Fifty Shades of Grey (52 page)

It’s not painful as such – well it is, but not unbearable. It’s somehow manageable, and yes pleasurable… even. I groan.
Yes, I can do this.

He pauses as he slowly peels my panties down my legs. I writhe on his legs, not because I want to escape the blows, but I want… more, release, something. His touch against my sensitized skin is all sensuous tingle. It’s overwhelming, and he starts again. A few soft slaps then building up, left to right and down. Oh, the downs, I groan.

“Good girl, Anastasia,” he groans, and his breathing is ragged.

He spanks me twice more, and then he pulls at the small threads attached to the balls and jerks them out of me suddenly. I almost climax – the feeling is out of this world. Moving swiftly, he gently turns me over. I hear rather see the rip of the foil packet, and then he’s lying beside me. He seizes my hands, hoists them over my head, and eases himself onto me, into me, sliding slowly, filling me where the silver globes have been. I groan loudly.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers as he moves back, forward, a slow sensual tempo, savoring me, feeling me.

It is the most gentle he has ever been, and it takes no time at all for me to fall over the edge, spiraling into a delicious, violent, exhausting, orgasm. As I clench around him, it ignites his release, and he slides into me, stilling, gasping out my name in desperate wonder.

“Ana!”

He’s silent and panting on top of me, his hands still entwined in mine above my head.

Finally, he leans back and stares down at me.

“I enjoyed that,” he whispers, and then kisses me sweetly.

He doesn’t linger for more sweet kisses, but rises, covers me with the duvet, and disappears into the bathroom. On his return he’s carrying a bottle of white lotion. He sits beside me on the bed.

“Roll over,” he orders, and begrudgingly I move on to my front.

Honestly, all this fuss. I feel very sleepy.

“Your ass is a glorious color,” he says approvingly, and he tenderly massages the cooling lotion into my pink behind.

“Spill the beans, Grey,” I yawn.

“Miss Steele, you know how to ruin a moment.”

“We had a deal.”

“How do you feel?”

“Short changed.”

He sighs, slides in beside me, and pulls me into his arms. Careful not to touch my stinging behind, we are spooning again. He kisses me very softly beside my ear.

“The woman who brought me into this world was a crack-whore, Anastasia. Go to sleep.”

Holy fuck
… what does that mean?

“Was?”

“She’s dead.”

“How long?”

He sighs.

“She died when I was four. I don’t really remember her. Carrick has given me some details. I only remember certain things. Please go to sleep.”

“Goodnight, Christian.”

“Goodnight, Ana.”

And I slip into a dazed and exhausted sleep, dreaming of a four-year-old, gray-eyed boy in a dark, scary, miserable place.

There is light everywhere. Bright, warm, piercing light, and I endeavor to keep it at bay for a few more precious minutes. I want to hide, just a few more minutes. But the glare is too strong, and I finally succumb to wakefulness. A glorious Seattle morning greets me –

sunshine pouring through the full-height windows and flooding the room with too-bright light. Why didn’t we close the blinds last night? I am in Christian Grey’s vast bed minus one Christian Grey.

I lie back for a moment staring through the windows at the lofty vista of Seattle’s skyline. Life in the clouds sure feels unreal. A fantasy – a castle in the air, adrift from the ground, safe from the realities of life – far away from neglect, hunger, and crack-whore mothers. I shudder to think what he went through as a small child, and I understand why he lives here, isolated, surrounded by beautiful, precious works of art – so far removed from where he started… mission statement indeed. I frown because it still doesn’t explain why I can’t touch him.

Ironically, I feel the same up here in his lofty tower. I’m adrift from reality. I’m in this fantasy apartment, having fantasy sex with my fantasy boyfriend. When the grim reality is he wants a special arrangement, though he’s said he’ll try more. What does that actually mean? This is what I need to clarify between us to see if we are still at opposite ends on the see-saw or if we are inching closer together.

I clamber out of bed feeling stiff, and for want of a better expression, well-used.
Yes,
that would be all the sex then.
My subconscious purses her lips in disapproval. I roll my eyes at her, grateful that a certain twitchy-palmed control freak is not in the room, and resolve to ask him about the personal trainer. That’s if I sign. My inner goddess glares at me in desperation.
Of course you’ll sign.
I ignore them both, and after a quick trip to the bathroom, I go in search of Christian.

He’s not in the art gallery, but an elegant middle-aged woman is cleaning in the kitchen area. The sight of her stops me in my tracks. She has short blonde hair and clear blue eyes; she wears a plain white tailored shirt and a navy blue pencil skirt. She smiles broadly when she sees me.

“Good morning, Miss Steele. Would you like some breakfast?” Her tone is warm but business like, and I am stunned. Who is this attractive blonde in Christian’s kitchen?

I’m only wearing Christian’s t-shirt. I feel self-conscious and embarrassed by my lack of clothing.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” My voice is quiet, unable to hide the anxiety in my voice.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry – I’m Mrs. Jones, Mr. Grey’s housekeeper.”

Oh.

“How do you do?” I manage.

“Would you like some breakfast, ma’am?”

Ma’am!

“Just some tea would be lovely, thank you. Do you know where Mr. Grey is?”

“In his study.”

“Thank you.”

I scuttle off toward the study, mortified. Why does Christian only have attractive blondes working for him? And a nasty thought comes involuntarily into my mind –
Are
they all ex-subs?
I refuse to entertain that hideous idea. I poke my head shyly round the door. He’s on the phone, facing the window, in black pants and a white shirt. His hair is still wet from the shower, and I’m completely distracted from my negative thoughts.

“Unless that company’s P&L improves, I’m not interested, Ros. We’re not carrying dead weight… I don’t need any more lame excuses… Have Marco call me, it’s shit or bust time... Yes, tell Barney that the prototype looks good, though I’m not sure about the inter-face… No, it’s just missing something… I want to meet him this afternoon to discuss…

In fact, him and his team, we can brainstorm…. Okay. Transfer me back to Andrea… ” He waits, staring out of the window, master of his universe, staring down at the little people below from this castle in the sky. “Andrea… ”

Glancing up, he notices me at the door. A slow, sexy smile spreads across his beautiful face, and I’m rendered speechless as my insides melt. He is without a doubt the most beautiful man on the planet, too beautiful for the little people below, too beautiful for me.

No
my inner goddess scowls at me, not too beautiful for me.
He is sort of mine,
for now.

The idea sends a thrill through my blood and dispels my irrational self-doubt.

He continues his conversation, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Clear my schedule this morning, but get Bill to call me. I’ll be in at two. I need to talk to Marco this afternoon, that will need at least half an hour… Schedule Barney and his team in after Marco or maybe tomorrow, and find time for me to see Claude everyday this week… Tell him to wait… Oh… No, I don’t want publicity for Darfur… Tell Sam to deal with it… No…. Which event?... That’s next Saturday?… Hold on.”

“When will you be back from Georgia?” he asks.

“Friday.”

He resumes his phone conversation.

“I’ll need an extra ticket because I have a date… Yes Andrea, that’s what I said, a date, Miss Anastasia Steele will accompany me… That’s all.” He hangs up. “Good morning, Miss Steele.”

“Mr. Grey,” I smile shyly.

He walks around his desk with his usual grace and stands in front of me. He smells so good; clean and freshly laundered, so Christian. He gently strokes my cheek with the back of his fingers.

“I didn’t want to wake you, you looked so peaceful. Did you sleep well?”

“I am very well-rested, thank you. I just came to say hi before I had a shower.”

I gaze up at him, drinking him in. He leans down and gently kisses me, and I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around his neck and my fingers twist in his still damp hair.

Pushing my body flush against his, I kiss him back. I want him. My attack takes him by surprise, but after a beat, he responds, a low groan in his throat. His hands slip into my hair and down my back to cup my naked behind, his tongue exploring my mouth. He pulls back, his eyes hooded.

“Well, sleep seems to agree with you,” he murmurs. “I suggest you go and have your shower, or I shall lay you across my desk, now.”

“I choose the desk,” I whisper recklessly as desire sweeps like adrenaline through my system, waking everything in its path.

He stares bewildered down at me for a millisecond.

“You’ve really got a taste for this, haven’t you, Miss Steele. You’re becoming insatiable,” he murmurs.

“I’ve only got a taste for you,” I whisper.

His eyes widen and darken while his hands knead my naked backside.

“Damn right, only me,” he growls, and suddenly with one fluid movement, he clears all the plans and papers off his desk so that they scatter on the floor, sweeps me up in his arms, and lays me down across the short end of his desk so that my head is almost off the edge.

“You want it, you got it, baby,” he mutters, producing a foil packet from his pants pocket while he unzips his pants.
Oh Mr. Boy Scout.
He rolls the condom over his erection and gazes down at me. “I sure hope you’re ready,” he breathes, a salacious smile across his face. And in a moment, he’s filling me, holding my wrists tightly by my side, and thrusting into me deeply.

I groan…
oh yes.

“Christ, Ana. You’re
so
ready,” he whispers in veneration.

Wrapping my legs around his waist, I hold him the only way I can as he stays standing, staring down at me, gray eyes glowing, passionate and possessive. He starts to move, really move. This is not making love, this is fucking – and I love it. I groan. It’s so raw, so carnal, making me so wanton. I revel in his possession, his lust slaking mine. He moves with ease, luxuriating in me, enjoying me, his lips slightly parted as his breathing increases.

He twists his hips from side to side, and the feeling is exquisite.

Oh my.
I close my eyes, feeling the build up – that delicious, slow, step climbing build.

Pushing me higher, higher to the castle in the air. Oh yes… his stroke increasing fractionally. I moan loudly. I am all sensation… all him, enjoying every thrust, every push that fills me. And he picks up the pace, thrusting faster… harder… and my whole body is moving to his rhythm, and I can feel my legs stiffening, and my insides quivering and quickening.

“Come on, baby, give it up for me,” he cajoles through gritted teeth – and the fervent need in his voice – the strain – sends me over the edge.

I cry out a wordless, passionate plea as I touch the sun and burn, falling around him, falling down, back to a breathless, bright summit on Earth. He slams into me and stops abruptly as he reaches his climax, pulling at my wrists, and sinking gracefully and wordlessly onto me.

Wow... that was unexpected.
I slowly materialize back on Earth.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” he breathes as he nuzzles my neck. “You completely beguile me, Ana. You weave some powerful magic.”

He releases my wrists, and I run my fingers through his hair, coming down from my high. I tighten my legs around him.

“I’m the one beguiled,” I whisper.

He looks up, gazing at me, his expression is disconcerted, alarmed even. Placing his hands on either side of my face, he holds my head in place.

“You. Are. Mine,” he says, each word a staccato. “Do you understand?”

He’s so earnest, so impassioned – a zealot. The force of his plea is so unexpected and disarming. I wonder why he’s feeling like this.

“Yes, yours,” I whisper, derailed by his fervor.

“Are you sure you have to go to Georgia?”

I nod slowly. And in that brief moment, I can see his expression change and the shutters coming down. Abruptly he withdraws, making me wince.

“Are you sore?” he asks, leaning over me.

“A little,” I confess.

“I like you sore.” His eyes smolder. “Reminds you where I’ve been, and only me.”

He grabs my chin and kisses me roughly, then stands and holds his hand out to help me up. I glance down at the foil packet beside me.

“Always prepared,” I murmur.

He looks at me confused as he redoes his fly. I hold up the empty packet.

“A man can hope, Anastasia, dream even, and sometimes his dreams come true.”