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.