Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (54 page)

I blink at him. Truth or dare time—my subconscious and inner goddess glance nervously at each other.
Hell, let’s go for truth
.

“I don’t think I can do it for an extended period of time. A whole weekend being someone I’m not.” I flush and stare at my hands.

He tips my chin up, and he’s smirking at me, amused.

“No, I don’t think you could, either.”

And part of me feels slightly affronted and challenged. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Yes, but in a good way,” he says with a small smile.

He leans down and kisses me softly, briefly.

“You’re not a great submissive,” he breathes as he holds my chin, his eyes dancing with humor.

I stare at him, shocked, then I burst out laughing—and he joins me.

“Maybe I don’t have a good teacher.”

He snorts. “Maybe. Perhaps I should be stricter with you.” He cocks his head to one side and gives me an artful smile.

I swallow. Jeez, no. But at the same time, my muscles clench deliciously deep inside. It is his way of showing that he cares. Perhaps the only way he can show he cares—I realize that. He’s staring at me, gauging my reaction.

“Was it that bad when I spanked you the first time?”

I gaze back at him, blinking.
Was it that bad?
I remember feeling confused by my reaction. It hurt, but not that much in retrospect. He’s said over and over again it’s more in my head. And the second time … Well, that was good … hot.

“No, not really,” I whisper.

“It’s more the idea of it?” he prompts.

“I suppose. Feeling pleasure, when one isn’t supposed to.”

“I remember feeling the same. Takes a while to get your head around it.”

Holy hell
. This was when he was a kid.

“You can always use the safeword, Anastasia. Don’t forget that. And, as long as you follow the rules, which fulfill a deep need in me for control and to keep you safe, then perhaps we can find a way forward.”

“Why do you need to control me?”

“Because it satisfies a need in me that wasn’t met in my formative years.”

“So it’s a form of therapy?”

“I’ve not thought of it like that, but yes, I suppose it is.”

This I can understand. This will help.

“But, here’s the thing—one moment you say ‘don’t defy me,’ the next you say you like to be challenged. That’s a very fine line to tread successfully.”

He gazes at me for a moment, then frowns.

“I can see that. But you seem to be doing fine so far.”

“But at what personal cost? I’m tied up in knots here.”

“I like you tied up in knots.” He smirks.

“That’s not what I meant!” I splash him in exasperation.

He gazes down at me, arching an eyebrow.

“Did you just splash me?”

“Yes.”
Holy shit … that look
.

“Oh, Miss Steele.” He grabs me and pulls me onto his lap, sloshing water all over the floor. “I think we’ve done enough talking for now.”

He clasps his hands on either side of my head and kisses me. Deeply. Possessing my mouth. Angling my head … controlling me. I moan against his lips. This is what he likes. This is what he’s so good at. Everything ignites inside me and my fingers are in his hair, holding him to me, and I’m kissing him back and saying I want you, too, the only way I know how. He groans, shifting me so I’m astride him, kneeling over him, his erection beneath me. He pulls back and looks at me, his eyes hooded, glowing and lustful. I drop my hands to grab on to the edge of the bath, but he grips both my wrists and pulls my hands behind my back, holding them together in one hand.

“I’m going to have you now,” he whispers, and lifts me so that I’m hovering over him. “Ready?” he breathes.

“Yes,” I whisper, and he eases me on to him, slowly, exquisitely slowly … filling me … watching me as he takes me.

I groan, closing my eyes, and I revel in the sensation, the stretching fullness. He flexes his hips, and I gasp, leaning forward, resting my forehead against his.

“Please, let my hands go,” I whisper.

“Don’t touch me,” he pleads, and releasing my wrists, he grabs my hips.

Clasping the bath ledge, I move up and then down slowly, opening my eyes to gaze at him. He’s watching me, his mouth open, his breathing halted, stilted—his tongue between his teeth. He looks so … hot. We’re wet and slippery and moving against each other. I lean down and kiss him. He closes his eyes. Tentatively, I bring my hands up to his head and run my fingers through his hair, not taking my lips from his mouth. This is allowed. He likes this. I like this. And we move together. I tug his hair, tipping his head back and deepening the kiss, riding him—faster, picking up the rhythm. I moan against his mouth. He starts to lift me faster, faster … holding my hips. Kissing me back. We are wet mouths and tongues, tangled hair, and moving hips. All sensation … all consuming again. I am close … I am starting to recognize this delicious tightening … quickening. And the water … it’s swirling around us, our own whirlpool, a stirring vortex as our movements become more frantic … sloshing everywhere, mirroring what’s happening inside me … and I just don’t care.

I love this man. I love his passion, the effect I have on him. I love that he’s flown so far to see me. I love that he cares about me … he cares. It’s so unexpected, so fulfilling. He is mine, and I am his.

“That’s right, baby,” he breathes.

And I come, my orgasm ripping through me, a turbulent, passionate apogee that devours me whole. And suddenly Christian crushes me to him … his arms wrapped around my back as he finds his release.

“Ana, baby!” he cries, and it’s a wild invocation, stirring and touching the depths of my soul.

•   •   •

WE LIE STARING AT
each other, gray eyes into blue, face-to-face, in the super king bed, both hugging our pillows on our fronts. Naked. Not touching. Just looking and admiring, covered by the sheet.

“Do you want to sleep?” Christian asks, his voice soft and full of concern.

“No. I’m not tired.” I feel strangely energized. It’s been so good to talk—I don’t want to stop.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

“Talk.”

He smiles. “About what?”

“Stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“What’s your favorite film?”

He grins. “Today, it’s
The Piano
.”

His grin is infectious.

“Of course. Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt you can play? So many accomplishments, Mr. Grey.”

“And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele.”

“So I am number seventeen.”

He frowns at me not comprehending.

“Seventeen?”

“Number of women you’ve, um … had sex with.”

His lips quirk up, his eyes shining with incredulity.

“Not exactly.”

“You said fifteen.” My confusion is obvious.

“I was referring to the number of women in my playroom. I thought that’s what you meant. You didn’t ask me how many women I’d had sex with.”

“Oh.”
Holy shit … there’s more … How many?
I gape at him. “Vanilla?”

“No. You are my one vanilla conquest.” He shakes his head, still grinning at me.

Why does he find this funny? And why am I grinning back at him like an idiot?

“I can’t give you a number. I didn’t put notches in the bedpost or anything.”

“What are we talking—tens, hundreds … thousands?” My eyes grow wilder as the numbers get larger.

“Tens. We’re in the tens, for pity’s sake.”

“All submissives?”

“Yes.”

“Stop grinning at me,” I scold him mildly, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

“I can’t. You’re funny.”

“Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?”

“A bit of both I think.” His words mirror mine.

“That’s damned cheeky, coming from you.”

He leans across and kisses the tip of my nose. “This will shock you, Anastasia. Ready?”

I nod, wide-eyed, still with the stupid grin on my face.

“All submissives in training, when I was training. There are places in and around Seattle that one can go and practice. Learn to do what I do,” he says.

What?

“Oh.” I blink at him.

“Yep, I’ve paid for sex, Anastasia.”

“That’s nothing to be proud of,” I mutter haughtily. “And you’re right … I am deeply shocked. And cross that I can’t shock you.”

“You wore my underwear.”

“Did that shock you?”

“Yes.”

My inner goddess pole-vaults over the fifteen-foot bar.

“You didn’t wear your panties to meet my parents.”

“Did that shock you?”

“Yes.”

Jeez, the bar’s moved to sixteen feet.

“It seems I can only shock you in the underwear department.”

“You told me you were a virgin. That’s the biggest shock I’ve ever had.”

“Yes, your face was a picture, a Kodak moment.” I giggle.

“You let me work you over with a riding crop.”

“Did that shock you?”

“Yep.”

I grin. “Well, I may let you do it again.”

“Oh, I do hope so, Miss Steele. This weekend?”

“Okay,” I agree shyly.

“Okay?”

“Yes. I’ll go to the Red Room of Pain again.”

“You say my name.”

“That shocks you?”

“The fact that I like it shocks me.”

“Christian.”

He grins. “I want to do something tomorrow.” His eyes glow with excitement.

“What?”

“A surprise. For you.” His voice is low and soft.

I raise an eyebrow and stifle a yawn at the same time.

“Am I boring you, Miss Steele?” His tone is sardonic.

“Never.”

He leans across and kisses me gently on my lips.

“Sleep,” he commands, then switches off the light.

And in this quiet moment as I close my eyes, spent and sated, I think I’m in the eye of the storm. And in spite of all he’s said, and what he hasn’t said, I don’t think I have ever been so happy.

C
hristian stands in a steel-barred cage. Wearing his soft, ripped jeans, his chest and feet are mouthwateringly naked, and he’s staring at me. His private-joke smile is etched on his beautiful face and his eyes a molten gray. In his hands he holds a bowl of strawberries. He ambles with athletic grace to the front of the cage, gazing intently at me. Holding up a plump ripe strawberry, he extends his hand through the bars.

“Eat,” he says, his tongue caressing the front of his palate as he enunciates the
t
.

I try to move toward him, but I’m tethered, held back by some unseen force around my wrist, holding me.
Let me go
.

“Come, eat,” he says, smiling his delicious crooked smile.

I pull and pull … 
let me go!
I want to scream and shout, but no sound emerges. I am mute. He stretches a little farther, and the strawberry is at my lips.

“Eat, Anastasia.” His mouth forms my name, lingering sensually on each syllable.

I open my mouth and bite, the cage disappears, and my hands are free. I reach up to touch him, graze my fingers through his chest hair.

“Anastasia.”

No
. I moan.

“Come on, baby.”

No. I want to touch you
.

“Wake up.”

No. Please
. My eyes flicker unwillingly open for a split second. I’m in bed and someone is nuzzling my ear.

“Wake up, baby,” he whispers, and the effect of his sweet voice spreads like warm melted caramel through my veins.

It’s Christian. Jeez, it’s still dark, and the images of him from my dream persist, disconcerting and tantalizing in my head.

“Oh … no,” I groan. I want back at his chest, back to my dream. Why is he waking me? It’s the middle of the night, or so it feels.
Holy shit
. Does he want sex—now?

“Time to get up, baby. I’m going to switch on the sidelight.” His voice is quiet.

“No,” I groan.

“I want to chase the dawn with you,” he says, kissing my face, my eyelids, the tip of my nose, my mouth, and I open my eyes. The sidelight is on. “Good morning, beautiful,” he murmurs.

I groan, and he smiles. “You are not a morning person,” he murmurs.

Through the haze of light, I squint and see Christian leaning over me, smiling. Amused. Amused at me. Dressed! In black.

“I thought you wanted sex,” I grumble.

“Anastasia, I always want sex with you. It’s heartwarming to know that you feel the same,” he says dryly.

I gaze at him as my eyes adjust to the light, but he still looks amused … thank heavens.

“Of course I do, just not when it’s so late.”

“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,” I whine.

“Dream about what?” he asks patiently.

“You.” I blush.

“What was I doing this time?”

“Trying to feed me strawberries.”

His lips twitch with a trace of a smile. “Dr. Flynn could have a field day with that. Up—get dressed. Don’t bother to shower, we can do that later.”

We!

I sit up, and the sheet pools at my waist, revealing my body. He stands to give me room, his eyes dark.

“What time is it?”

“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.”

“Can’t I have a shower?”

He sighs.

“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.”

He’s excited. Like a small boy, he’s iridescent with anticipation and excitement. It makes me smile.

“What are we doing?’

“It’s a surprise. I told you.”

I can’t help but grin up at him. “Okay.” I clamber off the bed and search for my clothes. Of course they are neatly folded on the chair beside my bed. He’s laid out a pair of his jersey boxer briefs, too—Ralph Lauren, no less. I slip them on, and he grins at me. Hmm, another piece of Christian Grey’s underwear—a trophy to add to my collection—along with the car, the BlackBerry, the Mac, his black jacket, and a set of valuable old first editions. I shake my head at his largesse, and I frown as a scene from
Tess
crosses my mind: the strawberry scene. It evokes my dream. To hell with Dr. Flynn—Freud would have a field day—and then he’d probably die trying to deal with Fifty Shades.