Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (86 page)

“You never cease to amaze me, Anastasia. After a day like today—or yesterday, rather—you’re not whining or running off into the hills screaming. I am in awe of you. You’re very strong.”

“You’re a very good reason to stay,” I murmur. “I told you, Christian, I’m not going anywhere, no matter what you’ve done. You know how I feel about you.”

His mouth twists as if he doubts my words, and his brow creases as if what I’m saying is painful for him to hear. Oh, Christian, what do I have to do to make you realize how I feel?

Let him beat you
, my subconscious sneers. I scowl inwardly at her.

“Where are you going to hang José’s portraits of me?” I try to lighten the mood.

“That depends.” His lips twitch. This is obviously a much more palatable topic of conversation for him.

“On what?”

“Circumstances,” he says mysteriously. “His show’s not over yet, so I don’t have to decide straightaway.”

I cock my head to one side and narrow my eyes.

“You can look as sternly as you like, Mrs. Taylor. I’m saying nothing,” he teases.

“I may torture the truth from you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really, Anastasia, I don’t think you should make promises you can’t fulfill.”

Oh my, is that what he thinks? I place my glass on the mantelpiece, reach over, and much to Christian’s surprise, take his glass and place it beside mine.

“We’ll just have to see about that,” I murmur. Very bravely—emboldened by the brandy, no doubt—I take Christian’s hand and pull him toward the bedroom. At the foot of the bed I stop. Christian is trying to hide his amusement.

“Now that you have me in here, Anastasia, what are you going to do with me?” he teases, his voice low.

“I’m going to start by undressing you. I want to finish what I started earlier.” I reach for the lapels on his jacket, careful not to touch him, and he doesn’t flinch but he’s holding his breath.

Gently, I push his jacket over his shoulders, and his eyes stay on mine, all traces of humor gone, as they grow larger, burning into me, wary … and needful? There are so many interpretations of his look.
What is he thinking?
I place his jacket on the ottoman.

“Now your T-shirt,” I whisper and lift it by the hem. He cooperates, raising his arms and backing away, making it easier for me to pull it over his head. Once off, he gazes down at me, intently, wearing just his jeans that hang so provocatively from his hips. The band of his boxer briefs is visible.

My eyes move hungrily up across his taut stomach to the remains of the lipstick line, faded and smudged, then up to his chest. I want nothing more than to run my tongue through his chest hair to savor his taste.

“Now what?” he whispers, eyes blazing.

“I want to kiss you here.” I run my finger from hipbone to hipbone across his belly.

His lips part as he inhales sharply. “I’m not stopping you,” he breathes.

I take his hand. “You’d better lie down then,” I murmur and
lead him to the side of the four-poster bed. He seems bewildered, and it occurs to me that perhaps no one has taken the lead with him since … her.
No, don’t go there
.

Lifting the covers, he sits on the edge of the bed, gazing up at me, waiting, his expression wary and serious. I stand before him and slip off his denim jacket and let it drop to the floor, then I shuffle out of his sweatpants.

He rubs his thumb over the tips of his fingers. He’s itching to touch me, I can tell, but he suppresses the urge. Taking a deep breath and beyond courageous, I reach for the hem of my T-shirt and lift it over my head so I am naked before him. His eyes don’t leave mine, but he swallows and his lips part.

“You are Aphrodite, Anastasia,” he murmurs.

I clasp his face in my hands, tip his head up, and bend to kiss him. He groans low in his throat.

As I place my mouth on his, he grabs my hips, and before I know it, I am pinned beneath him, his legs forcing mine apart so that he’s cradled against my body between my legs. He’s kissing me, ravaging my mouth, our tongues entwined. His hand trails from my thigh, over my hip, along my belly to my breast, squeezing, kneading, and pulling enticingly on my nipple.

I groan and tilt my pelvis involuntarily against him, finding a delicious friction against the seam of his fly and his growing erection. He stops kissing me and gazes down at me bemused and breathless. He flexes his hips so his erection pushes against me.…
Yes. Right there
.

I close my eyes and moan, and he does it again, but this time I push back, relishing his answering moan as he kisses me again. He continues the slow delicious torture—rubbing me, rubbing him. And he’s right—getting lost in him—it’s intoxicating to the exclusion of everything else. All my worries are obliterated. I am here in this moment with him—my blood singing in my veins, thrumming loudly through my ears, mixed with the sound of our panting breaths. I bury my hands in his hair, holding him to my mouth, consuming him, my tongue as avaricious as his. I trail my
fingers down his arms, down his lower back to the waistband of his jeans, and push my intrepid, greedy hands inside, urging him on and on—forgetting everything, except us.

“You’re going to unman me, Ana,” he whispers suddenly, breaking away from me and kneeling up. He briskly pulls down his jeans and hands me a foil packet.

“You want me, baby, and I sure as hell want you. You know what to do.”

With anxious, dexterous fingers, I rip open the foil and unroll the condom over him. He grins down at me, his mouth open, eyes misty gray and full of carnal promise. Leaning over me, he rubs his nose against mine, his eyes closed, and deliciously, slowly, he enters me.

I grasp his arms and tilt my chin up, reveling in the exquisitely full feeling of his possession. He runs his teeth along my chin, eases back, and then slides into me again—so slow, so sweet, so tender—his body pressing down on me, his elbows and his hands on either side of my face.

“You make me forget everything. You are the best therapy,” he breathes, moving at an achingly leisurely pace, savoring every inch of me.

“Please, Christian—faster,” I murmur, wanting more, now.

“Oh no, baby. I need this slow.” He kisses me sweetly, gently biting my lower lip and absorbing my soft moans.

I move my hands into his hair and surrender myself to his rhythm as slowly and surely my body climbs higher and higher and plateaus, then falls hard and fast as I come around him.

“Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he lets go, my name a benediction on his lips as he finds his release.

HIS HEAD RESTS ON
my belly, his arms wrapped around me. My fingers forage in his unruly hair, and we lie like this for I don’t know how long. It’s so late and I am so tired, but I just want to enjoy the quiet serene afterglow of making love with Christian Grey, because that’s what we’ve done: gentle, sweet lovemaking.

He’s come a long way, as have I, in such a short time. It’s almost too much to absorb. With all the fucked-up stuff, I am losing sight of his simple, honest journey with me.

“I will never get enough of you. Don’t leave me,” he murmurs and kisses my belly.

“I’m not going anywhere, Christian, and I seem to remember that I wanted to kiss your belly,” I grumble sleepily.

He grins against my skin. “Nothing stopping you now baby.”

“I don’t think I can move … I’m so tired.”

Christian sighs and shifts reluctantly, coming to lie beside me with his head on his elbow and dragging the covers over us. He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing, warm, loving.

“Sleep now, baby.” He kisses my hair and wraps his arm around me and I drift.

WHEN I OPEN MY
eyes, light is filling the room, making me blink. My head is fuzzy from lack of sleep.
Where am I? Oh—the hotel …

“Hi,” Christian murmurs, smiling fondly. He’s lying beside me, fully dressed, on top of the bed. How long has he been here? Has he been studying me? Suddenly, I feel incredibly shy as my face heats under his steady gaze.

“Hi,” I murmur, grateful that I am lying on my front. “How long have you been watching me?”

“I could watch you sleep for hours, Anastasia. But I’ve only been here about five minutes.” He leans over and kisses me gently. “Dr. Greene will be here shortly.”

“Oh.” I’d forgotten about Christian’s inappropriate intervention.

“Did you sleep well?” he inquires mildly. “Certainly seemed like it to me, with all that snoring.”

Oh, playful teasing Fifty
.

“I do not snore!” I pout petulantly.

“No. You don’t.” He grins at me. The faint line of red lipstick is still visible around his neck.

“Did you shower?”

“No. Waiting for you.”

“Oh … okay.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten fifteen. I didn’t have the heart to wake you earlier.”

“You told me you didn’t have a heart at all.”

He smiles sadly, but doesn’t answer. “Breakfast is here—pancakes and bacon for you. Come, get up, I’m getting lonely out here.” He swats me sharply on my behind, making me jump, and rises from the bed.

Hmm …
Christian’s version of warm affection.

As I stretch, I’m aware I ache all over … no doubt a result of all the sex, dancing, and teetering in expensive high-heeled shoes. I stagger out of bed and make my way into the sumptuously appointed bathroom while going over the events of the previous day in my mind. When I come out, I don one of the overly fluffy bathrobes that hang on a brass peg in the bathroom.

Leila—the girl who looks like me—that’s the most startling image my brain conjures for conjecture, that and her eerie presence in Christian’s bedroom. What did she want? Me? Christian? To do what? And why the fuck has she wrecked my car?

Christian said I would have another Audi, like all his submissives. The thought is unwelcome. Since I was so generous with the money he gave me, there’s not a lot I can do.

I wander into the main room of the suite—no sign of Christian. I finally locate him in the dining room. I take a seat, grateful for the impressive breakfast laid before me. Christian is reading the Sunday papers and drinking coffee, his breakfast finished. He smiles at me.

“Eat up. You’re going to need your strength today,” he teases.

“And why is that? You going to lock me in the bedroom?” My inner goddess jerks awake suddenly, all disheveled with a just-fucked look.

“Appealing as that idea is, I thought we’d go out today. Get some fresh air.”

“Is it safe?” I ask innocently, trying and failing to keep the irony from my voice.

Christian’s face falls, and his mouth presses in a line. “Where we’re going, it is. And it’s not a joking matter,” he adds sternly, narrowing his eyes.

I flush and stare down at my breakfast. I don’t feel like being scolded after all the drama and such a late night. I eat my breakfast in silence, feeling petulant.

My subconscious is shaking her head at me. Fifty doesn’t joke about my safety—I should know this by now. I want to roll my eyes at him, but I refrain.

Okay, I’m tired and testy. I had a long day yesterday and not enough sleep. Why, oh why does he get to look as fresh as a daisy? Life is not fair.

There’s a knock at the door.

“That’ll be the good doctor,” Christian grumbles, obviously still smarting from my irony. He stalks from the table.

Can’t we just have a calm, normal morning? I sigh heavily, leaving half my breakfast, and get up to greet Dr. Depo-Provera.

WE’RE IN THE BEDROOM
, and Dr. Greene is staring at me openmouthed. She’s dressed more casually than last time, in a pale pink cashmere twin set and black pants, and her fine blonde hair is loose.

“And you just stopped taking it? Just like that?”

I flush, feeling beyond foolish.

“Yes.” Could my voice be any smaller?

“You could be pregnant,” she says matter-of-factly.

What!
The world falls away at my feet. My subconscious collapses on the floor retching, and I think I’m going to be sick, too.
No!

“Here, go pee in this.” She’s all business today—taking no prisoners.

Meekly I accept the small plastic container she’s offered and
wander in a daze into the bathroom. No. No. No. No way … No way … Please no. No.

What will Fifty do? I go pale. He’ll freak.

No, please!
I whisper a silent prayer.

I hand Dr. Greene my sample, and she carefully places a small white stick in it.

“When did your period start?”

How am I supposed to think about such minutiae when all I can do is stare anxiously at the white stick?

“Er … Wednesday? Not the one just gone, the one before that. June first.”

“And when did you stop taking the pill?”

“Sunday. Last Sunday.”

She purses her lips.

“You should be okay,” she says sharply. “I can tell by your expression that an unplanned pregnancy would not be welcome news. So medroxyprogesterone is a good idea if you can’t remember to take the pill every day.” She gives me a stern look, and I quail under her authoritative glare. Picking up the white stick, she peers at it.

“You’re in the clear. You’ve not ovulated yet, so provided you’ve been taking proper precautions, you shouldn’t be pregnant. Now, let me counsel you about this shot. We discounted it last time because of the side effects, but quite frankly, the side effects of a child are far-reaching and go on for years.” She smiles, pleased with herself and her little joke, but I can’t begin to respond—I’m too stunned.

Dr. Greene launches into full disclosure mode about side effects, and I sit paralyzed with relief, not listening to a word. I think I’d tolerate any number of strange women standing at the end of my bed rather than confess to Christian that I might be pregnant.

“Ana!” Dr. Greene snaps. “Let’s do this thing.” She pulls me out of my reverie, and I willingly roll up my sleeve.