FRIDAY, JUNE 3, 2011

I can’t sleep. It’s after two and I’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour. Tonight it’s not my sleeping nightmares that are keeping me awake. It’s a waking one.

Leila Williams.

The smoke detector on my ceiling is winking at me, its flashing green light mocking me.

Hell!

I close my eyes and let my thoughts run free.

Why was Leila suicidal? What possessed her? Her desperate unhappiness resonates with a younger, miserable me. I’m trying to quash my memories, but the anger and desolation of my solitary teen years resurfaces and it won’t go away. It reminds me of my pain and of how I lashed out at everyone during my youth. Suicide crossed my mind often, but I always held back. I resisted for Grace. I knew she’d be devastated. I knew she would blame herself if I took my life, and she’d done so much for me —how could I hurt her like that? And after I met Elena…everything changed.

Rising from the bed, I push these disquieting thoughts to the back of my mind. I need the piano.

I need Ana.

If she’d signed the contract and everything had gone according to plan, she would be with me, upstairs, asleep. I could wake her, and lose myself in her…or, under our new arrangement, she would be beside me, and I could fuck her and then watch her sleep.

What would she make of Leila?

As I sit down on the piano bench I know that Ana will never meet Leila, which is a good thing. I know how she feels about Elena. Lord knows how she’d feel about an ex…a wayward ex.

This is what I can’t reconcile: Leila was happy, mischievous, and bright when I knew her. She was an excellent submissive; I thought she’d settled down and was happily married. Her e-mails never indicated that anything was awry. What went wrong?

I start to play…and my troubled thoughts recede until it’s just the music and me.

Leila is servicing my cock with her mouth.

Her skilled mouth.

Her hands are tied behind her back.

Her hair braided.

She’s on her knees.

Eyes cast down. Modest. Alluring.

Not seeing me.

And suddenly she’s Ana.

Ana on her knees before me. Naked. Beautiful.

My cock in her mouth.

But Ana’s eyes are on mine.

Her blazing blue eyes see everything.

See me. My soul.

She sees the darkness and the monster beneath.

Her eyes widen in horror and suddenly she disappears.

Shit! I wake with a start, and a painful erection that wanes as soon as I recall Ana’s wounded look in my dream.

What the hell?

I rarely have erotic dreams. Why now? I check my alarm; I’ve beaten it by a few minutes. The morning sunlight is creeping between the buildings as I rise. Already I’m restless, no doubt as a result of my disturbing dream, so I decide to go for a run to burn off some energy. There are no new e-mails, no messages, no updates on Leila. The apartment is quiet as I leave. There’s no sign of Gail yet. I hope she’s recovered from yesterday’s ordeal.

I open the glass doors in the lobby, step outside into a balmy, sunny morning, and carefully scan the street. As I start my run I check down the alleys and in the doorways I pass, and behind the parked cars, to see if Leila is there.

Where are you, Leila Williams?

I turn the volume up on the Foo Fighters and my feet pound the sidewalk.

OLIVIA IS EXCEPTIONALLY IRRITATING today. She’s spilled my coffee, dropped an important call, andkeeps mooning at me with her big brown eyes.

“Get Ros back on the line,” I bark at her. “Better still, get her up here.” I shut my office door and go back to my desk; I must try not to take my temper out on my staff.

Welch has no news, except that Leila’s parents think their daughter is still in Portland with her husband. There’s a knock on my door.

“Come in.” I hope to God it’s not Olivia. Ros pokes her head around. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Sure. Come in. Where are we with Woods?”

ROS EXITS JUST BEFORE ten. All is on track: Woods has decided to accept the deal, and the aid forDarfur will soon be on the road to Munich in preparation for the airlift. There’s no news yet from Savannah about their offer.

I check my inbox and find a welcome e-mail from Ana.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Homeward Bound

Date: June 3 2011 12:53 EST

To: Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grey,

I am once again ensconced in first class, for which I thank you. I am counting the minutes until I see you this evening and perhaps torturing the truth out of you about my nocturnal admissions.

Your Ana x

Torturing me? Oh, Miss Steele, I think it will be the other way around. As I have a great deal to do, I keep my reply short.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Homeward Bound

Date: June 3 2011 09:58

To: Anastasia Steele

Anastasia, I look forward to seeing you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

But Ana is not satisfied.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Homeward Bound

Date: June 3 2011 13:01 EST

To: Christian Grey

Dearest Mr. Grey,

I hope everything is okay re “the situation.” The tone of your e-mail is worrying.

Ana x

At least I still earned a kiss. Surely she should be airborne by now?

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Homeward Bound

Date: June 3 2011 10:04

To: Anastasia Steele

Anastasia,

The situation could be better. Have you taken off yet? If so, you should not be e-mailing. You are putting yourself at risk, in direct contravention of the rule regarding your personal safety. I meant what I said about punishments.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I’m about to call Welch for an update, but there’s a ping—Ana again.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Overreaction

Date: June 3 2011 13:06 EST

To: Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grumpy,

The aircraft doors are still open. We are delayed but only by ten minutes. My welfare and that of the passengers around me is vouchsafed. You may stow your twitchy palm for now.

Miss Steele

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. Mr. Grumpy, eh? And no kiss. Oh dear.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Apologies—Twitchy Palm Stowed

Date: June 3 2011 10:08

To: Anastasia Steele

I miss you and your smart mouth, Miss Steele.

I want you safely home.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Apology Accepted

Date: June 3 2011 13:10 EST

To: Christian Grey

They are shutting the doors. You won’t hear another peep from me, especially given your deafness.

Laters.

Ana x

My kiss is back. Well, that’s a relief. Grudgingly, I drag myself away from the computer screen and pick up my phone to call Welch.

AT ONE O’CLOCK I decline Andrea’s offer of lunch at my desk. I need to get out. The walls of my officeare closing in on me, and I think it’s because there’s been no news about Leila.

I’m worried about her. Hell, she came to see me. She decided to use my home as her stage. How could I not take this personally? Why didn’t she e-mail me or phone? If she was in trouble, I could have helped. I would have helped—I’ve done it before.

I need some fresh air. I march past Olivia and Andrea, who both look busy, though I catch Andrea’s puzzled look as I step into the elevator.

Outside, it’s a bright, bustling afternoon. I take a deep breath and detect the soothing tang of salt water from the Sound. Perhaps I should take the rest of the day off? But I can’t. I have a meeting with the mayor this afternoon. It’s irritating—I’m seeing him tomorrow at the Chamber of Commerce gala.

The gala!

Suddenly I have an idea, and with a renewed sense of purpose I head toward a small store I know.

AFTER MY MEETING AT the mayor’s office, I walk the ten or so blocks back to Escala; Taylor has gone tocollect Ana from the airport. Gail is in the kitchen when I enter the living room.

“Good evening, Mr. Grey.” “Hi, Gail. How was your day?” “Good, thank you, sir.” “Feeling better?”

“Yes, sir. The clothes arrived for Miss Steele—I unpacked them and hung them in the closet in her room.”

“Great. No sign of Leila?” Dumb question: Gail would have called me. “No, sir. This also arrived.” She holds up a small red store bag.

“Good.” I take the bag from her, ignoring the delighted twinkle in her eye. “How many for supper this evening?”

“Two, thanks. And Gail—” “Sir?”

“Can you put the satin sheets on the playroom bed?”

I really hope to get Ana in there at some point over the weekend. “Yes, Mr. Grey,” she says, her tone a little surprised. She turns back to whatever she’s conjuring in the kitchen, leaving me a little baffled by her behavior.

Maybe Gail doesn’t approve, but it’s what I want from Ana.

In my study I take the Cartier box from its bag. It’s a present for Ana, which I’ll give to her tomorrow in time for the gala: a pair of earrings. Simple. Elegant. Beautiful. Just like her. I smile; even in her chucks and jeans she has a certain gamine charm.

I hope she accepts my gift. As my submissive, she’d have no choice, but under our alternative arrangement, I don’t know what her reaction will be. Whatever the outcome, it will be interesting. She always surprises me. As I put the box in my desk drawer a ping on my computer distracts me. Barney’s latest tablet designs are in my inbox, and I’m eager to see them.

Five minutes later, Welch calls. “Mr. Grey,” he wheezes.

“Yes. What news?”

“I spoke with Russell Reed, Mrs. Reed’s husband.”

“And?” Immediately I’m agitated. I storm out of my study and across the living room to the windows.

“He says his wife is away visiting her parents,” Welch reports. “What?”

“Precisely.” Welch sounds as pissed as I am.

Seeing Seattle at my feet, knowing Mrs. Reed aka Leila Williams is out there somewhere, increases my irritation. I rake my fingers through my hair.

“Maybe that’s what she told him.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But we’ve found nothing so far.” “No trace?” I can’t believe she could just disappear.

“Nothing. But if she so much as uses an ATM, cashes a check, or logs in to her social media, we’ll find her.”

“Okay.”

“We’d like to scour the CCTV footage from around the hospital. It’s going to cost money and take a little longer. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes.” A tingle prickles my scalp—not from the call. For some unknown reason I sense I’m being watched. Turning, I see Ana standing on the threshold of the room, scrutinizing me, her brow furrowed and her lips pensive, and she’s wearing a short, short skirt. She’s all eyes and legs…especially legs. I imagine them wrapped around my waist.

Desire, raw and real, fires my blood as I stare. “We’ll get right on it,” Welch says.

I finish up with him, my eyes fixed on Ana’s, and I prowl toward her, stripping off my jacket and tie and tossing them onto the sofa.

Ana.

I wrap my arms around her, tugging at her ponytail, lifting her eager lips to mine. She tastes of heaven and home and fall and Ana. Her scent invades my nostrils as I take everything her warm, sweet mouth has to offer. My body hardens with expectation and hunger as our tongues entwine. I want to lose myself in her, to forget about the shitty end to my week, forget about everything but her.

My lips feverish against hers, I tug the hair tie from her ponytail as her fingers knot in mine. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by my need, desperate for her. And I pull away, staring down into a face that’s dazed with passion.

I feel the same way. What is she doing to me?

“What’s wrong?” she whispers.

And the answer is clear, ringing in my head.

I’ve missed you.

“I’m so glad you’re back. Shower with me. Now.”

“Yes,” she responds, her voice hoarse. I take her hand and we head to my bathroom. I turn on the shower, then face her. She’s gorgeous, her eyes bright and gleaming with anticipation, as she watches me. My gaze rakes down her body to her naked legs. I’ve never seen her in such a short skirt, with so much of her flesh on display, and I’m not sure I approve. She’s for my eyes only.

“I like your skirt. It’s very short.” Too short. “You have great legs.” Stepping out of my shoes, I take off my socks, and without breaking eye contact, she, too, slips off her shoes.

Fuck the shower. I want her now.

Stepping toward her, I clasp her head, and we step back so she’s against the tiled wall, her lips parting as she inhales. Holding her face and lacing my fingers into her hair, I kiss her: her cheek, her throat, her mouth. She’s nectar and I can’t get enough. Her breath catches in her throat and she grasps my arms, but at her touch there’s no protest from the darkness within. There’s just Ana, in all her beauty and innocence, kissing me back with a fervor that matches mine.

My blood is thick with desire, my erection painful. “I want you now. Here…fast, hard,” I murmur, as my hand runs up her naked thigh beneath her skirt. “Are you still bleeding?”

“No.”

“Good.” I push her skirt up over her hips, hook both thumbs into her cotton panties and drop to the floor, kneeling, slipping the panties down her legs.

She gasps when I grab her hips and kiss the sweet junction beneath her pubic hair. Moving my hands to the backs of her thighs, I part her legs, exposing her clitoris to my tongue. When I start my sensual assault her fingers dive into my hair. My tongue torments her, and she moans and tips her head back against the wall.

She smells exquisite. She tastes better.

As she purrs she tilts her pelvis toward my invading, insistent tongue, and her legs begin to tremble.

Enough. I want to come inside her.

It will be my skin against her skin again, like in Savannah. Releasing her, I stand and grasp her face, capturing her surprised and disappointed mouth with mine, kissing her hard. I unzip my fly and lift her, clutching her under her thighs. “Wrap your legs around me, baby.” My voice is rough and urgent. As soon as she does, I thrust forward, sliding into her.

She’s mine. She’s heaven.

Clinging to me, she whimpers as I plunge into her—slowly at first, then building as my body takes control, driving me forward, driving me into her, faster and faster, harder and harder, my face at her throat. She moans and I feel her quicken around me, and I’m lost, in her, in us, as she climaxes, crying out her release. The feel of her pulsing around me tips me over the edge and I come deep and hard inside her, growling out a garbled version of her name.

I kiss her throat, not wanting to withdraw, waiting for her to calm. We’re in a cloud of steam from the shower, and my shirt and pants are sticking to my body, but I don’t care. Ana’s breathing slows, and she feels weightier in my arms as she relaxes. Her expression is wanton and dazed as I pull out of her, so I hold her fast while she finds her feet. Her lips rise in a winsome smile. “You seem pleased to see me,” she says.

“Yes, Miss Steele, I think my pleasure is pretty self-evident. Come—let me get you in the shower.” I undress quickly, and when I’m naked I begin undoing the buttons on Ana’s blouse. Her eyes

move from my fingers to my face. “How was your journey?” I ask.

“Fine, thank you,” she says, her voice a little throaty. “Thanks once again for first class. It really is a much nicer way to travel.” She takes a quick breath, as if she’s steeling herself. “I have some news,” she says.

“Oh?” What now? I remove her blouse and deposit it on top of my clothes. “I have a job.” She sounds reticent.

Why? Did she think I’d be angry? Of course she’s found a job. Pride swells in my chest. “Congratulations, Miss Steele. Now will you tell me where?” I ask with a smile.

“You don’t know?” “Why would I know?”

“With your stalking capabilities, I thought you might have—” She stops to study my face. “Anastasia, I wouldn’t dream of interfering in your career. Unless you ask me to, of course.” “So you have no idea which company?”

“No. I know there are four publishing companies in Seattle—so I am assuming it’s one of them.” “SIP,” she announces.

“Oh, the small one, good. Well done.” It’s the company that Ros identified as ripe for takeover. This will be easy.

I kiss Ana’s forehead. “Clever girl. When do you start?” “Monday.”

“That soon, eh? I’d better take advantage of you while I still can. Turn around.”

She obeys immediately. I remove her bra and skirt, then cup her behind and kiss her shoulder. Leaning against her, I nuzzle her hair. Her scent lingers in my nostrils, soothing, familiar, and uniquely Ana. The feel of her body against mine is both calming and enticing. She really is the whole package.

“You intoxicate me, Miss Steele, and you calm me. Such a heady combination.” Grateful that she’s here, I kiss her hair, then take her hand and pull her into the hot shower.

“Ow,” she squeaks and closes her eyes, flinching under the steamy cascade.

“It’s only a little hot water.” I grin down at her. Opening one eye, she lifts her chin and slowly surrenders to the heat.

“Turn around,” I order. “I want to wash you.” She complies, and I squeeze some shower gel on my hand, work up a lather, and begin to massage her shoulders.

“I have something else to tell you,” she says, her shoulders tensing.

“Oh yes?” I keep my voice mild. Why is she tense? My hands glide over her chest to her beautiful breasts.

“My friend José’s photography show is opening Thursday in Portland.” “Yes, what about it?” The photographer again?

“I said I would go. Do you want to come with me?” The words come in a rush, as if she’s anxious to get them out.

An invitation? I’m stunned. I only get invitations from my family, from work, and from Elena. “What time?”

“The opening is at seven thirty.”

This will count as more, surely. I kiss her ear and whisper, “Okay.” Her shoulders soften as she leans back against me. She seems relieved and I’m not sure whether to be amused or annoyed. Am I really that unapproachable?

“Were you nervous about asking me?” “Yes. How can you tell?”

“Anastasia, your whole body’s just relaxed.” I mask my irritation. “Well, you just seem to be, um…on the jealous side.”

Yes. I’m jealous. The thought of Ana with anyone else is…unsettling. Very unsettling. “Yes, I am. And you’d do well to remember that. But thank you for asking. We’ll take Charlie Tango.”

She flashes me a quick grin as my hands slide down her body, the body she’s given to me and no one else.

“Can I wash you?” she asks, diverting me.

“I don’t think so.” I kiss her neck as I rinse her back.

“Will you ever let me touch you?” Her voice is a gentle entreaty, but it doesn’t stop the darkness that’s swirling suddenly from nowhere and tightening around my throat.

No.

I will it away, cupping and concentrating on Ana’s ass, her fucking glorious behind. My body responds on a primal level—at war with the darkness. I need her. I need her to chase my fear away.

“Put your hands on the wall, Anastasia. I’m going to take you again,” I whisper, and with a startled glance at me, she splays her hands on the tiles. I grab her hips, pulling her back from the wall. “Hold fast, Anastasia,” I warn, as the water streams over her back.

She bends her head and braces herself as my hands sweep through her pubic hair. She squirms, her behind brushing my arousal.

Fuck! And like that, my residual fear melts away.

“Do you want this?” I ask as my fingers tease her. In answer she wiggles her butt against my erection, making me smile. “Tell me,” I demand, my voice strained.

“Yes.” Her agreement slices through the pouring water, keeping the darkness at bay.

Oh, baby.

She’s still wet from earlier—from me, from her—I don’t know. In the moment I give a silent word

of thanks to Dr. Greene: no more condoms. I ease into Ana and slowly, deliberately make her mine again.

I WRAP HER IN a bathrobe and kiss her soundly. “Dry your hair,” I order, handing her a hair dryer Inever use. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” she admits, and I don’t know if she means it or if she’s said it merely to please me. But pleased I am.

“Great. Me, too. I’ll check where Mrs. Jones is with dinner. You have ten minutes. Don’t get dressed.” I kiss her once more and pad out to the kitchen.

Gail is washing something at the sink. She looks up as I peer over her shoulder. “Clams, Mr. Grey,” she says.

Delicious. Pasta alle Vongole, one of my favorites. “Ten minutes?” I ask.

“Twelve,” she says. “Great.”

She gives me a look as I head into my study. I ignore it. She’s seen me in less than my bathrobe before—what the hell is her problem?

I check through some e-mails and my phone to see if there’s any news about Leila. Nothing—but since Ana’s arrival, I don’t feel as hopeless as I did earlier.

Ana enters the kitchen at the same time that I do, lured no doubt by the tantalizing smell of our dinner. When she sees Mrs. Jones she clutches the neck of her bathrobe.

“Just in time,” Gail says, serving our meal in two large bowls at the place settings on the counter. “Sit.” I point to one of the barstools. Ana’s anxious eyes pass from me to Mrs. Jones.

She’s self-conscious.

Baby, I have staff. Get over it.

“Wine?” I offer, to distract her.

“Please,” she says, sounding reserved as she takes her seat. I open a bottle of Sancerre and pour two small glasses.

“There’s cheese in the fridge if you’d like, sir,” Gail says. I nod, and she exits the room, much to Ana’s relief. I take my seat.

“Cheers.” I raise my glass.

“Cheers,” Ana replies, and the crystal glasses sing as we clink. She takes a bite of her food and makes an appreciative noise in the back of her throat. Perhaps she is famished.

“Are you going to tell me?” she asks.

“Tell you what?” Mrs. Jones has outdone herself; the pasta tastes delicious. “What I said in my sleep.”

I shake my head. “Eat up. You know I like watching you eat.”

She pouts with mock exasperation. “You are so pervy,” she exclaims under her breath.

Oh, baby, you have no idea. And a thought springs to mind: maybe we should explore something new in the playroom tonight. Something fun.

“Tell me about this friend of yours,” I ask. “My friend?”

“The photographer.” I keep my voice light, but she regards me with a fleeting frown.

“Well, we met the first day of college. He’s an engineering major, but his passion is photography.” “And?”

“That’s it.” Her evasive answers are irritating. “Nothing else?”

She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “We’ve become good friends. It turns out my dad and José’s dad served together in the military before I was born. They’ve gotten back in touch, and they’re now best buds.”

Oh. “Your dad and his dad?”

“Yeah.” She twirls more pasta around her fork. “I see.”

“This tastes delicious.” She gives me a contented smile, and her robe gapes a little, revealing the swell of her breast. The sight stirs my cock.

“How are you feeling?” I ask. “Fine,” she says.

“Up for more?” “More?”

“More wine?” More sex? In the playroom?

“A small glass, please.”

I pour her a little more Sancerre. I don’t want either of us to drink too much if we’re going to play. “How’s the, um…situation that brought you to Seattle?”

Leila. Shit. This I do not want to discuss. “Out of hand. But nothing for you to worry about, Anastasia. I have plans for you this evening.”

I want to see if we can play this so-called arrangement of ours both ways. “Oh?”

“Yes. I want you ready and waiting in my playroom in fifteen minutes.” I stand up, watching her closely to gauge her reaction. She takes a quick sip of her wine, her pupils widening. “You can get ready in your room. Incidentally, the walk-in closet is now full of clothes for you. I don’t want any arguments about them.”

Her mouth sets in a surprised o. And I give her a stern look, daring her to argue with me. Remarkably, she says nothing, and I head off to my study to send a quick e-mail to Ros telling her I want to start the process to acquire SIP as soon as possible.

I scan a couple of work e-mails, but see nothing in my inbox about Mrs. Reed. I put thoughts of Leila out of my mind; she’s preoccupied me for the last twenty-four hours. Tonight I’m going to focus on Ana—and have some fun.

When I return to the kitchen Ana’s disappeared; I presume she’s getting ready upstairs.

In my closet I remove my robe and slip on my favorite jeans. As I do, images of Ana in my bathroom come to mind—her flawless back, then her hands pressed against the tiles while I fucked her.

Boy, the girl has stamina.

Let’s see how much.

With a sense of exhilaration I collect my iPod from the living room and bolt upstairs to the playroom.

When I find Ana kneeling as she should be at the entrance facing the room—eyes down, legs parted, and wearing only her panties—my first feeling is one of relief.

She’s still here; she’s game.

My second is pride: she has followed my instructions to the letter. My smile is hard to hide.

Miss Steele does not back down from a challenge.

Closing the door behind me, I note that her bathrobe has been hung up on the peg. I walk past her barefoot and deposit my iPod on the chest. I’ve decided that I’m going to deprive her of all her senses but touch, and see how she fares with that. The bed has been made up with satin sheets.

And the leather shackles are in place.

At the chest I take out a hair tie, a blindfold, a fur glove, earbuds, and the handy transmitter that Barney designed for my iPod. I lay out the items in a neat row, plugging the transmitter into the top of the iPod, letting Ana wait. Anticipation is half the buildup to a scene. Once I’m satisfied I go and stand over her. Ana’s head is bowed, the ambient light burnishing her hair. She looks modest and beautiful, the epitome of a submissive.

“You look lovely.” I cup her face and tilt her head up until blue eyes meet gray. “You are one beautiful woman, Anastasia. And you’re all mine,” I whisper. “Stand up.”

She’s a little stiff as she gets to her feet. “Look at me,” I order, and when I look into her eyes I know I could drown in her serious, rapt expression. I’ve got her full attention. “We don’t have a signed contract, Anastasia. But we’ve discussed limits. And I want to reiterate we have safe words, okay?”

She blinks a couple of times, but remains mute. “What are they?” I demand.

She hesitates.

Oh, this will never do.

“What are the safe words, Anastasia?” “Yellow.”

“And?”

“Red.” “Remember those.”

She raises an eyebrow in obvious scorn, and is about to say something.

Oh no. Not in my playroom.

“Don’t start with your smart mouth in here, Miss Steele. Or I will fuck it with you on your knees.

Do you understand?”

As pleasing as that thought is, her obedience is what I want right now. She swallows her chagrin.

“Well?”

“Yes, Sir,” she says quickly.

“Good girl. My intention is not that you should use the safe word because you’re in pain. What I intend to do to you will be intense. Very intense, and you have to guide me. Do you understand?”

Her face remains impassive, giving nothing away.

“This is about touch, Anastasia. You will not be able to see me or hear me. But you’ll be able to feel me.” Ignoring her confounded look, I turn to the audio player above the chest and switch it to auxiliary mode.

I just have to choose a song; and in that moment I recall our conversation in the car after she’d slept in my bed at The Heathman. Let’s see if she likes some Tudor choral music.

“I am going to tie you to that bed, Anastasia. But I’m going to blindfold you first and”—I show her the iPod—“you will not be able to hear me. All you will hear is the music I’m going to play for you.”

I think it’s surprise I see registering on her face, but I’m not sure.

“Come.” I lead her to the foot of the bed. “Stand here.” Leaning down, I breathe in her sweet scent and whisper in her ear, “Wait here. Keep your eyes on the bed. Picture yourself lying here, bound and totally at my mercy.”

She sucks in her breath.

Yes, baby. Think about it. I resist the temptation to plant a soft kiss on her shoulder. I need to braid her hair first and fetch a flogger. From the top of the chest I grab the hair tie, and from the rack I select my favorite flogger, which I stuff into the back pocket of my jeans.

When I return to stand behind her, I gently take her hair and braid it. “While I like your pigtails, Anastasia, I am impatient to have you right now. So one will have to do.” I fasten and tug on the braid so she’s forced to step back against me. Winding the end around my wrist, I pull to the right, bending her head to expose her neck. I run my nose from her earlobe to her shoulder, sucking and biting gently.

Hmm…She smells so good.

She shivers and hums deep in her throat.

“Hush, now,” I caution, and taking the flogger from my pocket, I reach around her, my arms brushing hers, and show it to her.

I hear her catch her breath and see her fingers twitch.

“Touch it,” I whisper, knowing that’s what she wants. She raises her hand, pauses, then runs her fingers through the soft suede tails. It’s arousing. “I will use this. It will not hurt, but it will bring your blood to the surface of your skin and make you very sensitive. What are the safe words, Anastasia?”

“Um…‘yellow’ and ‘red,’ Sir,” she murmurs, transfixed by the flogger.

“Good girl. Remember, most of your fear is in your mind.” I drop the flogger on the bed and brush my fingers down her sides, past the soft swell of her hips, and slip them into her panties. “You won’t be needing these.” I drag them down her legs and kneel behind her. She grabs hold of the pillar to shuffle

awkwardly out of her underwear.

“Stand still,” I command, and kiss her behind, gently nipping each cheek. “Now lie down. Faceup.” I spank her once, and she jumps, startled, and scurries onto the bed. She lies down facing me, her eyes on mine, glowing with excitement—and a little trepidation, I think.

“Hands above your head.”

She does as she’s told. I retrieve the earbuds, blindfold, iPod, and the remote from atop the chest of drawers. Sitting beside her on the bed, I show her the iPod with the transmitter. Her look darts from my face to the devices and back again.

“This sends what’s playing on the iPod to the system in the room. I can hear what you’re hearing, and I have a remote control unit for it.”

Once she’s seen everything, I insert the earbuds into her ears and place the iPod on the pillow. “Lift your head.” She obeys, and I slip the blindfold over her eyes. Rising, I take her left hand and cuff her wrist to the leather shackle at the top corner of the bed. I let my fingers linger down her outstretched arm and she wriggles in response. As I walk slowly around the bed, her head follows the sound of my footsteps; I repeat the process with her right hand, cuffing her wrist.

Ana’s breathing alters, becoming erratic and fast through parted lips. A flush creeps up her chest, and she squirms and lifts her hips in anticipation.

Good.

At the bottom of the bed I grab both her ankles. “Lift your head again,” I order. She does so immediately, and I drag her down the bed so that her arms are fully extended.

She lets out a quiet moan and lifts her hips once more.

I cuff each of her ankles to the corresponding corner of the bed so that she’s spread-eagled before me and I step back to admire the view.

Fuck.

Has she ever looked this hot?

She’s totally and willingly at my mercy. The knowledge is intoxicating, and I stand for a moment to marvel at her generosity and courage.

I drag myself away from the spellbinding sight and from the chest of drawers collect the rabbit-fur glove. Before I put it on I press play on the remote; there’s a brief hiss, and then the forty-part motet begins, the singer’s angelic voice ringing through the playroom and over the delectable Miss Steele.

She stills as she listens.

And I walk around the bed, drinking her in.

Reaching out, I caress her neck with the glove. She inhales sharply and pulls at her shackles, but she doesn’t cry out or tell me to stop. Slowly I run my gloved hand down her throat, over her sternum, then over her breasts, enjoying her restrained squirm. Circling her breasts, I gently tug on each of her nipples, and her moan of appreciation encourages me to head south. At a leisurely, deliberate pace I explore her body: her belly, her hips, the apex of her thighs, and down each leg. The music swells, more voices joining the choir in perfect counterpoint to my moving hand. I watch her mouth to determine how she’s feeling; now she gapes in pleasure, now she bites her lip. When I run my hand over her sex she clenches her behind, pushing herself into my hand.

Though I normally like her to keep still, the movement pleases me. Miss Steele is enjoying this. She’s greedy.

When I brush her breasts again her nipples harden in the wake of the glove.

Yes.

Now that her skin is sensitized I remove the glove and pick up the flogger. With great care I trail the beaded ends over her skin, following the same pattern: over her chest, her breasts, her belly, through her pubic hair, and down her legs. As more choristers lend their voices to the motet I lift the handle of the flogger and flick the tresses across her belly. She cries out, I think in surprise, but she doesn’t safe-word. I give her a moment to absorb the sensation, then do it again—a little harder this time.

She pulls at her shackles and calls out once more, a garbled cry—but it’s not the safe word. I lash the flogger over her breasts, and she tilts her head back and lets out a soundless cry, her mouth slack as she writhes on the red satin.

Still no safe word. Ana is embracing her inner freak.

I feel giddy with delight as I rain the tails up and down her body, watching her skin warm under their bite. When the choristers pause, so do I.

Christ. She looks stunning.

I begin again as the music crescendoes, all the voices singing together; I flick the flogger over her, again and again, and she writhes beneath each blow.

When the last note rings through the room I stop, dropping the flogger on the floor. I’m breathless, panting with want and need.

Fuck.

She lays on the bed, helpless, her skin pretty in pink, and she’s panting, too.

Oh, baby.

I climb onto the bed between her legs and crawl over her, holding myself above her. When the music starts again, the lone voice singing a sweet seraphic note, I follow the same pattern as the glove and the flogger—but this time with my mouth, kissing and sucking and worshipping every inch of her body. I tease each of her nipples until they are glistening with my saliva and standing at attention. She writhes as much as the restraints allow and groans beneath me. My tongue trails down to her belly, around her navel, laving her. Tasting her. Venerating her. Moving down, through her pubic hair to her sweet, exposed clitoris that’s begging for the touch of my tongue. Around and around I swirl, drinking in her scent, drinking in her reaction, until I feel her tremble beneath me.

Oh no. Not yet, Ana. Not yet.

I stop and she huffs her voiceless disappointment.

I kneel up between her legs and pull open my fly, freeing my erection. Then, leaning over, I gently undo the left shackle around her ankle. She curls her leg around me in a long-limbed caress while I release her other ankle. Once she’s free I massage and knead the life back into her legs, from her calves up to her thighs. She wriggles beneath me, raising her hips in perfect rhythm to the Tallis motet, as my thumbs work their way up her inner thighs, which are dewy from her arousal.

I stifle a growl and grasp her hips, lifting her from the bed, and in one swift, rough move I bury

myself inside her.

Fuck.

She’s slick and hot and wet and her body pulses around me, on the edge.

No. Too soon. Way too soon.

I stop, holding myself still over her and in her, while sweat beads on my brow.

“Please,” she calls out, and I tighten my hold on her as I quell the urge to move and lose myself in her. Closing my eyes so I can’t see her laid out beneath me in all her wonder, I concentrate on the music; and once I’m in control again, slowly I start to move. As the intensity of the choral piece builds I slowly increase my pace, matching the power and rhythm of the music, cherishing every tight inch inside her.

She fists her hands and tilts her head back and moans.

Yes.

“Please,” she pleads between gritted teeth.

I hear you, baby.

Laying her back down on the bed, I stretch out over her, supporting my weight on my elbows, and I follow the rhythm, thrusting into her and losing myself in her and the music.

Sweet, brave Ana.

Sweat glides down my back.

Come on, baby. Please.

And finally she explodes around me, shouting out her release and pushing me into an intense, draining climax where I lose all sense of self. I collapse on top of her as my world shifts and realigns, leaving that unfamiliar emotion swirling in my chest, consuming me.

I shake my head, trying to chase away the ominous and confusing feeling. Reaching up, I grab the remote and switch off the music.

No more Tallis.

The music definitely contributed to what was almost a religious experience. I frown, attempting but failing to get a handle on my feelings. I slide out of Ana and stretch to release her from each cuff.

She sighs as she flexes her fingers, and gently I remove the blindfold and the earbuds. Big blue eyes blink up at me.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Hi, yourself,” she says, playful and bashful. Her response is delightful and, leaning down, I plant a tender kiss on her lips.

“Well done, you.” My voice is filled with pride. She did it. She took it. She took it all.

“Turn over.”

Her eyes widen in alarm.

“I’m just going to rub your shoulders.” “Oh, okay.”

She rolls over and flops down on the bed with her eyes closed. I sit astride her and massage her shoulders.

A pleasurable rumble resonates deep in her throat. “What was that music?” she asks.

“It’s called Spem in Alium, a forty-part motet by Thomas Tallis.” “It was…overwhelming.”

“I’ve always wanted to fuck to it.” “Not another first, Mr. Grey?”

I grin. “Indeed, Miss Steele.”

“Well, it’s the first time I’ve fucked to it, too,” she says, her voice betraying her fatigue. “You and I, we’re giving each other many firsts.”

“What did I say to you in my sleep, Chris—er, Sir?” Not this again. Put her out of her misery, Grey.

“You said lots of things, Anastasia. You talked about cages and strawberries. That you wanted more, and that you missed me.”

“Is that all?” She sounds relieved. Why would she be relieved?

I stretch out beside her so I can see her face. “What did you think you’d said?”

She opens her eyes for a brief moment, and shuts them again quickly.

“That I thought you were ugly, conceited, and that you were hopeless in bed.” One blue eye peeks open and watches me warily.

Oh…she’s lying.

“Well, naturally I am all those things, and now you’ve got me really intrigued. What are you hiding from me, Miss Steele?”

“I’m not hiding anything.” “Anastasia, you’re a hopeless liar.”

“I thought you were going to make me giggle after sex; this isn’t doing it for me.”

Her answer is unexpected, and I give her a reluctant smile. “I can’t tell jokes,” I confess. “Mr. Grey! Something you can’t do?” She rewards me with a broad, infectious grin. “No, hopeless joke teller,” I say, as if it’s a badge of honor.

She giggles. “I’m a hopeless joke teller, too.”

“That is such a lovely sound,” I whisper, and kiss her. But I still want to know why she’s relieved. “And you are hiding something, Anastasia. I may have to torture it out of you.”

“Ha!” The space between us is filled with her laughter. “I think you’ve done enough torturing.” Her response wipes the smile off my face, and her expression softens immediately. “Maybe I’ll let

you torture me like that again,” she says coyly.

Relief sweeps through me. “I’d like that very much, Miss Steele.”

“We aim to please, Mr. Grey.”

“You’re okay?” I ask, humbled and anxious at once. “More than okay.” She gives me her timid smile.

“You’re amazing.” I kiss her forehead, then climb off the bed as that ominous feeling ripples through me once more. Shaking it off, I button my fly and hold out my hand to help her off the bed. When she’s standing I pull her into my arms and kiss her, savoring her taste.

“Bed,” I mutter, and lead her to the door. There I wrap her in the bathrobe she’s left hanging on the peg, and before she can protest I pick her up and carry her downstairs to my bedroom.

“I’m so tired,” she mumbles once she’s in my bed.

“Sleep now,” I whisper, and wrap her in my arms. I close my eyes, fighting the disquieting sensation that surges and fills my chest once more. It’s like homesickness and a homecoming rolled into one…and it’s terrifying.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-30