Part II 8

“You’re going to unman me, Ana,” he whisperssuddenly, breaking away from me and kneeling up. Hebriskly pulls down his jeans and hands me a foil packet.“You want me, baby, and I sure as hell want you. You“You want me, baby, and I sure as hell want you. Youknow what to do.”With anxious, dexterous fingers, I rip open the foil andunroll the condom over him. He grins down at me, hismouth open, eyes misty gray and full of carnal promise.Leaning over me, he rubs his nose against mine, his eyesclosed, and deliciously, slowly, he enters me.I grasp his arms and tilt my chin up, reveling in theexquisitely full feeling of his possession. He runs his teethalong my chin, eases back, and then slides into me again—so slow, so sweet, so tender—his body pressing down onme, his elbows and his hands on either side of my face.“You make me forget everything. You are the besttherapy,” he breathes, moving at an achingly leisurely pace,sa一voring every inch of me.“Please, Christian—faster,” I murmur, wanting more,now.“Oh no, baby. I need this slow.” He kisses me sweetly,gently biting my lower lip and absorbing my soft moans.I move my hands into his hair and surrender myself toI move my hands into his hair and surrender myself tohis rhythm as slowly and surely my body climbs higher andhigher and plateaus, then falls hard and fast as I comearound him.“Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he lets go, my name abenediction on his lips as he finds his release.His head rests on my belly, his arms wrapped around me.My fingers forage in his unruly hair, and we lie like this forI don’t know how long. It’s so late and I am so tired, but Ijust want to enjoy the quiet serene after-glow of makinglove with Christian Grey, because that’s what we’ve done,gentle, sweet lovemaking.He’s come a long way, as ha一ve I, in such a short time.It’s almost too much to absorb. With all the fucked-upstuff, I am losing sight of his simple, honest journey withme.“I will never get enough of you. Don’t lea一ve me,” hemurmurs and kisses my belly.murmurs and kisses my belly.“I’m not going anywhere, Christian, and I seem toremember that I wanted to kiss your belly,” I grumblesleepily.He grins against my skin. “Nothing stopping you nowbaby.”“I don’t think I can move I’m so tired.”Christian sighs and shifts reluctantly, coming to liebeside me with his head on his elbow and dragging thecovers over us. He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing,warm, loving.“Sleep now, baby.” He kisses my hair and wraps hisarm around me and I drift.When I open my eyes, light is filling the room, making meblink. My head is fuzzy from lack of sleep. Where am I?Oh—the hotel . . .“Hi,” Christian murmurs, smiling fondly at me. He’slying beside me, fully dressed, on top of the bed. Howlong has he been here? Has he been studying me?Suddenly, I feel incredibly shy as my face heats under hissteady gaze.“Hi,” I murmur, grateful that I am lying on my front.“How long ha一ve you been watching me?”“I could watch you sleep for hours, Anastasia. But I’veonly been here about five minutes.” He leans over andkisses me gently. “Dr. Greene will be here shortly.”“Oh.” I’d forgotten about Christian’s inappropriateintervention.“Did you sleep well?” he inquires mildly. “Certainlyseemed like it to me, with all that snoring.”Oh, playful teasing Fifty.“I do not snore!” I pout petulantly.“No. You don’t.” He grins at me. The faint line of redlipstick is still visible around his neck.“Did you shower?”“No. Waiting for you.”“Oh . . . okay.”“What time is it?”“What time is it?”“Ten fifteen. I didn’t ha一ve the heart to wake youearlier.”“You told me you didn’t ha一ve a heart at all.”He smiles, sadly but doesn’t answer. “Breakfast is here—pancakes and bacon for you. Come, get up, I’m gettinglonely out here.” He swats me sharply on my behind,making me jump, and rises from the bed.Hmm . . . Christian’s version of warm affection.As I stretch, I’m aware I ache all over . . . no doub一t aresult of all the sex, dancing, and teetering in expensivehigh-heeled shoes. I stagger out of bed and make my wayinto the sumptuously appointed bathroom while going overthe events of the previous day in my mind. When I comeout, I don one of the over-fluffy bathrobes that hang on abrass peg in the bathroom.Leila—the girl who looks like me—that’s the moststartling image my brain conjures for conjecture, that andher eerie presence in Christian’s bedroom. What did shewant? Me? Christian? To do what? And why the fuck haswant? Me? Christian? To do what? And why the fuck hasshe wrecked my car?Christian said I would ha一ve another Audi, like all hissubmissives. The thought is unwelcome. Since I was sogenerous with the money he ga一ve me, there’s not a lot Ican do.I wander into the main room of the suite—no sign ofChristian. I finally locate him in the dining room. I take aseat, grateful for the impressive breakfast laid before me.Christian is reading the Sunday papers and drinking coffee,his breakfast finished. He smiles at me.“Eat up. You’re going to need your strength today,” heteases.“And why is that? You going to lock me in thebedroom?” My inner goddess jerks awake suddenly, alldisheveled with a just-fucked look.“Appealing as that idea is, I thought we’d go outtoday. Get some fresh air.”“Is it safe?” I ask innocently, trying and failing to keepthe irony from my voice.Christian’s face falls, and his mouth presses in a line.“Where we’re going, it is. And it’s not a joking matter,” headds sternly, narrowing his eyes.I flush and stare down at my breakfast. I don’t feel likebeing scolded after all the drama and such a late night. Ieat my breakfast in silence, feeling petulant.My subconscious is shaking her head at me. Fiftydoesn’t joke about my safety—I should know this bynow. I want to roll my eyes at him, but I refrain.Okay, I’m tired and testy. I had a long day yesterdayand not enough sleep. Why, oh why does he get to look asfresh as a daisy? Life is not fair.There’s a knock at the door.“That’ll be the good doctor,” Christian grumbles,obviously still smarting from my irony. He stalks from thetable.Can’t we just ha一ve a calm, normal morning? I sighhea一vily, lea一ving half my breakfast, and get up to greetDoctor Depo-Provera.We’re in the bedroom, and Dr. Greene is staring at meopen-mouthed. She’s dressed more casually than last timein a pale pink cashmere twin set and black pants, and herfine blond hair is loose.“And you just stopped taking it? Just like that?”I flush, feeling beyond foolish.“Yes.” Could my voice be any smaller?“You could be pregnant,” she says matter-of-factly.What! The world falls away at my feet. Mysubconscious collapses on the floor retching, and I thinkI’m going to be sick, too. No!“Here, go pee in this.” She’s all business today—taking no prisoners.Meekly, I accept the small plastic container she’soffered and wander in a daze into the bathroom. No. No.No. No way . . . No way . . . Please no. No.What will Fifty do? I go pale. He’ll freak.No, please! I whisper a silent prayer.No, please! I whisper a silent prayer.I hand Dr. Greene my sample, and she carefully placesa small white stick in it.“When did your period start?”How am I supposed to think about such minutiae whenall I can do is stare anxiously at the white stick?“Er . . . Wednesday? Not the one just gone, the onebefore that. June first.”“And when did you stop taking the pill?”“Sunday. Last Sunday.”She purses her lips.“You should be okay,” she says sharply. “I can tell byyour expression that an unplanned pregnancy would not bewelcome news. So Medroxyprogesterone is a good idea ifyou can’t remember to take the pill every day.” She givesme a stern look, and I quail under her authoritative glare.Picking up the white stick, she peers at it.“You’re in the clear. You’ve not ovulated yet, soprovided you’ve been taking proper precautions, youshouldn’t be pregnant. Now, let me counsel you about thisshot. We discounted it last time because of the sideeffects, but quite frankly, the side effects of a child are farreachingand go on for years.” She smiles, pleased withherself and her little joke, but I can’t begin to respond—I’m too stunned.Dr. Greene launches into full disclosure mode aboutside effects, and I sit paralyzed with relief, not listening to aword. I think I’d tolerate any number of strange womenstanding at the end of my bed rather than confess toChristian that I might be pregnant.“Ana!” Dr. Greene snaps. “Let’s do this thing.” Shepulls me out of my reverie, and I willingly roll up mysleeve.Christian closes the door behind her and gazes at mewarily. “Everything okay?” he asks.I nod mutely, and he tilts his head to one side, his facetense with concern.“Anastasia, what is it? What did Dr. Greene say?”I shake my head. “You’re good to go in seven days,” Imutter.“Seven days?”“Yes.”“Ana, what’s wrong?”I swallow. “It’s nothing to worry about. Please,Christian, just lea一ve it.”Christian looms in front of me. He grasps my chin,tipping my head back, and stares emphatically into myeyes, trying to decipher my panic.“Tell me,” he snaps insistently.“There’s nothing to tell. I’d like to get dressed.” I pullmy chin out of his reach.He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frowning atme. “Let’s shower,” he says eventually.“Of course,” I mutter, distracted, and his mouth twists.“Come,” he says sulkily, clasping my hand firmly. Hestalks toward the bathroom as I trail behind him. I am notthe only one in a bad mood, it seems. Firing up thethe only one in a bad mood, it seems. Firing up theshower, Christian quickly strips before turning to me.“I don’t know what’s upset you, or if you’re just badtemperedthrough lack of sleep,” he says while unfasteningmy robe. “But I want you to tell me. My imagination isrunning away with me, and I don’t like it.”I roll my eyes at him, and he glares back at me,narrowing his eyes. Shit! Okay . . . here goes.“Dr. Greene scolded me about missing the pill. Shesaid I could be pregnant.”“What?” He pales, and his hands freeze as he gazes atme, suddenly ashen.“But I’m not. She did a test. It was a shock, that’s all.I can’t believe I was that stupid.”He visibly relaxes. “You’re sure you’re not?”“Yes.”He blows out a deep breath. “Good. Yes, I can seethat news like that would be very upsetting.”I frown. . . . upsetting? “I was more worried aboutyour reaction.”your reaction.”He furrows his brow at me, puzzled. “My reaction?Well, naturally I’m relieved . . . it would be the height ofcarelessness and bad manners to knock you up.”“Then maybe we should abstain,” I snap.He gazes at me for a moment, bewildered, as if I’msome kind of science experiment. “You are in a badtemper this morning.”“It was just a shock, that’s all,” I repeat petulantly.Clasping the lapels of my robe, he pulls me into awarm embrace, kisses my hair, and presses my headagainst his chest. I’m distracted by his chest hair as ittickles my cheek. Oh, if I could just nuzzle him!“Ana, I’m not used to this,” he murmurs. “My naturalinclination is to beat it out of you, but I seriously doub一t youwant that.”Holy shit. “No, I don’t. This helps.” I hug Christiantighter, and we stand for an age in a strange embrace,Christian naked and me wrapped in a robe. I am onceagain floored by his honesty. He knows nothing aboutrelationships, and neither do I, except what I’ve learnedfrom him. Well, he’s asked for faith and patience; maybe Ishould do the same.“Come, let’s shower,” Christian says eventually,releasing me.Stepping back, he peels me out of my robe, and Ifollow him into the cascading water, holding my face up tothe torrent. There’s room for both of us under thegargantuan showerhead. Christian reaches for theshampoo and starts washing his hair. He hands it to meand I follow suit.Oh, this feels good. Closing my eyes, I succumb tothe cleansing, warming water. As I rinse off the shampoo, Ifeel his hands on me, soaping my body: my shoulders, myarms, under my arms, my breasts, my back. Gently heturns me around and pulls me against him as he continuesdown my body: my stomach, my belly, his skilled fingersbetween my legs—hmm—my behind. Oh, that feels goodand so intimate. He turns me around to face him again.“Here,” he says quietly, handing me the body wash. “I“Here,” he says quietly, handing me the body wash. “Iwant you to wash off the remains of the lipstick.”My eyes open in a flurry and dart quickly to his. He’sstaring at me intently, soaking wet and beautiful, hisglorious, bright gray eyes giving nothing away.“Don’t stray far from the line, please,” he mutterstightly.“Okay,” I murmur, trying to absorb the enormity ofwhat he’s just asked me to do—to touch him on the edgeof the forbidden zone.I squeeze a small amount of soap on my hand, rub myhands together to create a lather, then place them on hisshoulders and gently wash away the line of lipstick on eachside. He stills and closes his eyes, his face impassive, buthe’s breathing rapidly, and I know it’s not lust but fear. Itcuts me to the quick.With trembling fingers, I carefully follow the line downthe side of his chest, soaping and rubbing softly, and heswallows, his jaw tense as if his teeth are clenched. Oh!My heart constricts and my throat tightens. Oh no, I’mMy heart constricts and my throat tightens. Oh no, I’mgoing to cry.I stop to add more soap to my hand and feel him relaxin front of me. I can’t look up at him. I can’t bear to seehis pain—it’s too much. I swallow.“Ready?” I murmur and the tension is loud and clear inmy voice.“Yes,” he whispers, his voice husky, laced with fear.Gently, I place my hands on either side of his chest,and he freezes again.It’s too much. I am overwhelmed by his trust in me—overwhelmed by his fear, by the damage done to thisbeautiful, fallen, flawed man.Tears pool in my eyes and spill down my face, lost inthe water from the shower. Oh, Christian! Who did thisto you?His diaphragm moves rapidly with each shallow breath,his body is rigid, tension radiating off him in wa一ves as myhands move along the line, erasing it. Oh, if I could justerase your pain, I would—I’d do anything—and I wantnothing more than to kiss every single scar I see, to kissaway those hideous years of neglect. But I know I can’t,and my tears fall unbidden down my cheeks.“No. Please, don’t cry,” he murmurs, his voiceanguished as he wraps me tightly in his arms. “Please don’tcry for me.” And I burst into full-blown sobs, burying myface against his neck, as I think of a little boy lost in a seaof fear and pain, frightened, neglected, abused—hurtbeyond all endurance.Pulling away, he clasps my head with both hands, tilts itbackward, and leans down to kiss me.“Don’t cry, Ana, please,” he murmurs against mymouth. “It was long ago. I am aching for you to touch me,but I just can’t bear it. It’s too much. Please, please don’tcry.”“I want to touch you, too. More than you’ll ever know.To see you like this . . . so hurt and afraid, Christian . . . itwounds me deeply. I love you so much.”He runs his thumb across my bottom lip. “I know. Iknow,” he whispers.know,” he whispers.“You’re very easy to love. Don’t you see that?”“No, baby, I don’t.”“You are. And I do and so does your family. So doElena and Leila—they ha一ve a strange way of showing it—but they do. You are worthy.”“Stop.” He puts his finger over my lips and shakes hishead, an agonized expression on his face. “I can’t hearthis. I’m nothing, Anastasia. I’m a husk of a man. I don’tha一ve a heart.”“Yes, you do. And I want it, all of it. You’re a goodman, Christian, a really good man. Don’t ever doub一t that.Look at what you’ve done . . . what you’ve achieved,” Isob. “Look what you’ve done for me . . . what you’veturned your back on, for me,” I whisper. “I know. I knowhow you feel about me.”He gazes down at me, his eyes wide and panicked,and all we can hear is the steady stream of water as itflows over us in the shower.“You love me,” I whisper.“You love me,” I whisper.His eyes widen further and his mouth opens. He takesa huge breath as if winded. He looks tortured—vulnerable.“Yes,” he whispers. “I do.”I cannot contain my jubilation. My subconscious gapes atme open-mouthed—in stunned silence—and I wear aface-splitting grin as I gaze longingly up into Christian’swide, tortured eyes.His soft sweet confession calls to me on some deepelemental level as if he’s seeking absolution; his three smallwords are my manna from hea一ven. Tears prick my eyesonce more. Yes, you do. I know you do.It’s such a liberating realization as if a crushingmillstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, fucked-upmillstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, fucked-upman, whom I once thought of as my romantic hero—strong, solitary, mysterious—possesses all these traits, buthe’s also fragile and alienated and full of self-loathing. Myheart swells with joy but also pain for his suffering. And Iknow in this moment that my heart is big enough for bothof us. I hope it’s big enough for both of us.I reach up to clasp his dear, dear, handsome face andkiss him gently, pouring all the love I feel into this onesweet connection. I want to devour him beneath the hotcascading water. Christian groans and encircles me in hisarms, holding me as if I am the air he needs to breathe.“Oh, Ana,” he whispers hoarsely, “I want you, but nothere.”“Yes,” I murmur fervently into his mouth.He switches off the shower and takes my hand, leadingme out and enfolding me in my bathrobe. Grabbing atowel, he wraps it around his waist, then takes a smallerone and begins to gently dry my hair. When he’s satisfied,he swathes the towel around my head so that in the largehe swathes the towel around my head so that in the largemirror over the sink I look like I’m wearing a veil. He’sstanding behind me and our eyes meet in the mirror,smoldering gray to bright blue, and it gives me an idea.“Can I reciprocate?” I ask.He nods, though his brow creases. I reach for anothertowel from the plethora of fluffy towels stacked beside thevanity, and standing before him on tiptoe, I start to dry hishair. He bends forward, making the process easier, and asI catch the occasional glimpse of his face beneath thetowel, I see he’s grinning at me like a small boy.“It’s a long time since anyone did this to me. A verylong time,” he murmurs, but then frowns. “In fact I don’tthink anyone’s ever dried my hair.”“Surely Grace did? Dried your hair when you wereyoung?”He shakes his head, hampering my progress.“No. She respected my boundaries from day one,even though it was painful for her. I was very self-sufficientas a child,” he says quietly.I feel a swift kick in the ribs as I think of a smallcopper-haired child looking after himself because no oneelse cares. The thought is sickeningly sad. But I don’t wantmy melancholy to hijack this blossoming intimacy.“Well, I’m honored,” I gently tease him.“That you are, Miss Steele. Or maybe it is I who amhonored.”“That goes without saying, Mr. Grey,” I respondtartly.I finish with his hair, reach for another small towel, andmove round to stand behind him. Our eyes meet again inthe mirror, and his watchful, questioning look prompts meto speak.“Can I try something?”After a moment, he nods. Warily, and very gently, Irun the soft cloth down his left arm, soaking up the waterthat has beaded on his skin. Glancing up, I check hisexpression in the mirror. He blinks at me, his eyes burninginto mine.I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips partI lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips partinfinitesimally. I dry his other arm in a similar fashion,trailing kisses around his bicep, and a small smile plays onhis lips. Carefully, I wipe his back beneath the faint lipstickline, which is still visible. I hadn’t gotten round to washinghis back.“Whole back,” he says quietly, “with the towel.” Hetakes a sharp breath and screws his eyes closed as Ibriskly dry him, careful to touch him only with the towel.He has such an attractive back—broad, sculpturedshoulders, all the small muscles clearly defined. He reallylooks after himself. The beautiful sight is marred only by hisscars.With difficulty, I ignore them and suppress myoverwhelming urge to kiss each and every one. When Ifinish he exhales, and I lean forward and reward him with akiss on his shoulder. Putting my arms around him, I dry hisstomach. Our eyes meet once more in the mirror, hisexpression amused but wary, too.“Hold this.” I hand him a smaller face towel, and he“Hold this.” I hand him a smaller face towel, and hegives me a bemused frown. “Remember in Georgia? Youmade me touch myself using your hands,” I add.His face darkens, but I ignore his reaction and put myarms around him. Gazing at us both in the mirror—hisbeauty, his nakedness, and me with my covered hair—welook almost Biblical, as if from an Old Testament baroquepainting.I reach for his hand, which he willingly entrusts to me,and guide it up to his chest to dry it, sweeping the towelslowly, awkwardly across his body. Once, twice—thenagain. He’s completely immobilized, rigid with tension,except for his eyes, which follow my hand clasped aroundhis.My subconscious looks on with approval, her normallypursed mouth smiling, and I am the supreme puppetmaster. His anxiety ripples off his back in wa一ves, but hemaintains eye contact, though his eyes are darker, moredeadly. Showing their secrets maybe.Is this a place I want to go? Do I want to confront hisdemons?“I think you’re dry now,” I whisper as I drop my hand,gazing into the gray depths of his eyes in the mirror. Hisbreathing is accelerated, lips parted.“I need you, Anastasia,” he whispers.“I need you, too.” And as I say the words, I am struckhow true they are. I cannot imagine being withoutChristian, ever.“Let me love you,” he says hoarsely.“Yes,” I answer, and turning, he hauls me into his arms,his lips seeking mine, beseeching me, worshipping me,cherishing me . . . loving me.He trails his fingers up and down my spine as we gaze ateach other, basking in our postcoital bliss, replete. We lietogether, me on my front hugging my pillow, he on his side,and I am treasuring his tender touch. I know that right nowhe needs to touch me. I am a balm for him, a source ofsolace, and how could I deny him that? I feel exactly thesame about him.“So you can be gentle,” I murmur.“Hmm . . . so it would seem, Miss Steele.”I grin. “You weren’t particularly the first time we . . .um, did this.”“No?” He smirks. “When, I robbed you of yourvirtue.”“I don’t think you robbed me,” I mutter haughtily—Jeez, I’m not a helpless maiden. “I think my virtuewas offered up pretty freely and willingly. I wanted you,too, and if I remember correctly, I rather enjoyed myself.”I smile shyly at him, biting my lip.“So did I if I recall, Miss Steele. We aim to please,” hedrawls and his face softens, serious. “And it means you’remine, completely.” All trace of humor has vanished as hegazes at me.“Yes, I am,” I murmur back at him. “I wanted to askyou something.”“Go ahead.”“Go ahead.”“Your biological father . . . do you know who hewas?” This thought has been bugging me.His brow creases, and then he shakes his head. “I ha一veno idea. Wasn’t the sa一vage who was her pimp, which isgood.”“How do you know?”“Something my dad . . . something Carrick said tome.”I gaze at my Fifty expectantly, waiting. He smirks atme.“So hungry for information, Anastasia,” he sighs,shaking his head. “The pimp discovered the crack whore’sbody and phoned it in to the authorities. Took him fourdays to make the discovery though. He shut the doorwhen he left . . . left me with her . . . her body.” His eyescloud at the memory.I inhale sharply. Poor baby boy—the horror is toogrim to contemplate.“Police interviewed him later. He denied flat out I was“Police interviewed him later. He denied flat out I wasanything to do with him, and Carrick said he lookednothing like me.”“Do you remember what he did look like?”“Anastasia, this isn’t a part of my life I revisit veryoften. Yes, I remember what he looked like. I’ll neverforget him.” Christian’s face darkens and hardens,becoming more angular, his eyes frosting with anger. “Canwe talk about something else?”“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”He shakes his head. “It’s old news, Ana. Notsomething I want to think about.”“So what’s this surprise, then?” I need to change thesubject before he goes all Fifty on me. His expressionlightens immediately.“Can you face going out for some fresh air? I want toshow you something.”“Of course.”I marvel how quickly he turns—mercurial as ever. Hegrins at me with his boyish, carefree, I’m-only-twentysevensmile, and my heart lurches into my mouth. So it’ssomething close to his heart, I can tell. He swats meplayfully on my behind.“Get dressed. Jeans will be good. I hope Taylor’spacked some for you.”He rises and pulls on his boxer briefs. Oh . . . I couldsit here all day, watching him wander around the room.My inner goddess agrees, swooning as she ogles from herchaise longue.“Up,” he scolds, bossy as ever. I gaze at him, grinning.“Just admiring the view.”He rolls his eyes at me.As we dress, I notice that we move with thesynchronization of two people who know each other well,each watchful and acutely aware of the other, exchangingthe occasional shy smile and sweet touch. And it dawns onme that this is just as new for him as it is for me.“Dry your hair,” Christian orders once we’re dressed.“Domineering as ever.” I smirk at him, and he leansdown to kiss my hair.down to kiss my hair.“That’s never going to change, baby. I don’t want yousick.”I roll my eyes at him, and his mouth twists inamusement.“My palms still twitch, you know, Miss Steele.”“I am glad to hear it, Mr. Grey. I was beginning tothink you were losing your edge,” I retort.“I could easily demonstrate that is not the case, shouldyou so wish.” Christian drags a large, cream, cable-knitsweater out of his bag and drapes it artfully over hisshoulders. With his white T-shirt and jeans, his artfullyrumpled hair, and now this, he looks as if he’s stepped outof the pages of a high-end glossy magazine.No one should look this good. And I don’t know if it’sthe momentary distraction of his sheer perfect looks or theknowledge that he loves me, but his threat no longer fillsme with dread. This is my Fifty Shades; this is the way heis.As I reach for the hairdryer, a tangible ray of hopeAs I reach for the hairdryer, a tangible ray of hopeblossoms. We will find a middle way. We just ha一ve torecognize each other’s needs and accommodate them. Ican do that, surely?I gaze at myself in the dresser mirror. I’m wearing thepale blue shirt that Taylor bought and had packed for me.My hair is a mess, my face flushed, my lips swollen—Itouch them, remembering Christian’s searing kisses, and Ican’t help a small smile as I stare. Yes, I do, he said.“Where are we going exactly?” I ask as we wait in thelobby for the parking valet.Christian taps the side of his nose and winks at meconspiratorially, looking like he’s desperately trying tocontain his glee. Frankly, it’s very un-Fifty.He was like this when we went gliding—perhaps that’swhat we’re doing. I beam back at him. He stares down hisnose at me in that superior way he has with his lopsidedgrin. Leaning down, he kisses me gently.“Do you ha一ve any idea how happy you make me feel?”he murmurs.“Yes . . . I know exactly. Because you do the same forme.”The valet zooms up in Christian’s car, wearing a facesplittinggrin. Jeez, everyone is so happy today.“Great car, sir,” he mumbles as he hands over thekeys. Christian winks and gives him an obscenely largetip.I frown at him. Honestly.As we cruise through the traffic, Christian is deep inthought. A young woman’s voice comes over theloudspeakers; it has a beautiful, rich, mellow timbre, and Ilose myself in her sad, soulful voice.“I need to make a detour. It shouldn’t take long,” hesays absentmindedly, distracting me from the song.Oh, why? I’m intrigued to know the surprise. My innergoddess is bouncing about like a five-year-old.goddess is bouncing about like a five-year-old.“Sure,” I murmur. Something is amiss. Suddenly, helooks grimly determined.He pulls into the parking lot of large car dealership,stops the car, and turns to face me, his expression wary.“We need to get you a new car,” he says. I gape athim.Now? On a Sunday? What the hell? And this is a Saabdealership.“Not an Audi?” is, stupidly, the only thing I can think ofto say, and bless him, he actually flushes.Holy cow—Christian, embarrassed. This is a first.“I thought you might like something else,” he mutters.He’s almost squirming.Oh, please . . . This is too valuable an opportunity notto tease him. I smirk. “A Saab?”“Yeah. A 9-3. Come.”“What is it with you and foreign cars?”“The Germans and the Swedes make the safest cars inthe world, Anastasia.”the world, Anastasia.”Do they? “I thought you’d already ordered me anotherAudi A3?”He gives me a darkly amused look. “I can cancel that.Come.” Climbing smoothly out of the car, he strollsgracefully to my side and opens my door.“I owe you a graduation present,” he says softly andholds his hand out for me.“Christian, you really don’t ha一ve to do this.”“Yes, I do. Please. Come.” His tone says he’s not tobe trifled with.I resign myself to my fate. A Saab? Do I want a Saab?I quite like the Audi Submissive Special. It was very nifty.Of course, now it’s under a ton of white paint . . . Ishudder. And she’s still out there.I take Christian’s hand, and we wander into theshowroom.Troy Turniansky, the salesman, is all over Fifty like acheap suit. He can smell a sale. Weirdly his accent soundsmid-Atlantic, maybe British? It’s difficult to tell.“A Saab, sir? Pre-owned?” He rubs his hands withglee.“New.” Christian’s lips set into a hard line.New!“Did you ha一ve a model in mind, sir?” And he’ssmarmy, too.“9-3 2.0T Sport Sedan.”“An excellent choice, sir.”“What color, Anastasia?” Christian inclines his head.“Er . . . black?” I shrug. “You really don’t need to dothis.”He frowns. “Black’s not easily seen at night.”Oh, for hea一ven’s sake. I resist the temptation to rollmy eyes. “You ha一ve a black car.”He scowls at me.“Bright canary yellow then.” I shrug.Christian makes a face—canary yellow is obviouslynot his thing.“What color do you want me to ha一ve?” I ask as if he’sa small child, which he is in many ways. The thought isa small child, which he is in many ways. The thought isunwelcome—sad and sobering at once.“Silver or white.”“Silver, then. You know I’ll take the Audi,” I add,chastened by my thoughts.Troy pales, sensing he’s losing a sale. “Perhaps you’dlike the convertible, ma’am?” he asks, clapping his handswith enthusiasm.My subconscious is cringing in disgust, mortified by thewhole buying-a-car business, but my inner goddess tacklesher to the floor. Convertible? Drool!Christian frowns and peers at me. “Convertible?” heasks, raising an eyebrow.I flush. It’s like he has a direct hotline to my innergoddess, which of course, he has. It’s most inconvenient attimes. I stare down at my hands.Christian turns to Troy. “What are the safety stats onthe convertible?”Troy, sensing Christian’s vulnerability, heads in for thekill, reeling off all manner of statistics.kill, reeling off all manner of statistics.Of course, Christian wants me safe. It’s a religion withhim, and like the zealot he is, he listens intently to Troy’swell-honed patter. Fifty really does care.Yes. I do. I remember his whispered, choked wordsfrom this morning, and a melting glow spreads like warmhoney through my veins. This man—God’s gift to women—loves me.I find myself grinning goofily at him, and when heglances down at me, he’s amused yet puzzled by myexpression. I just want to hug myself, I am so happy.“Whatever you’re high on, I’d like some, Miss Steele,”he murmurs as Troy heads off to his computer.“I’m high on you, Mr. Grey.”“Really? Well you certainly look intoxicated.” Hekisses me briefly. “And thank you for accepting the car.That was easier than last time.”“Well, it’s not an Audi A3.”He smirks. “That’s not the car for you.”“I liked it.”“Sir, the 9-3? I’ve located one at our Beverly Hillsdealership. We can ha一ve it here for you in a couple ofdays.” Troy glows with triumph.“Top of the range?”“Yes, sir.”“Excellent.” Christian produces his credit card, or is itTaylor’s? The thought is unnerving. I wonder how Tayloris, and if he’s located Leila in the apartment. I rub myforehead. Yes, there’s all of Christian’s baggage, too.“If you’ll come this way, Mr.”—Troy glances at thename on the card—“Grey.”Christian opens my door, and I climb back into thepassenger seat.“Thank you,” I say when he’s seated beside me.He smiles.“You’re most welcome, Anastasia.”The music starts again as Christian starts the engine.“Who’s this?” I ask.“Eva Cassidy.”“She has a lovely voice.”“She does, she did.”“Oh.”“She died young.”“Oh.”“Are you hungry? You didn’t finish all your breakfast.”He glances quickly at me, disapproval outlined on his face.Uh-oh. “Yes.”“Lunch first, then.”Christian drives toward the waterfront then heads northalong the Alaskan Way. It’s another beautiful day inSeattle. It’s been uncharacteristically fine for the last fewweeks, I muse.Christian looks happy and relaxed as we sit backlistening to Eva Cassidy’s sweet, soulful voice and cruisedown the highway. Ha一ve I ever felt this comfortable in hiscompany before? I don’t know.I am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won’tI am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won’tpunish me, and he seems more comfortable with me, too.He turns left, following the coast road, and eventually pullsup in a parking lot opposite a vast marina.“We’ll eat here. I’ll open your door,” he says in such away that I know it’s not wise to move, and I watch himmove around the car. Will this ever get old?We stroll arm in arm to the waterfront where the marinastretches out in front of us.“So many boats,” I murmur in wonder. There arehundreds of them in all shapes and sizes, bobbing up anddown on the calm, still waters of the marina. Out on theSound there are dozens of sails in the wind, wea一ving toand fro, enjoying the fine weather. It’s a wholesome,outdoorsy sight. The wind has picked up a little, so I pullmy jacket around me.“Cold?” he asks and pulls me tightly against him.“No, just admiring the view.”“No, just admiring the view.”“I could stare at it all day. Come, this way.”Christian leads me into a large seafront bar and makeshis way to the counter. The décor is more New Englandthan West Coast—white-limed walls, pale blue furnishings,and boating paraphernalia hanging everywhere. It’s abright, cheery place.“Mr. Grey!” the barman greets Christian warmly.“What can I get you this afternoon?”“Dante, good afternoon.” Christian grins as we bothslip onto bar stools. “This lovely lady is Anastasia Steele.”“Welcome to SP’s Place.” Dante gives me a friendlysmile. He’s black and beautiful, his dark eyes assessing meand not finding me wanting, it seems. One large diamondstud winks at me from his ear. I like him immediately.“What would you like to drink, Anastasia?”I glance at Christian, who regards me expectantly. Oh,he’s going to let me choose.“Please, call me Ana, and I’ll ha一ve whateverChristian’s drinking.” I smile shyly at Dante. Fifty’s somuch better at wine than I am.“I’m going to ha一ve a beer. This is the only bar inSeattle where you can get Adnam’s Explorer.”“A beer?”“Yes.” He grins at me. “Two Explorers, please,Dante.”Dante nods and sets up the beers on the bar.“They do a delicious seafood chowder here,” Christiansays.He’s asking me.“Chowder and beer sounds great.” I smile at him.“Two chowders?” Dante asks.“Please.” Christian grins at him.We talk through our meal, as we never ha一ve before.Christian is relaxed and calm—he looks young, happy,and animated despite all that transpired yesterday. Herecounts the history of Grey Enterprises Holdings, and themore he reveals, the more I sense his passion for fixingproblem companies, his hopes for the technology he’sdeveloping, and his dreams of making land in the thirddeveloping, and his dreams of making land in the thirdworld more productive. I listen enraptured. He’s funny,clever, philanthropic, and beautiful, and he loves me.In turn, he plagues me with questions about Ray andmy mom, about growing up in the lush forests ofMontesano, and my brief stints in Texas and Vegas. Hedemands to know my fa一vorite books and films, and I’msurprised by how much we ha一ve in common.As we talk, it strikes me that he’s turned from Hardy’sAlec to Angel, debasement to high ideal in such a shortspace of time.It’s after two when we finish our meal. Christian settlesthe tab with Dante, who wishes us a fond farewell.“This is a great place. Thank you for lunch,” I say asChristian takes my hand and we lea一ve the bar.“We’ll come again,” he says, and we stroll along thewaterfront. “I wanted to show you something.”“I know . . . and I can’t wait to see it, whatever it is.”We wander hand in hand along the marina. It is such apleasant afternoon. People are out enjoying their Sunday—walking dogs, admiring the boats, watching their kidsrun along the promenade.As we head down the marina, the boats are gettingprogressively larger. Christian leads me on to the dock andstops in front of a huge catamaran.“I thought we’d go sailing this afternoon. This is myboat.”Holy cow. It must be at least forty, maybe fifty feet.Two sleek white hulls, a deck, a roomy cabin, andtowering over them a very tall mast. I know nothing aboutboats, but I can tell this one is special.“Wow . . . ,” I murmur in wonder.“Built by my company,” he says proudly and my heartswells. “She’s been designed from the ground up by thevery best na一val architects in the world and constructedhere in Seattle at my yard. She has hybrid electric drives,asymmetric dagger boards, a square-topped mainsail—”“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’s her name?”He pulls me to the side so I can see her name: TheGrace. I’m surprised. “You named her after your mom?”“Yes.” He cocks his head to one side, quizzical. “Whydo you find that strange?”I shrug. I am surprised—he always seems ambivalentin her presence.“I adore my mom, Anastasia. Why wouldn’t I name aboat after her?”I flush. “No, it’s not that . . . it’s just . . .” Shit, howcan I put this into words?“Anastasia, Grace Trevelyan sa一ved my life. I owe hereverything.”I gaze at him, and let the reverence in his softly spokenadmission wash over me. It’s obvious to me, for the firsttime, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strainedtime, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strainedambivalence toward her?“Do you want to come aboard?” he asks, his eyesbright, excited.“Yes, please.” I smile.He looks delighted and delightful in one yummyscrumptious package. Grasping my hand, he strides up thesmall gangplank and leads me aboard so that we arestanding on deck beneath a rigid canopy.To one side there’s a table and a U-shaped banquettecovered in pale blue leather, which must seat at least eightpeople. I glance through the sliding doors to the interior ofthe cabin and jump, startled when I spy someone there.The tall blond man opens the sliding doors and emerges—all tanned, curly-haired and brown-eyed—wearing a fadedpink short-sleeved polo shirt, shorts, and deck shoes. Hemust be in his early thirties.“Mac.” Christian beams.“Mr. Grey! Welcome back.” They shake hands.“Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my“Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, mygirlfriend, Anastasia Steele.”Girlfriend! My inner goddess performs a quickarabesque. She’s still grinning over the convertible. I ha一veto get used to this—it’s not the first time he’s said it, buthearing him say it is still a thrill.“How do you do?” Liam and I shake hands.“Call me Mac,” he says warmly, and I can’t place hisaccent. “Welcome aboard, Miss Steele.”“Ana, please,” I mutter, flushing. He has deep browneyes.“How’s she shaping up, Mac?” Christian interjectsquickly, and for a moment, I think he’s talking about me.“She’s ready to rock and roll, sir,” Mac beams. Oh,the boat, The Grace. Silly me.“Let’s get underway, then.”“You going to take her out?”“Yep.” Christian flashes Mac a quick wicked grin.“Quick tour, Anastasia?”“Yes, please.”I follow him inside the cabin. An L-shaped creamleather sofa is directly in front of us, and above it, amassive curved window offers a panoramic view of themarina. To the left is the kitchen area—very wellappointed, all pale wood.“This is the main saloon. Galley beside,” Christian says,wa一ving his hand in the direction of the kitchen.He takes my hand and leads me through the maincabin. It’s surprisingly spacious. The floor is the same palewood. It looks modern and sleek and has a light, airy feel,but it’s all very functional, as if he doesn’t spend much timehere.“Bathrooms on either side.” Christian points to twodoors, then opens the small, oddly shaped door directly infront of us and steps in. We’re in a plush bedroom.Oh . . .It has a king-size cabin bed and is all pale blue linenand pale wood like his bedroom at Escala. Christianobviously chooses a theme and sticks to it.“This is the master cabin.” He gazes down at me, gray“This is the master cabin.” He gazes down at me, grayeyes glowing. “You’re the first girl in here, apart fromfamily,” he smirks. “They don’t count.”I flush under his heated stare, and my pulse quickens.Really? Another first. He pulls me into his arms, hisfingers tangling in my hair, and kisses me, long and hard.We’re both breathless when he pulls away.“Might ha一ve to christen this bed,” he whispers againstmy mouth.Oh, at sea!“But not right now. Come, Mac will be casting off.” Iignore the stab of disappointment as he takes my hand andleads me back through the saloon. He indicates anotherdoor.“Office in there, and at the front here, two morecabins.”“So how many can sleep on board?”“It’s a six-berth cat. I’ve only ever had the family onboard, though. I like to sail alone. But not when you’rehere. I need to keep an eye on you.”here. I need to keep an eye on you.”He delves into a chest and pulls out a bright redlifejacket.“Here.” Putting it over my head, he tightens all thestraps, a faint smile playing on his lips.“You love strapping me in, don’t you?”“In any form,” he says, a wicked grin playing on hislips.“You are a pervert.”“I know.” He raises his eyebrows and his grinbroadens.“My pervert,” I whisper.“Yes, yours.”Once secured, he grabs the sides of the jacket andkisses me. “Always,” he breathes, then releases me beforeI ha一ve a chance to respond.Always! Holy shit.“Come.” He grabs my hand and leads me outside, upsome steps, and onto the upper deck to a small cockpitthat houses a big steering wheel and a raised seat. At theprow of the boat, Mac is doing something with ropes.“Is this where you learned all your rope tricks?” I askChristian innocently.“Clove hitches ha一ve come in handy,” he says, lookingat me appraisingly. “Miss Steele, you sound curious. I likeyou curious, baby. I’d be more than happy to demonstratewhat I can do with a rope.” He smirks at me, and I gazeback impassively as if he’s upset me. His face falls.“Gotcha.” I grin.His mouth twists and he narrows his eyes. “I may ha一veto deal with you later, but right now, I’ve got to drive myboat.” He sits at the controls, presses a button, and theengines roar into life.Mac comes scooting back down the side of the boat,grinning at me, and jumps down to the deck below wherehe starts to unfasten a rope. Maybe he knows some ropetricks, too. The idea pops unwelcome into my head and Iflush.My subconscious glares at me. Mentally I shrug at herand glance at Christian—I blame Fifty. He picks up theand glance at Christian—I blame Fifty. He picks up thereceiver and radios the coastguard as Mac calls up that weare set to go.Once more, I am dazzled by Christian’s expertise.He’s so competent. Is there nothing that this man can’tdo? Then I remember his earnest attempt to chop and dicea pepper in my apartment on Friday. The thought makesme smile.