Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (103 page)

I could reach across and touch him, but this would be a gross abuse of the position he’s put me in. I don’t want that, but I don’t know what he wants, or what he’s trying to say to me. I just don’t understand.

“Christian, please, please … talk to me,” I beseech him, wringing my hands in my lap. I am uncomfortable on my knees, but I continue to kneel, staring into his serious, beautiful, gray eyes, and I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

“Please,” I beg once more.

His intense gaze darkens suddenly and he blinks.

“I was so scared,” he whispers.

Oh, thank the Lord! My subconscious staggers back into her armchair, sagging with relief, and takes a large swig of gin.

He’s talking!
Gratitude overwhelms me, and I swallow, trying to contain my emotion and the fresh bout of tears that threatens.

His voice is soft and low. “When I saw Ethan arrive outside, I knew someone had let you into your apartment. Both Taylor and I leapt out of the car. We knew, and to see her there like that with you—and armed. I think I died a thousand deaths, Ana. Someone threatening you … all my worst fears realized. I was so angry, with her, with you, with Taylor, with myself.”

He shakes his head revealing his agony. “I didn’t know how volatile she would be. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how she’d react.” He stops and frowns. “And then she gave me a clue; she looked so contrite. And I just knew what I had to do.” He pauses, gazing at me, trying to gauge my reaction.

“Go on,” I whisper.

He swallows. “Seeing her in that state, knowing that I might have something to do with her mental breakdown …” He closes his eyes once more. “She was always so mischievous and lively.” He shudders and takes a rasping breath, almost like a sob. This is torture to listen to, but I kneel, attentive, lapping up this insight.

“She might have harmed you. And it would have been my fault.” His eyes drift off, filled with uncomprehending horror, and he’s silent once more.

“But she didn’t,” I whisper. “And you weren’t responsible for her being in that state, Christian.” I blink up at him, encouraging him to continue.

Then it dawns on me that everything he did was to keep me safe, and perhaps Leila, too, because he also cares for her. But how much does he care for her? The question lingers in my head, unwelcome. He says he loves me, but then he was so harsh, throwing me out of my own apartment.

“I just wanted you gone,” he murmurs, with his uncanny ability to read my thoughts. “I wanted you away from the danger,
and … You. Just. Wouldn’t. Go,” he hisses through clenched teeth and shakes his head. His exasperation is palpable.

He gazes at me intently. “Anastasia Steele, you are the most stubborn woman I know.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head once more in disbelief.

Oh, he’s back
. I breathe a long, cleansing sigh of relief.

He opens his eyes again, and his expression is forlorn—sincere. “You weren’t going to run?” he asks.

“No!”

He closes his eyes again and his whole body relaxes. When he opens his eyes, I can see his pain and anguish.

“I thought—” He stops. “This is me, Ana. All of me … and I’m all yours. What do I have to do to make you realize that? To make you see that I want you any way I can get you. That I love you.”

“I love you, too, Christian, and to see you like this is …” I choke and my tears start anew. “I thought I’d broken you.”

“Broken? Me? Oh no, Ana. Just the opposite.” He reaches out and takes my hand. “You’re my lifeline,” he whispers, and he kisses my knuckles before pressing my palm against his.

With his eyes wide and full of fear, he gently tugs my hand and places it on his chest over his heart—in the forbidden zone. His breathing quickens. His heart is beating a frantic, pounding tattoo beneath my fingers. He doesn’t take his eyes off mine; his jaw is tense, his teeth clenched.

I gasp.
Oh, my Fifty!
He’s letting me touch him. And it’s like all the air in my lungs has vaporized—gone. The blood is pounding in my ears as the rhythm of my heart rises to match his.

He releases my hand, leaving it in place over his heart. I flex my fingers slightly, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He’s holding his breath. I can’t bear it. I make to move my hand.

“No,” he says quickly and places his hand once more over mine, pressing my fingers against him. “Don’t.”

Emboldened by these two words, I shuffle closer so our knees are touching and tentatively raise my other hand so that he knows
exactly what I intend to do. His eyes grow wider but he doesn’t stop me.

Gently I start to undo the buttons on his shirt. It’s tricky with one hand. I flex my fingers beneath his hand and he lets go, allowing me to use both hands to undo his shirt. My eyes don’t leave his as I pull his shirt wide open, revealing his chest.

He swallows, and his lips part as his breathing increases, and I sense his rising panic, but he doesn’t pull away. Is he still in sub mode? I have no idea.

Should I do this? I don’t want to hurt him, physically or mentally. The sight of him like this, offering himself to me, has been a wake-up call.

I reach up, and my hand hovers over his chest, and I stare at him … asking his permission. Very subtly he tilts his head to one side, steeling himself in anticipation of my touch, and the tension radiates from him, but this time it’s not in anger—it’s in fear.

I hesitate. Can I really do this to him?

“Yes,” he breathes—again with the weird ability to answer my unspoken questions.

I extend my fingertips into his chest hair and lightly brush them down his sternum. He closes his eyes, and his face creases as if he’s experiencing intolerable pain. It’s unbearable to witness, so I lift my fingers immediately, but he quickly grabs my hand and replaces it firmly, flat on his bare chest so that the hair tickles my palm.

“No,” he says, his voice strained. “I need to.”

His eyes are screwed up so tightly. This must be agony. It’s truly tormenting to watch. Carefully I let my fingers stroke across his chest to his heart, marveling at the feel of him, terrified that this is a step too far.

He opens his eyes, and they are gray fire, blazing at me.

Holy cow
. His look is blistering, feral, beyond intense, and his breathing is rapid. It stirs my blood. I squirm under his gaze.

He hasn’t stopped me, so I run my fingertips across his chest again, and his mouth goes slack. He’s panting, and I don’t know if it’s from fear, or something else.

I’ve wanted to kiss him there for so long that I lean up on my knees and hold his gaze for a moment, making my intention perfectly clear. Then I bend and gently plant a soft kiss above his heart, feeling his warm, sweet-smelling skin beneath my lips.

His strangled groan moves me so much that I sit back on my heels, fearful of what I’ll see on his face. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, but he hasn’t moved.

“Again,” he whispers, and I lean into his chest once more, this time to kiss one of his scars. He gasps, and I kiss another and another. He groans loudly, and suddenly his arms are around me, and his hand is in my hair, pulling my head up painfully so that my lips meet his insistent mouth. And we’re kissing, my fingers knotting into his hair.

“Oh, Ana,” he breathes, and he twists and pulls me down on to the floor so that I am underneath him. I bring my hands up to cup his beautiful face, and in that moment, I feel his tears.

He’s crying … no. No!

“Christian, please don’t cry. I meant it when I said I’d never leave you. I did. If I gave you any other impression, I’m so sorry … please, please forgive me. I love you. I will always love you.”

He looms over me, gazing down into my face, and his expression is so pained.

“What is it?”

His eyes grow larger.

“What is this secret that makes you think I’ll run for the hills? That makes you so determined to believe I’ll go?” I plead, my voice tremulous. “Tell me, Christian,
please …
”

He sits up, though this time he crosses his legs and I follow suit, my legs outstretched. Vaguely I wonder if we can get off the floor. But I don’t want to interrupt his train of thought. He’s finally going to confide in me.

He gazes down at me, and he looks utterly desolate.
Oh, shit—it’s bad
.

“Ana …” He pauses, searching for the words, his expression pained … Where the hell is this going?

He takes a deep breath and swallows. “I’m a sadist, Ana. I like to whip little brown-haired girls like you because you all look like the crack whore—my birth mother. I’m sure you can guess why.” He says it in a rush as if he’s had the sentence in his head for days and days and is desperate to be rid of it.

My world stops.
Oh no
.

This is not what I expected. This is bad. Really bad. I gaze at him, trying to understand the implication of what he’s just said. It does explain why we all look the same.

My immediate thought is that Leila was right—
“Master is dark.”

I recall the first conversation I had with him about his tendencies when we were in the Red Room of Pain.

“You said you weren’t a sadist,” I whisper, desperately trying to understand … make some excuse for him.

“No, I said I was a Dominant. If I lied to you, it was a lie of omission. I’m sorry.” He looks briefly down at his manicured fingernails.

I think he’s mortified. Mortified about lying to me? Or about what he is?

“When you asked me that question, I had envisioned a very different relationship between us,” he murmurs. I can tell by his gaze that he’s terrified.

Then it hits me like a wrecking ball. If he’s a sadist, he really needs all that whipping and caning shit. Oh, fuck. I put my head in my hands.

“So it’s true,” I whisper, glancing up at him. “I can’t give you what you need.” This is it—this really does mean we are incompatible.

The world starts falling away at my feet, collapsing around me as panic grips my throat. This is it. We can’t do this.

He frowns. “No no no. Ana. No. You can. You
do
give me what I need.” He clenches his fists. “Please believe me,” he murmurs, his words an impassioned plea.

“I don’t know what to believe, Christian. This is so fucked-up,”
I whisper, my throat hoarse and aching as it closes in, choking me with unshed tears.

His eyes are wide and luminous when he looks at me again.

“Ana, believe me. After I punished you and you left me, my worldview changed. I wasn’t joking when I said I would avoid ever feeling like that again.” He gazes at me with pained entreaty. “When you said you loved me, it was a revelation. No one’s ever said it to me before, and it was as if I’d laid something to rest—or maybe you’d laid it to rest, I don’t know. Dr. Flynn and I are still in deep discussion about it.”

Oh
. Hope flares briefly in my heart. Perhaps we’ll be okay. I want us to be okay.
Don’t I?
“What does that all mean?” I whisper.

“It means I don’t need it. Not now.”

What?
“How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

“I just know. The thought of hurting you … in any real way … it’s abhorrent to me.”

“I don’t understand. What about rulers and spanking and all that kinky fuckery?”

He runs a hand through his hair and almost smiles but instead sighs ruefully. “I’m talking about the heavy shit, Anastasia. You should see what I can do with a cane or a cat.”

My mouth drops open, stunned. “I’d rather not.”

“I know. If you wanted to do that, then fine … but you don’t and I get it. I can’t do all that shit with you if you don’t want to. I told you once before, you have all the power. And now, since you came back, I don’t feel that compulsion at all.”

I gape at him for a moment trying to take this all in. “When we met, that’s what you wanted, though?”

“Yes, undoubtedly.”

“How can your compulsion just go, Christian? Like I’m some kind of panacea, and you’re—for want of a better word—cured? I don’t get it.”

He sighs once more. “I wouldn’t say ‘cured’ … You don’t believe me?”

“I just find it—unbelievable. Which is different.”

“If you’d never left me, then I probably wouldn’t feel this way. Your walking out on me was the best thing you ever did … for us. It made me realize how much I want you, just you, and I mean it when I say I’ll take you any way I can have you.”

I gaze at him. Can I believe this? My head hurts just trying to think this all through, and deep down I feel … numb.

“You’re still here. I thought you would be out of the door by now,” he whispers.

“Why? Because I might think you’re a sicko for whipping and fucking women who look like your mother? Whatever would give you that impression?” I hiss, lashing out.

He blanches at my harsh words.

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but yes,” he says, his eyes wide and hurt.

His expression is sobering and I regret my outburst. I frown, feeling a pang of guilt.

Oh, what am I going to do? I gaze at him and he looks contrite, sincere … he looks like my Fifty.

And unbidden, I recall the photograph in his childhood bedroom, and in that moment realize why the woman in it looked so familiar. She looked like him. She must have been his biological mother.

His easy dismissal of her comes to mind:
No one of consequence …
She’s responsible for all this … and I look like her … 
Fuck!

He stares at me, eyes raw, and I know he’s waiting for my next move. He seems genuine. He’s said he loves me, but I’m really confused.

This is all so fucked-up. He’s reassured me about Leila, but now I know with more certainty than ever how she was able to give him his kicks. The thought is wearying and unpalatable.

“Christian, I’m exhausted. Can we discuss this tomorrow? I want to go to bed.”

He blinks at me in surprise. “You’re not going?”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No! I thought you would leave once you knew.”

All the times he’s alluded to my leaving once I knew his darkest secrets flash through my mind … and now I know. Shit. Master
is
dark.