by E. L. James
“Yes,” I respond automatically.
But she says nothing; she’s definitely asleep, but I’ve never heard her talk in her sleep before.
I watch her, fascinated. Her face is illuminated by ambient light from the living area. Her brow crinkles for a moment, as if an unpleasant thought is plaguing her, then it’s smooth once more. With her lips parted as she breathes, her face soft in sleep, she’s beautiful.
And she doesn’t want me to go, and she won’t leave me. The candor of her subconscious admission sweeps through me like a summer breeze, leaving warmth and hope in its wake.
She’s not going to leave me.
Well, you have your answer, Grey.
I smile down at her. She seems to have settled and stopped talking. I check the time on the radio alarm: 4:57.
It’s time to get up anyway, and I’m elated. I’m going soaring. With Ana. I love soaring. I place a quick kiss on her temple, rise, and head into the main room of the suite, where I order breakfast and check the local weather report.
Another hot day with high humidity. No rain.
I shower quickly, dry myself, then gather Ana’s clothes from the bathroom and lay them out on a chair near the bed. As I pick up her panties I remember how my devious plan to confiscate her underwear backfired.
Oh, Miss Steele.
And after our first night together…
“Oh, by the way, I’m wearing your underwear.” And she yanks the waistband up, so I can see the words “Polo” and “Ralph” peeking over her jeans.
I shake my head, and from the armoire I take a pair of my boxer briefs and deposit them on the chair. I like it when she wears my clothes.
She mumbles again, and I think she said “cage,” but I’m not sure.
What the hell is that about?
She doesn’t stir, but remains blissfully asleep while I dress. As I pull on my T-shirt there’s a knock on the door. Breakfast has arrived: pastries, a coffee for me, and Twinings English Breakfast tea for Ana. Fortunately the hotel stocks her favorite blend.
It’s time to wake Miss Steele.
“Strawberry,” she mutters, as I sit down beside her on the bed.
What’s with the fruit?
“Anastasia,” I summon her gently.
“I want more.”
I know you do, and so do I. “Come on, baby.” I continue to coax her awake.
She gripes. “No. I want to touch you.”
Shit. “Wake up.” I lean down and gently tug her earlobe with my teeth.
“No.” She screws her eyes tight.
“Wake up, baby.”
“Oh no,” she protests.
“Time to get up, baby. I’m going to switch on the side light.” I reach across and switch it on, bathing her in a pool of dim light. She squints.
“No,” she whines. Her reluctance to wake is amusing and different. In my previous relationships a sleepy submissive could expect to be disciplined.
I nuzzle her ear and whisper, “I want to chase the dawn with you.” I kiss her cheek, kiss each eyelid in turn, kiss the tip of her nose, and kiss her lips.
Her eyes flicker open.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
And they close again. She grumbles, and I grin down at her. “You are not a morning person.”
She opens one unfocused eye, studying me. “I thought you wanted sex,” she says, her relief obvious.
I suppress my laugh. “Anastasia, I always want sex with you. It’s heartwarming to know that you feel the same.”
“Of course I do, just not when it’s so late.” She hugs her pillow.
“It’s not late, it’s early. Come on—up you go. We’re going out. I’ll take a rain check on the sex.”
“I was having such a nice dream.” She sighs, peering up at me.
“Dream about what?”
“You.” Her face warms.
“What was I doing this time?”
“Trying to feed me strawberries,” she says with a small voice.
That accounts for her babbling. “Dr. Flynn could have a field day with that. Up—get dressed. Don’t bother to shower, we can do that later.”
She protests but sits up, ignoring the sheet that slips down to her waist and exposes her body. My cock stirs. With her hair mussed, cascading over her shoulders and curling around her naked breasts, she looks gorgeous. Ignoring my arousal, I stand up to give her some room.
“What time is it?” she asks, her voice sleepy.
“Five thirty in the morning.”
“Feels like three a.m.”
“We don’t have much time. I let you sleep as long as possible. Come.” I want to drag her out of bed and dress her myself. I can’t wait to get her airborne.
“Can’t I have a shower?”
“If you have a shower, I’ll want one with you, and you and I know what will happen then—the day will just go. Come.”
She gives me a patient look. “What are we doing?”
“It’s a surprise. I told you.”
She shakes her head and beams, very much amused. “Okay.” She climbs out of bed, oblivious to her nudity, and notices her clothes on the chair. I’m delighted that she’s not her usual shy self; maybe it’s because she’s sleepy. She slides on my underwear and gives me a broad smile.
“I’ll give you some room now that you’re up.” Leaving her to dress, I wander back into the main room, sit down at the small dining table, and help myself to some coffee.
She joins me a few minutes later.
“Eat,” I order, motioning for her to take a seat. She stares at me, transfixed, her eyes glazed. “Anastasia,” I say, interrupting her daydream. Her eyelashes flutter as she comes back from wherever she’s been.
“I’ll have some tea. Can I take a croissant for later?” she asks hopefully.
She’s not going to eat.
“Don’t rain on my parade, Anastasia.”
“I’ll eat later, when my stomach’s woken up. About seven thirty, okay?”
“Okay.” I can’t force her.
She looks defiant and stubborn. “I want to roll my eyes at you,” she says.
Oh, Ana, bring it on.
“By all means, do, and you will make my day.”
She looks up at the fire sprinkler on the ceiling. “Well, a spanking would wake me up, I suppose,” she says, as if she’s weighing the option.
She’s considering it? It doesn’t work that way, Anastasia!
“On the other hand, I don’t want you to be all hot and bothered; the climate here is warm enough.” She gives me a saccharine smile.
“You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele.” My voice is droll. “Drink your tea.”
She sits down and takes a couple of sips.
“Drink up. We should go.” I’m keen to get on the road—it’s quite a drive.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Stop with the grinning, Grey.
She pouts with frustration. Miss Steele, as ever, is curious. But all she’s wearing is her camisole and jeans; she’ll be cold once we’re airborne. “Finish your tea,” I order, and leave the table. In the bedroom I rifle through the armoire and pull out a sweatshirt. This should do. I call the valet and tell him to bring the car out front.
“I’m ready,” she says as I return to the main room.
“You’ll need this.” I toss the sweatshirt to her as she gives me a bewildered look.
“Trust me.” I plant a swift kiss on her lips. Taking her hand, I open the door to the suite and we head for the elevators. There’s a hotel employee standing there—Brian, according to his name tag—also waiting for the elevator.
“Good morning,” he says, giving us both a cheerful salute as the doors open. I glance at Ana and smirk as w
e enter.
No shenanigans in elevators this morning.
She hides her smile and peers at the floor, her cheeks coloring. She knows exactly what’s going through my mind. Brian wishes us a good day as we exit.
Outside, the valet is waiting with the Mustang. Ana arches a brow, impressed by the GT500. Yeah, it’s a fun drive, even if it’s only a Mustang. “You know, sometimes it’s great being me,” I tease her, and with a polite bow I open her door.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” I get behind the wheel and ease the car into drive. At the stoplight I quickly program the address of the airfield into the GPS. It directs us out of Savannah toward I-95. I switch on my iPod via the steering wheel, and the car is filled with a sublime melody.
“What’s this?” Ana asks.
“It’s from La Traviata. An opera by Verdi.”
“La Traviata? I’ve heard of that. I can’t think where. What does it mean?”
I give her a knowing look. “Well, literally, ‘the woman led astray.’ It’s based on Alexandre Dumas’s book La Dame aux Camélias.”
“Ah. I’ve read it.”
“I thought you might have.”
“The doomed courtesan,” she recounts, her voice tinged with melancholy. “Hmm, it’s a depressing story,” she says.
“Too depressing?” We can’t have that, Miss Steele, especially when I’m in such a good mood. “Do you want to choose some music? This is on my iPod.”
I tap the navigation screen and bring up the playlist.
“You choose,” I offer, wondering if she’ll like anything I have in iTunes. She studies the list and scrolls through it, concentrating hard. She taps on a song, and Verdi’s dulcet strings are replaced by a pounding beat and Britney Spears.
“ ‘Toxic,’ eh?” I observe, with wry humor.
Is she trying to tell me something?
Is she referring to me?
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says innocently.
Does she think I should wear a warning?
Miss Steele wants to play games.
So be it.
I turn the music down a tad. It’s a little early for this remix, and for the reminder.
“Sir, this submissive respectfully requests Master’s iPod.”
I glance away from the spreadsheet I’m reading and study her as she kneels beside me, her eyes cast down.
She’s been exceptional this weekend. How can I refuse?
“Sure, Leila, take it. I think it’s in the dock.”
“Thank you, Master,” she says, and stands with her usual grace, without looking at me.
Good girl.
And wearing only red high heels, she teeters over to the iPod dock and collects her reward.
“I didn’t put that song on my iPod,” I tell her breezily, and floor the gas, throwing us both into the back of our seats, but I hear Ana’s small, exasperated huff above the roar of the engine.
As Britney continues at her sultry best, Ana drums her fingers on her thigh, radiating disquiet as she stares out the car window. The Mustang eats up the miles on the freeway; there’s no traffic, and dawn’s first light is chasing us down I-95.
Ana sighs as Damien Rice begins.
Put her out of her misery, Grey.
And I don’t know if it’s my good mood, our talk last night, or the fact that I’m about to go soaring—but I want to tell her who put the song on the iPod. “It was Leila.”
“Leila?”
“An ex, who put the song on my iPod.”
“One of the fifteen?” She turns her full attention to me, hungry for information.
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“We finished.”
“Why?”
“She wanted more.”
“And you didn’t?”
I glance at her and shake my head. “I’ve never wanted more, until I met you.” She rewards me with her bashful smile.
Yes, Ana. It’s not just you who wants more.
“What happened to the other fourteen?” she asks.
“You want a list? Divorced, beheaded, died?”
“You’re not Henry the Eighth,” she scolds me.
“Okay. In no particular order, I’ve only had long-term relationships with four women, apart from Elena.”
“Elena?”
“Mrs. Robinson to you.”
She pauses for a moment, and I know she’s scrutinizing me. I keep my eyes on the road.
“What happened to the four?” she asks.
“So inquisitive, so eager for information, Miss Steele,” I tease.
“Oh, Mr. When Is Your Period Due?”
“Anastasia, a man needs to know these things.”
“Does he?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to get pregnant.”
“Neither do I. Well, not for a few years yet,” she says a little wistfully.
Of course, that would be with someone else…the thought is disquieting…She’s mine.
“So the other four, what happened?” she persists.
“One met someone else. The other three wanted—more. I wasn’t in the market for more then.” Why did I open this can of worms?
“And the others?”
“Just didn’t work out.”
She nods and stares out the window as Aaron Neville sings “Tell It Like It Is.”
“Where are we headed?” she asks again.
We’re close now. “An airfield.”
“We’re not going back to Seattle, are we?” She sounds panicked.
“No, Anastasia.” I chuckle at her reaction. “We’re going to indulge in my second favorite pastime.”
“Second?”
“Yep. I told you my favorite this morning.” Her expression tells me she’s completely perplexed. “Indulging in you, Miss Steele. That’s got to be top of my list. Any way I can get you.”
She looks down at her lap, her lips twitching. “Well, that’s quite high up on my list of diverting, kinky priorities, too,” she says.
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
“So, airfield?”
I beam at her. “Soaring. We’re going to chase the dawn, Anastasia.” I take a left into the airfield and drive up to the Brunswick Soaring Association hangar, where I stop the car.
“You up for this?” I ask.
“You’re flying?”
“Yes.”
Her face glows with excitement. “Yes, please!” I love how fearless and enthusiastic she is with any new experience. Leaning over, I kiss her quickly. “Another first, Miss Steele.”
Outside it’s cool but not cold, and the sky is lighter now, pearl and bright at the horizon. I walk around the car and open Ana’s door. With her hand in mine we make our way to the front of the hangar.
Taylor is waiting there with a young bearded man in shorts and sandals.
“Mr. Grey, this is your tow pilot, Mr. Mark Benson,” says Taylor. I release Ana so I can shake hands with Benson, who has a wild glint in his eye.
“You’ve got a great morning for it, Mr. Grey,” Benson says. “The wind is at ten knots from the northeast, which means the convergence along the shore should keep you up for a wee while.”
Benson is British, with a firm handshake.
“Sounds great,” I answer, and watch Ana as she shares a private joke with Taylor. “Anastasia. Come.”
“See you later,” she says to Taylor.
Ignoring her familiarity with my staff, I introduce her to Benson.
“Mr. Benson, this is my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she says, and Benson gives her a bright smile as they shake hands.
“Likewise,” he says. “If you’d like to follow me.”
“Lead the way.” I take Ana’s hand as we fall into step beside Benson.
“I have a Blaník L23 set up and ready. She’s old school. But she handles well.”
“Great. I learned to fly in a Blaník. An L13,” I tell Benson.
“Can’t go wrong with a Blaník. I’m a big fan.” He gives me a thumbs-up. “Though I prefer the L23 for the aerobatics.”
I nod in agreement.
“You’re hooked up to my Piper Pawnee,” he continues. “I’ll take her up to three thousand feet, then set you guys free. That should give you some flying time.”
“I hope so. The cloud cover looks promising.”
“It’s a bit early in the day for much lift. But you never know. Dave, my mate, will spot the wing. He’s in the jakes.”
“Okay.” I think “jakes” means restroom. “You’ve been flying long?”
“Since my days in the RAF. But I’ve been flying these tail-draggers for five years now. We’re on CTAF 122.3, so you know.”
“Got it.”
The L23 looks to be in fine shape, and I make a note of her FAA registration: November. Papa. Three. Alpha.
“First we need to strap on your parachute.” Benson reaches into the cockpit and pulls out a parachute for Ana.
“I’ll do that,” I offer, taking the bundle from Benson before he has a chance to put it or his hands on Ana.
“I’ll fetch some ballast,” Benson says with a cheery smile, and he heads toward the plane.
“You like strapping me into things,” Ana says with a raised brow.
“Miss Steele, you have no idea. Here, step into the straps.” I hold open the leg fastenings for her. Leaning over, she puts her hand on my shoulder. I stiffen instinctively, expecting the darkness to wake and choke me, but it doesn’t. It’s weird. I don’t know how I’m going to react where her touch is concerned. She lets go once the loops are around her thighs, and I hoist the shoulder straps up over her arms and fasten the parachute.
Boy, she looks good in a harness.
Briefly, I wonder how she’d look spread-eagled and hanging from the karabiners in the playroom, her mouth and her sex at my disposal. But alas, she’s set suspension as a hard limit. “There, you’ll do,” I mutter, trying to banish the image from my mind. “Do you have your hair tie from yesterday?”
“You want me to put my hair up?” she asks.