Zax is the most exclusive nightclub in Aspen—or so says Mia. Christian strolls to the front of the short line with his arm wrapped around my waist and is immediately granted access. I wonder briefly if he owns the place. I glance at my watch—eleven thirty in the evening, and I'm feeling fuzzy. The two glasses of champagne and several glasses of Pouilly-Fumé during our meal are starting to have an effect, and I'm grateful Christian has his arm around me.
"Mr. Grey, welcome back," says a very attractive, leggy blonde in black satin, hot pants, matching sleeveless shirt, and a little red bowtie. She smiles broadly, revealing perfect all-American teeth between scarlet lips that match her bowtie.
"Max will take your coat."
A young man dressed entirely in black, fortunately not satin, smiles as he offers to take my coat. His dark eyes are warm and inviting. I am the only one wearing a coat—Christian insisted I take Mia's trench coat to cover my behind—so Max only has to deal with me.
"Nice coat," he says, gazing at me intently.
Beside me Christian bristles and fixes Max with a back-off-now glare. He reddens and quickly hands Christian my coat check ticket.
"Let me show you to your table." Miss Satin Hot Pants flutters her eyelashes at my husband, flicks her long blond hair, and sashays through the entryway. I tighten my grip around Christian, and he gazes down at me questioningly for a moment, then smirks as we follow Miss Satin Hot Pants into the bar.
The lighting is muted, the walls are black, and the furnishings deep red.
There are booths flanking two sides of the walls and a large U-shaped bar in the middle. It's busy, given that we're here off-season, but not too crowded with the well-heeled of Aspen out for a good time on a Saturday night. The dress code is relaxed, and for the first time I feel a little over . . . um, underdressed. I'm not sure which. The floor and walls vibrate with the music pulsing from the dance floor behind the bar, and lights are whirling and flashing on and off. In my heady state, I idly think it's an epileptic's nightmare.
Satin Hot Pants leads us to a corner booth that's been roped off. It's near the bar with access to the dance floor. Clearly the best seats in the house.
"There'll be someone along to take your order shortly." She gives us her full megawatt smile and, with a final flutter of eyelashes at my husband, sashays back from where she came. Mia is already jigging from foot to foot, itching to get onto the dance floor, and Ethan takes pity on her.
"Champagne?" Christian asks as they head off holding hands toward the dance floor. Ethan gives him a thumbs-up and Mia nods enthusiastically.
Kate and Elliot sit back on the soft velvet seating, hand in hand. They look so happy, their features soft and radiant in the glow from the tea lights flickering in crystal holders on the low table. Christian gestures for me to sit, and I scoot in beside Kate. He takes a seat beside me and anxiously scans the room.
"Show me your ring." I raise my voice over the music. I will be hoarse by the time we leave. Kate beams at me and holds up her hand. The ring is exquisite, a single solitaire in a fine elaborate claw with tiny diamonds on either side. It has a retro Victorian look to it.
"It's beautiful."
She nods in delight and, reaching over, squeezes Elliot's thigh. He leans down and kisses her.
"Get a room," I call out.
Elliot grins.
A young woman with short dark hair and a mischievous smile, wearing regulation, black satin, hot pants, comes to take our order.
"What do you want to drink?" Christian asks.
"You're not picking up the tab for this, too," Elliot grumbles.
"Don't start that shit, Elliot," Christian says mildly.
Despite the objections of Kate, Elliot and Ethan, Christian has paid for the meal we just consumed. He simply waved them aside and would not hear of anyone else paying. I gaze at him lovingly. My Fifty Shades . . . always in control.
Elliot opens his mouth to say something but, wisely perhaps, closes it again.
"I'll have a beer," he says.
"Kate?" Christian asks.
"More champagne, please. The Cristal is delicious. But I'm sure Ethan would prefer a beer." She smiles sweetly— yes, sweetly—at Christian. She is incandescent with happiness. I feel it radiating off her, and it's a pleasure to bask in her joy.
"Ana?"
"Champagne, please."
"Bottle of Cristal, three Peronis, and a bottle of iced mineral water, six glasses," he says in his usual authoritative, no-nonsense manner.
It's kinda hot.
"Thank you, sir. Coming right up." Miss Hot Pants Number Two gives him a gracious smile, but he's spared the fluttering of eyelashes though her cheeks redden a little.
I shake my head in resignation. He's mine, girlfriend.
"What?" he asks me.
"She didn't flutter her eyelashes at you." I smirk.
"Oh. Was she supposed to?" he asks, failing to hide his mirth.
"Women usually do." My tone is ironic.
He grins. "Mrs. Grey, are you jealous?"
"Not in the slightest." I pout at him. And I realize in that moment that I am beginning to tolerate women ogling my husband. Almost. Christian clasps my hand and kisses my knuckles.
"You have nothing to be jealous of, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs close to my ear, his breath tickling me.
"I know."
"Good."
The waitress returns, and moments later I'm sipping another glass of champagne.
"Here." Christian hands me a glass of water. "Drink this."
I frown at him and see, rather than hear, his sigh.
"Three glasses of white wine at dinner and two of champagne, after a strawberry daiquiri and two glasses of Frascati at lunchtime. Drink. Now, Ana."
How does he know about the cocktails this afternoon? I scowl at him. But actually he does have a point. Taking the glass of water, I down it in a most unladylike manner to register my protest at being told what to do . . . again. I wipe my hand across the back of my mouth.
"Good girl," he says, smirking. "You've vomited on me once already. I don't wish to experience that again in a hurry."
"I don't know what you're complaining about. You got to sleep with me."
He smiles and his eyes soften. "Yeah, I did."
Ethan and Mia are back.
"Ethan's had enough, for now. Come on, girls. Let's hit the floor. Strike a pose, throw some shapes, work off the calories from the chocolate mousse."
Kate stands immediately. "Coming?" she asks Elliot.
"Let me watch you," he says. And I have to look away quickly, blushing at the look he gives her. She grins as I stand.
"I'm going to burn some calories," I say, and leaning down I whisper in Christian's ear, "You can watch me."
"Don't bend over," he growls.
"Okay." I stand abruptly. Whoa! Head rush, and I clutch Christian's shoulder as the room shifts and tilts a little.
"Perhaps you should have some more water," Christian murmurs, a warning clear in his voice.
"I'm fine. These seats are low and my heels are high."
Kate takes my hand, and taking a deep breath I follow her and Mia, perfectly poised, onto the dance floor.
The music is pulsing, a techno beat with a thumping bass line. The dance floor isn't crowded, which means we have some space. The mix is eclect-ic—young and old alike dancing the night away. I have never been a good dancer.
In fact, it's only since I've been with Christian that I dance at all. Kate hugs me.
"I'm so happy," she shouts over the music, and she starts to dance. Mia is doing what Mia does, grinning at the pair of us, throwing herself around. Jeez, she's taking up a lot of room on the dance floor. I glance back toward the table. Our men are watching us. I start to move. It's a pulsing rhythm. I close my eyes and surrender to it.
I open my eyes to find the dance floor filling up. Kate, Mia and I are forced closer together. And to my surprise I find I'm actually enjoying myself. I begin to move a little more . . . bravely. Kate gives me two thumbs up, and I beam back at her.
I close my eyes. Why did I spend the first twenty years of my life not doing this? I chose reading over dancing. Jane Austen didn't have great music to move to and Thomas Hardy . . . jeez, he'd have felt guilty as sin that he wasn't dancing with his first wife. I giggle at the thought.
It's Christian. He has given me this confidence in my body and how I can move it.
Suddenly, there are two hands on my hips. I grin. Christian has joined me. I wiggle, and his hands move to my behind and squeeze, then back to my hips.
I open my eyes. And Mia is gaping at me in horror. Shit . . . Am I that bad? I reach down to hold Christian's hands. They're hairy. F*ck! They're not his. I whirl around, and towering over me is a blond giant with more teeth than is natural and a leering smile to showcase them.
"Get your hands off me!" I scream over the pounding music, apoplectic with rage.
"Come on, sugar, it's just some fun." He smiles, holding his apelike hands up, his blue eyes gleaming under the pulsing ultraviolet lights.
Before I know what I'm doing, I slap him hard across the face.
Ow! Shit . . . my hand. It stings. "Get away from me!" I shout. He gazes down at me, cupping his red cheek. I thrust my uninjured hand in front of his face, spreading my fingers to show him my rings.
"I'm married, you a*shole!"
He shrugs rather arrogantly and gives me a halfhearted, apologetic smile.
I glance around frantically. Mia is at my right, glaring at Blond Giant. Kate is lost in the moment doing her thing. Christian is not at the table. Oh, I hope he's gone to the restroom. I step back into a front I know well. Oh shit. Christian puts his arm around my waist and moves me to his side.
"Keep your f*cking hands off my wife," he says. He's not shouting, but somehow he can be heard over the music.
Holy shit!
"She can take care of herself," Blond Giant shouts. His hand moves from his cheek where I've slapped him, and Christian hits him. It's like I'm watching it in slow motion. A perfectly timed punch to the chin that moves at such speed, but with so little wasted energy, Blond Giant doesn't see it coming. He crumples to the floor like the scumbag he is.
F*ck.
"Christian, no!" I gasp in panic, standing in front of him to hold him back.
Shit, he'll kill him. "I already hit him," I shout over the music. Christian doesn't look at me. He's glaring at my assailant with a malevolence I've not seen before flaring in his eyes. Well, maybe once before after Jack Hyde made a pass at me.
The other dancers move outward like a ripple in a pond, clearing space around us, keeping a safe distance. Blond Giant scrambles to his feet as Elliot joins us.
Oh no! Kate is with me, gaping at all of us. Elliot grasps Christian's arm as Ethan appears, too.
"Take it easy, okay? Didn't mean any harm." Blond Giant holds his hands up in defeat, beating a hasty retreat. Christian's eyes follow him off the dance floor.
He does not look at me.
The song changes from the explicit lyrics of "Sexy Bitch" to a pulsing techno dance number where a woman sings with an impassioned voice. Elliot looks down at me, then across at Christian, and releasing Christian, pulls Kate into a dance. I put my arms around Christian's neck until he finally makes eye contact, his eyes still blazing—primal and feral. A glimpse of a brawling adolescent. Holy shit.
He scrutinizes my face. "Are you okay?" he asks finally.
"Yes." I rub my palm, trying to dispel the sting, and bring my hands down to his chest. My hand is throbbing. I have never slapped anyone before. What possessed me? Touching me wasn't the worst crime against humanity. Was it?
Yet deep down I know why I hit him. It's because I instinctively knew how Christian would react seeing some stranger pawing me. I knew he'd lose his precious self-control. And the thought that some stupid nobody could derail my husband, my love, well, it makes me mad. Really mad.
"Do you want to sit down?" Christian asks over the pulsing beat.
Oh, come back to me, please.
"No. Dance with me."
He looks at me impassively, saying nothing.
Touch me . . . the woman sings.
"Dance with me." He's still mad. "Dance. Christian, please." I take his hands.
Christian glares after the guy, but I start to move against him, weaving myself around him.
The throng of dancers has circled us once more, although there's now a two-foot exclusion zone around us.
"You hit him?" Christian asks, standing stock-still. I take his fisted hands.
"Of course I did. I thought it was you, but his hands were hairier. Please dance with me."
As Christian gazes at me, the fire in his eyes slowly changes, evolves into something else, something darker, something hotter. Suddenly, he grabs my wrists and pulls me flush against him, pinning my hands behind my back.
"You wanna dance? Let's dance," he growls close to my ear, and as he rolls his hips around into me, I can do nothing but follow, his hands holding mine against my backside.
Oh . . . Christian can move, really move. He keeps me close, not letting me go, but his hands gradually relax on mine, freeing me. My hands creep around, up his arms, feeling his bunched muscles through his jacket, up to his shoulders. He presses me against him, and I follow his moves as he slowly, sensually dances with me in time to the pulsing beat of the club music.
The moment he grabs my hand and spins me first one way, then the other, I know he's back with me. I grin. He grins.
We dance together and it's liberating—fun. His anger forgotten, or suppressed, he whirls me around with consummate skill in our small space on the dance floor, never letting go. He makes me graceful, that's his skill. He makes me sexy, because that's what he is. He makes me feel loved, because in spite of his fifty shades, he has a wealth of love to give. Watching him now, enjoying himself . . . one could be forgiven for thinking he doesn't have a care in the world.
But I know his love is clouded with issues of overprotectiveness and control, but it doesn't make me love him any less.
I am breathless when the song morphs to another.
"Can we sit?" I gasp.
"Sure." He leads me off the dance floor.
"You've made me rather hot and sweaty," I whisper as we return to the table.
He pulls me into his arms. "I like you hot and sweaty. Though I prefer to make you hot and sweaty in private," he purrs, and a lascivious smile tugs at his lips.
As I sit, it's as if the incident on the dance floor never happened. I'm vaguely surprised we haven't been thrown out. I glance around the bar. No one is looking at us, and I can't see Blond Giant. Maybe he left, or maybe he's been thrown out.
Kate and Elliot are being indecent on the dance floor, Ethan and Mia less so. I take another sip of champagne.
"Here." Christian puts another glass of water before me and regards me intently. His expression is expectant— drink it. Drink it now.
I do as I'm told. Besides, I'm thirsty.
He lifts a bottle of Peroni from the ice bucket on the table and takes a long drink.
"What if there had been press here?" I ask.
Christian knows immediately that I'm referring to him knocking Blond Giant on his ass.
"I have expensive lawyers," he says coolly, all at once arrogance personified.
I frown at him. "But you're not above the law, Christian. I did have the situation under control."
His eyes frost. "No one touches what's mine," he says with chilling finality, as if I'm missing the obvious.
Oh . . . I take another sip of my champagne. All of a sudden I feel overwhelmed. The music is loud, pounding, my head and feet are aching, and I feel woozy.He grasps my hand. "Come, let's go. I want to get you home," he says.
Kate and Elliot join us.
"You going?" Kate asks and her voice is hopeful.
"Yes," Christian says.
"Good, we'll come with you."
As we wait at the coat check for Christian to retrieve my trench coat, Kate quizzes me.
"What happened with that guy on the dance floor?"
"He was feeling me up."
"I opened my eyes and you'd hit him."
I shrug. "Well, I knew Christian would go thermonuclear, and that could potentially ruin your evening." I haven't really processed how I feel about Christian's behavior. I was worried that it would be worse.
"Our evening," she clarifies. "He is rather hot-headed, isn't he?" Kate adds dryly, staring at Christian as he collects my coat.
I snort and smile. "You could say that."
"I think you handle him well."
"Handle?" I frown. Do I handle Christian?
"Here." Christian holds my coat open for me so that I can put it on.
"Wake up, Ana." Christian is shaking me gently. We've arrived back at the house.
Reluctantly I open my eyes and stagger from the minivan. Kate and Elliot have disappeared, and Taylor is standing patiently beside the vehicle.
"Do I need to carry you?" Christian asks.
I shake my head.
"I'll fetch Miss Grey and Mr. Kavanagh," Taylor says.
Christian nods then leads me to the front door. My feet are throbbing, and I stumble after him. At the front door he bends down, grasps my ankle, and gently pries off first one shoe, then the other. Oh, the relief. He straightens and gazes down at me, holding my Manolos.
"Better?" he asks, amused.
I nod.
"I had delightful visions of these around my ears," he murmurs, staring down wistfully at my shoes. He shakes his head and, taking my hand once more, leads me through the darkened house, and up the stairs to our bedroom.
"You're wrecked, aren't you?" he says softly, staring down at me.
I nod. He starts to unbuckle the belt on my trench coat.
"I'll do it," I mutter, making a halfhearted attempt to brush him off.
"Let me."
I sigh. I had no idea I was this tired.
"It's the altitude. You're not used to it. And the drinking, of course." He smirks, divests me of my coat, and throws it on one of the bedroom chairs. Taking my hand, he leads me into the bathroom. Why are we going in here?
"Sit," he says.
I sit on the chair and close my eyes. I hear him as he messes around with bottles on the vanity unit. I am too tired to open my eyes to find out what he's doing. A moment later he tips my head back, and I open my eyes in surprise.
"Eyes closed," Christian says . Holy crap, he's holding a cotton ball! Gently, he wipes it over my right eye. I sit stunned as he methodically removes my makeup.
"Ah. There's the woman I married," he says after a few wipes.
"You don't like makeup?"
"I like it well enough, but I prefer what's beneath it." He kisses my forehead.
"Here. Take these." He puts some Advil into my palm and hands me a glass of water.
I look and pout.
"Take them," he orders.
I roll my eyes, but do as I'm told.
"Good. Do you need a private moment?" he asks sardonically.
I snort. "So coy, Mr. Grey. Yes, I need to pee."
He laughs. "You expect me to leave?"
I giggle. "You want to stay?"
He cocks his head to one side, his expression amused.
"You are one kinky son of a bitch. Out. I don't want you to watch me pee.
That's a step too far." I stand and wave him out of the bathroom.
When I emerge from the bathroom, he's changed into his pajama bottoms.
Hmm . . . Christian in PJs. Mesmerized, I gaze at his abdomen, his muscles, his happy trail. It's distracting. He strides over to me.
"Enjoying the view?" he asks wryly.
"Always."
"I think you're slightly drunk, Mrs. Grey."
"I think, for once, I have to agree with you, Mr. Grey."
"Let me help you out of what little there is of this dress. It really should come with a health warning." He turns me around and undoes the single button at the neck.
"You were so mad," I murmur.
"Yes. I was."
"At me?"
"No. Not at you." He kisses my shoulder. "For once."
I smile. Not mad at me. This is progress. "Makes a nice change."
"Yes. It does." He kisses my other shoulder then tugs my dress down over my backside and onto the floor. He removes my panties at the same time, leaving me naked. Reaching up, he takes my hand.
"Step," he commands, and I step out of the dress, holding his hand for balance.
He stands and tosses my dress and panties onto the chair with Mia's trench coat.
"Arms up," he says softly. He slips his T-shirt over me and pulls it down, covering me up. I am ready for bed.
He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, my minty breath mingling with his.
"As much as I'd love to bury myself in you, Mrs. Grey—you've had too much to drink, you're at nearly eight thousand feet, and you didn't sleep well last night. Come. Get into bed." He pulls back the duvet and I climb in. He covers me up and kisses my forehead once more.
"Close your eyes. When I come back to bed, I'll expect you to be asleep." It's a threat, a command . . . it's Christian.
"Don't go," I plead.
"I have some calls to make, Ana."
"It's Saturday. It's late. Please."
He runs his hands through his hair. "Ana, if I come to bed with you now, you won't get any rest. Sleep." He's adamant. I close my eyes and his lips brush my forehead once more.
"Goodnight, baby," he breathes.
Images of the day flash through my mind . . . Christian hauling me over his shoulder in the plane. His anxiety as to whether or not I'd like the house. Making love this afternoon. The bath. His reaction to my dress. Decking Blond Giant—my palm tingles at the memory. And then Christian putting me to bed.
Who would have thought? I grin widely, the word progress running around my brain as I drift.
I am too warm. Christian warm. His head is on my shoulder, and he's breathing softly on my neck while he sleeps, his legs threaded through mine, his arm around my waist. I linger on the edge of consciousness, aware that if I wake fully I'll wake him, too, and he doesn't sleep enough. Hazily my mind wanders through the events of yesterday evening. I drank too much—boy did I drink too much. I'm amazed Christian let me. I smile as I remember him putting me to bed. That was sweet, real sweet, and unexpected. I conduct a quick mental inventory of how I'm feeling. Stomach? Fine. Head? Surprisingly, fine, but fuzzy. My palm is still red from last night. Sheesh. Idly I think about Christian's palms when he's spanked me. I squirm and he wakes.
"What's wrong?" Sleepy gray eyes search mine.
"Nothing. Good morning." I run the fingers of my uninjured hand through his hair.
"Mrs. Grey, you look lovely this morning," he says, kissing my cheek, and I light up from within.
"Thank you for taking care of me last night."
"I like taking care of you. It's what I want to do," he says quietly, but his eyes betray him as triumph flares in their gray depths. It's like he's won the World Series or the Super Bowl.
Oh, my Fifty.
"You make me feel cherished."
"That's because you are," he murmurs and my heart clenches.
He clasps my hand and I wince. He releases me immediately, alarmed. "The punch?" he asks. His eyes frost as he scrutinizes mine, and his voice is laced with sudden anger.
"I slapped him. I didn't punch him."
"That f*cker!"
I thought we'd dealt with this last night.
"I can't bear that he touched you."
"He didn't hurt me, he was just inappropriate. Christian, I'm okay. My hand's a little red, that's all. Surely you know what that's like?" I smirk, and his expression changes to one of amused surprise.
"Why, Mrs. Grey, I am very familiar with that." His lips twist in amusement.
"I could reacquaint myself with that feeling this minute, should you so wish."
"Oh, stow your twitching palm, Mr. Grey." I stroke his face with my injured hand, my fingers caressing his sideburn. Gently I tug the little hairs. It distracts him, and he takes my hand and plants a tender kiss in my palm. Miraculously, the pain disappears.
"Why didn't you tell me this hurt last night?"
"Um . . . I didn't really feel it last night. It's okay now."
His eyes soften and his mouth twists. "How are you feeling?"
"Better than I deserve."
"That's quite a right arm you have there, Mrs. Grey."
"You'd do well to remember that, Mr. Grey."
"Oh really?" He rolls suddenly so that he's fully on top of me, pressing me into the mattress, holding my wrists above my head. He gazes down at me.
"I'd fight you any day, Mrs. Grey. In fact, subduing you in bed is a fantasy of mine." He kisses my throat.
What?
"I thought you subdued me all the time." I gasp as he nibbles my earlobe.
"Hmm . . . but I'd like some resistance," he murmurs, his nose skirting my jaw.
Resistance? I still. He stops, releasing my hands, and leans up on his elbows.
"You want me to fight you? Here?" I whisper, trying to contain my surprise.
Okay—my shock. He nods, his eyes hooded but wary as he gauges my reaction.
"Now?"
He shrugs, and I see the idea flit through his mind. He gives me his shy smile and nods again, slowly.
Oh my . . . He's tense, lying on top of me, and his growing erection is digging tantalizingly into my soft, willing flesh, distracting me. What's this about? Brawling? Fantasy? Will he hurt me? My inner goddess shakes her head— Never. She's got her karate suit on, and she's limbering up. Claude would be pleased.
"Is this what you meant about coming to bed angry?"
He nods once more, his eyes still wary.
Hmm . . . my Fifty wants to rumble.
"Don't bite your lip," he warns.
Compliantly, I release my lip. "I think you have me at a disadvantage, Mr.
Grey." I bat my lashes and squirm provocatively beneath him. This could be fun.
"Disadvantage?"
"Surely you've already got me where you want me?"
He smirks and presses his groin into mine once more.
"Good point well made, Mrs. Grey," he whispers and quickly kisses my lips.
Abruptly he shifts and takes me with him, rolling over so I'm straddling him. I grab his hands, pinning them to the side of his head, and ignore the protesting ache from my hand. My hair falls in a chestnut veil around us, and I move my head so that the strands tickle his face. He jerks his face away but doesn't try to stop me.
"So, you want to play rough?" I ask, skimming my crotch over his.
His mouth opens and he inhales sharply.
"Yes." He hisses, and I release him.
"Wait." I reach over for the glass of water beside the bed. Christian must have left it here. It's cool and sparkling—too cool to have been sitting here for long—and I wonder when he came to bed.
As I take a long draught, Christian trails his fingers in small circles up my thighs, leaving tingling skin in their wake before he cups and squeezes my naked behind. Hmm.
Taking a leaf from his impressive repertoire, I lean forward and kiss him, pouring clear cool water into his mouth.
He drinks. "Very tasty, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs, sporting a boyish and playful grin.
After placing the glass back on the bedside table, I remove his hands from my backside and pin them by his head once more.
"So I'm supposed to be unwilling?" I smirk.
"Yes."
"I'm not much of an actress."
He grins. "Try."
I lean down and kiss him chastely. "Okay, I'll play," I whisper, trailing my teeth along his jaw, feeling his prickly stubble beneath my teeth and my tongue.
Christian makes a low, sexy sound in his throat and moves, tossing me onto the bed beside him. I cry out in surprise, then he's on top of me, and I start to struggle as he makes a grab for my hands. Roughly, I place my hands on his chest, pushing with all my might, trying to move him, while he endeavors to pry my legs apart with his knee.
I continue pushing at his chest— Jeez he's heavy—but he doesn't flinch, doesn't freeze as he once might have. He's enjoying this! He attempts to grab my wrists, and finally captures one, despite my valiant attempts to twist it free. It's my sore hand, so I surrender it to him, but grab his hair with my other hand and pull hard.
"Ah!" He yanks his head free and gazes down at me, his eyes wild and carnal.
"Savage," he whispers, his voice laced with salacious delight.
In response to this one whispered word, my libido explodes, and I stop acting. Again I struggle in vain to wrest my hand out of his hold. At the same time I try to hook my ankles together, and attempt to buck him off me. He's too heavy.
Gah! It's frustrating and hot.
With a groan, Christian captures my other hand. He holds both my wrists in his left hand, and his right travels leisurely—insolently, almost—down my body, fondling and feeling as it goes, tweaking my nipple on the way.
I yelp in response, pleasure spiking short, sharp, and hot from my nipple to my groin. I make another fruitless attempt to buck him off, but he's just too on me.
When he tries to kiss me I jerk my head to the side so he can't. Promptly his insolent hand moves from the hem of my T-shirt up to my chin, holding me in place as he runs his teeth along my jaw, mirroring what I did to him earlier.
"Oh, baby, fight me," he murmurs.
I twist and writhe, trying to free myself from his merciless hold, but it's hopeless. He's much stronger than me. He's gently biting at my lower lip as his tongue tries to invade my mouth. And I realize I don't want to resist him. I want him—now, like I always do. I stop fighting and fervently return his kiss. I don't care that I haven't brushed my teeth. I don't care that we're supposed to be playing some game. Desire, hot and hard, surges through my bloodstream, and I'm lost. Unhooking my ankles, I wrap my legs around his hips and use my heels to push his pajamas down over his behind.
"Ana," he breathes, and he kisses me everywhere. And we're no longer wrestling, but all hands and tongues and touch and taste, quick and urgent.
"Skin," he murmurs hoarsely, his breathing labored. He drags me up and tugs off my T-shirt in one swift move.
"You," I whisper while I'm upright, because it's all I can think of to say. I seize the front his pajamas and yank them down, freeing his erection. I grab and squeeze him. He's hard. The air whistles through his teeth as he inhales sharply, and I revel in his response.
"F*ck," he murmurs. He leans back, lifting my thighs, tipping me down onto the bed as I pull and squeeze him tightly, running my hand up and down him.
Feeling a bead of moisture on his tip, I swirl it around with my thumb. As he lowers me to the mattress, I slip my thumb in my mouth to taste him while his hands travel up my body, caressing my hips, my stomach, my breasts.
"Taste good?" he asks as he hovers over me, eyes blazing.
"Yes. Here." I push my thumb into his mouth, and he sucks and bites the pad.
I groan, grasp his head, and pull him down to me so I can kiss him. Wrapping my legs around him, I push his pajamas off his legs with my feet, then cradle him with my legs around his waist. His lips trail from across my jaw to my chin, nipping softly.
"You're so beautiful." He dips his head lower to the base of my throat. "Such beautiful skin." His breath is soft as his lips glide down to my breasts.
What? I am panting, confused—wanting, now waiting. I thought this was going to be quick.
"Christian." I hear the quiet plea in my voice and reach down, fisting my hands in his hair.
"Hush," he whispers and circles my nipple with his tongue before pulling it into his mouth and tugging hard.
"Ah!" I moan and squirm, tilting my pelvis up to tempt him. He grins against my skin and turns his attention to my other breast.
"Impatient, Mrs. Grey?" He then sucks hard on my nipple. I tug his hair. He groans and peers up. "I'll restrain you," he warns.
"Take me," I beg.
"All in good time," he murmurs against my skin. His hand travels down at an infuriatingly slow speed to my hip as he worships my nipple with his mouth. I moan loudly, my breath short and shallow, and I try once more to entice him into me, rocking against him. He's thick and heavy and close, but he's taking his own sweet leisurely time with me.
F*ck this. I struggle and twist, determined to buck him off me again.
"What the—"
Grabbing my hands, Christian pins them down on the bed, my arms spread wide, and rests his full bodyweight on me, completely subduing me. I am breathless, wild.
"You wanted resistance," I say, panting. He rears up over me and gazes down, his hands still locked around my wrists. I place my heels under his behind and push. He doesn't move. Gah!
"You don't want to play nice?" he asks astonished, his eyes alight with excitement.
"I just want you to make love to me, Christian." Could he be any more obtuse? First we're fighting and wrestling then he's all tender and sweet. It's confusing. I'm in bed with Mr. Mercurial.
"Please." I press my heels against his backside once more. Burning gray eyes search mine. Oh, what is he thinking? He looks momentarily bewildered and confused. He releases my hands and sits back on his heels, pulling me into his lap.
"Okay, Mrs. Grey, we'll do this your way." He lifts me up and slowly lowers me on to him so I'm straddling him.
"Ah!" This is it. This is what I want. This is what I need. Curling my arms around his neck, I twist my fingers in his hair, glorying in the feeling of him inside me. I start to move. Taking control, taking him at my pace, at my speed. He moans, and his lips find mine, and we're lost.
I trail my fingers through the hair on Christian's chest. He lies on his back, still and quiet beside me as we both catch our breath. His hand thrums rhythmically down my back.
"You're quiet," I whisper and kiss his shoulder. He turns and looks at me, his expression giving nothing away. "That was fun." Shit, is something wrong?
"You confound me, Mrs. Grey."
"Confound you?"
He shifts so that we're face to face. "Yes. You. Calling the shots. It's . . . different."
"Good different or bad different?" I trail a finger over his lips. His brow furrows, as if he doesn't quite understand the question. Absentmindedly, he kisses my finger.
"Good different," he says, but he doesn't sound convinced.
"You've never indulged this little fantasy before?" I blush as I say it. Do I really want to know any more about my husband's colorful . . . um, kaleidoscopic sex life before me? My subconscious eyes me warily over her tortoiseshell half-moon specs. Do you really want to go there?
"No, Anastasia. You can touch me." It's a simple explanation that speaks volumes. Of course, the fifteen couldn't.
"Mrs. Robinson could touch you." I murmur the words before my brain registers what I've said. Shit. Why did I mention her?
He stills. His eyes widen with his oh-no-where's-she-going-with-this expression. "That was different," he whispers.
Suddenly I want to know. "Good different or bad different?"
He gazes at me. Doubt and possibly pain flit across his face, and fleetingly he looks like a man drowning.
"Bad, I think." His words are barely audible.
Holy shit!
"I thought you liked it."
"I did. At the time."
"Not now?"
He gazes at me, eyes wide, then slowly shakes his head.
Oh my . . . "Oh, Christian." I'm overwhelmed by the feelings that swamp me.
My lost boy. I launch myself at him and kiss his face, his throat, his chest, his little round scars. He groans, pulls me to him, and kisses me passionately. And very slowly, and tenderly, at his pace, he makes love to me once more.
"Ana Tyson. Punching above your weight!" Ethan applauds as I head into the kitchen for breakfast. He's sitting with Mia, and Kate at the breakfast bar while Mrs.
Bentley cooks waffles. Christian is nowhere to be seen.
"Good morning, Mrs. Grey." Mrs. Bentley smiles. "What would you like for breakfast?"
"Good Morning. Whatever's going, thank you. Where's Christian?"
"Outside." Kate gestures with her head toward the backyard. I wander over to the window that looks out over the yard and the mountains beyond. It's a clear, powder-blue summer day, and my beautiful husband is about twenty feet away in deep discussion with some guy.
"That's Mr. Bentley he's talking to," calls Mia from the breakfast bar. I turn to look at her, distracted by her sulky tone. She looks venomously at Ethan. Oh dear. I wonder once more what's going on between them. Frowning, I turn my attention back to my husband and Mr. Bentley.
Mrs. Bentley's husband is fair-haired, dark eyed and wiry, dressed in work pants and an Aspen Fire Department T-shirt. Christian is dressed in his black jeans and T-shirt. As the two men amble across the lawn toward the house lost in their conversation, Christian casually bends to pick up what looks like a bamboo cane that must have been blown over or discarded in the flowerbed. Pausing, Christian absentmindedly holds out the cane at arm's length as if weighing it carefully and swipes it through the air, just once.
Oh . . .
Mr. Bentley appears to see nothing odd in his behavior. They continue their discussion, nearer to the house this time, then pause once more, and Christian repeats the gesture. The tip of the cane hits the ground. Glancing up, Christian sees me standing at the window. Suddenly I feel as if I'm spying on him. He stops. I give him an embarrassed wave then turn and walk back to the breakfast bar.
"What were you doing?" asks Kate.
"Just watching Christian."
"You have got it bad." She snorts.
"And you don't, oh soon-to-be sister-in-law?" I reply, grinning and trying to bury the disquieting visual of Christian wielding a cane. I am startled when Kate leaps up and hugs me.
"Sister!" she exclaims, and it's hard not to be swept up in her joy.
"Hey, sleepyhead." Christian wakes me. "We're about to land. Buckle up."
I fumble sleepily for my seat belt, but Christian fastens it for me. He kisses my forehead before settling back into his seat. I lean my head on his shoulder again and close my eyes.
An impossibly long hike and a picnic lunch on top of a spectacular mountain have exhausted me. The rest of our party is quiet, too—even Mia. She looks despondent, as she has all day. I wonder how her campaign with Ethan is going. I don't even know where they slept last night. My eyes catch hers, and I give a small are-you-okay smile. She gives me a brief sad smile in return and goes back to her book. I peek up at Christian through my lashes. He's working on a contract or something, reading it through and annotating the margins. But he seems relaxed. Elliot is snoring softly beside Kate.
I have yet to corner Elliot and quiz him about Gia, but it's been impossible to pry him away from Kate. Christian isn't interested enough to ask, which is irritating, but I haven't pressed him. We've been enjoying ourselves too much. Elliot rests his hand possessively on Kate's knee. She looks radiant, and to think that only yesterday afternoon she was so unsure of him. What did Christian call him?
Lelliot. Perhaps that's a family nickname? It was sweet, better than manwhore.
Abruptly, Elliot opens his eyes and gazes straight at me. I blush, caught staring.
He grins. "I sure love your blush, Ana," he teases, stretching. Kate gives me her self-satisfied, cat-ate-the-canary smile.
Officer Beighley announces our approach to Sea-Tac, and Christian clasps my hand.
"How was your weekend, Mrs. Grey?" Christian asks once we're in the Audi heading back to Escala. Taylor and Ryan are up front.
"Good, thank you." I smile, feeling shy all of a sudden.
"We can go anytime. Take anyone you wish to take."
"We should take Ray. He'd like the fishing."
"That's a good idea."
"How was it for you?" I ask.
"Good," he says after a moment, surprised by my question, I think. "Real good."
"You seemed to relax."
He shrugs. "I knew you were safe."
I frown. "Christian, I'm safe most of the time. I've told you before, you'll keel over at forty if you keep up this level of anxiety. And I want to grow old and gray with you." I grasp his hand. He looks at me as if he can't comprehend what I'm saying. He gently kisses my knuckles and changes the subject.
"How's your hand?"
"It's better, thank you."
He smiles. "Very good, Mrs. Grey. You ready to face Gia again?"
Oh crap. I'd forgotten we were seeing her this evening to go over the final plans. I roll my eyes. "I might want to keep you out of the way, keep you safe." I smirk.
"Protecting me?" Christian is laughing at me.
"As ever, Mr. Grey. From all sexual predators," I whisper.
Christian is brushing his teeth when I crawl into bed. Tomorrow we go back to reality—back to work, the paparazzi, and to Jack in custody but with the possibility that he has an accomplice. Hmm . . . Christian was vague about that. Does he know? And if he did know, would he tell me? I sigh. Getting information out of Christian is like pulling teeth, and we've had such a lovely weekend. Do I want to ruin the feel-good moment by trying to drag the information out of him?
It's been a revelation to see him out of his normal environment, outside this apartment, relaxed and happy with his family. I wonder vaguely if it's because we're here in this apartment with all its memories and associations that he gets wound up. Maybe we should move.
I snort. We are moving—we're having a huge house refurbished on the coast.
Gia's plans are complete and approved, and Elliot's team starts building next week. I chuckle as I recall Gia's shocked expression when I told her that I'd seen her in Aspen. Turns out it was nothing but co-incidence. She'd camped out at her holiday place to work solely on our plans. For one awful moment I'd thought she'd had a hand in choosing the ring, but apparently not. But I still don't trust Gia. I want to hear the same story from Elliot. At least she kept her distance from Christian this time.
I look out at the night sky. I will miss this view. This panoramic vista . . .
Seattle at our feet, so full of possibilities, yet so far removed. Maybe that's Christian's problem—he's been too isolated from real life for too long, thanks to his self-imposed exile. Yet with his family around him, he is less controlling, less anxious—freer, happier. I wonder what Flynn would make of all that. Holy crap!
Maybe that's the answer. Maybe he needs his own family. I shake my head in denial—we're too young, too new to all this. Christian strides into the room, looking his usual gorgeous but pensive self.
"Everything okay?" I askHe nods distractedly as he climbs into bed.
"I'm not looking forward to going back to reality," I murmur.
"No?"
I shake my head and caress his lovely face. "I had a wonderful weekend.
Thank you."
He smiles softly. "You're my reality, Ana," he murmurs and kisses me.
"Do you miss it?"
"Miss what?" he asks, perplexed.
"You know. The caning . . . and stuff," I whisper, embarrassed.
He stares at me, his gaze impassive. Then doubt crosses his face, his where-is-she-going-with-this look.
"No Anastasia, I don't." His voice is steady and quiet. He caresses my cheek.
"Dr. Flynn said something to me when you left, something that's stayed with me.
He said I couldn't be that way if you weren't so inclined. It was a revelation." He stops, and frowns. "I didn't know any other way, Ana. Now I do. It's been educational."
"Me, educate you?" I scoff.
His eyes soften. "Do you miss it?" he asks.
Oh! "I don't want you to hurt me, but I like to play, Christian. You know that. If you wanted to do something . . ." I shrug, gazing at him.
"Something?"
"You know, with a flogger or your crop—" I stop, blushing.
He raises his brow, surprised. "Well . . . we'll see. Right now, I'd like some good old-fashioned vanilla." His thumb skirts my bottom lip, and he kisses me once more.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Good Morning
Date: August 29, 2011 09:14
To: Christian Grey
Mr. Grey
I just wanted to tell you that I love you.
That is all.
Yours Always
A x
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Banishing Monday Blues
Date: August 29, 2011 09:18
To: Anastasia Grey
Mrs. Grey
What gratifying words to hear from one's wife (errant or not) on a Monday morning.
Let me assure you that I feel exactly the same way.
Sorry about the dinner this evening. I hope it won't be too tedious for you.
x
Christian Grey,
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Oh yes. The American Shipbuilding Association dinner. I roll my eyes . . .
More stuffed shirts. Christian really does take me to the most fascinating functions.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Ships that pass in the night Date: August 29, 2011 09:26
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey
I am sure you can think of a way to spice up the dinner . . .
Yours in anticipation
Mrs. G. x
Anastasia (non-errant) Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Variety is the Spice of Life Date: August 29, 2011 09:35
To: Anastasia Grey
Mrs. Grey
I have a few ideas . . .
x
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Now Impatient for the ASA Dinner Inc.
All the muscles in my belly clench. Hmm . . . I wonder what he'll dream up.
Hannah knocks on the door, interrupting my reverie.
"Ready to go through your schedule for this week, Ana?"
"Sure. Sit." I smile, recovering my equilibrium, and minimize my e-mail program. "I've had to move a couple of appointments. Mr. Fox next week and Dr.—"
My phone rings, interrupting her. It's Roach. He asks me up to his office.
"Can we pick this up in twenty minutes?"
"Of course."
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Last night
Date: August 30, 2011 09:24
To: Anastasia Grey
Was . . . fun.
Who would have thought the ASA annual dinner could be so stimulating?
As ever, you never disappoint, Mrs. Grey.
I love you.
x
Christian Grey
In awe, CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: I love a good ball game . . .
Date: August 30, 2011 09:33
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey
I have missed the silver balls.
You never disappoint.
That is all.
Mrs. G. x
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
Hannah taps on my door, interrupting my erotic thoughts of the previous evening. Christian's hands . . . his mouth.
"Come in."
"Ana, Mr. Roach's PA just called. He'd like you to attend a meeting this morning. It means I have to move some of your appointments again. Is that okay."
His tongue.
"Sure. Yes," I mutter trying to halt my wayward thoughts. She grins and ducks out of my office . . . leaving me with my delicious memory of last night.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Hyde
Date: September 1, 2011 15:24
To: Anastasia Grey
Anastasia
For your information, Hyde has been refused bail and remanded in custody. He's charged with attempted kidnap and arson. As yet no date has been set for the trial.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Hyde
Date: September 1, 2011 15:53
To: Christian Grey
That's good news.
Does this mean you'll lighten up on security?
I really don't see eye to eye with Prescott.
Ana x
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Hyde
Date: September 1, 2011 15:59
To: Anastasia Grey
No. Security will remain in place. No arguments.
What's wrong with Prescott? If you don't like her, we'll replace her.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
I scowl at his high-handed e-mail. Prescott isn't that bad.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Keep your hair on!
Date: September 1, 2011 16:03
To: Christian Grey
I was just asking (rolls eyes). And I'll think about Prescott.
Stow that twitchy palm!
Ana x
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Don't tempt me.
Date: September 1, 2011 16:11
To: Anastasia Grey
I can assure you, Mrs. Grey, that my hair is very firmly attached—has this not been demonstrated often enough by your good self?
My palm, however, is twitching.
I might do something about that tonight.
x
Christian Grey
Not bald yet CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Squirm
Date: September 1, 2011 16:20
To: Christian Grey
Promises, promises . . .
Now stop pestering me. I am trying to work; I have an impromptu meeting with an author. Will try not to be distracted by thoughts of you during the meeting.
A x
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Sailing & Soaring & Spanking Date: September 5, 2011 09:18
To: Christian Grey
Husband
You sure know how to show a girl a good time.
I shall of course be expecting this kind of treatment every weekend.
You are spoiling me. I love it.
Your wife
xox
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: My Life's Mission . . .
Date: September 5, 2011 09:25
To: Anastasia Grey
Is to spoil you, Mrs. Grey.
And keep you safe because I love you.
Christian Grey
Smitten CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Oh my. Could he be any more romantic?
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: My Life's Mission . . .
Date: September 5, 2011 09:33
To: Christian Grey
Is to let you—because I love you, too.
Now stop being so sappy.
You are making me cry.
Anastasia Grey
Equally Smitten Commissioning Editor, SIP
The following day, I gaze at the calendar on my desk. Only five days until September 10—my birthday. I know we are driving out to the house to see how Elliot and his crew are progressing. Hmm . . . I wonder if Christian has any other plans? I smile at the thought. Hannah taps on my door.
"Come in."
Prescott is hovering outside . Odd . . .
"Hi, Ana," says Hannah. "There's a Leila Williams here to see you? She says it's personal."
"Leila Williams? I don't know a . . ." My mouth goes dry, and Hannah's eyes widen at my expression.
Leila? F*ck. What does she want?
"Do you want me to send her away?" Hannah asks, alarmed at my expression.
"Um, no. Where is she?"
"In reception. She's not alone. She's accompanied by another young woman."
Oh!
"And Miss Prescott wants to talk to you," Hannah adds.
I'm sure she does. "Send her in."
Hannah stands aside, and Prescott enters my office. She's on a mission, bristling with professional efficiency.
"Give me a moment, Hannah. Prescott, take a seat."
Hannah closes the door, leaving Prescott and me alone.
"Mrs. Grey, Leila Williams is on your proscribed list of visitors."
"What?" I have a proscribed list?
"On our watch list, ma'am. Taylor and Welch have been quite specific about not letting her come into contact with you."
I frown, not understanding. "Is she dangerous?"
"I can't say, ma'am."
"Why do I even know that she's here?"
Prescott swallows and for a moment looks awkward. "I was on a restroom break. She came in, spoke directly to Claire, and Claire called Hannah."
"Oh. I see." I realize that even Prescott has to pee, and I laugh. "Oh dear."
"Yes ma'am." Prescott gives me an embarrassed grin, and it's the first time I've seen a chink in her armor. She has a lovely smile.
"I need to talk to Claire about protocol, again," she says, her tone weary.
"Sure. Does Taylor know she's here?" I cross my fingers unconsciously, hoping she hasn't told Christian.
"I left a brief voice message for him."
Oh. "Then I only have a short time. I'd like to know what she wants."
Prescott gazes at me for a moment. "I must advise against it, ma'am."
"She's here to see me for a reason."
"I'm supposed to prevent that, ma'am." Her voice is soft but resigned.
"I really want to hear what she has to say." My tone is more forceful than I intend.
Prescott stifles her sigh. "I'd like to search them both before you do."
"Okay. Can you do that?"
"I'm here to protect you, Mrs. Grey, so yes, I can. I'd also like to stay with you while you talk."
"Okay." I'll grant her this concession. Besides, last time I met Leila, she was armed. "Go ahead."
Prescott rises.
"Hannah," I call.
Hannah opens the door too quickly. She must have been hovering outside.
"Can you check to see if the meeting room is free, please?"
"I already have, and it's good to go."
"Prescott, can you search them in there? Is it private enough?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'll be there in five minutes, then. Hannah, show Leila Williams and whomever she's with into the meeting room."
"Will do." Hannah looks anxiously from Prescott to me. "Shall I cancel your next meeting? It's at four, but it's across town."
"Yes," I murmur, distracted. Hannah nods then leaves.
What the hell does Leila want? I don't think she's here to do me any harm.
She didn't in the past when she had the opportunity. Christian is going to go nuts.
My subconscious purses her lips, primly crosses her legs, and nods. I need to tell him that I am doing this. I type a quick e-mail, then pause, checking the time. I feel a momentary pang of regret. We've been getting along so well since Aspen. I press send.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Visitors
Date: September 6, 2011 15:27
To: Christian Grey
Christian
Leila is here to see me. I will see her with Prescott.
I'll use my newly acquired slapping skills with my now healed hand, should I need to.
Try, and I mean try, not to worry.
I am a big girl.
Will call once we've spoken.
A x
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
Hurriedly, I hide my BlackBerry in my desk drawer. I stand, smoothing my gray pencil skirt over my hips, pinch my cheeks to give them some color, and undo the next button on my gray silk blouse. Okay, I'm ready. After taking a deep breath, I head out of my office to meet the infamous Leila ignoring "Your Love is King" humming gently from inside my desk.
Leila looks much better. More than better—she's very attractive. There's a rosy bloom to her cheeks, and her brown eyes are bright, her hair clean and shiny.
She's dressed in a pale pink blouse and white pants. She stands as soon as I enter the meeting room, as does her friend—another dark-haired young woman with soft brown eyes, the color of brandy. Prescott hovers in the corner, not taking her eyes off Leila.