"Yes," Christian says tightly, telling me he's not sure about this at all. Oh, my poor, poor Fifty. I want to laugh at both him and myself because I'm nervous and excited. A small part of me wants to lose Sawyer and Ryan just for the kicks. I check for traffic then inch the R8 out onto the road. Christian curls up with tension and I can't resist. The road is clear. I put my foot down on the gas and we shoot forward.
"Whoa! Ana!" Christian shouts. "Slow down—you'll kill us both."
I immediately ease off the gas. Wow, can this car move!
"Sorry," I mutter, trying to sound contrite and failing miserably. Christian smirks at me, to hide his relief, I think.
"Well, that counts as misbehaving," he says casually and I slow right down.
I glance in the rearview mirror. No sign of the Audi, just a solitary dark car with tinted windows behind us. I imagine Sawyer and Ryan flustered, frantic to catch up, and for some reason this gives me a thrill. But not wanting to give my dear husband a coronary, I decide to behave and drive steadily with growing confidence toward the 520 bridge.
Suddenly, Christian swears and struggles to pull his BlackBerry from the pocket of his jeans.
"What?" he snaps angrily at whoever it is on the other end of the line. "No." he says and glances behind us. "Yes. She is."
I briefly check the rearview mirror, but I don't see anything odd, just a few cars behind us. The SUV is about four cars back, and we're all cruising at an even pace.
"I see." Christian sighs long and hard and rubs his forehead with his fingers, tension radiates off him. Something's wrong.
"Yes . . . I don't know." He glances at me and lowers the phone from his ear.
"We're fine. Keep going," he says calmly, smiling at me, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes. Shit! Adrenaline spikes through my system. He picks the phone up again.
"Okay on the 520. As soon as we hit it . . . Yes . . . I will."
He slots the phone into the speaker cradle, putting it on hands-free.
"What's wrong, Christian?"
"Just look where you're going, baby," he says softly.
I'm heading for the on-ramp of the 520 in the direction of Seattle. When I glance at Christian, he's staring straight ahead.
"I don't want you to panic," he says calmly. "But as soon as we're on the 520 proper, I want you to step on the gas. We're being followed."
Followed! Holy shit. My heart lurches into my mouth, pounding, my scalp prickles and my throat constricts with panic. Followed by whom? My eyes dart to the rearview mirror and, sure enough, the dark car I saw earlier is still behind us .
F*ck! Is that it? I squint through the tinted windshield to see who's driving, but I see nothing.
"Keep your eyes on the road, baby," Christian says gently, not in the trucu-lent tone he normally uses where my driving is concerned.
Get a grip! I mentally slap myself to subdue the dread that's threatening to swamp me. Suppose whoever's following us is armed? Armed and after Christian! Shit! I'm hit by a wave of nausea.
"How do we know we're being followed?" My voice is a breathy, squeaky, whisper.
"The Dodge behind us has false license plates."
How does he know that?
I signal as we approach the 520 from the on-ramp. It's late afternoon, and although the rain has stopped, the roadway is wet. Fortunately, the traffic is reasonably light.
Ray's voice echoes in my head from one of his many self-defense lectures.
"It's the panic that's gonna kill you or get you seriously hurt, Annie." I take a deep breath, trying to bring my breathing under control. Whoever is following us is after Christian. As I take another deep steadying breath, my mind begins to clear and my stomach settles. I have to keep Christian safe. I wanted to drive this car, and I wanted to drive it fast. Well, here's my chance. I grip the steering wheel and take a final glance in my rearview mirror. The Dodge is closing on us.
I slow right down, ignoring Christian's sudden panicked glance at me, and time my entrance on to the 520 so that the Dodge has to slow and stop to wait for a gap in the traffic. I drop a gear and floor it. The R8 shoots forward, slamming us both into the backs of our seats. The speedometer whips up to seventy-five miles per hour.
"Steady, baby," Christian says calmly, though I'm sure he's anything but calm.
I weave between the two lines of traffic like a black counter in a game of checkers, effectively jumping the cars and trucks. We're so close to the lake on this bridge, it's as if we're driving on the water. I studiously ignore the angry, disapproving looks from other drivers. Christian clutches his hands together in his lap, keeping as still as possible, and in spite of my fevered thoughts, I wonder vaguely if he's doing it so he doesn't distract me.
"Good girl," he breathes in encouragement. He glances behind him. "I can't see the Dodge."
"We're right behind the unsub, Mr. Grey." Sawyer's voice comes through the hands-free. "He's trying to catch up with you, sir. We're going to try and come alongside, put ourselves between your car and the Dodge."
Unsub? What does that mean?
"Good. Mrs. Grey is doing well. At this rate, provided the traffic remains light—and from what I can see it is—we'll be off the bridge in a few minutes."
"Sir."
We flash past the bridge control tower, and I know we're half way across Lake Washington. When I check my speed, I'm still doing seventy-five.
"You're doing really well, Ana," Christian murmurs again as he gazes out the back of the R8. For a fleeting moment, his tone reminds me of our first encounter in his playroom when he patiently encouraged me through our first scene. The thought is distracting, and I dismiss it immediately.
"Where am I headed?" I ask, moderately calmer. I have the feel of the car now. It's a joy to drive, so quiet and easy to handle it's hard to believe how fast we are going. Driving at this speed in this car is easy.
"Mrs. Grey, head for I-5 and then south. We want to see if the Dodge follows you all the way," Sawyer says over the hands-free. The traffic lights on the bridge are green—thank heavens—and I race onward.
I glance nervously at Christian, and he smiles reassuringly. Then his face falls.
"Shit!" he swears softly.
There is a line of traffic ahead as we come off the bridge, and I have to slow.
Glancing anxiously in the mirror once more, I think I spot the Dodge.
"Ten or so cars back?"
"Yeah, I see it," Christian says, peering through the narrow rear window. "I wonder who the f*ck it is?"
"Me too. Do we know if it's a man driving?" I blurt out toward the cradled BlackBerry.
"No, Mrs. Grey. Could be a man or woman. The tint is too dark."
"A woman?" Christian says.
I shrug. "Your Mrs. Robinson?" I suggest, not taking my eyes off the road.
Christian stiffens and lifts the BlackBerry out of its cradle. "She's not my Mrs. Robinson," he growls. "I haven't spoken to her since my birthday. And Elena wouldn't do this. It's not her style."
"Leila?"
"She's in Connecticut with her parents. I told you."
"Are you sure?"
He pauses. "No. But if she'd absconded, I'm sure her folks would have let Flynn know. Let's discuss this when we're home. Concentrate on what you're doing."
"But it might just be some random car."
"I'm not taking any risks. Not where you're concerned," he snaps. He replaces the BlackBerry in its cradle so we're back in contact with our security team .
Oh shit. I don't want to rattle Christian right now . . . later maybe. I hold my tongue. Fortunately, the traffic is thinning a little. I am able to speed over the Mountlake intersection toward the I-5, weaving through the cars again.
"What if we get stopped by the cops?" I ask.
"That would be a good thing."
"Not for my license."
"Don't worry about that," he says. Unexpectedly, I hear humor in his voice.
I put my foot down again, and hit seventy-five. Boy, this car can move. I love it—she's so easy. I touch eighty-five. I don't think I have ever driven this fast. I was lucky if my Beetle ever hit fifty miles an hour.
"He's cleared the traffic and picked up speed." Sawyer's disembodied voice is calm and informative. "He's doing ninety."
Shit! Faster! I press down on the gas and the car purrs to ninety-five miles per hour as we approach the I-5 intersection.
"Keep it up, Ana," Christian murmurs.
I slow momentarily as we glide onto the I-5. The interstate is fairly quiet, and I'm able to cross straight over to the fast lane in a split second. As I put my foot down, the glorious R8 zooms forward, and we tear down the left lane, lesser mortals pulling over to let us pass. If I wasn't so frightened, I might really enjoy this.
"He's hit one hundred miles per hour, sir."
"Stay with him, Luke," Christian barks at Sawyer.
Luke?
A truck lurches into the fast lane— Shit! —and I have to slam on the brakes.
"F*cking idiot!" Christian curses the driver as we lurch forward in our seats.
I am grateful for our seatbelts.
"Go around him, baby," Christian says through clenched teeth. I check my mirrors and cut right across three lanes. We speed past the slower vehicles and then cut back to the fast lane.
"Nice move, Mrs. Grey," Christian murmurs appreciatively. "Where are the cops when you need them?"
"I don't want a ticket, Christian," I mutter, concentrating on the highway ahead. "Have you had a speeding ticket driving this?"
"No," he says, but glancing quickly at him, I can see his smirk.
"Have you been stopped?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Charm, Mrs. Grey. It all comes down to charm. Now concentrate. Where's the Dodge, Sawyer?"
"He's just hit one hundred and ten, sir." Sawyer says.
Holy f*ck! My heart leaps once more into my mouth. Can I drive any faster? I push my foot down once more and streak past the traffic.
"Flash the headlights," Christian orders when a Ford Mustang won't move.
"But that would make me an a*shole."
"So be an a*shole!" he snaps.
Jeez. Okay! "Um, where are the headlights?"
"The indicator. Pull it toward you."
I do it, and the Mustang moves aside though not before the driver waves his finger at me in a none-too-complimentary manner. I zoom past him.
"He's the a*shole," Christian says under his breath, then barks at me, "get off on Stewart."
Yes sir!
"We're taking the Stewart Street exit," Christian says to Sawyer.
"Head straight to Escala, sir."
I slow, check my mirrors, signal, then move with surprising ease across four lanes of the highway and down the off-ramp. Merging onto Stewart Street, we head south. The street is quiet, with few vehicles. Where is everyone?
"We've been damned lucky with the traffic. But that means the Dodge has, too. Don't slow down, Ana. Get us home."
"I can't remember the way," I mutter, panicked by the fact the Dodge is still on our tail.
"Head south on Stewart. Keep going until I tell you when." Christian sounds anxious again. I zoom past three blocks but the lights change to yellow on Yale Avenue.
"Run them, Ana," Christian shouts. I jump so hard I floor the gas pedal, throwing us both back in our seats, speeding through the now red light.
"He's taking Stewart," Sawyer says.
"Stay with him, Luke."
"Luke?"
"That's his name."
A quick glance and I can see Christian glaring at me as if I'm crazy. "Eyes on the road!" he snaps.
I ignore his tone. "Luke Sawyer."
"Yes!" He sounds exasperated.
"Ah." How did I not know this? The man has been following me to work for the last six weeks, and I didn't even know his first name.
"That's me, ma'am," Sawyer says, startling me, though he's speaking in the calm, monotone voice he always uses. "The unsub is heading down Stewart, sir.
He's really picking up speed."
"Go, Ana. Less of the f*cking chitchat," Christian growls.
"We're stopped at the first light on Stewart." Sawyer informs us.
"Ana—quick—in here," Christian shouts, pointing to a parking lot on the south side of Boren Avenue. I turn, the tires screeching in protest as I swerve into the crowded lot.
"Drive around. Quick," Christian orders. I drive as fast as I can to the back, out of sight of the street. "In there." Christian points to a space. Shit! He wants me to park it. Crap!
"Just f*cking do it," he says. So I do . . . perfectly. Probably the only time I have ever parked perfectly.
"We're hidden in the parking lot between Stewart and Boren," Christian says into the BlackBerry.
"Okay, sir." Sawyer sounds irritated. "Stay where you are; we'll follow the unsub."
Christian turns to me, his eyes searching my face. "You okay?"
"Sure," I whisper.
Christian smirks. "Whoever's driving that Dodge can't hear us, you know."
And I laugh.
"We're passing Stewart and Boren now, sir. I see the lot. He's gone straight past you, sir."
Both of us sag simultaneously with relief.
"Well done, Mrs. Grey. Good driving." Christian gently strokes my face with his fingertips, and I jump at the contact, inhaling deeply. I had no idea I was holding my breath.
"Does this mean you'll stop complaining about my driving?" I ask. He laughs—a loud cathartic laugh.
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that."
"Thank you for letting me drive your car. Under such exciting circumstances, too." I try desperately to keep my voice light.
"Maybe I should drive now."
"To be honest, I don't think I can climb out right now to let you sit here. My legs feel like Jell-O." Suddenly I'm shuddering and shaking.
"It's the adrenaline, baby," he says. "You did amazingly well, as usual. You blow me away, Ana. You never let me down." He touches my cheek tenderly with the back of his hand, his face full of love, fear, regret—so many emotions at once—and his words are my undoing. Overwhelmed, a strangled sob escapes from my constricted throat, and I start to cry.
"No, baby, no. Please don't cry." He reaches over and, despite the limited space we have, pulls me over the handbrake console to cradle me in his lap.
Smoothing my hair off my face, he kisses my eyes, then my cheeks, and I curl my arms around him and sob quietly into his neck. He buries his nose in my hair and wraps me in his arms, holding me tight and we sit, neither of us saying anything, just holding each other.
Sawyer's voice startles us. "The unsub has slowed outside Escala. He's cas-ing the joint."
"Follow him," Christian snaps.
I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and take a deep steadying breath.
"Use my shirt." Christian kisses my temple.
"Sorry," I mutter, embarrassed by my crying.
"What for? Don't be."
I wipe my nose again. He tips my chin up and plants a gentle kiss on my lips.
"Your lips are so soft when you cry, my beautiful, brave girl," he whispers.
"Kiss me again."
Christian stills, one hand on my back, the other on my behind.
"Kiss me," I breathe, and I watch his lips part as he inhales sharply. Leaning across me, he takes the BlackBerry out of its cradle, and tosses it onto the driver's seat beside my sandaled feet. Then his mouth is on me as he moves his right hand into my hair, holding me in place, and lifts his left to cradle my face. His tongue invades my mouth, and I welcome it. Adrenaline turns to lust streaking through my body. I clasp his face, running my fingers over his sideburns, relishing the taste of him. He groans at my fevered response, low and deep in his throat, and my belly tightens swift and hard with carnal desire. His hand moves down my body, brushing my breast, my waist, and down to my backside. I shift fractionally.
"Ah!" he says and breaks away from me, breathless.
"What?" I mutter against his lips.
"Ana, we're in a car lot in Seattle."
"So?"
"Well, right now I want to f*ck you, and you're shifting around on me . . . it's uncomfortable."
My craving spirals out of control at his words, tightening all my muscles below my waist once more.
"F*ck me then." I kiss the corner of his mouth. I want him. Now. That car chase was exciting. Too exciting. Terrifying . . . and the fear has jump-started my libido. He leans back to gaze at me, his eyes dark and hooded.
"Here?" His voice is husky.
My mouth goes dry. How can he turn me on with one word? "Yes. I want you. Now."
He tilts his head to one side and stares at me for a few moments. "Mrs. Grey, how very brazen," he whispers, after what feels like an eternity. His hand tightens around my hair at my nape, holding me firmly in place, and his mouth is on mine again, more forcefully this time. His other hand skims down my body, down over my behind and lower still to my mid-thigh. My fingers curl into his overlong hair.
"I'm so glad you're wearing a skirt," he murmurs as he slips his hand beneath my blue and white patterned skirt to caress my thigh. I squirm once more on his lap and the air hisses between his teeth.
"Keep still," he growls. He cups my sex with his hand, and I still immediately. His thumb brushes over my *oris, and my breath catches in my throat as pleasure jolts like electricity deep, deep, deep inside me.
"Still," he whispers. He kisses me once more as his thumb circles gently around me through the sheer fine lace of my designer underwear. Slowly he eases two fingers passed my panties and inside me. I groan and flex my hips toward his hand.
"Please," I whisper.
"Oh, Mrs. Grey. You're so ready," he says, sliding his fingers in and out, tor-tuously slowly. "Do car chases turn you on?"
"You turn me on."
He smiles a wolfish grin and withdraws his fingers suddenly, leaving me wanting. He scoops his arm under my knees and, taking me by surprise, he lifts me and swings me around to face the windshield.
"Place your legs either side of mine," he orders, putting his legs together in the middle of the footwell. I do as I'm told, placing my feet on the floor on either side of his. He runs his hands down my thighs, then back, pulling up my skirt.
"Hands on my knees, baby. Lean forward. Lift that glorious ass in the air.
Mind your head."
Shit! We really are going to do this, in a public parking lot. I quickly scan the area in front of us and see no one, but feel a thrill coursing through me. I'm in a public lot! This is so hot! Christian shifts beneath me, and I hear the telltale sound of his zipper. Putting one arm around my waist and with his other hand tugging my lacy panties sideways, he impales me in one swift move.
"Ah!" I cry out, grinding down on him, and his breath hisses through his teeth. His arm snakes around me up to my neck and he grasps me under my chin.
His hand spreads across my neck, pulling me back and tilting my head to one side so he can kiss my throat. His other hand grips my hip and together we start to move.
I push up with my feet, and he tilts himself into me—in and out. The sensation is . . . I groan loudly. It's so deep this way. My left hand curls around the hand brake, my right hand braced against my door. His teeth graze my earlobe and he tugs—it's almost painful. He bucks again and again into me. I rise and fall, and as we establish a rhythm, he moves his hand around beneath my skirt to the apex of my thighs, and his fingers gently tease my *oris through the sheer finery of my panties.
"Ah!"
"Be. Quick," he breathes into my ear through gritted teeth, his hand still curled around my neck beneath my chin. "We need to do this quick, Ana." And he increases the pressure of his fingers against my sex.
"Ah!" I feel the familiar build of pleasure, bunching deep and thick inside me.
"Come on, baby," he rasps at my ear. "I want to hear you."
I moan again, and I am all sensation, my eyes tightly closed. His voice at my ear, his breath on my neck, pleasure radiating out from where his fingers tease my body and where he slams deep inside me, and I am lost. My body takes control, craving release.
"Yes," Christian hisses in my ear and I open my eyes briefly, staring wildly at the cloth roof of the R8, and I scrunch them closed again as I come around him.
"Oh, Ana," he murmurs in wonder, and he wraps his arms around me and rams into me one last time and stills as he climaxes deep inside.
He runs his nose along my jaw and softly kisses my throat, my cheek, my temple as a lie on him, my head lolling against his neck.
"Tension relieved, Mrs. Grey?" Christian closes his teeth around my earlobe again and tugs. My body is drained, totally exhausted, and I mewl. I feel his smile against me.
"Certainly helped with mine," he adds, shifting me off him. "Lost your voice?"
"Yes," I murmur.
"Well aren't you the wanton creature? I had no idea you were such an exhibitionist."
I sit up immediately, alarmed. He tenses. "No one's watching are they?" I glance anxiously around the car lot.
"Do you think I'd let anyone watch my wife come?" He strokes his hand down my back reassuringly, but the tone of his voice sends shivers down my spine. I turn to gaze at him and grin impishly.
"Car sex!" I exclaim.
He grins and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Let's head back. I'll drive."
He opens the door to let me climb off his lap and out into the parking lot.
When I glance down he's quickly doing up his fly. He follows me out and then holds the door open for me to climb back in. Strolling quickly around to the driver's side, he climbs in beside me, retrieves the BlackBerry, and makes a call.
"Where's Sawyer?" he snaps. "And the Dodge? How come Sawyer's not with you?"
He listens intently to Ryan, I assume.
"Her?" he gasps. "Stick with her." Christian hangs up and gazes at me.
Her! The driver of the car? Who could that be—Elena? Leila?
"The driver of the Dodge is female?"
"So it would appear," he says quietly. His mouth presses into a thin angry line. "Let's get you home," he mutters. He starts up the R8 with a roar and re-verses smoothly out of the space.
"Where's the, er . . . unsub? What does that mean by the way? Sounds very BDSM."
Christian smiles briefly as he eases the car out of the lot and back onto Stewart Street.
"It stands for Unknown Subject. Ryan is ex-FBI."
"Ex-FBI?"
"Don't ask." Christian shakes his head. It's obvious he's deep in contemplation.
"Well, where is this female unsub?"
"On the I-5, heading south." He glances at me, his eyes grim.
Jeez—from passionate to calm to anxious in the space of a few moments. I reach over and caress his thigh, running my fingers leisurely up the inside seam of his jeans, hoping to improve his mood. He takes his hand off the steering wheel and stops the slow ascent of my hand.
"No," he says. "We've made it this far. You don't want me to have an accident three blocks from home." He raises my hand to his lips and plants a cool kiss on my index finger to take the sting out of his rebuke. Cool, calm, authoritative . . . My Fifty. And for the first time in a while he makes me feel like a wayward child. I withdraw my hand and sit quietly for a moment.
"Female?"
"Apparently so." He sighs, turns into the underground garage at Escala, and punches the access code into the security keypad. The gate swings open and he drives on, smoothly parking the R8 in its designated space.
"I really like this car," I murmur.
"Me too. And I like how you handled it—and how you managed not to break it."
"You can buy me one for my birthday," I smirk at him.
Christian's mouth drops open as I climb out of the car.
"A white one, I think," I add, leaning down and smirking at him.
He smiles. "Anastasia Grey, you never cease to amaze me."
I shut the door and walk to the end of the car to wait for him. Gracefully he climbs out, watching me with that look . . . that look that calls to something deep inside me. I know this look well. Once he's in front of me, he leans down and whispers, "You like the car. I like the car. I've f*cked you in it . . . perhaps I should f*ck you on it."
I gasp. And a sleek silver BMW pulls into the garage. Christian glances at it anxiously, then with annoyance and smirks down at me.
"But it looks like we have company. Come." He grabs my hand and heads for the garage elevator. He pushes the call button and as we wait, the driver of the BMW joins us. He's young, casually dressed, with long, layered, dark hair. He looks like he works in the media.
"Hi," he says, smiling warmly at us.
Christian puts his arm around me and nods politely.
"I've just moved in. Apartment sixteen."
"Hello." I return his smile. He has kind, soft brown eyes.
The elevator arrives and we all walk in. Christian glances down at me, his expression unreadable.
"You're Christian Grey," the young man says.
Christian gives him a tight smile.
"Noah Logan." He holds out his hand. Reluctantly, Christian takes it. "Which floor?" Noah asks.
"I have to input a code."
"Oh."
"Penthouse."
"Oh." Noah smiles broadly. "Of course." He presses the button for the eighth floor and the doors close. "Mrs. Grey, I presume."
"Yes." I give him a polite smile and we shake hands. Noah flushes a little as he gazes at me a fraction too long. I mirror his flush and Christian's arm tightens around me.
"When did you move in?" I ask.
"Last weekend. I love the place."
There's an awkward pause before the elevator stops at Noah's floor.
"Great to meet you both," he says sounding relieved and steps out. The doors close silently behind him. Christian taps in the entry code and the elevator ascends again.
"He seemed nice," I murmur. "I've never met any of the neighbors before."
Christian scowls. "I prefer it that way."
"That's because you're a hermit. I thought he was pleasant enough."
"A hermit?"
"Hermit. Stuck in your ivory tower," I state matter-of-factly. Christian's lips twitch with amusement.
"Our ivory tower. And I think you have another name to add to the list of your admirers, Mrs. Grey."
I roll my eyes. "Christian, you think everyone is an admirer."
"Did you just roll your eyes at me?"
My pulse quickens. "I sure did," I whisper, my breath catching in my throat.
He cocks his head to one side, wearing his smoldering, arrogant, amused expression. "What shall we do about that?"
"Something rough."
He blinks to hide his surprise. "Rough?"
"Please."