章节目录 Part III Chapter Twenty-five
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(88106 www.88106.info) Chapter Twenty-five
I can barely breathe. Do I want to hear this? Christian closes his eyes and
swallows. When he opens them again, they are bright but diffident, full of
disquieting memories.
“It was a hot summer day. I was working hard.” He snorts and shakes his
head, suddenly amused. “It was backbreaking work shifting that rubble. I was
on my own, and Ele—Mrs. Lincoln appeared out of nowhere and brought me
some lemonade. We exchanged small talk, and I made some smart-ass
remark . . . and she slapped me. She slapped me so hard.” Unconsciously,
his hand moves to his face and he caresses his cheek, his eyes clouding at
the memory. Holy **!
“But then she kissed me. And when she finished, she slapped me again.” He
blinks, seemingly still confounded even after all this time.
“I’d never been kissed before or hit like that.”
Oh. She pounced. On a kid.
“Do you want to hear this?” Christians asks.
Yes . . . No . . .
“Only if you want to tell me.” My voice is small as I lie facing him, my mind
reeling.
“I’m trying to give you some context.”
I nod in what I hope is an encouraging manner. But I suspect I may look like a
statue, frozen and wide-eyed with shock. He frowns, his eyes searching
mine, trying to gauge my reaction. Then he turns onto his back and stares up
at the ceiling.
“Well, naturally, I was confused and angry and horny as hell. I mean, a hot
older woman comes on to you like that—” He shakes his head as if he still
can’t believe it.
Hot? I feel queasy.
“She went back into the house, leaving me in the backyard. She acted as if
nothing had happened. I was at a total loss. So I went back to work, loading
the rubble into the dumpster. When I left that evening, she asked me to come
back the next day. She didn’t mention what had 467 | P a g e
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happened. So the next day I went back. I couldn’t wait to see her again,” he
whispers as if it’s a dark confession . . . because frankly it is.
“She didn’t touch me when she kissed me,” he murmurs and turns his head
to gaze at me. “You have to understand . . . my life was hell on earth. I was a
walking hard-on, fifteen years old, tall for my age, hormones raging. The girls
at school—” He stops, but I’ve got the picture: a scared, lonely, but attractive
adolescent. My heart twists.
“I was angry, so **ing angry at everyone; at myself, my folks. I had no
friends. My therapist at the time was a total asshole. My folks, they kept me
on a tight leash; they didn’t understand.” He stares back up at the ceiling and
runs a hand through his hair. I itch to run my fingers through his hair, too, but I
stay still.
“I just couldn’t bear anyone to touch me. I couldn’t. Couldn’t bear anyone near
me. I used to fight . . . **, did I fight. I got into some god-awful brawls. I was
expelled from a couple of schools. But it was a way to let off steam. To
tolerate some kind of physical contact.” He stops again. “Well, you get the
idea. And when she kissed me, she only grabbed my face. She didn’t touch
me.” His voice is barely audible. She must have known. Perhaps Grace had
told her. Oh, my poor Fifty. I have to fold my hands beneath my pillow and
rest my head on it in order to resist the urge to hold him.
“Well, the next day I went back to the house, not knowing what to expect. And
I’ll spare you the gory details, but there was more of the same. And that’s
how our relationship started.”
Oh **, this is painful to hear.
He shifts again onto his side so he’s facing me.
“And you know something, Ana? My world came into focus. Sharp and clear.
Everything. It was exactly what I needed. She was a breath of fresh air.
Making the decisions, taking all that ** away from me, letting me breathe.”
Holy **.
“And even when it all finished, my world stayed in focus because of her. And
it stayed that way until I met you.”
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Tentatively, he smoothes a stray
lock of my hair behind my ear.
“You turned my world on its head.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens
them again, they are raw. “My world was ordered, calm and 468 | P a g e
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controlled, then you came into my life with your smart mouth, your innocence,
your beauty, and your quiet temerity . . . and everything before you was just
dull, empty, mediocre . . . it was nothing.”
Oh my.
“I fell in love,” he whispers.
I stop breathing. He caresses my cheek.
“So did I,” I murmur with the little breath I have left. His eyes soften. “I know,”
he mouths.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
Hallelujah! I smile shyly at him. “Finally,” I whisper. He nods.
“And it’s put everything into perspective for me. When I was younger, Elena
was the center of my world. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her. And she
did a lot for me. She stopped my drinking. Made me work hard at school . . .
You know, she gave me a coping mechanism I hadn’t had before, allowed
me to experience things that I never thought I could.”
“Touch,” I whisper.
He nods. “After a fashion.”
I frown, wondering what he means.
He hesitates at my reaction.
Tell me! I will him.
“If you grow up with a wholly negative self-image, thinking you’re some kind
of reject, an unlovable savage, you think you deserve to be beaten.”
Christian . . . you are none of those things.
He pauses and runs his hand through his hair. “Ana, it’s much easier to wear
your pain on the outside . . .” Again, it’s a confession. Oh.
“She channeled my anger.” His mouth presses together in a bleak line.
“Mostly inward—I realize that now. Dr. Flynn’s been on and on about this for
some time. It was only recently that I saw our relationship for what it was. You
know . . . on my birthday.”
I shudder as the unwelcome memory of Elena and Christian verbally
eviscerating each other at Christian’s birthday party surfaces unwelcome in
my mind.
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“For her that side of our relationship was about sex and control and a lonely
woman finding some kind of comfort with her boy toy.”
“But you like control,” I whisper.
“Yes. I do. I always will, Ana. It’s who I am. I surrendered it for a brief while.
Let someone make all my decisions for me. I couldn’t do it myself—I wasn’t
in a fit state. But through my submission to her, I found myself and found the
strength to take charge of my life . . . take control and make my own
decisions.”
“Become a Dom?”
“Yes.”
“Your decision?”
“Yes.”
“Dropping out of Harvard?”
“My decision, and it was the best decision I ever made. Until I met you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.” His lips quirk up in a soft smile. “The best decision I ever made was
marrying you.”
Oh my. “Not starting your company?”
He shakes his head.
“Not learning to fly?”
He shakes his head. “You,” he mouths. He caresses my cheek with his
knuckles. “She knew,” he whispers.
I frown. “She knew what?”
“That I was head over heels in love with you. She encouraged me to go down
to Georgia to see you, and I’m glad she did. She thought you’d freak out and
leave. Which you did.”
I pale. I’d rather not think about that.
“She thought I needed all the trappings of the lifestyle I enjoyed.”
“The Dom?” I whisper.
He nods. “It enabled me to keep everyone at arm’s length, gave me control,
and kept me detached, or so I thought. I’m sure you’ve worked out why,” he
adds softly.
“Your birth mom?”
“I didn’t want to be hurt again. And then you left me.” His words are barely
audible. “And I was a mess.”
Oh no.
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“I’ve avoided intimacy for so long—I don’t know how to do this.”
“You’re doing fine,” I murmur. I trace his lips with my index finger. He purses
them into a kiss. You’re talking to me.
“Do you miss it?” I whisper.
“Miss it?”
“That lifestyle.”
“Yes, I do.”
Oh!
“But only insofar as I miss the control it brings. And frankly, your stupid
stunt”—he stops—“that saved my sister,” he whispers, his words full of relief,
awe, and disbelief. “That’s how I know.”
“Know?”
“Really know that you love me.”
I frown. “What?”
“Because you risked so much . . . for me, for my family.”
My frown deepens. He reaches over and traces his finger over the middle of
my brow above my nose.
“You have a V here when you frown,” he murmurs. “It’s very soft to kiss. I can
behave so badly . . . and yet you’re still here.”
“Why are you surprised I’m still here? I told you I wasn’t going to leave you.”
“Because of the way that I behaved when you told me you were pregnant.” He
runs his finger down my cheek. “You were right. I am an adolescent.”
Oh ** . . . I did say that. My subconscious glares at me. His doctor said
that!
“Christian, I said some awful things.” He puts his index finger over my lips.
“Hush. I deserved to hear them. Besides this is my bedtime story.”
He rolls onto his back again.
“When you told me you were pregnant—” He stops. “I’d thought it would be
just you and me for a while. I’d considered children, but only in the abstract. I
had this vague idea we’d have a child sometime in the future.”
Just one? No . . . Not an only child. Not like me. Perhaps now’s not the best
time to bring that up.
“You are still so young, and I know you’re quietly ambitious.”
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Ambitious? Me?
“Well, you pulled the rug from under me. Christ, was that unexpected. Never
in a million years, when I asked you what was wrong, did I expect you to be
pregnant.” He sighs. “I was so mad. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad at
everyone. And it took me back, that feeling of nothing being in my control. I
had to get out. I went to see Flynn, but he was at some school parents’
evening.” Christian pauses and arches an eyebrow.
“Ironic,” I whisper. Christian smirks in agreement.
“So I walked and walked and walked, and I just . . . found myself at the salon.
Elena was leaving. She was surprised to see me. And, truth be told, I was
surprised to find myself there. She could tell I was mad and asked me if I
wanted a drink.”
Oh **. We’ve cut to the chase. My heart doubles in speed. Do I really want
to know this? My subconscious glares at me, a plucked eyebrow raised in
warning.
“We went to a quiet bar I know and had a bottle of wine. She apologized for
the way she behaved the last time she saw us. She’s hurt that my mom will
have nothing to do with her any more—it’s narrowed her social circle—but
she understands. We talked about the business, which is doing fine, in spite
of the recession . . . I mentioned that you wanted kids.”
I frown. What? “I thought you let her know I was pregnant.”
He regards me, his face guileless. “No, I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
He shrugs. “I never got the chance.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I couldn’t find you the next morning, Ana. And when I did, you were so mad at
me . . .”
Oh, yes. “I was.”
“Anyway, at some point in the evening—about halfway through the second
bottle—she leaned over to touch me. And I froze,” he whispers, throwing his
arm over his eyes.
My scalp tingles. What’s this?
“She saw that I recoiled from her. It shocked both of us.” His voice is low, too
low.
Why won’t he look at me? I tug at his arm and he lowers it, turning 472 | P a g
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to gaze into my eyes. Shit. His face is pale, his eyes wide.
“What?” I breathe.
He frowns, and swallows.
Oh . . . what isn’t he telling me? Do I want to know?
“She made a pass at me.” He’s shocked, I can tell.
All the breath is sucked from my body. I feel winded, and I think my heart has
stopped. That **ing bitch troll!
“It was a moment, suspended in time. She saw my expression, and she
realized how far she’d crossed the line. I said . . . no. I haven’t thought of her
like that for years, and besides”—he swallows—“I love you. I told her, I love
my wife.”
I gaze at him. I don’t know what to say.
“She backed right off. Apologized again, made it seem like a joke. I mean,
she said she’s happy with Isaac and with the business and she doesn’t bear
either of us any ill will. She said she missed my friendship, but she could see
that my life was with you now. And how awkward that was, given what
happened last time we were all in the same room. I couldn’t have agreed with
her more. We said our goodbyes—our final goodbyes. I said I wouldn’t see
her again, and she went on her way.”
I swallow, fear gripping my heart. “Did you kiss?”
“No!” he snorts. “I couldn’t bear to be that close to her.”
Oh. Good.
“I was miserable. I wanted to come home to you. But . . . I knew I’d behaved
badly. I stayed and finished the bottle, then started on the bourbon. While I
was drinking, I remember you saying to me some time ago, ‘If that was my
son . . .’ And I got to thinking about Junior and about how Elena and I started.
And it made me feel . . . uncomfortable. I’d never thought of it like that
before.”
A memory blossoms in my mind—a whispered conversation from when I was
half conscious—Christian’s voice: “But seeing her finally put it all in
perspective for me. You know . . . with the child. For the first time I felt . . .
What we did . . . it was wrong.” He’d been speaking to Grace.
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“Oh.”
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“Oh?”
“It’s over?”
“Yes. It’s been over since I laid eyes on you. I finally realized it that night and
so did she.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
He frowns. “What for?”
“Being so angry the next day.”
He snorts. “Baby, I understand angry.” He pauses then sighs. “You see, Ana, I
want you to myself. I don’t want to share you. What we have, I’ve never had
before. I want to be the center of your universe, for a while at least.”
Oh, Christian. “You are. That’s not going to change.”
He gives me an indulgent, sad, resigned smile. “Ana,” he whispers.
“That’s just not true.”
Tears prick my eyes.
“How can it be?” he murmurs.
Oh no.
“Shit—don’t cry, Ana. Please, don’t cry.” He caresses my face.
“I’m sorry.” My lower lip trembles, and he brushes his thumb over it, soothing
me.
“No, Ana, no. Don’t be sorry. You’ll have someone else to love as well. And
you’re right. That’s how it should be.”
“Blip will love you, too. You’ll be the center of Blip’s—Junior’s world,” I
whisper. “Children love their parents unconditionally, Christian. That’s how
they come into the world. Programmed to love. All babies . . . even you. Think
about that children’s book you liked when you were small. You still wanted
your mom. You loved her.”
He furrows his brow and withdraws his hand, fisting it against his chin.
“No,” he whispers.
“Yes. You did.” My tears flow freely now. “Of course you did. It wasn’t an
option. That’s why you’re so hurt.”
He stares at me, his expression raw.
“That’s why you’re able to love me,” I murmur. “Forgive her. She had her own
world of pain to deal with. She was a **ty mother, and you loved her.”
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begin to fathom.
Oh, please don’t stop talking.
Eventually he says, “I used to brush her hair. She was pretty.”
“One look at you and no one would doubt that.”
“She was a **ty mother.” His voice is barely audible. I nod and he closes
his eyes. “I’m scared I’ll be a **ty father.”
I stroke his dear face. Oh my Fifty, Fifty, Fifty. “Christian, do you think for one
minute I’d let you be a **ty father?”
He opens his eyes and gazes at me for what feels like an eternity. He smiles
as relief slowly illuminates his face. “No, I don’t think you would.” He caresses
my face with the back of his knuckles, gazing at me in wonder. “God, you’re
strong, Mrs. Grey. I love you so much.”
He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “I didn’t know I could.”
“Oh, Christian,” I whisper, trying to contain my emotions.
“Now, that’s the end of your bedtime story.”
“That’s some bedside story . . . ”
He smiles wistfully, but I think he’s relieved. “How’s your head?”
“My head?” Actually, it’s about to explode with all you’ve told me!
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Good. I think you should sleep now.”
Sleep! How can I sleep after all that?
“Sleep,” he says sternly. “You need it.”
I pout. “I have one question.”
“Oh? What?” He eyes me warily.
“Why have you suddenly become all . . . forthcoming, for want of a better
word?”
He frowns.
“You’re telling me all this, when getting information out of you is normally a
pretty harrowing and trying experience.”
“It is?
“You know it is.”
“Why am I being forthcoming? I can’t say. Seeing you practically dead on the
cold concrete, maybe. The fact I’m going to be a father. I don’t know. You
said you wanted to know, and I don’t want Elena to come between us. She
can’t. She’s the past, and I’ve said that to you so many times.”
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“If she hadn’t made a pass at you . . . would you still be friends?”
“That’s more than one question.”
“Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.” I flush. “You’ve already volunteered more
than I ever thought you would.”
His gaze softens. “No, I don’t think so, but she’s felt like unfinished business
since my birthday. She stepped over the line, and I’m done. Please, believe
me. I’m not going to see her again. You said she’s a hard limit for you. That’s
a term I understand,” he says with quiet sincerity.
Okay. I’m going to let this go now. My subconscious sags into her armchair.
Finally!
“Goodnight, Christian. Thank you for the enlightening bedtime story.” I lean
over to kiss him, and our lips touch briefly, but he pulls back when I try to
deepen the kiss.
“Don’t,” he whispers. “I am desperate to make love to you.”
“Then do.”
“No, you need to rest, and it’s late. Go to sleep.” He leans over and switches
off the bedside light, plunging us into darkness.
“I love you unconditionally, Christian,” I murmur as I cuddle into his side.
“I know,” he whispers, and I sense his shy smile.
~o0o~
I wake with a start. Light is flooding the room, and Christian is not in bed. I
glance at the clock and see it’s seven fifty-three. I take a deep breath and
wince as my ribs smart though not as badly as yesterday. I think I could go to
work. Work—Yes. I want to go to work. It’s Monday, and I spent all of
yesterday lounging about in bed. Christian only let me go out briefly to see
Ray. Honestly, he’s still such a control freak. I smile fondly. My control freak.
He’s been attentive and loving and chatty . . . and hands-off since I arrived
home. I scowl. I am going to have to do something about this. My head
doesn’t hurt, the pain around my ribs has eased—though, admittedly,
laughing has to be undertaken with caution—but I’m frustrated. I think this is
the longest I’ve gone without sex since . . . well, since the first time. I think
we’ve both recovered our equilibrium. Christian is much 476 | P a g e
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more relaxed; his long bedtime story seems to have laid some ghosts to
rest, for him and for me. We’ll see.
I shower quickly, and once I’m dry, I browse carefully through my clothes. I
want something sexy. Something that might galvanize Christian into action.
Who would have thought such an insatiable man could actually exercise so
much self-control? I don’t really want to dwell on how Christian learned such
discipline over his body. We haven’t spoken of the Bitch Troll once since his
confessional. I hope we never do. To me she’s dead and buried.
I choose an almost indecently short black skirt and a white silk blouse with a
frill. I slide on thigh-highs with lacy tops and my black Louboutin pumps. A
little mascara and lip gloss for a natural look, and after a ferocious brushing, I
leave my hair loose. Yes. This should do it. Christian is eating at the
breakfast bar. His forkful of omelet stops in midair when he sees me. He
frowns.
“Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Going somewhere?”
“Work.” I smile sweetly.
“I don’t think so.” Christian snorts with amused derision. “Dr. Singh said a
week off.”
“Christian, I am not spending the day lounging in bed on my own. So I may as
well go to work. Good morning, Gail.”
“Mrs. Grey.” Mrs. Jones tries to hide a smile. “Would you like some
breakfast?”
“Please.”
“Granola?”
“I’d prefer scrambled eggs with whole wheat toast.”
Mrs. Jones beams and Christian registers his surprise.
“Very good, Mrs. Grey,” Mrs. Jones says.
“Ana, you are not going to work.”
“But—”
“No. It’s simple. Don’t argue.” Christian is adamant. I glare at him, and only
then do I notice that he’s in the same pajama bottoms and Tshirt he was
wearing last night.
“Are you going to work?” I ask.
“No.”
Am I going crazy? “It is Monday, right?”
He smiles. “Last time I looked.”
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I narrow my eyes. “Are you playing hooky?”
“I’m not leaving you here on your own to get into trouble. And Dr. Singh said it
would be a week before you could go back to work. Remember?”
I slide onto a bar stool beside him and hoist my skirt up a little. Mrs. Jones
places a cup of tea in front of me.
“You look good,” Christian says. I cross my legs. “Very good. Especially
here.” He traces a finger over the bare flesh that shows above my thighhighs.
My pulse quickens as his finger runs across my skin. “This skirt is very
short,” he murmurs, vague disapproval in his voice as his eyes follow his
finger.
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
Christian gazes at me, mouth twisted in an amused yet exasperated smirk.
“Really, Mrs. Grey?”
I blush.
“I’m not sure this look is suitable for the workplace,” he murmurs.
“Well, since I’m not going to work, that’s a moot point.”
“Moot?”
“Moot,” I mouth.
Christian smirks again and resumes eating his omelet. “I have a better idea.”
“You do?”
He glances at me through long lashes, gray eyes darkening. I inhale sharply.
Oh my. About time.
“We can go see how Elliot’s getting on with the house.”
What? Oh! Tease! I vaguely remember we were supposed to do that before
Ray was injured.
“I’d love to.”
“Good.” he grins.
“Don’t you have to work?”
“No. Ros is back from Taiwan. That all went well. Today, everything’s fine.”
“I thought you were going to Taiwan.”
He snorts again. “Ana, you were in the hospital.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah—oh. So today I’m spending some quality time with my 478 | P a g e
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wife.” He smacks his lips together as he takes a sip of coffee.
“Quality time?” I can’t disguise the hope in my voice. Mrs. Jones places my
scrambled eggs in front of me, again failing to hide her smile.
Christian smirks. “Quality time.” He nods.
I am too hungry to flirt anymore with my husband.
“It’s good to see you eat,” he murmurs. Rising, he leans over and kisses my
hair. “I’m going to shower.”
“Um . . . can I come and scrub your back?” I mumble through a mouth full of
toast and scrambled egg.
“No. Eat.”
Leaving the breakfast bar, he tugs his T-shirt over his head, treating me to
the sight of his finely sculptured shoulders and naked back as he saunters
out of the great room. I stop mid-chew. He’s doing this on purpose. Why?
Ray is in good spirits. Mr. Rodriguez is visiting, too, and they’ve both settled
down in front of the large new flat-screen TV in Ray’s room. I suspect
Christian had something to do with that. We leave them watching the sports
highlights from the previous weekend.
Christian is relaxed on the drive north. He’s been this way ever since
“the talk.” It’s as if a weight has been lifted; Mrs. Robinson’s shadow no
longer looms so large over us, maybe because I’ve decided to let it go—or
because he has, I don’t know. But I feel closer to him now than I ever have
before. Perhaps because he’s finally confided in me. I hope he continues to
do so. And he’s more accepting of the baby, too. He hasn’t gone out and
bought a crib yet, but I have high hopes. I gaze at him, drinking him in as he
drives. He looks casual, cool . . . sexy with his tousled hair, Ray-Bans,
pinstripe jacket, white linen shirt, and jeans.
He glances at me, reaches over, and clasps my leg above the knee, his
fingers stroking gently. “I’m glad you didn’t change.”
I did slip on a denim jacket and change to flats, but I’m still wearing the short
skirt. His hand lingers above my knee. I put my hand on his. 479 | P a g e
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“Are you going to continue to tease me?”
“Maybe.” Christian smiles.
“Why?”
“Because I can.” He grins, boyish as ever.
“Two can play at that game,” I whisper.
His fingers move tantalizingly up my thigh. “Bring it on, Mrs. Grey.” His grin
broadens.
I pick up his hand and put it back on his knee. “Well, you can keep your
hands to yourself.”
He smirks. “As you wish, Mrs. Grey.”
Dammit. This game is going to backfire on me.
Christian turns into the driveway of our new house. He stops at the keypad
and punches in a number, and the ornate white metal gates swing open. We
roar up the tree-lined lane, under leaves that are a blend of green, yellow,
and burnished copper. The tall grass in the meadow is turning gold, but there
are still a few yellow wildflowers dotted among the grass. It’s a beautiful day.
The sun is shining, and the salty tang of the Sound is in the air mixed with the
scent of the coming fall. This is such a tranquil and beautiful place. And to
think we’re going to make our home here.
The lane curves around, and our house comes into view. Several large
trucks, sides emblazoned with GREY CONSTRUCTION, are parked out
front. The house is decked in scaffolding, and several workmen in hard hats
are busy on the roof.
Christian pulls up outside the portico and switches off the engine. I can sense
his excitement.
“Let’s go find Elliot.”
“Is he here?”
“I hope so. I’m paying him enough.”
I snort, and Christian grins as we get out of the car.
“Yo, Bro!” Elliot shouts from somewhere. We both glance around.
“Up here!” He’s up on the roof, waving down at us and beaming from ear to
ear. “About time we saw you here. Stay where you are. I’ll be right down.”
I glance at Christian, who shrugs. A few minutes later, Elliot 480 | P a g e
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appears at the front door.
“Hey, Bro.” He shakes Christian’s hand. “And how are you, little lady?” He
picks me up and swings me around.
“Better, thanks,” I giggle breathlessly, my ribs protesting. Christian frowns at
him, but Elliot ignores him.
“Let’s head over to the site office. You’ll need one of these.” He taps his hard
hat.
The house is a shell. The floors are covered in a hard fibrous material that
looks like burlap; some of the original walls have disappeared and new ones
have taken their place. Elliot leads us through, explaining what’s happening,
while men—and a few women—work everywhere around us. I’m relieved to
see the stone staircase with its intricate iron balustrade is still in place and
draped completely in white dustsheets. In the main living area, the back wall
has been removed to make way for Gia’s glass wall, and work is beginning
on the terrace. In spite of the mess, the view is still stunning. The new work is
sympathetic and in keeping with the old-world charm of the house . . . Gia’s
done well. Elliot patiently explains the processes and gives us a rough
timeframe for each. He’s hoping we can be in by Christmas, although
Christian thinks this is optimistic.
Holy cow—Christmas overlooking the Sound. I can’t wait. A bubble of
excitement blooms inside me. I have visions of us trimming an enormous
tree while a copper-haired little boy looks on in wonder. Elliot finishes our
tour in the kitchen.
“I’ll leave you two to roam. Be careful. This is a building site.”
“Sure. Thanks, Elliot,” Christian murmurs, taking my hand.
“Happy?” he asks once Elliot has left us alone. I am gazing at this empty shell
of a room and wondering where I will hang the pepper pictures that we
bought in France.
“Very. I love it. You?”
“Ditto.” He grins.
“Good. I was thinking of the pepper pictures in here.”
Christian nods. “I want to put up José’s portraits of you in this house. You
need to decide where they should go.”
I flush. “Somewhere I won’t see them often.”
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“Don’t be like that,” he scolds, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip.
“They’re my favorite pictures. I love the one in my office.”
“I have no idea why,” I murmur and kiss the pad of his thumb.
“Worse things to do than look at your beautiful smiling face all day. Hungry?”
he asks.
“Hungry for what?” I whisper.
He smirks, his eyes darkening. Hope and desire unfurl in my veins.
“Food, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs, and he plants a swift kiss on my lips. I give
him my faux pout and sigh.
“Yes. These days I’m always hungry.”
“The three of us can have a picnic.”
“Three of us? Is someone joining us?”
Christian cocks his head to one side. “In about seven or eight months.”
Oh . . . Blip. I grin goofily at him.
“I thought you might like to eat al fresco.”
“In the meadow?” I ask.
He nods.
“Sure.” I grin.
“This will be a great place to raise a family,” he murmurs, gazing down at me.
Family! More than one? Dare I mention this now?
He spreads his fingers over my belly. Holy **. I hold my breath and place
my hand over his.
“It’s hard to believe,” he whispers, and for the first time I hear wonder in his
voice.
“I know. Oh—here, I have evidence. A picture.”
“You do? Baby’s first smile?”
I pull out the ultrasound of Blip from my wallet.
“See?”
Christian examines it closely, staring for several seconds.
“Oh . . . Blip. Yeah, I see.” He sounds distracted, awed.
“Your child,” I whisper.
“Our child,” he counters.
“First of many.”
“Many?” Christian’s eyes widen with alarm.
“At least two.”
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“Two?” He tests the word. “Can we just take this one child at a time?”
I grin. “Sure.”
We head back outside into the warm fall afternoon.
“When are you going to tell your folks?” Christian asks.
“Soon,” I murmur. “I thought about telling Ray this morning, but Mr. Rodriguez
was there.” I shrug.
Christian nods and opens the hood of the R8. Inside are a wicker picnic
basket and the tartan blanket we bought in London.
“Come,” he says, taking the basket and blanket in one hand and holding the
other out to me. Together we walk into the meadow.
“Sure, Ros, go for it.” Christian hangs up. That’s the third call he’s taken
during our picnic. He’s kicked off his shoes and socks, and is watching me,
arms on his raised knees. His jacket lies discarded on top of mine, as we’re
warm in the sun. I lie beside him, stretched out on the tartan picnic blanket,
both of us surrounded by tall golden and green grass, far, far from the noise
at the house and hidden from the prying eyes of the construction workers.
We are in our own bucolic haven. He feeds me another strawberry, and I
chew and suck it gratefully, gazing at his darkening eyes.
“Tasty?” he whispers.
“Very.”
“Had enough?”
“Of strawberries, yes.”
His eyes glitter dangerously, and he grins down at me. “Mrs. Jones packs a
mighty fine picnic,” he says.
“That she does,” I whisper.
Shifting suddenly, he lies down so his head is resting on my belly. He closes
his eyes and seems content. I tangle my fingers in his hair. He sighs heavily,
then scowls and checks the number on the screen of his buzzing BlackBerry.
He rolls his eyes and takes the call.
“Welch,” he snaps. He tenses, listens for a second or two, then suddenly
bolts upright.
“24-7 . . . Thanks,” he says through gritted teeth and hangs up. The change in
his mood is instant. Gone is my teasing, flirtatious husband, 483 | P a g e
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replaced by a cold, calculating master of the universe. He narrows his eyes
for a moment then gives me a cool, chilling smile. A shiver runs down my
back. He picks up his BlackBerry and presses a speed dial.
“Ros, how much stock do we own in Lincoln Timber?” He kneels up.
My scalp prickles. Oh no, what’s this?
“So, consolidate the shares into GEH, then fire the board . . . except the
CEO. . . . I don’t give a ** . . . I hear you, just do it . . . thank you . . . keep me
informed.” He hangs up, and gazes at me impassively for a moment.
Holy **! Christian is mad.
“What’s happened?”
“Linc,” he murmurs.
“Linc? Elena’s ex?”
“The same. He’s the one who posted Hyde’s bail.”
What? Why? I gape at Christian in shock. His mouth is pressed in a hard
line.
“Well—he’ll look like an idiot,” I murmur, dismayed. “I mean, Hyde committed
another crime while out on bail.”
Christian’s eyes narrow and he smirks. “Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey.”
“What did you just do?” I kneel up, facing him.
“I **ed him over.”
Oh! “Um . . . that seems a little impulsive,” I murmur.
“I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.”
“I’m aware of that.”
His eyes narrow and his lips thin. “I’ve had this plan in my back pocket for a
while,” he says dryly.
I frown. “Oh?”
He pauses, seeming to weigh up something in his mind, then takes a deep
breath.
“Several years back, when I was twenty-one, Linc beat his wife to a pulp. He
broke her jaw, her left arm, and four of her ribs because she was **ing
me.” His eyes harden. “And now I learn he posted bail for a man who tried to
kill me, kidnapped my sister, and fractured my wife’s skull. I’ve had enough. I
think it’s payback time.”
I blanch. Holy **. “Fair point well made, Mr. Grey,” I whisper. 484 | P a g e
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“Ana, this is what I do. I’m not usually motivated by revenge, but I cannot let
him get away with this. What he did to Elena . . . well, she should have
pressed charges, but she didn’t. That was her prerogative.
“But he’s seriously crossed the line with Hyde. Linc’s made this personal by
going after my family. I’m going to crush him, break up his company right
under his nose, and sell the pieces to the highest bidder. I am going to
bankrupt him.”
Oh . . .
“Besides,” Christian smirks. “We’ll make good money out of the deal.”
I stare into blazing gray eyes that soften suddenly.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he whispers.
“You didn’t,” I lie.
He arches a brow, amused.
“You just took me by surprise,” I whisper, then swallow. Christian is really
quite scary sometimes.
Leaning down he brushes his lips against mine. “I will do anything to keep
you safe. Keep my family safe. Keep this little one safe,” he murmurs and
splays his hand out over my belly in a gentle caress. Oh . . . I stop breathing.
Christian gazes down at me, his eyes darkening. His lips part as he inhales
and, in a deliberate move, the tips of his fingers brush against my sex.
Holy **. Desire detonates like an incendiary device igniting my
bloodstream. I grasp his head, my fingers weaving into his hair, and tug hard
so my lips find his. He gasps, surprised by my assault, giving my tongue free
passage into his mouth. He groans and kisses me back, his lips and tongue
hungry for mine, and for a moment we consume each other, lost in tongues
and lips and breaths and sweet, sweet sensation as we rediscover each
other.
Oh, I want this man. It’s been too long. I want him here, now, in the open air, in
our meadow.
“Ana,” he breathes, entranced, and his hand skims over my backside to the
hem of my skirt. I scramble to unbutton his shirt, all fingers and thumbs.
“Whoa, Ana—stop.” He pulls back, his jaw clenched, and grabs my hands.
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murmur again, gazing at him. I release him. “I want you.”
He inhales sharply. He’s torn, his indecision writ large in luminous gray eyes.
“Please, I need you.” Every pore of my being is begging. This is what we do.
He groans in defeat as his mouth finds mine, molding my lips to his. One
hand cradles my head while the other skims down my body to my waist, and
he eases me onto my back and stretches out beside me, never breaking
contact with my mouth.
He pulls back, hovering over me and gazing down. “You are so beautiful,
Mrs. Grey.”
I caress his lovely face. “So are you, Mr. Grey. Inside and out.”
He frowns, and my fingers trace the furrow in his brow.
“Don’t frown. You are to me, even when you’re angry,” I whisper. He groans
once more, and his mouth captures mine, pushing me into the soft grass
beneath the blanket.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, and his teeth graze my jaw. My heart soars.
“I’ve missed you, too. Oh, Christian.” I fist one hand in his hair and clutch his
shoulder with the other.
His lips move to my throat, leaving tender kisses in their wake, and his
fingers follow, deftly undoing each button of my blouse. Tugging my blouse
apart, he kisses the soft swell of my breasts. He murmurs appreciatively, low
in his throat, and the sound echoes through my body to my deep dark places.
“Your body’s changing,” he whispers. His thumb teases my nipple until it’s
erect and straining against my bra. “I like,” he adds. I watch his tongue taste
and trace the line between my bra and my breast, tantalizing and teasing me.
Taking my bra cup delicately between his teeth, he pulls it down, freeing my
breast and nuzzling my nipple with his nose in the process. It puckers at his
touch and from the chill of the gentle fall breeze. His lips close around me,
and he sucks long and hard.
“Ah!” I groan, inhaling sharply then wincing as pain radiates outward from my
bruised ribs.
“Ana!” Christian exclaims and glares down at me, concern etched on his
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lack of self-preservation. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“No . . . don’t stop,” I whimper. He stares at me, warring with himself.
“Please.”
“Here.” Abruptly he moves, and I’m sitting astride him, my short skirt now
bunched up around my hips. His hands glide over the top of my thigh-highs.
“There. That’s better, and I can enjoy the view.” He reaches up and hooks his
long index finger into my other bra cup, freeing that breast, too. He grasps
both of my breasts, and I throw my head back, pushing them into his
welcome, expert hands. He teases me, tugging and rolling my nipples until I
cry out, then sits up so we’re nose to nose, his greedy gray eyes on mine. He
kisses me, his fingers still teasing me. I scramble for his shirt, undoing the
first two buttons, and it’s like sensory overload—I want to be kissing him
everywhere, undressing him, making love with him all at once.
“Hey—” He gently grasps my head and pulls back, eyes dark and full of
sensual promise. “There’s no rush. Take it slow. I want to savor you.”
“Christian, it’s been so long.” I’m panting.
“Slow,” he whispers, and it’s a command. He kisses the right corner of my
mouth. “Slow.” He kisses the left corner. “Slow, baby.” He tugs my bottom lip
with his teeth. “Let’s take this slow.” He unfurls his fingers in my hair, keeping
me in place as his tongue invades my mouth, seeking, tasting, calming . . .
inflaming. Oh, my man can kiss. I caress his face, my fingers moving
tentatively down to his chin then to his throat, and I start again on the buttons
of his shirt, taking my time, as he continues to kiss me. Slowly I pull his shirt
of his shirt, taking my time, as he continues to kiss me. Slowly I pull his shirt
apart, my fingers trailing over his clavicles, feeling their way across his warm,
silky skin. I push him gently back until he’s lying beneath me. Sitting up, I
gaze down at him, aware that I’m squirming against his growing erection.
Hmm. I trace my fingers across his lips to his jaw then down his neck, over
his Adam’s apple to that little dip at the base of his throat. My beautiful man.
I lean down, and my kisses follow the tips of my fingers. My teeth graze his
jaw and kiss his throat. He closes his eyes.
“Ah.” He groans and tilts his head back, giving me easier access to the base
of his throat, his mouth slack and open in silent veneration. 487 | P a g e
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Christian lost and aroused is just so exhilarating . . . and so arousing to me.
My tongue trails down his sternum, twirling through his chest hair. Hmm. He
tastes so good. He smells so good. Intoxicating. I kiss first one, then two of
his small round scars, and he grasps my hips, so my fingers halt on his chest
as I gaze down at him. His breathing is harsh.
“You want this? Here?” he breathes, his eyes hooded with a heady
combination of love and lust.
“Yes,” I murmur, and my lips and tongue graze across his chest to his nipple. I
pull and roll it gently with my teeth.
“Oh, Ana,” he whispers and circling my waist he lifts me, tugging at his button
and fly so he springs free. He sits me down again, and I push against him,
delighting in the feel of him hot and hard beneath me. He runs his hands up
my thighs, pausing where my thigh-highs stop and my flesh begins, his hands
running small teasing circles at the top of my thighs so that the tips of his
thumbs touch me . . . touch me where I want to be touched. I gasp.
“I hope you’re not attached to your underwear,” he murmurs, his eyes wild
and bright. His fingers trace the elastic along my belly then slide inside,
teasing me, before grabbing my panties tightly and pushing his thumbs
through the delicate material. My panties disintegrate. His hands splay out on
my thighs, and his thumbs brush against my sex once more. He flexes his
hips so his erection rubs against me.
“I can feel how wet you are.” His voice is tinged with carnal appreciation, and
he suddenly sits up, his arm around my waist again, so we’re nose to nose.
He rubs his nose against mine.
“We’re going to take this slow, Mrs. Grey. I want to feel all of you.”
He lifts me, and with exquisite, frustrating, slow ease, lowers me onto him. I
feel each blessed inch of him fill me.
“Ah—” I moan incoherently as I reach out to clasp his arms. I try to lift myself
off him for some welcome friction, but he holds me in place.
“All of me,” he whispers, and tilts his pelvis, pushing himself into me all the
way. I throw my head back and let out a strangled cry of pure pleasure.
“Let me hear you,” he murmurs. “No—don’t move, just feel.”
I open my eyes, my mouth frozen in a silent Ah! And he’s gazing at me,
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hips, but holds me in place.
I groan. His lips are at my throat, kissing me.
“This is my favorite place. Buried in you,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Please, move,” I plead.
“Slow, Mrs. Grey.” He flexes his hips again and pleasure radiates through
me. I cup his face and kiss him, consuming him.
“Love me. Please, Christian.”
His teeth skim my jaw up to my ear. “Go,” he whispers, and he lifts me up and
down. My inner goddess is unleashed, and I push him down on the ground
and start to move, savoring the feeling of him inside me . . . riding him . . .
riding him hard. With his hands around my waist he matches my rhythm. I
have missed this . . . the heady feeling of him beneath me, inside me . . . the
sun on my back, the sweet smell of fall in the air, the gentle autumnal breeze.
It’s a heady fusion of senses: touch, taste, smell, and the sight of my beloved
husband beneath me.
“Oh, Ana,” he groans. Eyes closed, head back, mouth open. Ah . . . I love
this. And inside, I’m building . . . building . . . climbing . . . higher. Christian’s
hands move to my thighs, and delicately his thumbs press at their apex, and I
explode around him over and over and over and over, and I collapse,
sprawled on his chest as he cries out in turn, letting go and calling out my
name with love and joy.
He cuddles me against his chest, cradling my head. Hmm. Closing my eyes,
I savor the feel of his arms around me. My hand is on his chest, feeling the
steady beat of his heart as it slows and calms. I kiss and nuzzle him, and
marvel briefly that not long ago he would not have let me do this.
“Better?” he whispers. I raise my head. He’s grinning broadly.
“Much. You?” My answering grin reflects his.
“I’ve missed you, Mrs. Grey.” He’s serious for a moment.
“Me, too.”
“No more heroics, eh?”
“No,” I promise.
“You should always talk to me,” he whispers.
“Back at you, Grey.”
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He smirks. “Fair point well made. I’ll try.” He kisses my hair.
“I think we’re going to be happy here,” I whisper, closing my eyes again.
“Yep. You, me and . . . Blip. How do you feel, incidentally?”
“Fine. Relaxed. Happy.”
“Good.”
“You?”
“Yeah, all those things,” he murmurs.
I look up at him, trying to gauge his expression.
“What?” he asks.
“You know, you’re very bossy when we have sex.”
“Are you complaining?”
“No. I’m just wondering . . . you said you missed it.”
He stills, gazing at me. “Sometimes,” he whispers.
Oh. “Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that,” I murmur and kiss
him lightly on his lips, curling around him like a vine. Images of us together, in
the playroom; the Tallis, the table, on the cross, shackled to the bed . . . I love
his kinky **ery—our kinky **ery. Yes. I can do that stuff. I can do that for
him, with him. I can do that for me. My skin tingles as I remember the riding
crop.
“I like to play, too,” I murmur, and glancing up, I’m treated to his shy smile.
“You know, I’d really like to test your limits,” he whispers.
“My limits for what?”
“Pleasure.”
“Oh, I think I’d like that.” My inner goddess drops into a dead faint.
“Well, maybe when we get home,” he whispers, leaving that promise hanging
between us.
I nuzzle him once more. I love him so.
~o0o~
It’s been two days since our picnic. Two days since the promise of well,
maybe when we get home was made. Christian is still treating me like I’m
made of glass. He still won’t let me go to work, so I have been working from
home. I put the stack of query letters I’ve been reading aside on my desk and
sigh. Christian and I haven’t been back in the 490 | P a g e
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playroom since I safe worded. And he’s said he misses it. Well, so do I . . .
especially now that he wants to explore my limits. I flush, thinking what that
could possibly entail. I glance at the billiard table . . . Yes I can’t wait to
explore those.
My thoughts are interrupted by soft, lyrical music that fills the apartment.
Christian is playing the piano; not one of his usual laments but a sweet
melody, a hopeful melody—one that I recognize, but have never heard him
play.
I tiptoe to the archway of the great room and watch Christian at the piano. It’s
dusk. The sky is an opulent pink, and the light is reflected off his burnished
copper hair. He looks his beautiful breathtaking self, concentrating as he
plays, unaware of my presence. He’s been so forthcoming over the last few
days, so attentive—offering small insights into his day, his thoughts, his
plans. It’s as if he’s breached a dam and started talking.
I know he’ll come to check on me in a few minutes, and it gives me an idea.
Excited, I steal away, hoping that he still hasn’t noticed me, and race to our
room, stripping off my clothes as I go, until I’m wearing nothing but pale blue
lace panties. I find a pale blue camisole and slip into it quickly. It will hide my
bruise. ping into the closet, I pull out Christian’s faded jeans—his playroom
jeans, my favorite jeans—from the drawer. From my bedside table I pick up
my BlackBerry, fold the jeans neatly, and kneel by the bedroom door. The
door is ajar, and I can hear the strains of another piece, one I don’t know. But
it’s another hopeful tune; it’s lovely. Quickly I type an email.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: My Husband’s Pleasure
Date: September 21, 2011 20:45
To: Christian Grey
Sir
I await your instructions.
Yours always
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Mrs. G x
I press send.
A few moments later the music stops abruptly. My heart lurches and starts
pounding. I wait and wait and eventually my BlackBerry buzzes.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: My Husband’s Pleasure <---love this title baby Date: September
21, 2011 20:48
To: Anastasia Grey
Mrs. G
I’m intrigued. I’l come find you.
Be ready.
Christian Grey
Anticipative CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Be ready! My heart starts to pound and I begin to count. Thirtyseven seconds
later the door opens. I’m looking down at his bare feet as they pause on the
threshold. Hmm. He says nothing. For ages he says nothing. Oh **. I resist
the urge to look up at him and keep my eyes downcast.
Finally, he reaches down and picks up his jeans. He stays silent but heads
into the walk-in closet while I remain stock-still. Oh my . . . this is it. My heart
is thundering, and I relish the rush of adrenaline that spikes through my body.
I squirm as my excitement builds. What will he do to me? A few moments
later he’s back, wearing the jeans.
“So you want to play?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
He says nothing, and I risk a quick glance . . . up his jeans, his denim clad
thighs, the soft bulge at his fly, the open button at the waist, his happy trail, his
navel, his chiseled abdomen, his chest hair, his gray eyes blazing, and his
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eyebrow. Oh **.
“Yes what?” he whispers.
Oh.
“Yes, Sir.”
His eyes soften. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and he caresses my head.
“I think we’d better get you upstairs now,” he adds. My insides liquefy, and my
belly clenches in that delicious way.
He takes my hand and I follow him through the apartment and up the stairs.
Outside the playroom door, he halts and bends and kisses me gently before
grasping my hair hard.
“You know, you’re topping from the bottom,” he murmurs against my lips.
“What?” I don’t understand what he’s talking about.
“Don’t worry. I’ll live with it,” he whispers, amused, and he runs his nose along
my jaw and gently bites my ear. “Once inside, kneel, like I’ve shown you.”
“Yes . . . Sir.”
He gazes down at me, eyes shining with love, wonder, and wicked thoughts.
Jeez . . . Life is never going to be boring with Christian, and I’m in this for the
long haul. I love this man: my husband, my lover, father of my child, my
sometimes Dominant . . . my Fifty Shades.
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Epilogue
The Big House, May 2014
I lie on our tartan picnic blanket and gaze up at the clear, blue, summer sky,
my view framed by meadow flowers and tall green grasses. The heat of the
afternoon summer sun warms my skin, my bones and my belly, and I relax,
my body turning to Jell-O. This is comfortable. Hell no . . . this is wonderful. I
savor the moment, a moment of peace, a moment of pure and utter
contentment. I should feel guilty for feeling this joy, this completeness, but I
don’t. Life right here right now is good, and I’ve learned to appreciate it and
live in the moment like my husband. I smile and squirm as my mind drifts to
the delicious memory of last night at our home in Escala . . .
~o0o~
The strands of the flogger skim across my swollen belly at an aching,
languorous pace.
“Have you had enough yet, Ana?” Christian whispers in my ear.
“Oh, please.” I beg, pulling on the restraints above my head as I stand
blindfolded and tethered to the grid in the playroom. The flogger’s sweet
sting bites into my behind.
“Please what?”
I gasp. “Please, Sir.”
Christian places his hand over my ringing skin and rubs gently.
“There. There. There.” His words are soft. His hand moves south and around,
and his fingers slide inside me.
I groan.
I groan.
“Mrs. Grey,” he breathes, and his teeth pull at my earlobe. “You’re so ready.”
His fingers slide in and out of me, hitting that spot, that sweet, sweet spot
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my belly and up to my breasts. I tense. They are sensitive.
“Hush,” Christian says, cupping one, and he gently brushes his thumb over
my nipple.
“Ah.”
His fingers are gentle and enticing, and pleasure spirals out from my breast,
down, down . . . deep down. I tilt my head back, pushing my nipple into his
palm, and moan once more.
“I like to hear you,” Christian whispers. His erection is at my hip, the buttons
of his fly pressing into my flesh as his fingers continue their relentless assault:
in, out, in, out—keeping a rhythm. “Shall I make you come like this?” he asks.
“No.”
His fingers stop moving inside me.
“Really, Mrs. Grey? Is it up to you?” His fingers tighten around my nipple.
“No . . . No, Sir.”
“That’s better.”
“Ah. Please,” I beg.
“What do you want, Anastasia?”
“You. Always.”
He inhales sharply.
“All of you,” I add, breathless.
He eases his fingers out of me, pulls me around to face him, and removes
the blindfold. I blink up into darkening gray eyes that burn into mine. His index
fingers trace my bottom lip, and he pushes his index and middle fingers into
my mouth, letting me taste the salty tang of my arousal.
“Suck,” he whispers. I swirl my tongue around and between his fingers.
Hmm . . . even I taste good on his fingers.
His hands skim up my arms to the cuffs above my head, and he unclips them,
freeing me. Turning me around so I’m facing the wall, he tugs on my braid,
pulling me into his arms. He angles my head to one side and skims his lips
up my throat to my ear while holding me flush against him.
“I want in your mouth.” His voice is soft and seductive. My body, ripe and
ready, clenches deep inside. The pleasure is sweet and sharp. 495 | P a g e
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I moan. Turning to face him, I pull his head down to mine and kiss him hard,
my tongue invading his mouth, tasting and savoring him. He groans, places
his hands on my behind and tugs me against him, but only my pregnant belly
touches him. I bite his jaw and trail kisses down his throat and run my fingers
down to his jeans. He tilts his head back, exposing more of his throat to me,
and I run my tongue down to his chest and through his chest hair.
“Ah.”
I tug the waistband of his jeans, the buttons popping, and he grasps my
shoulders as I sink to my knees in front of him. As I gaze up at him through
my lashes, he stares down at me. His eyes are dark, his lips parted, and he
inhales deeply when I free him and ensnare him with my mouth. I love doing
this to Christian. Watching him come apart, hearing his breath hitch, and the
soft moans he makes deep in his throat. I close my eyes and suck hard,
pressing down on him, relishing his taste and his breathless gasp. He
grasps my head, stilling me, and I sheath my teeth with my lips and push him
deeper into my mouth.
“Open your eyes and look at me,” he orders, his voice low. Blazing eyes
meet mine and he flexes his hips, filling my mouth to the back of my throat
then withdrawing quickly. He pushes into me again and I reach up to grab
him. He stops and holds me in place.
“Don’t touch or I’ll cuff you again. I just want your mouth,” he growls.
Oh my. Like that is it? I put my hands behind my back and gaze up at him
innocently, his cock in my mouth.
“Good girl,” he says, smirking down at me, his voice hoarse. He eases back,
and holding me gently but firmly, he pushes into me again.
“You have such a **able mouth, Mrs. Grey.” He closes his eyes and eases
into my mouth as I squeeze him between my lips, running my tongue over and
around him. I take him deeper and withdraw, again and again and again, the
air hissing between his teeth.
“Ah! Stop,” he says, and he pulls out of me, leaving me wanting more. He
grasps my shoulders and pulls me to my feet. Grabbing my braid, he kisses
me hard, his persistent tongue greedy and giving at once. Suddenly he
releases me, and before I know it, he’s lifted me into his arms and moved
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so that my behind is just on the edge of the bed.
“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he orders. I do as I’m bid and pull him
toward me. He leans down, hands either side of my head, and still standing,
very slowly eases himself into me.
Oh, that feels so good. I close my eyes and revel in his slow possession.
“Okay?” he asks, his concern evident in his tone.
“Oh, God, Christian. Yes. Yes. Please.” I tighten my legs around him and
push against him. He groans. I clasp his arms, and he flexes his hips slowly
at first, in, out.
“Christian, please. Harder—I won’t break.”
He groans and starts to move, really move, pounding into me again and
again. Oh, it’s heavenly.
“Yes,” I gasp, tightening my hold on him as I start to build . . . He moans,
grinding into me with renewed determination . . . and I’m close. Oh, please.
Don’t stop.
“Come on, Ana,” he groans through gritted teeth, and I explode around him,
my orgasm going on and on and on. I call out his name and Christian stills,
groaning loudly, as he climaxes inside me.
“Ana,” he cries.
Christian lies beside me, his hand caressing my belly, his long fingers
splayed out wide.
“How’s my daughter?”
“She’s dancing.” I laugh.
“Dancing? Oh yes! Wow. I can feel her.” He grins as Blip Two somersaults
inside me.
“I think she likes sex already.”
Christian frowns. “Really?” he says dryly. He moves so his lips are against
my bump. “There’ll be none of that until you’re thirty, young lady.”
I giggle. “Oh, Christian, you are such a hypocrite.”
“No, I’m an anxious father.” He gazes up at me, his brow furrowed betraying
his anxiety.
“You’re a wonderful father, as I knew you would be.” I caress his lovely face,
and he gives me his shy smile.
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“I like this,” he murmurs stroking then kissing my belly. “There’s more of you.”
I pout. “I don’t like more of me.”
“It’s great when you come.”
“Christian!”
“And I’m looking forward to the taste of breast milk again.”
“Christian! You are such a kinky—”
He swoops on me suddenly, kissing me hard, throwing his leg over mine,
and grabbing my hands so they are above my head. “You love the kinky
**ery,” he whispers, and he runs his nose down mine. I grin, caught in his
infectious, wicked smile. “Yes, I love the kinky **ery. And I love you. Very
much.”
~o0o~
I jerk awake, woken by a high-pitched squeal of delight from my son, and
even though I can’t see him or Christian, I grin like an idiot with my glee. Ted
has woken from his nap, and he and Christian are romping nearby. I lie
quietly, still marveling at Christian’s capacity for play. His patience with
Teddy is extraordinary—much more so than with me. I snort. But then, that’s
how it should be. And my beautiful little boy, the apple of his mother and
father’s eyes, knows no fear. Christian, on the other hand, is still far too
overprotective—of both of us. My sweet, mercurial, controlling Fifty.
“Let’s find Mommy. She’s here in the meadow somewhere.”
Ted says something I don’t hear, and Christian laughs freely, happily. It’s a
magical sound, filled with his paternal joy. I can’t resist. I struggle up onto my
elbows to spy on them from my hiding place in the long grass.
Christian is swinging Ted around and around, making him squeal once more
in delight. He stops, launches him high into the air––I stop breathing––then
he catches him. Ted shrieks with childish abandon and I breathe a sigh of
relief. Oh my little man, my darling little man, always on the go.
“‘Gain, Daddy!” he squeals. Christian obliges, and my heart leaps into my
mouth once more as he tosses Teddy into the air then catches him again,
clutching him close. Christian kisses Ted’s copper-colored 498 | P a g e
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hair, and blows a kiss on his cheek. Teddy is oblivious. He squirms, pushing
Christian’s chest and wanting out of his arms. Grinning, Christian sets him on
the ground.
“Let’s find Mommy. She’s hiding in the grass.”
Ted beams, enjoying the game, and looks around the meadow. Grasping
Christian’s hand, he points to somewhere I’m not, and it makes me giggle. I
lie back down quickly, delighting in this game.
“Ted, I heard Mommy. Did you hear her?”
“Mommy! ”
I giggle-snort at Ted’s imperious tone. Jeez—so like his dad, and he’s only
two.
“Teddy!” I call back, gazing up the sky with a ridiculous grin on my face.
“Mommy!”
All too soon I hear their footsteps trampling through the meadow, and first
Ted then Christian bursts through the long grass.
“Mommy!” Ted screeches as if he’s found the lost treasure of the Sierra
Madre and he leaps onto me.
“Hey, baby boy!” I cradle him against me and kiss his chubby cheek. He
giggles and kisses me in return, then struggles out of my arms.
“Hello, Mommy.” Christian smiles down at me.
“Hello, Daddy.” I grin up at him. He leans down, picks Ted up, and sits down
beside me with our son in his lap.
“Gently with Mommy,” he admonishes Ted. I smirk—the irony is not lost on
me. From his pocket, Christian produces his BlackBerry and gives it to Ted.
This will probably win us five minutes’ peace, maximum. Teddy studies it, his
little brow furrowed. He looks so serious, blue eyes concentrating hard, just
like his daddy does when he reads his e-mails. Christian nuzzles Ted’s hair,
and my heart swells to look at them both. Two peas in a pod: my son sitting
quietly—for a few moments at least—in my husband’s lap. My two favorite
men in the whole world.
Of course, Ted is the most beautiful and talented child on the pl, but then
I am his mother so I would think that. And Christian is . . . well, Christian is just
himself. In white T-shirt and jeans, he looks as hot as usual. What did I do to
win such a prize?
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“You look well, Mrs. Grey.”
“As do you, Mr. Grey.”
“Isn’t Mommy pretty?” Christian whispers in Ted’s ear. Ted swats him away,
more interested in Daddy’s BlackBerry.
I giggle. “You can’t get around him.”
“I know.” Christian grins and kisses Ted’s hair. “I can’t believe he’ll be two
tomorrow.” His tone is wistful. Reaching across, he spreads his hand over
my bump. “Let’s have lots of children,” he says.
“One more at least.” I grin, and he caresses my belly.
“How is my daughter?”
“She’s good. Asleep, I think.”
“Hello, Mr. Grey. Hi, Ana.”
We both turn to see Sophie, Taylor’s ten-year-old daughter, appear out of the
long grass.
“Soeee,” Ted squeals with delighted recognition. He struggles out of
Christian’s lap, discarding the BlackBerry.
“I have some popsicles from Gail,” Sophie says. “Can I give one to Ted?”
“Sure.” I say. Oh dear, this is going to be messy.
“Pop!” Ted holds out his hands and Sophie passes one to him. It’s dripping
already.
“Here—let Mommy see.” I sit up, take the popsicle from Ted, and quickly slip
it into my mouth, licking off the excess juice. Hmm . . . cranberry, cool and
delicious.
“Mine!” Ted protests, his voice ringing with indignation.
“Here you go.” I hand him back a slightly less runny popsicle, and it goes
straight into his mouth. He grins at me.
“Can Ted and I go for a walk?” Sophie asks.
“Sure.”
“Don’t go too far,” Christian adds.
“No, Mr. Grey.” Sophie’s hazel eyes are wide and serious. I think she’s a little
frightened of Christian. She holds her hand out, and Teddy takes it willingly.
They trudge away together through the long grass. Christian watches them.
“They’ll be fine, Christian. What harm could come to them here?”
He frowns at me momentarily, and I crawl over and into his lap.
“Besides, Ted is completely smitten with Sophie.”
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Christian snorts and nuzzles my hair. “She’s a delightful child.”
“She is. So pretty, too. A blonde angel.”
Christian stills and places his hands on my belly. “Girls, eh?”
There’s a hint of trepidation in his voice. I curl my hand behind his head.
“You don’t have to worry about your daughter for at least another three
months. I have her covered here. Okay?”
He kisses me behind my ear and scrapes his teeth around the edge to the
lobe.
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Grey.” Then he bites me. I yelp.
“I enjoyed last night,” he says. “We should do that more often.”
“Me, too.”
“And we could, if you stopped working . . .”
I roll my eyes and he tightens his arms around me and grins into my neck.
“Are you rolling your eyes at me Mrs. Grey?” His threat is implicit but sensual,
making me squirm, but as we’re in the middle of the meadow with the kids
nearby . . . I ignore his invitation.
“Grey Publishing has an author in the New York Times bestsellers—
Boyce Fox’s sales are phenomenal, the e-book side of our business has
exploded, and I finally have the team I want around me.”
“And you’re making money in these difficult times,” Christian adds, his voice
reflecting his pride. “But . . . I like you barefoot and pregnant and in my
reflecting his pride. “But . . . I like you barefoot and pregnant and in my
kitchen.”
I lean back so I can see his face. He gazes down at me, eyes bright.
“I like that, too,” I murmur. Leaning down, he kisses me, his hands still spread
across my bump.
Seeing he’s in a good mood, I decide to broach a delicate subject.
“Have you thought any more about my suggestion?” I ask. He stills. “Ana, the
answer is no.”
“But Ella is such a lovely name.”
“I am not calling my daughter after my mother. No. End of discussion.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Grasping my chin, he gazes earnestly down at me, radiating
exasperation. “Ana, give it up. I don’t want my daughter tainted by my past.”
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“Okay. I’m sorry.” Shit . . . I don’t want to anger him.
“That’s better. Stop trying to fix it,” he mutters. “You got me to admit I loved
her, you dragged me to her grave. Enough.”
Oh no. I twist in his lap to straddle him and grasp his head in my hands.
“I’m sorry. Really. Don’t be angry with me, please.” Leaning forward, I kiss
him. Then kiss the corner of his mouth. After a beat, he points to the other
corner, and I smile and kiss it. He points to his nose. I kiss that. He grins and
places his hands on my backside.
“Oh, Mrs. Grey—what am I going to do with you?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I murmur. He grins and, twisting suddenly,
he pushes me down onto the blanket.
“How about I do it now?” he whispers with a salacious smile.
“Christian!” I gasp.
Suddenly there’s a high-pitched cry from Ted. Christian leaps to his feet with
a panther’s easy grace and races toward the source of the sound. I follow at
a more leisurely pace. Secretly, I’m not as concerned as Christian—it was
not a cry that would make me take the stairs two at a time to find out what’s
wrong.
Christian swings Teddy up into his arms. Our little boy is crying inconsolably
and pointing to the ground, where the remains of his popsicle lie in a soggy
mess, melting into the grass.
“He dropped it.” Sophie says, sadly. “He could have had mine, but I’ve
finished it.”
“Oh, Sophie darling, don’t worry.” I stroke her hair.
“Mommy!” Ted wails, holding his hands out to me. Christian reluctantly lets
him go as I reach for him.
“There, there.”
“Pop,” he sobs.
“I know, baby boy. We’ll go see Mrs. Taylor and get another one.” I kiss his
head . . . oh, he smells so good. He smells of my baby boy.
“Pop,” he sniffs. I take his hand and kiss his sticky fingers.
“I can taste your popsicle here on your fingers.”
Ted stops crying and examines his hand.
“Put your fingers in your mouth.”
He does.
“Pop!”
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“Yes. Popsicle.”
He grins at me. My mercurial little boy, just like his dad. Well, at least he has
an excuse—he’s only two.
“Shall we go see Mrs. Taylor?” He nods, smiling his beautiful baby smile.
“Will you let Daddy carry you?” He shakes his head and wraps his arms
around my neck, hugging me tightly, his face pressed against my throat.
“I think Daddy wants to taste popsicle, too,” I whisper in Ted’s little ear. Ted
frowns at me, then looks at his hand and holds it out to Christian. Christian
smiles and puts Ted’s fingers in his mouth.
“Hmm . . . tasty.”
Ted giggles and reaches up, wanting Christian to hold him. Christian grins at
me and takes Ted in his arms, settling him on his hip.
“Sophie, where’s Gail?”
“She was in the big house.”
I glance at Christian. His smile has turned bittersweet, and I wonder what
he’s thinking.
“You’re so good with him,” he murmurs.
“This little one?” I ruffle Ted’s hair. “It’s only because I have the measure of
you Grey men.” I smirk at my husband.
He laughs. “Yes, you do, Mrs. Grey.”
Teddy squirms out of Christian’s hold. Now he wants to walk, my stubborn
little man. I take one of his hands, and his dad takes the other, and together
we swing Teddy between us all the way back to the house, Sophie skipping
along in front of us.
I wave to Taylor who, on a rare day-off, is outside the garage, dressed in
jeans and a wife-beater, as he tinkers with an old motorbike.
~o0o~
I pause outside the door to Ted’s room and listen as Christian reads to Ted.
“I am the Lorax! I speak for the trees . . .”2??
When I peek in, Teddy is fast asleep while Christian continues to read. He
glances up when I open the door and closes the book. He puts his finger to
his lips, and switches on the baby monitor beside Ted’s 2 Dr. Seuss. The
Lorax. New York: Random House, 1971. 503 | P a g e
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crib. Leaning over the crib, he adjusts Ted’s bedclothes, strokes his cheek,
then straightens up, and tiptoes over to me without making a sound. It’s hard
not to giggle at him.
Out in the hallway, Christian pulls me into his embrace.
“God, I love him, but it’s great when he’s asleep,” he murmurs against my
lips.
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
He gazes down at me, eyes soft. “I can hardly believe he’s been with us for
two years.”
“I know.” I kiss him, and for a moment, I’m transported back to Teddy’s birth:
the emergency caesarian, Christian’s crippling anxiety, Dr. Greene’s nononsense
calm when my Little Blip was in distress. I shudder inwardly at the
memory.
~o0o~
“Mrs. Grey, you’ve been in labor for fifteen hours now. Your contractions have
slowed in spite of the Pitocin. We need to do a Csection—the baby is in
distress.” Dr. Greene is adamant.
“About **ing time!” Christian growls at her. Dr. Greene ignores him.
“Christian, quiet.” I squeeze his hand. My voice is low and weak and
everything is fuzzy—the walls, the machines, the green-gowned people . . . I
just want to go to sleep. But I have something important to do first . . . Oh yes.
“I wanted to push him out myself.”
“Mrs. Grey, please. C-section.”
“Please, Ana,” Christian pleads.
“Can I sleep then?”
“Yes, baby, yes.” It’s almost a sob, and Christian kisses my forehead.
“I want to see the Lil’ Blip.”
“You will.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Finally,” Dr. Greene mutters. “Nurse, page the anesthesiologist. Dr. Miller,
prep for a C-section. Mrs. Grey, we are going to move you to the OR.”
“Move?” Christian and I speak at once.
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“Yes. Now.”
And suddenly we’re moving . . . quickly, the lights on the ceiling blurring into
one long bright strip as I’m whisked across the corridor.
“Mr. Grey, you’ll need to change into scrubs.”
“What?”
“Now, Mr. Grey.”
He squeezes my hand and releases me.
“Christian,” I call, panic setting in.
We are through another set of doors, and in no time a nurse is setting up a
screen across my chest . . . The door opens and closes, and there’s so many
people in the room. It’s so loud . . . I want to go home.
“Christian?” I search the faces in the room for my husband.
“He’ll be with you in a moment, Mrs. Grey.”
A moment later, he’s beside me, in blue scrubs. I reach for his hand.
“I’m frightened,” I whisper.
“No, baby, no. I’m here. Don’t be frightened. Not my strong Ana.”
He kisses my forehead, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that
something’s wrong.
“What is it?”
“What?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Baby, you’re just exhausted.”
His eyes burn with fear.
“Mrs. Grey, the anesthesiologist is here. He’s going to adjust your epidural
and then we can proceed.”
“She’s having another contraction.”
Everything tightens like a steel band around my belly. Shit! I crush Christian’s
hand as I ride it out. This is what’s tiring—enduring this pain. I am so tired. I
can feel the numbing liquid spread . . . spread down. I concentrate on
Christian’s face. On the furrow between his brows. He’s tense. He’s worried.
Why is he worried?
“Can you feel this, Mrs. Grey?” Dr. Greene’s disembodied voice is coming
from behind the curtain.
“Feel what?”
“You can’t feel it.”
“No.”
“Good. Dr. Miller, let’s go.”
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“You’re doing well, Ana.”
Christian is pale. There is sweat on his brow. He’s scared. Don’t be scared,
Christian. Don’t be scared.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“Oh Ana,” he sobs. “I love you, too, so much.”
I feel a strange pulling deep inside. Like nothing I’ve felt before. Christian
looks over the screen and blanches, but stares, fascinated.
“What’s happening?”
“Suction! Good . . .”
Suddenly, there’s a piercing angry cry.
“You have a boy, Mrs. Grey. Check his Apgar.”
“Apgar is nine.”
“Can I see him?” I gasp.
Christian disappears from view for a second and reappears a moment later,
holding my son, swathed in blue. His face is pink, and covered in white mush
and blood. My baby. My Blip . . . Theodore Raymond Grey.
When I glance at Christian, he has tears in his eyes.
“Here’s your son, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers, his voice strained and hoarse.
“Our son,” I breathe. “He’s beautiful.”
“He is,” Christian says and plants a kiss on our beautiful boy’s forehead
beneath a shock of dark hair. Theodore Raymond Grey is oblivious. Eyes
closed, his earlier crying forgotten, he’s asleep. He is the most beautiful sight
I have ever seen. So beautiful, I begin to weep.
“Thank you, Ana,” Christian whispers, and there are tears in his eyes too.
“What is it?” Christian tilts my chin back.
“I was just remembering Ted’s birth.”
Christian blanches and cups my belly.
“I am not going through that again. Elective caesarian this time.”
“Christian, I—”
“No, Ana. You nearly **ing died last time. No.”
“I did not nearly die.”
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down at me, his eyes soften. “I like the name Phoebe,” he whispers, and runs
his nose down mine.
“Phoebe Grey? Phoebe . . . Yes. I like that, too.” I grin up at him.
“Good. I want to set up Ted’s present.” He takes my hand, and we head
downstairs. His excitement radiates off him; Christian has been waiting for
this moment all day.
“Do you think he’ll like it?” His apprehensive gaze meets mine.
“He’ll love it. For about two minutes. Christian, he’s only two.”
Christian has finished setting up the wooden train set he bought Teddy for
his birthday. He’s had Barney at the office convert two of the little engines to
run on solar power like the helicopter I gave Christian a few years ago.
Christian seems anxious for the sun to rise. I suspect that’s because he
wants to play with the train set himself. The layout covers most of the stone
floor of our outdoor room. Tomorrow we will have a family party for Ted. Ray
and José will be coming and all the Grey’s, including Ted’s new cousin Ava,
Kate and Elliot’s two-month-old daughter. I look forward to catching up with
Kate and seeing how motherhood is agreeing with her. I gaze up at the view
as the sun sinks behind the Olympic Peninsula. It’s everything Christian
promised it would be, and I get the same joyful thrill seeing it now as I did the
first time. It’s simply stunning: twilight over the Sound. Christian pulls me into
his arms.
“It’s quite a view.”
“It is,” Christian answers, and when I turn to look at him, he’s gazing down at
me. He leans down and plants a soft kiss on my lips.
“It’s a beautiful view,” he murmurs. “My favorite.”
“It’s home.”
He grins and kisses me again. “I love you, Mrs. Grey.”
“I love you, too, Christian. Always.”
The End
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