicgripsmythroat.Thisisit.Wecan’tdothis.

Hefrowns.“No,No,No.Ana. No. You can. You dogive me what I need.” He

clenches his fists. “Pleasebelieveme,”hemurmurs,hiswordsanimpassionedplea.

“I don’t know what tobelieve, Christian. This is sofucked-up,” I whisper, mythroathoarseandachingasitcloses in, choking me withunshedtears.

His eyes are wide andluminous when he looks atmeagain.

“Ana,believeme.AfterI

punished you and you leftme,myworldviewchanged.Iwasn’t joking when I said Iwouldavoideverfeelinglikethat again.” He gazes at mewith pained entreaty. “Whenyousaidyoulovedme,itwasa revelation. No one’s eversaid it to me before, and itwas as if I’d laid somethingto rest—ormaybe you’d laidit to rest, I don’t know. Dr.Flynn and I are still in deep

discussionaboutit.”Oh.Hopeflaresbrieflyin

my heart. Perhaps we’ll beokay. I want us to be okay.Don’t I? “What does that allmean?”Iwhisper.

“ItmeansIdon’tneedit.Notnow.”

What? “How do youknow? How can you be sosure?”

“Ijustknow.Thethoughtof hurting you... in any real

way...it’sabhorrenttome.”“Idon’tunderstand.What

aboutrulersandspankingandallthatkinkyfuckery?”

He runs a hand throughhishairandalmostsmilesbutinstead sighs ruefully. “I’mtalking about the heavy shit,Anastasia. You should seewhatIcandowithacaneoracat.”

My mouth drops open,stunned.“I’drathernot.”

“Iknow.Ifyouwantedtodo that, then fine... but youdon’t and I get it. I can’t doall that shit with you if youdon’twantto.Itoldyouoncebefore, you have all thepower. And now, since youcame back, I don’t feel thatcompulsion,atall.”

I gape at him for amomenttryingtotakethisallin. “When we met, that’swhatyouwanted,though?”

“Yes,undoubtedly.”“How can your

compulsion just go,Christian? Like I’m somekind of panacea, and you’re—forwantofabetterword—cured?Idon’tgetit.”

He sighs once more. “Iwouldn’t say cured... Youdon’tbelieveme?”

“I just find it—unbelievable. Which isdifferent.”

“If you’d never left me,thenIprobablywouldn’tfeelthisway.Youwalkingoutonme was the best thing youeverdid... forus.ItmademerealizehowmuchIwantyou,justyou,andImeanitwhenIsay I’ll take you any way Icanhaveyou.”

I gaze at him. Can Ibelieve this? My head hurtsjust trying to think this allthrough, and deep down I

feel...numb.“You’re still here. I

thought youwould be out ofthe door by now,” hewhispers.

“Why? Because I mightthink you’re a sicko forwhippingandfuckingwomenwho look like your mother?Whatever would give youthat impression?” I hiss athim,lashingout.

He blanches atmy harsh

words.“Well, I wouldn’t have

putitquitelikethat,butyes,”he says, his eyes wide andhurt.

His expression issobering and I regret myoutburst. I frown, feeling apangofguilt.

Oh, what am I going todo? I gaze at him and helooks contrite, sincere... helookslikemyFifty.

AndunbiddenIrecallthephotograph in his childhoodbedroom,andinthatmomentrealize why the woman in itlooked so familiar. Shelooked like him. She musthave been his biologicalmother.

Hiseasydismissalofhercomes to mind: No one ofconsequence... She’sresponsibleforallthis...andIlooklikeher...Fuck!

Hestaresatme,eyesraw,and I know he’s waiting formy next move. He seemsgenuine. He’s said he lovesme,butI’mreallyconfused.

This is all so fucked-up.He’s reassured me aboutLeila, but now I know withmorecertaintythaneverhowshewas able to give himhiskicks. The thought iswearying and unpalatable. Iamsotiredofallthis.

“Christian, I’mexhausted. Can we discussthis tomorrow? I want to gotobed.”

He blinks at me insurprise.“You’renotgoing?”

“Doyouwantmetogo?”“No!Ithoughtyouwould

leaveonceyouknew.”Allthetimeshe’salluded

tomeleavingonceIknewhisdarkest secrets flash throughmymind... and now I know.

Shit.Masterisdark.Should I leave? Igazeat

him, this crazy man that Ilove,yeslove.

Can I leave him? I lefthimoncebefore,anditnearlybroke me... and him. I lovehim. I know that in spite ofthisrevelation.

“Don’t leave me,” hewhispers.

“Oh, for crying out loud—no!Iamnotgoingtogo!”I

shout and it’s cathartic.There, I’ve said it. I am notleaving.

“Really?” His eyeswiden.

“What can I do to makeyouunderstandIwillnotrun?WhatcanIsay?”

Hegazesatme,revealinghis fear and anguish again.He swallows. “There is onethingyoucando.”

“What?”Isnap.

“Marryme,”hewhispers.What?Did he really just

—For the second time in

less than half an hour myworldstops.

Holy fuck. I stare at thedeeplyfucked-upmanI love.Ican’tbelievewhathe’s justsaid.

Marriage? He’sproposing marriage? Is hekidding? I can’t help it—a

small, nervous, disbelievinggiggle erupts from deepinside.Ibitemyliptostopitfrom turning into full-scalehysterical laughter and failmiserably. I lie back flat onthe floor and surrendermyself to the laughter,laughing as I’ve neverlaughed before, huge healingcathartichowlsoflaughter.

And for a moment I amonmyown, lookingdownat

this absurd situation, agiggling, overwhelmed girlbeside a beautiful fucked-upboy. I drape my arm acrossmyeyes,asmylaughterturnsto scalding tears. No, no...thisistoomuch.

As the hysteria subsides,Christian gently liftsmy armoff my face. I turn and gazeupathim.

He’s leaning over me.Hismouthistwistedwithwry

amusement,buthiseyesareaburning gray, maybewounded.Ohno.

He gently wipes away astraytearwiththebackofhisknuckles. “You find myproposal amusing, MissSteele?”

Oh,Fifty!Reachingup, Icaress his cheek tenderly,enjoying the feel of thestubble beneath my fingers.Lord,Ilovethisman.

“Mr. Grey... Christian.Your sense of timing iswithoutdoubt...”Igazeupathimaswordsfailme.

He smirks atme, but thecrinkling around his eyesshowsme that he’s hurt. It’ssobering.

“You’recuttingmetothequick here, Ana. Will youmarryme?”

I sit up and lean overhim,placingmyhandsonhis

knees. I stare into his lovelyface. “Christian, I’ve metyour psycho ex with a gun,been thrown out of myapartment, had you gothermonuclear Fifty on me—”

He opens his mouth tospeak,butIholdupmyhand.He obediently shuts hismouth.

“You’ve just revealedsome,quitefrankly,shocking

information about yourself,andnowyou’ve askedme tomarryyou.”

Hemoves his head fromside to side as if consideringthe facts. He’s amused.Thankheavens.

“Yes, I think that’sa fairand accurate summary of thesituation,”hesaysdryly.

I shake my head at him.“Whatever happened todelayedgratification?”

“I got over it, and I’mnow a firm advocate ofinstant gratification. Carpediem,Ana,”hewhispers.

“Look Christian, I’veknown you for about threeminutes,and there’ssomuchmoreIneedtoknow.I’vehadtoo much to drink, I’mhungry, I’mtired,andIwantto go to bed. I need toconsideryourproposaljustasIconsideredthatcontractyou

gave me. And”—I press mylips together to show mydispleasurebutalsotolightenthe mood between us—“thatwasn’t the most romanticproposal.”

He tilts his head to onesideandhislipsquirkupinasmile.“Fairpointwellmade,as ever, Miss Steele,” hebreathes,hisvoicelacedwithrelief.“Sothat’snotano?”

Isigh.“No,Mr.Grey,it’s

not a no, but it’s not a yeseither.You’reonlydoingthisbecause you’re scared, andyoudon’ttrustme.”

“No, I’m doing thisbecause I’ve finally metsomeone Iwant to spend therestofmylifewith.”

Oh.Myheartskipsabeatand inside I melt. How is itthatinthemiddleofthemostfucked-up situations he cansaythemostromanticthings?

My mouth pops open inshock.

“I never thought thatwould happen to me,” hecontinues, his expressionradiating pure undilutedsincerity.

I gape at him, searchingfortherightwords.

“Can I think about it...please? And think abouteverything else that’shappened today? What

you’ve just told me? Youasked for patience and faith.Well, back at you, Grey. Ineedthosenow.”

Hiseyessearchmineandafterabeat,heleansforwardandtucksmyhairbehindmyear.

“Icanlivewiththat.”Hekissesmequicklyonthelips.“Not very romantic, eh?”Heraises his eyebrows, and Igive him an admonishing

shake of my head. “Heartsandflowers?”heaskssoftly.

I nod and he givesme aslightsmile.

“You’rehungry?”“Yes.”“You didn’t eat.” His

eyes frost and his jawhardens.

“No, I didn’t eat.” I sitbackonmyheels and regardhimpassively.“Beingthrownout of my apartment after

witnessing my boyfriendinteractingintimatelywithhisex-submissive considerablysuppressed my appetite.” Iglare at him and fist myhandsonmyhips.

Christianshakeshisheadand rises gracefully to hisfeet. Oh, finally we can getoff the floor. He holds hishandouttome.

“Let me fix yousomethingtoeat,”hesays.

“Can’tIjustgotobed?”Imutterwearily as I placemyhandinhis.

He pulls me up. I amstiff. He gazes down at me,hisexpressionsoft.

“No, you need to eat.Come.” Bossy Christian isback,andit’sarelief.

He leads me to thekitchen area and ushers metowardabarstoolasheheadsto the fridge. I glance at my

watch. Jeez, nearly eleventhirtyandIhavetogetupforworkinthemorning.

“Christian, I’mreallynothungry.”

Hestudiouslyignoresmeas he ferrets through theenormous fridge. “Cheese?”heasks.

“Notatthishour.”“Pretzels?”“In the fridge? No,” I

snap.

Heturnsandgrinsatme.“Youdon’tlikepretzels?”

“Not at eleven thirty.Christian, I’m going to bed.You can rummage around inyour refrigerator for the restof thenight ifyouwant. I’mtired, and I’ve had far toointeresting a day. A day I’dlike to forget.” Islideoff thestoolandhescowlsatme,butrightnowIdon’tcare.Iwanttogotobed—I’mexhausted.

“Macaroni and cheese?”He holds up a white bowlliddedwith foil.He looks sohopefulandendearing.

“You like macaroni andcheese?”Iask.

He nods enthusiastically,andmyheartmelts.Helooksso young all of a sudden.Who would have thought?Christian Grey likes nurseryfood.

“You want some?” he

asks, sounding hopeful. Ican’t resist him and I’mhungry.

I nod and give him aweak smile. His answeringgrinisbreathtaking.Hetakesthefoiloffthebowlandpopsitintothemicrowave.Iperchback on the stool and watchthe beauty that is Mr.ChristianGrey—themanwhowants to marry me—movegracefully and with ease

aroundhiskitchen.“Soyouknowhowtouse

themicrowave then?” I teasesoftly.

“If it’s in a packet, I canusuallydo somethingwith it.It’s real food I have aproblemwith.”

I cannot believe this isthesamemanwhowasonhisknees in frontofmenothalfanhourbefore.He’shisusualmercurial self. He sets out

plates,cutlery,andplacematsonthebreakfastbar.

“It’sverylate,”Imutter.“Don’t go to work

tomorrow.”“I have to go to work

tomorrow.MybossisleavingforNewYork.”

Christian frowns. “Doyou want to go there thisweekend?”

“I checked the weatherforecast, and it looks like

rain,”Isay,shakingmyhead.“Oh,sowhatdoyouwant

todo?”The microwave’s ping

announces that our supper iswarmedthrough.

“I just want to getthrough one day at a time atthe moment. All thisexcitementis...tiring.”Iraiseaneyebrowathim,whichhejudiciouslyignores.

Christianplacesthewhite

bowl in between our placesettings and takes his seatbesideme. He looks deep inthought,distracted. Idish themacaroni onto our plates. Itsmells divine, andmymouthwaters in anticipation. I amfamished.

“Sorry about Leila,” hemurmurs.

“Why are you sorry?”Mmm, themacaroni tastesasgood as it smells. My

stomachgrumblesgratefully.“It must have been a

terribleshockforyou,findingherinyourapartment.Taylorswept it earlier himself.He’sveryupset.”

“Idon’tblameTaylor.”“Neither do I. He’s been

outlookingforyou.”“Really?Why?”“Ididn’tknowwhereyou

were. You left your purse,your phone. I couldn’t even

track you. Where did yougo?” he asks. His voice issoft, but there’s an ominousundercurrenttohiswords.

“EthanandI justwent toa bar across the street. So Icould watch what washappening.”

“I see.” The atmospherebetween us has changedsubtly.It’snolongerlight.

Okay,well...twocanplaythat game. Let’s just bring

thisbacktoyou,Fifty.Tryingtosoundnonchalant,wantingto assuage my burningcuriosity but dreading theanswer, I ask, “So what didyou do with Leila in theapartment?”

Iglanceupathim,andhefreezes with his forkful ofmacaroni suspended inmidair. Oh no, that’s notgood.

“You really want to

know?”Aknottightensinmygut

and my appetite vanishes.“Yes,”Iwhisper.Doyou?Doyoureally?My subconscioushas thrown her empty bottleof gin on the floor and issitting up in her armchair,glaringatmeinhorror.

Christian’smouthflattensinto a line, and he hesitates.“We talked,and Igaveherabath.” His voice is hoarse,

and he continues quicklywhen I make no response.“AndIdressedherinsomeofyourclothes.Ihopeyoudon’tmind.Butshewasfilthy.”

Holyfuck.Hebathedher?What an inappropriate

thing to do. I’m reeling,staring down at my uneatenmacaroni.Thesightofitnowmakesmenauseous.

Trytorationalizethis,mysubconscious coaches. That

cool, intellectual part of mybrain knows that he just didthat because she was dirty,but it’s too hard. My fragilejealousselfcan’tbearit.

SuddenlyIwanttocry—notsuccumbtoladyliketearsthat trickle decorously downmycheeks,buthowlingatthemoon crying. I take a deepbreath to suppress the urge,but my throat is arid anduncomfortable from my

unshedtearsandsobs.“It was all I could do,

Ana,”hesayssoftly.“You still have feelings

forher?”“No!” he says, appalled,

and closes his eyes, hisexpression one of anguish. Iturnaway, staringoncemoreatmynauseatingfood.Ican’tbeartolookathim.

“Toseeher like that—sodifferent, so broken. I care

about her, one human beingtoanother.”Heshrugsasiftoshake off an unpleasantmemory.Jeez,isheexpectingmysympathy?

“Ana,lookatme.”I can’t. I know that if I

do, I will burst into tears.This is just too much toabsorb. I’m like anoverflowing tank of gasoline—full, beyond capacity.There is no room for any

more. I simply cannot copewith any more crap. I willcombust and explode, and itwillbeuglyifItry.Jeez!

Christian caring for hisex-sub in such an intimatefashion—the image flashesthrough my brain. Bathingher, for fuck’s sake—naked.A harsh, painful shudderwracksmybody.

“Ana.”“What?”

“Don’t. It doesn’t meananything. It was like caringfor a child, a broken,shatteredchild,”hemutters.

What the hell would heknow about caring for achild?Thiswas awoman hehad a very full-on, deviantsexualrelationshipwith.

Oh, this hurts. I take adeep, steadying breath. Orperhaps he’s referring tohimself. He’s the broken

child. That makes moresense...ormaybeitmakesnosense at all. Oh, this is sofucked-up, and suddenly I’mbone crushingly tired. I needsleep.

“Ana?”I stand, takemy plate to

the sink, and scrape thecontentsintothetrash.

“Ana,please.”I whirl around and face

him. “Just stop, Christian!

Just stop with the ‘Ana,please’!” I shout at him, andmytearsstarttotrickledownmyface.“I’vehadenoughofallthisshittoday.Iamgoingto bed. I am tired andemotional.Nowletmebe.”

I turn on my heel andpractically run to thebedroom, takingwithme thememory of his wide-eyed,shockedstare.NicetoknowIcanshockhim,too.Istripout

ofmyclothesindouble-quicktime,andafterriflingthroughhis chest ofdrawers, dragonone of his T-shirts and headforthebathroom.

I gaze at myself in themirror,hardlyrecognizingthegaunt, pink-eyed, blotchy-cheekedharridanstaringbackat me, and it’s too much. Isinktothefloorandsurrenderto theoverwhelmingemotionI can no longer contain,

sobbing huge chest-wrenching sobs, finallyletting my tears flowunrestrained.

“Hey,” Christian’s saysgentlyashepullsmeintohis

arms,“pleasedon’tcry,Ana,please,”hebegs.He’son thebathroom floor, and I am inhislap.Iputmyarmsaroundhim and weep into his neck.Cooingsoftlyintomyhair,hegently strokes my back, myhead.

“I’m sorry, baby,” hewhispers, and thatmakesmecry harder and hug himtighter.

We sit like this forever.

Eventually, when I’m allcried out, Christian staggersto his feet, holding me, andcarries me into his roomwherehelaysmedowninthebed. In a fewmoments, he’sbeside me and the lights areoff. He pulls me into hisarms,huggingmetightly,andI finally drift off into a darkandtroubledsleep.

Iawakewitha jolt.Myheadis fuzzy and I’m too warm.Christian is wrapped aroundme like a vine. He grumblesinhissleepasIslipoutofhisarms, but he doesn’t wake.Sitting up I glance at thealarm clock. It’s three in themorning.IneedanAdvilanda drink. I swingmy legs outof bed andmakemyway tothekitcheninthegreatroom.

In the fridge, I find a

carton of orange juice andpour myself a glass. Hmm...it’s delicious, and my fuzzyhead eases immediately. Ihunt through the cupboardslooking for some painkillersandeventuallycomeacrossaplastic box full of meds. Isink two Advil and pourmyselfanotherorangejuice.

Wandering to the greatwallofglass, I lookoutonasleeping Seattle. The lights

twinkle and wink beneathChristian’s castle in the sky,or should I say fortress? Ipressmyforeheadagainstthecool window—it’s a relief. Ihave somuch to think aboutafter all the revelations ofyesterday. I place my backagainst the glass and slidedown onto the floor. Thegreatroomiscavernousinthedark, the only light comingfrom the three lamps above

thekitchenisland.CouldIlivehere,married

to Christian? After all thathe’s done here? All thehistory this place holds forhim?

Marriage. It’s almostunbelievable and completelyunexpected. But theneverything about Christian isunexpected.Mylipsquirkupwith irony. Christian Grey,expect theunexpected—Fifty

ShadesofFucked-Up.My smile fades. I look

likehismother.Thiswoundsme,deeply,andtheairleavesmy lungs in a rush. We alllooklikehismom.

How the hell do I moveonfromthedisclosureofthatlittle secret? No wonder hedidn’t want to tell me. Butsurely he can’t remembermuchofhismother.Iwonderoncemore,ifIshouldtalkto

Dr. Flynn. Would Christianletme?Perhaps he could fillinthegaps.

I shake my head. I feelworld weary, but I’menjoying thecalmserenityofthe great room and itsbeautiful works of art—coldand austere, but in their ownway, still beautiful in theshadows and surely worth afortune. Could I live here?For better, for worse? In

sicknessandinhealth?Iclosemy eyes, leanmy head backagainst the glass, and take adeep,cleansingbreath.

The peaceful tranquilityis shattered by a visceral,primeval cry that makeseverysinglehaironmybodystand to attention.Christian!Holyfuck—what’shappened?Iamonmyfeet,runningbackto the bedroom before theechoesof thathorrible sound

have died away, my heartthumpingwithfear.

I flip one of the lightswitches, and Christian’sbedside light comes to life.He’s tossing and turning,writhing in agony. No! Hecriesoutagain,andtheeerie,devastating sound lancesthroughmeanew.

Shit—anightmare!“Christian!” I lean over

him, grab his shoulders, and

shake him awake. He openshis eyes, and they are wildand vacant, scanning quicklyroundtheemptyroombeforecomingbacktorestonme.

“You left, you left, youmust have left,” hemumbles—his wide-eyed starebecoming accusatory—andhe looks so lost, it wrenchesatmyheart.PoorFifty.

“I’mhere.”Isitdownonthe bed beside him. “I’m

here,” I murmur softly in anefforttoreassurehim.Ireachout to placemy palm on theside of his face, trying tosoothehim.

“You were gone,” hewhispersrapidly.Hiseyesarestill wild and frightened, butheseemstobecalming.

“I went to get a drink. Iwasthirsty.”

He closes his eyes andrubshisface.Whenheopens

them again, he looks sodesolate.

“You’re here. Oh, thankGod.”Hereachesforme,andgrabbingme tightly, he pullsme down on the bed besidehim.

“Ijustwentforadrink,”Imurmur.

Oh, the intensity of hisfear...Icanfeelit.HisT-shirtis drenched in sweat, andhisheartbeat is pounding as he

hugsmeclose.He’sgazingatme as if reassuring himselfthatIamreallyhere.Igentlystroke his hair and then hischeek.

“Christian, please. I’mhere. I’m not goinganywhere,”Isaysoothingly.

“Oh, Ana,” he breathes.Hegraspsmychintoholdmein place, and then hismouthis on mine. Desire sweepsthrough him, and unbidden

my body responds—it’s sotied and attuned to him. Hislipsareatmyear,my throat,then back at my mouth, histeeth gently pulling at mylower lip, his hand travelingupmy body frommy hip tomy breast, dragging my T-shirt up. Caressing me,feeling his way through thedipsandshallowsofmyskin,he elicits the same familiarreaction, his touch sending

shiversthroughme.Imoanashis hand cupsmy breast andhis fingers tighten over mynipple.

“I want you,” hemurmurs.

“I’m here for you. Onlyyou,Christian.”

He groans and kissesmeoncemore,passionately,witha fervor and desperation I’venot felt from him before.Grabbing the hem of his T-

shirt, I tug and he helps mepull it off over his head.Kneelingbetweenmylegs,hehastily pulls me upright anddragsmyT-shirtoff.

His eyes are serious,wanting, full of dark secrets—exposed. He folds hishands around my face andkissesme,andwesinkdowninto the bed once more, histhigh between both of mineso thathe’shalf-lyingon top

of me. His erection is rigidagainst my hip through hisboxer briefs. He wants me,but his words from earlierchoose thismoment to comeback and haunt me, what hesaid about his mother. Andit’s like a bucket of coldwater on my libido. Fuck. Ican’tdothis.Notnow.

“Christian... Stop. I can’tdo this,” I whisper urgentlyagainst hismouth, my hands

pushingonhisupperarms.“What? What’s wrong?”

hemurmursandstartskissingmy neck, running the tip ofhis tongue lightly down mythroat.Oh...

“No, please. I can’t dothis, not now. I need sometime,please.”

“Oh, Ana, don’toverthink this,” he whispersashenipsmyearlobe.

“Ah!”Igasp,feelingitin

mygroin,andmybodybows,betraying me. This is soconfusing.

“Iamjustthesame,Ana.I love you and I need you.Touch me. Please.” He rubshisnoseagainstmine,andhisquietheartfeltpleamovesmeandImelt.

Touch him. Touch himwhilewemakelove.Ohmy.

He rears up over me,gazingdown,andinthehalf-

light from the dimmedbedside light, I can tell thathe’s waiting, waiting for mydecision, and he’s caught inmyspell.

Ireachupandtentativelyplace my hand on the softpatch of hair over hissternum. He gasps andscrunches his eyes closed asifinpain,butIdon’ttakemyhand away this time. Imoveituptohisshoulders,feeling

the tremor run through him.He groans, and I pull himdown to me and place bothmyhandsonhisback,whereI’ve never touched himbefore, on his shoulderblades, holding him to me.His strangled moan arousesmelikenothingelse.

Heburieshisheadinmyneck,kissingandsuckingandbitingme, before trailing hisnose upmy chin and kissing

me,histonguepossessingmymouth, his hands movingovermybodyoncemore.Hislips move down... down...down to my breasts,worshipping as they go, andmy hands stay on hisshoulders and his back,enjoying the flex and rippleof his finely honed muscles,his skin still damp from hisnightmare.Hislipscloseovermy nipple, pulling and

tugging, so that it rises togreet his glorious skilledmouth.

I groan and run myfingernails across his back.And he gasps, a strangledmoan.

“Oh, fuck, Ana,” hechokes,andit’shalfcry,halfgroan.Ittearsatmyheart,butalso deep inside me,tightening all the musclesbelow my waist. Oh, what I

can do to him! My innergoddessiswrithingwithwantand I’m panting now,matching his tortured breathswithmyown.

His hand travels south,over my belly, down to mysex—and his fingers are onme,theninme.Igroanashemoves his fingers aroundinsideme, in thatway, and Ipush my pelvis up towelcomehistouch.

“Ana,” he breathes. Hesuddenlyreleasesmeandsitsup; he removes his boxerbriefs and leans over to thebedside table to grab a foilpacket.Hiseyesareablazinggray as he passes me thecondom. “You want to dothis? You can still say no.You can always say no,” hemurmurs.

“Don’t giveme a chanceto think, Christian. I want

you, too.” I rip the packetopen with my teeth as hekneels betweenmy legs, andwith tremblingfingers Islideitontohim.

“Steady,” he says. “Youaregoingtounmanme,Ana.”

ImarvelatwhatIcandoto this man with my touch.Hestretchesoutoverme,andfor now my doubts arepushed down and lockedaway in the dark, scary

depths at the back of mymind. I’m intoxicated withthis man, my man, my FiftyShades. He shifts suddenly,completely taking me bysurprise, so I am on top.Whoa.

“You—take me,” hemurmurs, his eyes glowingwithaferalintensity.

Oh my, and slowly, oh-so-slowly, I sink down on tohim. He tilts his head back

and closes his eyes as hegroans. I grab his hands andstart tomove, reveling in thefullness of my possession,reveling in his reaction,watchinghimunravelbeneathme. I feel like a goddess. Ilean down and kiss his chin,running my teeth along hisstubbled jaw. He tastesdelicious. He claspsmy hipsandsteadiesmyrhythm,slowandeasy.

“Ana, touch me...please.”

Oh. I lean forward andsteadymyselfwithmyhandsonhischest.Andhecallsout,his cry almost a sob, and hethrustsdeepinsideme.

“Ahh,” I whimper andrun my fingernails gentlyover his chest, through thehair there, and he groansloudly and twists abruptly soIamoncemorebeneathhim.

“Enough.” He moans.“Nomore,please.”Andit’saheartfeltplea.

Reaching up, I clasp hisface inmyhands, feeling thedampness on his cheeks, andpull him down tomy lips sothatIcankisshim.Icurlmyhandsaroundhisback.

He groans deep and lowin his throat as he movesinside me, pushing meonward and upward, but I

can’t find my release. Myhead is too cloudy, cloudywithissues.Iamtoowrappedupinhim.

“Let go, Ana,” he urgesme.

“No.”“Yes,” he snarls. He

shiftsslightlyandgyrateshiships,againandagain.

Jeez...argh!“Come on baby, I need

this.Giveittome.”

AndIexplode,mybodyaslavetohis,andwrapmyselfaround him, clinging to himlikeavineashecriesoutmyname,andclimaxeswithme,thencollapses,hisfullweightpressingmeintothemattress.

IcradleChristianinmyarms,his head onmy chest, as welie in the afterglow of our

lovemaking. I runmyfingersthroughhishairas I listen tohis breathing return tonormal.

“Don’t ever leave me,”he whispers, and I roll myeyes in the full knowledgethathecan’tseeme.

“I know you’re rollingyour eyes at me,” hemurmurs,andIhearthetraceofhumorinhisvoice.

“You know me well,” I

murmur.“I’d like to know you

better.”“Backatyou,Grey.What

wasyournightmareabout?”“Theusual.”“Tellme.”He swallows and tenses

before he sighs, a longdrawn-out sigh. “I must beabout three, and the crackwhore’s pimp is mad as hellagain. He smokes and

smokes, one cigarette afteranother, and he can’t find anashtray.” He stops, and Ifreeze as a creeping chillgripsmyheart.

“It hurt,” he says, “It’sthe pain I remember. That’swhat gives me nightmares.Thatandthefactthatshedidnothingtostophim.”

Oh no. This isunbearable. I tightenmygriparound him, my legs and

armsholdinghimtome,andItry not to let my despairchokeme.Howcouldanyonetreat a child like that? Heraises his head and pins mewithhisintensegraygaze.

“You’re not like her.Don’t ever think that.Please.”

I blink back at him. It’svery reassuring to hear. Heputs his head on my chestagain, and I think he’s

finished, but he surprisesmebycontinuing.

“Sometimes in thedreamsshe’sjustlyingonthefloor. And I think she’sasleep.Butshedoesn’tmove.She never moves. And I’mhungry.Reallyhungry.”

Ohfuck.“There’saloudnoiseand

he’s back, and he hitsme sohard, cursing the crackwhore.His first reactionwas

always to use his fists or hisbelt.”

“Is that why you don’tliketobetouched?”

He closes his eyes andhugs me tighter. “That’scomplicated,” he murmurs.He nuzzles me between mybreasts, inhaling deeply,tryingtodistractme.

“Tellme,”Iprompt.He sighs. “She didn’t

love me. I didn’t love me.

TheonlytouchIknewwas...harsh.Itstemmedfromthere.FlynnexplainsitbetterthanIcan.”

“CanIseeFlynn?”Heraiseshisheadtolook

atme. “Fifty Shades rubbingoffonyou?”

“And then some. I likehow it’s rubbing off at themoment.” I wriggleprovocativelyunderneathhimandhesmiles.

“Yes,Miss Steele, I likethat, too.” He leans up andkissesme.Hegazesatmeforamoment.

“You are so precious tome,Ana. Iwasseriousaboutmarrying you.We can get toknow each other then. I canlookafteryou.Youcan lookafterme.Wecanhavekidsifyouwant.Iwilllaymyworldatyourfeet,Anastasia.Iwantyou, body and soul, forever.

Pleasethinkaboutit.”“I will think about it,

Christian. I will,” I reassurehim, reeling once more.Kids?Jeez.“I’dreallyliketotalk to Dr. Flynn, though, ifyoudon’tmind.”

“Anything foryou,baby.Anything. When would youliketoseehim?”

“Sooner rather thanlater.”

“Okay. I’ll make the

arrangements in themorning.” He glances at theclock. “It’s late. We shouldsleep.”Heshiftstoswitchoffhisbedsidelightandpullsmeagainsthim.

I glance at the alarmclock. Crap, it’s three forty-five.

Hecurlshisarmsaroundme,hisfronttomyback,andnuzzlesmyneck.“Iloveyou,AnaSteele,andIwantyouby

my side, always,” hemurmurs as he kisses myneck.“Nowgotosleep.”

Iclosemyeyes.Reluctantly, I open my

heavyeyelidsandbrightlightfills the room. I groan. I feelcloudy, disconnected frommy leaden limbs, andChristian is wrapped aroundmelikeivy.I’mtoowarmasperusual.Surelyit’sjustfiveinthemorning.Thealarmhas

notgoneoffyet.Istretchoutto freemyself from his heat,turning in his arms, and hemumbles somethingunintelligible in his sleep. Iglance at the clock. Eightforty-five.

Shit,I’mgoingtobelate.Fuck. I scramble out of bedand dash to the bathroom. Iam showered and out withinfourminutes.

Christian sits up in bed

watching me with ill-concealed amusementcoupled with wariness as Icontinue to drymyselfwhilegatheringmyclothes.Perhapshe’swaitingformetoreacttoyesterday’srevelations.Rightnow,Ijustdon’thavetime.

I check my clothes—black slacks, black shirt—allabitMrs.R,butIdon’thaveasecondtochangemymind.I hastily don black bra and

panties, conscious that he’swatching my every move.It’s... unnerving. The pantiesandbrawilldo.

“You look good,”Christianpurrs from thebed.“You can call in sick, youknow.” He gives me hisdevastating, lopsided, onehundred and fifty percentpanty-bustingsmile.Oh,he’sso tempting. My innergoddess pouts provocatively

atme.“No, Christian, I can’t. I

amnotamegalomaniacCEOwith a beautiful smile whocan come and go as hepleases.”

“I like to come as Iplease.”Hesmirksandcrankshisglorious smileupanothernotchsoit’sinfullhdimax.

“Christian!” I scold. Ithrowmytowelathimandhelaughs.

“Beautifulsmile,huh?”“Yes. You know the

effectyouhaveonme.”Iputonmywatch.

“Do I?” he blinksinnocently.

“Yes, you do. The sameeffect you have on allwomen. Gets really tiresomewatchingthemallswoon.”

“Does it?” He cocks hiseyebrowatme,moreamused.

“Don’tplaytheinnocent,

Mr. Grey, it really doesn’tsuit you,” I mutterdistractedly as I scoop myhair into a ponytail and pullon my black high-heeledshoes.There,thatwilldo.

When Ibend tokisshimgood-bye, he grabs me andpullsme down onto the bed,leaning over me and smilingfromear toear.Ohmy. He’sso beautiful—eyes brightwith mischief, floppy just-

fucked-again hair, thatdazzling smile. Nowhe’splayful.

I’m tired, still reelingfrom all the disclosures ofyesterday, while he’s brightasabuttonandsexyas fuck.Oh,exasperatingFifty.

“What can I do to temptyou to stay?” he says softly,andmyheartskipsabeatandbegins to pound. He istemptationpersonified.

“You can’t,” I grumble,strugglingtositbackup.“Letmego.”

He pouts and I give up.Grinning, I trace my fingersover his sculptured lips—myFiftyShades.Ilovehimsoinall his monumentalfuckedupness. I haven’t evenbegun to process yesterday’sevents and how I feel aboutthem.

I lean up to kiss him,

thankful that I have brushedmy teeth. He kissesme longandhardandthenswiftlysetsme on my feet, leaving medazed,breathless,andslightlywobbly.

“Taylor will take you.Quicker than findingsomewhere to park. He’swaitingoutsidethebuilding,”Christian sayskindly, andheseemsrelieved. Isheworriedabout my reaction this

morning? Surely last night—er,thismorning—provedthatIamnotgoingtorun.

“Okay. Thank you,” Imutter,disappointedthatIamupright onmy feet, confusedbyhishesitancy,andvaguelyirritated that once again Iwon’t be driving my Saab.But he’s right, of course—itwillbequickerwithTaylor.

“Enjoy your lazymorning, Mr. Grey. I wish I

could stay, but themanwhoownsthecompanyIworkforwouldnotapproveofhisstaffditching just for hot sex.” Igrabmypurse.

“Personally, Miss Steele,Ihavenodoubtthathewouldapprove. In fact he mightinsistonit.”

“Why are you staying inbed?It’snotlikeyou.”

Hefoldshishandsbehindhisheadandgrinsatme.

“Because I can, MissSteele.”

I shake my head at him.“Laters, baby.” I blowhim akiss,andIamoutofthedoor.

Tayloriswaitingforme,andheseemstounderstandthatIamlatebecausehedriveslikeabatoutofhell togetme towork by nine fifteen. I am

grateful when he pulls up atthe curb—grateful to bealive–his driving was scary.And grateful that I am nothideously late—only fifteenminutes.

“Thank you, Taylor,” Imutter, ashen-faced. Iremember Christian tellingmehedrovetanks;maybehedrivesfornascar,too.

“Ana.” He nods afarewell, and I dash into my

office,realizingasIopenthedoor to reception that Taylorseems to have overcome theMiss Steele formality. Itmakesmesmile.

Claire grins at me as Irush through reception andmakemywaytomydesk.

“Ana!” Jack calls me.“Getinhere.”

Ohshit.“What time do you call

this?”hesnaps.

“I’msorry.Ioverslept.”Iflushcrimson.

“Don’t let it happenagain. Fix me some coffee,and then I need you to dosome letters. Jump to it,” heshouts,makingmeflinch.

Why’s he so mad?What’s his problem? Whathave I done? I hurry to thekitchen to fix his coffee.MaybeIshouldhaveditched.I could be... well, doing

somethinghotwithChristian,orhavingbreakfastwithhim,orjusttalking—thatwouldbenovel.

Jackbarelyacknowledgesmy presence when I venturebackintohisofficetodeliverhis coffee.He thrusts a sheetof paper at me—it’shandwritten in a barelylegiblescrawl.

“Type this up, have mesign,thencopyandmailitto

allourauthors.”“Yes,Jack.”He doesn’t look up as I

leave.Boy,ishemad.Itiswithsomereliefthat

Ifinallysitdownatmydesk.ItakeasipofteaasIwaitformy computer to boot up. Icheckmye-mails.

From:ChristianGrey

Subject:MissingyouDate:June15,201109:05To:AnastasiaSteele

PleaseuseyourBlackberry.x


From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:AllRightforSome

Date:June15,201109:27To:ChristianGrey

Mybossismad.Iblameyouforkeepingmeuplatewithyour...shenanigans.Youshouldbeashamedofyourself.


From:ChristianGreySubject:Shenaniwhatagans?Date:June15,201109:32To:AnastasiaSteele

Youdon’thavetowork,Anastasia.YouhavenoideahowappalledIamatmyshenanigans.ButIlikekeepingyouuplate;)PleaseuseyourBlackberry.Oh,andmarryme,please.


From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:LivingtomakeDate:June15,201109:35To:ChristianGrey

Iknowyournaturalinclinationistowardnagging,butjuststop.Ineedtotalktoyourshrink.OnlythenwillIgiveyoumyanswer.Iamnotopposedtolivinginsin.



From:ChristianGreySubject:BLACKBERRYDate:June15,201109:40To:AnastasiaSteele

Anastasia,ifyouaregoingtostartdiscussingDr.FlynnthenUSEYOURBLACKBERRY.Thisisnotarequest.

ChristianGrey,

NowPissedCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

Oh shit. Nowhe’smad at me,too.Well,hecanstewforallI care. I take my Blackberryout of my purse and eye itwith skepticism. As I do, itstarts ringing.Can’t he leavemealone?

“Yes,”Isnap.“Ana,hi—”

“José! How are you?”Oh, it’s good to hear hisvoice.

“I’mfine,Ana.Look,areyou still seeing that Greyguy?”

“Er—yes... Why?”Whereishegoingwiththis?

“Well, he’s bought allyour photos, and I thought Icould deliver them up toSeattle.TheexhibitionclosesThursday, so I could bring

them up Friday evening anddrop them off, you know.Andmaybewecouldcatchadrinkorsomething.Actually,I was hoping for a place tocrash,too.”

“José, that’s cool. Yeah,I’m sure we could worksomethingout.LetmetalktoChristian and call you back,okay?”

“Cool, I’ll wait to hearfromyou.Bye,Ana.”

“Bye.”Andhe’sgone.Holycow. Ihaven’tseen

or heard from José since hisshow. I didn’t even ask himhowitwentorifhesoldanymore pictures. Some friend Iam.

So, I could spend theeveningwith José on Friday.HowwillChristian like that?I become aware that I ambitingmylip till ithurts.Oh,that man has double

standards.Hecan—Ishudderat the thought—bathe hisbatshit ex-lover, but I willprobably get a truckload ofgrief for wanting to have adrink with José. How am Igoingtohandlethis?

“Ana!” Jack pulls meabruptlyoutofmyreverie.Ishe still mad? “Where’s thatletter?”

“Er—coming.” Shit.Whatiseatinghim?

I type up his letter indouble-quick time, print itout, and nervously make mywayintohisoffice.

“Hereyougo.” I place itonhisdeskandturntoleave.Jackquicklycastshiscritical,piercing,eyesoverit.

“I don’t know whatyou’re doing out there, but Ipayyoutowork,”hebarks.

“I’mawareofthat,Jack,”Imutterapologetically. I feel

a slow flush creep up myskin.

“Thisisfullofmistakes,”hesnaps.“Doitagain.”

Fuck. He’s beginning tosound like someone I know,butrudenessfromChristianIcantolerate.Jackisbeginningtopissmeoff.

“And get me anothercoffeewhileyou’reatit.”

“Sorry,” I whisper andscurry out of his office as

quicklyasIcan.Holy fuck. He’s being

unbearable.Isitbackdownatmy desk, hastily redo hisletter, which had twomistakes in it, and check itthoroughly before printing.Now it’s perfect. I fetch himanother coffee, letting Claireknowwith a roll ofmy eyesthat I am in deep doo-doo.Taking a deep breath, Iapproachhisofficeagain.

“Better,” he mumblesreluctantly as he signs theletter. “Photocopy it, file theoriginal, and mail out to allauthors.Understand?”

“Yes.” I amnot an idiot.“Jack, is there somethingwrong?”

He glances up, his blueeyes darkening as his gazeruns up and down my body.Mybloodchills.

“No.” His answer is

concise,rude,anddismissive.I stand there like the idiot Iprofessed not to be and thenshufflebackoutofhisoffice.Perhapshetoosuffersfromapersonality disorder. Sheesh,I’m surrounded by them. Imake my way to thephotocopier—which ofcourse is suffering from apaper jam—and when I’vefixed it, I find it’s out ofpaper.Thisisnotmyday.

WhenIamfinallybackatmy desk, stuffing envelopes,my Blackberry buzzes. I canseethroughtheglasswallthatJackisonthephone.Ianswer—it’sEthan.

“Hi, Ana. How’d it golastnight?”

Last night. A quickmontage of images flashesthrough my mind—Christiankneeling, his revelation, hisproposal,macaroniandcheese,

my weeping, his nightmare,thesex,touchinghim...

“Eh... fine,” I mutterunconvincingly.

Ethanpausesanddecidesto collude in my denial.“Cool. Can I collect thekeys?”

“Sure.”“I’llbeoverinabouthalf

an hour.Will you have timetograbacoffee?”

“Not today. I was late

gettingin,andmybossislikean angry bear with a sorehead and poison ivy up hisass.”

“Soundsnasty.”“Nasty and ugly.” I

giggle.Ethan laughs and my

moodliftsalittle.“Okay.Seeyouinthirty.”Hehangsup.

I glance up at Jack andhe’s staring atme.Oh shit. Istudiously ignore him and

continuetostuffenvelopes.Half an hour later my

phone buzzes. It’s Claire.“He’s here again, inreception.Theblondgod.”

Ethanisajoytoseeafteralltheangstofyesterdayandthe bad temper my boss isinflictingonmetoday,butalltoo soon, he’s saying hisgood-byes.

“Will I see you thisevening?”

“I’ll probably stay withChristian.”Iflush.

“You have got it bad,”Ethan observes good-naturedly.

I shrug. That’s not thehalfofit,andinthatmomentI realize, I have itmore thanbad. I have it for life. Andamazingly,Christianseemstofeelthesame.Ethangivesmeaswifthug.

“Laters,Ana.”

I return to my desk,wrestlingwithmyrealization.Oh,whatIwoulddoforadayon my own, to just think allthisthrough.

“Where have you been?”Jack is suddenly loomingoverme.

“I had some business toattend to in reception.”He isreallygettingonmynerves.

“I want my lunch. Theusual,” he says abruptly and

stompsbackintohisoffice.Why didn’t I stay home

with Christian? My innergoddesscrossesherarmsandpurses her lips; she wants toknow the answer to thatone,too.PickingupmypurseandmyBlackberry,Iheadforthedoor.Icheckmymessages.

From:ChristianGrey

Subject:MissingyouDate:June15,201109:06To:AnastasiaSteele

Mybedistoobigwithoutyou.LookslikeI’llhavetogotoworkafterall.EvenmegalomaniacCEOsneedsomethingtodo.x

ChristianGreyTwiddlingHisThumbsCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

And there’s another fromhim, from earlier thismorning.

From:ChristianGreySubject:DiscretionDate:June15,201109:50To:AnastasiaSteele

Isthebetterpartofvalor.Pleaseusediscretion...yourworke-mailsaremonitored.

HOWMANYTIMESDOIHAVETOTELLYOUTHIS?Yes.Shoutycapitalsasyousay.USEYOURBLACKBERRY.Dr.Flynncanseeustomorrowevening.xChristianGreyStillPissedCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

And an even later one... Oh

no.

From:ChristianGreySubject:CricketsDate:June15,201112:15To:AnastasiaSteele

Ihaven’theardfromyou.Pleasetellmeyouareokay.YouknowhowIworry.IwillsendTaylortocheck!xChristianGrey,

Over-AnxiousCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

Irollmyeyes,andcallhim.Idon’twanthimtoworry.

“Christian Grey’s phone,AndreaParkerspeaking.”

Oh. I amsodisconcertedthat it’s not Christian whoanswersthatithaltsmeinthestreet, and the young manbehindmemuttersangrilyas

heswervestoavoidbumpinginto me. I stand under thegreenawningofthedeli.

“Hello?CanIhelpyou?”Andrea fills the void ofawkwardsilence.

“Sorry... Er... I washoping to speak to Christian—”

“Mr.Greyisinameetingat the moment.” She bristleswithefficiency.“CanItakeamessage?”

“Can you tell him Anacalled?”

“Ana? As in AnastasiaSteele?”

“Er...Yes.”Her questionconfusesme.

“Holdonesecondplease,MissSteele.”

I listen attentively as sheputs the phone down, but Ican’t tellwhat’s going on.AfewsecondslaterChristianisontheline.“Areyouokay?”

“Yes,I’mfine.”Ihearthequickreleaseof

hisheldbreath.He’srelieved.“Christian,whywouldn’t

I be okay?” I whisperreassuringly.

“You’re normally soquickat responding tomye-mails. After what I told youyesterday,Iwasworried,”hesays quietly, and then he’stalking to someone in hisoffice.

“No, Andrea. Tell themtowait,”he says sternly.Oh,Iknowthattoneofvoice.

I can’t hear Andrea’sresponse.

“No. I said wait,” hesnaps.

“Christian, you’reobviouslybusy. I only calledto let you know that I’mokay, and I mean that—justvery busy today. Jack hasbeencrackingthewhip.Er...I

mean...” I flush and fallsilent.

Christiansaysnothingforamoment.

“Cracking the whip, eh?Well,therewasatimewhenIwould have called him aluckyman.”Hisvoice is fullofdryhumor.“Don’t lethimgetontopofyou,baby.”

“Christian!” I scold himandIknowhe’sgrinning.

“Just watch him, that’s

all. Look, I’m glad you’reokay. What time shall Icollectyou?”

“I’lle-mailyou.”“From your Blackberry,”

hesayssternly.“Yes,Sir,”Isnapback.“Laters,baby.”“Bye...”He’sstillhangingon.“Hang up,” I scold,

smiling.He sighs heavily down

the phone. “I wish you’dnever gone to work thismorning.”

“Me, too.But Iambusy.Hangup.”

“Youhangup.”Ihearhissmile.Oh,playfulChristian.Ilove playful Christian.Hmm... I love Christian,period.

“We’ve been herebefore.”

“You’rebitingyourlip.”

Shit,he’sright.Howdoesheknow?

“You see, you think Idon’t know you, Anastasia.But I know you better thanyou think,” he murmursseductively in that way thatmakesmeweak,andwet.

“Christian,I’lltalktoyoulater.Rightnow,IreallywishI hadn’t left this morning,too.”

“I’llwaitforyoure-mail,

MissSteele.”“Goodday,Mr.Grey.”Hanging up, I lean

againstthecold,hardglassofthe deli store window. Ohmy, even on the phone heownsme.ShakingmyheadtoclearitofallthoughtsGrey,Ihead into the deli, depressedbyallthoughtsJack.

He is scowling when I getback.

“Is it okay if I take mylunchnow?”Iasktentatively.He gazes up at me and hisscowldeepens.

“If you must,” he snaps.“Forty-fiveminutes.Makeupthe time you lost thismorning.”

“Jack, can I ask yousomething?”

“What?”

“Youseem,kindofoutofsorts today. Have I donesomethingtooffendyou?”

He blinks at memomentarily. “I don’t thinkI’m in the mood to list yourmisdemeanorsrightnow.I’mbusy.” He continues to stareat his computer screen,effectivelydismissingme.

Whoa... What have Idone?

I turn and leave his

office, and for a moment Ithink I’m going to cry.Whyhas he taken such a suddenand intense dislike tome?Avery unwelcome idea popsintomyhead,butIignoreit.Idon’t needhis shit rightnow—Ihaveenoughofmyown.

IheadoutofthebuildingtothenearbyStarbucks,ordera latte, and sit down in thewindow. Taking my iPodfrom my purse, I plug my

headphones in. I choose asong haphazardly and pressrepeatsoitwillplayoverandover again. I need music tothinkby.

Myminddrifts.Christianthe sadist. Christian thesubmissive. Christian theuntouchable. Christian’soedipal impulses. Christianbathing Leila. I groan andclosemyeyeswhile that lastimagehauntsme.

Can I really marry thisman? He’s so much to takein. He’s complex anddifficult, but deep down Iknow I don’t want to leavehim despite all his issues. Icouldneverleavehim.Ilovehim. Itwould be like cuttingoffmyrightarm.

Right now, I have neverfelt so alive, so vital. I’veencountered all manner ofperplexing,profoundfeelings

and new experiences since Imet him. It’s never a dullmomentwithFifty.

Looking back onmy lifebefore Christian, it’s as ifeverything was in black andwhite like José’s pictures.Now my whole world is inrich,bright,saturatedcolor. Iam soaring in a beam ofdazzling light, Christian’sdazzling light. I am stillIcarus,flyingtooclosetohis

sun. Isnort tomyself.Flyingwith Christian—who canresistamanwhocanfly?

Can Igivehimup?Do Iwanttogivehimup?It’sasifhe’s flipped a switch and litmeup fromwithin. It’s beenan education knowing him. Ihave discovered more aboutmyself in the last fewweeksthaneverbefore.I’velearnedabout my body, my hardlimits, my soft limits, my

tolerance, my patience, mycompassion,andmycapacityforlove.

And it strikes me like athunderbolt—that’s what heneeds from me, what he’sentitled to—unconditionallove. He never received itfrom the crack whore—it’swhat he needs. Can I lovehim unconditionally? Can Iaccept him for who he isregardless of his revelations

lastnight?Iknowhe’sdamaged,but

I don’t think he’sirredeemable.Isigh,recallingTaylor’swords.“He’sagoodman,MissSteele.”

I’ve seen the weightyevidence of his goodness—hischaritywork,hisbusinessethics, his generosity—andyet he doesn’t see it inhimself. He doesn’t feeldeservingof any love.Given

his history and hispredilections, I have aninkling of his self-loathing—that’s why he’s never letanyone in. Can I get pastthis?

He said once that Icouldn’t begin to understandthe depths of his depravity.Well, he’s toldme now, andgiven the first few years ofhis life, it doesn’t surpriseme. Though it was still a

shock to hear it out loud.Atleast he’s told me—and heseems happier now that hehas.Iknoweverything.

Does it devalue his loveforme?No, Idon’t thinkso.He’s never felt this waybefore and neither have I. Intruthwe’vebothcomesofar.

Tears prick and pool inmy eyes as I recall his finalbarriers crumbling last nightwhen he let me touch him.

Jeez, it tookLeilaandallhercrazytogetustothere.

Perhaps I should begrateful. The fact that hebathedherisnotquitesuchabitter taste on my tonguenow. Iwonderwhich clotheshegaveher. Ihope itwasn’ttheplumdress.Ilikedthat.

So can I love this manwith all his issuesunconditionally? Because hedeservesnothingless.Hestill

needstolearnboundariesandlittlethingslikeempathy,andtobelesscontrolling.Hesayshe no longer feels thecompulsion to hurt me;perhaps Dr. Flynn will beable to cast some light onthat.

Fundamentally, that’swhatconcernsmemost—thatheneeds thatandhasalwaysfound like-minded womenwho need it, too. I frown.

Yes, this is the reassurance Ineed. I want to be all thingstothisman,hisAlphaandhisOmega and all things inbetweenbecauseheistome.

I hope Flynn will havethe answers, andmaybe thenIcansayyes.ChristianandIcan find our own slice ofheavenclosetothesun.

I gaze out at bustling,lunchtime Seattle. Mrs.Christian Grey—who would

have thought? Iglanceatmywatch. Shit! I leap up frommyseatanddash to thedoor—awholehourofjustsitting—where did the time go?Jackisgoingtogoballistic!

I slink back to my desk.Fortunately, he’s not in hisoffice. It looks like I’ve gotaway with it. I gaze intently

at my computer screen,unseeing, trying toreassemble my thoughts intoworkmode.

“Wherewereyou?”I jump. Jack is standing,

armsfolded,behindme.“I was in the basement,

photocopying,”Ilie.Jacklipspress into a thin,uncompromisingline.

“I’mleavingformyplaneat six thirty. I need you to

stayuntilthen.”“Okay.” I smile as

sweetlyasIcanmanage.“I’d likemy itinerary for

New York printed out andphotocopied ten times. Andget the brochures packagedup.Andgetmesomecoffee!”he snarls and stalks into hisoffice.

I breathe a sigh of reliefand stick my tongue out athim as he closes the door.

Bastard.

At four o’clock, Claire ringsfromreception.

“I have Mia Grey foryou.”

Mia? I hope she doesn’twanttohangatthemall.

“Hi,Mia!”“Ana, hi.Howare you?”

Herexcitementisstifling.

“Good. Busy today.You?”

“Iamsobored!Ineedtofind something to do, so I’marrangingabirthdaypartyforChristian.”

Christian’s birthday?Jeez,Ihadnoidea.“Whenisit?”

“I knew it. I knew hewouldn’t tell you. It’s onSaturday.MomandDadwanteveryone over for a meal to

celebrate. I’m officiallyinvitingyou.”

“Oh,that’slovely.Thankyou,Mia.”

“I’ve already calledChristian and told him, andhe gave me your numberhere.”

“Cool.”Mymind is in aflat spin—what thehell am Igoing togetChristian forhisbirthday? What do you buythemanwhohaseverything?

“And maybe next week,we can go out onelunchtime?”

“Sure. How abouttomorrow?My boss is awayinNewYork.”

“Oh, thatwould be cool,Ana.Whattime?”

“Say,twelveforty-five?”“I’llbethere.Bye,Ana.”“Bye.”Ihangup.Christian.Birthday.What

onearthshouldIgethim?

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:AntediluvianDate:June15,201116:11To:ChristianGrey

DearMr.GreyWhen,exactly,wereyougoingtotellme?WhatshallIgetmyoldmanforhisbirthday?Perhapssomenewbatteriesforhishearingaid?Ax

AnastasiaSteele

AssistanttoJackHyde,CommissioningEditor,SIP

From:ChristianGreySubject:PrehistoricDate:June15,201116:20To:AnastasiaSteele

Don’tmocktheelderly.Gladyouarealiveandkicking.AndthatMiahasbeenintouch.Batteriesarealwaysuseful.Idon’tlikecelebratingmy

birthday.xChristianGrey,DeafasaPostCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Hmmm.Date:June15,201116:24To:ChristianGrey

DearMr.GreyIcanimagineyoupoutingas

youwrotethatlastsentence.Thatdoesthingstome.Axox


From:ChristianGreySubject:RollingEyesDate:June15,201116:29To:AnastasiaSteele

MissSteeleWILLYOUUSEYOURBLACKBERRY!!!x

ChristianGreyTwitchyPalmed,CEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

I rollmyeyes.Why is he sotouchyaboute-mails?

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:InspirationDate:June15,201116:33To:ChristianGrey

DearMr.GreyAh...yourtwitchypalmscan’tstaystillforlong,canthey?IwonderwhatDr.Flynnwouldsayaboutthat?ButnowIknowwhattogiveyouforyourbirthday—andIhopeitmakesmesore...;)Ax

From:ChristianGreySubject:AnginaDate:June15,201116:38To:AnastasiaSteele

MissSteeleIdon’tthinkmyheartcouldstandthestrainofanothere-maillikethat,ormypantsforthatmatter.Behave.x

ChristianGreyCEO,GreyEnterprises

HoldingsInc.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:TryingDate:June15,201116:42To:ChristianGrey

ChristianIamtryingtoworkformyverytryingboss.Pleasestopbotheringmeandbeingtryingyourself.Yourlaste-mailnearlymade

mecombust.xPS:Canyoucollectmeat6:30?

From:ChristianGreySubject:I’llBeThereDate:June15,201116:38To:AnastasiaSteele

Nothingwouldgivemegreaterpleasure.Actually,Icanthinkofanyof

numberofthingsthatwouldgivemegreaterpleasure,andtheyallinvolveyou.xChristianGreyCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

I flush reading his responseand shake my head. E-mailbanter is all well and good,but we really need to talk.

Perhaps once we’ve seenFlynn. I put my Blackberrydown and finish my pettycashreconciliation.

By six fifteen, the office isdeserted. I have everythingreadyforJack.Hiscabtotheairport is booked, and I justhave to hand him hisdocuments. I glance

anxiously through the glass,but he’s still deep in histelephone call, and I don’twanttointerrupthim—notinthemoodhe’sintoday.

As I wait for him tofinish, it occurs to me that Ihavenoteatentoday.Ohshit,that’s not going to go downwellwithFifty.Iquicklyskipdown to thekitchen to see ifthereareanycookiesleft.

As I’m opening the

communal cookie jar, Jackappears unexpectedly in thekitchen doorway, startlingme.

Oh. What’s he doinghere?

He stares at me. “Well,Ana, I think this might be agood time to discuss yourmisdemeanors.” He steps in,closing the door behind him,andmymouth instantlydriesas alarm bells ring loud and

piercinginmyhead.Ohfuck.His lips twitch into a

grotesquesmile,andhiseyesgleam a deep, dark cobalt.“At last, I have you on yourown,”hesays,andheslowlylickshislowerlip.

What?“Now... are yougoing to

beagoodgirlandlistenverycarefullytowhatIsay?”

Jack’s eyes flash the darkestblue,andhesneersashecasts

aleeringlookdownmybody.Fear chokesme.What is

this? What does he want?Fromsomewheredeep insideand despitemy drymouth, Ifind the resolve and courageto squeeze out some words,my self-defense class keep-them-talking mantra circlingmy brain like an etherealsentinel.

“Jack,nowmightnotbeagood time for this.Your cab

is due in ten minutes, and Ineed to give you all yourdocuments.” My voice isquiet but hoarse, betrayingme.

He smiles, and it’s adespotic fuck-you smile thatfinallytoucheshiseyes.Theyglint in the harsh fluorescentglow of the strip light aboveus in the drab windowlessroom.Hetakesasteptowardme, glaring at me, his eyes

never leaving mine. Hispupilsaredilatingas Iwatch—the black eclipsing theblue. Oh no. My fearescalates.

“YouknowIhadtofightwith Elizabeth to give youthisjob...”Hisvoicetrailsoffas he takes another steptoward me, and I step backagainst the dingy wallcupboards.Keep-him-talking,keep-him-talking, keep-him-

talking.“Jack, what exactly is

yourproblem?Ifyouwanttoair your grievances, thenperhapsweshouldaskHRtoget involved. We could dothiswithElizabeth inamoreformalsetting.”

Where is security? Aretheyinthebuildingyet?

“We don’t need HR toovermanage this situationAna,” he sneers. “When I

hired you, I thought youwould be a hard worker. Ithought you had potential.But now, I don’t know.You’ve become distractedand sloppy. And Iwondered... is it yourboyfriend who’s leading youastray?” He says boyfriendwithchillingcontempt.

“I decided to checkthrough your e-mail accountto see if I could find any

clues. And you knowwhat Ifound,Ana?Whatwasoutofplace? The only personal e-mails in your account weretoyour hot-shot boyfriend.”He pauses, assessing myreaction. “And I got tothinking... where are the e-mailsfromhim? There arenone. Nada. Nothing. Sowhat’s going on, Ana? Howcome his e-mails to youaren’t on our system? Are

you some company spy,planted in here by Grey’sorganization? Isthatwhat thisis?”

Holyshit,thee-mails.Ohno.WhathaveIsaid?

“Jack, what are youtalking about?” I try forbewildered, and I’m prettyconvincing.ThisconversationisnotgoingasIexpected,butI don’t trust him in theslightest. Some subliminal

pheromone that Jack isexudinghasmeonhighalert.This man is angry, volatile,and totally unpredictable. Itrytoreasonwithhim.

“You just said that youhad to persuade Elizabeth tohire me. So how could I beplanted as a spy? Make upyourmind,Jack.”

“But Grey fucked theNewYorktrip,didn’the?”

Ohshit.

“How did he managethat, Ana? What did yourrich, Ivy League boyfrienddo?”

Whatlittlebloodremainsinmyfacedrainsaway,andIthink I’m going to faint. “Idon’t know what you’retalking about, Jack,” Iwhisper. “Your cab will behere shortly. Shall I fetchyour things?”Oh please, letmego.Stopthis.

Jack continues, enjoyingmy discomfort. “And hethinks I’d make a pass atyou?”Hesmirksandhiseyesheat. “Well, I want you tothink about something whileI’minNewYork.Igaveyouthis job, and I expect you toshow me some gratitude. Infact,I’mentitledtoit.Ihadtofight to get you. Elizabethwanted someone betterqualified, but I—I saw

something in you. So, weneed to work out a deal. Adeal where you keep mehappy. D’you understandwhatI’msaying,Ana?”

Fuck!“Look at it as refining

your job description, if youlike. And if you keep mehappy,Iwon’tdiganyfurtherinto how your boyfriend ispulling strings, milking hiscontacts, or cashing in some

favor from one of his IvyLeaguefrat-boysycophants.”

My mouth drops open.He’sblackmailingme. Forsex! And what can I say?News ofChristian’s takeoveris embargoed for anotherthree weeks. I can barelybelievethis.Sex—withme!

Jack moves closer untilhe’sstandingrightinfrontofme, staring down into myeyes. His cloying sweet

cologne invades my nostrils—it’snauseating—and if I’mnotmistaken,thebitterstenchof alcohol is on his breath.Fuck, he’s been drinking...when?

“You are such a tight-assed, cock-blocking, pricktease, you know, Ana,” hewhispers through clenchedteeth.

What?Pricktease...Me?“Jack, I have no idea

what you’re talking about,” Iwhisper, as I feel theadrenaline surge through mybody. He’s closer now. I amwaiting to make my move.Raywillbeproud.Raytaughtmewhattodo.Rayknowshisself-defense. If Jack touchesme—if he even breathes tooclose tome—Iwill take himdown.Mybreathisshallow.Imust not faint, I must notfaint.

“Look at you.” He givesmealeeringlook.“You’resoturned on, I can tell. You’vereally ledmeon.Deepdownyouwantit.Iknow.”

Holy fuck. The man iscompletely delusional. Myfear rises to defcon one,threateningtooverwhelmme.“No, Jack. I have never ledyouon.”

“You have, you prick-teasing bitch. I can read the

signs.” Reaching up, hegently strokes my face withthe back of his knuckles,down to my chin. His indexfinger strokesmy throat, andmyheartleapsintomymouthas I fight my gag reflex. Hereachesthedipat thebaseofmy neck, where the topbutton of my black shirt isopen, and presses his handagainstmychest.

“Youwantme.Admit it,

Ana.”Keeping my eyes firmly

fixed on his andconcentratingonwhat Ihaveto do—rather than mymushrooming revulsion anddread—I place my handgentlyoverhisinacaress.Hesmiles in triumph. I grab hislittlefinger,andtwistitback,pulling it sharply downbackwardtohiship.

“Arrgh!” he cries out in

pain and surprise, and as heleansoffbalance, I bringmyknee, swift and hard, up intohis groin, and make perfectcontactwithmygoal.Idodgedeftly tomy leftashiskneesbuckle,andhecollapseswitha groan onto the kitchenfloor, grasping himselfbetweenhislegs.

“Don’tyouevertouchmeagain,” I snarl at him. “Youritinerary and the brochures

are packaged on my desk. Iamgoinghomenow.Haveanice trip. And in the future,getyourowndamncoffee.”

“You fucking bitch!” hehalf screams, half groans atme, but I am already out thedoor.

Irunfullpelttomydesk,grabmyjacketandmypurse,and dash to front reception,ignoring the moans andcurses emanating from the

bastard still prostrate on thekitchen floor. I burst out ofthe building and stop for amoment as the cool air hitsmy face, take a deep breath,and compose myself. But Ihaven’t eaten all day, and astheveryunwelcomesurgeofadrenaline recedes, my legsgive out beneath me and Isinktotheground.

I watch with milddetachment the slow motion

movie that plays out in frontof me: Christian and Taylorindarksuitsandwhiteshirts,leapingoutofthewaitingcarand running toward me.Christiansinkstohiskneesatmy side, and on someunconscious level, all I canthinkis:He’shere.Myloveishere.

“Ana, Ana! What’swrong?” He scoops me intohis lap, runninghishandsup

anddownmyarms,checkingfor any signs of injury.Grabbing my head betweenhis hands, he stares withwide,terrified,grayeyesintomine. I sag against him,suddenly overwhelmed withrelief and fatigue. Oh,Christian’s arms.There is noplaceI’dratherbe.

“Ana.” He shakes megently. “What’s wrong? Areyousick?”

I shake my head as Irealize I need to startcommunicating.

“Jack,” I whisper, and Isense rather than seeChristian’s swift glance atTaylor, who abruptlydisappearsintothebuilding.

“Fuck!”Christianenfoldsme in his arms. “What didthatsleazeballdotoyou?”

Andfromsomewherejustthe right side of crazy, a

gigglebubblesinmythroat.Irecall Jack’s utter shock as Igrabbedhisfinger.

“It’s whatIdid tohim.” IstartgigglingandIcan’tstop.

“Ana!” Christian shakesmeagain,andmygigglingfitceases.“Didhetouchyou?”

“Onlyonce.”IfeelChristian’smuscles

bunch and tense as ragesweeps through him, and hestands up swiftly, powerfully

—rock steady—with me inhisarms.He’sfurious.No!

“Whereisthatfucker?”From inside the building

we hear muffled shouting.Christiansetsmeonmyfeet.

“Canyoustand?”Inod.“Don’t go in. Don’t,

Christian.”Suddenlymy fearisback,fearofwhatChristianwilldotoJack.

“Getinthecar,”hebarks

atme.“Christian,no.”Igrabhis

arm.“Get in the goddamned

car,Ana.”Heshakesmeoff.“No! Please!” I plead

with him. “Stay.Don’t leavemeonmyown.”Ideploymyultimateweapon.

Seething, Christian runshishandthroughhishairandglares down at me, clearlywrackedwithindecision.The

shouting inside the buildingescalates, and then stopssuddenly.

Oh, no.What has Taylordone?

Christian fishes out hisBlackberry.

“Christian, he has my e-mails.”

“What?”“My e-mails to you. He

wanted to know where youre-mails to me were. He was

tryingtoblackmailme.”Christian’s look is

murderous.Oh shit. “Fuck!”he splutters and narrows hiseyes at me. He punches anumberintohisBlackberry.

Oh no. I’m in trouble.Who’shecalling?

“Barney. Grey. I needyou to access the SIP mainserverandwipeallAnastasiaSteele’s e-mails tome. Thenaccess the personal data files

of JackHydeandcheck theyaren’t stored there. If theyare, wipe them... Yes, all ofthem. Now. Let me knowwhenit’sdone.”

He stabs the off buttonthendialsanothernumber.

“Roach. Grey. Hyde—Iwant him out. Now. Thisminute. Call security. Gethim to clear his deskimmediately, or I willliquidate this company first

thing in the morning. Youalready have all thejustificationyouneed togivehim his pink slip. Do youunderstand?”He listens foramoment and hangs upseeminglysatisfied.

“Blackberry,”hehissesatmethroughclenchedteeth.

“Please don’t be mad atme.”Iblinkupathim.

“Iamsomadatyourightnow,” he snarls and once

more sweeps his handthrough his hair. “Get in thecar.”

“Christian,please—”“Get in the fucking car,

Anastasia, or so helpme I’llput you in there myself,” hethreatens, his eyes blazingwithfury.

Oh shit. “Don’t doanything stupid, please,” Ibeg.

“STUPID!” he explodes.

“I told you to use yourfucking Blackberry. Don’ttalk to me about stupid. Getin the motherfucking car,Anastasia—NOW!” he snarlsand a frisson of fear runsthrough me. This is VeryAngry Christian. I’ve notseen him this mad before.He’sbarelyholdingontohisself-control.

“Okay,” I mutter,placatinghim.“Butplease,be

careful.”Pressing his lips together

in a hard line, he pointsangrily to the car, glaring atme.

Jeez, okay, I get themessage.

“Pleasebecareful.Idon’twant anything to happen toyou. It would kill me,” Imurmur. He blinks rapidlyand stills, lowering his armwhilehetakesadeepbreath.

“I’llbecareful,”he says,hiseyes softening.Oh, thankthe Lord. His eyes burn intomeasIheadto thecar,openthe frontpassengerdoor, andclimb in. Once I’m safely inthe comfort of the Audi, hedisappears into the building,andmyheartleapsagainintomy throat. What’s heplanningtodo?

I sit andwait. Andwait.And wait. Five eternal

minutes. Jack’s cab pulls upin front of the Audi. Tenminutes. Fifteen. Jeez, whatare they doing in there, andhow is Taylor? The wait isagonizing.

Twenty-five minuteslater, Jack emerges from thebuilding, clutching acardboard storage box.Behind him is the securityguard.Wherewasheearlier?Andafterthem,Christianand

Taylor. Jack looks sick. Heheadsstraightforthecab,andI’m grateful for the Audi’sheavily tintedwindowssohecannotseeme.Thecabdrivesoff—presumably not to Sea-Tac—asChristianandTaylorreachthecar.

Opening the driver’sdoor, Christian slidessmoothly into the seat,presumably because I am inthe front, and Taylor gets in

behind me. Neither of themsaysawordasChristianstartsthecar andpullsout into thetraffic.IriskaquickglanceatFifty. His mouth is set in afirm line, but he seemsdistracted. The in-car phonerings.

“Grey,”Christiansnaps.“Mr.Grey,Barneyhere.”“Barney, I’m on speaker

phone,andthereareothersinthecar,”Christianwarns.

“Sir, it’s all done. But Ineed to talk to you aboutwhat else I found on Mr.Hyde’scomputer.”

“I’ll call you when Ireach my destination. Andthanks,Barney.”

“Noproblem,Mr.Grey.”Barney hangs up. He

sounds much younger than Iexpected.

What else is on Jack’scomputer?

“Areyoutalkingtome?”Iaskquietly.

Christian glances at me,beforefixinghiseyesbackontheroadahead,andIcantellhe’sstillmad.

“No,” he mutterssullenly.

Oh, there we go... howchildish. I wrap my armsaround myself and stareunseeing out the window.PerhapsIshouldjustaskhim

to drop me off at myapartment, then he can “nottalk”tomefromthesafetyofEscala and save us both theinevitable quarrel. But evenas I think it, I know I don’twant to leave him to brood,notafteryesterday.

Eventually,wepullupinfront of his apartmentbuilding, and Christianclimbsoutofthecar.Movingwitheasygracearoundtomy

side,heopensmydoor.“Come,” he orders as

Taylor clambers into thedriver’s seat. I take hisproffered hand and followhim through the grand foyertotheelevator.Hedoesn’tletgoofme.

“Christian, why are yousomad atme?” Iwhisper aswewait.

“You know why,” hemutters as we step into the

elevator, and he punches inthecodetohisfloor.“God,ifsomething had happened toyou, he’d be dead by now.”Christian’s tone chills me tothebone.Thedoorsclose.

“As it is, I’m going toruin his career so he can’ttake advantage of youngwomen anymore, miserableexcuse for aman thathe is.”He shakes his head. “Jesus,Ana!”Hegrabsmesuddenly,

imprisoningme in thecorneroftheelevator.

Hishands fist inmyhairashepullsmyfaceuptohis,and his mouth is on mine, apassionate desperation in hiskiss. I don’t know why thistakes me by surprise, but itdoes. I taste his relief, hislonging, and his residualanger while his tonguepossesses my mouth. Hestops, gazing down at me,

restinghisweightagainstmesoIcan’tmove.Heleavesmebreathless,clingingtohimforsupport, staring up into thatbeautiful face etched withdetermination and withoutanytraceofhumor.

“If anything hadhappened to you... If he’dharmed you...” I feel theshudder that runs throughhim. “Blackberry,” hecommands quietly. “From

nowon.Understand?”Inod,swallowing,unable

tobreakeyecontactfromhisgrim,mesmerizinglook.

He straightens, releasingmeastheelevatorcomestoastop. “He said you kickedhim in the balls.”Christian’stone is lighterwitha traceofadmiration, and I think I’mforgiven.

“Yes,” I whisper, stillreeling from the intensity of

his kiss and his impassionedcommand.

“Good.”“Ray is ex-army. He

taughtmewell.”“I’m very glad he did,”

hebreathesandadds,archinga brow, “I’ll need toremember that.” Taking myhand, he leadsme out of theelevator and I follow,relieved.I thinkthat’sasbadashismoodisgoingtoget.

“I need to call Barney. Iwon’t be long.” Hedisappears into his study,leaving me stranded in thevast living room.Mrs. Jonesis adding the finishingtouchestoourmeal.IrealizeI am famished, but I needsomethingtodo.

“CanIhelp?”Iask.She laughs. “No, Ana.

Can I fix you a drink orsomething?Youlookbeat.”

“I’d love a glass ofwine.”

“White?”“Yes,please.”Iperchononeof thebar

stools, and she hands me aglass of chilledwine. I don’tknow what it is, but it’sdelicious and slides downeasily, soothingmy shatterednerves. What was I thinkingabout earlier today? Howalive I have felt since I met

Christian. How exciting mylifehasbecome.Jeez,couldIjusthaveafewboringdays?

What if I’d never metChristian? I’dbeholedup inmy apartment, talking itthrough with Ethan,completely freaked by myencounterwithJack,knowingI would have to face thesleazeballagainonFriday.Asitis,there’severychanceI’llnever set eyes on him again.

ButwhowillIworkfornow?I frown. I hadn’t thought ofthat. Shit, do I even have ajob?

“Evening, Gail,”Christian says as he comesback into the great room,dragging me from mythoughts.Heading straight tothefridge,hepourshimselfaglassofwine.

“Good evening, Mr.Grey.Dinnerinten,sir?”

“Soundsgood.”Christianraiseshisglass.“Toex-militarymenwho

traintheirdaughterswell,”hesaysandhiseyessoften.

“Cheers,” I mutter,raisingmyglass.

“What’s wrong?”Christianasks.

“I don’t know if I stillhaveajob.”

He cocks his head to theside.“Doyoustillwantone?”

“Ofcourse.”“Then you still have

one.”Simple. See? He is

master ofmy universe. I rollmyeyesathimandhesmiles.

Mrs. Jones makes a meanchicken potpie. She has leftus to enjoy the fruits of herlabors,andIfeelmuchbetter

now I’ve had something toeat. We are sitting at thebreakfastbar,anddespitemybestcajoling,Christianwon’ttell me what Barney hasfound on Jack’s computer. Idrop the subject, and decideto tackle instead the thornyissue of José’s impendingvisit.

“José called,” I saynonchalantly.

“Oh?” Christian turns to

faceme.“Hewantstodeliveryour

photosonFriday.”“A personal delivery.

How accommodating ofhim,”Christianmutters.

“Hewants togoout.Foradrink.Withme.”

“Isee.”“And Kate and Elliot

should be back,” I addquickly.

Christian puts his fork

down,frowningatme.“What exactly are you

asking?”I bristle. “I’m not asking

anything. I’m informing youofmyplansforFriday.Look,I want to see José, and hewants to stay over. Either hestays here or he can stay atmy place, but if he does Ishouldbethere,too.”

Christian’s eyes widen.Helooksdumbfounded.

“Hemadeapassatyou.”“Christian, that was

weeks ago. He was drunk, Iwasdrunk,yousavedtheday—itwon’thappenagain.He’snoJack,forheaven’ssake.”

“Ethan’s there. He cankeephimcompany.”

“Hewants toseeme,notEthan.”

Christianscowlsatme.“He’s just a friend.” My

voiceisemphatic.

“Idon’tlikeit.”So what? Jeez, he’s

irritating sometimes. I take adeepbreath.“He’smyfriend,Christian. I haven’t seenhimsincehisshow.Andthatwastoo brief. I know you don’thave any friends, apart fromthat god-awful woman, but Idon’tmoanaboutyouseeingher,”Isnap.Christianblinks,shocked. “Iwant to see him.I’ve been a poor friend to

him.” My subconscious isalarmed. Are you stampingyourlittlefoot?Steadynow!

Gray eyes blaze at me.“Is that what you think?” hebreathes.

“Thinkaboutwhat?”“Elena. You’d rather I

didn’tseeher?”Holy cow. “Exactly. I’d

ratheryoudidn’tseeher.”“Whydidn’tyousay?”“Because it’s not my

place to say.You thinkshe’syour only friend.” I shrug inexasperation. He reallydoesn’t get it. How did thisturnintoaconversationabouther? I don’t even want tothinkabouther. I try to steerus back to José. “Just as it’snotyourplace tosayif Icanor can’t see José. Don’t youseethat?”

Christian gazes at me,perplexed, I think.Oh, what

ishethinking?“He can stay here, I

suppose,” he mutters. “I cankeep an eye on him.” Hesoundspetulant.

Hallelujah!“Thank you! You know,

if I am going to live here,too...” I trail off. Christiannods. He knows what I’mtrying to say. “It’s not likeyouhaven’t got the space.” Ismirk.

His lips quirk up slowly.“Are you smirking at me,MissSteele?”

“Most definitely, Mr.Grey.” I get up just in casehis palms start twitching,clearourplates,andthenloadthemintothedishwasher.

“Gailwilldothat.”“I’ve done it now.” I

stand up and gaze at him.He’swatchingmeintently.

“I have to work for a

while,” he saysapologetically.

“Cool.I’llfindsomethingtodo.”

“Come here,” he orders,but his voice is soft andseductive, his eyes heated. Idon’thesitatetowalkintohisarms,claspinghimaroundhisneckasheperchesonhisbarstool. He wraps his armsaround me, crushes me tohim,andjustholdsme.

“Are you okay?” hewhispersintomyhair.

“Okay?”“After what happened

with that fucker? After whathappened yesterday?” headds, his voice quiet andearnest.

I gaze into dark, serious,grayeyes.AmIokay?“Yes,”Iwhisper.

His arms tighten aroundme,andIfeelsafe,cherished,

and loved all at once. It’sblissful. Closing my eyes, Ienjoy the feelofbeing inhisarms. I love thisman. I lovehis intoxicating scent, hisstrength, his mercurial ways—myFifty.

“Let’s not fight,” hemurmurs. He kisses my hairand inhales deeply. “Yousmell heavenly as usual,Ana.”

“So do you,” I whisper

andkisshisneck.All too soon he releases

me. “I should only be acoupleofhours.”

I wander listlessly throughthe apartment. Christian isstill working. I haveshowered and dressed insome sweats andaT-shirt ofmy own, and I’m bored. I

don’t want to read. If I sitstill, I’ll recall Jack and hisfingersonme.

I check out my oldbedroom, the subs’ room.José can sleep here—he’llliketheview.It’sabouteightfifteen, and the sun isbeginning to sink into thewest. The lights of the citytwinkle below me. It’sglorious.Yes,Joséwilllikeithere. I wonder idly where

Christian will hang José’spictures of me. I’d rather hedidn’t. I am not keen onlookingatmyself.

Backdown thehallway Ifind myself outside theplayroom, and withoutthinking, I try the doorhandle. Christian normallykeeps it locked, but to mysurprise,thedooropens.Howstrange. Feeling like a childplaying hooky and straying

into the forbidden forest, Iwalk in. It’s dark. I flick theswitch and the lights underthe cornice light up with asoftglow. It’sas I rememberit.Awomb-likeroom.

MemoriesofthelasttimeI was in here flash throughmymind. The belt... Iwinceat the recollection. Now ithangs innocently, lined upwith others, on the rackbesidethedoor.TentativelyI

runmyfingersoverthebelts,thefloggers, thepaddles,andthe whips. Sheesh. This iswhat I need to square withDr. Flynn. Can someone inthis lifestyle just stop? Itseems so improbable.Wanderingover to thebed, Isit on soft red satin sheets,gazing around at all theapparatus.

Beside me is the bench,above that the assortment of

canes.Somany!Surelyoneisenough? Well, the less saidaboutthatthebetter.Andthelarge table. We never triedthat, whatever he does on it.My eyes fall on thechesterfield,andImoveoverto sit on it. It’s just a couch,nothingextraordinaryaboutit—nothing to fasten anythingto, not that I can see.Glancingbehindme,Ispythemuseum chest. My curiosity

ispiqued.Whatdoeshekeepinthere?

As I pull open the topdrawer I realize my blood ispounding through my veins.Why am I so nervous? Thisfeels so illicit, as if I’mtrespassing,whichofcourseIam.But ifhewants tomarryme,well...

Holy fuck, what’s allthis?Anarrayof instrumentsand bizarre implements—I

don’t have a clue what theyare, orwhat they’re for—arecarefully laid out in thedisplaydrawer.Ipickoneup.It’s bullet-shapedwith a sortof handle. Hmm... what thehelldoyoudowiththat?Mymindboggles, though I thinkIhaveanidea.Jeez,therearefourdifferentsizes!MyscalppricklesandIglanceup.

Christian is standing inthe doorway, staring at me,

his face unreadable. Howlonghashebeenthere?IfeellikeI’vebeencaughtwithmyhandinthecookiejar.

“Hi.”Ismilenervouslyathim,andIknowmyeyesarewide and that I’m deathlypale.

“Whatareyoudoing?”hesays softly, but there’s anundercurrentinhistone.

Oh shit. Is he mad? Iflush. “Er... I was bored and

curious,” I mutter,embarrassed to be foundout.Hesaidhe’dbetwohours.

“That’s averydangerouscombination.” He runs hislong index finger across hislower lip in quietcontemplation, not taking hiseyes off me. I swallow andmymouthisdry.

Slowly, he enters theroom and closes the doorquietly behind him, his eyes

liquid gray fire. Oh my. Heleans casually over the chestof drawers, but I think hisstance isdeceptive.Myinnergoddess doesn’t knowwhether it’s fight or flighttime.

“So,whatexactlyareyoucurious about, Miss Steele?Perhaps I could enlightenyou.”

“The door was open... I—” I gaze at Christian as I

hold my breath and blink,uncertain as ever of hisreactionorwhatIshouldsay.Hiseyesaredark.Ithinkhe’samused, but it’s difficult totell.He places his elbows onthe museum chest and restshischinonhisclaspedhands.

“I was in here earliertoday wondering what to dowith it all. I must haveforgotten to lock it.” Hescowls momentarily as if

leavingthedoorunlockedisaterrible lapse in judgment. Ifrown—it’snotlikehimtobeforgetful.

“Oh?”“But now here you are,

curiousasever.”Hisvoiceissoft,puzzled.

“You’re not mad?” Iwhisper, usingmy remainingbreath.

Hecockshisheadtooneside, and his lips twitch in

amusement.“WhywouldIbemad?”“I feel like I’m

trespassing... and you’realwaysmadatme.”Myvoiceisquiet, though I’m relieved.Christian’sbrowcreasesoncemore.

“Yes, you’re trespassing,but I’m notmad. I hope thatone day you’ll live with mehere, and all this”—hegestures vaguely round the

room with one hand—“willbeyours,too.”

My playroom... eh? Igape at him—that’s a lot totakein.

“That’swhyIwasinheretoday.Trying to decidewhatto do.” He taps his lips withhisindexfinger.“AmIangrywith you all the time? Iwasn’tthismorning.”

Oh, that’s true.Ismileatthe memory of Christian

when we woke, and itdistractsmefromthethoughtof what will become of theplayroom. He was such funFiftythismorning.

“Youwereplayful. I likeplayfulChristian.”

“Do you now?” Hearches an eyebrow, and hisbeautifulmouth curves up inasmile,ashysmile.Wow!

“What’s this?” I hold upthesilverbulletthing.

“Always hungry forinformation, Miss Steele.That’s a butt plug,” he saysgently.

“Oh...”“Boughtforyou.”What?“Forme?”He nods slowly, his face

nowseriousandwary.I frown. “You buy new,

er... toys... for eachsubmissive?”

“Somethings.Yes.”

“Buttplugs?”“Yes.”Okay... I swallow. Butt

plug. It’s solidmetal—surelythat’s uncomfortable? Iremember our discussionaboutsextoysandhardlimitsafter I graduated. I think atthe time I said I would try.Now, actually seeing one, Idon’tknowifit’ssomethingIwanttodo.Iexamineitoncemoreandplaceitbackin the

drawer.“And this?” I take out a

long, black rubbery object,made of graduallydiminishingsphericalbubblesjoined together, the first onelarge and the last muchsmaller. Eight bubbles intotal.

“Anal beads,” saysChristian, watching mecarefully.

Oh! Iexamine themwith

fascinated horror. All ofthese,insideme...there!Ihadnoidea.

“They have quite aneffect if you pull them outmid-orgasm,”headdsmatter-of-factly.

“This is for me?” Iwhisper.

“For you.” He nodsslowly.

“Thisisthebuttdrawer?”Hesmirks.“Ifyoulike.”

I close it quickly,flushinglikeastoplight.

“Don’t you like the buttdrawer?” he asks innocently,amused. I gaze at him andshrug, trying to brazen outmyshock.

“It’s not top of myChristmascard list,” Imutternonchalantly. Tentatively, Iopen the second drawer.Hegrins.

“Nextdrawerdownholds

aselectionofvibrators.”Ishutthedrawerquickly.“And the next?” I

whisper, ashen once more,but this time withembarrassment.

“That’s moreinteresting.”

Oh! Hesitantly I pull thedrawer open, not taking myeyes off his beautiful butrathersmugface.Insidethereare an assortment of metal

items and some clothespins.Clothespins!Ipickupalargemetalclip-likedevice.

“Genital clamp,”Christian says. He stands upandmovescasuallyaroundsothat he’s beside me. I put itbackimmediatelyandchoosesomething more delicate—twosmallclipsonachain.

“Some of these are forpain, but most are forpleasure,”hemurmurs.

“What’sthis?”“Nipple clamps—that’s

forboth.”“Both?Nipples?”Christian smirks at me.

“Well, there are two clamps,baby. Yes, both nipples, butthat’s not what I meant.These are for both pleasureandpain.”

Oh.Hetakesitfromme.“Hold out your little

finger.”

I do as he asks, and heclamps one clip to the tip ofmyfinger.It’snottooharsh.

“The sensation is veryintense, but it’s when takingthemoffthattheyareattheirmostpainfulandpleasurable.”I remove theclip.Hmm, thatmightbenice.Isquirmatthethought.

“Ilikethelookofthese,”I murmur and Christiansmiles.

“Do you now, MissSteele?IthinkIcantell.”

Inodshyly,bitingmylip.Hereachesupandtugsonmychin so I release my bottomlip.

“You know what thatdoestome,”hemurmurs.

Iputtheclipsbackinthedrawer, and Christian leansforward and pulls out twomore.

“These are adjustable.”

He holds them up for me toinspect.

“Adjustable?”“Youcanwearthemvery

tight... or not. Depending onyourmood.”

How does he make thatsound so erotic? I swallow,and to divert his attention,pull out a device that lookslikeaspikypastrycutter.

“This?” I frown. Nobaking in the playroom,

surely.“That’s a Wartenberg

pinwheel.”“For?”Hereachesoverandtakes

it from me. “Give me yourhand.Palmup.”

I offer himmy left handandhetakesitgently,skatinghis thumbovermyknuckles.A shiver runs through me.His skin against mine, itnever fails to thrill me. He

runsthewheelovermypalm.“Ah!” The prongs bite

into my skin—there’s morethan just pain. In fact, itticklesslightly.

“Imagine that over yourbreasts,” Christian murmurslasciviously.

Oh!Iflushandsnatchmyhandback.Mybreathingandheartrateincrease.Holycow.

“There’s a fine linebetween pleasure and pain,

Anastasia,” he says softly ashe leans down and puts thedevicebackinthedrawer.

“Clothespins?”Iwhisper.“Youcandoagreatdeal

with a clothespins.”His grayeyesburn.

I lean against the drawersoitcloses.

“Is that all?” Christianlooksamused.

“No...” I pull open thefourth drawer to be

confounded by a mass ofleatherandstraps.Itugatoneofthestraps...itappearstobeattachedtoaball.

“Ball gag. To keep youquiet,” says Christian,amusedoncemore.

“Softlimit,”Imutter.“I remember,” he says.

“But you can still breathe.Your teeth clamp over theball.” Taking it fromme, hereplicates a mouth clamping

down on the ball with hisfingers.

“Have you worn one ofthese?”Iask.

He stills andgazes downatme.“Yes.”

“Tomaskyourscreams?”Hecloseshis eyes, and I

think it’s in exasperation.“No, that’s not what they’reabout.”

Oh?“It’s about control,

Anastasia. How helplesswouldyoubeifyouweretiedup and couldn’t speak? Howtrusting would you have tobe, knowing I had thatmuchpower over you? That I hadto read your body and yourreaction,ratherthanhearyourwords? It makes you moredependent, puts me inultimatecontrol.”

Iswallow.“Yousoundlikeyoumiss

it.”“It’s what I know,” he

murmurs,gazingdownatme.His gray eyes are wide andserious, and the atmospherebetweenushaschangedas ifhe’sintheconfessional.

“You have power overme. You know you do,” Iwhisper.

“Do I? You make mefeel...helpless.”

“No!”OhFifty...“Why?”

“Becauseyou’re theonlyperson I know who couldreally hurt me.” He reachesup and tucksmy hair behindmyear.

“Oh, Christian... thatworks both ways. If youdidn’twantme—”Ishudder,glancingdownatmytwistingfingers.Thereinlaysmyotherdark reservation about us. Ifhewasn’tso...broken,wouldhewantme?Ishakemyhead.

I must try not to think likethat.

“The last thing Iwant todo ishurtyou. I loveyou,” Imurmur, reaching up to runmy fingers through hissideburnandgentlystrokehischeek.He leans his face intomytouch,dropsthegagbackinthedrawer,andreachesforme, his hands around mywaist. He pulls me againsthim.

“Have we finished showand tell?” he asks, his voicesoft and seductive. His handmoves up my back to thenapeofmyneck.

“Why? What did youwanttodo?”

He bends and kisses megently, and I melt againsthim,graspinghisarms.

“Ana, you were nearlyattacked today.”His voice issoftbutice-coldandwary.

“So?”Iask,enjoying thefeel of his hand at my backand his proximity. He pullshis head back and scowlsdownatme.

“What do you mean,‘so?’”herebukes.

Igazeup intohis lovely,grumpy face, and I’mdazzled.

“Christian,I’mfine.”Hewrapsmeinhisarms,

holding me close. “When I

think what might havehappened,” he breathes,buryinghisfaceinmyhair.

“WhenwillyoulearnthatI’m stronger than I look?” Iwhisper reassuringly into hisneck, inhaling his deliciousscent.There isnothingbetteron the planet than being inChristian’sarms.

“I know you’re strong,”Christian muses quietly. Hekisses my hair, then to my

greatdisappointment,releasesme.Oh?

Bending down I fishanother item out of the opendrawer.Severalcuffsattachedtoabar.Iholditup.

“That,” says Christian,his eyes darkening, “is aspreader bar with ankle andwristrestraints.”

“How does it work?” Iask, genuinely intrigued. Myinner goddess pops her head

outofherbunker.“You want me to show

you?”hebreathesinsurprise,closinghiseyesbriefly.

I blink at him.When heopens his eyes, they areblazing.

Oh my. “Yes, I want ademonstration. I like beingtied up,” I whisper as myinner goddess pole vaultsfrom the bunker onto herchaiselongue.

“Oh, Ana,” he murmurs.He looks pained all of asudden.

“What?”“Nothere.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“I want you in my bed,

notinhere.Come.”Hegrabsthe bar and my hand, thenleadsmepromptlyoutof theroom.

Why are we leaving? Iglancebehindmeasweexit.

“Whynotinthere?”Christian stops on the

stairsandgazesupatme,hisexpressiongrave.

“Ana, you may be readyto go back in there, but I’mnot. Last time we were inthere, you left me. I keeptelling you—when will youunderstand?” He frowns,releasing me so that he cangesticulatewithhisfreehand.

“My whole attitude has

changed as a result. Mywhole outlook on life hasradically shifted. I’ve toldyou this.What I haven’t toldyou is—” He stops and runshis hand through his hair,searching for the correctwords.“I’mlikearecoveringalcoholic, okay? That’s theonly comparison I can draw.Thecompulsionhasgone,butIdon’twanttoputtemptationin my way. I don’t want to

hurtyou.”He looks so remorseful,

and in that moment, a sharpnagging pain lances throughme.WhathaveIdoneto thisman? Have I improved hislife?Hewashappybeforehemetme,wasn’the?

“I can’t bear to hurt youbecauseIloveyou,”headds,gazing up at me, hisexpression one of absolutesincerity like a small boy

tellingaverysimpletruth.He’s completely

guileless, and he takes mybreath away. I adore himmore than anything oranyone. I do love this manunconditionally.

Ilaunchmyselfathimsohardthathehastodropwhathe’scarryingtocatchmeasIpushhimupagainstthewall.Grabbing his face betweenmy hands, I pull his lips to

mine. I can taste his surpriseas I pushmy tongue into hismouth. I am standing on thestepabovehim—we’reatthesame level, and I feeleuphorically empowered.Kissinghimpassionately,myfingers twisting into his hair,I want to touch him,everywhere, but restrainmyself, knowing his fear.Regardless, my desireunfurls, hot and heavy,

blossoming deep inside me.He groans and grabs myshoulders,pushingmeaway.

“Doyouwantmetofuckyou on the stairs?” hemutters,hisbreathingragged.“Becauserightnow,Iwill.”

“Yes,”ImurmurandI’msure my dark gaze matcheshis.

Heglaresatme,hiseyeshooded and heavy. “No. Iwant you in my bed.” He

scoops me up suddenly overhis shoulder, making mesqueal, loudly, and smacksme hard on my behind, sothat I squeal again. As heheads down the stairs, hestoops to pick up the fallenspreaderbar.

Mrs.Jones iscomingoutof the utility room when wepass through the hall. Shesmilesatus,andIgiveheranapologetic upside-down

wave. I don’t thinkChristiannoticesher.

In the bedroom, he setsme down on my feet anddrops the spreader on to thebed.

“I don’t thinkyou’ll hurtme,”Ibreathe.

“I don’t think I’ll hurtyou, either,” he says. Hetakes my head in his handsandkissesme,longandhard,igniting my already heated

blood.“Iwantyousomuch,”he

whispers against my mouth,panting. “Areyou sure aboutthis—aftertoday?’

“Yes. I want you, too. Iwant toundressyou.” Ican’twait togetmyhandsonhim—my fingers are itching totouchhim.

Hiseyeswidenandforamoment,hehesitates,perhapstoconsidermyrequest.

“Okay,” he sayscautiously.

I reach for the secondbutton on his shirt and hearhimcatchhisbreath.

“Iwon’ttouchyouifyoudon’twantmeto,”Iwhisper.

“No,” he respondsquickly. “Do. It’s fine. I’mgood,”hemutters.

I gently undo the buttonand my fingers glide downhisshirttothenext.Hiseyes

are large and luminous, hislips parted as his breathingshallows. He is so beautiful,even in his fear... because ofhis fear. I undo the thirdbuttonandnoticehissofthairpokingthroughthelargeVoftheshirt.

“I want to kiss youthere,”Imurmur.

Heinhalessharply.“Kissme?”

“Yes,”Imurmur.

His gasps as I undo thenext button and very slowlylean forward, making myintention clear. He’s holdinghis breath, but stands stock-still as I plant a gentle kissamong the soft, exposedcurls. I undo the final buttonandliftmyfacetohim.He’sgazing at me, and there’s alook of satisfaction, calm,and...wonderonhisface.

“It’s getting easier, isn’t

it?”Iwhisper.HenodsasIslowlypush

hisshirtoffhisshouldersandletitfalltothefloor.

“What have you done tome, Ana?” he murmurs.“Whatever it is, don’t stop.”And he gathers me in hisarms,fistingbothhishandsinmyhairandpullingmyheadrightbacksothathecanhaveeasyaccesstomythroat.

Herunshislipsuptomy

jaw, nipping softly. I groan.Oh, I want this man. Myfingers fumble at hiswaistband, undoing thebutton and pulling down thezipper.

“Oh, baby,” he breathesas he kisses me behind myear. I feel his erection, firmand hard, straining againstme. I want him—in mymouth. I step back abruptlyanddroptomyknees.

“Whoa?”hegasps.Itughispantsandboxers

sharply, and he springs free.Beforehecanstopme,Itakehim into my mouth, suckinghard, enjoying his shockedastonishment as his mouthdropsopen.Hegazesdownatme, watching my everymove,eyessodarkandfilledwith carnal bliss. Oh my. Isheath my teeth and suckharder.Hecloseshiseyesand

surrenders to this blissfulcarnalpleasureissoarousing.IknowwhatIdotohim,andit’shedonistic,liberating,andsexy as hell. The feeling isheady, I’m not just powerful—I’momniscient.

“Fuck,” he hisses andgently cradles my head,flexing his hips so hemovesdeeper inside mymouth. Ohyes, I want this and I swirlmy tongue around him,

pullinghard...overandover.“Ana.” He tries to step

back.Ohnoyoudon’t,Grey. I

want you. I grab his hipsfirmly, doubling my efforts,andIcantellhe’sclose.

“Please,” he pants. “I’mgonnacome,Ana,”hegroans.

Good. My innergoddess’s head is thrownback in ecstasy, and hecomes,loudlyandwetly,into

mymouth.He opens his bright gray

eyes,gazingdownatme,andIsmileupathim,lickingmylips. He grins back at me, awicked,salaciousgrin.

“Oh, so this is the gamewe’re playing, Miss Steele?”He bends, hooks his handsundermyarms,andpullsmeto my feet. Suddenly hismouthisonmine.Hegroans.

“I can taste myself. You

taste better,” he murmursagainst my lips. He tugs myT-shirt off and throws itcarelesslyontothefloor,thenpicks me up and tosses meonto the bed. Grabbing theend of my sweats, he tugsabruptlysothattheycomeoffinoneswiftmove.I’mnakedunderneath, sprawled acrosshis bed. Waiting. Wanting.His eyes drink me in, andslowly he removes his

remaining clothes, not takinghiseyesoffme.

“You are one beautifulwoman, Anastasia,” hemurmursappreciatively.

Hmm... I tilt my headcoquettishly to one side andbeamathim.

“You are one beautifulman,Christian,andyou tastemightyfine.”

He gives me a wickedgrin and reaches for the

spreader bar. Grabbing myleftankle,hequicklycuffsit,strapping the buckle tightly,butnottootight.Hetestshowmuch roomIhavebyslidinghis little finger between thecuff and my ankle. Hedoesn’t take his eyes offmine; he doesn’t need to seewhathe’sdoing.Hmm...he’sdonethisbefore.

“We’ll have to see howyoutaste.IfIrecall,you’rea

rare, exquisite delicacy,MissSteele.”

Oh.Graspingmyotherankle,

he quickly and efficientlycuffsthatoneaswell,sothatmy feet are about two feetapart.

“The good thing aboutthis spreader is, it expands,”he murmurs. He clickssomething on the bar, thenpushes, so my legs spread

further. Whoa, three feetapart.Mymouthdropsopen,and I take a deep breath.Fuck, this ishot. I’monfire,restlessandneedy.

Christian licks his lowerlip.

“Oh,we’regoingtohavesome fun with this, Ana.”ReachingdownhegraspsthebarandtwistsitsoIflipontomy front. It takes me bysurprise.

“See what I can do toyou?” he says darkly andtwists it again abruptly, so Iam once more on my back,gapingupathim,breathless.

“Theseothercuffsareforyour wrists. I’ll think aboutthat. Depends if you behaveornot.”

“WhendoInotbehave?”“I can think of a few

infractions,” he says softly,running his fingers up the

soles of my feet. It tickles,butthebarholdsmeinplace,though I try to writhe awayfromhisfingers.

“Your Blackberry, forone.”

I gasp. “What are yougoingtodo?”

“Oh, Ineverdisclosemyplans.” He smirks, his eyesalightwithpuredevilment.

Holycow.He’s somind-bogglingly sexy, it takes my

breathaway.He crawls up the bed so

that he’s kneeling betweenmy legs, gloriously naked,andI’mhelpless.

“Hmm. You are soexposed, Miss Steele.” Heruns the fingers of both hishandsuptheinsideofeachofmy legs, slowly, surely,making small circularpatterns. Never breaking eyecontactwithme.

“It’s all aboutanticipation,Ana.WhatwillIdotoyou?”Hissoftlyspokenwords penetrate right to thedeepest,darkest,partofme.Iwriggleonthebedandmoan.His fingers continue theirslowassaultupmylegs,pastthe backs of my knees.Instinctively, I want to closemylegsbutIcan’t.

“Remember, if you don’tlikesomething,justtellmeto

stop,” he murmurs. Bendingover,hekissesmybelly,soft,sucky kisses while his handscontinue their slow tortuousjourney north up my innerthighs,touchingandteasing.

“Oh please, Christian,” Iplead.

“Oh, Miss Steele. I’vediscovered you can bemerciless in your amorousassaults upon me. I think Ishouldreturnthefavor.”

My fingers clutch theduvetasIsurrendermyselftohim, his mouth gentlyheading south, his fingersnorth, to the vulnerable andexposedapexofmy thighs. Igroan as he eases his fingersinsidemeandbuckmypelvisup to meet them. Christianmoansinresponse.

“You never cease toamaze me, Ana. You’re sowet,”hemurmursagainst the

line where my pubic hairjoins my belly. My bodybowsashismouthfindsme.

Ohmy.He begins a slow and

sensual assault, his tongueswirling around and aroundwhilehisfingersmoveinsideme.BecauseIcan’tclosemylegs, or move, it’s intense,really intense. My backarches as I try to absorb thesensations.

“Oh,Christian,”Icry.“I know, baby,” he

whispers, and to ease up onme, he blows softly on themost sensitive part of mybody.

“Arrgh!Please!”Ibeg.“Say my name,” he

commands.“Christian,” Icall,hardly

recognizingmy own voice—it’s so high-pitched andneedy.

“Again,”hebreathes.“Christian, Christian,

Christian Grey,” I call outloudly.

“You are mine.” Hisvoice is soft and deadly andwith one last flick of histongue, I fall—spectacularly—embracingmyorgasm,andbecause my legs are so farapart,itgoesonandonandIamlost.

Vaguely, I’m aware that

Christianhasflippedmeontomyfront.

“We’re going to try this,baby. If you don’t like it, orit’s too uncomfortable, tellme,andwe’llstop.”

What?Iamtoolostintheafterglow to form anysentientorcoherentthoughts.I am sitting on Christian’slap.Howdidthathappen?

“Lean down, baby,” hemurmurs at my ear. “Head

andchestonthebed.”InadazeIdoasI’mtold.

He pulls both my handsbackward and cuffs them tothe bar, next to my ankles.Oh...Mykneesaredrawnup,my ass in the air, utterlyvulnerable,completelyhis.

“Ana, you look sobeautiful.”Hisvoiceisfullofwonder,and Ihear the ripoffoil.Herunshisfingersfromthe base of my spine down

toward my sex and pauses abeatovermyass.

“When you’re ready, Iwant this, too.” His finger ishovering over me. I gasploudly as I feel myself tenseunder his gentle probing.“Not today, sweet Ana, butone day... I want you everyway. Iwant to possess everyinchofyou.You’remine.”

I think about the buttplug, and everything tightens

deep inside me. His wordsmake me groan, and hisfingers move down andaround to more familiarterritory.

Moments later, he’sslamming into me. “Aagh!Gently,”Icry,andhestills.

“Youokay?”“Gently...letmegetused

tothis.”He eases slowly out of

me then eases gently back,

filling me, stretching me,twice, thrice, and I amhelpless.

“Yes, good, I’ve got itnow,”Imurmur,relishingthefeeling.

He groans, and picks uphis rhythm. Moving,moving...relentless...onward,inward, filling me... and it’sexquisite. There’s joy in myhelplessness, joy in mysurrendertohim,andtoknow

thathecanlosehimselfinmethewayhewantsto.Icandothis. He takes me to thesedark places, places I didn’tknow existed, and togetherwe fill them with blindinglight. Oh yes... blazing,blindinglight.

And I let go, glorying inwhat he does to me, findingmysweet, sweet release,as Icome again, loudly,screaming his name. And he

stills, pouring his heart andsoulintome.

“Ana,baby,”hecriesandcollapsesbesideme.

His fingers deftly undo thestraps,andherubsmyanklesthen my wrists. When he’sfinished and I’m finally free,hepullsmeintohisarmsandIdrift,exhausted.

When I surface again, Iam curled beside him andhe’s gazing atme. I have noideawhatthetimeis.

“I couldwatchyou sleepforever, Ana,” he murmursandhekissesmyforehead.

I smile and shiftlanguorouslybesidehim.

“I never want to let yougo,”hesayssoftlyandwrapshisarmsaroundme.

Hmm.“Ineverwanttogo.

Never let me go,” I muttersleepily, my eyelids refusingtoopen.

“I need you,” hewhispers, but his voice is adistant, ethereal part of mydreams.Heneedsme...needsme...andasIfinallyslipintothedarkness,mylastthoughtsare of a small boywith grayeyes and dirty, messy,copper-colored hair smilingshylyatme.

Hmm.Christian is nuzzling my

neckasIslowlywake.“Morning, baby,” he

whispers and nips at myearlobe.Myeyesflutteropenand close again quickly.Bright early morning lightfloodstheroom,andhishandis softly caressingmybreast,gently teasing me. Movingdownhegraspsmyhipashelies behind me, holding meclose.

I stretch out beside him,

relishing his touch, and feelhis erection against mybehind. Oh my. A ChristianGreywake-upcall.

“You’re pleased to seeme,” I mumble sleepily,squirming suggestivelyagainst him. I feel his grinagainstmyjaw.

“I’m very pleased to seeyou,”hesaysasheskateshishand over my stomach anddown to cup my sex and

explore with his fingers.“There are definiteadvantages to waking upbeside you, Miss Steele,” heteases and gently pulls meroundsothatI’mlyingonmyback.

“Sleep well?” he asks ashis fingers continue theirsensual torture. He’s smilingdown at me—his dazzling,all-American-drop-dead-male-model-perfect-teeth

smile. He takes my breathaway.

Myhipsbegintoswaytothe rhythm of the dance hisfingershavebegun.Hekissesme chastely on the lips andthen moves down my neck,nipping slowly, kissing, andsucking as he goes. I moan.He’s gentle and his touch islight and heavenly. Hisintrepid fingers move down,and slowly he eases one

inside me, hissing quietly inawe.

“Oh, Ana,” he murmursreverentially against mythroat. “You’re alwaysready.” He moves his fingerin timewithhiskisses ashislips journey leisurely acrossmyclavicleandthendowntomy breast. He torments firstone, then the other nipplewithteethandlips,butoh-so-gently, and they tighten and

lengtheninsweetresponse.Igroan.“Hmm,”hegrowlssoftly

andraiseshisheadtogivemea blazing gray-eyed look. “Iwant you now.” He reachesover to the bedside table.Heshiftsontopofme,takinghisweight on his elbows, andrubs his nose along minewhile easing my legs apartwith his. He kneels up andripsopenthefoilpacket.

“I can’t wait untilSaturday,” he says, his eyesglowing with salaciousdelight.

“Yourparty?”Ipant.“No. I can stop using

thesefuckers.”“Aptlynamed.”Igiggle.He smirks at me as he

rolls on the condom. “Areyougiggling,MissSteele?”

“No.” I try and fail tostraightenmyface.

“Now is not the time forgiggling.”Heshakeshisheadin admonishment and hisvoice is low, stern, but hisexpression—holy cow—isglacialandvolcanicatonce.

My breath catches inmythroat.“Ithoughtyoulikeditwhen I giggle,” I whisperhoarsely,gazingintothedarkdepthsofhisstormyeyes.

“Notnow.There’satimeandaplaceforgiggling.This

isneither.Ineedtostopyou,and I think I know how,” hesaysominously,andhisbodycoversmine.

“What would you like forbreakfast,Ana?”

“I’ll just have somegranola. Thank you, Mrs.Jones.”

IflushasItakemyplace

at the breakfast bar besideChristian. The last time I seteyes on the very prim andproper Mrs. Jones, I wasbeing unceremoniouslydragged into the bedroomoverChristian’sshoulder.

“You look lovely,”Christian says softly. I’mwearingmy gray pencil skirtandgraysilkblouseagain.

“So do you.” I smileshyly at him.He’swearing a

paleblueshirtandjeans,andhe looks cool and fresh andperfect,asalways.

“We should buy yousome more skirts,” he saysmatter-of-factly.“Infact—I’dlovetotakeyoushopping.”

Hmm—shopping. I hateshopping.ButwithChristian,maybe it won’t be so bad. Idecide on distraction as thebestformofdefense.

“I wonder what will

happenatworktoday?”“They’ll have to replace

the sleazeball.” Christianfrowns, scowling as if he’sjust stepped in somethingextraordinarilyunpleasant.

“I hope they take on awomanasmynewboss.”

“Why?”“Well, you’re less likely

to object to me going awaywithher,”Iteasehim.

His lips twitch and he

startsonhisomelet.“What’ssofunny?”Iask.“You are. Eat your

granola, all of it, if that’s allyou’rehaving.”

Bossyasever.Ipursemylipsathim,butdigin.

“So, the key goes here.”Christian points out theignitionbeneaththegearshift.

“Strangeplace,”Imutter.But I’mdelightedwitheverylittle detail, practicallybouncinglikeasmallchildinthe comfortable leather seat.Christian has finally let medrivemycar.

He regards me coolly,though his eyes are alightwith humor. “You’re quiteexcited about this, aren’tyou?”hemurmurs,amused.

I nod, grinning like a

fool.“Justsmellthatnewcarsmell.ThisisevenbetterthantheSubmissiveSpecial...um,the A3,” I add quickly,blushing.

Christian’s mouth twists.“Submissive Special, eh?You have such a way withwords,MissSteele.”Heleansback with a faux look ofdisapproval,buthecan’tfoolme. I know he’s enjoyinghimself.

“Well, let’s go.” Hewaveshis long-fingeredhandtoward the entrance of thegarage.

Iclapmyhands,startthecar, and the engine purrs tolife.Puttingthegearshift intodrive, I easemy foot off thebrake and the Saab movessmoothly forward. Taylorstarts up the Audi behind usand once the garage barrierlifts,followsusoutofEscala

ontothestreet.“Can we have the radio

on?” I ask as wewait at thefirststopsign.

“I want you toconcentrate,”hesayssharply.

“Christian, please, I candrive with music on.” I rollmy eyes. He scowls for amomentand then reaches fortheradio.

“You canplayyour iPodandmp3discsaswellasCDs

onthis,”hemurmurs.Thetoo-louddulcettones

of The Police suddenly fillthe car. Christian turns themusicdown.Hmm...“KingofPain.”

“Your anthem,” I teasehim, then instantly regret itwhenhismouth tightens inathin line.Ohno. “I have thisalbum, somewhere.” Icontinue hastily to distracthim. Hmm... somewhere in

the apartment I have spentverylittletimein.

IwonderhowEthan is. Ishouldtrytocallhimtoday.Iwon’t have much to do atwork.

Anxiety blooms in mystomach. What will happenwhenIgettotheoffice?Willeveryone know about Jack?Will everyone know ofChristian’s involvement?Will I still have a job?

Sheesh,ifIhavenojob,whatwillIdo?

Marry the gazillionaire,Ana! My subconscious hasher snarky face on. I ignoreher—rapaciousbitch.

“Hey,MissSmartMouth.Come back.” Christian dragsmeintothehereandnowasIpullupatthenextstoplight.

“You’re very distracted.Concentrate,Ana,”hescolds.“Accidentshappenwhenyou

don’tconcentrate.”Oh, for heaven’s sake—

and suddenly I’m catapultedbackintimetowhenRaywasteachingme to drive. I don’tneed another father. Ahusband maybe, a kinkyhusband.Hmm.

“I’m just thinking aboutwork.”

“Baby, you’ll be fine.Trustme.”Christiansmiles.

“Pleasedon’tinterfere—I

want to do this on my own.Christian, please. It’simportant to me,” I say asgently as I can. I don’twanttoargue.Hismouthsetsoncemore into a hard stubbornline,andIthinkhe’sgoingtoberatemeagain.

Ohno.“Let’s not argue,

Christian. We’ve had such awonderfulmorning.And lastnightwas—”Words failme,

lastnightwas—“Heaven.”Hesaysnothing.Iglance

over at him and his eyes areclosed.

“Yes. Heaven,” he sayssoftly.“ImeantwhatIsaid.”

“What?”“I don’t want to let you

go.”“Idon’twanttogo.”He smiles and it’s this

new, shy smile thatdissolveseverything in its path. Boy,

it’spowerful.“Good,” he says simply,

andhevisiblyrelaxes.I drive into the parking

lothalfablockfromSIP.“I’ll walk you to work.

Taylor will take me fromthere,” Christian offers. Iclamber out of the car,restricted by my pencil skirtwhile Christian climbs outgracefully, at ease with hisbodyorgivingtheimpression

of someone at ease with hisbody. Hmm... someone whocan’tbeartobetouchedcan’tbethatatease.Ifrownatmyerrantthought.

“Don’t forget we’reseeing Flynn at seven thisevening,”hesaysasheholdshishandouttome.Ipresstheremotedoorlockandtakehishand.

“I won’t forget. I’llcompilealistofquestionsfor

him.”“Questions?Aboutme?”Inod.“I can answer any

questions you have aboutme.” Christian looksaffronted.

Ismileathim.“Yes,butIwant theunbiased, expensivecharlatan’sopinion.”

He frowns and suddenlypulls me into his embrace,holdingbothmyhandstightly

behindmyback.“Is this a good idea?” he

says, his voice low andhusky. I lean back to see theanxiety looming large andwide in his eyes. It tears atmysoul.

“Ifyoudon’twantmeto,I won’t.” I stare at him,blinking, wanting to caresstheconcernoutofhis face. Itug on one ofmy hands andhe frees it. I touch his cheek

tenderly—it’s smooth fromshavingthismorning.

“What are you worriedabout?” I ask, my voice softandsoothing.

“Thatyou’llgo.”“Christian, how many

timesdo Ihave to tellyou—I’m not going anywhere.You’ve already told me theworst.I’mnotleavingyou.”

“Then why haven’t youansweredme?”

“Answered you?” Imurmurdisingenuously.

“You know what I’mtalkingabout,Ana.”

I sigh. “I want to knowthat I’m enough for you,Christian.That’sall.”

“Andyouwon’t takemyword for it?” he saysexasperated,releasingme.

“Christian, this has allbeen so quick. And by yourown admission, you’re fifty

shades of fucked-up. I can’tgive you what you need,” Imutter. “It’s just not for me.But that makes me feelinadequate, especially seeingyouwithLeila.Who’stosaythat one day youwon’tmeetsomeone who likes doingwhat you do? And who’s tosay you won’t, you know...fall for her? Someone muchbetter suited to your needs.”ThethoughtofChristianwith

anyone else sickens me. Istare down at my knottedfingers.

“I knew several womenwholikedoingwhatI liketodo.Noneofthemappealedtome the way you do. I’venever had an emotionalconnectionwithanyof them.It’sonlyeverbeenyou,Ana.”

“Becauseyounevergavethema chance.You’ve spenttoo long locked up in your

fortress,Christian.Look,let’sdiscussthislater.Ihavetogoto work. Maybe Dr. Flynncanofferushisinsight.”Thisis all far too heavy adiscussionforaparkinglotateightfiftyinthemorning,andChristian, for once, seems toagree. He nods but his eyesarewary.

“Come,” he orders,holdingouthishand.

WhenIreachmydesk,Ifinda note asking me to gostraight to Elizabeth’s office.My heart leaps into mymouth. Oh, this is it. I’mgoingtogetfired.

“Anastasia.” Elizabethsmileskindly,wavingmeintoa chair before her desk. I sitand gaze at her expectantly,hopingthatshecan’thearmythumping heart. Shesmoothesherthickblackhair

and regards with me withsomber,clearblueeyes.

“I have some rather sadnews.”

Sad!Ohno.“I’ve called you in to

informyou that Jack has leftthe company rathersuddenly.”

I flush.This isn’t sad forme. Should I tell her that Iknow?

“His rather hasty

departure has left a vacancy,andwe’dlikeyoutofillitfornow, until we find areplacement.”

What? I feel the bloodrushfrommyhead.Me?

“But,I’veonlybeenhereforaweekorso.”

“Yes, Anastasia, Iunderstand but Jack wasalways a champion of yourabilities. He had high hopesforyou.”

I stop breathing. He hadhigh hopes of getting me onmyback,sure.

“Here’s a detailed jobdescription.Haveagoodlookthroughit,andwecandiscussitlatertoday.”

“But—”“Please, I know this is

sudden, but you’ve alreadymadecontactwithJack’skeyauthors. Your chapter noteshaven’t gone unnoticed by

the other commissioningeditors. You have a shrewdmind,Anastasia.Weallthinkyoucandoit.”

“Okay.”Thisisunreal.“Look, think about it. In

the meantime, you can takeJack’soffice.”

She stands, effectivelydismissingme,andholdsouther hand. I shake it in acompletedaze.

“I’mgladhe’sgone,”she

whispers and a haunted lookcrosses her face. Holy shit.Whatdidhedotoher?

Back at my desk, I grabmy Blackberry and callChristian.

Heanswersonthesecondring. “Anastasia.Youokay?”heasksconcerned.

“They’ve just given meJack’s job to mind,temporarily,”Iblurtout.

“You’re kidding,” he

whispers,shocked.“Did you have anything

todowiththis?”MyvoiceissharperthanImeanittobe.

“No—no, not at all. Imean, with all due respect,Anastasia, you’ve only beenthereforaweekorso—andIdon’tmeanthatunkindly.”

“I know.” I frown.“Apparently Jack really ratedme.”

“Did he now?”

Christian’s tone is frosty andthenhesighs.

“Well,baby,iftheythinkyou can do it, I’m sure youcan.Congratulations.Perhapswe should celebrate afterwe’veseenFlynn.”

“Hmm.Areyousureyouhadnothingtodowiththis?”

Heissilentforamoment,and then he says in a lowmenacing voice. “Do youdoubt me? It angers me that

youdo.”I swallow. Boy, he gets

mad so easily. “I’m sorry,” Ibreathe,chastened.

“Ifyouneedanything,letme know. I’ll be here. AndAnastasia?”

“What?”“Use your Blackberry,”

headdstersely.“Yes,Christian.”He doesn’t hang up as I

expect him to but takes a

deepbreath.“I mean it. If you need

me,I’mhere.”Hiswordsaremuchsofter,conciliatory.Oh,he’s somercurial... hismoodswings are like ametronomesetatpresto.

“Okay,” I murmur. “I’dbetter go. I have to moveoffices.”

“If you needme. Imeanit,”hemurmurs.

“I know, thank you,

Christian.Iloveyou.”I sense his grin at the

other end of the phone. I’vewonhimback.

“I love you, too, baby.”Oh, will I ever tire of himsayingthosewordstome?

“I’lltalktoyoulater.”“Laters,baby.”I hang up and glance at

Jack’soffice.Myoffice.Holycow—Anastasia Steele,Acting Commissioning

Editor. Who would havethought? I should ask formoremoney.

WhatwouldJackthinkifhe knew? I shudder at thethoughtandwonderidlyhowhe’sspenthismorning,notinNew York as he expected. Istrollintohis—myoffice—sitdown at the desk, and startreadingthejobdescription.

At twelve thirty,Elizabethbuzzesme.

“Ana, we need you in ameetingatoneo’clockintheboardroom. Jerry Roach andKay Bestie will be there—you know, the companypresident and vice president?Allthecommissioningeditorswillbeattending.”

Shit!“Do I need to prepare

anything?”“No, this is just an

informal gathering we do

once amonth.Lunchwill beprovided.”

“I’llbethere.”Ihangup.Holy shit! I check

through the current roster ofJack’s authors. Yes, I’veprettymuchgot thosenailed.I have the five manuscriptshe’s championing, plus twomore,which should reallybeconsidered for publication. Itake a deep breath—I cannotbelieve it’s lunchtime

already. The day has flownby, and I’m loving it. Therehas been so much to absorbthismorning.Apingfrommycalendar announces anappointment.

Oh no—Mia! In all theexcitement I have forgottenaboutourlunch.IfishoutmyBlackberryandtryfranticallytofindherphonenumber.

Myphonebuzzes.“It’s him, in reception.”

Claire’svoiceishushed.“Who?”Foramoment, I

thinkitmightbeChristian.“Theblondgod.”“Ethan?”Oh,whatdoeshewant?I

immediately feel guilty fornothavingcalledhim.

Ethan, dressed in achecked blue shirt, white T-shirt, and jeans,beamsatmewhenIappear.

“Wow! You look hot,

Steele,” he says, noddingappreciatively.Hegivesmeaquickhug.

“Is everything okay?” Iask.

Hefrowns.“Everything’sfine,Ana.Ijustwantedtoseeyou. I’venotheard fromyouin a while, and I wanted tocheck how Mr. Mogul wastreatingyou.”

Iflushandcan’thelpmysmile.

“Okay!” Ethan exclaims,holding up his hands. “I cantell by the secret smile. Idon’twanttoknowanymore.I came by on the off chanceyou could do lunch. I’menrolling at Seattle for psychcoursesinSeptember.Formymaster’s.”

“OhEthan. Somuch hashappened.Ihaveatontotellyou, but right now, I can’t. Ihaveameeting.”Anideahits

me hard. “And I wonder ifyou can do me a really,really, really big favor?” Iclasp my hands together insupplication.

“Sure,”hesays,bemusedbymypleading.

“I’m supposed to behaving lunch with Christianand Elliot’s sister—but Ican’tgetholdofher,andthismeeting’sjustbeensprungonme. Please will you take her

forlunch?Please?”“Aw, Ana! I don’t want

tobabysitsomebrat.”“Please, Ethan.” I give

him the biggest-bluest-longest-eye-lashedlookthatIcanmanage.HerollshiseyesandIknowI’vegothim.

“You’ll cook mesomething?”hemutters.

“Sure, whatever,whenever.”

“Sowhereisshe?”

“She’s due here now.”And as if on cue, I hear hervoice.

“Ana!”shecallsfromthefrontdoor.

We both turn, and thereshe is—all curvaceous andtall with her sleek black bob—wearingashortmint-greenminidressandmatchinghigh-heeled pumps with strapsaround her slim ankles. Shelooksstunning.

“The brat?” he whispers,gapingather.

“Yes.Thebratthatneedsbabysitting,” I whisper back.“Hi,Mia.” Igiveheraquickhug as she stares ratherblatantlyatEthan.

“Mia—this is Ethan,Kate’sbrother.”

He nods, his eyebrowsraised in surprise.Miablinksseveraltimesasshegiveshimherhand.

“Delighted tomeet you,”EthanmurmurssmoothlyandMia blinks again—silent foronce.Sheblushes.

Holy cow. I don’t thinkI’veeverseenherblush.

“I can’t make lunch,” Isaylamely.“Ethanhasagreedto take you, if that’s okay?Canwehavearaincheck?”

“Sure,” she says quietly.Miaquiet,thisisnovel.

“Yeah, I’ll take it from

here. Laters, Ana,” Ethansays, offering Mia his arm.She accepts it with a shysmile.

“Bye,Ana.”Mia turns tome and mouths, “Oh. My.God!” giving me anexaggeratedwink.

Jeez... she likes him! Iwave at them as they leavethe building. I wonder whatChristian’s attitude is abouthissisterdating?Thethought

makes me uneasy. She’s myage, so he can’t object, canhe?

This is Christian we’redealing with. My snarkysubconscious is back,hatchet-mouthed, cardiganandpurse in thecrookofherarm. I shake off the image.Mia is a grown woman andChristian can be reasonable,can’t he? I dismiss thethought and head back to

Jack’s... er... my office toprepforthemeeting.

It’s three thirty when Ireturn. The meeting wentwell. I have even securedapproval to progress the twomanuscripts I waschampioning. It’s a headyfeeling.

On my desk is anenormous wicker basketcrammedwithstunningwhiteand pale pink roses.Wow—

the fragrance alone isheavenly.IsmileasIpickupthe card. I know who sentthem.

Congratulations,MissSteeleAndallonyourown!Nohelpfromyour

overfriendly,neighborhood,megalomaniacCEO

LoveChristian

I pick upmy Blackberrytoe-mailhim.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Megalomaniac...Date:June16,201115:43To:ChristianGrey

...ismyfavoritetypeofmaniac.Thankyouforthebeautifulflowers.They’vearrivedinahugewickerbasketthatmakes

methinkofpicnicsandblankets.

x

From:ChristianGreySubject:FreshAirDate:June16,201115:55To:AnastasiaSteele

Maniac,eh?Dr.Flynnmayhavesomethingtosayaboutthat.

Youwanttogoonapicnic?Wecouldhavefuninthegreatoutdoors,Anastasia...Howisyourdaygoing,baby?


Oh my. I flush reading hisresponse.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:HecticDate:June16,201116:00To:ChristianGrey

Thedayhasflownby.Ihavehardlyhadamomenttomyselftothinkaboutanythingotherthanwork.IthinkIcandothis!I’lltellyoumorewhenI’mhome.Outdoorssounds...interesting.Loveyou.AxPS:Don’tworryaboutDr.

Flynn.

Myphonebuzzes. It’sClairefrom reception, desperate toknow who sent the flowersand what happened to Jack.Holedupintheofficeallday,I have missed the gossip. Itell her quickly that theflowers are from myboyfriend and that I know

very little about Jack’sdeparture. My Blackberrybuzzes and I have another e-mailfromChristian.

From:ChristianGreySubject:I’lltry...Date:June16,201116:09To:AnastasiaSteele

...nottoworry.Laters,baby.x


At five thirty, I pack up mydesk. I can’t believe howquickly the day has gone. Ihave to get back to Escalaand prepare to meet Dr.Flynn. I haven’t even hadtime to think of questions.Perhapstodaywecanhavean

initial meeting, and maybeChristianwill letmeseehimagain.Ishrugoffthethoughtas I dash out of the office,waving a quick good-bye toClaire.

I’ve also got Christian’sbirthday to think about. IknowwhatI’mgoingtogivehim. I’d like him to have ittonightbeforewemeetFlynn,but how? Beside the parkinglot is a small store selling

touristy trinkets. InspirationhitsmeandIduckinside.

Christian is on hisBlackberry, standing andstaringouttheglasswallasIenter the great room half anhourlater.Turning,hebeamsatmeandwrapsuphiscall.

“Ros, that’s great. TellBarney and we’ll go from

there...Good-bye.”HestridesovertomeasI

stand shyly in the entryway.He’s changed now into awhite T-shirt and jeans, allbad boy and smoldering.Whoa.

“Good evening, MissSteele,” he murmurs and hebends to kiss me.“Congratulations on yourpromotion.” He wraps hisarms around me. He smells

delicious.“You’veshowered.”“I’ve justhadawork-out

withClaude.”“Oh.”“Managed to knock him

on his ass twice.” Christianbeams, boyish and pleasedwith himself. His grin isinfectious.

“That doesn’t happenoften?”

“No. Very satisfying

whenitdoes.Hungry?”Ishakemyhead.“What?” He frowns at

me.“I’m nervous. About Dr.

Flynn.”“Me, too.Howwas your

day?” He releases me, and Ihimgiveabriefsummary.Helistensattentively.

“Oh—there’s one morethingIshouldtellyou,”Iadd.“I was supposed to have

lunchwithMia.”He raises his eyebrows,

surprised. “You nevermentionedthat.”

“I know, I forgot. Icouldn’t make it because ofthe meeting, and Ethan tookherouttolunchinstead.”

His face darkens. “I see.Stopbitingyourlip.”

“I’m going to freshenup,” I say changing thesubject and turning to leave

before he can react anyfurther.

Dr. Flynn’s office is a shortdrive from Christian’sapartment. Very handy, Imuse, for emergencysessions.

“I usually run here fromhome,” Christian says as heparks my Saab. “This is a

greatcar.”Hesmilesatme.“I think so, too.” I smile

backathim.“Christian...I—”Igazeanxiouslyathim.

“Whatisit,Ana?”“Here.” I pull the small

blackgiftboxfrommypurse.“This is for you for yourbirthday. I wanted to give itto you now—but only if youpromise not to open it untilSaturday,okay?”

He blinks at me in

surprise and swallows.“Okay,” he murmurscautiously.

Taking a deep breath, Ihand it to him, ignoring hisbemused expression. Heshakes the box, and itproduces a very satisfactoryrattle.Hefrowns.Iknowhe’sdesperate to see what itcontains. Then he grins, hiseyes alight with youthful,carefreeexcitement.Ohboy...

he looks his age—and sobeautiful.

“You can’t open it untilSaturday,”Iwarnhim.

“I get it,” he says. “Whyare you giving this to menow?” He pops the box intothe inside pocket of his bluepinstriped jacket, close tohisheart.

Howapt, Imuse. Ismirkathim.

“Because I can, Mr.

Grey.”His mouth twists with

wryamusement.“Why, Miss Steele, you

stolemyline.”We are ushered into Dr.

Flynn’s palatial office by abrisk and friendlyreceptionist. She greetsChristianwarmly, a little toowarmly for my taste—jeez,she’s old enough to be hismother—and he knows her

name.The room is understated:

pale green with two darkgreen couches facing twoleather winged chairs, and ithas the atmosphere of agentlemen’s club. Dr. Flynnis seated at a desk at the farendoftheroom.

As we enter, he standsand walks over to join us inthe seating area. He wearsblack pants and a pale-blue

open-necked shirt—no tie.His bright blue eyes seem tomissnothing.

“Christian.” He smilesamicably.

“John.” Christian shakesJohn’shand.“YourememberAnastasia?”

“How could I forget?Anastasia,welcome.”

“Ana, please,” I mumbleasheshakesmyhandfirmly.IdolovehisEnglishaccent.

“Ana,” he says kindly,ushering us toward thecouches.

Christian gestures to oneofthemforme.Isit,tryingtolookrelaxed,restingmyhandon the couch rest, and hesprawls on the other couchbeside me so that we’re atright angles to each other.Asmall table with a simplelamp is between us. I notewith interest a box of tissues

besidethelamp.This isn’t what I

expected.Ihadinmymind’seyeastarkwhiteroomwithablack leather chaise longue;myinnergoddessmighthavefeltmoreathomethen.

Looking relaxed and incontrol,Dr.Flynntakesaseatin one of the winged chairsand picks up a leathernotepad.Christiancrosseshislegs, his ankle resting on his

knee, and stretches one armalong the back of the couch.Reaching across with hisotherhand,hefindsmyhandonthecouchrestandgivesitareassuringsqueeze.

“Christian has requestedthat you accompany him toone of our sessions,” Dr.Flynnbegins gently. “Just soyou know, we treat thesesessions with absoluteconfidentiality—”

I raise my eyebrow atFlynn, halting him mid-speech.

“Oh—um... I’ve signedan NDA,” I murmur,embarrassed that he’sstopped. Both Flynn andChristian stare at me, andChristianreleasesmyhand.

“A non-disclosureagreement?” Dr. Flynn’sbrowfurrows,andheglancesquizzicallyatChristian.

Christianshrugs.“You start all your

relationships with womenwith an NDA?” Dr. Flynnaskshim.

“The contractual ones, Ido.”

Dr. Flynn’s lip twitches.“You’ve had other types ofrelationships with women?”heasks,andhelooksamused.

“No,” Christian answersafter a beat, and he looks

amused,too.“AsIthought.”Dr.Flynn

turnshisattentionbacktome.“Well,Iguesswedon’thaveto worry aboutconfidentiality, but may Isuggest that the two of youdiscussthisatsomepoint?AsI understand, you’re nolongerentering into thatkindofcontractualrelationship.”

“Different kind ofcontract, hopefully,” says

Christian softly, glancing atme. I flush and Dr. Flynnnarrowshiseyes.

“Ana. You’ll have toforgive me, but I probablyknow a lot more about youthan you think.Christian hasbeenveryforthcoming.”

I glance nervously atChristian.Whathashesaid?

“An NDA?” hecontinues. “That must haveshockedyou.”

I blink at him. “Oh, Ithink the shock of that haspaled into insignificance,givenChristian’smost recentrevelations,” I answer, myvoice soft and hesitant. Isoundsonervous.

“I’m sure.” Dr. Flynnsmiles kindly at me. “So,Christian, what would youliketodiscuss?”

Christian shrugs like asurlyteen.“Anastasiawanted

to see you. Perhaps youshouldaskher.”

Dr.Flynn’sfaceregistershis surprise once more, andhegazesshrewdlyatme.

Holy shit. This ismortifying. I gaze down atmyfingers.

“Would you be morecomfortable if Christian leftusforawhile?”

MyeyesdarttoChristianand he’s gazing at me

expectantly.“Yes,”Iwhisper.Christian frowns and

openshismouthbutcloses itagain quickly and stands inoneswiftgracefulmovement.

“I’ll be in the waitingroom,” he says, his mouth aflat,grumpyline.

Ohno.“Thank you, Christian,”

Dr.Flynnsaysimpassively.Christian gives me one

long, searching look thenstalks out of the room—buthe doesn’t slam the door.Phew.Iimmediatelyrelax.

“Heintimidatesyou?”“Yes.Butnotasmuchas

heusedto.”Ifeeldisloyalbutit’sthetruth.

“That doesn’t surpriseme,Ana.WhatcanIhelpyouwith?”

I stare down at myknotted fingers. What can I

ask?“Dr. Flynn, I’ve never

been ina relationshipbefore,and Christian is... well, he’sChristian. And over the lastweek or so, a great deal hashappened. I haven’t had achance to think thingsthrough.”

“What do you need tothinkthrough?”

I glance up at him, andhisheadiscockedtooneside

as he gazes at me withcompassion,Ithink.

“Well...Christiantellsmethat he’s happy to give up...er—” I stumble and pause.ThisissomuchmoredifficulttodiscussthanI’dimagined.

Dr.Flynnsighs.“Ana,inthe very limited time thatyou’ve known him, you’vemademoreprogresswithmypatient thanIhavein thelasttwo years. You have had a

profound effect on him.Youmustseethat.”

“He’s had a profoundeffectonme,too.Ijustdon’tknow if I’m enough. Tofulfillhisneeds,”Iwhisper.

“Is that what you needfromme?Reassurance?”

Inod.“Needs change,” he says

simply. “Christian has foundhimself in a situation wherehismethodsofcopingareno

longereffective.Verysimply,you’veforcedhimtoconfrontsome of his demons andrethink.”

I blink at him. Thisechoes what Christian hastoldme.

“Yes, his demons,” Imurmur.

“Wedon’tdwellonthem—they’re in the past.Christian knows what hisdemons are, as do I—and

nowI’msureyoudo,too.I’mmuch more concerned withthe future and gettingChristiantoaplacewherehewantstobe.”

I frown and he raises aneyebrow.

“The technical term isSFBT—sorry.” He smiles.“That stands for Solution-Focused Brief Therapy.Essentially,it’sgoaloriented.We concentrate on where

Christian wants to be andhow to get him there. It’s adialectical approach. There’sno point in breast-beatingabout the past—all that’sbeen picked over by everyphysician, psychologist, andpsychiatrist Christian’s everseen.Weknowwhyhe’s theway he is, but it’s the futurethat’s important. WhereChristian envisages himself,wherehewantstobe.It took

you walking out on him tomake him take this form oftherapyseriously.Herealizesthat his goal is a lovingrelationshipwithyou.It’sthatsimple,andthat’swhatwe’reworking on now. Of coursethere are obstacles—hishaphephobiaforone.”

Oh jeez... his what? Igasp.

“I’m sorry. I mean hisfear of being touched,” Dr.

Flynn says, shaking his headas if scolding himself.“Which I’m sure you’reawareof.”

Iflushandnod.Ohthat!“He has a morbid self-

abhorrence. I’m sure thatcomes as no surprise to you.And of course there’s theparasomnia... um—nightterrors, sorry, to thelayperson.”

I blink at him, trying to

absorballtheselongwords.Iknow about all of this. ButFlynn hasn’t mentioned mycentralconcern.

“Buthe’sasadist.Surely,assuch,hehasneedswhichIcan’tfulfill.”

Dr. Flynn actually rollshis eyes, and his mouthpresses into a hard line.“That’s no longer recognizedas a psychiatric term. I don’tknowhowmanytimesIhave

told him that. It’s not evenclassified as a paraphilia anymore,notsincethenineties.”

Dr. Flynn has lost meagain. I blink at him. Hesmileskindlyatme.

“This is a pet peeve ofmine.” He shakes his head.“Christian just thinks theworst of any given situation.It’s part of his self-abhorrence.Ofcourse,there’ssuchathingassexualsadism,

but it’s not a disease; it’s alifestyle choice. And if it’spracticed in a safe, sanerelationship betweenconsenting adults, then it’s anonissue. My understandingis that Christian hasconducted all of his BDSMrelationships in this manner.You’re the first lover whohasn’t consented, so he’s notwillingtodoit.”

Lover!

“But surely it’s not thatsimple.”

“Why not?” Dr. Flynnshrugsgood-naturedly.

“Well... the reasons hedoesit.”

“Ana, that’s thepoint. Interms of solution-focusedtherapy, it is that simple.Christian wants to be withyou. In order to do that, heneeds to forego the moreextreme aspects of that kind

of relationship. After all,whatyou’reasking for isnotunreasonable...isit?”

I flush. No, it’s notunreasonable,isit?

“I don’t think so. But Iworrythathedoes.”

“Christianrecognizesthatand has acted accordingly.He’s not insane.” Dr. Flynnsighs.“Inanutshell,he’snota sadist,Ana.He’s an angry,frightened, brilliant young

man, who was dealt a shithand of cards when he wasborn. We can all beat ourbreasts about it, and analyzethewho,thehowandthewhyto death—or Christian canmove on and decide how hewants to live. He’d foundsomething that worked forhimfora fewyears,moreorless, but sincehemet you, itno longer works. And as aconsequence, he’s changing

hismodusoperandi.YouandI have to respect his choiceandsupporthiminit.”

Igapeathim.“That’smyreassurance?”

“Asgoodasitgets,Ana.There are no guarantees inthis life.” He smiles. “Andthat is my professionalopinion.”

I smile, too, weakly.Doctorjokes...jeez.

“Buthethinksofhimself

asarecoveringalcoholic.”“Christian will always

thinktheworstofhimself.AsI said, it’s part of his self-abhorrence. It’s in hismakeup, no matter what.Naturally he’s anxious aboutmakingthischangeinhislife.He’s potentially exposinghimself to a whole world ofemotional pain, which,incidentally,hehadatasteofwhenyou left him.Naturally

he’sapprehensive.”Dr.Flynnpauses. “I don’t mean tostress how important a roleyou have in his Damasceneconversion—his road toDamascus. But you have.Christianwouldnotbeinthisplace if he had notmet you.Personally I don’t think thatan alcoholic is a very goodanalogy, but if it works forhimfornow, thenI thinkweshouldgivehimthebenefitof

thedoubt.”GiveChristianthebenefit

of the doubt. I frown at thethought.

“Emotionally, Christianis an adolescent, Ana. Hebypassedthatphaseinhislifetotally.He’schanneledallhisenergies into succeeding inthe business world, and hehas beyond all expectations.His emotional world has toplaycatch-up.”

“SohowdoIhelp?”Dr. Flynn laughs. “Just

keep doing what you’redoing,” he grins at me.“Christianisheadoverheels.It’sadelighttosee.”

I flush, and my innergoddess is hugging herselfwith glee, but somethingbothersme.

“CanIaskyouonemorething?”

“Ofcourse.”

Itakeadeepbreath.“Partofmethinksthatifhewasn’tthis broken he wouldn’t...wantme.”

Dr. Flynn’s eyebrowsshootupinsurprise.“That’savery negative thing to sayabout yourself, Ana. Andfrankly it says more aboutyou than it does aboutChristian. It’s not quite upthere with his self-loathing,butI’msurprisedbyit.”

“Well, look at him... andthenlookatme.”

Dr. Flynn frowns. “Ihave. I see an attractiveyoung man, and I see anattractiveyoungwoman.Ana,why don’t you think ofyourselfasattractive?”

Ohno...Idon’twantthistobeaboutme. I staredownatmyfingers.There’sasharpknockonthedoorthatmakesme jump. Christian comes

backintotheroom,glaringatbothofus.Iflushandglancequickly at Flynn, who issmilingbenignlyatChristian.

“Welcome back,Christian,”hesays.

“Ithinktimeisup,John.”“Nearly, Christian. Join

us.”Christian sits down,

beside me this time, andplaces his hand possessivelyonmy knee.His action does

not go unnoticed by Dr.Flynn.

“Did you have any otherquestions, Ana?” Dr. Flynnasks and his concern isobvious. Shit... I should nothave asked that question. Ishakemyhead.

“Christian?”“Nottoday,John.”Flynnnods.“It may be beneficial if

you both come again. I’m

sure Ana will have morequestions.”

Christian nods,reluctantly.

Iflush.Shit...hewantstodelve. Christian clasps myhandandregardsmeintently.

“Okay?”heaskssoftly.I smile at him, nodding.

Yes, we’re going for thebenefitofthedoubt,courtesyof the good doctor fromEngland.

Christian squeezes myhandandturnstoFlynn.

“How is she?” he askssoftly.

Me?“She’llgetthere,”hesays

reassuringly.“Good.Keepmeupdated

ofherprogress.”“Iwill.”Holy fuck. They’re

talkingaboutLeila.“Shall we go and

celebrate your promotion?”Christianasksmepointedly.

I nod shyly as Christianstands.

We say our quick good-byes to Dr. Flynn, andChristian ushersme outwithunseemlyhaste.

In the street, he turns tome.“Howwas that?”hisvoice is

anxious.“Itwasgood.”He regards me

suspiciously. I cockmyheadtooneside.

“Mr. Grey, please don’tlook at me that way. Underdoctor’sordersIamgoingtogive you the benefit of thedoubt.”

“Whatdoesthatmean?”“You’llsee.”Hismouth twists and his

eyesnarrow.“Getinthecar,”he orders while opening thepassengerdooroftheSaab.

Oh, change of direction.MyBlackberrybuzzes.Ihaulitoutofmypurse.

Shit,José!“Hi!”“Ana,hi...”I stare at Fifty, who is

eyeing me suspiciously.“José,” I mouth at him. Hestares impassively atme, but

his eyes harden. Does hethink I don’t notice? I turnmyattentionbacktoJosé.

“Sorry I haven’t calledyou.Isitabouttomorrow?”Iask José, but stare up atChristian.

“Yeah, listen—I spokewith some guy at Grey’splace, so I know where I’mdelivering the photos, and Ishouldgettherebetweenfiveandsix...afterthat,I’mfree.”

Oh.“Well, I’m actually

staying with Christian at themoment, and if youwant to,he says you can stay at hisplace.”

Christian presses hismouthinahardline.Hmm—somehostheis.

José is silent for amoment,absorbingthisnews.I cringe. I haven’t had achance to talk to him about

Christian.“Okay,” he says

eventually. “This thing withGrey,it’sserious?”

I turn away from the carand pace to the other side ofthesidewalk.

“Yes.”“Howserious?”Irollmyeyesandpause.

Why does Christian have tobelistening?

“Serious.”

“Is he with you now?Thatwhy you’re speaking inmonosyllables?”

“Yes.”“Okay. So are you

allowedouttomorrow?”“OfcourseIam.”Ihope.

I automatically cross myfingers.

“So where shall I meetyou?”

“You could collect mefromwork,”Ioffer.

“Okay.”“I’ll text you the

address.”“Whattime?”“Saysix?”“Sure. I’ll see you then,

Ana.Lookingforwardtoit. Imissyou.”

Igrin.“Cool.I’llseeyouthen.” I switch the phone offandturn.

Christian is leaningagainst the car watching me

carefully, his expressionimpossibletoread.

“How’s your friend?” heaskscoolly.

“He’swell.He’llpickmeup from work, and I thinkwe’ll go for a drink. Wouldyouliketojoinus?”

Christian hesitates, hisgray eyes cool. “You don’tthinkhe’lltryanything?”

“No!” My tone isexasperated—but I refrain

fromrollingmyeyes.“Okay,” Christian holds

his hands up in defeat. “Youhang out with your friend,and I’ll see you later in theevening.”

I was expecting a fight,and his easy acquiescencethrowsmeoffbalance.

“See? I can bereasonable.”Hesmirks.

My mouth twists. We’llseeaboutthat.

“CanIdrive?”Christian blinks at me,

surprisedbymyrequest.“I’dratheryoudidn’t.”“Why,exactly?”“Because I don’t like to

bedriven.”“You managed this

morning, and you seem totolerateTaylordrivingyou.”

“I trust Taylor’s drivingimplicitly.”

“And not mine?” I put

my hands on my hips.“Honestly—your controlfreakery knows no bounds.I’vebeendrivingsinceIwasfifteen.”

Heshrugsinresponse,asif this is of no consequencewhatsoever. Oh—he’s soexasperating! Benefit of thedoubt?Well,screwthat.

“Is this my car?” Idemand.

He frowns at me. “Of

courseit’syourcar.”“Then give me the keys,

please. I’ve driven it twice,and only to and from work.Now you’re having all thefun.” I am in full-on poutmode. Christian’s lips twitchwitharepressedsmile.

“But you don’t knowwherewe’regoing.”

“I’m sure you canenlighten me, Mr. Grey.You’vedoneagreat jobof it

sofar.”He gazes at me stunned

then smiles, his new shysmile that totally disarmsmeandtakesmybreathaway.

“Great job, eh?” hemurmurs.

Iblush.“Mostly,yes.”“Well, in that case.” He

hands me the keys, walksround to the driver’s door,andopensitforme.

“Left here,”Christian orders,andweheadnorthtowardtheI-5. “Hell—gently,Ana.”Hegrabsholdofthedashboard.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Irollmyeyes,butdon’tturntolook at him. Van Morrisoncroons in the backgroundoverthecarsoundsystem.

“Slowdown!”“Iamslowingdown!”Christian sighs. “What

did Flynn say?” I hear his

anxiety leaching into hisvoice.

“I told you. He says Ishouldgiveyouthebenefitofthe doubt.” Damn—maybe Ishould have let Christiandrive. Then I could watchhim. In fact... I signal topullover.

“Whatareyoudoing?”hesnaps,alarmed.

“Lettingyoudrive.”“Why?”

“SoIcanlookatyou.”Helaughs.“No,no—you

wanted to drive. So, youdrive,andI’lllookatyou.”

I scowl at him. “Keepyour eyes on the road!” heshouts.

My blood boils. Right! Ipull over to the curb justbefore a stoplight and stormout of the car, slamming thedoor, and stand on thesidewalk,armsfolded,Iglare

at him.He climbs out of thecar.

“Whatareyoudoing?”heasks angrily, staring down atme.

“No. What are youdoing?”

“Youcan’tparkhere.”“Iknowthat.”“Sowhyhaveyou?”“BecauseI’vehaditwith

you barking orders. Eitheryou drive or you shut up

aboutmydriving!”“Anastasia, get back in

the car before we get aticket.”

“No.”Heblinksatme,atatotal

loss, then runs his handsthrough his hair, and hisangerbecomesbewilderment.He looks so comical all of asudden, and I can’t help butsmileathim.Hefrowns.

“What?” he snaps once

more.“You.”“Oh, Anastasia! You are

themostfrustratingfemaleonthe planet.” He throws hishands in the air. “Fine—I’lldrive.”Igrabtheedgesofhisjacketandpullhimtome.

“No—you are the mostfrustratingmanontheplanet,Mr.Grey.”

Hegazesdownatme,hiseyes dark and intense, he

snakes his arms around mywaist and embraces me,holdingmeclose.

“Maybe we’re meant foreach other, then,” he sayssoftlyand inhalesdeeply,hisnose in my hair. I wrap myarms around him and closemy eyes. For the first timesince this morning, I feelmyselfrelax.

“Oh... Ana, Ana, Ana,”he breathes, his lips pressed

againstmyhair. I tightenmyarms around him, and westand, immobile, enjoying amoment of unexpectedtranquility, on the street.Releasing me, he opens thepassenger door. I climb inandsitquietly,watchinghimwalkaroundthecar.

Restarting the car,Christian pulls out into thetraffic, absentmindedlyhumming along to Van

Morrison.Whoa. I’ve never heard

him sing, not even in theshower,ever.Ifrown.Hehasa lovely voice—of course.Hmm... has he heard mesing?

He wouldn’t be askingyou to marry him if he had!My subconscious has herarms crossed and is wearingBurberry check... jeez. Thesong finishes and Christian

smirks.“You know, if we had

gottenaticket,thetitleofthiscarisinyourname.”

“Well, good thing I’vebeen promoted—I can affordthe fine,” I say smugly,staring at his lovely profile.His lips twitch.AnotherVanMorrison song starts playingashe takes theon-ramp to I-5,headingnorth.

“Wherearewegoing?”

“It’sasurprise.WhatelsedidFlynnsay?”

I sigh. “He talked aboutFFFSTBorsomething.”

“SFBT. The latesttherapyoption,”hemutters.

“You’vetriedothers?”Christian snorts. “Baby,

I’ve been subjected to themall. Cognitivism, Freud,functionalism, Gestalt,behaviorism... You name it,over the years I’ve done it,”

he says and his tone betrayshis bitterness. The rancor inhisvoiceisdistressing.

“Do you think this latestapproachwillhelp?”

“WhatdidFlynnsay?”“He said not to dwell on

yourpast.Focusonthefuture—onwhereyouwanttobe.”

Christiannodsbutshrugsat the same time, hisexpressioncautious.

“Whatelse?”hepersists.

“He talked about yourfear of being touched,although he called itsomething else. And aboutyour nightmares and yourself-abhorrence.” I glance athim,andintheeveninglight,he’s pensive, chewing on histhumbnail as he drives. Heglancesquicklyatme.

“Eyes on the road, Mr.Grey,” I admonish, myeyebrowcockedathim.

He looks amused, andslightly exasperated. “Youwere talking forever,Anastasia. What else did hesay?”

I swallow. “He doesn’tthink you’re a sadist,” Iwhisper.

“Really?” Christian saysquietly and frowns. Theatmosphere in thecar takesanosedive.

“He says that term’s not

recognizedinpsychiatry.Notsince the nineties,” I mutter,quickly trying to rescue themoodbetweenus.

Christian’s face darkens,andheexhalesslowly.

“Flynn and I havedifferingopinionsonthis,”hesaysquietly.

“He said you alwaysthink theworst of yourself. Iknow that’s true,” Imurmur.“He also mentioned sexual

sadism—buthesaid thatwasa lifestyle choice, not apsychiatric condition. Maybethat’s what you’re thinkingabout.”

His gray eyes flashtoward me again, and hismouthsetsinagrimline.

“So—one talk with thegood doctor and you’re anexpert,” he says acidly andturnshiseyesfront.

Ohdear...Isigh.

“Look—if you don’twant to hear what he said,don’taskme,”Imuttersoftly.

I don’t want to argue.Anywayhe’sright—whatthehell do I know about all hisshit? Do I even want toknow? I can list the salientpoints—his control freakery,his possessiveness, hisjealousy, hisoverprotectiveness—and Icompletely understandwhere

he’scomingfrom.Icanevenunderstand why he doesn’tliketobetouched—I’veseenthephysical scars. I canonlyimagine thementalones,andI’ve only glimpsed hisnightmares once. And Dr.Flynnsaid—

“Iwanttoknowwhatyoudiscussed.” Christianinterrupts my thoughts as heheads off I-5 on exit 172,heading west toward the

slowlysinkingsun.“He called me your

lover.”“Did he now?” His tone

is conciliatory. “Well, he’snothingifnotfastidiousabouthis terms. I think that’s anaccurate description. Don’tyou?”

“Did you think of yoursubsaslovers?”

Christian’s brow creasesoncemore,but this timehe’s

thinking. He turns the Saabsmoothly north once again.Wherearewegoing?

“No. They were sexualpartners,” he murmurs, hisvoicecautiousagain.“You’remy only lover. And I wantyoutobemore.”

Oh... there’s thatmagicalword again, brimming withpossibility. It makes mesmile, and inside I hugmyself, my inner goddess

radiatingjoy.“I know,” I whisper,

trying hard to hide myexcitement.“Ijustneedsometime, Christian. To get myhead around these last fewdays.” He glances at meoddly, perplexed, his headinclinedtooneside.

Afterabeat,thestoplightwe’restationedatturnsgreen.He nods and turns themusicup, and our discussion is

over.Van Morrison is still

singing—more optimisticallynow—about it being amarvelous night formoondancing. I gaze out thewindows at the pines andspruce dusted gold by thefading light of the sun, theirlong shadows stretchingacrosstheroad.Christianhasturnedintoamoreresidentialstreet, and we’re heading

westtowardtheSound.“Wherearewegoing?” I

ask again as we turn into aroad.Icatcharoadsign—9thAveNW.Iambaffled.

“Surprise,” he says andsmilesmysteriously.

Christian continues to drivepast single-story, well-kept,

clapboard houses where kidsplay either clustered aroundtheirbasketballhoopsintheiryards or cycling and runningaround in the street. It alllooksaffluentandwholesomewith the houses nestlingamong the trees. Perhapswe’regoingtovisitsomeone?Who?

A few minutes later,Christian turns sharply left,andwe’re confronted by two

ornate white metal gates setin a six-foot-high, sandstonewall. Christian presses abuttononhisdoorhandleandthe electric window humsquietly down into thedoorframe. He punches anumber into the keypad andthe gates swing open inwelcome.

Heglancesatme,andhisexpression has changed. Helooks uncertain, nervous

even.“Whatisit?”Iask,andI

can’tmasktheconcerninmyvoice.

“An idea,” he saysquietly and eases the Saabthroughthegates.

We head up a tree-linedlanejustwideenoughfortwocars. On one side, the treesring a densely wooded area,andontheotherthere’savastarea of grassland where a

once-cultivatedfieldhasbeenleft fallow. Grasses andwildflowers have reclaimedit, creating a rural idyll—ameadow, where the lateevening breeze softly ripplesthrough the grass and theevening sun gilds thewildflowers. It’s lovely—utterly tranquil,andsuddenlyI imaginemyself lying in thegrassandgazingupataclearblue summer sky. The

thought is tantalizing yetmakes me feel homesick forsome strange reason. Howodd.

The lane curves aroundand opens into a sweepingdriveway in front of animpressive Mediterranean-style house of soft pinksandstone. It’s palatial. Allthe lights are on, eachwindow brightly illuminatedin the dusk. There’s a smart,

black BMW parked in frontof the four-car garage, butChristianpullsupoutsidethegrandportico.

Hmm... I wonder wholives here? Why are wevisiting?

Christian glancesanxiously at me as heswitchesoffthecarengine.

“Will you keep an openmind?”heasks.

Ifrown.

“Christian, I’ve neededanopenmindsince thedayImetyou.”

He smiles ironically andnods. “Fair point well made,MissSteele.Let’sgo.”

The dark wood doorsopen,andawomanwithdarkbrown hair, a sincere smile,and a sharp lilac suit standswaiting. I’m grateful Ichanged into my new navyshift dress to impress Dr.

Flynn.Okay,I’mnotwearingkillerheelslikeher—butstill,I’mnotinjeans.

“Mr. Grey.” She smileswarmlyandtheyshakehands.

“Miss Kelly,” he sayspolitely.

She smiles at me andholds out her hand, which Ishake.Her isn’t-he-dreamily-gorgeous-wish-he-was-mineflushdoesnotgounnoticed.

“Olga Kelly,” she

announcesbreezily.“Ana Steele,” I mutter

back at her. Who is thiswoman? She stands aside,welcomingus into thehouse.It’s a shock when I step in.The place is empty—completely empty. We findourselves in a large entrancehall. The walls are a fadedprimrose yellow withscuffmarks where picturesmustoncehavehung.Allthat

remainsaretheold-fashionedcrystal light fixtures. Thefloors are dull hardwood.There are closed doors toeithersideofus,butChristiangives me no time toassimilatewhat’shappening.

“Come,” he says, andtakingmyhand, he leadsmethrough the archway in frontof us into a larger innervestibule.It’sdominatedbyacurved, sweeping staircase

with an intricate ironbalustradebutstillhedoesn’tstop.He takesme through tothemainlivingarea,whichisempty,savefora largefadedgold rug—the biggest rug Ihave ever seen. Oh—andthere are four crystalchandeliers.

But Christian’s intentionis now clear as we headacross the room and outsidethroughopenFrenchdoorsto

a large stone terrace. Belowusthere’shalfafootballfieldof manicured lawn, butbeyondthatistheview.Wow.

The panoramic,uninterrupted vista isbreathtaking—staggeringeven:twilightovertheSound.Ohmy.

In the distance liesBainbridgeIsland,andfurtherstill on this crystal clearevening, thesettingsunsinks

slowly, glowing blood andflame orange, beyondOlympic National Park.Vermillion hues bleed intothe sky—opals, aquamarines,ceruleans—melding with thedarker purples of the scantwispy clouds and the landbeyond the Sound. It isnature’s best, a visualsymphonyorchestrated in theskyandreflectedinthedeep,stillwatersoftheSound.Iam

lost to the view—staring,tryingtoabsorbsuchbeauty.

I realize I’m holdingmybreath in awe, and Christianisstillholdingmyhand.AsIreluctantlyturnmyeyesawayfrom the view, he’s gazinganxiouslyatme.

“Youbroughtmehere toadmire theview?” Iwhisper.He nods, his expressionserious.

“It’s staggering,

Christian. Thank you,” Imurmur,lettingmyeyesfeaston it oncemore.He releasesmyhand.

“How would you like tolookat it for the restofyourlife?”hebreathes.

What? I whip my facebacktohis,startledblueeyesto pensive gray. I think mymouthdropsopen,andIgapeathimblankly.

“I’ve always wanted to

liveonthecoast.Isailupanddown the Sound covetingthese houses. This placehasn’t been on the marketlong. I want to buy it,demolish it, and build a newhouse—for us,” he whispers,andhiseyesglow,translucentwithhishopesanddreams.

Holy cow. Somehow Iremain upright. I’m reeling.Live, here! In this beautifulhaven! For the rest of my

life...“It’s just an idea,” he

adds,cautiously.I glance back to assess

theinteriorofthehouse.Howmuch is itworth?Itmustbe,what—five, ten milliondollars? Ihaveno idea.Holyshit.

“Why do you want todemolish it?” I ask, lookingback at him. His face fallsslightly.Ohno.

“I’d like tomake amoresustainable home, using thelatest ecological techniques.Elliotcouldbuildit.”

I gaze back at the roomagain.MissOlgaKelly is onthe far side, hovering by theentrance.She’stherealtor,ofcourse. I notice the room ishuge and double height, alittle like the great room atEscala. There’s a balconyabove—that must be the

landing on the second floor.There’sahugefireplaceandawhole line of French doorsopening onto the terrace. Ithasanold-worldcharm.

“Canwe lookaround thehouse?”

He blinks at me. “Sure,”heshrugs,puzzled.

Miss Kelly’s face lightsup like Christmas when weheadbackin.She’sdelightedtotakeusonatourandgives

usthespiel.The house is enormous:

twelve thousand square feeton six acresof land.Aswellas this main living room,there’s the eat-in—no,banquet-in—kitchen withfamily room attached—Family!—amusic room, alibrary, a studyand,much tomy amazement, an indoorpool and exercise suite withsauna and steam room

attached. Downstairs in thebasement there’s a cinema—Jeez—and game room.Hmm... what sort of gamescouldweplayinhere?

MissKelly points out allsortsoffeatures,butbasicallythehouseisbeautifulandwasobviouslyatonetimeahappyfamily home. It’s a littleshabbynow,butnothing thatsomeTLCcouldn’tcure.

AswefollowMissKelly

up the magnificent mainstairs to the second floor, Ican hardly contain myexcitement... this house haseverything I could ever wishforinahome.

“Couldn’t you make theexisting house moreecological and self-sustaining?”

Christian blinks at me,nonplussed. “I’d have to askElliot. He’s the expert in all

this.”Miss Kelly leads us into

the master suite where fullheight windows open onto abalcony, and the view is stillspectacular.Icouldsitinbedand gaze out all day,watching the sailing boatsandthechangingweather.

There are five additionalbedrooms on this floor. Jeez—kids. I push the thoughthastilytooneside.Ihavetoo

much to process already.Miss Kelly is busilysuggesting to Christian howthe grounds couldaccommodate riding stablesand a paddock. Horses!Terrifying images ofmy fewriding lessons flash throughmy mind, but Christiandoesn’tappeartobelistening.

“The paddock would bewhere the meadow is at themoment?”Iask.

“Yes,” Miss Kelly saysbrightly.

Tomethemeadowlookslike somewhere to lie in thelong grass and have picnics,not for some four-leggedfiendofSatantoroam.

Back in the main room,Miss Kelly discreetlydisappears, and Christianleadsmeoutoncemoreontothe terrace. The sun has setand lights from the townson

the Olympic peninsula aretwinkling on the far side oftheSound.

Christian pulls me intohisarmsand tipsmychinupwith his index finger, staringintentlydownatme.

“Lottotakein?”heasks,hisexpressionunreadable.

Inod.“I wanted to check you

likeditbeforeIboughtit.”“Theview?”

Henods.“I love the view, and I

likethehousethat’shere.”“Youdo?”I smile shyly at him.

“Christian,youhadmeatthemeadow.”

Hislipspartasheinhalessharply, then his facetransforms with a grin, andhishandsaresuddenlyfistingintomyhairandhismouthisonmine.

BackinthecarasweheadforSeattle,Christian’smoodhasliftedconsiderably.

“So you’re going to buyit?”Iask.

“Yes.”“You’llputEscalaonthe

market?”Hefrowns.“WhywouldI

dothat?”“Topay for...”Myvoice

trailsoff—ofcourse.Iflush.He smirks at me. “Trust

me,Icanaffordit.”“Doyoulikebeingrich?”“Yes.Showme someone

whodoesn’t,”hesaysdarkly.Okay,getoffthatsubject

quickly.“Anastasia, you’re going

to have to learn to be rich,too, if you say yes,” he sayssoftly.

“Wealth isn’t somethingI’ve ever aspired to,Christian.”Ifrown.

“Iknow.Ilovethataboutyou. But then you’ve neverbeenhungry,”hesayssimply.Hiswordsaresobering.

“Wherearewegoing?” Iask brightly, changing thesubject.

“To celebrate.” Christianrelaxes.

Oh! “Celebratewhat, thehouse?”

“Have you forgottenalready? Your acting editor

role.”“Oh yes.” I grin.

Unbelievably,Ihadforgotten.“Where?”“Uphighatmyclub.”“Yourclub?”“Yes.Oneofthem.”

TheMileHighClubisontheseventy-sixth floor ofColumbiaTower,highereven

than Christian’s apartment.It’s very now and has themost head-spinning viewsoverSeattle.

“Cristal, ma’am?”Christianhandsmeaglassofchilled champagne as I sitperchedonabarstool.

“Why thank you, sir.” Istress the last wordflirtatiously, batting myeyelashesathimdeliberately.

He gazes at me and his

face darkens. “Are youflirting with me, MissSteele?”

“Yes, Mr. Grey, I am.What are you going to doaboutit?”

“I’m sure I can think ofsomething,” he says, hisvoice low. “Come—ourtable’sready.”

Asweapproachthetable,Christian stops me, his handonmyelbow.

“Goandtakeyourpantiesoff,”hewhispers.

Oh? A delicious tinglerunsdownmyspine.

“Go,” he commandsquietly.

Whoa,what?Iblinkupathim. He’s not smiling—he’sdead serious. Every musclebelowmywaistlinetightens.Ihand him my glass ofchampagne, turn sharply onmy heel, and head for the

restroom.Shit.What’s he going to

do?Perhapsthisclubisaptlynamed.

The restrooms are theheightofmoderndesign—alldarkwood,blackgranite,andpools of light fromstrategically placed halogens.In the privacy of the stall, Ismirk as I divest myself ofmy underwear. Again I’mgrateful I changed into the

navy blue shift dress. Ithoughtitappropriateattiretomeet the good Dr. Flynn—Ihadn’t expected the eveningto take this unexpectedcourse.

I am excited already.Whydoesheaffectme so? Islightly resent how easily Ifall under his spell. I knownow that we won’t bespending the evening talkingthrough all our issues and

recentevents...buthowcanIresisthim?

Checkingmy appearancein the mirror, I am bright-eyed and flushed withexcitement. Issuesschmissues.

I take a deep breath andheadbackoutintotheclub.Imean, it’s not as if I haven’tgone panty less before. Myinner goddess is draped in apink feather boa and

diamonds, strutting her stuffinfuck-meshoes.

Christian stands politelywhenIreturntothetable,hisexpression unreadable. Helooks his usual perfect, cool,calm, and collected self. Ofcourse, I now knowdifferently.

“Sit besideme,” he says.I slide into the seat and hesits. “I’ve ordered for you. Ihope you don’t mind.” He

hands me my half-finishedglass of champagne,regarding me intently andunder his scrutiny,my bloodheats anew. He rests hishands on his thighs. I tenseandpartmylegsslightly.

Thewaiter arriveswithadish of oysters on crushedice.Oysters. Thememory ofthe two of us in the privatediningroomat theHeathmanfills my mind. We were

discussing his contract. Ohboy.We’vecomealongwaysincethen.

“Ithinkyoulikedoysterslasttimeyoutriedthem.”Hisvoiceislow,seductive.

“Only time I’ve triedthem.” I’m all breathy, myvoice exposing me. His lipstwitchwithasmile.

“Oh, Miss Steele—whenwillyoulearn?”hemuses.

He takes an oyster from

the dish and lifts his otherhand from his thigh. I flinchinanticipation,buthereachesforasliceoflemon.

“Learn what?” I ask.Jeez,mypulse is racing.Hislong, skilled fingers gentlysqueeze the lemon over theshellfish.

“Eat,” he says, holdingtheshellclosetomymouth.Ipart my lips, and he gentlyplacestheshellonmybottom

lip. “Tip your head backslowly,”hemurmurs. Idoashe asks and the oyster slipsdown my throat. He doesn’ttouchme,onlytheshell.

Christianhelpshimselftoone, then feeds me another.We continue this tortuousroutine until all twelve aregone.Hisskinneverconnectswith mine. It’s driving mecrazy.

“Still like oysters?” he

asks as I swallow the finalone.

Inod,flushed,cravinghistouch.

“Good.”Isquirminmyseat.Why

isthissohot?Heputshishandcasually

onhisownthighagain,andImelt.Now.Please.Touchme.My inner goddess is on herknees, naked except for herpanties—begging. He runs

his hand up and down histhigh, lifts it, then places itbackwhereitwas.

The waiter tops up ourchampagne glasses andwhisks away our plates.Momentslaterhe’sbackwithour entrée, sea bass—I don’tbelieve it—served withasparagus, sautéed potatoes,andahollandaisesauce.

“Afavoriteofyours,Mr.Grey?”

“Most definitely, MissSteele. Though I believe itwas cod at the Heathman.”Hishandmovesupanddownhis thigh. My breathingspikes, but still he doesn’ttouchme.It’ssofrustrating.Itry to concentrate on ourconversation.

“I seem to rememberwewereinaprivatediningroomthen,discussingcontracts.”

“Happy days,” he says,

smirking. “This time I hopetogettofuckyou.”Hemoveshishandtopickuphisknife.

Gah!Hetakesabiteoutofhis

sea bass. He’s doing this onpurpose.

“Don’t count on it,” Imutter with a pout and heglances at me, amused.“Speaking of contracts,” Iadd.“TheNDA.”

“Tear it up,” he says

simply.Whoa.“What?Really?”“Yes.”“You’re sure I’m not

going to run to the SeattleTimes with an exposé?” Itease.

He laughs and it’s awonderfulsound.Helookssoyoung.

“No. I trust you. I’mgoing togiveyou thebenefit

ofthedoubt.”Oh. I grin shyly at him.

“Ditto,”Ibreathe.His eyes light up. “I’m

very glad you’re wearing adress,”hemurmurs.Andbam—desire courses through myalreadyoverheatedblood.

“Why haven’t youtouchedme,then?”Ihiss.

“Missing my touch?” heasksgrinning.He’samused...thebastard.

“Yes,”Iseethe.“Eat,”heorders.“You’re not going to

touchme,areyou?”“No.” He shakes his

head.What?Igaspoutloud.“Just imaginehowyou’ll

feel when we’re home,” hewhispers. “Ican’twait togetyouhome.”

“Itwill be your fault if Icombusthereontheseventy-

sixth floor,” Imutter throughgrittedteeth.

“Oh, Anastasia. We’dfind a way to put the fireout,” he says, grinningsalaciouslyatme.

Fuming,Idigintomyseabass, and my inner goddessnarrows her eyes in quiet,devious contemplation. Wecan play this game, too. Ilearned the basics during ourmeal at theHeathman. I take

abiteoutofmyseabass.Itismelt-in-the-mouthdelicious.Iclose my eyes, savoring thetaste. When I open them, Ibegin my seduction ofChristian Grey, very slowlyhitching my skirt up,exposingmoreofmythighs.

Christian pausesmomentarily,aforkfuloffishsuspendedmidair.

Touchme.After a beat, he resumes

eating. I take another bite ofseabass, ignoringhim.Then,puttingdownmyknife, I runmy fingers up the inside ofmy lower thigh, lightlytapping my skin with myfingertips. It’s distractingeventome,especiallyasIamcraving his touch. Christianpausesoncemore.

“I know what you’redoing.”His voice is low andhusky.

“I know that you know,Mr. Grey,” I reply softly.“That’s the point.” I pick upan asparagus stalk, gazesidewaysathimfrombeneathmy lashes, then dip theasparagusintothehollandaisesauce, swirling the tip roundandround.

“You’re not turning thetables on me, Miss Steele.”Smirkinghereachesoverandtakes the spear from me—

amazingly and annoyinglymanaging not to touch meagain. No, this isn’t right—this isnotgoingaccordingtoplan.Gah!

“Open your mouth,” hecommands.

I am losing this battle ofwills. I glance up at himagain, and his eyes blazebrightgray.Partingmylipsafraction I run my tongueacrossmylowerlip.Christian

smiles and his eyes darkenfurther.

“Wider,”hebreathes,hislips parting so that I can seehis tongue. I groan inwardlyand bitemy bottom lip, thendoasheasks.

Ihearhissharp intakeofbreath—he’s not so immune.Good, I am finally getting tohim. My inner goddess fist-pumps the air above herchaiselongue.

Keeping my eyes lockedonhis,Itakethespearinmymouth, and suck, gently...delicately... on the end. Thehollandaise sauce ismouthwatering. I bite down,moaning quietly inappreciation.

Christian closes his eyes.Yes! When he opens themagain,hispupilshavedilated.The effect on me isimmediate. Igroanandreach

outtotouchhisthigh.Tomysurprise, he uses his otherhandtograbmywrist.

“Oh, no you don’t, MissSteele,” he murmurs softly.Raising my hand to hismouth, hegently brushesmyknuckles with his lips, and Isquirm. Finally! More,please.

“Don’t touch,” he scoldsme quietly, and places myhandbackonmyknee.It’sso

frustrating—this briefunsatisfactorycontact.

“You don’t play fair.” Ipout.

“Iknow.”Hepicksuphischampagneglasstoproposeatoast,andImirrorhisactions.

“Congratulationsonyourpromotion,Miss Steele.”WeclinkglassesandIblush.

“Yes, kind ofunexpected,” I mutter. Hefrownsas if someunpleasant

thoughthascrossedhismind.“Eat,” he orders. “I am

not taking you home untilyou’ve finished your meal,and then we can reallycelebrate.” His expression isso heated, so raw, socommanding.Iammelting.

“I’mnot hungry.Not forfood.”

He shakes his head,thoroughly enjoying himself,but narrows his eyes at me

justthesame.“Eat, or I’ll put you

across my knee, right here,and we’ll entertain the otherdiners.”

His words make mesquirm.Hewouldn’tdare!Heandhis twitchypalm. I pressmymouthintoahardlineandstare at him. Picking up anasparagus stalk, he dips theheadintothehollandaise.

“Eat this,” he murmurs,

hisvoicelowandseductive.Iwillinglycomply.“You really don’t eat

enough. You’ve lost weightsince I’ve known you.” Histoneisgentle.

I don’t want to thinkabout my weight; truth is, Ilikebeingthisslim.Iswallowtheasparagus.

“I just want to go homeand make love,” I mutterdisconsolately. Christian

grins.“SodoI,andwewill.Eat

up.”Reluctantly, I turn back

to my food and start to eat.Honestly, I’ve taken mypanties off and everything. Ifeellikeachildwhohasbeendenied candy. He is such atease, a delicious, hot,naughtytease,andallmine.

He quizzes me aboutEthan. As it turns out,

Christian does business withKate and Ethan’s father.Hmm... it’s smallworld. I’mrelieved he doesn’t mentionDr.FlynnorthehouseasI’mfinding it difficult toconcentrate on ourconversation. I want to gohome.

Thecarnalanticipation isunfurlingbetweenus.He’ssogoodatthis.Makingmewait.Setting the scene. Between

bites, he places his hand onhis thigh, so close to mine,butstilldoesn’ttouchmejusttoteasemefurther.

Bastard! Finally I finishmy food, andplacemyknifeandforkontheplate.

“Goodgirl,”hemurmurs,and those twowords hold somuchpromise.

I frown at him. “Whatnow?”Iask,desireclawingatmybelly.Oh,Iwantthisman.

“Now? We leave. Ibelieve you have certainexpectations, Miss Steele.WhichIintendtofulfilltothebestofmyability.”

Whoa!“The best... of your a...

bil...ity?”Istutter.Holyshit.Hegrinsandstands.“Don’twehave to pay?”

Iask,breathless.Hecockshisheadtoone

side. “I am a member here.

They’ll bill me. Come,Anastasia, after you.” Hesteps aside, and I stand toleave,consciousthatIamnotwearingmypanties.

He gazes at me darkly,likehe’sundressingme,andIglory in his carnal appraisal.It justmakesmefeelsosexy—this beautiful man desiresme.Will I always get a kickout of this? Deliberatelystopping in front of him, I

smooth my dress over myhips.

Christianwhispers inmyear, “I can’t wait to get youhome.” But he still doesn’ttouchme.

On the way out hemurmurssomethingaboutthecar to themaître d’, but I’mnot listening, my innergoddess is incandescent withanticipation. Jeez, she couldlightupSeattle.

Waiting by the elevators,wearejoinedbytwomiddle-agedcouples.Whenthedoorsopen, Christian takes myelbow and steers me to theback. I glance around, andwe’re surrounded by darksmoked-glassmirrors.As theother couples enter, onemaninaratherunflatteringbrownsuitgreetsChristian.

“Grey,” he nods politely.Christiannodsinreturnbutis

silent.Thecouplesstandinfront

of us, facing the elevatordoors. They are obviouslyfriends—the women chatloudly, excited and animatedafter their meal. I thinkthey’reallalittletipsy.

As the doors close,Christianbrieflystoopsdownbesidemetotiehisshoelace.Odd, his shoelaces aren’tundone. Discreetly he places

his hand on my ankle,startlingme,andashestandshishandtravelsswiftlyupmyleg, skating deliciously overmy skin—whoa—right up. Ihave to stifle my gasp ofsurprise as his hand reachesmybackside.Christianmovesbehindme.

Oh my. I gape at thepeople in front of us, staringat the backs of their heads.Theyhavenoideawhatwe’re

up to.Wrappinghis freearmaround my waist, Christianpullsme to him, holdingmein place as his fingersexplore. Holy fucking shit...in here? The elevator travelssmoothly down, stopping atthe fifty-third floor to letsome more people on, but Iamnotpayingattention.Iamfocused on every little movehis fingers make. Circlingaround... now moving

forward, questing, as weshuffleback.

Again I stifle a groanwhen his fingers find theirgoal.

“Always so ready, MissSteele,” he whispers as heslipsa long finger insideme.I squirm and gasp. How canhe do this with all thesepeoplehere?

“Keepstillandquiet,”hewarns,murmuringinmyear.

I’m flushed, warm,wanting, trapped in anelevator with seven people,six of them oblivious towhat’s occurring in thecorner. His finger slides inand out of me, again andagain.Mybreathing.Jeez,it’sembarrassing. I want to tellhim to stop... and continue...and stop. I sag against him,and he tightens his armaround me, his erection

againstmyhip.We halt again at the

forty-fourth floor. Oh... howlong is this torture going tocontinue? In... out... in...out... Subtly I grind myselfagainst his persistent finger.After all this time of nottouching me, he choosesnow!Here!Anditmakesmefeelso—wanton.

“Hush,” he breathes,seemingly unaffected as yet

two more people comeaboard. The elevator isgetting crowded. Christianmovesusbothfartherbacksothat we’re now pressed intothe corner, holding me inplace and torturing mefurther. He nuzzles my hair.I’msurewelooklikeayoungcouple in love, canoodling inthecorner,ifanyonecouldbebothered to turn round andsee what we’re doing... And

he eases a second fingerinsideme.

Fuck! I groan, and I’mthankful that the gaggle ofpeople in front of us are stillchatting away, totallyoblivious.

Oh, Christian, what youdo to me. I lean my headagainst his chest, closingmyeyes and surrendering to hisunrelentingfingers.

“Don’t come,” he

whispers. “Iwant that later.”Hesplayshishandoutonmybelly,pressingdownslightly,as he continues his sweetpersecution. The feeling isexquisite.

Finally the elevatorreachesthefirstfloor.Withaloudpingthedoorsopen,andalmost instantly thepassengers start exiting.Christian slowly slips hisfingers out of me and kisses

thebackofmyhead.Iglanceround at him, and he smiles,thennodsagainatMr.Badly-fitted-brown-suitwho returnshis nod of acknowledgmentas he shuffles out of theelevator with his wife. Ibarely notice, concentratinginsteadonstayinguprightandtryingtomanagemypanting.Jeez,Ifeelachingandbereft.Christianreleasesme,leavingme to stand onmy own two

feetwithoutleaningonhim.Turning,Igazeupathim.

He looks cool and unruffled,his usual composed self.Hmm...Thisissonotfair.

“Ready?” he asks. Hiseyes gleam wickedly as heslips first his index, then hismiddle finger into hismouthand sucks on them. “Mightyfine, Miss Steele,” hewhispers. I nearly convulseonthespot.

“I can’t believe you justdid that,” Imurmur, and I’mpractically coming apart attheseams.

“You’dbesurprisedwhatI can do, Miss Steele,” hesays.Reachingout,hetucksalockofhairbehindmyear,aslight smile betraying hisamusement.

“Iwant togetyouhome,butmaybewe’llonlymakeitas far as the car.” He grins

down at me as he takes myhandand leadsmeoutof theelevator.

What! Sex in the car?Can’twejustdoithereonthecool marble of the lobbyfloor...please?

“Come.”“Yes,Iwantto.”“Miss Steele!” he

admonishes me with mock-amusedhorror.

“I’ve never had sex in a

car,” I mumble. Christianhalts and places those samefingers under my chin,tipping my head back andglaringdownatme.

“I’mverypleasedtohearthat.IhavetosayI’dbeverysurprised, not to say mad, ifyouhad.”

I flush, blinking up athim.Ofcourse,I’veonlyhadsexwithhim.Ifrownathim.

“That’s not what I

meant.”“What did you mean?”

His tone is unexpectedlyharsh.

“Christian, itwas just anexpression.”

“The famous expression,‘I’veneverhadsex inacar.’Yes, it just trips off thetongue.”

Jeez... what’s hisproblem?

“Christian, I wasn’t

thinking. For heaven’s sake,you’vejust...um,donethat tome in an elevator full ofpeople. My wits arescattered.”

He raises his eyebrows.“What did I do to you?” hechallenges.

Iscowlathim.Hewantsmetosayit.

“You turned me on, bigtime.Nowtakemehomeandfuckme.”

His mouth drops openthen he laughs, surprised.Now he looks young andcarefree. Oh, to hear himlaugh.Iloveitbecauseit’ssorare.

“You’reabornromantic,Miss Steele.” He takes myhand,andweheadoutof thebuilding to where the valetstandsbymySaab.

“So you want sex in a car,”Christian murmurs as heswitchesontheignition.

“Quite frankly, I wouldhave been happy with thelobbyfloor.”

“Trustme,Ana,sowouldI. But I don’t fancy beingarrested at this timeofnight,andIdidn’twanttofuckyouin a restroom. Well, nottoday.”

What! “You mean there

wasapossibility?”“Ohyes.”“Let’sgoback.”He turns to gaze at me

and laughs. His laughter isinfectious; soon we’re bothlaughing—wonderful,cathartic, head-held-backlaughter. Reaching over, heplaces his hand onmy knee,caressing it gently with longskilled fingers. I stoplaughing.

“Patience,Anastasia,” hemurmurs and pulls into theSeattletraffic.

He parks the Saab in theEscala garage and turns offthe engine. Suddenly, in theconfines of the car, theatmosphere between uschanges. With wantonanticipation, I glance at him,

trying to contain mypalpitatingheart.He’s turnedtoward me, leaning againstthe door, his elbow proppedonthesteeringwheel.

He pulls his lower lipwith his thumb and indexfinger. His mouth is sodistracting. I want it on me.He’s watching me intently,hiseyesdarkgray.Mymouthgoes dry. He smiles a slowsexysmile.

“Wewill fuck in the carat a time and place of mychoosing. Right now, I wanttotakeyouoneveryavailablesurfaceofmyapartment.”

It’s like he’s addressingme below the waist... myinner goddess performs fourarabesques and a pas deBasque.

“Yes.” Jeez, I sound sobreathy,desperate.

He leans forward a

fraction. I close my eyes,waiting for his kiss, thinking—finally. But nothinghappens. After a moment, Iopen my eyes to find himgazing at me. I can’t figureout what he’s thinking, butbefore Icansayanything,hedistractsmeoncemore.

“If I kiss you now wewon’t make it into theapartment.Come.”

Gah! Could this man be

any more frustrating? Heclimbsoutofthecar.

Once again, we wait for theelevator,mybodythrummingwith anticipation. Christianholds my hand, running histhumb rhythmically acrossmy knuckles, each strokeechoing through me. Oh, Iwant his hands on all ofme.

He’s tortured me longenough.

“So, what happened toinstant gratification?” Imurmurwhilewewait.

Christian smirks down atme.

“It’s not appropriate ineverysituation,Anastasia.”

“Sincewhen?”“Sincethisevening.”“Why are you torturing

meso?”

“Titfortat,MissSteele.”“How am I torturing

you?”“Ithinkyouknow.”I gaze up at him and his

expressionisdifficulttoread.Hewantsmyanswer... that’sit.

“I’m into delayedgratification, too,” Iwhisper,smilingshyly.

He tugs my handunexpectedly, and suddenly I

am inhisarms.Hegrabs thehair at the nape ofmy neck,pullinggentlysomyheadtipsback.

“What can I do to makeyou say yes?” he asksfervently, throwing me offbalanceoncemore.Iblinkathim—at his lovely, serious,desperateexpression.

“Give me some time?Please,”Imurmur.Hegroansandfinallyhekissesme,long

and hard. Then we’re in theelevator, andwe’re all handsand mouths and tongues andlips and fingers and hair.Desire, thick and strong,lances through my blood,clouding all my reason. Hepushes me against the wall,pinningmewithhiships,onehand inmy hair, the other atmychin,holdingmeinplace.

“You own me,” hewhispers.“Myfateisinyour

hands,Ana.”His words are

intoxicating, and in myoverheatedstate,Iwanttoripoffhisclothes. Ipushoffhisjacket, and as the elevatorarrives at the apartment, wetumbleoutintothefoyer.

Christian pins me to thewall by the elevator, hisjacketfallingtothefloor,andhis hand travels up my leg,his lips never leaving mine.

Hehoistsupmydress.“First surface here,” he

breathesandabruptlyhe liftsme. “Wrap your legs aroundme.”

I do as I’m told, and heturns and lays me down onthe foyer table, so he’sstanding between my legs.I’mawarethattheusualvaseof flowers is missing. Huh?Reaching into his jeanspocket, he fishes out a foil

packet and hands it to me,undoinghisfly.

“Doyouknowhowmuchyouturnmeon?”

“What?” I pant. “No...I...”

“Well, you do,” hemutters, “all the time.” Hegrabsthefoilpacketfrommyhands. Oh, this is so quick,but after all his tantalizingteasing, I want him badly—right now.He gazes down at

measherollsonthecondom,thenputshishandsundermythighs, spreading my legswider.

Positioning himself, hepauses. “Keep your eyesopen. Iwant to see you,” hewhispers and clasping bothmy hands with his, he sinksslowlyintome.

I try, I really do, but thefeeling is so exquisite.WhatI’vebeenwaitingforafterall

his teasing.Oh, the fullness,thisfeeling...Igroanandarchmybackoffthetable.

“Open!” he growls,tighteninghis handsonmineandthrustingsharplyintomesothatIcryout.

Iblinkmyeyesopen,andhe stares down at me wide-eyed. Slowly he withdrawsthensinksintomeoncemore,his mouth slackening andthen forminganAh..., but he

says nothing. Seeing hisarousal,hisreactiontome—Ilight up inside, my bloodscorching through my veins.Hisgrayeyesburnintomine.Hepicksuptherhythm,andIrevel in it, glory in it,watching him, watching me—hispassion,hislove—aswecomeapart,together.

I call out as I explodearound him, and Christianfollows.

“Yes,Ana!”he cries.Hecollapsesonme,releasingmyhandsandrestinghisheadonmy chest. My legs are stillwrapped around him, andunder the patient, maternaleyes of the Madonnapaintings, I cradle his headagainst me and struggle tocatchmybreath.

Heraiseshisheadtolookatme.“I’mnotfinishedwithyou yet,” he murmurs and

leaningup,hekissesme.

IlienakedinChristian’sbed,sprawled over his chest,panting.Holy cow—does hisenergy ever wane? Christiantrailshisfingersupanddownmyback.

“Satisfied,MissSteele?”I murmur my assent. I

have no energy left for

talking. Raising my head, Iturn unfocused eyes to himand bask in his warm, fondgaze. Very deliberately, Iangle my head down so heknows Iamgoing tokisshischest.

He tenses momentarily,and I plant a soft kiss in hischest hair, breathing in hisuniqueChristiansmell,mixedwith sweat and sex. It’sheady.He rolls onto his side

so I’m lying beside him andgazesdownatme.

“Is sex like this foreveryone? I’m surprisedanyone ever goes out,” Imurmur, feeling suddenlyshy.

He grins. “I can’t speakfor everyone, but it’s prettydamned special with you,Anastasia.” He bends andkissesme.

“That’s because you’re

pretty damned special, Mr.Grey,” I agree, smiling up athim and caressing his face.He blinks down at me at aloss.

“It’slate.Gotosleep,”hesays.He kissesme, then liesdownandpullsmetohimsowe’respooninginbed.

“You don’t likecompliments.”

“Gotosleep,Anastasia.”Hmm... But he is pretty

damned special. Jeez... whydoesn’therealizethis?

“I loved the house,” Imurmur.

He says nothing for amoment,butIsensehisgrin.

“Iloveyou.Gotosleep.”He nuzzles my hair, and Idrift into sleep, safe in hisarms, dreaming of sunsetsand French doors and widestaircases... and a smallcopper-haired boy running

through a meadow, laughingandgigglingasIchasehim.

“Gotta go, baby.”Christian kisses me justbelowmyear.

I open my eyes and it’s

morning. I turn to face him,but he’s up and dressed andfresh and delicious, leaningoverme.

“What time is it?” Ohno...Idon’twanttobelate.

“Don’t panic. I have abreakfast meeting.” He rubshisnoseagainstmine.

“You smell good,” Imurmur, stretching outbeneath him, my limbspleasurably tight and creaky

from all our exploitsyesterday. I wrap my armsaroundhisneck.

“Don’tgo.”Hecockshisheadtoone

side and raises his eyebrow.“MissSteele—are you tryingtokeepamanfromanhonestday’swork?”

Inodsleepilyathim,andhesmileshisnewshysmile.

“As tempting as you are,I have to go.” He kisses me

and stands. He’s wearing areally sharp dark navy suit,white shirt and navy tie, andhe looks every inch theCEO...thehotCEO.

“Laters, baby,” hemurmursandhe’soff.

Glancing at the clock Inote it’s already seven—Imust have slept through thealarm.Well,timetogetup.

Intheshower,inspirationhitsme. I’ve thought of anotherbirthdaypresentforChristian.It’s so difficult to buysomething for the man whohas everything. I’ve alreadygiven him my main present,andIstillhavetheotheritemI bought at the tourist shop,but this is one present thatwill really be for me. I hugmyself in anticipation as Iswitch off the shower. I just

havetoprepareit.In the walk-in closet, I

putonadark red fitteddresswith a square neckline, cutquite low. Yes, this will doforwork.

Now for Christian’spresent. I start rummagingthrough his drawers, lookingfor his ties. In the bottomdrawer I find those faded,ripped jeans, the ones hewears in the playroom—the

ones he looks so hot in. Istroke themgently,usingmywhole hand. Oh my, thematerialissosoft.

Beneath them, I find alarge, black, flat cardboardbox. It piques my interestimmediately.What’sinhere?I stare at it, feeling like I’mtrespassing again. Taking itout,Ishakeit.It’sheavyasifit holds papers ormanuscripts.Icannotresist,I

open the lid—and quicklyshut it again. Holy fuck—photographs from the RedRoom. The shock makes mesit back onmyheels as I tryto wipe the image from mybrain. Why did I open thebox?Whyhashekeptthem?

I shudder. Mysubconscious scowls atme—this is before you. Forgetthem.

She’sright.StandingupI

notice his ties are hanging atthe end of his clothes rail. Ifind my favorite and exitquickly.

I try to tell myself thosephotos areBA—BeforeAna.My subconscious nods withapproval, but it’s with aheavierheart that I head intothemain room for breakfast.Mrs. Jones smiles at mewarmlyandthenfrowns.

“Everything all right,

Ana?”sheaskskindly.“Yes,” I murmur,

distracted. “Do you have akeytothe...um,playroom?”

She pauses momentarily,surprised.

“Yes, of course.” Sheunclipsasmallbunchofkeysfrom her belt. “What wouldyou likeforbreakfast,dear?”sheasksasshehandsme thekeys.

“Just granola. Iwon’t be

long.”I feel more ambivalent

about this gift now but onlysince the discovery of thosephotographs. Nothing’schanged, my subconsciousbarks atme again, glaring atme over her half-moonwinged glasses. That picturewas hot, my inner goddesschipsin,andmentallyIscowlat her. Yes it was—too hotforme.

What else does he havehiddenaway?QuicklyIferretthrough the museum chest,takewhatIneed,andlocktheplayroom door behind me.Wouldn’t do for José todiscoverthis!

I hand the keys back toMrs. Jones and sit down todevour my breakfast, feelingodd that Christian is absent.Thephotographimagedancesunwelcomearoundmymind.

I wonder who it was? Leilaperhaps?

On my drive in to work, Idebate whether or not to tellChristian I found hisphotographs.No,screamsmysubconscious, her EdvardMunchfaceon.Idecideshe’sprobablyright.

AsIsitdownatmydesk,myBlackberrybuzzes.

From:ChristianGreySubject:SurfacesDate:June17,201108:59To:AnastasiaSteele

Icalculatethatthereareatleast30surfacestogo.Iamlookingforwardtoeachandeveryoneofthem.Thenthere’sthefloors,

thewalls—andlet’snotforgetthebalcony.Afterthatthere’smyoffice...

Missyou.x

ChristianGreyPriapicCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

His e-mail makes me smile,and all my earlierreservations evaporate. It’s

me he wants now, andmemories of last night’ssexcapades flood my mind...the elevator, the foyer, thebed.Priapicisright.Iwonderidly what the femaleequivalentmightbe?

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Romance?Date:June17,201109:03

To:ChristianGrey

Mr.GreyYouhaveaone-trackmind.ImissedyouatbreakfastButMrs.Joneswasveryaccommodating.Ax

From:ChristianGreySubject:IntriguedDate:June17,201109:07To:AnastasiaSteele

WhatwasMrs.Jonesaccommodatingabout?WhatareyouuptoMissSteele?

ChristianGreyCuriousCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.

Howdoesheknow?

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:TappingNoseDate:June17,201109:10To:ChristianGrey

Waitandsee—it’sasurprise.Ineedtowork...letmebe.Loveyou.Ax

From:ChristianGreySubject:Frustrated


Ihateitwhenyoukeepthingsfromme.


I stare at the small screen ofmy Blackberry. Thevehemence implicit in his e-

mail takes me by surprise.Why does he feel like this?It’snot likeI’mhidingeroticphotographsofmyexes.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:IndulgingyouDate:June17,201109:14To:ChristianGrey

It’sforyourbirthday.Anothersurprise.

Don’tbesopetulant.Ax

He doesn’t replyimmediately, and I’m calledinto a meeting so I can’tdwellonitfortoolong.

WhenInextglanceatmyBlackberry, to my horror Irealize it’s four in theafternoon.Wherehasthedaygone? Still no message from

Christian. I decide to e-mailhimagain.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:HelloDate:June17,201116:03To:ChristianGrey

Areyounottalkingtome?Don’tforgetIamgoingforadrinkwithJosé,andthathe’sstayingwithustonight.

Pleaserethinkaboutjoiningus.Ax

Hedoesn’treply,andIfeelafrissonofunease.Ihopehe’sokay. Calling his mobile, Iget his voicemail. Theannouncement simply saysGrey, leaveamessage in hismostclippedtone.

“Hi... um... it’sme.Ana.Are you okay? Call me,” I

stutter through my message.I’ve never had to leave onefor him before. I flush as Ihangup.Ofcoursehe’llknowit’s you, idiot! Mysubconsciousrollshereyesatme. I am tempted to ring hisPAAndreabutdecidethat’sastep too far. Reluctantly Icontinuemywork.

Myphoneringsunexpectedlyand my heart jumps.Christian!Butno—it’sKate,mybestfriendfinally!

“Ana!” she shouts fromwhereversheis.

“Kate! Are you back?I’vemissedyou.”

“Me,too.Ihavesomuchto tellyou.We’reatSea-Tac—me and my man.” Shegiggles in a most un-Kate-likeway.

“Cool.Ihavesomuchtotellyou,too.”

“See you back at theapartment?”

“I’m having drinks withJosé.Joinus.”

“José’s in town? Sure!Textmewhere.”

“Okay.” Ibeam.Mybestfriend is home.After all thistime!

“Yougood,Ana?”“Yeah,I’mfine.”

“StillwithChristian?”“Yes.”“Good.Laters!”Oh, not her as well.

Elliot’s influence knows nobounds.

“Yeah—laters, baby.” Igrinandshehangsup.

Wow.Kateishome.HowamIgoingto tellherall thathashappened?Ishouldwriteit down so I don’t forgetanything.

An hour later my officephone rings—Christian? No,it’sClaire.

“You should see the guyasking for you in reception.How come you know allthesehotguys,Ana?”

José must be here. Iglance at the clock—it’s fivefifty-five,andasmallthrillofexcitement pulses throughme. I haven’t seen him inages.

“Ana, wow! You lookgreat.Sogrownup.”Hegrinsatme.

JustbecauseI’mwearingasmartdress...jeez!

He hugs me hard. “Andtall,” he mutters inamazement.

“It’s just the shoes, José.You don’t look so badyourself.”

He’s wearing jeans, ablackT-shirt,andablackand

whitecheckflannelshirt.“I’ll grab my things and

wecango.”“Cool.I’llwaithere.”

I pick up twoRollingRocksfrom the crowded bar andhead over to the table whereJoséisseated.

“You found Christian’splaceokay?”

“Yeah. I haven’t beeninside. I just delivered thephotostotheserviceelevator.SomeguynamedTaylortookthem up. Looks like quite aplace.”

“It is. You should seeinside.”

“Can’t wait. Salud, Ana.Seattleagreeswithyou.”

I flush as we clinkbottles. It’s Christian thatagrees with me. “Salud. Tell

meaboutyourshowandhowitwent.”

He beams and launchesintothestory.Hesoldallbutthreeofhisphotos,whichhastakencareofhisstudentloansand left him some cash tospare.

“And I’ve beencommissioned to do somelandscapes for the PortlandTourist Authority. Prettycool, huh?” he finishes

proudly.“Oh José—that’s

wonderful. Not interferingwith your studies though?” Ifrownathim.

“Nah.Nowthatyouguyshave gone and three of theguysIusedtohangoutwith,Ihavemoretime.”

“Nohotbabetokeepyoubusy? Last time I saw you,youhadhalfadozenwomenhangingonyoureveryword.”

Iarchaneyebrowathim.“Nah,Ana.Noneofthem

are woman enough for me.”He’sallbravado.

“Oh sure. JoséRodriguez, lady killer.” Igiggle.

“Hey—I have mymoments, Steele.” He looksvaguely hurt, and I amchastened.

“Sure you do.” I mollifyhim.

“So, how’s Grey?” heasks, his tone changing,becomingcooler.

“He’s good. We’regood,”Imurmur.

“Serious,yousay?”“Yes.Serious.”“He’s not too old for

you?”“Oh José. You know

what my mom says—I wasbornold.”

José’s mouth twists

wryly.“How is your mom?”

And like that, we are out ofthedangerzone.

“Ana!”I turn and there’s Kate

with Ethan. She looksgorgeous: sun-kissed,bleached strawberry-blondhair,goldentan,andbeamingwhitesmile,andsoshapelyinher white cami and tightwhite jeans. All eyes are on

Kate. I leapup frommyseatto give her a hug. Oh howI’vemissedthiswoman!

She pushes me awayfrom her and holds me atarm’s length, examining meclosely. I flush under herintensegaze.

“You’ve lost weight. Alot of weight. And you lookdifferent. Grown up. What’sbeengoingon?”shesays,allmother hen, concerned and

bossy. “I like your dress.Suitsyou.”

“A lot’s happened sinceyou went away. I’ll tell youlater when we’re on ourown.” I amnot ready for theKatherine KavanaghInquisition just yet. Sheregardsmesuspiciously.

“You’re okay?” she asksgently.

“Yes,”Ismile,thoughI’dbe happier knowing where

Christianis.“Cool.”“Hi,Ethan.”Igrinathim,

andhegivesmeaquickhug.“Hi,Ana,”hewhispersin

myear.Joséfrownsathim.“How was lunch with

Mia?”IaskEthan.“Interesting,” he says

cryptically.Oh?“Ethan—you know

José?”“We’ve met once,” José

mutters, assessing Ethan astheyshakehands.

“Yeah,atKate’splace inVancouver,” Ethan says,smiling pleasantly at José.“Right—who’sforadrink?”

I make my way to therestrooms.While there I text

Christian our location;perhaps he’ll join us. Therearenomissedcalls fromhimand no e-mails. This is notlikehim.

“Whassup, Ana?” Joséasks as I come back to thetable.

“Ican’treachChristian.Ihopehe’sokay.”

“He’ll be fine. Likeanotherbeer?”

“Sure.”

Kateleansacross.“Ethansays some mad stalker ex-girlfriend was in theapartmentwithagun?”

“Well... yeah.” I shrugapologetically. Oh jeez—dowehavetodothisnow?

“Ana—what the hell’sbeen going on?” Kate stopsabruptly and checks herphone.

“Hi, baby,” she sayswhen she answers it. Baby!

She frowns and looks atme.“Sure,” she says and turns tome.“It’sElliot...hewants totalktoyou.”

“Ana.” Elliot’s voice isclipped and quiet, and myscalppricklesominously.

“What’swrong?”“It’s Christian. He’s not

backfromPortland.”“What? What do you

mean?”“His helicopter has gone

missing.”“Charlie Tango?” I

whisper as all the breathleavesmybody.“No!”

I stare at the flames,mesmerized.They dance and

weave bright blazing orangewithtipsofcobaltblueinthefireplace in Christian’sapartment. And despite theheat pumping out of the fireand the blanket drapedaround my shoulders, I’mcold.Bone-chillinglycold.

I’m aware of hushedvoices, many hushed voices.But they’re in thebackground, a distant buzz. Idon’t hear the words. All I

canhear,allIcanfocuson,isthe soft hiss of the gas fromthefire.

My thoughts turn to thehouse we saw yesterday andthe huge fireplaces—realfireplaces for burning wood.I’d like to make love withChristian in front of a realfire. I’d like to make lovewithChristianinfrontofthisfire. Yes, that would be fun.Nodoubt,he’dthinkofsome

way to make it memorablelikeallthetimeswe’vemadelove.Isnortwrylytomyself,eventhetimeswhenwewerejust fucking.Yes, thosewereprettymemorable,too.Whereishe?

The flames shimmy andflicker, holding me captive,keeping me numb. I focussolely on their flaring,scorching beauty. They arebewitching.

Anastasia, you’vebewitchedme.

Hesaidthatthefirsttimehe slept with me inmy bed.Ohno...

I wrap my arms aroundmyself, and the world fallsaway from me and realitybleedsintomyconsciousness.The creeping emptinessinside expands some more.CharlieTangoismissing.

“Ana. Here,” Mrs. Jones

gently coaxes me, her voicebringing me back into theroom, into the now, into theanguish.Shehandsmeacupof tea. I take the cup andsaucer gratefully, the rattlebetrayingmyshakinghands.

“Thank you,” I whisper,myvoicehoarsefromunshedtears and the large lump inmythroat.

Mia sits across from meon the larger-than-large U-

shaped couch, holding handswithGrace.Theygazeatme,pain and anxiety etched ontheir lovely faces. Gracelooks older—a motherworried for her son. I blinkdispassionately at them. Ican’tofferareassuringsmile,a tear even—there’s nothing,just blankness and thegrowing emptiness. I gaze atElliot, José, and Ethan, whostand around the breakfast

bar, all serious faces, talkingquietly.Discussingsomethingin soft subdued voices.Behind them, Mrs. Jonesbusiesherselfinthekitchen.

Kate is in the TV room,monitoring the local news. Ihear the faint squawk fromthe big plasma TV. I can’tbear to see the news itemagain—christiangreymissing—hisbeautifulfaceonTV.

Idly, it occurs tome that

I’ve never seen so manypeople in this room, yet theyare still dwarfed by its sheersize. Little islands of lost,anxious people inmy Fifty’shome. What would he thinkaboutthembeinghere?

Somewhere, Taylor andCarrick are talking to theauthorities who are drip-feeding us information, butit’s allmeaningless. The factis—he’s missing. He’s been

missing for eight hours. Nosign,noword fromhim.Thesearch has been called off—thismuchIdoknow.It’sjusttoodark.Andwedon’tknowwhereheis.Hecouldbehurt,hungry,orworse.No!

I offer another silentprayer to God. Please letChristian be okay. Please letChristianbeokay. I repeat itover and over in my head—my mantra, my lifeline,

something concrete to clingtoinmydesperation.Irefuseto think theworst.No, don’tgothere.Thereishope.

“You’remylifeline.”Christian’s words come

back to hauntme.Yes, thereis always hope. I must notdespair. His words echothroughmymind.

“I’mnowafirmadvocateofinstantgratification.Carpediem,Ana.”

Why didn’t I seize theday?

“I’m doing this becauseI’ve finally met someone Iwant to spend the rest ofmylifewith.”

I closemy eyes in silentprayer, rocking gently.Please, let the restofhis lifenot be this short. Please,please. We haven’t hadenough time...weneedmoretime.We’vedonesomuchin

the last few weeks, come sofar. It can’t end. All ourtendermoments: the lipstick,whenhemadelovetomeforthe first time at the Olympichotel,onhiskneesinfrontofme offering himself to me,finallytouchinghim.

“Iamjustthesame,Ana.I love you and I need you.Touchme.Please.”

Oh, I love him so. Iwillbe nothing without him,

nothingbutashadow—allthelight eclipsed. No, no, no...mypoorChristian.

“This is me, Ana. All ofme...andI’mallyours.Whatdo I have to do tomake yourealizethat?TomakeyouseethatIwantyouanywayIcangetyou.ThatIloveyou.”

And I you, my FiftyShades.

Iopenmyeyesandgazeunseeing into the fire once

more, memories of our timetogether flitting through mymind:hisboyishjoywhenwewere sailing and gliding; hissuave, sophisticated, hot-as-hell look at themasked ball;dancing,ohyes,dancingherein the apartment to Sinatra,whirling round the room; hisquiet,anxioushopeyesterdayat the house—that stunningview.

“I will lay my world at

your feet, Anastasia. I wantyou,bodyandsoul,forever.”

Oh, please, let him beokay.Hecannotbegone.Heisthecenterofmyuniverse.

An involuntary sobescapes my throat, and Iclutchmyhandtomymouth.No.Imustbestrong.

José is suddenly at myside, or has he been there awhile?Ihavenoidea.

“Doyouwanttocallyour

momordad?”heasksgently.No!Ishakemyheadand

clutch José’s hand. I cannotspeak, I know Iwill dissolveif I do, but the warmth andgentle squeeze of his handoffersmenosolace.

Oh, Mom. My liptremblesatthethoughtofmymother. Should I call her?No. I couldn’t deal with herreaction. Maybe Ray, hewouldn’t get emotional—he

never gets emotional, notevenwhentheMarinerslose.

Grace rises to join theboys, distracting me. Thatmust be the longest she’s satstill.Mia comes to sit besideme too and grabs my otherhand.

“Hewillcomeback,”shesays, her voice initiallydetermined but cracking onthe last word. Her eyes arewide and red-rimmed, her

face pale and pinched fromlackofsleep.

IgazeupatEthan,whoiswatchingMiaandElliot,whohas his arms aroundGrace. Iglance at the clock. It’s aftereleven, heading towardmidnight. Damn time! Witheach passing hour, theclawing emptiness expands,consumingme,chokingme.Iknowdeepdown inside Iampreparing myself, preparing

myself for the worst. I closemyeyesandofferupanothersilent prayer, clasping bothMiaandJosé’shands.

Opening them again, Istare into the flames oncemore.Icanseehisshysmile—my favorite of all hisexpressions, a glimpseof thereal Christian, my realChristian. He is so manypeople: control freak, CEO,stalker, sex god, Dom—and

atthesametime—suchaboywithhistoys.Ismile.Hiscar,his boat, his plane... CharlieTango... no... no... my lostboy, truly lost rightnow.Mysmile fades and pain lancesthroughme. I remember himin the shower, wiping awaythelipstickmarks.

“I’m nothing, Anastasia.I’ma husk of aman. I don’thaveaheart.”

The lump in my throat

expands. Oh, Christian, youdo, you do have a heart, andit’smine.Iwant tocherishitforever. Even though he’s socomplex and difficult, I lovehim. I will always love him.There will never be anyoneelse.Ever.

I remember sitting inStarbucks weighing up myChristian pros and cons. Allthose cons, even thosephotographs I found this

morning, melt intoinsignificance now. There’sjust him and whether he’llcomeback.Oh please, Lord,bring him back, please lethim be okay. I’ll go tochurch...I’lldoanything.Oh,ifIgethimback,Ishallseizethe day. His voice echoesaround my head oncemore:“Carpediem,Ana.”

I gaze deeper into thefire, the flames still licking

and curling around eachother, blazing brightly. ThenGraceshrieks,andeverythinggoesintoslowmotion.

“Christian!”Iturnmyheadintimeto

seeGracebarrelingacrossthegreat room from where shehad been pacing somewherebehind me, and there in theentrance stands a dismayedChristian.He’sdressedinjusthisshirtsleevesandsuitpants,

and he’s holding his navyjacket, shoes, and socks. Helooks tired, dirty, and utterlybeautiful.

Holy fuck... Christian.He’s alive. I gaze numbly athim,tryingtoworkoutifI’mhallucinatingor ifhe’s reallyhere.

His expression is one ofutter bewilderment. Hedeposits his jacket and shoeson the floor in time to catch

Grace, who throws her armsaround his neck and kisseshimhardonthecheek.

“Mom?”Christian gazes down at

her,completelyataloss.“I thought I’d never see

you again,” Grace whispers,voicingourcollectivefear.

“Mom, I’m here.” I heartheconsternationinhisvoice.

“Idiedathousanddeathstoday,” she whispers, her

voicebarelyaudible,echoingmy thoughts. She gasps andsobs, no longer able to holdback her tears. Christianfrowns,horrifiedormortified—I don’t knowwhich—thenafterabeat,envelopsherinahugehug,holdingherclose.

“Oh, Christian,” shechokes, wrapping her armsaroundhim,weeping intohisneck—all self-restraintforgotten—and Christian

doesn’t balk. He just holdsher, rocking to and fro,comforting her. Scaldingtearspoolinmyeyes.Carrickhollersfromthehallway.

“He’salive!Shit—you’rehere!” He appears fromTaylor’s office, clutching hiscell phone, and embracesbothof them,hiseyesclosedinsweetrelief.

“Dad?”Mia squeals something

unintelligiblefrombesideme,then she’s up, running,joining her parents, huggingallofthem,too.

Finally the tears start tocascade down my cheeks.He’s here, he’s fine. But Icannotmove.

Carrickisthefirsttopullaway, wiping his eyes andclapping Christian on theshoulder. Mia releases themandGracestepsback.

“Sorry,”shemumbles.“Hey, Mom—it’s okay,”

Christian says, consternationstillevidentonhisface.

“Where were you?Whathappened?” Grace cries andputsherheadinherhands.

“Mom,” Christianmutters.Hedrawsherintohisarmsagainandkissesthetopof her head. “I’m here. I’mgood.It’sjusttakenmeahellof a long time to get back

from Portland. What’s withthe welcoming committee?”He looks up and scans theroomuntilhiseyeslockwithmine.

He blinks and glancesbrieflyatJosé,wholetsgoofmy hand. Christian’s mouthtightens. I drink in the sightof him and relief coursesthrough me, leaving mespent, exhausted, andcompletely elated. Yet my

tears don’t stop. Christianturnshisattentionbacktohismother.

“Mom,I’mgood.What’swrong?” Christian saysreassuringly. She places herhands on either side of hisface.

“Christian, you’ve beenmissing. Your flight plan—younevermade it toSeattle.Whydidn’tyoucontactus?”

Christian’s eyebrows

shootupinsurprise.“Ididn’tthinkitwouldtakethislong.”

“Whydidn’tyoucall?”“Nopowerinmycell.”“You didn’t stop... call

collect?”“Mom—it’s a long

story.”“Oh, Christian! Don’t

youeverdothattomeagain!Doyouunderstand?”shehalfshoutsathim.

“Yes, Mom.” He wipes

hertearsawaywithhisthumband hugs her once more.When she composes herself,he releases her to hug Mia,who slaps him hard on thechest.

“Youhadussoworried!”sheblurtsout,andshe,too,isintears.

“I’m here now, forheaven’s sake,” Christianmutters.

AsElliot comes forward,

Christian relinquishesMia toCarrick,whoalreadyhasonearmaroundhiswife.Hecurlstheotheraroundhisdaughter.Elliot hugs Christian briefly,much to Christian’s surprise,and slaps him hard on theback.

“Greattoseeyou.”Elliotsaysloudly,ifalittlegruffly,tryingtohidehisemotion.

Asthetearsstreamdownmy face, I can see it all.The

great room is bathed in it—unconditional love.He has itin spades; he’s just neveraccepted it before, and evennowhe’satatotalloss.

Look,Christian,all thesepeople love you! Perhapsnowyou’llstartbelievingit.

Kate is standing behindme—she must have left theTV room—and she gentlystrokesmyhair.

“He’s really here, Ana,”

shemurmurscomfortingly.“I’m going to say hi to

my girl now,” Christian tellshis parents. Both nod, smile,andstepaside.

He moves toward me,gray eyes bright thoughweary and still bemused.Fromsomewheredeepinside,I find the strength to staggerto my feet and bolt into hisopenarms.

“Christian!”Isob.

“Hush,” he says andholdsme,buryinghisfaceinmyhairandinhalingdeeply.Iraise my tear-stained face tohis, and he kissesme far toobriefly.

“Hi,”hemurmurs.“Hi,” Iwhisperback, the

lumpinthebackofmythroatburning.

“Missme?”“Abit.”He grins. “I can tell.”

And with a gentle touch ofhis hand, he wipes away thetears that refuse to stoprunningdownmycheeks.

“Ithought...I thought—”Ichoke.

“I can see. Hush... I’mhere. I’m sorry. Later,” hemurmurs and kisses mechastelyagain.

“Are you okay?” I ask,releasing him and touchinghis chest, his arms, hiswaist

—oh, the feel of this warm,vital,sensualmanbeneathmyfingers—reassures me thathe’shere,standinginfrontofme.He’sback.Hedoesn’tsomuch as flinch. He justregardsmeintently.

“I’mokay.I’mnotgoinganywhere.”

“Oh, thankGod,” I clasphim round his waist again,and he hugs me once more.“Are you hungry? Do you

needsomethingtodrink?”“Yes.”I step back to fetch him

something, but hedoesn’t letmego.Hetucksmeunderhisarm and extends a hand toJosé.

“Mr. Grey,” says Joséevenly.

Christian snorts.“Christian,please,”hesays.

“Christian, welcomeback.Gladyou’reokay...and

um—thanks for letting mestay.”

“No problem.” Christiannarrows his eyes, but he’sdistractedbyMrs.Jones,whoissuddenlyathisside.Itonlyoccurs to me now that she’snot her usual smart self. Ihadn’t noticed it before. Herhairisloose,andshe’sinsoftgrayleggingsandalargegraysweatshirtthatdwarfsherwithWSU Cougars emblazoned

on the front. She looks yearsyounger.

“Can I get yousomething, Mr. Grey?” Shewipeshereyeswithatissue.

Christiansmilesfondlyather. “A beer, please, Gail—Budvar—andabitetoeat.”

“I’ll fetch it,” I murmur,wanting to do something formyman.

“No. Don’t go,” he sayssoftly, tightening his arm

aroundme.The rest of his family

close in, andEthan andKatejoin us. He shakes Ethan’shand and gives Kate a quickpeckonthecheek.Mrs.Jonesreturns with a bottle of beerand a glass. He takes thebottle but shakes his head atthe glass. She smiles andreturnstothekitchen.

“Surprised you don’twant something stronger,”

mutters Elliot. “So what thefuckhappenedtoyou?FirstIknew was when Dad calledme to say the chopper wasmissing.”

“Elliot!”Gracescolds.“Helicopter,” Christian

growls,correctingElliot,whogrins, and I suspect this is afamilyjoke.

“Let’s sit and I’ll tellyou.”Christianpullsmeoverto the couch, and everyone

sits down, all eyes onChristian. He takes a longdraft of his beer. He spiesTaylor hovering at theentrance and nods. Taylornodsback.

“Yourdaughter?”“She’s fine now. False

alarm,sir.”“Good.”Christiansmiles.Daughter? What

happened to Taylor’sdaughter?

“Glad you’re back, sir.Willthatbeall?”

“Wehave a helicopter tocollect.”

Taylor nods. “Now? Orwillthemorningdo?”

“Morning, I think,Taylor.”

“Very good, Mr. Grey.Anythingelse,sir?”

Christianshakeshisheadand raises his bottle to him.Taylorgiveshimararesmile

—rarer than Christian’s, Ithink—and heads outpresumablytohisofficeoruptohisroom.

“Christian, whathappened?”Carrickdemands.

Christian launches intohis story.Hewas flyingwithRos, his number two inCharlieTango to dealwith afunding issue at WSU inVancouver.Icanbarelykeepup I’m so dazed. I just hold

Christian’s hand and stare athismanicuredfingernails,hislong fingers, the creases onhis knuckles, his wristwatch—anOmegawiththreesmalldials. I gaze up at hisbeautiful profile as hecontinueshistale.

“Ros had never seenMount St. Helens, so on thewaybackasacelebration,wetook a quick detour. I heardthe TFR was lifted a while

back and I wanted to take alook.Well, it’s fortunate thatwedid.Wewere flying low,abouttwohundredfeetAGL,when the instrumentpanel litup.Wehadafireinthetail—Ihadnochoicebut tocutallthe electronics and land.”Heshakes his head. “I set herdownbySilverLake,gotRosout, and managed to put thefireout.”

“A fire? Both engines?”

Carrickishorrified.“Yep.”“Shit!ButIthought.”“I know,” Christian

interrupts him. “It was sheerluckIwasflyingsolow,”hemurmurs. I shudder. Hereleasesmyhandandputshisarmaroundme.

“Cold?” he asks me. Ishakemyhead.

“Howdidyouputoutthefire?” asks Kate, her Carla

Bernsteininstinctskickingin.Jeez, she sounds tersesometimes.

“Extinguisher. We haveto carry them—by law.”Christiananswerslevelly.

Hiswords from longagocircle my mind. “I thankdivine providence every daythat it was you that came tointerview me and notKatherineKavanagh.”

“Why didn’t you call or

usetheradio?”Graceasks.Christianshakeshishead.

“With theelectronicsout,wehad no radio. And I wasn’tgoingtoriskturningthemonbecauseof the fire.GPSwasstill working on theBlackberry, so I was able tonavigate to the nearest road.Took us four hours to walkthere. Ros was in heels.”Christian’s mouth pressesintoadisapprovingflatline.

“We had no cellreception. There’s nocoverage at Gifford. Ros’sbattery died first.Mine driedupontheway.”

Holy hell. I tense andChristian pulls me into hislap.

“Sohowdidyougetbackto Seattle?” Grace asks,blinking slightly at the sightof the two of us, no doubt. Iflush.

“We hitched and pooledour resources. Between us,Ros and I had six hundreddollars, andwe thoughtwe’dhave to bribe someone todrive us back, but a truckdriver stopped and agreed tobringushome.Herefusedthemoney and shared his lunchwithus.”Christianshakeshishead in dismay at thememory. “Took forever. Hedidn’thaveacell—weird,but

true. I didn’t realize.” Hestops,gazingathisfamily.

“That we’d worry?”Grace scoffs. “Oh,Christian!” she scolds him.“We’vebeengoingoutofourminds!”

“You’ve made the news,bro.”

Christian rolls his eyes.“Yeah. I figured that muchwhen I arrived to thisreception and the handful of

photographers outside. I’msorry, Mom—I should haveasked the driver to stop so Icould phone. But I wasanxious to be back.” HeglancesatJosé.

Oh, that’s why, becauseJosé is staying here. I frownat the thought. Jeez—all thatworry.

Grace shakes her head.“I’mjustgladyou’reback inonepiece,darling.”

Istarttorelax,restingmyhead against his chest. Hesmells outdoorsy, slightlysweaty, of body wash, andChristian, the most welcomescentintheworld.Tearsstartto trickle down my faceagain,tearsofgratitude.

“Both engines?” Carricksays again, frowning indisbelief.

“Go figure.” Christianshrugs and runs his hand

downmyback.“Hey,” he whispers. He

puts his fingers under mychin and tilts my head back.“Stopwiththecrying.”

I wipemy nose with theback of my hand in a mostunladylike way. “Stop withthedisappearing.” I sniff andhislipsquirkup.

“Electricalfailure...that’sodd, surely?” Carrick saysagain.

“Yes, crossed my mind,too, Dad. But right now, I’djust like to go to bed andthink about all that shittomorrow.”

“So themedia know thatthe Christian Grey has beenfound safe and well?” Katesays.

“Yes.AndreaandmyPRpeople will deal with themedia. Ros called her afterwedroppedherhome.”

“Yes, Andrea called metoletmeknowyouwerestillalive.”Carrickgrins.

“Imust give thatwomana raise. Sure is late,” saysChristian.

“I think that’s a hint,ladiesandgentlemen,thatmydear bro needs his beautysleep,” Elliot scoffssuggestively. Christiangrimacesathim.

“Cary, my son is safe.

Youcantakemehomenow.”Cary? Grace looks

adoringlyatherhusband.“Yes. I think we could

usethesleep,”Carrickrepliessmilingdownather.

“Stay,”Christianoffers.“No, sweetheart, I want

togethome.NowthatIknowyou’resafe.”

Christian reluctantlyeasesmeonto the couch andstands.Grace hugs him once

more, presses her headagainst his chest and closesher eyes, content. He wrapshisarmsaroundher.

“I was so worried,darling,”shewhispers.

“I’mokay,Mom.”She leans back and

studies him intentlywhile heholds her. “Yes. I think youare,”shesaysslowly,glancesatme,andsmiles.Iflush.

We follow Carrick and

Graceastheymaketheirwayto the foyer.Behindme, I’mawarethatMiaandEthanarehaving a heated whisperedconversation,but Ican’thearit.

Mia is smiling shyly atEthan,andhe’sgapingatherand shaking his head.Suddenly, she folds her armsandturnsonherheel.Herubshis forehead with one hand,obviouslyfrustrated.

“Mom, Dad—wait forme,” Mia calls sullenly.Perhapsshe’sasmercurialasherbrother.

Katehugsmehard.“Icantell some serious shit’s beengoing down while I’ve beenblissfully ignorant inBarbados. It’s kind ofobvious you two are nutsabout each other. I’m gladhe’s safe. Not just for him,Ana—foryou,too.”

“Thank you, Kate,” Iwhisper.

“Yeah. Who knew we’dfind love at the same time?”She grins. Wow. She’sadmittedit.

“Withbrothers!”Igiggle.“Wecouldendupsisters-

in-law,”shequips.I tense, then mentally

kick myself as Kate standsback to gaze at me withherwhat-aren’t-you-telling-

me-Steele look. I flush.Damn, should I tell her he’saskedme?

“Come on, baby,” Elliotsummons her from theelevator.

“Let’s talk tomorrow,Ana. You must beexhausted.”

I am reprieved. “Sure.You, too, Kate—you’vetraveledlongdistancetoday.”

We hug oncemore, then

she and Elliot follow theGreysintotheelevator.Ethanshakes Christian’s hand andgives me a quick hug. Helooks distracted, but hefollowsthemintotheelevatorandthedoorsclose.

José is hovering in thehallway as we come out ofthefoyer.

“Look.I’llturnin...leaveyouguys,”hesays.

I blush. Jeez,why is this

awkward?“Do you know where to

go?”Christianasks.Josénods.“Yeah, the housekeeper

—”“Mrs.Jones,”Iprompt.“Yeah, Mrs. Jones, she

showed me earlier. Quite aplace you have here,Christian.”

“Thank you,” Christiansays politely as he comes to

stand beside me, placing hisarm around my shoulders.Leaning over, he kisses myhair.

“I’m going to eatwhateverMrs. Jones has putoutforme.Goodnight,José.”Christian wanders back intothe great room, leaving Joséandmeattheentrance.

Wow! Left alone withJosé.

“Well, goodnight.” José

looks uncomfortable all of asudden.

“Goodnight, José, andthankyouforstaying.”

“Sure, Ana. Any timeyour rich, hotshot boyfriendgoesmissing—I’llbethere.”

“José!”Iadmonishhim.“Onlykidding.Don’tget

mad. I’ll be leaving early inthe morning—I’ll see yousometime, yeah? I’vemissedyou.”

“Sure,José.SoonIhope.Sorry tonight was so...shitty.” I smirkapologetically.

“Yeah.” He grins.“Shitty.” He hugs me.“Seriously, Ana, I’m gladyou’rehappy,butI’mhereifyouneedme.”

Igazeupathim.“Thankyou.”

He flashes me a sad,bittersweetsmile,andthenhe

goesupstairs.I turn back to the great

room.Christianstandsbesidethe couch,watchingmewithan unreadable expression onhis face.We’re finally aloneandwegazeateachother.

“He’sstillgotitbad,youknow,”hemurmurs.

“And how would youknowthat,Mr.Grey?”

“I recognize thesymptoms, Miss Steele. I

believe I have the sameaffliction.”

“I thought I’d never seeyou again,” I whisper. There—the words are out. All myworst fears packaged neatlyin one short sentence nowexorcised.

“It wasn’t as bad as itsounds.”

I pick up his suit jacketandshoesfromwheretheylieonthefloorandmovetoward

him.“I’ll take that,” he

whispers, reaching for hisjacket.

Christian gazes down atme as if I’m his reason forliving and mirrors my look,I’m sure. He is here, reallyhere. He pulls me into hisarms and wraps himselfaroundme.

“Christian,” I gasp, andmytearsstartanew.

“Hush,” he soothes,kissingmyhair.“Youknow...in the few seconds of sheerterrorbefore I landed,allmythoughtswereofyou.You’remytalisman,Ana.”

“IthoughtI’dlostyou,”Ibreathe. We stand, holdingeach other, reconnecting andreassuring each other. As Itightenmyarms aroundhim,I realize I’m still holding hisshoes. I drop them noisily to

thefloor.“Come and shower with

me,”hemurmurs.“Okay.” I glance up at

him. I don’t want to let go.Reaching down he tilts mychinupwithhisfingers.

“You know even tear-stained, you are beautiful,Ana Steele.” He leans downand kisses me gently. “Andyour lips are so soft.” Hekissesmeagain,deepeningit.

Oh my... and to think, Icould have lost... no... I stopthinking and surrendermyself.

“I need to putmy jacketdown,”hemurmurs.

“Drop it,” I murmuragainsthislips.

“Ican’t.”I leanback togazeupat

him,puzzled.Hesmirksatme.“Thisis

why.”From the insidebreast

pockethepullsout the smallbox I gave him, containingmy present. He slings thejacket over the back of thecouch and places the box ontop.

Seize the day, Ana, mysubconsciousprodsme.Well,it’s after midnight, sotechnicallyit’shisbirthday.

“Open it,” Iwhisper,andmyheartstartspounding.

“I was hoping you’d say

that,” hemurmurs. “This hasbeendrivingmecrazy.”

I grin impishly at him.Jeez, I feel giddy. He givesme his shy smile, and Imeltdespite my thumping heart,delighting in his amused yetintrigued expression. Withdeft longfingers,heunwrapsandopens the box.His browcreases as he fishes out asmall, rectangular, plastickeychain bearing a picture

made up of tiny pixels thatflashonandoff likeanLEDscreen. It depicts the Seattleskyline, focusing on theSpace Needle, with thewordSEATTLE writtenboldly across the landscape,flashingonandoff.

He stares at it for amomentandthengazesatmebemused,afrownmarringhislovelybrow.

“Turnitover,”Iwhisper,

holdingmybreath.He does, and his eyes

shoottomine,wideandgray,alive with wonder and joy.Hislipspartindisbelief.

The wordyes flashes onandoffonthekeyring.

“Happy birthday,” Iwhisper.

“You’ll marry me?” hewhispers,incredulous.

Inodnervously, flushingand anxious and not quitebelieving his reaction—thismanwhomIthoughtI’dlost.HowcouldhenotunderstandhowmuchIlovehim?

“Sayit,”heorderssoftly,hisgazeintenseandhot.

“Yes,I’llmarryyou.”He inhales sharply and

movessuddenly,grabbingmeand swinging me round in amost un-Fiftylike manner.

He’s laughing, young andcarefree, radiating joyfulelation. I grab his arms tohold on, feeling his musclesripple beneath my fingers,and his infectious laughtersweeps me up—dizzy,addled, a girl totally andutterly smitten with herbeautiful man. He puts medown and kisses me. Hard.His hands are on either sideof my face, his tongue

insistent, persuasive...arousing.

“Oh, Ana,” he breathesagainst my lips, and it’s anexultation that leaves mereeling.Helovesme,ofthatIhavenodoubt,andIsavorthetaste of this delicious man,this man I thought I mightnever see again. His joy isevident—hiseyesshining,hisyouthfulsmile—andhisreliefisalmostpalpable.

“IthoughtI’dlostyou,”Imurmur, still dazzled andbreathlessfromhiskiss.

“Baby, it will take morethan amalfunctioning 135 tokeepmeawayfromyou.”

“135?”“Charlie Tango. She’s a

Eurocopter 135, the safest initsclass.”Someunnamedbutdarkemotioncrosseshisfacebriefly, distracting me.Whatisn’t he saying?Before I can

ask him, he stills and looksdown at me, frowning, andfor a moment I think he’sgoing to tell me. I blink upintohisspeculativegrayeyes.

“Wait a minute. Yougave this to me before wesawFlynn,” he says, holdingup the keychain. He looksalmosthorrified.

Oh dear, where’s hegoing with this? I nod,keepingastraightface.

Hismouthdropsopen.I shrug apologetically. “I

wanted you to know thatwhatever Flynn said, itwouldn’tmakeadifferencetome.”

Christian blinks atme indisbelief. “So all yesterdayevening,whenIwasbeggingyou for an answer, I had italready?” He’s dismayed. Inod again, trying desperatelyto gauge his reaction. He

gazes at me in stupefiedwonder,but thennarrowshiseyes and his mouth twistswithamusedirony.

“All that worry,” hewhispersominously. Igrinathim and shrug once more.“Oh, don’t try and get cutewith me, Miss Steele. Rightnow, I want...” He runs hishand through his hair, thenshakes his head and changestack.

“I can’t believe you leftme hanging.” His whisper islaced with disbelief. Hisexpression alters subtly, hiseyes gleaming wickedly, hismouthtwitchingintoacarnalsmile.

Holy hell. A thrill runsthrough me. What’s hethinking?

“I believe someretribution is in order, MissSteele,”hesayssoftly.

Retribution? Oh shit! Iknow he’s playing—but Itake a cautious step backfromhimanyway.

He grins. “Is that thegame?” he whispers.“Because I will catch you.”And his eyes burn with abrightplayfulintensity.“Andyou’re biting your lip,” hesaysthreateningly.

All ofmy insides tightenat once. Oh my. My future

husbandwantstoplay.Itakeanother step back, then turntorun—butinvain.Christiangrabs me, and in one easyswoop while I squeal withdelight, surprise, and shock.He hoists me over hisshoulderandheadsdown thehall.

“Christian!” I hiss,mindful that José is upstairs,thoughwhetherhecouldhearusisdoubtful.Isteadymyself

by clasping his lower back,then on a brave impulse, Iswathisbehind.Heswatsmerightback.

“Ow!”Iyelp.“Shower time,” he

declarestriumphantly.“Putmedown!”Itryand

fail to sound disapproving.My struggle is futile—hisarm is firmly clamped overmy thighs—and for somereasonIcannotstopgiggling.

“Fondoftheseshoes?”heasks amused as he opens thedoortohisbathroom.

“I prefer them to betouching thefloor.” Iattemptto snarl at him, but it’s notveryeffectiveas Ican’tkeepthelaughteroutofmyvoice.

“Your wish is mycommand, Miss Steele.”Withoutputtingmedown,heslipsoffbothofmyshoesandlets them clatter to the tile

floor. Pausing by the vanity,heemptieshispockets—deadBlackberry, keys, wallet, thekeychain. I canonly imaginewhatIlooklikeinthemirrorfrom this angle. When he’sfinished, he marches directlyintohisoverlargeshower.

“Christian!” I scoldloudly—his intent is nowclear.

Heswitches thewateronat max. Jeez! Arctic water

spurtsovermybackside, andI squeal—then stop, mindfuloncemore that José is aboveus. It’s cold and I’m fullyclothed. The chilling watersoaks into my dress, mypanties, and my bra. I’mdrenched and I cannot stopgiggling.

“No!” I squeal. “Put medown!” I swat him again,harder this time, andChristian releasesme, letting

me slide down his nowsoaked body. His white shirtis stuck to his chest and hissuit pants are sodden. I amsoaked, too, flushed, giddyand breathless, and he’sgrinningdownatme,lookingso...sounbelievablyhot.

He sobers, his eyesshining, and cups my faceagain,drawingmylipstohis.Hiskissisgentle,cherishing,and totally distracting. I no

longer care that I am fullyclothed and soaking wet inChristian’s shower. It’s justthe two of us beneath thecascading water. He’s back,he’ssafe,he’smine.

My hands moveinvoluntarily tohis shirt as itclingstoeverylineandsinewofhischest,revealingthehairscrunched beneath the whitewetness.Iyanktheshirthemout of his pants, and he

groansagainstmymouth,buthislipsdonotleavemine.AsI unbutton his shirt, hereachesformyzipper,slowlysliding the clasp down mydress. His lips become moreinsistent, more provocative,his tongue invading mymouth—and my bodyexplodeswithdesire.Itughisshirt hard, ripping it open.The buttons fly everywhere,ricocheting off the tiles and

disappearingonto the showerfloor. As I strip the wetmaterialoffhisshouldersanddown his arms, I press himinto the wall, hampering hisattempts to undress me.“Cufflinks,” he murmurs,holding up his wrists wherehis shirt hangs sodden andlimp.

With scrambling fingers,Ireleasefirstoneandthentheother cuff, letting his gold

cufflinksfallcarelesslytothetiled floor and his shirtfollows.Hiseyessearchminethrough the cascading water,his gaze burning, carnal,heated like thewater. I reachforthewaistbandofhispants,but he shakes his head andgrabsmyshoulders, spinningme round so I am facingaway from him. He finishesthe long journey south withmy zipper, smoothesmywet

hairawayfrommyneck,andrunshistongueupmynecktomy hairline and back again,kissing and sucking as hegoes.

I moan and slowly hepeels my dress off myshoulders and down past mybreasts, kissing my neckbeneathmy ear.He unclaspsmy bra and pushes it offmyshoulders,freeingmybreasts.His hands reach around and

cup each one as hemurmurshisappreciationinmyear.

“So beautiful,” hewhispers.

My arms are trapped bymybraanddress,whichhangunfastenedbelowmybreasts,my arms still in the sleevesbutmy hands are free. I rollmy head, giving Christianbetter access tomyneckandpush my breasts into hismagical hands. I reach round

behind me and welcome hissharp intake of breath asmyinquisitive fingers makecontactwith his erection.Hepushes his groin into mywelcoming hands. Dammit,whydidn’theletmetakehispantsoff?

He tugs on my nipples,andastheyhardenandstretchunder his expert touch, allthoughts of his pantsdisappearandpleasurespikes

sharp and libidinous in mybelly. I lean my head backagainsthimandgroan.

“Yes,” he breathes andturns me once more,capturingmymouthwithhis.He peels my bra, dress andpantiesdownsotheyjoinhisshirt in a soggy heap on theshowerfloor.

I grab the body washbeside us. Christian stills asherealizeswhatIamaboutto

do.Staringhimstraightintheeye, I squirt some of thesweet-smelling gel into mypalmandholdmyhandupinfrontofhischest,waitingforan answer to my unspokenquestion. His eyes widen,then he gives me an almostimperceptiblenod.

Gently I place my handon his sternum and start torubthesoapintohisskin.Hischest rises as he inhales

sharply, but he stands stock-still. After a beat, his handsclaspmyhips,buthedoesn’tpush me away. He watchesme warily, his look intensemorethanscared,buthislipsare parted as his breathingincreases.

“Isthisokay?”Iwhisper.“Yes.”His short, breathy

reply is almost a gasp. I amreminded of the manyshowers we’ve had together,

but theoneat theOlympicisa bittersweet memory. Well,now I can touchhim. Iwashhim using gentle circles,cleaningmyman,moving tohis underarms, over his ribs,down his flat firm belly,toward his happy trail, andthewaistbandofhispants.

“My turn,” he whispersandreachesfor theshampoo,shiftingusoutofrangeofthestreamofwaterandsquirting

some on to the top of myhead.

I think this is my cue tostopwashing him, so I hookmyfingersintohiswaistband.He works the shampoo intomyhair,hisfirm,longfingersmassaging my scalp.Groaning in appreciation, Iclose my eyes and givemyself over to the heavenlysensation.After all the stressof the evening, this is just

whatIneed.He chuckles and I open

one eye to find him smilingdownatme.“Youlike?”

“Hmm...”He grins. “Me, too,” he

says and leans over to kissmy forehead, his fingerscontinuing their sweet, firmkneadingofmyscalp.

“Turn round,” he saysauthoritatively. I do as I’mtold, and his fingers slowly

work over my head,cleansing,relaxing,lovingmeas they go. Oh, this is bliss.Hereachesformoreshampooand gently washes the longtressesdownmyback.Whenhe’s finished, he pulls mebackundertheshower.

“Lean your head back,”heordersquietly.

I willingly comply, andhe carefully rinses out thesuds.Whenhe’sdone, I face

him once more and make abeelineforhispants.

“I want to wash all ofyou,”

Iwhisper.Hesmiles thatlopsided smile and lifts hishands in a gesture that says“I’mall yours, baby.” I grin;itfeelslikeChristmas.Imakeshortworkofhis zipper, andsoonhispantsandboxersjointhe rest of our clothing. Istand and reach for the body

wash and the freshwatersponge.

“Looks like you’repleasedtoseeme,”Imurmurdryly.

“I’m always pleased tosee you, Miss Steele.” Hesmirksatme.

I soap the sponge, thenretrace my journey over hischest. He’s more relaxed—maybe because I’m notactually touchinghim. Ihead

southwiththesponge,acrosshis belly, along the happytrail, through his pubic hair,andoveranduphiserection.

I peek up at him, and heregardsmewithhoodedeyesandsensuallonging.Hmm...Ilike this look. I drop thesponge and use my hands,grasping him firmly. Hecloses his eyes, tips his headback, and groans, thrustinghishipsintomyhands.

Oh yes! It’s so arousing.My inner goddess hasresurfaced after her eveningofrockingandweepinginthecorner, and she’s wearingharlot-redlipstick.

His burning eyessuddenly lock with mine.He’srememberedsomething.

“It’s Saturday,” heexclaims, eyes alight withsalacious wonder, and hegrasps my waist, pulling me

to him and kissing mesavagely.

Whoa—changeofpace!His hands sweep down

myslick,wetbody, round tomysex,hisfingersexploring,teasing, and his mouth isrelentless, leaving mebreathless. His other hand isinmywethair,holdingmeinplace while I bear the fullforce of his passionunleashed. His fingers move

insideme.“Ahh,” I moan into his

mouth.“Yes,”hehissesand lifts

me, his hands beneath mybackside. “Wrap your legsaround me, baby.” My legsfold around him, and I clinglike a limpet to his neck.Hebracesmeagainst thewallofthe shower and pauses,gazingdownatme.

“Eyes open,” he

murmurs.“Iwanttoseeyou.”I blink up at him, my

heart hammering, my bloodpulsing hot and heavythroughmybody,desire,realand rampant surging throughme. Then he eases into meoh-so-slowly, filling me,claiming me, skin againstskin.Ipushdownagainsthimand groan loudly.Once fullyinside me, he pauses oncemore, his face strained,

intense.“You are mine,

Anastasia,”hewhispers.“Always.”He smiles victoriously

andshifts,makingmegasp.“And now we can let

everyone know, because yousaid yes.” His voice isreverential, and he leansdown, capturing my mouthwithhis,andstartstomove...slow and sweet. I close my

eyesandtiltmyheadbackasmy body bows, my willsubmittingtohis,slavetohisintoxicatingslowrhythm.

His teeth graze my jaw,my chin, and downmy neckas he picks up the pace,pushing me onward, upward—away from this earthlyplane, the teeming shower,the evening’s chilling fright.It’s just me and my manmoving inunison,movingas

one—each completelyabsorbed in the other—ourgasps and grunts mingling. Irevel in the exquisite feelingofhispossessionasmybodyblooms and flowers aroundhim.

I could have lost him...andIlovehim...Ilovehimsomuch, and I’m suddenlyovercomeby theenormityofmyloveand thedepthofmycommitment to him. I will

spend the rest of my lifelovingthisman,andwiththatawe-inspiring thought, Idetonate around him—ahealing, cathartic orgasm,crying out his name as tearsflowdownmycheeks.

He reaches his climaxand pours himself into me.With his face buried in myneck, he sinks to the floor,holding me tightly, kissingmy face, and kissing away

my tears as the warm waterspills down around us,washingusclean.

“My fingers are pruny,” Imurmur, postcoital and satedasIleanagainsthischest.Heraises my fingers to his lipsandkisseseachinturn.

“Weshouldreallygetoutofthisshower.”

“I’m comfortable here.”I’m sitting between his legsand he’s holdingme close. Idon’twanttomove.

Christian murmurs hisassent. But suddenly I’mbone tired, world-weary. Somuch has happened this lastweek—enough for a lifetimeof drama—and now I’mgettingmarried. Adisbelieving giggle escapesmylips.

“Somethingamusingyou,MissSteele?”heasksfondly.

“It’sbeenabusyweek.”Hegrins.“Thatithas.”“IthankGodyou’reback

in one piece, Mr. Grey,” Iwhisper, sobering at thethought of what might havebeen. He tenses and Iimmediatelyregretremindinghim.

“I was scared,” heconfesses much to my

surprise.“Earlier?”He nods, his expression

serious.Holy shit. “So youmade

light of it to reassure yourfamily?”

“Yes. I was too low toland well. But somehow Idid.”

Crap.My eyes sweep uptohis, andhe looksgrave asthe water cascades over us.

“Howcloseacallwasit?”Hegazesdownatme.

“Close,” he pauses. “Fora few awful seconds, Ithought I’d never see youagain.”

Ihughimtightly.“Ican’timaginemy lifewithoutyou,Christian.Iloveyousomuchitfrightensme.”

“Me, too,” he breathes.“My life would be emptywithout you. I love you so

much.” His arms tightenaroundmeandhenuzzlesmyhair. “I won’t ever let yougo.”

“I don’t want to go,ever.” Ikisshisneck,andheleans down and kisses megently.

Afteramoment,heshifts.“Come—let’sgetyoudryandinto bed. I’m exhausted andyoulookbeat.”

I lean back and arch an

eyebrow at his choice ofwords. He cocks his head toonesideandsmirksatme.

“You have something tosay,MissSteele?”

I shake my head andclamber unsteadily to myfeet.

I am sitting up in bed.Christian insisted on drying

myhair—he’squiteskilledatit. How that happened is anunpleasant thought, so Idismiss it immediately. It’saftertwointhemorning,andIamreadytosleep.Christiangazes down at me andreexamines the keychainbefore climbing into bed.Heshakes his head, incredulousoncemore.

“Thisissoneat.Thebestbirthday present I’ve ever

had.” He glances at me, hiseyes soft and warm. “Betterthan my signed GuiseppeDeNataleposter.”

“I would have told youearlier, but as it was yourbirthday...What do you givethemanwhohaseverything?IthoughtI’dgiveyou...me.”

He puts the keychaindown on the bedside tableand snuggles in beside me,pulling me into his arms

againsthischestsothatwe’respooning.

“It’sperfect.Likeyou.”I smirk, though he can’t

seemy expression. “I am farfromperfect,Christian.”

“Areyousmirkingatme,MissSteele?”

How does he know?“Maybe.”Igiggle.“CanIaskyousomething?

“Of course,” he nuzzlesmyneck.

“You didn’t call on yourtripback fromPortland.Wasthat really because of José?You were worried about mebeingherealonewithhim?”

Christian says nothing. Iturntofacehim,andhiseyesarewideasIreproachhim.

“Do you know howridiculousthatis?Howmuchstress you put your familyandme through?Weall loveyouverymuch.”

He blinks a couple oftimes and then gives me hisshy smile. “I had no ideayou’dallbesoworried.”

I purse my lips. “Whenare you going to get itthrough your thick skull thatyouareloved?”

“Thick skull?” Hiseyebrowswideninsurprise.

Inod.“Yes.Thickskull.”“I don’t think the bone

density of my head is

significantly higher thananywhereelseinmybody.”

“I’m serious! Stop tryingtomakemelaugh.Iamstillalittle mad at you, thoughthat’spartiallyeclipsedbythefact that you’re home safeand soundwhen I thought...”My voice fades as I recallthose anxious few hours.“Well, you know what Ithought.”

His eyes soften and he

reachesuptocaressmyface.“I’msorry.Okay.”

“Your poormom, too. Itwasverymoving,seeingyouwithher,”Iwhisper.

He smiles shyly. “I’venever seenher thatway.”Heblinks at the memory. “Yes,that was really something.She’s normally so self-possessed. It was quite ashock.”

“See? Everyone loves

you.” I smile. “Perhaps nowyou’ll start believing it.” Ilean down and kiss himgently.

“Happy birthday,Christian. I’m glad you’rehere to share your day withme. And you haven’t seenwhat I’ve got for youtomorrow um... today.” Ismirk.

“There’smore?”hesays,astounded,andhisfaceerupts

intoabreathtakinggrin.“Oh yes, Mr. Grey, but

you’ll have to wait untilthen.”

I wake suddenly from adream or nightmare, and mypulse is thumping. I turn,panicked, and to my relief,Christianisfastasleepbesideme. Because I’ve shifted, he

stirs and reaches out in hissleep, draping his arm overme,andrestshisheadonmyshoulder,sighingsoftly.

Theroomisfloodedwithlight. It’s eight o’clock.Christian never sleeps thislate. I lie back and let myracing heart calm. Why theanxiety?Isittheaftermathoflastnight?

I turn and stare at him.He’shere.He’ssafe.I takea

deep steadying breath andgazeathislovelyface.Afacethatisnowsofamiliar,allitsdips and shadows eternallyetchedonmymind.

He looks much youngerwhen he’s asleep, and I grinbecause today he’s a wholeyear older. I hug myself,thinking about my present.Oooh... what will he do?Perhaps I should start bybringinghimbreakfastinbed.

Besides, José may still behere.

IfindJoséatthecounter,eating a bowl of cereal. Ican’t help but flush when Iseehim.HeknowsI’vespentthenightwithChristian.WhydoIsuddenlyfeelsoshy?It’snot as if I’m naked oranything. I’m wearing mysilkfloor-lengthwrap.

“Morning,José,” Ismile,brazeningitout.

“Hey, Ana!” His facelights up, genuinely pleasedtoseeme.There’snohintofteasingorsalaciouscontemptinhisexpression.

“Sleepwell?”Iask.“Sure. Some view from

uphere.”“Yeah. It’s pretty

special.” Like the owner ofthis apartment. “Want a realman’sbreakfast?”Itease.

“Lovesome.”

“It’s Christian’s birthdaytoday—I’m making himbreakfastinbed.”

“Heawake?”“No, I think he’s fried

from yesterday.” I quicklyglance away from him andheadtothefridgesohecan’tsee my blush. Jeez, it’s onlyJosé. When I take the eggsand bacon out of the fridge,Joséisgrinningatme.

“You really like him,

don’tyou?”I purse my lips. “I love

him,José.”His eyes widen

momentarily then he grins.“What’snottolove?”heasksgesturing round the greatroom.

I scowl at him. “Gee,thanks!”

“Hey,Ana,justkidding.”Hmm... will I always

havethisleveledatme?That

I’m marrying Christian forhismoney?

“Seriously, I’m kidding.You’ve never been that kindofgirl.”

“Omeletgoodforyou?”Iask, changing the subject. Idon’twanttoargue.

“Sure.”“Andme,”Christiansays

as he saunters into the greatroom. Holy fuck, he’swearingonlypajamabottoms

that hang in that totally hotwayoffhiships—Jeez!

“José.”Henods.“Christian.” José returns

hisnodsolemnly.Christianturnstomeand

smirks as I stare. He’s donethisonpurpose. Inarrowmyeyes at him, desperatelytrying to recover myequilibrium, and Christian’sexpression alters subtly. Heknows that Iknowwhathe’s

upto,andhedoesn’tcare.“Iwasgoingtobringyou

breakfastinbed.”Swaggering over, he

wraps his arm around me,tiltsmychinup,andplantsaloud wet kiss on my lips.VeryunFifty!

“Good morning,Anastasia,”hesays.Iwanttoscowl at him and tell him tobehave—butit’shisbirthday.I flush. Why is he so

territorial?“Good morning,

Christian.Happy birthday.” Igive him a smile, and hesmirksatme.

“I’m looking forward tomy other present,” he saysandthat’sit.IflushthecoloroftheRedRoomofPainandglancenervouslyatJosé,wholooks like he’s swallowedsomething unpleasant. I turnaway and start preparing the

food.“So what are your plans

today, José?” Christian asks,seemingly casual as he sitsdownonabarstool.

“I’m heading up to seemydadandRay,Ana’sdad.”

Christianfrowns.“Theyknoweachother?”“Yeah, they were in the

army together. They lostcontact untilAna and Iwereincollegetogether.It’skinda

cute. They’re best buds now.We’re going on a fishingtrip.”

“Fishing?” Christian isgenuinelyinterested.

“Yeah—some greatcatches in these coastalwaters. The steelheads cangrowwaybig.”

“True. My brother Elliotand I landed a thirty-fourpoundsteelheadonce.”

They’re talkingfishing?

What is it about fishing? Ihaveneverunderstoodit.

“Thirty-fourpounds?Notbad. Ana’s father though, heholds the record. A forty-threepounder.”

“You’re kidding! Heneversaid.”

“Happy birthday, by theway.”

“Thanks. So, where doyouliketofish?”

I zone out.This I do not

needtoknow.Butatthesametime I’m relieved. See,Christian?José’snotsobad.

By the time José makes toleave,bothofthemaremuchmorerelaxedwitheachother.Christian quickly changesinto T-shirt and jeans andbarefootheaccompaniesJoséandmetothefoyer.

“Thanks for letting mecrash here,” José says toChristianastheyshakehands.

“Anytime,” Christiansmiles.

José hugs me quickly.“Staysafe,Ana.”

“Sure. Great to see you.Nexttimewe’llhaveapropereveningout.”

“I’llholdyoutothat.”Hewaves at us from inside theelevator,andthenhe’sgone.

“See,he’snotsobad.”“He still wants into your

panties,Ana.But can’t say Iblamehim.”

“Christian, that’s nottrue!”

“You have no idea, doyou?”Hesmirksdownatme.“Hewantsyou.Bigtime.”

I frown. “Christian, he’sjust a friend, a good friend.”AndI’msuddenlyaware thatI sound like Christian when

he’s talking about Mrs.Robinson. The thought isunsettling.

Christian holds up hishandsinaplacatinggesture.

“Idon’twanttofight,”hesayssoftly.

Oh! We’re not fighting...arewe?“Meneither.”

“You didn’t tell him weweregettingmarried.”

“No. I figured I ought totellMomandRayfirst.”Shit.

It’sthefirsttimeI’vethoughtabout this since I said yes.Jeez—what are my parentsgoingtosay?

Christian nods. “Yes,you’re right. And I... um, Ishouldaskyourfather.”

I laugh.“Oh,Christian—this isn’t the eighteenthcentury.”

Holy shit.What will Raysay? The thought of thatconversation fills me with

horror.“It’s traditional.”

Christianshrugs.“Let’s talk about that

later.Iwanttogiveyouyourother present.”My aim is todistract him. The thought ofmy present is burning a holein my consciousness. I needtogiveittohimandseehowhereacts.

He gives me his shysmile, and my heart skips a

beat.ForaslongasIlive,I’llnever tire of looking at thatsmile.

“You’re biting your lip,”hesaysandpullsonmychin.

A thrill runs throughmybodyashisfingerstouchme.Without a word, andwhile Istill have a modicum ofcourage, I take his hand andlead him back to thebedroom. I drop his hand,leaving him standing by the

bed, and fromundermy sideofthebed,I takeoutthetworemaininggiftboxes.

“Two?” he says,surprised.

I take a deep breath. “Ibought this before the, um...incident yesterday. I’m notsure about it now.” I quicklyhand him one of the parcelsbeforeIcanchangemymind.He gazes at me, puzzled,sensingmyuncertainty.

“Sure you want me toopenit?”

Inod,anxious.Christian tears off the

packaging and gazes insurpriseatthebox.

“Charlie Tango,” Iwhisper.

He grins. The boxcontains a small woodenhelicopterwithalarge,solar-powered rotor blade. Heopensitup.

“Solar powered,” hemurmurs. “Wow.” Andbefore I know it he’s sittingon the bed assembling it. Itsnaps together quickly, andChristian holds it up in thepalm of his hand. A bluewooden helicopter. He looksup at me and gives me hisglorious, all-American-boysmile, then heads to thewindow so that the littlehelicopter is bathed in

sunlightandtherotorstartstospin.

“Look at that,” hebreathes, examining itclosely. “What we canalready do with thistechnology.” He holds it ateyelevel,watchingthebladesspin. He’s fascinated andfascinating to watch as heloses himself in thought,staringat thelittlehelicopter.Whatishethinking?

“Youlikeit?”“Ana, I love it. Thank

you.”Hegrabsmeandkissesmeswiftly,thenturnsbacktowatchtherotorspin.“I’lladdit to theglider inmyoffice,”hesaysdistractedly,watchingtheblade spin.Hemoveshishandout of the sunlight, andthe blade slows down andcomestoastop.

I can’t help my face-splitting grin, and I want to

hug myself. He loves it. Ofcourse, he’s all aboutalternative technologies. I’dforgotten that inmy haste tobuyit.Placingitonthechestof drawers, he turns to faceme.

“It’ll keep me companywhile we salvage CharlieTango.”

“Isitsalvageable?”“Idon’tknow.Ihopeso.

I’llmissher,otherwise.”

Her? I am shocked atmyself for the small pang ofjealousy I feel for aninanimate object. Mysubconscious snorts withderisory laughter. I ignoreher.

“What’s in the otherbox?” he asks, his eyeswidewith almost childishexcitement.

Holy fuck. “I’m not sureif this present is for you or

me.”“Really?” he asks, and I

know I have piqued hisinterest. Nervously I handhim the second box. Heshakes it gently andwe bothhear a heavy rattle. Heglancesupatme.

“Why are you sonervous?” he asks, bemused.I shrug, embarrassed andexcited as I flush. He raisesaneyebrowatme.

“You have me intrigued,Miss Steele,” he whispers,and his voice runs rightthrough me, desire andanticipation spawning in mybelly. “I have to say I’menjoyingyour reaction.Whathave you been up to?” Henarrows his eyesspeculatively.

I remain tight-lipped as Iholdmybreath.

Heremovesthelidofthe

box and takes out a smallcard.Therestof thecontentsare wrapped in tissue. Heopens the card, and his eyesdart quickly to mine—widening with shock orsurprise.Ijustdon’tknow.

“Dorudethingstoyou?”he murmurs. I nod andswallow. He cocks his headto one side warily, assessingmy reaction, and frowns.Then turnshisattentionback

to the box. He tears throughthepale-bluetissuepaperandfishesoutaneyemask,somenippleclamps,abuttplug,hisiPod,hissilver-gray tie—andlast but by nomeans least—thekeytohisplayroom.

He gazes at me, hisexpression dark, unreadable.Ohshit.Isthisabadmove?

“You want to play?” heaskssoftly.

“Yes,”Ibreathe.

“Formybirthday?”“Yes.” Could my voice

soundanysmaller?A myriad of emotions

crosshisface,noneofwhichIcanplace,buthesettles foranxious.Hmm...NotquitethereactionIwasexpecting.

“You’resure?”heasks.“Not the whips and

stuff.”“Iunderstandthat.”“Yes,then.I’msure.”

He shakes his head andgazesdownatthecontentsofthe box. “Sex mad andinsatiable. Well, I think wecan do something with thislot,” he murmurs almost tohimself, then puts thecontents back in the box.Whenheglancesatmeagain,hisexpressionhascompletelychanged. Holy cow, his grayeyesburn,andhismouthliftsin a slow erotic smile. He

holdsouthishand.“Now,” he says, and it’s

not a request. My bellyclenches, tight and hard,deep,deepdown.

Iputmyhandinhis.“Come,”heorders, and I

follow him out of thebedroom, my heart in mymouth.Desireracesslickandhot throughmy blood asmyinsides tighten with hungryanticipation. My inner

goddess somersaults roundherchaiselongue.Finally!

Christian pauses outside theplayroom.

“You’resureaboutthis?”he asks, his gaze heated yetanxious.

“Yes,”Imurmur,smilingshylyathim.

His eyes soften.“Anythingyoudon’twant todo?”

I’m derailed by hisunexpected question, andmymind goes into overdrive.One thought occurs. “I don’twant you to take photos of

me.”He stills, and his

expression hardens as hecocks his head to one sideandeyesmespeculatively.

Oh shit. I think he’sgoing to ask me why, butfortunatelyhedoesn’t.

“Okay,”hemurmurs.Hisbrow furrows as he unlocksthedoor, thenstandsasidetoushermeintotheroom.Ifeelhiseyesonmeashe follows

meinsideandclosesthedoor.Placing the gift box on

thechestofdrawers,hetakesout the iPod, switches it on,then waves at the musiccenteron thewallso that thesmoked glass doors glidesilently open. He pressessome buttons, and after amoment, the sound of asubway train echoes roundtheroom.Heturnsitdownsothat the slow, hypnotic

electronic beat that followsbecomes ambient. A womanstarts to sing, I don’t knowwho she is but her voice issoft yet rasping and the beatis measured, deliberate...erotic. Oh my. It’s music tomakeloveto.

ChristianturnstofacemeasIstandinthemiddleoftheroom,myheartpounding,myblood singing in my veins,pulsing—or so it feels—in

time to themusic’sseductivebeat. He saunters casuallyover to me and tugs on mychin so I’m no longer bitingmylip.

“Whatdoyouwanttodo,Anastasia?” he murmurs,planting a soft chaste kiss atthe corner of my mouth, hisfingersstillgraspingmychin.

“It’s your birthday.Whatever you want,” Iwhisper.He traceshis thumb

alongmy lower lip,hisbrowcreasedoncemore.

“Are we in here becauseyou think I want to be inhere?” His words are softlyspoken, but he regards meintently.

“No,” Iwhisper. “Iwanttobeinhere,too.”

His gaze darkens,growingbolderasheassessesmy response. After whatseemsaneternity,hespeaks.

“Oh, there are so manypossibilities, Miss Steele.”His voice is low, excited.“But let’s start with gettingyounaked.”Hepullsthesashof my robe so that it fallsopen, revealing my silknightdress, then steps backand sits nonchalantly downonthearmofthechesterfieldcouch.

“Take your clothes off.Slowly.” He gives me a

sensual,challenginglook.I swallow compulsively,

pressing my thighs together.I’m already damp betweenmylegs.Myinnergoddessisstripped naked and standinginline,readyandwaitingandbeggingme toplaycatch-up.Ipulltherobeawayfrommyshoulders, my eyes neverleavinghis,andshrug,lettingit fall billowing to the floor.His mesmerizing gray eyes

heat, and he runs his indexfinger over his lips as hegazesatme.

Slipping the spaghettistraps of my gown off myshoulders,Igazeathimforabeat, then release them. Mynightdress skims and ripplessoftlydownmybody,poolingat my feet. I am naked andpracticallypantingandoh-so-ready.

Christian pauses for a

moment, and Imarvel at thefranklycarnalappreciation inhis expression. Standing up,hemakeshiswayovertothechestandpicksuphissilver-gray tie—my favorite tie.Hepulls it throughhisfingersashe turns and strolls casuallytoward me, a smile playingonhislips.Whenhestandsinfront of me, I expect him toask for my hands, but hedoesn’t.

“I think you’reunderdressed, Miss Steele,”hemurmurs.Heplacesthetiearound my neck, and slowlybutdexterouslytiesitinwhatI assume is a fine Windsorknot.Ashetightenstheknot,his fingers brush the base ofmy throat and electricityshoots through me, makingme gasp.He leaves thewideend of the tie long, longenough so the tip skims my

pubichair.“You look mighty fine

now, Miss Steele,” he saysand bends to kiss me gentlyonmy lips. It’s a swift kiss,and I want more, desirespiraling wantonly throughmybody.

“What shall we do withyounow?”he says, and thenpicking up the tie, he yankssharply so that I’m forcedforward into his arms. His

hands dive into my hair andpull my head back, and hereally kisses me, hard, histongue unforgiving andmerciless. One of his handsroams freely down my backto cup my behind. When hepulls away, he’s panting tooand gazing down at me, hiseyesmoltengray;andI’mleftwanting, gasping for breath,mywitsthoroughlyscattered.I’m sure my lips will be

swollen after his sensualassault.

“Turn around,” he ordersgentlyandIobey.Pullingmyhairfreeofthetie,hequicklybraidsandsecuresit.Hetugsthebraidsomyheadtiltsup.

“Youhavebeautifulhair,Anastasia,” he murmurs andkisses my throat, sendingshivers runningupanddownmy spine. “You just have tosay stop. You know that,

don’t you?” he whispersagainstmythroat.

I nod, my eyes closed,and relishhis lipsonme.Heturns me round once moreand picks up the end of thetie.

“Come,”hesays,tugginggently,leadingmeovertothechest where the rest of thebox’scontentsareondisplay.

“Anastasia, theseobjects.”Heholdsupthebutt

plug. “This is a size too big.As an anal virgin, you don’twant to start with this. Wewant to start with this.” Heholdsuphispinkyfinger,andI gasp, shocked. Fingers...there? He smirks atme, andtheunpleasant thoughtof theanal fistingmentioned in thecontractcomestomind.

“Just finger—singular,”he says softly with thatuncannyabilityhehastoread

mymind.Myeyesdarttohis.Howdoeshedothat?

“These clamps arevicious.”Heprods thenippleclamps.“We’llusethese.”Heplaces a different pair ofclamps on the chest. Theylooklikegiantblackhairpins,but with little jet jewelshanging down. “They’readjustable,” Christianmurmurs,hisvoicelacedwithgentleconcern.

I blink up at him, wide-eyed. Christian, my sexualmentor. He knows so muchmoreaboutall this thanIdo.I’ll never catch up. I frown.He knows more than meabout most things... exceptcooking.

“Clear?”heasks.“Yes,” I whisper, my

mouthdry.“Areyougoingtotell me what you intend todo?”

“No. I’mmaking this upas I go along. This isn’t ascene,Ana.”

“HowshouldIbehave?”His brow creases.

“Howeveryouwantto.”Oh!“Were you expectingmy

alter ego, Anastasia?” heasks, his tone vaguelymocking and bemused atonce.Iblinkathim.

“Well,yes. I likehim,” I

murmur. He smiles hisprivate smile and reaches upto run his thumb down mycheek.

“Do you now,” hebreathes and runs his thumbacross my lower lip. “I’myour lover, Anastasia, notyourDom.Ilovetohearyourlaughandyourgirlishgiggle.Ilikeyourelaxedandhappy,likeyouareinJosé’sphotos.That’s the girl that fell into

my office. That’s the girl Ifellinlovewith.”

Holy cow. My mouthdrops open, and a welcomewarmth blooms in my heart.It’sjoy—purejoy.

“Buthaving saidall that,Ialsoliketodorudethingstoyou, Miss Steele; and myalter ego knows a trick ortwo.So,doasyou’retoldandturn around.” His eyes glintwickedly, and the joymoves

sharply south, seizing metightly and gripping everysinewbelowmywaist.IdoasI’m told. Behind me, heopensoneofthedrawersanda moment later he’s in frontofmeagain.

“Come,” he orders andtugsonthetie,leadingmetothetable.Aswewalkpastthecouch, I notice for the firsttime that all the canes havevanished. It distracts me.

Were they there yesterdaywhen I came in? I don’tremember. Did Christianmove them? Mrs. Jones?Christian interrupts my trainofthought.

“I want you to kneel upon this,”he sayswhenwe’reatthetable.

Oh, okay. What does hehave in mind? My innergoddesscan’twaittofindout—she’s already scissor-

kicked onto the table and iswatchinghimwithadoration.

He gently lifts me ontothe table, and I foldmy legsbeneathmeandkneelinfrontofhim,surprisedbymyowngrace.Nowweareeyetoeye.He runs his hands down mythighs, graspsmy knees, andpullsmylegsapartandstandsdirectly in front of me. Helooks very serious, his eyesdarker,hooded...lustful.

“Armsbehindyourback.I’mgoingtocuffyou.”

Heproducessomeleathercuffs from his back pocketand reaches aroundme. Thisisit.Where’shegoingtotakemethistime?

His proximity isintoxicating. This man isgoingtobemyhusband.Canone lust after one’s husbandlike this? I don’t rememberreading about that anywhere.

I can’t resist him, and I runmyparted lipsalonghis jaw,feeling the stubble, a headycombination of prickly andsoft, under my tongue. Hestillsandcloseshiseyes.Hisbreathing faltersandhepullsback.

“Stop. Or this will beoverfarquickerthaneitherofus wants,” he warns. For amoment, I think hemight beangrybutthenhesmiles,and

hisheatedeyesarealightwithamusement.

“You’re irresistible,” Ipout.

“Am I now?” he saysdryly.

Inod.“Well—don’tdistractme,

orI’llgagyou.”“I likedistractingyou,” I

whisper, looking mulishly athim, and he cocks hiseyebrowatme.

“Orspankyou.”Oh! I try to hide my

smile. There was a time, notvery longago,when Iwouldhave been subdued by thisthreat. I would never havehad the nerve to kiss him,unbidden, while he was inthis room. I realizenow, I’mnolongerintimidatedbyhim.It’s a revelation. I grinmischievously,andhesmirksatme.

“Behave,” he growls andstandsback,gazingatmeandslaps the leather cuffs acrosshispalm.And thewarning isthere,implicitinhisactions.Itry for contrite, and I think Isucceed. He approaches meagain.

“That’s better,” hebreathesandleansbehindmeonce more with the cuffs. Iresisttouchinghimbutinhalehis glorious Christian scent,

still fresh from last night’sshower. Hmm... I shouldbottlethis.

I expect him to cuff mywrists, but he attaches eachcuff above my elbows. Itmakes me arch my back,pushing my breasts forward,thoughmy elbows are by nomeans together. When he’sfinished, he stands back toadmireme.

“Feelokay?”heasks.It’s

not the most comfortable ofpositions, but I’m so wiredwithanticipationtoseewherehe’s going with this that Inod,weakwithwanting.

“Good.” He pulls themaskfromhisbackpocket.

“I think you’ve seenenough now,” he murmurs.He slides the mask over myhead, covering my eyes. Mybreathing spikes.Wow. Whyis not being able to see so

erotic? I am here, trussed upand kneeling on a table,waiting—sweet anticipationhot and heavy deep in mybelly.Icanstillhear,though,and the melodic steady beatof the track continues. Itresonates throughmybody. Ihadn’t noticed before. Hemusthaveitonrepeat.

Christian steps away.What ishedoing?Hemovesbacktothechestandopensa

drawer, then closes it again.A moment later he’s back,and I sense him in front ofme. There’s a pungent, rich,musky scent in the air. It’sdelicious,almost mouth-watering.

“I don’twant to ruinmyfavorite tie,” he murmurs. Itslowlyunravelsasheundoesit.

Iinhalesharplyasthetailofthetietravelsupmybody,

ticklingme in itswake.Ruinhis tie? I listen acutely todeterminewhathe’sgoing todo. He’s rubbing his handstogether. His knucklessuddenly brush over mycheek, down to my jawfollowingmyjawline.

My body leaps toattentionashis touchsendsadelicious shiver through me.His hand flexes over myneck, and it’s slick with

sweet-smelling oil so hishand glides smoothly downmythroat,acrossmyclavicle,and up to my shoulder, hisfingers kneading gently asthey go. Oh, I’m getting amassage. Not what Iexpected.

He places his other handon my other shoulder andbegins another slow teasingjourney acrossmy clavicle. Igroan softly as he works his

way down toward myincreasingly aching breasts,aching for his touch. It’stantalizing. I arch my bodyfurtherintohisdefttouch,buthis hands glide to my sides,slow,measured,intimetothebeat of the music, andstudiouslyavoidmybreasts.Igroan,butIdon’tknowifit’sfrompleasureorfrustration.

“You are so beautiful,Ana,” hemurmurs, his voice

low and husky, his mouthnext to my ear. His nosefollows along my jaw as hecontinues to massage me—beneath my breasts, acrossmy belly, down... He kissesmefleetinglyonmylips,thenhe runs his nose down myneck, my throat. Holy cow,I’monfire...hisnearness,hishands,hiswords.

“And soon you’ll be mywifetohaveandtohold,”he

whispers.Ohmy.“Toloveandtocherish.”Jeez.“With my body, I will

worshipyou.”I tip my head back and

moan.Hisfingersrunthroughmy pubic hair, over my sex,and he rubs the palm of hishandagainstmyclitoris.

“Mrs.Grey,”hewhispersashispalmworksagainstme.

Igroan.“Yes,”hebreathesashis

palm continues to tease me.“Openyourmouth.”

My mouth is alreadyopen from panting. I openwider, and he slips a largecoolmetalobjectbetweenmylips.Shapedlikeanoversizedbaby’s pacifier, it has smallgroovesorcarvings,andwhatfeels like a chain at the end.It’sbig.

“Suck,” he commandssoftly. “I’mgoing to put thisinsideyou.”

Inside me? Inside mewhere?Myheartlurchesintomymouth.

“Suck,”herepeatsandhestopspalmingme.

No.Don’tstop,Iwanttoshout, but my mouth is full.Hisoiledhandsglidebackupmy body and finally cupmyneglectedbreasts.

“Don’tstopsucking.”Gently he rolls my

nipples between his thumbsand forefingers, and theyhardenandlengthenunderhisexpert touch, sendingsynapticwavesofpleasureallthewaytomygroin.

“Youhavesuchbeautifulbreasts, Ana,” he murmursandmynippleshardenfurtherin response.Hemurmurs hisapprovalandImoan.Hislips

move down from my necktoward one breast, trailingsoftbitesandsucksoverandover,downtowardmynipple,andsuddenlyI feel thepinchoftheclamp.

“Ah!”I garble my groanthrough the device in mymouth.Holycow,thefeelingis exquisite, raw, painful,pleasurable... oh—the pinch.Gently, he laves therestrained nipple with his

tongue,andashedoesso,heapplies theother.Thebiteofthe second clamp is equallyharsh... but just as good. Igroanloudly.

“Feelit,”hewhispers.Oh,Ido.Ido.Ido.“Give me this.” He tugs

gently on the ornate metalpacifier in my mouth, and Irelease it. His hands oncemore trail down my body,towardmysex.He’s re-oiled

his hands.Theyglide aroundtomybackside.

I gasp. What’s he goingtodo?Itenseuponmykneesasherunshisfingersbetweenmybuttocks.

“Hush,easy,”hebreathesclosetomyearandkissesmyneckashisfingersstrokeandteaseme.

What’s he going to do?His other hand glides downmybelly tomy sex, palming

me once more. He eases hisfingersinsideme,andImoanloudly,appreciatively.

“I’m going to put thisinside you,” he murmurs.“Not here.” His fingers trailbetween my buttocks,spreadingoil.“Buthere.”Hemoves his fingers round andround, in and out, hitting thefront wall of my vagina. Imoan and my restrainednipplesswell.

“Ah.”“Hush now.” Christian

removeshisfingersandslidesthe object into me. He cupsmy face and kisses me, hismouth invading mine, and Ihear a very faint click.Instantly the plug inside mestartstovibrate—downthere!I gasp. The feeling isextraordinary—beyondanythingI’vefeltbefore.

“Ah!”

“Easy,” Christian calmsme,stiflingmygaspswithhismouth.Hishandsmovedownand tug very gently on theclamps.Icryoutloudly.

“Christian,please!”“Hush, baby. Hang in

there.”Thisistoomuch—allthis

overstimulation, everywhere.Mybody starts to climb, andon my knees, I’m unable tocontrol the buildup.Ohmy...

WillIbeabletohandlethis?“Goodgirl,”hesoothes.“Christian,” I pant,

sounding desperate even tomyownears.

“Hush,feelit,Ana.Don’tbeafraid.”Hishandsarenowonmywaist,holdingme,butI can’t concentrate on hishands,what’s insideme, andthe clamps, too. My body isbuilding, building to anexplosion—with the

relentless vibrations and thesweet, sweet torture of mynipples.Holy hell. It will betoo intense. His hands movefrom my hips, down andaround, slick and oiled,touching, feeling, kneadingmy skin—kneading mybehind.

“So beautiful,” hemurmurs and suddenly hegently pushes an anointedfinger insideme... there! Into

my backside. Fuck. It feelsalien, full, forbidden... butoh... so... good. And hemoves slowly, easing in andout,whilehis teethgrazemyupturnedchin.

“Sobeautiful,Ana.”I’m suspended high—

high above a wide, wideravine, and I’m soaring thenfalling giddily at the sametime,plunging to theEarth. Ican hold on no more, and I

screamasmybodyconvulsesand climaxes at theoverwhelming fullness. Asmy body explodes, I’mnothing but sensation—everywhere. Christianreleasesfirstoneandthentheother clamp, causing mynipplestosingwithasurgeofsweet, sweet painful feeling,but it’s oh-so-goodandcausing my orgasm, thisorgasm,togoonandon.His

fingerstayswhereitis,gentlyeasinginandout.

“Argh!” I cry out, andChristian wraps himselfaround me, holding me, asmy body continues to pulsemercilesslyinside.

“No!” I shout again,pleading, and this time hetugs the vibrator out of me,and his finger, too, as mybodycontinuestoconvulse.

He unstraps one of the

cuffs so that my arms fallforward.Myheadlollsonhisshoulder, and I am lost, lostto all this overwhelmingsensation. I’m all shatteredbreath, exhausted desire andsweet,welcomeoblivion.

Vaguely, I’m aware thatChristian liftsme, carriesmeover to the bed, and laysmedownonthecoolsatinsheets.After a moment, his hands,still oiled, gently rub the

backs of my thighs, myknees, my calves, and myshoulders. I feel the bed dipashestretchesoutbesideme.

Hepullsthemaskoff,butI don’t have the energy toopen my eyes. Finding mybraid he undoes the hair tieandleansforward,kissingmesoftly on my lips. Only myerratic breathing disturbs thesilence in the room andsteadiesasIfloatgentlyback

to Earth. The music hasstopped.

“So beautiful,” hemurmurs.

WhenIpersuadeoneeyetoopen,he’sgazingdownatme,smilingsoftly.

“Hi,”hesays.Imanageagrunt in response, and hissmile broadens. “Rudeenoughforyou?”

I nod and give him areluctantgrin.Jeez,anyruder

andI’dhavetospankthepairofus.

“I think you’re trying tokillme,”Imutter.

“Death by orgasm.” Hesmirks. “There are worsewaystogo,”hesaysbutthenfrowns ever so slightly as anunpleasant thought crosseshis mind. It distresses me. Ireachupandcaresshisface.

“Youcankillmelikethisanytime,” I whisper. I notice

thathe’sgloriouslynakedandready for action. When hetakesmyhandandkissesmyknuckles, I lean up andcapture his face between myhands and pull his mouth tomine. He kisses me briefly,thenstops.

“This is what I want todo,”hemurmursandreachesbeneath his pillow for themusic center remote. Hepresses a button and the soft

strainsofaguitarechoroundthewalls.

“I want to make love toyou,”hesaysgazingdownatme, his gray eyes burningwith bright, loving sincerity.Softly in background, afamiliar voice starts to sing“The First Time Ever I SawYourFace.”Andhislipsfindmine.

As I tighten around him,finding my release oncemore, Christian unravels inmy arms, his head thrownbackashecallsoutmyname.He clasps me tightly to hischestaswesitnosetonoseinthemiddleofhisvastbed,meastride him. And in thismoment—thismomentofjoywiththismantothismusic—the intensity of myexperience this morning in

herewithhimandallthathasoccurredduringthepastweekoverwhelms me anew, notjust physically butemotionally. Iamcompletelyovercome with all thesefeelings. I am so deeply,deeply in lovewith him. Forthe first time I’m offered aglimmer of understanding asto how he feels about mysafety.

Recalling his close call

with Charlie Tangoyesterday, I shudder at thethought and tearspool inmyeyes. If anything everhappenedtohim—Ilovehimso. My tears run uncheckeddown my cheeks. So manysidesofChristian—hissweet,gentle persona and hisrugged, I-can-do-what-I-fucking-well-like-to-you-and-you’ll-come-like-a-trainDominant side—his fifty

shades—all of him. Allspectacular. All mine. AndI’m aware we don’t knoweachotherwell,andwehavea mountain of issues toovercome, but I know foreach other, we will—andwe’llhavealifetimetodoit.

“Hey,” he breathes,clasping my head in hishands, gazing down at me.He’s still inside me. “Whyareyoucrying?”Hisvoiceis

filledwithconcern.“Because I love you so

much,” I whisper. He half-closeshiseyesas ifdrugged,absorbing my words. Whenhe opens them again, theyblazewithhislove.

“And I you, Ana. Youmakeme...whole.”Hekissesme gently as Roberta Flackfinisheshersong.

We have talked and talkedand talked, sitting uprighttogether on the bed in theplayroom,me in his lap, ourlegscurledaroundeachother.The red satin sheet is drapedarounduslikearoyalcocoon,andIhavenoideahowmuchtime has passed. Christian islaughingatmyimpersonationofKatherineduringthephotoshootattheHeathman.

“To think it could have

been her who came tointerviewme.ThanktheLordfor the common cold,” hemurmursandkissesmynose.

“I believe she had flu,Christian,” I scold him,trailing my fingers idlythrough his chest hair andmarveling thathe’s toleratingitsowell.“Allthecaneshavegone,” I murmur, recallingmy distraction from earlier.He tucksmy hair behindmy

earfortheumpteenthtime.“Ididn’tthinkyou’dever

getpastthathardlimit.”“No,Idon’tthinkIwill,”

I whisper wide-eyed at him,then find myself glancingover at the whips, paddlesand floggers lining theoppositewall.Hefollowsmygaze.

“Youwantme to get ridof them, too?” He’s amusedbutsincere.

“Not the crop... thebrown one. Or that suedeflogger,youknow.”Iflush.

Hesmilesdownatme.“Okay, the crop and the

flogger. Why, Miss Steele,you’refullofsurprises.”

“As are you, Mr. Grey.It’s one of the things I loveaboutyou.”Ikisshimgentlyatthecornerofhismouth.

“What else do you loveabout me?” he asks and his

eyeswiden.I know it’s a huge deal

forhimtoaskthisquestion.Ithumbles me and I blink athim. I love everything abouthim—evenhis fifty shades. Iknow that lifewithChristianwillneverbeboring.

“This.”Istrokemyindexfinger acrosshis lips. “I lovethis,andwhatcomesoutofit,andwhat you do tomewithit. And what’s in here.” I

caresshistemple.“You’resosmart and witty andknowledgeable, competent insomany things. Butmost ofall, I love what’s in here.” Ipressmypalmgentlyagainsthis chest, feeling his steady,beating heart. “You are themostcompassionatemanI’vemet.What you do.How youwork. It’s awe-inspiring,” Iwhisper.

“Awe-inspiring?” He’s

puzzled,butthere’satraceofhumor on his face. Then hisface transforms, and his shysmile appears as if he’sembarrassed, and I want tolaunchmyselfathim.SoIdo.

Iamdozing,wrappedinsatinand Grey. Christian nuzzlesmeawake.

“Hungry?”hewhispers

“Hmm,famished.”“Me,too.”Ileanuptogazedownat

himsprawledonthebed.“It’s your birthday, Mr.

Grey. I’ll cook yousomething. What would youlike?”

“Surprise me.” He runshis hand down my back,strokingmegently.“Ishouldcheck my Blackberry for allthe messages I missed

yesterday.” He sighs andstarts to sit up, and I knowthisspecial timeisover... fornow.

“Let’sshower,”hesays.Who am I to turn down

thebirthdayboy?

Christian is in his study onthephone.Tayloriswithhim,looking serious but casual in

jeans and a tight, black T-shirt. I busy myself in thekitchen fixing lunch. I havefound salmon steaks in thefridge, and I’m poachingthem with lemon, making asalad, andboiling somebabypotatoes. I feelextraordinarily relaxed andhappy,ontopof theworld—literally. Turning toward thelarge window, I stare out atthegloriousbluesky.Allthat

talking... all that sexing...hmm.Agirlcouldgetusedtothat.

Taylor emerges from thestudy, interrupting myreverie. I turndownmy iPodandtakeoutanearbud.

“Hi,Taylor.”“Ana.”Henods.“Yourdaughterokay?”“Yes,thanks.Myex-wife

thought she had appendicitis,but she was overreacting as

usual.” Taylor rolls his eyes,surprisingme.“Sophie’sfine,though she has a nastystomachbug.”

“I’msorry.”Hesmiles.“HasCharlieTangobeen

located?”“Yes. The recovery team

is on its way. She should beback at Boeing Field latetonight.”

“Oh,good.”

Hegivesmeatightsmile.“Willthatbeall,ma’am?”

“Yes, yes of course.” Iflush...willIevergetusedtoTaylor callingmema’am? Itmakesmefeelsoold,atleastthirty.

Henodsandheadsoutofthe great room. Christian isstill on the phone. I amwaiting for the potatoes toboil. It gives me an idea.Fetchingmypurse, I fishout

myBlackberry.There’satextfromKate.

*CUthisevening.Lookingforwardtoaloooooong

chat*

Itextback.

*Samehere*

Itwill be good to talk toKate.

Calling up the e-mailprogram, I type a quickmessagetoChristian.

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:LunchDate:June18,201113:12To:ChristianGrey

DearMr.Grey

Iame-mailingtoinformyouthatyourlunchisnearlyready.AndthatIhadsomemind-blowing,kinkyfuckeryearliertoday.Birthdaykinkyfuckeryistoberecommended.Andanotherthing—Iloveyou.Ax(Yourfiancée)

I listen carefully for areaction, but he’s still on the

phone. I shrug. Perhaps he’sjust toobusy.MyBlackberryvibrates.

From:ChristianGreySubject:KinkyFuckeryDate:June18,201113:15To:AnastasiaSteele

Whataspectwasmostmind-blowing?I’mtakingnotes.

ChristianGreyFamishedandWastingAwayAftertheMorningsExertionsCEO,GreyEnterprisesHoldingsInc.PS:IloveyoursignaturePPS:Whathappenedtotheartofconversation?

From:AnastasiaSteeleSubject:Famished?Date:June18,201113:18To:ChristianGrey

DearMr.GreyMayIdrawyourattentiontothefirstlineofmypreviouse-mailinformingyouthatyourlunchisindeedalmostready...sononeofthisfamishedandwastingawaynonsense.Withregardtothemind-blowingaspectsofthekinkyfuckery...frankly—allofit.I’dbeinterestedinreadingyournotes.AndIlikemybracketedsignature,too.Ax(Yourfiancée)PS:Sincewhenhaveyoubeensoloquacious?Andyou’reon

thephone!

Ipresssendandlookup,andhe’s standing in front ofme,smirking. Before I can sayanything, he bounds aroundthekitchenisland,sweepsmeupinhisarms,andkissesmesoundly.

“Thatisall,MissSteele,”hesays,releasingme,andhe

saunters—in his jeans, barefeet anduntuckedwhite shirt—back to his office, leavingmebreathless.

I’ve made a watercress,cilantro, and sour cream dipto accompany the salmon,andI’vesetthebreakfastbar.I hate interrupting himwhilehe’sworking,butnowIstand

in the doorway of his office.He’s still on the phone, allthoroughly fucked hair andbright gray eyes—a visuallynourishingfeast.Helooksupwhenheseesmeanddoesn’ttake his eyes off me. Hefrowns slightly, and I don’tknowif it’satmeorbecauseofhisconversation.

“Just let them in andleave them alone. Do youunderstand, Mia?” he hisses

androllshiseyes.“Good.”I mime eating, and he

grinsatmeandnods.“I’ll see you later.” He

hangs up. “One more call?”heasks.

“Sure.”“That dress is very

short,”headds.“Youlikeit?”Igivehim

a quick twirl. It’s one ofCaroline Acton’s purchases.A soft turquoise sundress,

probably more suitable forthe beach, but it’s such alovelydayonsomanylevels.Hefrownsandmyfacefalls.

“You look fantastic in it,Ana.Ijustdon’twantanyoneelsetoseeyoulikethat.”

“Oh!” I scowl at him.“We’re at home, Christian.Noonebutthestaff.”

His mouth twists, andeither he’s trying to hide hisamusement or he really

doesn’t think that’s funny.But eventually he nods,reassured.Ishakemyheadathim—he’s actually beingserious? I head back to thekitchen.

Five minutes later, he’sback in front of me, holdingthephone.

“IhaveRay foryou,”hemurmurs,hiseyeswary.

All the air leaves mybodyatonce.Itakethephone

andcoverthemouthpiece.“You told him!” I hiss.

Christian nods, and his eyeswidenatmyobvious lookofdistress.

Shit!Itakeadeepbreath.“Hi,Dad.”

“Christian has just askedmeifhecanmarryyou,”Raysays.

Oh Shit. The silencestretches between us as Idesperatelythinkwhattosay.

Ray as usual stays silent,giving me no clue as to hisreactiontothisnews.

“What did you say?” Icrackfirst.

“IsaidIwantedtotalktoyou. It’s kind of sudden,don’t you think, Annie?You’venot knownhim long.I mean, he’s a nice guy,knows his fishing... but sosoon?”Hisvoiceiscalmandmeasured.

“Yes.It issudden...hangon.” Hastily, I leave thekitchen area away fromChristian’s anxious gaze andhead toward the greatwindow. The doors to thebalcony are open, and I stepout into the sunshine. I can’tquite walk to the edge. It’sjusttoofarup.

“I know it’s sudden andall—but... well, I love him.He loves me. He wants to

marryme, and there’ll neverbe anyone else for me.” Iflushthinkingthisisprobablythe most intimateconversation I have ever hadwithmystepfather.

Rayissilentontheotherendofthephone.

“Have you told yourmother?”

“No.”“Annie... I knowhe’s all

kindsofrichandeligible,but

marriage?It’ssuchabigstep.You’resure?”

“He’s my happily everafter,”Iwhisper.

“Whoa.”Raysaysafteramoment,histonesofter.

“He’severything.”“Annie, Annie, Annie.

You’re such a headstrongyoungwoman.IhopetoGodyouknowwhatyou’redoing.Hand me back to him, willyou?”

“Sure,Dad, andwill yougive me away at thewedding?”Iaskquietly.

“Oh, honey.” His voicecracks, and he’s quiet for afewmoments, theemotion inhisvoicebringingtearstomyeyes. “Nothing would givemegreaterpleasure,”hesayseventually.

Oh, Ray. I love you somuch... I swallow, to keepfrom crying. “Thank you,

Dad. I’ll hand you back toChristian.Begentlewithhim.Ilovehim,”Iwhisper.

I thinkRay issmilingonthe other end of the line, butit’s hard to tell. It’s alwayshardtotellwithRay.

“Sure thing, Annie. Andcome and visit this old manand bring that Christianwithyou.”

I march back into theroom—pissedatChristianfor

not warning me—and handhimthephone,myexpressionletting him know just howpissed I am.He’s amused ashetakesthephoneandheadsbackintohisstudy.

Two minutes later, hereappears.

“I have your stepfather’srather begrudging blessing,”he says proudly, so proudly,in fact, that it makes megiggle, and he grins at me.

He’s acting like he’s justnegotiated a major newmergeroracquisition,whichIsupposeononelevel,hehas.

“Damn, you’re a good cook,woman.” Christian swallowshis last mouthful and raiseshisglassofwhitewinetome.I blossom under his praise,and it occurs tome I’ll only

get to cook for him onweekends. I frown. I enjoycooking. Perhaps I shouldhavemadehimacakeforhisbirthday.Icheckmywatch.Istillhavetime.

“Ana?”He interruptsmythoughts. “Why did you askme not to take your photo?”His question startles me allthemorebecausehisvoiceisdeceptivelysoft.

Oh... shit. The photos. I

staredownatmyemptyplate,twistingmyfingersinmylap.WhatcanIsay?I’dpromisedmyselfnottomentionthatI’dfoundhisversionofReaders’Wives.

“Ana,” he snaps. “Whatis it?” He makes me jump,and his voice commands meto look at him. When did Ithink he didn’t intimidateme?

“I found your photos,” I

whisper.Hiseyeswiden in shock.

“You’vebeeninthesafe?”heasks,incredulous.

“Safe?No.Ididn’tknowyouhadasafe.”

He frowns. “I don’tunderstand.”

“Inyourcloset.Thebox.I was looking for your tie,and the box was under yourjeans...theonesyounormallywearintheplayroom.Except

today.”Iflush.Hegapesatme,appalled,

and nervously runs his handthrough his hair as heprocesses this information.He rubs his chin, lost inthought, but he can’t maskthe perplexed annoyanceetched on his face. Abruptlyhe shakes his head,exasperated—butamused,too—and a faint smile ofadmiration kisses the corner

ofhismouth.Hesteepleshishands in front of him andfocusesonmeoncemore.

“It’s notwhat you think.I’d forgotten all about them.That box has been moved.Those photographs belong inmysafe.”

“Who moved them?” Iwhisper.

He swallows. “There’sonly one person who couldhavedonethat.”

“Oh.Who?Andwhatdoyou mean, ‘it’s not what Ithink’?”

He sighs and tilts hishead to one side, and I thinkhe’s embarrassed. So heshould be!My subconscioussnarls.

“This is going to soundcold, but—they’re aninsurance policy,” hewhispers steeling himself formyresponse.

“Insurancepolicy?”“Againstexposure.”The penny drops and

rattles uncomfortably roundandroundinmyemptyhead.

“Oh,” Imurmur,becauseI can’t think of what else tosay. I closemy eyes. This isit. This is Fifty Shades ofFucked-Up, right here, rightnow. “Yes. You’re right,” Imutter. “That does soundcold.” I stand to clear our

dishes. I don’twant to knowanymore.

“Ana.”“Do they know? The

girls...thesubs?”He frowns. “Of course

theyknow.”Oh, well, that’s

something. He reaches out,grabbing me and pulling metohim.

“Those photos aresupposed to be in the safe.

They’re not for recreationaluse.” He stops. “Maybe theywere when they were takenoriginally. But—” He stops,imploring me. “They don’tmeananything.”

“Who put them in yourcloset?”

“It could only have beenLeila.”

“She knows your safecombination?”

He shrugs. “It wouldn’t

surprise me. It’s a very longcombination, and I use it sorarely. It’s the one number Ihave written down andhaven’t changed.”He shakeshishead.“Iwonderwhatelsesheknowsand if she’s takenanything else out of there.”He frowns, then turns hisattention back tome. “Look,I’ll destroy the photos.Now,ifyoulike.”

“They’re your photos,

Christian. Do with them asyouwish,”Imutter.

“Don’t be like that,” hesays, taking my head in hishandsandholdingmygazetohis. “I don’twant that life. Iwantourlife,together.”

Holy cow. How does heknow thatbeneathmyhorrorabout thesephotos is thefactthatI’mparanoid?

“Ana, I thought weexorcisedallthoseghoststhis

morning. I feel that way.Don’tyou?”

I blink at him, recallingour very, very pleasurableand romantic and downrightdirty morning in hisplayroom.

“Yes,” I smile. “Yes, Ifeellikethat,too.”

“Good.” He leansforward and kisses me,folding me in his arms. “I’llshred them,” he murmurs.

“And then I have to go towork. I’m sorry, baby, but Ihave a mountain of businesstogetthroughthisafternoon.”

“It’s cool. I have to callmy mother.” I grimace.“Then I want to do someshopping and bake you acake.”

He grins and his eyeslightuplikeasmallboy’s.

“Acake?”Inod.

“Achocolatecake?”“You want a chocolate

cake?”Hisgrinisinfectious.Henods.“I’ll see what I can do,

Mr.Grey.”Hekissesmeoncemore.

Carlaisstunnedintosilence.“Mom,saysomething.”“You’renotpregnant,are

you, Ana?” she whispers inhorror.

“No,no,no,nothing likethat.” Disappointment slicesthrough my heart, and I’msaddened that she wouldthink that of me. But then Iremember with an ever-sinking feeling that she waspregnant with me when shemarriedmyfather.

“I’m sorry, darling. Thisis just so sudden. I mean,

Christianisquiteacatch,butyou’re so young, and youshould see a little of theworld.”

“Mom, can’t you just behappyforme?Ilovehim.”

“Darling, I just need toget used to the idea. It’s ashock.IcouldtellinGeorgiathattherewassomethingveryspecialbetweenyou two,butmarriage...?”

InGeorgiahewantedme

to be his submissive, but Iwon’ttellherthat.

“Haveyousetadate?”“No.”“I wish your father was

alive,”shewhispers.Ohno...notthis.Notthis,now.

“I know, Mom. I wouldhavelikedtoknowhim,too.”

“He only held you once,and he was so proud. Hethought you were the mostbeautiful girl in the world.”

Hervoiceisadeathlyhushasthe familiar tale is retold...again. She will be in tearsnext.

“Iknow,Mom.”“And then he died.” She

sniffs,andIknowthishassetheroffasitdoeseverytime.

“Mom,” I whisper,wanting to reach down thephoneandholdher.

“I’ma sillyoldwoman,”she murmurs and she sniffs

again.“OfcourseIamhappyfor you, darling. Does Rayknow?” she adds, and sheseems to have recovered herequilibrium.

“Christian’s just askedhim.”

“Oh,that’ssweet.Good.”She sounds melancholic, butshe’smakinganeffort.

“Yes,itwas,”Imurmur.“Ana,darling, I loveyou

somuch.Iamhappyforyou.

Andyoumustbothvisit.”“Yes, Mom. I love you,

too.”“Bobiscallingme,Ihave

togo.Letmehaveadate.Weneedtoplan...areyouhavingabigwedding?”

Big wedding, crap. Ihaven’t even thought aboutthat. Big wedding? No. Idon’twantabigwedding.

“I don’t know yet. AssoonasIdo,I’llcall.”

“Good. You take carenow and be safe. You twoneed to have some fun...plentyoftimeforkidslater.”

Kids!Hmm...andthereitis again—a not-so-veiledreference to the fact that shehadmesoearly.

“Mom, I didn’t reallyruinyourlife,didI?”

She gasps. “Oh no,Ana,never think that. You werethe best thing that ever

happened to your father andme.Ijustwishhewasheretosee you so grown up andgetting married.” She’swistfulandmaudlinagain.

“Iwishthat,too.”Ishakemy head thinking about mymythical father. “Mom, I’llletyougo.I’llcallsoon.”

“Loveyou,darling.”“Me, too, Mom. Good-

bye.”

Christian’skitchenisadreamto work in. For a man whoknows nothing aboutcooking, he seems to haveeverything. I suspect Mrs.Joneslovestocook, too.Theonly thing I need is somehighqualitychocolateforthefrosting. I leave the twohalves of the cake on acooling rack, grabmy purse,and pop my head aroundChristian’s study door. He’s

concentrating on hiscomputerscreen.Helooksupandsmilesatme.

“I’m just heading to thestore to pick up someingredients.”

“Okay.”Hefrownsatme.“What?”“You going to put some

jeansonorsomething?”Oh, come on. “Christian,

they’rejustlegs.”He gazes at me,

unamused.Thisisgoingtobeafight.And it’shisbirthday.Irollmyeyesathim,feelinglikeanerrantteenager.

“What if we were at thebeach?” I take a differenttack.

“We’renotatthebeach.”“Would you object ifwe

wereatthebeach?”He considers this for a

moment. “No,” he sayssimply.

I roll my eyes again andsmirk at him. “Well, justimagine we are. Laters.” Iturn and bolt for the foyer. Imakeittotheelevatorbeforehecatchesupwithme.Asthedoors close, I wave at him,grinning sweetly as hewatches, helpless—butfortunately amused—withnarrowedeyes.Heshakeshishead in exasperation, then Icanseehimnomore.

Oh, that was exciting.Adrenaline is poundingthrough my veins, and myheartfeelslikeitwantstoexitmychest.Butas theelevatordescends, so do my spirits.Shit,whathaveIdone?

Ihavea tigerby the tail.He’sgoingtobemadwhenIgetback.Mysubconsciousisglaring at me over her half-moon glasses, a willowswitch in her hand. Shit. I

think about what littleexperience I have with men.I’ve never lived with a manbefore—well, except Ray—and for some reason hedoesn’tcount.He’smydad...well, the man I consider mydad.

And now I haveChristian. He’s never reallylivedwithanyone,Ithink.I’llhave toaskhim—ifhe’sstilltalkingtome.

But I feel strongly that Ishould wear what I like. Irememberhis rules.Yes, thismustbehard forhim,buthesure as hell paid for thisdress. He should have givenNeimans a better brief.Nothingtooshort!

Thisskirt isn’t thatshort,is it? I check in the largemirror in the lobby. Damn.Yes,itisquiteshort,butI’vemade a stand now. And no

doubt I’ll have to face theconsequences. I wonder idlywhathe’lldo,butfirstIneedcash.

IstareatmyreceiptfromtheATM: $51,689.16. That’sfifty thousand dollars toomuch! Anastasia, you’regoing to have to learn to berich, too, ifyousayyes.And

so itbegins. I takemypaltryfifty dollars and make mywaytothestore.

I head straight to the kitchenwhen I arrive back, and Ican’thelpfeelingafrissonofalarm.Christian is still inhisstudy.Jeez,that’smostoftheafternoon. I decide my bestoption is to facehimandsee

howmuchdamageI’vedone.I peek cautiously around hisstudy door. He’s on thephone, staring out thewindow.

“And the Eurocopterspecialist is due Mondayafternoon?...Good. Just keepme informed. Tell them thatI’ll need their initial findingseither Monday evening orTuesdaymorning.”Hehangsup and swivels his chair

round,butstillswhenheseesme,hisexpressionimpassive.

“Hi,” I whisper. He saysnothing, and my heart free-falls into my stomach.GingerlyIwalkintohisstudyandaroundhisdesktowherehe’s sitting. He still saysnothing, his eyes neverleavingmine.Istandinfrontofhim,feelingfiftyshadesoffoolish.

“I’m back. Are you mad

atme?”He sighs, reachesout for

my hand, and pulls me intohis lap, folding his armsaround me. He buries hisnoseinmyhair.

“Yes,”hesays.“I’m sorry. I don’t know

what came over me.” I curlup in his lap inhaling hisheavenly Christian smell,feeling safe regardless of thefactthathe’smad.

“Me neither. Wear whatyou like,” he murmurs. Herunshishandupmybarelegto my thigh. “Besides, thisdresshas its advantages.”Hebends to kissme, and as ourlipstouch,passionorlustoradeep-seated need to makeamends lances through meanddesireflaresinmyblood.Iseizehisheadinmyhands,fistingmyfingers inhishair.He groans as his body

responds, and he hungrilynips at my lower lip—mythroat, my ear, his tongueinvading my mouth, andbefore I’m even aware of ithe’s unzipping his pants,pullingmeastridehislap,andsinking into me. I grasp thebackofthechair,myfeetjusttouchingtheground...andwestarttomove.

“Ilikeyourversionofsorry,”hebreathesintomyhair.

“And I like yours,” Igiggle, snuggling against hischest.“Haveyoufinished?”

“Christ, Ana, you wantmore?”

“No!Yourwork.”“I’llbedoneinabouthalf

anhour.Iheardyourmessageonmyvoicemail.”

“Fromyesterday.”“Yousoundedworried.”

Ihughimtightly.“I was. It’s not like you

nottorespond.”Hekissesmyhair.“Your cake should be

readyinhalfanhour.”Ismileathimandclimboffhislap.

“Lookingforwardtoit.Itsmelled delicious, evocativeeven,whileitwasbaking.”

I smile shyly down athim, feeling a little self-conscious,andhemirrorsmy

expression. Jeez, are wereally so different? Perhapsit’s his early memories ofbaking.Leaningdown,Iplanta swift kiss on the corner ofhismouthandmakemywaybacktothekitchen.

IamallpreparedwhenIhearhim come out of his study,and I light the solitary gold

candle on his cake.He givesmeanear-splittinggrinashesaunters toward me, and IsoftlysingHappyBirthdaytohim. Then he leans over andblowsitout,closinghiseyes.

“I’vemademywish,”hesays asheopens themagain,and for some reasonhis lookmakesmeflush.

“Thefrosting isstill soft.Ihopeyoulikeit.”

“I can’t wait to taste it,

Anastasia,” hemurmurs, andhemakes thatsoundsorude.I cut us each a slice, andwediginwithsmallpastryforks.

“Mmm,” he groans inappreciation. “This is why Iwanttomarryyou.”

And I laughwith relief...helikesit.

“Ready to face my family?”

Christian switches the R8ignition off.We’re parked inhisparents’driveway.

“Yes. Are you going totellthem?”

“Of course. I’m lookingforward to seeing theirreactions.” He smileswickedly at me and climbsoutofthecar.

It is seven thirty, andthoughit’sbeenawarmday,there’sacooleveningbreeze

blowingoffthebay.IpullmywraparoundmeasIstepoutof the car. I’m wearing anemeraldgreencocktaildressIfound this morning while Iwas rummaging through thecloset.Ithasawidematchingbelt.Christiantakesmyhand,andweheadtothefrontdoor.Carrick opens it wide beforehecanknock.

“Christian, hello. Happybirthday, son.” He takes

Christian’sprofferedhandbutpulls him into a brief hug,surprisinghim.

“Er...thanks,Dad.”“Ana, how lovely to see

youagain.”Hehugsme,too,and we follow him into thehouse.

Beforewecansetfootinthe living room, Kate comesbarreling down the hallwaytoward the two of us. Shelooksfurious.

Ohno!“You two! Iwant to talk

to you.” She snarls in heryou-better-not-fucking-mess-with-me voice. I glancenervously at Christian, whoshrugs and decides to humorheraswe followher into thedining room, leavingCarrickbemused on the threshold ofthelivingroom.Sheshutsthedoorandturnsonme.

“What the fuck is this?”

shehisses andwaves apieceofpaperatme.Completelyata loss, I take it fromher andscan it quickly. My mouthdries. Holy shit. It’s my e-mail response to Christian,discussingthecontract.

All the colordrains frommyfaceasmyblood turns to ice

and fear lances through mybody. Instinctively I stepbetweenherandChristian.

“What is it?” Christianmurmurs,histonewary.

I ignore him. I cannotbelieveKateisdoingthis.

“Kate!This is nothing todo with you.” I glarevenomously at her, angerreplacingmy fear.How dareshe do this? Not now, nottoday. Not on Christian’s

birthday. Surprised by myresponse, she blinks at me,greeneyeswide.

“Ana, what is it?”Christiansaysagain,his tonemoremenacing.

“Christian, would youjustgo,please?”Iaskhim.

“No.Showme.”Heholdsouthishand,andIknowhe’snot to be argued with—hisvoice is cold and hard.Reluctantly I givehim the e-

mail.“What’shedonetoyou?”

Kateasks,ignoringChristian.She looks so apprehensive. Iflush as a myriad of eroticimagesflitquicklyacrossmymind.

“That’s none of yourbusiness, Kate.” I can’t keepthe exasperation out of myvoice.

“Wheredidyougetthis?”Christian asks, his head

cocked to one side, his faceexpressionless, but hisvoice... so menacingly soft.Kateflushes.

“That’sirrelevant.”Athisstony glare, she hastilycontinues. “It was in thepocket of a jacket—which Iassumeisyours—thatIfoundon the back of Ana’sbedroom door.” Faced withChristian’s burning graygaze,Kate’ssteelinessslipsa

little, but she seems torecoverandscowlsathim.

She’s a beacon ofhostility in a slinky, brightred dress. She looksmagnificent. But what thehell is she going throughmyclothes for? It’s usually theotherwayround.

“Haveyou toldanyone?”Christian’svoiceislikeasilkglove.

“No! Of course not,”

Kate snaps, affronted.Christiannodsandappearstorelax. He turns and headstoward the fireplace.WordlesslyKateand Iwatchashepicksupa lighter fromthe mantelpiece, sets fire tothe e-mail, and releases it,letting it float afire slowlyinto the grate until it is nomore.Thesilenceintheroomisoppressive.

“Not evenElliot?” I ask,

turning my attention back toKate.

“No one,” Kate saysemphatically,andforthefirsttime she looks puzzled andhurt. “I just want to knowyou’re okay, Ana,” shewhispers.

“I’m fine, Kate. Morethan fine. Please, ChristianandIaregood,reallygood—thisisoldnews.Pleaseignoreit.”

“Ignore it?” she says.“How can I ignore that?What’shedonetoyou?”Andher green eyes are so full ofheartfeltconcern.

“Hehasn’tdoneanythingto me, Kate. Honestly—I’mgood.”

Sheblinksatme.“Really?”sheasks.Christian wraps an arm

around me and draws meclose, not taking his eyes off

Kate.“Anahasconsentedtobe

mywife,Katherine,”he saysquietly.

“Wife!” Kate squeaks,her eyes widening indisbelief.

“We’re getting married.We’regoingtoannounceourengagementthisevening,”hesays.

“Oh!” Kate gapes at me.She’s stunned. “I leave you

alone for sixteen days, andthis happens? It’s verysudden.Soyesterday,whenIsaid—”Shegazesatme,lost.“Where does that e-mail fitintoallthis?”

“It doesn’t, Kate. Forgetit—please. I lovehimandheloves me. Don’t do this.Don’t ruin his party and ournight,” I whisper. She blinksandunexpectedlyhereyesareshiningwithtears.

“No. Of course I won’t.You’re okay?” She wantsreassurance.

“I’ve never beenhappier,” I whisper. ShereachesforwardandgrabsmyhandregardlessofChristian’sarmwrappedaroundme.

“You really are okay?”sheaskshopefully.

“Yes.” I grin at her, myjoy returning. She’s backonside.Shesmilesatme,my

happiness reflecting back onher. I step out of Christian’shold, and she hugs mesuddenly.

“Oh, Ana—I was soworried when I read this. Ididn’t know what to think.Will you explain it to me?”shewhispers.

“Oneday,notnow.”“Good. I won’t tell

anyone. I love you somuch,Ana,likemyownsister.Ijust

thought... Ididn’tknowwhatto think. I’m sorry. If you’rehappy, then I’m happy.” ShelooksdirectlyatChristianandrepeatsherapology.Henodsat her, his eyes glacial, andhis expression does notchange. Oh shit, he’s stillmad.

“Ireallyamsorry.You’reright, it’s none of mybusiness,” she whispers tome.

There’s a knock on thedoor that startles Kate and Iapart. Grace pokes her headaround.

“Everything okay,darling?”sheasksChristian.

“Everything’s fine, Mrs.Grey,” Kate saysimmediately.

“Fine, Mom,” Christiansays.

“Good.” Grace enters.“Then you won’t mind if I

givemysonabirthdayhug.”She beams at both of us.Hehugs her tightly and thawsimmediately.

“Happy birthday,darling,” she says softly,closing her eyes in hisembrace.“I’msogladyou’restillwithus.”

“Mom, I’m fine.”Christiansmilesdownather.She pulls back, looks at himclosely,andgrins.

“I’m so happy for you,”she says and caresses hisface.

He grins at her—histhousandmegawattsmile.

She knows!When did hetellher?

“Well, kids, if you’ve allfinished your tête-à-tête,there’s a throng of peoplehere to check that you reallyare in one piece, Christian,and to wish you a happy

birthday.”“I’llberightthere.”Grace glances anxiously

at Kate and me and seemsreassured by our smiles. Shewinksatmeas sheholds thedoor open for us. ChristianholdsouthishandtomeandItakeit.

“Christian, I really doapologize,” Kate sayshumbly. Humble Kate issomething to behold.

Christiannodsather,andwefollowherout.

In the hallway, I gazeanxiously up at Christian.“Does your mother knowaboutus?”

“Yes.”“Oh.” And to think our

evening could have beenderailed by the tenaciousMissKavanagh. I shudder atthe thought—theramifications of Christian’s

lifestyle revealed to all.Holycow.

“Well, that was aninteresting start to theevening.” I smile sweetly athim.He glances down atme—and it’s back, his amusedlook.Thankheavens.

“As ever, Miss Steele,you have a gift forunderstatement.” He raisesmyhandtohislipsandkissesmyknucklesaswewalk into

the living room to a sudden,spontaneous, and deafeningroundofapplause.

Crap. How many peoplearehere?

I scan the room quickly:alltheGreys,EthanwithMia,Dr. Flynn and his wife, Iassume. There’s Mac fromthe boat, a tall, handsomeAfrican American—Iremember seeing him inChristian’s office the first

time I met Christian—Mia’sbitchy friend Lily, twowomen I don’t recognize atall, and... Oh no. My heartsinks. That woman... Mrs.Robinson.

Gretchen materializeswith a tray of champagne.She’s in a low-cut blackdress,nopigtailsbutanupdo,flushing and fluttering hereyelashes at Christian. Theapplause dies down, and

Christian squeezes my handas all eyes turn to himexpectantly.

“Thank you, everyone.Looks like I’ll need one ofthese.” He grabs two drinksoffGretchen’s trayandgivesher a brief smile. I thinkGretchen’sgoingtoexpireorswoon. He hands a glass tome.

Christian raises his glassto the rest of the room, and

immediately everyone surgesforward. Leading the chargeis the evil woman in black.Doessheeverwearanyothercolor?

“Christian, I was soworried.” Elena gives him abrief hug and kisses both hischeeks.Hedoesn’t letmegodespite the fact I try to freemyhand.

“I’m good, Elena,”Christianmutterscoolly.

“Why didn’t you callme?” Her plea is desperate,hereyessearchinghis.

“I’vebeenbusy.”“Didn’t you get my

messages?”Christian shifts

uncomfortably and pulls mecloser,puttinghisarmaroundme. His face remainsimpassive as he regardsElena. She can no longerignore me, so she nods

politelyinmydirection.“Ana,” she purrs. “You

looklovely,dear.”“Elena,” I purr back.

“Thankyou.”I catch Grace’s eye. She

frowns,watchingthethreeofus.

“Elena,Ineedtomakeanannouncement,” Christiansays, eyeing herdispassionately.

Herclearblueeyescloud.

“Of course.” She fakes asmileandstepsback.

“Everyone,” Christiancalls.Hewaits for amomentuntil the buzz in the roomdies down and all eyes areoncemoreonhim.

“Thank you for comingtoday. I have to say I wasexpecting a quiet familydinner, so this is a pleasantsurprise.”Hestarespointedlyat Mia, who grins and gives

him a little wave. Christianshakes his head inexasperationandcontinues.

“Ros and I”—heacknowledges the red-hairedwoman standing nearby witha small bubbly blonde—“wehadaclosecallyesterday.”

Oh, that’s the Ros thatworks with him. She grinsand raises her glass to him.Henodsbackather.

“SoI’mespeciallygladto

beheretodaytosharewithallof you my very good news.This beautiful woman”—heglances down at me—“MissAnastasia Rose Steele, hasconsentedtobemywife,andI’d likeyou tobe the first toknow.”

There are general gaspsof astonishment, the oddcheer, and then a round ofapplause! Jeez—this is reallyhappening. I think I am the

color of Kate’s dress.Christiangraspsmychin,liftsmylips tohis,andkissesmequickly.

“You’llsoonbemine.”“Iamalready,”Iwhisper.“Legally,” he mouths at

me and gives me a wickedgrin.

Lily, who is standingbesideMia, lookscrestfallen;Gretchen looks like she’seaten something nasty and

bitter. As I glance anxiouslyaround at the assembledcrowd,IcatchsightofElena.Her mouth is open. She’sstunned—horrified even, andI can’t help a small butintense feelingof satisfactionto see her dumbstruck.Whatthe hell is she doing here,anyway?

Carrick and Graceinterrupt my uncharitablethoughts,andsoonIambeing

huggedandkissedandpassedaroundbyalltheGreys.

“Oh, Ana—I am sodelighted you’re going to befamily,” Grace gushes. “Thechange in Christian... He’s...happy. I am so thankful toyou.”Iblush,embarrassedbyher exuberance but secretlydelighted,too.

“Where is the ring?”exclaims Mia as sheembracesme.

“Um...” A ring! Jeez. Ihadn’t even thought about aring.IglanceanxiouslyupatChristian.

“We’re going to chooseone together.” Christianglowersather.

“Oh, don’t look at melike that, Grey!” she scoldshim, then wraps her armsaround him. “I’m so thrilledfor you,Christian,” she says.She’stheonlypersonIknow

whoisnotintimidatedbytheGrey glower. It has mequailing... Well, it certainlyusedto.

“When will you getmarried? Have you set adate?” She beams up atChristian.

He shakes his head, hisexasperation palpable. “Noidea,andnowehaven’t.AnaandIneedtodiscussallthat,”hesaysirritably.

“I hope you have a bigwedding—here,” she beamsenthusiastically, ignoring hiscaustictone.

“We’ll probably fly toVegas tomorrow,” he growlsat her, and he’s rewardedwithafull-onMiaGreypoutygrimace.Rollinghiseyes,heturnstoElliot,whogiveshimhis second bear hug in asmanydays.

“Way to go, bro.” He

clapsChristian’sback.The response from the

room is overwhelming, andit’s a few minutes before Ifind myself back besideChristian with Dr. Flynn.Elena seems to havedisappeared, and Gretchen issullenly refilling champagneglasses.

Beside Dr. Flynn is astriking young woman withlong,dark,almostblackhair,

cleavage, and lovely hazeleyes.

“Christian,” says Flynn,holding out his hand.Christianshakesitgladly.

“John. Rhian.”He kissesthedark-hairedwomanonhercheek.She’spetiteandpretty.

“Gladyou’restillwithus,Christian. My life would bemost dull—and penurious—withoutyou.”

Christiansmirks.

“John!” Rhian scolds,much to Christian’samusement.

“Rhian, this isAnastasia,my fiancée. Ana, this isJohn’swife.”

“Delighted to meet thewoman who has finallycaptured Christian’s heart.”Rhiansmileskindlyatme.

“Thank you,” I mutter,embarrassedagain.

“That was one googly

youbowled there,Christian,”Dr. Flynn shakes his head inamused disbelief. Christianfrownsathim.

“John—you and yourcricket metaphors.” Rhianrolls her eyes.“Congratulations to the pairof you and happy birthday,Christian. What a wonderfulbirthdaypresent.”She smilesbroadlyatme.

I had no idea Dr. Flynn

wouldbehere,orElena.It’sashock,andIrackmybrainstosee if I have anything to askhim, but a birthday partyhardly seems the appropriatevenue for a psychiatricconsult.

For a few minutes, wemake small talk. Rhian is astay-at-home mom with twoyoungboys.Ideducethatsheis the reason Dr. FlynnpracticesintheUS.

“She’s good, Christian,respondingwell to treatment.Anothercoupleofweeksandwe can consider an out-patientprogram.”Dr.Flynn’sand Christian’s voices arelow,butIcan’thelplisteningin, rather rudely tuning outRhian.

“Soit’sallplay-datesanddiapersatthemoment...”

“That must take up yourtime.” I flush, turning my

attention back toRhian,wholaughs sweetly. I knowChristian and Flynn arediscussingLeila.

“Ask her something forme,”Christianmurmurs.

“So what do you do,Anastasia?”

“Ana, please. I work inpublishing.”

Christian and Dr. Flynnlowertheirvoicesfurther;it’sso frustrating. But they stop

whenwe’rejoinedbythetwowomen I didn’t recognizeearlier—Ros and the bubblyblonde whom Christianintroduces as her partner,Gwen.

Ros is charming, and Isoon discover they livealmostoppositeEscala.Sheisfull of praise for Christian’spilotingskills.Itwasherfirsttime in Charlie Tango, andshesaysshewouldn’thesitate

togoagain.She’soneof thefew women I’ve met whoisn’t dazzled by him... well,thereasonisobvious.

Gwen is giggly with awry sense of humor, andChristian seemsextraordinarily at ease withbothofthem.Heknowsthemwell. They don’t discusswork,butIcantellthatRosisone smart woman who caneasilykeepupwithhim.She

alsohasagreat, throaty, too-many-cigaretteslaugh.

Grace interrupts ourleisurely conversation toinform everyone that dinnerisbeingservedbuffet-styleintheGrey kitchen. Slowly theguestsmaketheirwaytowardthebackofthehouse.

Mia collars me in thehallway. In her pale pink,frothy babydoll dress andkiller heels, she towers over

me like a Christmas treefairy. She’s holding twococktailglasses.

“Ana,” she hissesconspiratorially. I glance upatChristian,whoreleasesmewith a best-of-luck-I-find-her-impossible-to-deal-with-toolook,andIsneakintothediningroomwithher.

“Here,” she saysmischievously. “This is oneof my dad’s special lemon

martinis—much nicer thanchampagne.”Shehandsmeaglass and watches anxiouslywhileItakeatentativesip.

“Hmm... delicious. Butstrong.”Whatdoesshewant?Isshetryingtogetmedrunk?

“Ana, I need someadvice. And I can’t ask Lily—she’s so judgmental abouteverything.” Mia rolls hereyesthengrinsatme.“Sheissojealousofyou.I thinkshe

was hoping one day that sheand Christian might gettogether.” Mia bursts outlaughingattheabsurdity,andIquailinside.

This is something I willhave to contend with for along time—other womenwanting my man. I push theunwelcomethoughtoutofmyheadanddistractmyselfwiththe matter in hand. I takeanothersipofmymartini.

“I’ll try and help. Fireaway.”

“Asyouknow,EthanandI met recently, thanks toyou.”Shebeamsatme.

“Yes.”Where the hell isshegoingwiththis?

“Ana—he doesn’t wanttodateme.”Shepouts.

“Oh.” I blink at her,stunned, and I think,Maybehe’sjustnotthatintoyou.

“Look, that sounded all

wrong. He doesn’t want todate because his sister isgoing out with my brother.Youknow—he thinks it’s allkind of incestuous. But Iknowhelikesme.WhatcanIdo?”

“Oh, I see,” I mutter,trying to buy myself sometime. What can I say? “Canyou agree to be friends andgive it some time? I meanyou’veonlyjustmethim.”

She cocks her eyebrowandIflush.

“Look, I know I’ve onlyreally just met Christianbut...”IscowlathernotsurewhatIwanttosay.“Mia,thisis something you and Ethanhave to work out together. Iwould try the friendshiproute.”

Miagrins.“You’velearnedthatlook

fromChristian.”

I flush. “If you wantadvice, ask Kate. She mayhave some insight as to howherbrotherfeels.”

“Youthink?”Miaasks.“Yes.” I smile

encouragingly.“Cool.Thanks,Ana.”She

gives me another hug andscuttles excitedly—andimpressively, given her highheels—to the door, no doubtoff to bother Kate. I take

another sip of my martini,and I’m about to follow herwhen I am stopped in mytracks.

Elena breezes into theroom, her face taut, set ingrim, angry determination.She closes the door quietlybehindherandscowlsatme.

Ohcrap.“Ana,”shesneers.I summon all my self-

possession, slightly fuzzy

from two glasses ofchampagne and the lethalcocktail Ihold inmyhand. Ithink the blood has drainedfrommy face, but I marshalboth my subconscious andmy innergoddess inorder toappear as calm and asunflappableasIcan.

“Elena.” My voice issmall, but steady—despitemydrymouth.Whydoesthiswoman freak me out so

much? And what does shewantnow?

“I would offer you myheartfelt congratulations, butI think that would beinappropriate.” Her piercingcold blue eyes stare frostilyinto mine, filled withloathing.

“I neither need nor wantyour congratulations, Elena.I’m surprised anddisappointedtoseeyouhere.”

Shearchesaneyebrow.Ithinkshe’simpressed.

“Iwouldn’thave thoughtofyouasaworthyadversary,Anastasia. But you surprisemeateveryturn.”

“Ihaven’tthoughtofyouatall,”Ilie,coolly.Christianwould be proud. “Now ifyou’ll excuse me, I havemuchbetterthingstodothanwastemytimewithyou.”

“Not so fast,missy,” she

hisses, leaning against thedoor, effectively blocking it.“What on earth do you thinkyou’re doing, consenting tomarryChristian?Ifyouthinkforoneminuteyoucanmakehimhappy,you’reverymuchmistaken.”

“What I’m consenting todo with Christian is none ofyour concern.” I smile withsarcastic sweetness. Sheignoresme.

“He has needs—needsyou cannot possibly begin tosatisfy,”shegloats.

“What do you know ofhisneeds?”Isnarl.Mysenseof indignationflaresbrightly,burning inside me asadrenalinesurgesthroughmybody. How dare this fuckingbitch preach to me? “You’renothing but a sick childmolester, and if it was up tome, I’d toss you into the

seventh circle of hell andwalk away smiling.Now getoutofmyway—ordoIhavetomakeyou?”

“You’re making a bigmistake here, lady.” Sheshakes a long, skinny, finelymanicured finger at me.“How dare you judge ourlifestyle?You knownothing,and you have no idea whatyou’re getting yourself into.And if you think he’s going

to be happy with a mousylittlegold-diggerlikeyou...”

That’sit! I throwtherestof my lemon martini in herface,drenchingher.

“Don’t you dare tell mewhat I’m getting myselfinto!” I shout at her. “Whenwill you learn? It’s none ofyourgoddamnedbusiness!”

She gapes at me, horrorstruck, wiping the stickydrink off her face. I think

she’s about to lunge at me,but she’s suddenly shuntedforwardasthedooropens.

Christian is standing inthe doorway. It takes him ananosecond to assess thesituation—me ashen andshaking,hersoakedandlivid.His lovely face darkens andcontorts with anger as hecomestostandbetweenus.

“What the fuck are youdoing, Elena?” he says, his

voice glacial and laced withmenace.

She blinks up at him.“She’s not right for you,Christian,”shewhispers.

“What?” he shouts,startling both of us. I can’tsee his face but his wholebody has tensed, and heradiatesanimosity.

“How the fuck do youknowwhat’srightforme?”

“You have needs,

Christian,”shesayshervoicesofter.

“I’ve told you before—this is none of your fuckingbusiness,” he roars. Oh crap—Very Angry Christian hasreared his not-so-ugly head.Peoplearegoingtohear.

“What is this?” Hepauses, glaring at her. “Doyouthinkit’syou?You?Youthink you’re right for me?”His voice is softer but drips

contempt, and suddenly Idon’twanttobehere.Idon’twant to witness this intimateencounter. I’m intruding.ButI’m stuck—my limbsunwillingtomove.

Elena swallows andseemstodrawherselfupright.Her stance changes subtly,becomes more commanding,andshestepstowardhim.

“Iwasthebest thingthatever happened to you,” she

hisses arrogantly at him.“Lookatyounow.Oneoftherichest, most successful,entrepreneurs in the US—controlled, driven—you neednothing. You are master ofyouruniverse.”

He steps back as if he’sbeen struck and gapes at herinoutrageddisbelief.

“You loved it, Christian,don’t try and kid yourself.Youwereontheroadtoself-

destruction, and I saved youfrom that, saved you from alife behind bars. Believeme,baby,that’swhereyouwouldhave ended up. I taught youeverything you know,everythingyouneed.”

Christian blanches,staringatherinhorror.Whenhe speaks, his voice is lowandincredulous.

“You taught me how tofuck, Elena. But it’s empty,

like you. No wonder Lincleft.”

Bile rises inmymouth. Ishould not be here. But I’mfrozen to the spot, morbidlyfascinated as they eviscerateeachother.

“You never once heldme,” Christian whispers.“You never once said youlovedme.”

She narrows her eyes.“Loveisforfools,Christian.”

“Get out of my house.”Grace’s implacable, furiousvoicestartlesus.ThreeheadsswingrapidlytowhereGracestandsonthethresholdoftheroom.SheisglaringatElena,who pales beneath her St.Tropeztan.

Timeseemssuspendedaswe collectively take a deepgasping breath, and Gracestalks deliberately into theroom. Her eyes blaze with

fury, never once leavingElena,untilshestandsbeforeher. Elena’s eyes widen inalarm, and Grace slaps herhard across the face, thesound of the impactresounding off the walls ofthediningroom.

“Take your filthy pawsoff my son, you whore, andget out ofmy house—now!”she hisses through grittedteeth.

Elena clutches herreddeningcheekandstaresinhorrorforamoment,shockedand blinking at Grace. Thenshe hurries from the room,not bothering to close thedoorbehindher.

Grace turns slowly toface Christian and a tensesilence settles like a thickblanket over us as ChristianandGracestareateachother.Afterabeat,Gracespeaks.

“Ana, before I hand himovertoyou,wouldyoumindgiving me a minute or twoalone with my son?” Hervoice isquiet,husky,butoh-so-strong.

“Of course,” I whisper,and exit as quickly as I can,glancing anxiously over myshoulder.Butneitherofthemlook at me as I leave. Theycontinue to stare at eachother, their unspoken

communication blaringlyloud.

In the hallway, I ammomentarily lost. My heartpounds and my blood racesthrough my veins... I feelpanicked and out of mydepth. Holy fuck, that washeavyandnowGraceknows.Crap.Ican’tthinkwhatshe’sgoingtosaytoChristian,andI know it’s wrong, I know,but I lean against the door

tryingtolisten.“How long, Christian?”

Grace’s voice is soft. I canbarelyhearher.

Icannothearhisreply.“How old were you?”

Her voice is more insistent.“Tellme.Howoldwere youwhen thisall started?”AgainIcan’thearChristian.

“Everything okay,Ana?”Rosinterruptsme.

“Yes. Fine. Thank you.

I...”Ros smiles. “I’m just

going to fetch my purse. Ineedacigarette.”

For a brief moment, Icontemplatejoiningher.

“I’m off to thebathroom.” I need to gathermywits andmy thoughts, toprocess what I’ve justwitnessedandheard.Upstairsseems the safest place to beonmyown.IwatchRosstroll

into the drawing room, and Ibolttwostairsatatimetothesecond floor, then up to thethird. There’s only one placeIwanttobe.

I open the door toChristian’s childhoodbedroom and shut it behindme, taking a huge gulpingbreath.Headingforhisbed,Iflop onto it and stare at theplainwhiteceiling.

Holycow.Thathastobe,

without doubt, one of themost excruciatingconfrontations I’ve ever hadto endure, and now I feelnumb.My fiancé andhis ex-lover—no would-be brideshould have to see that.Havingsaidthat,partofmeisglad she’s revealed her trueself, and that I was there tobearwitness.

My thoughts turn toGrace.PoorGrace,tohearall

that. I clutch one ofChristian’s pillows. She’llhaveoverheard thatChristianandElena had an affair—butnot the nature of it. Thankheavens.Igroan.

What am I doing?Perhaps the evil witch had apoint.

No, I refuse to believethat.She’s socoldandcruel.I shake my head. She’swrong. I am right for

Christian. I am what heneeds. And in a moment ofstunning clarity, I don’tquestion how he’s lived hislife until recently—but why.His reasons for doing whathe’sdonetocountlessgirls—I don’t even want to knowhow many. The how isn’twrong. Theywere all adults.They were all—how didFlynn put it?—in safe, sane,consensual relationships. It’s

thewhy.Thewhywaswrong.Thewhywas from his placeofdarkness.

Iclosemyeyesanddrapemy arm over them. But nowhe’smovedon,leftitbehind,andwe are both in the light.I’mdazzledbyhimandhebyme.Wecanguideeachother.Athoughtoccurstome.Shit!Agnawing,insidiousthoughtand I’m in the one placewhere I can lay this ghost to

rest. I sit up.Yes, Imust dothis.

Shakily I get tomy feet,kickoffmyshoes,walkoverto his desk, and examine thepin board above it. ThephotosofyoungChristianareallstill there—morepoignantthan ever as I think of thespectacle I’ve just witnessedbetween him and Mrs.Robinson. And there in thecorner is the small black and

whitephoto—hismother, thecrackwhore.

Iswitchonthedesklampand focus the light on herpicture. I don’t even knowhername.Shelookssomuchlike him but younger andsadder and all I feel, lookingat her sorrowful face, iscompassion. I try to see thesimilarities between her faceand mine. I squint at thepicture, getting really, really

close, and see none. Exceptmaybe our hair, but I thinkhers is lighter than mine. Idon’t look likeheratall. It’sarelief.

My subconscious tuts atme, arms crossed, glaringover her half-moon glasses.Why are you torturingyourself? You’ve said yes.You’ve made your bed. Ipurse my lips at her. Yes Ihave, gladly so. Iwant to lie

in thatbedwithChristianforthe rest ofmy life.My innergoddess, sitting in the lotusposition, smiles serenely.Yes. I’ve made the rightdecision.

I must find him—Christian will be worried. Ihave no idea how long I’vebeen in his room; he’ll thinkthat I’ve fled. I rollmy eyesas I contemplate hisoverreaction. I hope that he

and Grace have finished. Ishuddertothinkwhatelseshemighthavesaidtohim.

I meet Christian as heclimbsthestairstothesecondfloor, looking for me. Hisface is strained and weary—notthecarefreeFiftyIarrivedwith. As I stand on thelanding, he stops on the topstairsothatweareeyetoeye.

“Hi,”hesayscautiously.“Hi,”Ianswerwarily.

“Iwasworried—”“Iknow,”Iinterrupthim.

“I’m sorry—I couldn’t facethefestivities.Ijusthadtogetaway, you know. To think.”Reaching up, I caress hisface. He closes his eyes andleanshisfaceintomyhand.

“And you thought you’ddothatinmyroom?”

“Yes.”He reaches for my hand

andpullsmeintoanembrace,

and I go willingly into hisarms,myfavoriteplaceinthewhole world. He smells offreshlaundry,bodywash,andChristian—the most calmingand arousing scent on theplanet. He inhales with hisnoseinmyhair.

“I’m sorry you had toendureallthat.”

“It’s not your fault,Christian. Why was shehere?”Hegazesdownatme,

and his mouth curlsapologetically.

“She’safamilyfriend.”I try not to react. “Not

any more. How’s yourmom?”

“Mom is pretty fuckingmad at me right now. I’mreally glad you’re here, andthatwe’re in themiddle of aparty. Otherwise I might bebreathingmylast.”

“Thatbad,huh?”

Henods,hiseyesserious,and I sensehisbewildermentatherreaction.

“Can you blame her?”Myvoiceisquiet,cajoling.

He hugs me tightly andhe seems uncertain,processinghisthoughts.

Finallyheanswers.“No.”Whoa! Breakthrough.

“Canwesit?”Iask.“Sure.Here?”I nod and we both sit at

thetopofthestairs.“So,howdoyoufeel?”I

ask, anxiously clutching hishand and gazing at his sad,seriousface.

Hesighs.“I feel liberated.” He

shrugs, then beams—aglorious, carefree Christiansmile, and theweariness andstrain present moments agohavevanished.

“Really?” I beam back.

Wow, I’d crawl over brokenglassforthatsmile.

“Our businessrelationshipisover.Done.”

Ifrownathim.“Willyouliquidatethesalonbusiness?”

He snorts. “I’m not thatvindictive, Anastasia,” headmonishesme.“No.I’llgiftthem to her. I’ll talk to mylawyer Monday. I owe herthatmuch.”

Iarchaneyebrowathim.

“No more Mrs. Robinson?”His mouth twists inamusementandheshakeshishead.

“Gone.”Igrin.“I’m sorry you lost a

friend.”He shrugs then smirks.

“Areyou?”“No,”Iconfess,flushing.“Come.” He stands and

offers me his hand. “Let’s

join theparty inourhonor. Imightevengetdrunk.”

“Do you get drunk?” IaskasItakehishand.

“Not since I was a wildteenager.”Wewalkdownthestairs.

“Have you eaten?” heasks.

Ohcrap.“No.”“Well you should. From

the look and smell of Elena,

that was one of my father’slethal cocktails you threwover her.” He gazes at me,tryingandfailing tokeep theamusementoffhisface.

“Christian,I—”Heholdsuphishand.“No arguing, Anastasia.

Ifyou’regoingtodrink—andthrow alcohol over my exes—you need to eat. It’s rulenumber one. I believe we’vealready had that discussion

afterourfirstnighttogether.”Ohyes.TheHeathman.Back in the hallway, he

pauses to caressmy face, hisfingersskimmingmyjaw.

“I lay awake for hoursand watched you sleep,” hemurmurs.“Imighthavelovedyoueventhen.”

Oh.Heleansdownandkisses

me softly, and I melteverywhere,allthetensionof

the last hour or so seepinglanguidlyfrommybody.

“Eat,”hewhispers.“Okay,” I acquiesce

because right now I’dprobablydoanythingforhim.Takingmyhand,heleadsmetoward thekitchenwhere thepartyisinfullswing.

“Goodnight,John,Rhian.”

“Congratulations again,Ana. You two will be justfine.”Dr.Flynnsmileskindlyatus, standingarm inarm inthe hallway as he and Rhiantaketheirleave.

“Goodnight.”Christian closes the door

andshakeshishead.Hegazesdown at me, his eyessuddenly bright withexcitement.

What’sthis?

“Just the family left. Ithinkmymotherhashad toomuch to drink.” Grace issinging karaoke on somegame console in the familyroom. Kate and Mia aregiving her a run for hermoney.

“Do you blame her?” Ismirk at him, trying to keepthe atmosphere between uslight.Isucceed.

“Areyousmirkingatme,

MissSteele?”“Iam.”“It’sbeenquiteaday.”“Christian, recently,

every daywith youhas beenquite a day.” My voice issardonic.

Heshakeshishead.“Fairpointwellmade,MissSteele.Come—I want to show yousomething.”Takingmyhand,he leads me through thehouse to the kitchen where

Carrick,Ethan,andElliotaretalkingMariners,drinkingthelast of the cocktails, andeatingleftovers.

“Off for a stroll?” Elliotteases suggestively as wemake our way through theFrench doors. Christianignores him. Carrick frownsatElliot,shakinghisheadinasilentrebuke.

Aswemake ourway upthe steps to the lawn, I take

offmyshoes.Thehalf-moonshines brightly over the bay.It’s brilliant, castingeverything in myriad ofshadesofgrayasthelightsofSeattletwinklesweetlyinthedistance. The lights of theboathouse are on, a softglowing beacon in the coolcastofthemoon.

“Christian, I’d like to gotochurchtomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“I prayed you’d comeback alive and you did. It’stheleastIcoulddo.”

“Okay.”Wewanderhand inhand

inarelaxedsilenceforafewmoments. Then somethingoccurstome.

“Where are you going toput the photos José took ofme?”

“I thought we might puttheminthenewhouse.”

“Youboughtit?”He stops to stare at me,

andhisvoicefullofconcern.“Yes.Ithoughtyoulikedit.”

“Ido.Whendidyoubuyit?”

“Yesterday morning.Nowweneed todecidewhatto do with it,” he murmurs,relieved.

“Don’t knock it down.Please. It’s such a lovelyhouse. It just needs some

tenderlovingcare.”Christian glances at me

andsmiles.“Okay.I’lltalktoElliot. He knows a goodarchitect; she did someworkonmyplaceisAspen.Hecandotheremodeling.”

I snort, suddenlyrememberingthelasttimewecrossed the lawn under themoonlight to the boathouse.Oh,perhapsthat’swhatwe’regoingtodonow.Igrin.

“What?”“Irememberthelasttime

you took me to theboathouse.”

Christian chucklesquietly.“Oh,thatwasfun.Infact...”Hesuddenlystopsandscoopsmeover his shoulder,andIsqueal,thoughwedon’thavefartogo.

“You were really angry,if I remember correctly,” Igasp.

“Anastasia, I’m alwaysreallyangry.”

“Noyou’renot.”Heswatsmybehindashe

stops outside the woodendoor.He slidesme down hisbodyback to the ground andtakesmyheadinhishands.

“No, not anymore.”Leaning down, he kissesme,hard. When he pulls away,I’m breathless and desire isracingroundmybody.

He gazes down at me,andintheglowofthestripoflight coming from inside theboathouse, I can see he’sanxious. My anxious man,not a white knight or a darkknight, but a man—abeautiful, not-quite-so-fucked-up man—whom Ilove.Ireachupandcaresshisface, running my fingersthrough his sideburns andalonghisjawtohischin,then

letmy index finger touchhislips.Herelaxes.

“I’ve something to showyouinhere,”hemurmursandopensthedoor.

The harsh light of thefluorescents illuminates theimpressive motor launch inthe dock, bobbing gently onthedarkwater.There’sarowboatbesideit.

“Come.” Christian takesmyhandandleadsmeupthe

wooden stairs. Opening thedooratthetop,hestepsasidetoletmein.

My mouth drops to thefloor. The attic isunrecognizable. The room isfilledwithflowers...thereareflowers everywhere.Someone has created amagical bower of beautifulwild meadow flowers mixedwithglowing fairy lightsandminiature lanterns that glow

softandpaleroundtheroom.My face whips round to

meet his, and he’s gazing atme, his expressionunreadable.Heshrugs.

“You wanted hearts andflowers,”hemurmurs.

I blink at him, not quitebelievingwhatI’mseeing.

“You have my heart.”And he waves toward theroom.

“And here are the

flowers,” I whisper,completing his sentence.“Christian, it’s lovely.” Ican’t think of what else tosay.Myheartisinmymouthastearsprickmyeyes.

Tugging my hand, hepulls me into the room, andbeforeIknowit,he’ssinkingto one knee in front of me.Holy hell... I did not expectthis!Istopbreathing.

From his inside jacket

pocketheproducesaringandgazes up at me, his eyesbright gray and raw, full ofemotion.

“Anastasia Steele. I loveyou. I want to love, cherish,andprotectyoufortherestofmy life. Be mine. Always.Sharemylifewithme.Marryme.”

I blink down at him asmy tears fall. My Fifty, myman. I lovehim so, and all I

can say as the tidal wave ofemotionhitsmeis,“Yes.”

He grins, relieved, andslowly slides the ring onmyfinger. It’s beautiful, an ovaldiamond in a platinum ring.Jeez—it’s big... Big, but oh-so-simple and stunning in itssimplicity.

“Oh, Christian,” I sob,suddenly overwhelmed withjoy, and I join him on myknees, my fingers fisting in

his hair as I kiss him, kisshim with all my heart andsoul.Kiss thisbeautifulman,who lovesme as I love him;and as he wraps his armsaroundme,hishandsmovingto my hair, his mouth onmine. I know deep down Iwill always be his, and hewill always be mine. We’vecomesofartogether,wehavesofartogo,butwearemadeforeachother.Wearemeant

tobe.

The cigarette end glowsbrightlyinthedarknessashetakes a deep pull. He blowsthe smoke out in a longexhale, finishing with two

smoke rings that dissolve infrontofhim,paleandghostlyinthemoonlight.Heshiftsinhis seat, bored, and takes aquick shot of cheap bourbonfrom a bottle wrapped inshabby brown paper beforeresting it back between histhighs.

Hecan’tbelievehe’sstillonthetrail.Hismouthtwistsin a sardonic sneer. Thehelicopter had been a rash

and bold move. One of themost exhilarating things he’dever done in his life. But tono avail. He rolls his eyesironically. Who would havethought the son-of-a-bitchcouldactuallyflythefucker?

Hesnorts.They have

underestimated him. If Greythought for one minute he’dgo whimpering quietly intothe dusk, that prick didn’t

knowjackshit.It had been the same all

his life. People constantlyunderestimating him—just aman who reads books. Fuckthat! A man with aphotographic memory whoreads books. Oh, the thingshe’s learned, the things heknows. He snorts again—Yeah,aboutyou,Grey.ThethingsIknowaboutyou.

Not bad for a kid from

thegutterendofDetroit.Not bad for the kid who

won a scholarship toPrinceton.

Not bad for the kid whoworked his ass off throughcollege and got intopublishing.

And now all of that’sfucked, fucked because ofGrey and his little bitch. Hescowls at the house as if itrepresents everything he

despises. But there’s nothingdoing. The only drama hadbeenthestacked,blondbroadin black, teetering down thedriveway in tears before sheclimbed into the white CLKandfuckedoff.

He chuckles mirthlessly,then winces. Fuck, his ribs.Still sore from the swiftkicking Grey’s henchmandelivered.

He replays the scene in

hismind.“You fucking touchMissSteeleagain,I’llfuckingkillyou.”

That motherfucker willget it good, too. Yeah—getwhat’scomingtohim.

He settles back in hisseat.Looks like it’s going tobe a long night. He’ll stay,watch, and wait. He takesanother toke of hisMarlborored. His chance will come.Hischancewillcomesoon.

EndofPartTwo...

fifty shades darker - droppdf · the right of e l james to be identified as the author of this work...

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