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五十度灰英文版 - Part II 5
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  I shudder. What a legacy. I can’t wrap my head
  around it.
  I scroll through the extensive list. I want something
  upbeat. Hmm, Beyoncé—doesn’t sound like Christian’s
  taste. Crazy in Love. Oh yes! How apt. I hit the repeat
  button and put it on loud.
  I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the
  I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the
  fridge, and take out the eggs. I crack them open and begin
  to whisk, dancing the whole time.
  Raiding the fridge once more, I gather potatoes, ham,
  and—Yes!—peas from the freezer. All of these will do.
  Finding a pan, I place it on the stove, put in a little olive oil,
  and go back to whisking.
  No empathy, I muse. Is this unique to Christian?
  Maybe all men are like this, baffled by women. I just don’t
  know. Perhaps it’s not such a revelation.
  I wish Kate were home; she would know. She’s been
  in Barbados far too long. She should be back at the end of
  the week after her additional vacation with Elliot. I wonder
  if it’s still lust at first sight for them.
  One of the things I love about you.
  I stop whisking. He said it. Does that mean there are
  other things? I smile for the first time since seeing Mrs.
  Robinson—a genuine, heartfelt, face-splitting smile.
  Christian slips his arms around me, making me jump.
  “Interesting choice of music,” he purrs as he kisses me
  below my ear. “Your hair smells good.” He nuzzles my
  hair and inhales deeply.
  Desire uncurls in my belly. No. I shrug out of his
  embrace.
  “I’m still mad at you.”
  He frowns. “How long are you going to keep this up?”
  he asks, dragging a hand through his hair.
  I shrug. “At least until I’ve eaten.”
  His lips twitch with amusement. Turning, he picks up
  the remote control from the counter and switches off the
  music.
  “Did you put that on your iPod?” I ask.
  He shakes his head, his expression somber, and I
  know it was her—Ghost Girl.
  “Don’t you think she was trying to tell you something
  back then?”
  “Well, with hindsight, probably,” he says quietly.
  QED. No empathy. My subconscious folds her arms
  and smacks her lips in disgust.
  “Why’s it still on there?”
  “Why’s it still on there?”
  “I quite like the song. But if it offends you I’ll remove
  it.”
  “No, it’s fine. I like to cook to music.”
  “What would you like to hear?”
  “Surprise me.”
  He smirks at me and heads over to the iPod dock
  while I go back to my whisking.
  Moments later the heavenly sweet, soulful voice of
  Nina Simone fills the room. It’s one of Ray’s favorites: “I
  Put a Spell on You.”
  I flush, turning to gape at Christian. What is he trying to
  tell me? He put a spell on me a long time ago. Oh my . . .
  his look has changed, the levity gone, his eyes darker,
  intense.
  I watch him, enthralled as slowly, like the predator he
  is, he stalks me in time to the slow sultry beat of the music.
  He’s barefoot, wearing just an untucked white shirt, jeans,
  and a smoldering look.
  Nina sings, “you’re mine” as Christian reaches me, his
  Nina sings, “you’re mine” as Christian reaches me, his
  intention clear.
  “Christian, please,” I whisper, the whisk redundant in
  my hand.
  “Please what?”
  “Don’t do this.”
  “Do what?”
  “This.”
  He’s standing in front of me, gazing down at me.
  “Are you sure?” he breathes and reaching over, he
  takes the whisk from my hand and places it back in the
  bowl with the eggs. My heart is in my mouth. I don’t want
  this—I do want this—badly.
  He’s so frustrating. He’s so hot and desirable. I tear
  my gaze away from his spellbinding look.
  “I want you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “I love and I
  hate, and I love arguing with you. It’s very new. I need to
  know that we’re okay. It’s the only way I know how.”
  “My feelings for you haven’t changed,” I whisper.
  His proximity is overwhelming, exhilarating. The
  familiar pull is there, all my synapses goading me toward
  him, my inner goddess at her most libidinous. Staring at the
  patch of hair in the V of his shirt, I bite my lip, helpless,
  driven by desire—I want to taste him there.
  He’s so close, but he doesn’t touch me. His heat is
  warming my skin.
  “I’m not going to touch you until you say yes,” he says
  softly. “But right now, after a really shitty morning, I want
  to bury myself in you and just forget everything but us.”
  Oh my . . . Us. A magical combination, a small potent
  pronoun that clinches the deal. I raise my head to stare at
  his beautiful yet serious face.
  “I’m going to touch your face,” I breathe, and see his
  surprise reflected briefly in his eyes before his acceptance
  registers.
  Lifting my hand, I caress his cheek, and run my
  fingertips across his stubble. He closes his eyes and
  exhales, leaning his face into my touch.
  He leans down slowly, and my lips automatically lift to
  meet his. He hovers over me.
  meet his. He hovers over me.
  “Yes or no, Anastasia?” he whispers.
  “Yes.”
  His mouth softly closes on mine, coaxing, coercing my
  lips apart as his arms fold around me, pulling me to him.
  His hand moves up my back, fingers tangling in the hair at
  the back of my head and tugging gently, while his other
  hand flattens on my behind, forcing me against him. I moan
  softly.
  “Mr. Grey.” Taylor coughs, and Christian releases me
  immediately.
  “Taylor,” he says, his voice frigid.
  I whirl round to see an uncomfortable Taylor standing
  on the threshold of the great room. Christian and Taylor
  stare at each other, some unspoken communication
  passing between them.
  “My study,” Christian snaps, and Taylor walks briskly
  across the room.
  “Rain check,” Christian whispers to me before
  following Taylor out of the room.
  following Taylor out of the room.
  I take a deep, steadying breath. Holy hell. Can I not
  resist him for one minute? I shake my head, disgusted at
  myself, grateful for Taylor’s interruption, embarrassing
  though it is.
  I wonder what Taylor has had to interrupt in the past.
  What’s he seen? I don’t want to think about that. Lunch.
  I’ll make lunch. I busy myself slicing potatoes. What does
  Taylor want? My mind races—is this about Leila?
  Ten minutes later, they emerge, just as the omelet is
  ready. Christian looks preoccupied as he glances at me.
  “I’ll brief them in ten,” he says to Taylor.
  “We’ll be ready,” Taylor answers and leaves the great
  room.
  I produce two warmed plates and place them on the
  kitchen island.
  “Lunch?”
  “Please,” Christian says as he perches on one of the
  bar stools. Now he’s watching me carefully.
  “Problem?”
  “No.”
  I scowl. He’s not telling me. I dish out lunch and sit
  down beside him, resigned to staying in the dark.
  “This is good,” Christian murmurs appreciatively as he
  takes a bite. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
  “No, thank you.” I need to keep a clear head around
  you, Grey.
  It does taste good, even though I’m not that hungry.
  But I eat, knowing Christian will nag if I don’t. Eventually
  Christian disrupts our brooding silence and switches on the
  classical piece I heard earlier.
  “What’s this?” I ask.
  “Canteloube, Songs of the Auvergne. This is called
  ‘Bailero.’ ”
  “It’s lovely. What language is it?”
  “It’s in old French—Occitan, in fact.”
  “You speak French, do you understand it?” Memories
  of the flawless French he spoke at his parents’ dinner
  come to mind . . .
  “Some words, yes.” Christian smiles, visibly relaxing.
  “Some words, yes.” Christian smiles, visibly relaxing.
  “My mother had a mantra: musical instrument, foreign
  language, martial art. Elliot speaks Spanish; Mia and I
  speak French. Elliot plays guitar, I play piano, and Mia the
  cello.”
  “Wow. And the martial arts?”
  “Elliot does Judo. Mia put her foot down at age twelve
  and refused.” He smirks at the memory.
  “I wish my mother had been that organized.”
  “Dr. Grace is formidable when it comes to the
  accomplishments of her children.”
  “She must be very proud of you. I would be.”
  A dark thought flashes across Christian’s face, and he
  looks momentarily uncomfortable. He regards me warily
  as if he’s in uncharted territory.
  “Have you decided what you’ll wear this evening? Or
  do I need to come and pick something for you?” His tone
  is suddenly brusque.
  Whoa! He sounds angry. Why? What have I said?
  “Um . . . not yet. Did you choose all those clothes?”
  “Um . . . not yet. Did you choose all those clothes?”
  “No, Anastasia, I didn’t. I gave a list and your size to a
  personal shopper at Neiman Marcus. They should fit. Just
  so that you know, I have ordered additional security for
  this evening and the next few days. With Leila
  unpredictable and unaccounted for somewhere on the
  streets of Seattle, I think it’s a wise precaution. I don’t
  want you going out unaccompanied. Okay?”
  I blink at him. “Okay.” What happened to I-musthave-
  you-now Grey?
  “Good. I’m going to brief them. I shouldn’t be long.”
  “They’re here?”
  “Yes.”
  Where?
  Collecting his plate, Christian places it in the sink and
  disappears from the room. What the hell was that about?
  He’s like several different people in one body. Isn’t that a
  symptom of schizophrenia? I must Google that.
  I clear my plate, wash up quickly, and head back up to
  my bedroom carrying the ANASTASIA ROSE STEELE
  dossier. Back in the walk-in closet, I pull out the three long
  evening dresses. Now, which one?
  Lying down on the bed, I gaze at my Mac, my iPad, and
  my Blackberry. I am overwhelmed with technology. I set
  about transferring Christian’s playlist from my iPad to the
  Mac, then fire up Google to surf the net.
  I’m lying across the bed looking at my Mac as Christian
  enters.
  “What are you doing?” he inquires softly.
  I panic briefly, wondering if I should let him see the
  website I’m on: Multiple Personality Disorder: The
  Symptoms.
  Stretching out beside me, he eyes the webpage with
  amusement.
  “On this site for a reason?” he asks nonchalantly.
  Brusque Christian has gone—playful Christian is back.
  How the hell am I supposed to keep up with this?
  “Research. Into a difficult personality.” I give him my
  most deadpan look.
  His lips twitch with a suppressed smile. “A difficult
  personality?”
  “My own pet project.”
  “I’m a pet project now? A sideline. Science
  experiment maybe. When I thought I was everything. Miss
  Steele, you wound me.”
  “How do you know it’s you?”
  “Wild guess.” He smirks.
  “It’s true that you are the only fucked-up, mercurial,
  control freak that I know, intimately.”
  “I thought I was the only person you know intimately.”
  He arches a brow.
  I flush. “Yes. That, too.”
  “Have you reached any conclusions yet?”
  I turn and gaze at him. He’s on his side stretched out
  beside me with his head resting on his elbow, his
  beside me with his head resting on his elbow, his
  expression soft, amused.
  “I think you’re in need of intense therapy.”
  He reaches up and gently tucks my hair behind my
  ears.
  “I think I’m in need of you. Here.” He hands me a tube
  of lipstick.
  I frown at him, perplexed. It’s harlot red, not my color
  at all.
  “You want me to wear this?” I squeak.
  He laughs. “No, Anastasia, not unless you want to.
  Not sure it’s your color,” he finishes dryly.
  He sits up on the bed cross-legged and drags his shirt

  off over his head. Oh my. “I like your road map idea.”
  I stare at him blankly. Road map?
  “The no-go areas,” he says by way of explanation.
  “Oh. I was kidding.”
  “I’m not.”
  “You want me to draw on you, with lipstick?”
  “It washes off. Eventually.”
  “It washes off. Eventually.”
  This means I could touch him freely. A small smile of
  wonder plays on my lips, and I smirk at him.
  “What about something more permanent like a
  Sharpie?”
  “I could get a tattoo.” His eyes are alight with humor.
  Christian Grey with a tatt? Marring his lovely body,
  when it’s marked in so many ways already? No way!
  “No to the tattoo!” I laugh to hide my horror.
  “Lipstick, then.” He grins.
  Shutting the Mac, I push it to the side. This could be
  fun.
  “Come.” He holds his hands out to me. “Sit on me.”
  I push my flats off my feet, scramble into a sitting
  position, and crawl over to him. He lies down on the bed
  but keeps his knees flexed.
  “Lean against my legs.”
  I clamber over him and sit astride as instructed. His
  eyes are wide and cautious. But he’s amused, too.
  “You seem—enthusiastic for this,” he comments wryly.
  “I’m always eager for information, Mr. Grey, and it
  means you’ll relax, because I’ll know where the
  boundaries lie.”
  He shakes his head, as if he can’t quite believe that
  he’s about to let me draw all over his body.
  “Open the lipstick,” he orders.
  Oh, he’s in über-bossy mode, but I don’t care.
  “Give me your hand.”
  I give him my other hand.
  “The one with the lipstick.” He rolls his eyes at me.
  “Are you rolling your eyes at me?”
  “Yep.”
  “That’s very rude, Mr. Grey. I know some people
  who get positively violent at eye-rolling.”
  “Do you now?” His tone is ironic.
  I give him my hand with the lipstick, and suddenly he
  sits up so we are nose to nose.
  “Ready?” he asks in a low, soft murmur that makes
  everything tighten and tense inside me. Oh wow.
  “Yes,” I whisper. His proximity is alluring, his toned
  “Yes,” I whisper. His proximity is alluring, his toned
  flesh close, his Christian-smell mixed with my bodywash.
  He guides my hand up to the curve of his shoulder.
  “Press down,” he breathes, and my mouth goes dry as
  he directs my hand down, from the top of his shoulder,
  around his arm socket then down the side of his chest. The
  lipstick leaves a broad, livid red streak it in its wake. He
  stops at the bottom of this ribcage then directs me across
  his stomach. He tenses and stares, seemingly impassive,
  into my eyes, but beneath his careful blank look, I see his
  restraint.
  His aversion is held in strict check, the line of his jaw is
  strained, and there’s tension around his eyes. Midway
  across his stomach he murmurs, “And up the other side.”
  He releases my hand.
  I mirror the line I’ve drawn on his left side. The trust
  he’s giving me is heady but tempered by the fact that I can
  I count his pain. Seven small, round white scars dot his
  chest, and it’s deep, dark purgatory to see this hideous,
  evil desecration of his beautiful body. Who would do this
  evil desecration of his beautiful body. Who would do this
  to a child?
  “There, done,” I whisper, containing my emotion.
  “No, you’re not,” he replies and traces a line with his
  long index finger around the base of his neck. I follow the
  line of his finger with a scarlet streak. Finishing, I gaze into
  the gray depths of his eyes.
  “Now my back,” he murmurs. He shifts so I have to
  climb off him, then he turns around on the bed and sits
  cross-legged with his back to me.
  “Follow the line from my chest, all the way round to
  the other side.” His voice is low and husky.
  I do as he says until a crimson line runs across the
  middle of his back, and as I do, I count more scars
  marring his beautiful body. Nine in all.
  Holy fuck. I have to fight the overwhelming need to
  kiss each one and stop the tears pooling in my eyes. What
  kind of animal would do this? His head is down, and his
  body tense as I complete the circuit round his back.
  “Around your neck, too?” I whisper.
  He nods, and I draw another line joining the first
  around the base of his neck beneath his hair.
  “Finished,” I murmur, and it looks like he’s wearing a
  bizarre skin-colored vest with a harlot-red trim.
  His shoulders slump as he relaxes, and he turns slowly
  to face me once again.
  “Those are the boundaries,” he says quietly, his eyes
  dark and pupils dilated . . . from fear? From lust? I want to
  hurl myself at him, but I restrain myself and gaze at him in
  wonder.
  “I can live with those. Right now I want to launch
  myself at you,” I whisper.
  He gives me a wicked smile and holds out his hands, a
  gesture of supplication.
  “Well, Miss Steele, I’m all yours.”
  I squeal with childish delight and catapult myself into
  his arms, knocking him flat. He twists, letting out a boyish
  laugh filled with relief that the ordeal is over. Somehow, I
  end up beneath him on the bed.
  “Now, about that rain check,” he breathes and his
  “Now, about that rain check,” he breathes and his
  mouth claims mine once more.
  My hands fist in his hair while my mouth is feverish against
  Christian’s, consuming him, relishing the feel of his tongue
  against mine. And he’s the same, devouring me. It’s
  heavenly.
  Suddenly he drags me up and grasps the hem of my Tshirt,
  whipping it over my head and throwing it on the
  floor.
  “I want to feel you,” he says greedily against my mouth
  as his hands move behind me to undo my bra. In one
  smooth move, it’s off and he pitches it aside.
  smooth move, it’s off and he pitches it aside.
  He pushes me back down onto the bed, pressing me
  into the mattress, and his mouth and hand move to my
  breasts. My fingers curl into his hair as he takes one of my
  nipples between his lips and tugs hard.
  I cry out as the sensation sweeps through my body,
  spikes, and tightens all the muscles around my groin.
  “Yes, baby, let me hear you,” he murmurs against my
  overheated skin.
  Boy, I want him inside me, now. With his mouth, he
  toys with my nipple, pulling at it, making me squirm and
  writhe and yearn for him. I sense his longing mixed with—
  what? Veneration. It’s as if he’s worshipping me.
  He teases me with his fingers, my nipple growing hard
  and elongating under his skillful touch. His hand moves to
  my jeans, and he deftly undoes the button, tugs the zipper
  down, and slips his hand inside my panties, sliding his
  fingers against my sex.
  His breath hisses out as his finger glides into me. I push
  my pelvis up into the heel of his hand, and he responds,
  my pelvis up into the heel of his hand, and he responds,
  rubbing against me.
  “Oh, baby,” he breathes as he hovers over me, staring
  intently into my eyes. “You’re so wet.” His voice is filled
  with wonder.
  “I want you,” I murmur.
  His mouth joins with mine again, and I feel his hungry
  desperation, his need for me.
  This is new—it’s never been like this except perhaps
  when I came back from Georgia—and his words from
  earlier drift back to me . . . I need to know we’re okay.
  This is the only way I know how.
  The thought unravels me. To know that I have such an
  effect on him, that I can offer him so much solace, doing
  this—my inner goddess purrs with pure pleasure. He sits
  up, grasps the hem of my jeans, and tugs them off,
  followed by my panties.
  Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he stands, takes a foil
  packet out of his pocket, and tosses it at me, then removes
  his jeans and boxers in one swift motion.
  I rip the packet open greedily, and when he lies beside
  me again, I slowly roll the condom on to him. He grabs
  both my hands and rolls on to his back.
  “You. On top,” he orders, pulling me astride him. “I
  want to see you.”
  Oh.
  He guides me, and hesitantly I ease myself down onto
  him. He closes his eyes and flexes his hips to meet me,
  filling me, stretching me, his mouth forming a perfect O as
  he exhales.
  Oh, that feels so good—possessing him, possessing
  me.
  He holds my hands, and I don’t know if it’s to steady
  me or keep me from touching him, even though I have my
  road map.
  “You feel so good,” he murmurs.
  I rise again, heady with the power I have over him,
  watching Christian Grey slowly coming apart beneath me.
  He lets go of my hands and grabs my hips, and I place my
  hands on his arms. He thrusts into me sharply, causing me
  hands on his arms. He thrusts into me sharply, causing me
  to cry out.
  “That’s right, baby, feel me,” he says, his voice
  strained.
  I tip my head back and do exactly that. This is what he
  does so well.
  I move—countering his rhythm in perfect symmetry—
  numbing all thought and reason. I am just sensation lost in
  this void of pleasure. Up and down . . . again and
  again . . . Oh yes . . . Opening my eyes, I stare down at
  him, my breathing ragged, and he’s staring back at me,
  eyes blazing.
  “My Ana,” he mouths.
  “Yes,” I rasp. “Always.”
  He groans loudly, closing his eyes again, tipping his
  head back. Oh my . . . Seeing Christian undone is enough
  to seal my fate, and I come audibly, exhaustingly, spinning
  down and around, collapsing on top of him.
  “Oh, baby,” he groans as he finds his release, holding
  me still and letting go.
  me still and letting go.
  My head is on his chest in the no-go area, my cheek
  nestled against the springy hair on his sternum. I am
  panting, glowing, and I resist the urge to pucker my lips
  and kiss him.
  I just lie on top of him, catching my breath. He
  smoothes my hair, and his hand runs down my back,
  caressing me as his breathing calms.
  “You are so beautiful.”
  I lift my head to gaze at him, my expression skeptical.
  He frowns in response and sits up quickly, taking me by
  surprise, his arm sweeping round to hold me in place. I
  clutch his biceps as we are nose to nose.
  “You. Are. Beautiful,” he says again, his tone
  emphatic.
  “And you’re amazingly sweet sometimes.” I kiss him
  gently.
  He lifts me and eases out of me. I wince as he does.
  Leaning forward, he kisses me softly.
  “You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?”
  I flush. Why’s he going on about this?
  “All those boys pursuing you—that isn’t enough of a
  clue?”
  “Boys? What boys?”
  “You want the list?” Christian frowns. “The
  photographer, he’s crazy about you, that boy in the
  hardware store, your roommate’s older brother. Your
  boss,” he adds bitterly.
  “Oh, Christian, that’s just not true.”
  “Trust me. They want you. They want what’s mine.”
  He pulls me against him, and I lift my arms to his
  shoulders, my hands in his hair, regarding him with
  amusement.
  “Mine,” he repeats, his eyes glowing possessively.
  “Yes, yours.” I reassure him, smiling. He looks
  mollified, and I feel perfectly comfortable naked in his lap
  on a bed in the full light of a Saturday afternoon. Who
  would have thought? The lipstick marks remain on his
  would have thought? The lipstick marks remain on his
  exquisite body. I note some smears on the duvet cover
  though, and wonder briefly what Mrs. Jones will make of
  them.
  “The line is still intact,” I murmur and bravely trace the
  mark on his shoulder with my index finger. He stiffens,
  blinking suddenly. “I want to go exploring.”
  He regards me skeptically.
  “The apartment?”
  “No. I was thinking of the treasure map that we’ve
  drawn on you.” My fingers itch to touch him.
  His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he blinks with
  uncertainty. I rub my nose against his.
  “And what would that entail exactly, Miss Steele?”

  I lift my hand from his shoulder and run my fingertips
  down his face.
  “I just want to touch you everywhere I’m allowed.”
  Christian catches my index finger in his teeth, biting
  down gently.
  “Ow,” I protest and he grins, a low growl coming from
  “Ow,” I protest and he grins, a low growl coming from
  his throat.
  “Okay,” he says, releasing my finger, but his voice is
  laced with apprehension. “Wait.” He leans behind me,
  lifting me again, and removes his condom, dropping it
  unceremoniously on the floor beside the bed.
  “I hate those things. I’ve a good mind to call Dr.
  Greene around to give you a shot.”
  “You think the top ob-gyn in Seattle is going to come
  running?”
  “I can be very persuasive,” he murmurs, hooking my
  hair behind my ear. “Franco’s done a great job on your
  hair. I like these layers.”
  What?
  “Stop changing the subject.”
  He shifts me back so I’m straddling him, leaning on his
  propped-up knees, my feet on either side of his hips. He
  leans back on his arms.
  “Touch away,” he says without humor. He looks
  nervous, but he’s trying to hide it.
  Keeping my eyes on his, I reach down and trace my
  finger underneath the lipstick line, across his finely
  sculptured abdominal muscles. He flinches and I stop.
  “I don’t have to,” I whisper.
  “No, it’s fine. Just takes some . . . readjustment on my
  part. No one’s touched me for a long time,” he murmurs.
  “Mrs. Robinson?” The words pop unbidden out of my
  mouth, and amazingly, I manage to keep all bitterness and
  rancor out of my voice.
  He nods, his discomfort obvious. “I don’t want to talk
  about her. It will sour your good mood.”
  “I can handle it.”
  “No, you can’t, Ana. You see red whenever I mention
  her. My past is my past. It’s a fact. I can’t change it. I’m
  lucky that you don’t have one, because it would drive me
  crazy if you did.”
  I frown at him, but I don’t want to fight. “Drive you
  crazy? More than you are already?” I smile, hoping to
  lighten the atmosphere between us.
  His lips twitch. “Crazy for you,” he whispers.
  His lips twitch. “Crazy for you,” he whispers.
  My heart swells with joy.
  “Shall I call Dr. Flynn?”
  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says dryly.
  Shifting back so he drops his legs, I place my fingers
  back on his stomach and let them drift across his skin. He
  stills once more.
  “I like touching you.” My fingers skate down to his
  navel then southward along his happy, happy trail. His lips
  part as his breathing changes, his eyes darken and his
  erection stirs and twitches beneath me. Holy cow. Round
  two.
  “Again?” I murmur.
  He smiles. “Oh yes, Miss Steele, again.”
  What a delicious way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I
  stand beneath the shower, absentmindedly washing myself,
  careful not to wet my tied-back hair, contemplating the last
  couple of hours. Christian and vanilla seem to be going
  couple of hours. Christian and vanilla seem to be going
  well.
  He’s revealed so much today. It’s staggering, trying to
  assimilate all the information and to reflect on what I’ve
  learned: his salary details—Whoa, he’s stinking rich, and
  for someone so young; it’s just extraordinary —and the
  dossiers he has on me and on all his brunette submissives.
  I wonder if they are all in that filing cabinet?
  My subconscious purses her lips at me and shakes her
  head—don’t even go there. I frown. Just a quick peek?
  And there’s Leila—with a gun, potentially, somewhere
  —and her crap taste in music still on his iPod. But even
  worse, Mrs. Paedo Robinson, I cannot wrap my head
  around her, and I don’t want to. I don’t want her to be a
  shimmering-haired specter in our relationship. He’s right, I
  do go off the deep end when I think of her, so perhaps it’s
  best if I don’t.
  I step out of the shower and dry myself, and I’m
  suddenly seized by unexpected anger.
  But who wouldn’t go off the deep end? What normal,
  But who wouldn’t go off the deep end? What normal,
  sane person would do that to a fifteen-year-old boy? How
  much has she contributed to his fuckedupness? I don’t
  understand her. And worse still, he says she helped him.
  How?
  I think of his scars, the stark physical embodiment of a
  horrific childhood and a sickening reminder of what mental
  scars he must bear. My sweet, sad Fifty Shades. He’s said
  such loving things today. He’s crazy for me.
  Staring at my reflection, I smile at the memory of his
  words, my heart brimming once more, and my face
  transforms with a ridiculous smile. Perhaps we can make
  this work. But how long will he want to do this without
  wanting to beat the crap out of me because I cross some
  arbitrary line?
  My smile dissolves. This is what I don’t know. This is
  the shadow that hangs over us. Kinky fuckery, yes, I can
  do that, but more?
  My subconscious stares at me blankly, for once
  offering no snarky words of wisdom. I head back to my
  bedroom to dress.
  Christian is downstairs getting ready, doing whatever
  he’s doing, so I have the bedroom to myself. As well as all
  the dresses in the closet, I have drawers full of new
  underwear. I select a black bustier corset creation with a
  price tag of five hundred forty dollars. It has silver trim like
  filigree and the briefest of panties to match. Thigh-high
  stockings, too, in a natural color, so fine, pure silk. Wow,
  they feel . . . slinky . . . and kind of hot . . . yeah.
  I am reaching for the dress when Christian enters
  unannounced. Whoa, you could knock! He stands
  immobilized, staring at me, gray eyes glimmering, hungrily.
  I blush crimson everywhere, it feels. He is wearing a white
  shirt and black suit pants, the neck of his shirt is open. I
  can see the lipstick line still in place, and he’s still staring.
  “Can I help you, Mr. Grey? I assume there is some
  purpose to your visit other than to gawk mindlessly at me.”
  “I am rather enjoying my mindless gawk, thank you,
  Miss Steele,” he murmurs darkly, stepping further into the
  room and drinking me in. “Remind me to send a personal
  room and drinking me in. “Remind me to send a personal
  note of thanks to Caroline Acton.”
  I frown. Who the hell is she?
  “The personal shopper at Neiman’s,” he says, spookily
  answering my unspoken question.
  “Oh.”
  “I’m quite distracted.”
  “I can see that. What do you want, Christian?” I give
  him my no-nonsense stare.
  He retaliates with his crooked smile and pulls the silver
  ball egg-things from his pocket, stopping me in my tracks.
  Holy shit! He wants to spank me? Now? Why?
  “It’s not what you think,” he says quickly.
  “Enlighten me,” I whisper.
  “I thought you could wear these tonight.”
  And the implications of that sentence hang between us
  as the idea sinks in.
  “To this event?” I’m shocked.
  He nods slowly, his eyes darkening.
  Oh my.
  Oh my.
  “Will you spank me later?”
  “No.”
  For a moment, I feel a tiny fleeting stab of
  disappointment.
  He chuckles. “You want me to?”
  I swallow. I just don’t know.
  “Well, rest assured I am not going to touch you like
  that, not even if you beg me.”
  Oh! This is news.
  “Do you want to play this game?” he continues, holding
  up the balls. “You can always take them out if it’s too
  much.”
  I gaze at him. He looks so wickedly tempting—
  unkempt, recently fucked hair, dark eyes dancing with
  erotic thoughts, that beautiful sculptured mouth, lips raised
  in a sexy, amused smile.
  “Okay,” I acquiesce softly. Hell, yes! My inner
  goddess has found her voice and is shouting from the
  rooftops.
  “Good girl,” Christian grins. “Come here, and I’ll put
  them in, once you’ve put your shoes on.”
  My shoes? I turn and glance at the dove gray suede
  stilettos that match the dress I’ve chosen to wear.
  Humor him! my inner goddess barks at me.
  He holds out his hand to support me while I step into
  the Christian Louboutin shoes, a steal at three-thousand
  two hundred ninety-five dollars. I must be at least five
  inches taller now.
  He leads me to the bedside and doesn’t sit, but walks
  over to the only chair in the room. Picking it up, he carries
  it over and places it in front of me.
  “When I nod, you bend down and hold on to the chair.
  Understand?” His voice is husky.
  “Yes.”
  “Good. Now open your mouth,” he orders, his voice
  still low.
  I do as I’m told, thinking that he’s going to put the balls
  in my mouth again to lubricate them. No, he slips his index
  finger in.
  finger in.
  Oh . . .
  “Suck,” he says. I reach up and clasp his hand, holding
  him steady, and do as I’m told—see, I can be obedient,
  when I want.
  He tastes of soap . . . hmm. I suck hard, and I’m
  rewarded when his eyes widen and his lips part as he
  inhales. I’m not going to need any lubricant at this rate. He
  puts the balls in his mouth as I fellate his finger, twirling my
  tongue round it. When he tries to withdraw it, I clamp my
  teeth down.
  He grins then shakes his head, admonishing me, so I let
  go. He nods, and I bend down and grasp the sides of the
  chair. He moves my panties to one side and very slowly
  slides a finger into me, circling leisurely, so I feel him, on all
  sides. I can’t help the moan that escapes from my lips.
  He withdraws his finger briefly and with tender care,
  inserts the balls one at a time, pushing them deep inside
  me. Once they are in position, he smoothes my panties
  back into place and kisses my backside. Running his hands
  back into place and kisses my backside. Running his hands
  up each of my legs from ankle to thigh, he gently kisses the
  top of each thigh where my hold-ups finish.
  “You have fine, fine legs, Miss Steele,” he murmurs.
  Standing, he grasps my hips and pulls my behind
  against him so I feel his erection.
  “Maybe I’ll have you this way when we get home,
  Anastasia. You can stand now.”
  I feel giddy, beyond aroused as the weight of the balls
  push and pull inside me. Leaning down from behind me
  Christian kisses my shoulder.
  “I bought these for you to wear to last Saturday’s
  gala.” He puts his arm around me and holds out his hand.
  In his palm rests a small red box with Cartier inscribed on
  the lid. “But you left me, so I never had the opportunity to
  give them to you.”
  Oh!
  “This is my second chance,” he murmurs, his voice stiff
  with some unnamed emotion. He’s nervous.
  Tentatively, I reach for the box and open it. Inside
  shines a pair of drop earrings. Each has four diamonds,
  one at the base, then a gap, then three perfectly spaced
  diamonds hanging one after the other. They’re beautiful,
  simple, and classic. What I would choose myself, if I were
  ever given the opportunity to shop at Cartier.
  “They’re lovely,” I whisper, and because they are
  second-chance earrings, I love them. “Thank you.”
  He relaxes against me as the tension leaves his body,
  and he kisses my shoulder again.
  “You’re wearing the silver satin dress?” he asks.
  “Yes? Is that okay?”
  “Of course. I’ll let you get ready.” He heads out the
  door without a backward glance.
  I have entered an alternate universe. The young woman
  staring back at me looks worthy of a red carpet. Her
  strapless, floor-length, silver satin gown is simply stunning.
  Maybe I’ll write to Caroline Acton myself. It’s fitted and
  flatters what little curves I have.
  flatters what little curves I have.
  My hair falls in soft waves around my face, spilling
  over my shoulders to my breasts. I tuck one side behind
  my ear, revealing my second-chance earrings. I have kept
  my makeup to a minimum, a natural look. Eyeliner,
  mascara, a little pink blush, and pale pink lipstick.

  I don’t really need the blush. I am slightly flushed from
  the constant movement of the silver balls. Yes, they’ll
  guarantee I have some color in my cheeks tonight. Shaking
  my head at the audacity of Christian’s erotic ideas, I lean
  down to collect my satin wrap and silver clutch purse and
  go in search of my Fifty Shades.
  He is talking to Taylor and three other men in the
  hallway, his back to me. Their surprised, appreciative
  expressions alert Christian to my presence. He turns as I
  stand and wait awkwardly.
  Holy cow! My mouth dries. He looks stunning . . .
  Black dinner suit, black bow tie, and his expression as he
  gazes at me is one of awe. He strolls toward me and
  kisses my hair.
  kisses my hair.
  “Anastasia. You look breathtaking.”
  I flush at this compliment in front of Taylor and the
  other men.
  “A glass of champagne before we go?”
  “Please,” I murmur, far too quickly.
  Christian nods to Taylor who heads into the foyer with
  his three cohorts.
  In the great room, Christian retrieves a bottle of
  champagne from the fridge.
  “Security team?” I ask.
  “Close protection. They’re under Taylor’s control.
  He’s trained in that, too.” Christian hands me a champagne
  flute.
  “He’s very versatile.”
  “Yes, he is.” Christian smiles. “You look lovely,
  Anastasia. Cheers.” He raises his glass, and I clink it with
  mine. The champagne is a pale rose color. It tastes
  deliciously crisp and light.
  “How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes heated.
  “Fine, thank you.” I smile sweetly, giving nothing away,
  knowing full well he’s referring to the silver balls.
  He smirks at me.
  “Here, you’re going to need this.” He hands me a large
  velvet pouch that was resting on the kitchen island. “Open
  it,” he says between sips of champagne. Intrigued, I reach
  into the bag and pull out an intricate silver masquerade
  mask with cobalt blue feathers in a plume crowning the
  top.
  “It’s a masked ball,” he states matter-of-factly.
  “I see.” The mask is beautiful. A silver ribbon is
  threaded around the edges and exquisite silver filigree is
  etched around the eyes.
  “This will show off your beautiful eyes, Anastasia.”
  I grin at him, shyly.
  “Are you wearing one?”
  “Of course. They’re very liberating in a way,” he adds,
  raising an eyebrow, and he smirks.
  Oh. This is going to be fun.
  “Come. I want to show you something.” Holding out
  “Come. I want to show you something.” Holding out
  his hand, he leads me out into the hallway and to a door
  beside the stairs. He opens it, revealing a large room
  roughly the same size as his playroom, which must be
  directly above us. This one is filled with books. Wow, a
  library, every wall crammed floor to ceiling. In the center is
  a full-size billiard table illuminated by a long triangularprism-
  shaped Tiffany lamp.
  “You have a library!” I squeak in awe, overwhelmed
  with excitement.
  “Yes, the balls room as Elliot calls it. The apartment is
  quite spacious. I realized today, when you mentioned
  exploring, that I’ve never given you a tour. We don’t have
  time now, but I thought I’d show you this room, and
  maybe challenge you to a game of billiards in the not-toodistant
  future.”
  I grin at him.
  “Bring it on.” I secretly hug myself with glee. José and I
  bonded over pool. We’ve been playing for the last three
  years. I am ace with a cue. José has been a good teacher.
  years. I am ace with a cue. José has been a good teacher.
  “What?” Christian asks, amused.
  Oh! I really must stop expressing every emotion I
  feel the instant I feel it, I scold myself.
  “Nothing,” I say quickly.
  Christian narrows his eyes.
  “Well, maybe Doctor Flynn can uncover your secrets.
  You’ll meet him this evening.”
  “The expensive charlatan?” Holy shit.
  “The very same. He’s dying to meet you.”
  Christian takes my hand and gently skims his thumb across
  my knuckles as we sit in the back of the Audi heading
  north. I squirm, and feel the sensation in my groin. I resist
  the urge to moan, as Taylor is in the front, not wearing his
  iPod, with one of the security guys whose name I think is
  Sawyer.
  I am beginning to feel a dull, pleasurable ache deep in
  my belly, caused by the balls. Idly, I wonder, how long will
  I be able to manage without some, um . . . relief? I cross
  my legs. As I do, something that’s been niggling me in the
  back of my mind suddenly surfaces.
  “Where did you get the lipstick?” I ask Christian
  quietly.
  He smirks at me and points toward the front. “Taylor,”
  he mouths.
  I burst out laughing. “Oh.” And stop quickly—the
  balls.
  I bite my lip. Christian smiles at me, his eyes gleaming
  wickedly. He knows exactly what he’s doing, sexy beast
  that he is.
  “Relax,” he breathes. “If it’s too much . . .” His voice
  trails off, and he gently kisses each knuckle in turn, then
  gently sucks the tip of my little finger.
  Now I know he’s doing this on purpose. I close my
  eyes as dark desire unfolds throughout my body. I
  surrender briefly to the sensation, my muscles clenching
  deep inside me. Oh my.
  When I open my eyes again, Christian is regarding me
  When I open my eyes again, Christian is regarding me
  closely, a dark prince. It must be the dinner jacket and
  bow tie, but he looks older, sophisticated, a devastatingly
  handsome roué with licentious intent.
  He simply takes my breath away. I’m in his sexual
  thrall, and if I’m to believe him, he’s in mine. The thought
  brings a smile to my face, and his answering grin is
  blinding.
  “So what can we expect at this event?”
  “Oh, the usual stuff,” Christian says breezily.
  “Not usual for me,” I remind him.
  Christian smiles fondly and kisses my hand again. “Lots
  of people flashing their cash. Auction, raffle, dinner,
  dancing—my mother knows how to throw a party.” He
  smiles and for the first time all day, I allow myself to feel a
  little excited about this party.
  There is a line of expensive cars heading up the
  driveway of the Grey mansion. Long, pale pink paper
  lanterns hang over the drive, and as we inch closer in the
  Audi, I can see they are everywhere. In the early evening
  Audi, I can see they are everywhere. In the early evening
  light, they look magical, as if we’re entering an enchanted
  kingdom. I glance at Christian. How suitable for my prince
  —and my childish excitement blooms, eclipsing all other
  feelings.
  “Masks on,” Christian grins, and as he dons his simple
  black mask, my prince becomes something darker, more
  sensual.
  All I can see of his face is his beautiful chiseled mouth
  and strong jaw.
  Holy fuck . . . My heartbeat lurches at the sight of him.
  I fasten my mask and grin at him, ignoring the hunger deep
  in my body.
  Taylor pulls into the driveway, and a valet opens
  Christian’s door. Sawyer leaps out to open mine.
  “Ready?” Christian asks.
  “As I’ll ever be.”
  “You look beautiful, Anastasia.” He kisses my hand
  and exits the car.
  A dark green carpet runs along the lawn to one side of
  the house, leading to the impressive grounds at the rear.
  Christian has a protective arm around me, resting his hand
  on my waist, as we follow the green carpet with a steady
  stream of Seattle’s elite dressed in their finery and wearing
  all manner of masks the lanterns lighting the way. Two
  photographers marshal guests to pose for pictures against
  the backdrop of an ivy-strewn arbor.
  “Mr. Grey!” one of the photographers calls. Christian
  nods in acknowledgement and pulls me close as we pose
  quickly for a photo. How do they know it’s him? His
  trademark, unruly copper hair no doubt.
  “Two photographers?” I ask Christian.
  “One is from the Seattle Times; the other is for a
  souvenir. We’ll be able to buy a copy later.”
  Oh, my picture in the press again. Leila briefly enters
  my mind. This is how she found me, posing with Christian.
  The thought is unsettling, though it’s comforting that I am
  unrecognizable beneath my mask.
  At the end of the line, white-suited servers hold trays
  of glasses brimming with champagne, and I’m grateful
  of glasses brimming with champagne, and I’m grateful
  when Christian passes me a glass—effectively distracting
  me from my dark thoughts.
  We approach a large white pergola hung with smaller
  versions of the paper lanterns. Beneath it, shines a black
  and white checkered dance floor surrounded by a low
  fence with entrances on three sides. At each entrance
  stand two elaborate ice sculptures of swans. The fourth
  side of the pergola is occupied by a stage where a string
  quartet is playing softly, a haunting, ethereal piece I don’t
  recognize. The stage looks set for a big band but as
  there’s no sign of the musicians yet. I figure this must be
  for later. Taking my hand, Christian leads me between
  swans onto the dance floor where the other guests are
  congregating, chatting over glasses of champagne.
  Toward the shoreline stands an enormous marquee,
  open on the side nearest to us so I can glimpse the
  formally arranged tables and chairs. There are so many!
  “How many people are coming?” I ask Christian,
  thrown by the scale of the marquee.
  thrown by the scale of the marquee.
  “I think about three hundred. You’ll have to ask my
  mother.” He smiles down at me, and maybe it’s because I
  can only see his smile that lights up his face, but my inner
  goddess swoons.
  “Christian!”
  A young woman appears out of the throng and throws
  her arms around his neck, and immediately I know it’s
  Mia. She’s dressed in a sleek, pale pink, full-length chiffon
  gown with a stunning, delicately detailed Venetian mask to
  match. She looks amazing. And for a moment, I have
  never felt so grateful for the dress Christian has given me.
  “Ana! Oh, darling, you look gorgeous!” She gives me
  a quick hug. “You must come and meet my friends. None
  of them can believe that Christian finally has a girlfriend.”
  I shoot a quick panicked glance at Christian, who
  shrugs in a resigned I-know-she’s-impossible-I-had-tolive-
  with-her-for-years way, and let Mia lead me over to a
  group of four young women, all expensively attired and
  impeccably groomed.
  Mia makes hasty introductions. Three of them are
  sweet and kind, but Lily, I think her name is, regards me
  sourly from beneath her red mask.
  “Of course we all thought Christian was gay,” she says
  snidely, concealing her rancor with a large, fake smile.
  Mia pouts at her.
  “Lily, behave yourself. It’s obvious he has excellent
  taste in women. He was waiting for the right one to come
  along, and it wasn’t you!”
  Lily blushes the same color as her mask, as do I.
  Could this be any more uncomfortable?
  “Ladies, if I could claim my date back, please?”
  Snaking his arm around my waist, Christian pulls me to his
  side. All four women flush, grin and fidget, his dazzling
  smile doing what it always does. Mia glances at me and
  rolls her eyes, and I have to laugh.
  “Lovely to meet you,” I say as he drags me away.
  “Thank you,” I mouth at Christian when we’re some
  distance away.
  “I saw that Lily was with Mia. She is one nasty piece
  “I saw that Lily was with Mia. She is one nasty piece
  of work.”
  “She likes you,” I mutter dryly.
  He shudders. “Well, the feeling is not mutual. Come,
  let me introduce you to some people.”
  I spend the next half hour in a whirlwind of
  introductions. I meet two Hollywood actors, two more
  CEOs, and several eminent physicians. Holy shit . . .
  there is no way I am going to remember everyone’s
  name.
  Christian keeps me close at his side, and I’m grateful.
  Frankly, the wealth, the glamour, and the sheer lavish scale
  of the event intimidates me. I have never been to anything
  like this in my life.
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作者:佚名
章节:13 人气:0
摘要:“我倒以为……"我说。“我应当这样做,"福尔摩斯急躁地说。我自信是一个极有耐性的人;可是,我得承认,他这样嘲笑地打断我的话,的确使我有点不快。因此我严肃地说:“福尔摩斯,说真的,你有时真叫人有点难堪啊。”他全神贯注地沉思,没有即刻回答我的抗议。他一只手支着头,面前放着一口未尝的早餐,两眼凝视着刚从信封中抽出来的那张纸条,然后拿起信封,举到灯前,非常仔细地研究它的外观和封口。 [点击阅读]
恐怖黑唇
作者:佚名
章节:26 人气:0
摘要:第一章恐惧的亡灵复苏1阴谋初露刚刚步入八月份。炎热的太阳就将一切烤得烫人。出租车司机原田光政在这天午后回到家中。他打开大门,从信箱中取出一封信,边看边走进了厨房。走进厨房,原田光政坐在椅子上,准备喝点冷饮,然后再睡上一小时左右的午觉。他深深地感到自己已不是拼命干活的年龄了——近六十岁了。难道这是因为自己长期辛劳而自负了吗?人的自知之明,对于原田说来还是有的。 [点击阅读]
恶月之子
作者:佚名
章节:12 人气:0
摘要:仅点燃着烛光的书房里,桌案上电话铃声骤然响起,刹那间,我知道我的生活即将面临一场可怕的转变。我不是算命先生,我也不会观看天象,在我眼里,我掌中的手纹完全无法揭露我的未来,我也不像吉普赛人能从湿得的茶叶纹路洞察命理。父亲病在垂危已有数目,昨夜我在他的病榻旁,替他拭去眉毛上的汗珠,听着他吃力的一呼一吸,我心里明白他可能支撑不了多久。我生怕就这样失去他,害怕自己将面临二十八岁生命中首次孤零零的生活。 [点击阅读]
恶魔
作者:佚名
章节:10 人气:0
摘要:决斗茶桌上摆着两只酒杯,杯子里各装有八成透明如水的液体。那是恰似用精密的计量仪器量过一样精确、标准的八成。两只杯子的形状毫无二致,位置距中心点的距离也像用尺子量过似地毫厘不差。两只杯子从杯子中装的,到外形、位置的过于神经质的均等,总给人一种异乎寻常的感觉。茶桌两边,两张大藤椅同样整齐地对面地放在完全对等的位置;椅上,两个男人像木偶一样正襟危坐。 [点击阅读]
悖论13
作者:佚名
章节:50 人气:0
摘要:听完首席秘书官田上的报告,大月蹙起眉头。此刻他在官邸内的办公室,正忙着写完讲稿,内容和非洲政策有关。下周,他将在阿迪斯阿贝巴①公开发表演说。坐在黑檀木桌前的大月,猛然将椅子反转过来。魁梧的田上站在他面前,有点驼背。“堀越到底有甚么事?是核能发电又出了甚么问题吗?”堀越忠夫是科学技术政策大臣。大月想起前几天,他出席了国际核能机构的总会。“不,好像不是那种问题。与他一同前来的,是JAXA的人。 [点击阅读]