Christian shakes his head, indicating he doesn't know or that he won't divulge its contents.
Oh.
"Hyde came here last night with the intention of kidnapping you." Christian freezes, his face taut with tension. As he says those words, I recall the duct tape, and a shudder runs through me, though deep down this is not news to me.
"Shit," I mutter.
"Quite," Christian says tightly.
I try to remember Jack in the office. Was he always insane? How did he think he could get away with this? I mean he was pretty creepy, but this unhinged?
"I don't understand why," I murmur. "It doesn't make sense to me."
"I know. The police are digging further, and so is Welch. But we think Detroit is the connection."
"Detroit?" I gaze at him, confused.
"Yeah. There's something there."
"I still don't understand."
Christian lifts his face and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. "Ana, I was born in Detroit."
"I thought you were born here in Seattle," I murmur. My mind races. What does this have to do with Jack? Christian raises the arm covering his face, reaches behind him, and grabs one of the pillows. Placing it under his head, he settles back and gazes at me with a wary expression. After a moment he shakes his head.
"No. Elliot and I were both adopted in Detroit. We moved here shortly after my adoption. Grace wanted to be on the west coast, away from the urban sprawl, and she got a job at Northwest Hospital. I have very little memory of that time.
Mia was adopted here."
"So Jack is from Detroit?"
"Yes."
Oh . . . "How do you know?"
"I ran a background check when you went to work for him."
Of course he did. "Do you have a manila file on him, too?" I smirk.
Christian's mouth twists as he hides his amusement. "I think it's pale blue."
His fingers continue to run through my hair. It's soothing.
"What does it say in his file?"
Christian blinks. Reaching down he strokes my cheek. "You really want to know?"
"Is it that bad?"
He shrugs. "I've known worse," he whispers.
No! Is he referring to himself? And the image I have of Christian as a small, dirty, fearful, lost boy comes to mind. I curl around him, holding him tighter, pulling the sheet over him, and I lay my cheek against his chest.
"What?" he asks, puzzled by my reaction.
"Nothing," I murmur.
"No, no. This works both ways, Ana. What is it?"
I glance up assessing his apprehensive expression. Resting my cheek upon his chest once more, I decide to tell him. "Sometimes I picture you as a child . . .
before you came to live with the Greys."
Christian stiffens. "I wasn't talking about me. I don't want your pity, Anastasia. That part of my life is done. Gone."
"It's not pity," I whisper, appalled. "It's sympathy and sorrow—sorrow that anyone could do that to a child." I take a deep steadying breath as my stomach twists and tears prick my eyes anew. "That part of your life is not done, Christian—how can you say that? You live every day with your past. You told me yourself—Fifty Shades, remember?" My voice is barely audible.
Christian snorts and runs his free hand through his hair, though he remains silent and tense beneath me.
"I know it's why you feel the need to control me. Keep me safe."
"And yet you choose to defy me," he murmurs baffled, his hand stilling in my hair.
I frown. Holy cow! Do I do that deliberately? My subconscious removes her half-moon glasses and chews the end, pursing her lips and nodding. I ignore her.
This is confusing—I'm his wife, not his submissive, not some company he's acquired. I'm not the crack whore who was his mother . . . F*ck. The thought is sickening. Dr. Flynn's words come back to me:
"Just keep doing what you're doing. Christian is head over heels . . . It's a delight to see."
That's it. I'm just doing what I've always done. Isn't that what Christian found attractive in the first place?
Oh, this man is so confusing.
"Dr. Flynn said I should give you the benefit of the doubt. I think I do—I'm not sure. Perhaps it's my way of bringing you into the here and now—away from your past," I whisper. "I don't know. I just can't seem to get a handle on how far you'll overreact."
He's silent for a moment. "F*cking Flynn," he mutters to himself.
"He said I should continue to behave the way I've always behaved with you."
"Did he now?" Christian says dryly.
Okay. Here goes nothing. "Christian, I know you loved your mom, and you couldn't save her. It wasn't your job to do that. But I'm not her."
He freezes again. "Don't," he whispers.
"No, listen. Please." I raise my head to stare into gray eyes that are paralyzed with fear. He's holding his breath. Oh, Christian . . . My heart constricts. "I'm not her. I'm much stronger than she was. I have you, and you're so much stronger now, and I know you love me. I love you, too," I whisper.
His brow creases as if my words were not what he expected. "Do you still love me?" he asks.
"Of course I do. Christian, I will always love you. No matter what you do to me." Is this the reassurance he wants?
He exhales and closes his eyes, placing his arm over his face again, but hugging me closer, too.
"Don't hide from me." Reaching up, I grasp his hand and pull his arm away from his face. "You've spent your life hiding. Please don't, not from me."
He looks at me with incredulity and frowns. "Hiding?"
"Yes."
He shifts suddenly, rolling over onto his side and moving me so that I am lying beside him on the bed. He reaches up, smoothes my hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear.
"You asked me earlier today if I hated you. I didn't understand why, and now—" He stops, staring down at me as if I'm a complete conundrum.
"You still think I hate you?" Now my voice is incredulous.
"No." He shakes his head. "Not now." He looks relieved. "But I need to know . . . why did you safe word, Ana?"
I blanch. What can I tell him? That he frightened me. That I didn't know if he'd stop. That I begged him—and he didn't stop. That I didn't want things to es-calate . . . like—like that one time in here. I shudder as I recall him whipping me with his belt.
I swallow. "Because . . . because you were so angry and distant and . . . cold.
I didn't know how far you'd go."
His expression is unreadable.
"Were you going to let me come?" My voice is barely a whisper, and I feel a blush steal over my cheeks, but I hold his gaze.
"No," he says eventually.
Holy crap. "That's . . . harsh."
His knuckle gently grazes my cheek. "But effective," he murmurs. He gazes down at me as if he's trying to see into my soul, his eyes darkening. After an eternity, he murmurs, "I'm glad you did."
"Really?" I don't understand.
His lips twist in a sad smile. "Yes. I don't want to hurt you. I got carried away." He reaches down and kisses me. "Lost in the moment." He kisses me again. "Happens a lot with you."
Oh? And for some bizarre reason the thought pleases me . . . I grin. Why does that make me happy? He grins, too.
"I don't know why you're grinning, Mrs. Grey."
"Me neither."
He wraps himself around me and places his head on my chest. We are a tangle of naked and denim-clad limbs, and satin red sheets. I stroke his back with one hand and run the fingers of my other hand through his hair. He sighs and relaxes in my arms.
"It means I can trust you . . . to stop me. I never want to hurt you," he murmurs. "I need—" He halts.
"You need what?"
"I need control, Ana. Like I need you. It's the only way I can function. I can't let go of it. I can't. I've tried . . . And yet, with you . . ." He shakes his head in exasperation.
I swallow. This is the heart of our dilemma—his need for control and his need for me. I refuse to believe these are mutually exclusive.
"I need you, too," I whisper, hugging him tighter. "I'll try, Christian. I'll try to be more considerate."
"I want you to need me," he murmurs.
Holy cow!
"I do!" My voice is impassioned. I need him so much. I love him so much.
"I want to look after you."
"You do. All the time. I missed you so much while you were away."
"You did?" He sounds so surprised.
"Yes, of course. I hate you going away."
I sense his smile. "You could have come with me."
"Christian, please. Let's not rehash that argument. I want to work."
He sighs as I work my fingers gently through his hair.
"I love you, Ana."
"I love you, too, Christian. I will always love you."
We both lie still in the calm, quiet after our storm. Listening to the steady beat of his heart, I drift exhausted into sleep.
I wake with a start, disorientated. Where am I? The playroom. The lights are still on, softly illuminating the bloodred walls. Christian moans again, and I realize this is what woke me.
"No," he groans. He's sprawled out beside me, his head back, his eyes screwed shut, his face contorted in anguish.
Holy shit. He's having a nightmare.
"No!" he cries out again.
"Christian, wake up." I struggle to sit up, kicking off the sheet. Kneeling beside him, I grab his shoulders and shake him as tears spring to my eyes.
"Christian, please. Wake up!"
His eyes spring open, gray and wild, his pupils enlarged with fear. He stares vacantly up at me.
"Christian, you're having a nightmare. You're home. You're safe."
He blinks, looks around frantically, and frowns as he takes in our surroundings. Then his eyes are back on mine. "Ana," he breathes, and with no preamble whatsoever he grabs my face with both hands, pulls me down onto his chest, and kisses me. Hard. His tongue invades my mouth, and he tastes of desperation and need. Barely giving me a chance to breathe, he rolls over, his lips locked to mine so that he's pressing me into the hard mattress of the four-poster. One of his hands clasps my jaw, the other spreads out on top of my head, keeping me still as his knee parts my legs and he nestles, still clothed in his jeans, between my thighs.
"Ana," he gasps as if he can't believe I'm there with him. He gazes down at me for a split second, allowing me a moment to breathe. Then his lips are on mine again, plundering my mouth, taking all I have to give. He groans loudly, flexing his hips into me. His erection sheathed in denim pushes into my soft flesh. Oh . . .
I moan, and all the pent-up sexual tension of earlier erupts, resurfacing with a vengeance, flushing my system with desire and need. Driven by his demons, he urgently kisses my face, my eyes, my cheeks, along my jaw.
"I'm here," I whisper, trying to calm him, our heated, panting breath mingling. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, as I grind my pelvis against his in welcome.
"Oh, Ana," he pants, his voice rough and low. "I need you."
"Me, too," I whisper urgently, my body desperate for his touch. I want him. I want him now. I want to heal him. I want to heal me . . . I need this. His hand reaches down and tugs on the button of his fly, fumbling momentarily, then freeing his erection.
Holy shit. I was asleep less than a minute ago.
He shifts, staring down at me for a split second, suspended above me.
"Yes. Please," I breathe, my voice hoarse and needy.
And in one swift move he buries himself inside me.
"Ah!" I cry out, not from any pain, but from surprise at his alacrity.
He groans, and his lips find mine again as he pushes into me, over and over, his tongue possessing me, too. He moves frantically, compelled by his fear, his lust, his desire, his—love? I don't know, but I meet him thrust for thrust, welcom-ing him.
"Ana," he growls almost inarticulately, and he comes powerfully, pouring himself into me, his face strained, his body rigid, before he collapses with his full weight onto me, panting, and he leaves me hanging . . . again.
Holy shit. This is not my night. My inner goddess is preparing to disembowel herself. I hold him, drawing in a lungful of air and practically writhing with need beneath him. He eases out of me and holds me for minutes . . . many minutes. Finally he shakes his head and leans up on his elbows, taking some of his weight. He gazes down at me as if seeing me for the first time.
"Oh, Ana. Sweet Jesus." He bends and kisses me tenderly.
"You okay?" I breathe, caressing his lovely face. He nods, but he looks shaken and most definitely stirred. My own lost boy. He frowns and stares intently into my eyes as if finally registering where he is.
"You?" he asks, concern in his voice.
"Um . . ." I wriggle beneath him, and after a moment he smiles, a slow carnal smile.
"Mrs. Grey, you have needs," he murmurs. He kisses me swiftly, then scoots off the bed.
Kneeling on the floor at the end of the bed, he reaches up, grabs me just above the knees and pulls me toward him so my behind is on the edge of the bed.
"Sit up," he murmurs. I struggle into a sitting position, my hair falling like a veil around me, down to my breasts. His gray gaze holds mine as he gently pushes my legs apart as far as they'll go. I lean back on my hands—knowing full well what he's going to do. But . . . he's just . . . um . . .
"You are so f*cking beautiful, Ana," he breathes, and I watch his copper-haired head dip and plant a trail of kisses up my right thigh, heading north. My whole body clenches in anticipation. He glances up at me, his eyes darkening through long lashes.
"Watch," he rasps then his mouth is on me.
Oh my. I cry out as the world is concentrated at the apex of my thighs, and it's so erotic— F*ck—watching him. Watching his tongue against what feels like the most sensitive part of my body. And he shows no mercy, teasing and taunting, worshipping me. My body tenses and my arms start to tremble from the strain of staying upright.
"No . . . ah," I murmur. Gently, he eases one long finger inside me, and I can bear it no more, collapsing back onto the bed, relishing this mouth and fingers on and in me. Slowly and gently, he massages that sweet, sweet spot deep inside me.
And that's it—I'm gone. I explode around him, crying out an incoherent rendition of his name as my intense orgasm arches my back off the bed. I think I see stars it's such a visceral primal feeling . . . Vaguely I'm aware that he's nuzzling my belly, giving me soft, sweet kisses. Reaching down, I caress his hair.
"I'm not finished with you yet," he murmurs. And before I've fully come back to Seattle, Planet Earth, he's reaching for me, grasping my hips and pulling me off the bed to where's he's kneeling, and into his waiting lap and onto his waiting erection.
I gasp as he fills me. Holy cow . . .
"Oh, baby," he breathes as he wraps his arms around me and stills, cradling my head and kissing my face. He flexes his hips, and pleasure spikes hot and hard from deep within me. He reaches for my behind and lifts me, rocking his groin upward.
"Ah," I moan, and his lips are on mine again as he slowly, oh so slowly, lifts and rocks . . . lifts and rocks. I throw my arms around his neck, surrendering to his gentle rhythm and to wherever he'll take me. I flex my thighs, riding him . . . he feels so good. Leaning backward, I tilt my head back, my mouth open wide in a silent expression of my pleasure, reveling in his sweet lovemaking.
"Ana," he breathes, and he leans down, kissing my throat. Holding me tight, slowly easing in and out, pushing me . . . higher and higher . . . so exquisitely timed—a fluid carnal force. Blissful pleasure radiates outward from deep, deep inside me as he holds me so intimately.
"I love you, Ana," he whispers close to my ear, his voice low and harsh, and he lifts me again—up, down, up, down. I curl my hands back around his neck into his hair.
"I love you, too, Christian." Opening my eyes, I find he's gazing at me, and all I see is his love, shining bright and bold in the soft glow of the playroom light, his nightmare seemingly forgotten. And as I feel my body build toward my release, I realize this is what I wanted—this connection, this demonstration of our love.
"Come for me, baby," he whispers, his voice low. I screw my eyes shut as my body tightens at the low sound of his voice, and I come loudly, spiraling into an intense climax. He stills, his forehead against mine, as he softly whispers my name, wraps his arms around me, and finds his own release.
He lifts me gently and lays me on the bed. I lie in his arms, wrung out and finally sated. He nuzzles my neck.
"Better now?" he whispers.
"Hmm."
"Shall we go to bed, or do you want to sleep here?"
"Hmm."
"Mrs. Grey, talk to me." He sounds amused.
"Hmm."
"Is that the best you can do?"
"Hmm."
"Come. Let me put you to bed. I don't like sleeping here."
Reluctantly, I shift and turn to face him. "Wait," I whisper. He blinks at me, looking all wide-eyed and innocent, and at the same time thoroughly f*cked and pleased with himself.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
He nods, smiling smugly like an adolescent boy. "I am now."
"Oh, Christian," I scold and gently stroke his lovely face. "I was talking about your nightmare."
His expression freezes momentarily, then he closes his eyes and tightens his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.
"Don't," he whispers, his voice hoarse and raw. My heart lurches and twists once more in my chest, and I clutch him tightly, running my hands down his back and through his hair.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, alarmed by his reaction. Holy f*ck—how can I keep up with these mood swings? What the hell was his nightmare about? I don't want to cause him any more pain by making him relive the details. "It's okay," I murmur softly, desperate to bring him back to the playful boy of a moment ago. "It's okay," I repeat over and over soothingly.
"Let's go to bed," he says quietly after a while, and he pulls away from me, leaving me empty and aching as he rises from the bed. I scramble after him, keeping the satin sheet wrapped around me, and bend to pick up my clothes.
"Leave those," he says, and before I know it, he scoops me up in his arms. "I don't want you to trip over this sheet and break your neck." I put my arms around him marveling that he's recovered his composure, and nuzzle him as he carries me downstairs to our bedroom.
My eyes spring open. Something is wrong. Christian is not in bed, though it's still dark. Glancing at the radio alarm, I see it's three twenty in the morning. Where's Christian? Then I hear the piano.
Quickly slipping out of bed, I grab my robe and run down the hallway to the great room. The tune he's playing is so sad—a mournful lament that I've heard him play before. I pause in the doorway and watch him in a pool of light while the achingly sorrowful music fills the room. He finishes then starts the piece again.
Why such a plaintive tune? I wrap my arms around myself and listen spellbound as he plays. But my heart aches. Christian, why so sad? Is it because of me? Did I do this? When he finishes, only to start a third time, I can bear it no longer. He doesn't look up as I near the piano, but shifts to one side so I can sit beside him on the piano bench. He continues to play, and I put my head on his shoulder. He kisses my hair but doesn't stop playing until he's finished the piece. I peek up at him and he's staring down at me, warily.
"Did I wake you?" he asks.
"Only because you were gone. What's that piece called?"
"It's Chopin. It's one of his preludes in E minor." Christian pauses. "It's called Suffocation . . ."
Reaching over I take his hand. "You're really shaken by all this, aren't you?"
He snorts. "A deranged a*shole gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife.
She won't do as she's told. She drives me crazy. She safe words on me." He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, they are stark and raw.
"Yeah, I'm pretty shaken up."
I squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry."
He presses his forehead against mine. "I dreamed you were dead," he whispers.
What?
"Lying on the floor—so cold—and you wouldn't wake up."
Oh, Fifty.
"Hey—it was just a bad dream." Reaching up, I clasp his head in my hands.
His eyes burn into mine and the anguish in them is sobering. "I'm here and I'm cold without you in the bed. Come back to bed, please." I take his hand and stand, waiting to see if he'll follow me. Finally he stands, too. He's wearing his pajama bottoms, and they hang in that way he has, and I want to run my fingers along the inside of his waistband, but I resist and lead him back to the bedroom.
When I wake he's curled around me, sleeping peacefully. I relax and enjoy his en-veloping heat, his skin on my skin. I lie very still, not wanting to disturb him.