by E. L. James
“We were Christian and Ana when she arrived, and Mr. and Mrs. Grey when she left.” His tone is dry.
“I may have said something,” I mumble. When I peek up at him, he’s regarding me warmly, and for an unguarded moment he looks … pleased. He drops his gaze, shaking his head, and his expression changes.
“She’s only reacting to this face.” He sounds vaguely bitter, disgusted even.
Oh, Fifty, no!
“What?” He’s bemused by my perplexed expression. His eyes grow wide in alarm. “You’re not jealous, are you?” he asks, horrified.
I blush and swallow, then stare down at my knotted fingers. Am I?
“Ana, she’s a sexual predator. Not my type at all. How can you be jealous of her? Of anyone? Nothing about her interests me.” When I glance up, he’s gaping at me as if I’ve grown an additional limb. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s only you, Ana,” he says quietly. “It will only ever be you.”
Oh my. Abandoning the plans once more, Christian moves toward me and clasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“How can you think otherwise? Have I ever given you any indication that I could be remotely interested in anyone else?” His eyes blaze as he stares into mine.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m being silly. It’s just today … you …” All my conflicting emotions from earlier resurface. How can I tell him how confused I am? I’ve been confounded and frustrated by his behavior this afternoon in my office. One minute he wants me to stay at home, the next he’s gifting me a company. How am I supposed to keep up?
“What about me?”
“Oh, Christian”—my bottom lip trembles—“I’m trying to adapt to this new life that I had never imagined for myself. Everything is being handed to me on a plate—the job, you, my beautiful husband, who I never … I never knew I’d love this way, this hard, this fast, this … indelibly.” I take a deep, steadying breath, as his mouth drops open.
“But you’re like a freight train, and I don’t want to get railroaded because the girl you fell in love with will be crushed. And what’ll be left? All that would be left is a vacuous social X-ray, flitting from charity function to charity function.” I pause once more, struggling to find the words to convey how I feel. “And now you want me to be a company CEO, which has never even been on my radar. I’m bouncing between all these ideas, struggling. You want me at home. You want me to run a company. It’s so confusing.” I stop, tears threatening, and I force back a sob.
“You’ve got to let me make my own decisions, take my own risks, and make my own mistakes, and let me learn from them. I need to walk before I can run, Christian, don’t you see? I want some independence. That’s what my name means to me.” There, that’s what I wanted to say this afternoon.
“You feel railroaded?” he whispers.
I nod.
He closes his eyes, agitated. “I just want to give you the world, Ana, everything and anything you want. And save you from it, too. Keep you safe. But I also want everyone to know you’re mine. I panicked today when I got your e-mail. Why didn’t you tell me about your name?”
I flush. He has a point.
“I only thought about it while we were on our honeymoon, and well, I didn’t want to burst the bubble, and I forgot about it. I only remembered yesterday evening. And then Jack … you know, it was distracting. I’m sorry, I should have told you or discussed it with you, but I could never seem to find the right time.”
Christian’s intense gaze is unnerving. It’s as if he’s trying to will his way into my skull, but he says nothing.
“Why did you panic?” I ask.
“I just don’t want you to slip through my fingers.”
“For heaven’s sake, I’m not going anywhere. When are you going to get that through your incredibly thick skull? I. Love. You.” I wave my hand in the air like he does sometimes to emphasize my point. “More than … ‘eyesight, space, or liberty.’ ”
His eyes widen. “A daughter’s love?” He gives me an ironic smile.
“No.” I laugh, despite myself. “It’s the only quote that came to mind.”
“Mad King Lear?”
“Dear, dear mad King Lear.” I caress his face, and he leans into my touch, closing his eyes. “Would you change your name to Christian Steele so everyone would know that you belong to me?”
Christian’s eyes fly open, and he gazes at me as if I’ve just said the world is flat. He frowns. “Belong to you?” he murmurs, testing the words.
“Mine.”
“Yours,” he says, repeating the words we spoke in the playroom only yesterday. “Yes, I would. If it meant that much to you.”
Oh my.
“Does it mean that much to you?”
“Yes.” He is unequivocal.
“Okay.” I will do this for him. Give him the reassurance he still needs.
“I thought you’d already agreed to this.”
“Yes, I have, but now that we’ve discussed it further, I’m happier with my decision.”
“Oh,” he mutters, surprised. Then he smiles his beautiful, boyish yes-I-am-really-kinda-young smile, and he takes my breath away. Grabbing me by the waist, he swings me around. I squeal and start to giggle, and I don’t know if he’s just happy or relieved or … what?
“Mrs. Grey, do you know what this means to me?”
“I do now.”
He leans down and kisses me, his fingers moving into my hair, holding me in place.
“It means seven shades of Sunday,” he murmurs against my lips, and he runs his nose along mine.
“You think?” I lean back to gaze at him.
“Certain promises were made. An offer extended, a deal brokered,” he whispers, his eyes sparkling with wicked delight.
“Um …” I am still reeling, trying to follow his mood.
“You reneging on me?” he asks uncertainly, and a speculative look crosses his face. “I have an idea,” he adds.
Oh, what kinky fuckery is this?
“A really important matter to attend to,” he continues, suddenly all serious once more. “Yes, Mrs. Grey. A matter of the gravest importance.”
Hang on—he’s laughing at me.
“What?” I breathe.
“I need you to cut my hair. Apparently it’s overlong, and my wife doesn’t like it.”
“I can’t cut your hair!”
“Yes, you can.” Christian grins and shakes his head so his overlong hair covers his eyes.
“Well, if Mrs. Jones has a pudding bowl.” I giggle.
He laughs. “Okay, good point well made. I’ll get Franco to do it.”
No! Franco works for the bitch troll! Maybe I could give him a trim. After all, I cut Ray’s hair for years, and he never complained.
“Come.” I grab his hand. His eyes widen. I lead him all the way to our bathroom, where I release him and grab the white wooden chair that stands in the corner. I place it in front of the sink. When I look at Christian, he’s gazing at me with ill-disguised amusement, thumbs tucked in the front belt loops of his pants, but his eyes are smoking hot.
“Sit.” I gesture to the empty chair, trying to maintain the upper hand.
“Are you going to wash my hair?”
I nod. He arches one brow in surprise, and for a moment I think he’s going to back down. “Okay.” Slowly he begins to undo each button of his white shirt, starting with the one beneath his throat. Nimble, deft fingers move to each button in turn until his shirt hangs open.
Oh my … My inner goddess pauses in her celebratory jaunt around the arena.
Christian holds out a cuff with an “undo this now” gesture, and his mouth twitches in that challenging, sexy way he has.
Oh, cuff links. I take his proffered wrist and remove the first one, a platinum disc with his initials engraved in a simple italic script—and then remove its matching twin. As I finish I glance at him, and his amused expression is gone, replaced by something hotter … much hotter. I reach up and push his shirt
off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
“Ready?” I whisper.
“For whatever you want, Ana.”
My eyes stray from his eyes to his lips. Parted so that he can inhale more deeply. Sculptured, chiseled, whatever, it is a beautiful mouth and he knows exactly what to do with it. I find myself leaning up to kiss him.
“No,” he says and places both of his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t. If you do that, I’ll never get my hair cut.”
Oh!
“I want this,” he continues. And his eyes are round and raw for some inexplicable reason. It’s disarming.
“Why?” I whisper.
He stares at me for a beat, and his eyes grow wider. “Because it’ll make me feel cherished.”
My heart practically lurches to a halt. Oh, Christian … my Fifty. And before I know it I’ve circled him in my arms, and I kiss his chest before nuzzling my cheek into his tickly chest hair.
“Ana. My Ana,” he whispers. He wraps his arms around me and we stand immobile, holding each other in our bathroom. Oh, how I love to be in his arms. Even if he is an overbearing, megalomaniac arse, he’s my overbearing megalomaniac arse in need of a lifetime dose of TLC. I lean back without releasing him.
“You really want me to do this?”
He nods and gives me his shy smile. I grin back at him and step out of his embrace.
“Then sit,” I repeat.
He dutifully does, sitting with his back to the sink. I take off my shoes and kick them over to where his shirt lies crumpled on the bathroom floor. From the shower I retrieve his Chanel shampoo. We bought it in France.
“Would Sir like this?” I hold it up in both hands like I’m selling it on QVC. “Hand-delivered from the South of France. I like the smell of this … it smells of you,” I add in a whisper, slipping out of my television presenter mode.
“Please.” He grins.
I grab a small towel off the towel warmer. Mrs. Jones sure knows how to keep the towels supersoft.
“Lean forward,” I order, and Christian complies. Draping the towel around his shoulders, I then turn on the taps and fill the sink with a mix of warm water.
“Lean back.” Oh, I like being in charge. Christian leans back, but he’s too tall. He shifts the seat forward, then tilts back the entire chair until the top rests against the sink. Perfect distance. He tips back his head. Bold eyes gaze up at me, and I smile. Taking one of the drinking glasses we keep on the vanity, I dip it into the water and tip it over Christian’s head, soaking his hair. I repeat the process, leaning over him.
“You smell so good, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and closes his eyes.
As I methodically wet his hair, I freely gaze at him. Holy cow. Will I ever tire of this? Long dark lashes fan across his cheeks; his lips part a little, creating a small, dark diamond shape, and he inhales softly. Hmm … how I long to poke my tongue—
I splash water into his eyes. Shit! “Sorry!”
He grabs the corner of the towel and laughs as he wipes the water out of his eyes.
“Hey, I know I’m an arse, but don’t drown me.”
I lean down and kiss his forehead, giggling. “Don’t tempt me.”
He curls his hand behind my head and shifts so that he captures my lips with his. He kisses me briefly, making a low contented sound in his throat. The noise connects to the muscles deep in my belly. It’s a very seductive sound. He releases me and lies back obediently, gazing up at me with expectation. For a moment he looks vulnerable, like a child. It tugs at my heart.
I squirt some shampoo into my palm and massage it into his scalp, beginning at his temples and working over the top of his head and down the sides, circling my fingers rhythmically. He closes his eyes and makes that low humming sound again.
“That feels good,” he says after a moment and relaxes beneath the firm touch of my fingers.
“Yes, it does.” I kiss his forehead once more.
“I like it when you scratch my scalp with your fingernails.” His eyes are still closed, but his expression is one of blissful contentment—no trace of his vulnerability remains. Jeez, how much his mood has changed, and I take comfort knowing it’s me that’s done this.
“Head up,” I command, and he obeys. Hmm—a girl could get used to this. I rub the suds into the back of his hair, scraping my nails into his scalp.
“Back.”
He leans back, and I rinse off the lather, using the glass. This time I manage not to splash him.
“Once more?” I ask.
“Please.” His eyes flutter open and his serene gaze finds mine. I grin down at him.
“Coming right up, Mr. Grey.”
I turn to the sink that Christian normally uses and fill it with warm water.
“For rinsing,” I say when his look turns quizzical.
I repeat the process with the shampoo, listening to his deep even breaths. Once he’s all lathered up, I take another moment to appreciate the fine face of my husband. I cannot resist him. Tenderly, I caress his cheek, and he opens his eyes, watching me almost sleepily through his long lashes. Leaning forward I plant a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. He smiles, closes his eyes, and breathes out a sigh of utter contentment.
Who would have thought after our argument this afternoon he could be this relaxed? Without sex? I lean right over him.
“Hmm,” he murmurs appreciatively as my breasts brush his face. Resisting the urge to shimmy, I pull the plug so the sudsy water drains away. His hands move to my hips and around to my behind.
“No fondling the help,” I murmur, feigning disapproval.
“Don’t forget I’m deaf,” he says, keeping his eyes closed, as he runs his hands down past my behind and starts to hitch up my skirt. I swat his arm. I’m enjoying playing hairdresser. He grins, big and boyish, like I’ve caught him doing something illicit that he’s secretly proud of.
I reach for the glass again, but this time use the water from the neighboring sink to carefully rinse all the shampoo from his hair. I continue to lean over him, and he keeps his hands on my backside, thrumming his fingers back and forward, up and down … back and forth … hmm. I wiggle. He growls low in his throat.
“There. All rinsed.”
“Good,” he declares. His fingers tighten on my behind, and all at once he sits up, his soaked hair dripping all over him. He pulls me down onto his lap, his hands moving from my behind up to the nape of my neck, then to my chin, holding me in place. I gasp with surprise and his lips are on mine, his tongue hot and hard in my mouth. My fingers curl around his wet hair, and drops of water run down my arms; and as he deepens the kiss, his hair bathes my face. His hand moves from my chin down to the top button of my blouse.
“Enough of this primping. I want to fuck you seven shades of Sunday, and we can do it in here or in the bedroom. You decide.”
Christian’s eyes blaze, hot and full of promise, his hair dripping water onto us both. My mouth goes dry.
“What’s it to be, Anastasia?” he asks as he holds me in his lap.
“You’re wet,” I respond.
He bends his head suddenly, running his dripping hair all down the front of my blouse. I squeal and try to wriggle off him. He tightens his grip around me.
“Oh, no you don’t, baby.” When he raises his head he’s grinning salaciously at me, and I am Miss Wet Blouse 2011. My top is soaked and totally see-through. I’m wet … everywhere.
“Love the view,” he murmurs and leans down to run his nose around and around one wet nipple. I squirm.
“Answer me, Ana. Here or the bedroom?”
“Here,” I whisper frantically. To hell with the haircut—I’ll do it later. He smiles slowly, his lips curling into a sensuous smile full of licentious promise.
“Good choice, Mrs. Grey,” he breathes against my lips. He releases my chin and his hand moves to my knee. It glides smoothly up my leg, lifting my skirt and skating over my skin, making me tingle. His lips trail soft kisses from the base of my ear along my jaw.
“Oh, what shall I do to you?” he whispers. His fingers halt at my stocking tops. “I like these,” he says. He runs a finger underneath the top and skims it around to my inner thigh. I gasp and squirm once more in his lap.
He groans, low in his throat. “If I’m going to fuck you seven shades of Sunday, I want you to keep still.”
“Make me,” I challenge, my voice soft and breathy.
Christian inhales sharply. He narrows his eyes and regards me with a hot, hooded expression.
“Oh, Mrs. Grey. You have only to ask.” His hand moves from my stocking tops up to my panties. “Let’s divest you of these.” He tugs gently and I shift to help him. His breath hisses through his teeth as I do.
“Keep still,” he grumbles.
“I’m helping,” I pout, and he seizes my lower lip gently between his teeth.
“Still,” he growls. He slides my panties down my legs and off. Tugging my skirt up so that it’s bunched around my hips, he moves both hands to my waist and lifts me. He still has my panties in his hand.
“Sit. Astride me,” he orders, staring intently into my eyes. I shift, straddling him, and regard him provocatively. Bring it on, Fifty!
“Mrs. Grey,” he warns. “Are you goading me?” He gazes at me, amused but aroused. It’s a seductive combination.
“Yes. What are you going to do about it?”
His eyes light up with salacious delight at my challenge, and I feel his arousal beneath me. “Clasp your hands together behind your back.”
Oh! I comply obediently, and he deftly binds my wrists together with my panties.
“My panties? Mr. Grey, you have no shame,” I admonish.
“Not where you’re concerned, Mrs. Grey, but you know that.” His look is intense and hot. Putting his hands around my waist, he shifts me so I am sitting a little farther back on his lap. Water still drips down his neck and over his chest. I want to bend forward and lick the drips off, but it’s trickier now that I am restrained.
Christian caresses both of my thighs and skims his hands down to my knees. Gently he pushes them farther apart and widens his own legs, holding me in that position. His fingers move to the buttons of my blouse.