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五十度灰英文版 - Part II 17
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  Miss Kelly leads us into the master suite where full
  height windows open onto a balcony, and the view is still
  spectacular. I could sit in bed and gaze out all day,
  watching the sailing boats and the changing weather.
  There are five additional bedrooms on this floor. Jeez
  —kids. I push the thought hastily to one side. I have too
  much to process already. Miss Kelly is busily suggesting to
  Christian how the grounds could accommodate riding
  stables and a paddock. Horses! Terrifying images of my
  few riding lessons flash through my mind, but Christian
  doesn’t appear to be listening.
  “The paddock would be where the meadow is at the
  moment?” I ask.
  “Yes,” Miss Kelly says brightly.
  “Yes,” Miss Kelly says brightly.
  To me the meadow looks like somewhere to lie in the
  long grass and have picnics, not for some four-legged fiend
  of Satan to roam.
  Back in the main room, Miss Kelly discreetly
  disappears, and Christian leads me out once more onto the
  terrace. The sun has set and lights from the towns on the
  Olympic peninsula are twinkling on the far side of the
  Sound.
  Christian pulls me into his arms and tips my chin up
  with his index finger, staring intently down at me.
  “Lot to take in?” he asks, his expression unreadable.
  I nod.
  “I wanted to check you liked it before I bought it.”
  “The view?”
  He nods.
  “I love the view, and I like the house that’s here.”
  “You do?”
  I smile shyly at him. “Christian, you had me at the
  meadow.”
  His lips part as he inhales sharply, then his face
  transforms with a grin, and his hands are suddenly fisting
  into my hair and his mouth is on mine.
  Back in the car as we head for Seattle, Christian’s mood
  has lifted considerably.
  “So you’re going to buy it?” I ask.
  “Yes.”
  “You’ll put Escala on the market?”
  He frowns. “Why would I do that?”
  “To pay for . . .” My voice trails off—of course. I
  flush.
  He smirks at me. “Trust me, I can afford it.”
  “Do you like being rich?”
  “Yes. Show me someone who doesn’t,” he says
  darkly.
  Okay, get off that subject quickly.
  “Anastasia, you’re going to have to learn to be rich,
  too, if you say yes,” he says softly.
  “Wealth isn’t something I’ve ever aspired to,
  Christian.” I frown.
  “I know. I love that about you. But then you’ve never
  been hungry,” he says simply. His words are sobering.
  “Where are we going?” I ask brightly, changing the
  subject.
  “To celebrate.” Christian relaxes.
  Oh! “Celebrate what, the house?”
  “Have you forgotten already? Your acting editor role.”
  “Oh yes.” I grin. Unbelievably, I had forgotten.
  “Where?”
  “Up high at my club.”
  “Your club?”
  “Yes. One of them.”
  The Mile High Club is on the seventy-sixth floor of
  Columbia Tower, higher even than Christian’s apartment.
  Columbia Tower, higher even than Christian’s apartment.
  It’s very now and has the most head-spinning views over
  Seattle.
  “Cristal, ma’am?” Christian hands me a glass of chilled
  champagne as I sit perched on a barstool.
  “Why thank you, sir.” I stress the last word
  flirtatiously, batting my eyelashes at him deliberately.
  He gazes at me and his face darkens. “Are you flirting
  with me, Miss Steele?”
  “Yes, Mr. Grey, I am. What are you going to do about
  it?”
  “I’m sure I can think of something,” he says, his voice
  low. “Come—our table’s ready.”
  As we approach the table, Christian stops me, his hand
  on my elbow.
  “Go and take your panties off,” he whispers.
  Oh? A delicious tingle runs down my spine.
  “Go,” he commands quietly.
  Whoa, what? I blink up at him. He’s not smiling—he’s
  dead serious. Every muscle below my waistline tightens. I
  hand him my glass of champagne, turn sharply on my heel,
  and head for the restroom.
  Shit. What’s he going to do? Perhaps this club is aptly
  named.
  The restrooms are the height of modern design—all
  dark wood, black granite, and pools of light from
  strategically placed halogens. In the privacy of the stall, I
  smirk as I divest myself of my underwear. Again I’m
  grateful I changed into the navy blue shift dress. I thought it
  appropriate attire to meet the good Dr. Flynn—I hadn’t
  appropriate attire to meet the good Dr. Flynn—I hadn’t
  expected the evening to take this unexpected course.
  I am excited already. Why does he affect me so? I
  slightly resent how easily I fall under his spell. I know now
  that we won’t be spending the evening talking through all
  our issues and recent events . . . but how can I resist him?
  Checking my appearance in the mirror, I am brighteyed
  and flushed with excitement. Issues schmissues.
  I take a deep breath and head back out into the club. I
  mean, it’s not as if I haven’t gone panty less before. My
  inner goddess is draped in a pink feather boa and
  diamonds, strutting her stuff in fuck-me shoes.
  Christian stands politely when I return to the table, his
  expression unreadable. He looks his usual perfect, cool,
  calm, and collected self. Of course, I now know
  differently.
  “Sit beside me,” he says. I slide into the seat and he
  sits. “I’ve ordered for you. I hope you don’t mind.” He
  hands me my half-finished glass of champagne, regarding
  me intently and under his scrutiny, my blood heats anew.
  He rests his hands on his thighs. I tense and part my legs
  slightly.
  The waiter arrives with a dish of oysters on crushed
  ice. Oysters. The memory of the two of us in the private
  dining room at the Heathman fills my mind. We were
  discussing his contract. Oh boy. We’ve come a long way
  since then.
  “I think you liked oysters last time you tried them.” His
  voice is low, seductive.
  “Only time I’ve tried them.” I’m all breathy, my voice
  “Only time I’ve tried them.” I’m all breathy, my voice
  exposing me. His lips twitch with a smile.
  “Oh, Miss Steele—when will you learn?” he muses.
  He takes an oyster from the dish and lifts his other
  hand from his thigh. I flinch in anticipation, but he reaches
  for a slice of lemon.
  “Learn what?” I ask. Jeez, my pulse is racing. His long,
  skilled fingers gently squeeze the lemon over the shellfish.
  “Eat,” he says, holding the shell close to my mouth. I
  part my lips, and he gently places the shell on my bottom
  lip. “Tip your head back slowly,” he murmurs. I do as he
  asks and the oyster slips down my throat. He doesn’t
  touch me, only the shell.
  Christian helps himself to one, then feeds me another.
  We continue this tortuous routine until all twelve are gone.
  His skin never connects with mine. It’s driving me crazy.
  “Still like oysters?” he asks as I swallow the final one.
  I nod, flushed, craving his touch.
  “Good.”
  I squirm in my seat. Why is this so hot?
  He puts his hand casually on his own thigh again, and I
  melt. Now. Please. Touch me. My inner goddess is on her
  knees, naked except for her panties—begging. He runs his
  hand up and down his thigh, lifts it, then places it back
  where it was.
  The waiter tops up our champagne glasses and whisks
  away our plates. Moments later he’s back with our entrée,
  sea bass—I don’t believe it —served with asparagus,
  sautéed potatoes, and a hollandaise sauce.
  “A favorite of yours, Mr. Grey?”
  “A favorite of yours, Mr. Grey?”
  “Most definitely, Miss Steele. Though I believe it was
  cod at the Heathman.” His hand moves up and down his
  thigh. My breathing spikes, but still he doesn’t touch me.
  It’s so frustrating. I try to concentrate on our conversation.
  “I seem to remember we were in a private dining room
  then, discussing contracts.”
  “Happy days,” he says, smirking. “This time I hope to
  get to fuck you.” He moves his hand to pick up his knife.
  Gah!
  He takes a bite out of his sea bass. He’s doing this on
  purpose.
  “Don’t count on it,” I mutter with a pout and he
  glances at me, amused. “Speaking of contracts,” I add.
  “The NDA.”
  “Tear it up,” he says simply.
  Whoa.
  “What? Really?”
  “Yes.”
  “You’re sure I’m not going to run to the Seattle Times
  with an exposé?” I tease.
  He laughs and it’s a wonderful sound. He looks so
  young.
  “No. I trust you. I’m going to give you the benefit of
  the doubt.”
  Oh. I grin shyly at him. “Ditto,” I breathe.
  His eyes light up. “I’m very glad you’re wearing a
  dress,” he murmurs. And bam—desire courses through my
  already overheated blood.
  “Why haven’t you touched me, then?” I hiss.
  “Why haven’t you touched me, then?” I hiss.
  “Missing my touch?” he asks grinning. He’s
  amused . . . the bastard.
  “Yes,” I seethe.
  “Eat,” he orders.
  “You’re not going to touch me, are you?”
  “No.” He shakes his head.
  What? I gasp out loud.
  “Just imagine how you’ll feel when we’re home,” he
  whispers. “I can’t wait to get you home.”
  “It will be your fault if I combust here on the seventysixth
  floor,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
  “Oh, Anastasia. We’d find a way to put the fire out,”
  he says, grinning salaciously at me.
  Fuming, I dig into my sea bass, and my inner goddess
  narrows her eyes in quiet, devious contemplation. We can
  play this game, too. I learned the basics during our meal at
  the Heathman. I take a bite out of my sea bass. It is meltin-
  the-mouth delicious. I close my eyes, savoring the taste.
  When I open them, I begin my seduction of Christian
  Grey, very slowly hitching my skirt up, exposing more of
  my thighs.
  Christian pauses momentarily, a forkful of fish
  suspended midair.
  Touch me.
  After a beat, he resumes eating. I take another bite of
  sea bass, ignoring him. Then, putting down my knife, I run
  my fingers up the inside of my lower thigh, lightly tapping
  my skin with my fingertips. It’s distracting even to me,
  especially as I am craving his touch. Christian pauses once
  especially as I am craving his touch. Christian pauses once
  more.
  “I know what you’re doing.” His voice is low and
  husky.
  “I know that you know, Mr. Grey,” I reply softly.
  “That’s the point.” I pick up an asparagus stalk, gaze
  sideways at him from beneath my lashes, then dip the
  asparagus into the hollandaise sauce, swirling the tip round
  and round.
  “You’re not turning the tables on me, Miss Steele.”
  Smirking he reaches over and takes the spear from me—
  amazingly and annoyingly managing not to touch me again.
  No, this isn’t right—this is not going according to plan.
  Gah!
  “Open your mouth,” he commands.
  I am losing this battle of wills. I glance up at him again,
  and his eyes blaze bright gray. Parting my lips a fraction I
  run my tongue across my lower lip. Christian smiles and his
  eyes darken further.
  “Wider,” he breathes, his lips parting so that I can see
  his tongue. I groan inwardly and bite my bottom lip, then
  do as he asks.
  I hear his sharp intake of breath—he’s not so immune.
  Good, I am finally getting to him. My inner goddess fistpumps
  the air above her chaise longue.
  Keeping my eyes locked on his, I take the spear in my
  mouth, and suck, gently . . . delicately . . . on the end. The
  hollandaise sauce is mouthwatering. I bite down, moaning
  quietly in appreciation.
  Christian closes his eyes. Yes! When he opens them
  again, his pupils have dilated. The effect on me is
  immediate. I groan and reach out to touch his thigh. To my
  surprise, he uses his other hand to grab my wrist.
  “Oh, no you don’t, Miss Steele,” he murmurs softly.
  Raising my hand to his mouth, he gently brushes my
  knuckles with his lips, and I squirm. Finally! More, please.
  “Don’t touch,” he scolds me quietly, and places my
  hand back on my knee. It’s so frustrating—this brief

  unsatisfactory contact.
  “You don’t play fair.” I pout.
  “I know.” He picks up his champagne glass to propose
  a toast, and I mirror his actions.
  “Congratulations on your promotion, Miss Steele.” We
  clink glasses and I blush.
  “Yes, kind of unexpected,” I mutter. He frowns as if
  some unpleasant thought has crossed his mind.
  “Eat,” he orders. “I am not taking you home until
  you’ve finished your meal, and then we can really
  celebrate.” His expression is so heated, so raw, so
  commanding. I am melting.
  “I’m not hungry. Not for food.”
  He shakes his head, thoroughly enjoying himself, but
  narrows his eyes at me just the same.
  “Eat, or I’ll put you across my knee, right here, and
  we’ll entertain the other diners.”
  His words make me squirm. He wouldn’t dare! He
  and his twitchy palm. I press my mouth into a hard line and
  stare at him. Picking up an asparagus stalk, he dips the
  head into the hollandaise.
  “Eat this,” he murmurs, his voice low and seductive.
  I willingly comply.
  “You really don’t eat enough. You’ve lost weight since
  I’ve known you.” His tone is gentle.
  I don’t want to think about my weight; truth is, I like
  being this slim. I swallow the asparagus.
  “I just want to go home and make love,” I mutter
  disconsolately. Christian grins.
  “So do I, and we will. Eat up.”
  Reluctantly, I turn back to my food and start to eat.
  Honestly, I’ve taken my panties off and everything. I feel
  like a child who has been denied candy. He is such a
  tease, a delicious, hot, naughty tease, and all mine.
  He quizzes me about Ethan. As it turns out, Christian
  does business with Kate and Ethan’s father. Hmm . . . it’s
  small world. I’m relieved he doesn’t mention Dr. Flynn or
  the house as I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on our
  conversation. I want to go home.
  The carnal anticipation is unfurling between us. He’s so
  good at this. Making me wait. Setting the scene. Between
  bites, he places his hand on his thigh, so close to mine, but
  still doesn’t touch me just to tease me further.
  Bastard! Finally I finish my food, and place my knife
  and fork on the plate.
  “Good girl,” he murmurs, and those two words hold so
  much promise.
  I frown at him. “What now?” I ask, desire clawing at
  my belly. Oh, I want this man.
  “Now? We leave. I believe you have certain
  expectations, Miss Steele. Which I intend to fulfill to the
  best of my ability.”
  Whoa!
  “The best . . . of your a . . . bil . . . ity?” I stutter. Holy
  shit.
  He grins and stands.
  “Don’t we have to pay?” I ask, breathless.
  He cocks his head to one side. “I am a member here.
  They’ll bill me. Come, Anastasia, after you.” He steps
  aside, and I stand to leave, conscious that I am not
  wearing my panties.
  He gazes at me darkly, like he’s undressing me, and I
  glory in his carnal appraisal. It just makes me feel so sexy
  —this beautiful man desires me. Will I always get a kick
  out of this? Deliberately stopping in front of him, I smooth
  my dress over my hips.
  Christian whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait to get you
  home.” But he still doesn’t touch me.
  On the way out he murmurs something about the car to
  the ma?tre d’, but I’m not listening, my inner goddess is
  incandescent with anticipation. Jeez, she could light up
  Seattle.
  Waiting by the elevators, we are joined by two middleaged
  couples. When the doors open, Christian takes my
  elbow and steers me to the back. I glance around, and
  we’re surrounded by dark smoked-glass mirrors. As the
  other couples enter, one man in a rather unflattering brown
  suit greets Christian.
  suit greets Christian.
  “Grey,” he nods politely. Christian nods in return but is
  silent.
  The couples stand in front of us, facing the elevator
  doors. They are obviously friends—the women chat
  loudly, excited and animated after their meal. I think
  they’re all a little tipsy.
  As the doors close, Christian briefly stoops down
  beside me to tie his shoelace. Odd, his shoelaces aren’t
  undone. Discreetly he places his hand on my ankle,
  startling me, and as he stands his hand travels swiftly up
  my leg, skating deliciously over my skin—whoa—right up.
  I have to stifle my gasp of surprise as his hand reaches my
  backside. Christian moves behind me.
  Oh my. I gape at the people in front of us, staring at
  the backs of their heads. They have no idea what we’re up
  to. Wrapping his free arm around my waist, Christian pulls
  me to him, holding me in place as his fingers explore. Holy
  fucking shit . . . in here? The elevator travels smoothly
  down, stopping at the fifty-third floor to let some more
  people on, but I am not paying attention. I am focused on
  every little move his fingers make. Circling around . . . now
  moving forward, questing, as we shuffle back.
  Again I stifle a groan when his fingers find their goal.
  “Always so ready, Miss Steele,” he whispers as he
  slips a long finger inside me. I squirm and gasp. How can
  he do this with all these people here?
  “Keep still and quiet,” he warns, murmuring in my ear.
  I’m flushed, warm, wanting, trapped in an elevator with
  seven people, six of them oblivious to what’s occurring in
  seven people, six of them oblivious to what’s occurring in
  the corner. His finger slides in and out of me, again and
  again. My breathing. Jeez, it’s embarrassing. I want to tell
  him to stop . . . and continue . . . and stop. I sag against
  him, and he tightens his arm around me, his erection
  against my hip.
  We halt again at the forty-fourth floor. Oh . . . how
  long is this torture going to continue? In . . . out . . .
  in . . . out . . . Subtly I grind myself against his persistent
  finger. After all this time of not touching me, he chooses
  now! Here! And it makes me feel so—wanton.
  “Hush,” he breathes, seemingly unaffected as yet two
  more people come aboard. The elevator is getting
  crowded. Christian moves us both farther back so that
  we’re now pressed into the corner, holding me in place
  and torturing me further. He nuzzles my hair. I’m sure we
  look like a young couple in love, canoodling in the corner,
  if anyone could be bothered to turn round and see what
  we’re doing . . . And he eases a second finger inside me.
  Fuck! I groan, and I’m thankful that the gaggle of
  people in front of us are still chatting away, totally
  oblivious.
  Oh, Christian, what you do to me. I lean my head
  against his chest, closing my eyes and surrendering to his
  unrelenting fingers.
  “Don’t come,” he whispers. “I want that later.” He
  splays his hand out on my belly, pressing down slightly, as
  he continues his sweet persecution. The feeling is exquisite.
  Finally the elevator reaches the first floor. With a loud
  ping the doors open, and almost instantly the passengers
  ping the doors open, and almost instantly the passengers
  start exiting. Christian slowly slips his fingers out of me and
  kisses the back of my head. I glance round at him, and he
  smiles, then nods again at Mr. Badly-fitted-brown-suit
  who returns his nod of acknowledgment as he shuffles out
  of the elevator with his wife. I barely notice, concentrating
  instead on staying upright and trying to manage my panting.
  Jeez, I feel aching and bereft. Christian releases me,
  leaving me to stand on my own two feet without leaning on
  him.
  Turning, I gaze up at him. He looks cool and unruffled,
  his usual composed self. Hmm . . . This is so not fair.
  “Ready?” he asks. His eyes gleam wickedly as he slips
  first his index, then his middle finger into his mouth and
  sucks on them. “Mighty fine, Miss Steele,” he whispers. I
  nearly convulse on the spot.
  “I can’t believe you just did that,” I murmur, and I’m
  practically coming apart at the seams.
  “You’d be surprised what I can do, Miss Steele,” he
  says. Reaching out, he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear,
  a slight smile betraying his amusement.
  “I want to get you home, but maybe we’ll only make it
  as far as the car.” He grins down at me as he takes my
  hand and leads me out of the elevator.
  What! Sex in the car? Can’t we just do it here on the
  cool marble of the lobby floor . . . please?
  “Come.”
  “Yes, I want to.”
  “Miss Steele!” he admonishes me with mock-amused
  horror.
  horror.
  “I’ve never had sex in a car,” I mumble. Christian halts
  and places those same fingers under my chin, tipping my
  head back and glaring down at me.
  “I’m very pleased to hear that. I have to say I’d be
  very surprised, not to say mad, if you had.”
  I flush, blinking up at him. Of course, I’ve only had sex
  with him. I frown at him.
  “That’s not what I meant.”
  “What did you mean?” His tone is unexpectedly harsh.
  “Christian, it was just an expression.”
  “The famous expression, ‘I’ve never had sex in a car.’
  Yes, it just trips off the tongue.”
  Jeez . . . what’s his problem?
  “Christian, I wasn’t thinking. For heaven’s sake,
  you’ve just . . . um, done that to me in an elevator full of
  people. My wits are scattered.”
  He raises his eyebrows. “What did I do to you?” he
  challenges.
  I scowl at him. He wants me to say it.
  “You turned me on, big time. Now take me home and
  fuck me.”
  His mouth drops open then he laughs, surprised. Now
  he looks young and carefree. Oh, to hear him laugh. I love
  it because it’s so rare.
  “You’re a born romantic, Miss Steele.” He takes my
  hand, and we head out of the building to where the valet
  stands by my Saab.
  “So you want sex in a car,” Christian murmurs as he
  switches on the ignition.
  “Quite frankly, I would have been happy with the
  lobby floor.”
  “Trust me, Ana, so would I. But I don’t fancy being
  arrested at this time of night, and I didn’t want to fuck you
  in a restroom. Well, not today.”
  What! “You mean there was a possibility?”
  “Oh yes.”
  “Let’s go back.”
  He turns to gaze at me and laughs. His laughter is
  infectious; soon we’re both laughing—wonderful,
  cathartic, head-held-back laughter. Reaching over, he
  places his hand on my knee, caressing it gently with long
  skilled fingers. I stop laughing.
  “Patience, Anastasia,” he murmurs and pulls into the
  Seattle traffic.
  He parks the Saab in the Escala garage and turns off the
  engine. Suddenly, in the confines of the car, the
  atmosphere between us changes. With wanton
  anticipation, I glance at him, trying to contain my
  palpitating heart. He’s turned toward me, leaning against
  the door, his elbow propped on the steering wheel.
  He pulls his lower lip with his thumb and index finger.
  His mouth is so distracting. I want it on me. He’s watching
  me intently, his eyes dark gray. My mouth goes dry. He
  smiles a slow sexy smile.
  “We will fuck in the car at a time and place of my
  choosing. Right now, I want to take you on every available
  surface of my apartment.”
  It’s like he’s addressing me below the waist . . . my
  inner goddess performs four arabesques and a pas de
  Basque.
  “Yes.” Jeez, I sound so breathy, desperate.
  He leans forward a fraction. I close my eyes, waiting
  for his kiss, thinking—finally. But nothing happens. After a
  moment, I open my eyes to find him gazing at me. I can’t
  figure out what he’s thinking, but before I can say anything,
  he distracts me once more.
  “If I kiss you now we won’t make it into the
  apartment. Come.”
  Gah! Could this man be any more frustrating? He
  climbs out of the car.
  Once again, we wait for the elevator, my body thrumming
  with anticipation. Christian holds my hand, running his
  thumb rhythmically across my knuckles, each stroke
  echoing through me. Oh, I want his hands on all of me.
  He’s tortured me long enough.
  “So, what happened to instant gratification?” I murmur
  while we wait.
  Christian smirks down at me.
  “It’s not appropriate in every situation, Anastasia.”
  “Since when?”
  “Since when?”
  “Since this evening.”

  “Why are you torturing me so?”
  “Tit for tat, Miss Steele.”
  “How am I torturing you?”
  “I think you know.”
  I gaze up at him and his expression is difficult to read.
  He wants my answer . . . that’s it.
  “I’m into delayed gratification, too,” I whisper, smiling
  shyly.
  He tugs my hand unexpectedly, and suddenly I am in
  his arms. He grabs the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling
  gently so my head tips back.
  “What can I do to make you say yes?” he asks
  fervently, throwing me off balance once more. I blink at
  him—at his lovely, serious, desperate expression.
  “Give me some time? Please,” I murmur. He groans
  and finally he kisses me, long and hard. Then we’re in the
  elevator, and we’re all hands and mouths and tongues and
  lips and fingers and hair. Desire, thick and strong, lances
  through my blood, clouding all my reason. He pushes me
  against the wall, pinning me with his hips, one hand in my
  hair, the other at my chin, holding me in place.
  “You own me,” he whispers. “My fate is in your hands,
  Ana.”
  His words are intoxicating, and in my overheated state,
  I want to rip off his clothes. I push off his jacket, and as
  the elevator arrives at the apartment, we tumble out into
  the foyer.
  Christian pins me to the wall by the elevator, his jacket
  Christian pins me to the wall by the elevator, his jacket
  falling to the floor, and his hand travels up my leg, his lips
  never leaving mine. He hoists up my dress.
  “First surface here,” he breathes and abruptly he lifts
  me. “Wrap your legs around me.”
  I do as I’m told, and he turns and lays me down on the
  foyer table, so he’s standing between my legs. I’m aware
  that the usual vase of flowers is missing. Huh? Reaching
  into his jeans pocket, he fishes out a foil packet and hands
  it to me, undoing his fly.
  “Do you know how much you turn me on?”
  “What?” I pant. “No . . . I . . .”
  “Well, you do,” he mutters, “all the time.” He grabs the
  foil packet from my hands. Oh, this is so quick, but after
  all his tantalizing teasing, I want him badly—right now. He
  gazes down at me as he rolls on the condom, then puts his
  hands under my thighs, spreading my legs wider.
  Positioning himself, he pauses. “Keep your eyes open.
  I want to see you,” he whispers and clasping both my
  hands with his, he sinks slowly into me.
  I try, I really do, but the feeling is so exquisite. What
  I’ve been waiting for after all his teasing. Oh, the fullness,
  this feeling . . . I groan and arch my back off the table.
  “Open!” he growls, tightening his hands on mine and
  thrusting sharply into me so that I cry out.
  I blink my eyes open, and he stares down at me wideeyed.
  Slowly he withdraws then sinks into me once more,
  his mouth slackening and then forming an Ah . . . , but he
  says nothing. Seeing his arousal, his reaction to me—I light
  up inside, my blood scorching through my veins. His gray
  up inside, my blood scorching through my veins. His gray
  eyes burn into mine. He picks up the rhythm, and I revel in
  it, glory in it, watching him, watching me—his passion,
  his love—as we come apart, together.
  I call out as I explode around him, and Christian
  follows.
  “Yes, Ana!” he cries. He collapses on me, releasing
  my hands and resting his head on my chest. My legs are
  still wrapped around him, and under the patient, maternal
  eyes of the Madonna paintings, I cradle his head against
  me and struggle to catch my breath.
  He raises his head to look at me. “I’m not finished with
  you yet,” he murmurs and leaning up, he kisses me.
  I lie naked in Christian’s bed, sprawled over his chest,
  panting. Holy cow—does his energy ever wane? Christian
  trails his fingers up and down my back.
  “Satisfied, Miss Steele?”
  I murmur my assent. I have no energy left for talking.
  Raising my head, I turn unfocused eyes to him and bask in
  his warm, fond gaze. Very deliberately, I angle my head
  down so he knows I am going to kiss his chest.
  He tenses momentarily, and I plant a soft kiss in his
  chest hair, breathing in his unique Christian smell, mixed
  with sweat and sex. It’s heady. He rolls onto his side so
  I’m lying beside him and gazes down at me.
  “Is sex like this for everyone? I’m surprised anyone
  ever goes out,” I murmur, feeling suddenly shy.
  He grins. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s pretty
  He grins. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s pretty
  damned special with you, Anastasia.” He bends and kisses
  me.
  “That’s because you’re pretty damned special, Mr.
  Grey,” I agree, smiling up at him and caressing his face. He
  blinks down at me at a loss.
  “It’s late. Go to sleep,” he says. He kisses me, then lies
  down and pulls me to him so we’re spooning in bed.
  “You don’t like compliments.”
  “Go to sleep, Anastasia.”
  Hmm . . . But he is pretty damned special. Jeez . . .
  why doesn’t he realize this?
  “I loved the house,” I murmur.
  He says nothing for a moment, but I sense his grin.
  “I love you. Go to sleep.” He nuzzles my hair, and I
  drift into sleep, safe in his arms, dreaming of sunsets and
  French doors and wide staircases . . . and a small copperhaired
  boy running through a meadow, laughing and
  giggling as I chase him.
  “Gotta go, baby.” Christian kisses me just below my ear.
  I open my eyes and it’s morning. I turn to face him, but
  he’s up and dressed and fresh and delicious, leaning over
  me.
  “What time is it?” Oh no . . . I don’t want to be late.
  “What time is it?” Oh no . . . I don’t want to be late.
  “Don’t panic. I have a breakfast meeting.” He rubs his
  nose against mine.
  “You smell good,” I murmur, stretching out beneath
  him, my limbs pleasurably tight and creaky from all our
  exploits yesterday. I wrap my arms around his neck.
  “Don’t go.”
  He cocks his head to one side and raises his eyebrow.
  “Miss Steele—are you trying to keep a man from an
  honest day’s work?”
  I nod sleepily at him, and he smiles his new shy smile.
  “As tempting as you are, I have to go.” He kisses me
  and stands. He’s wearing a really sharp dark navy suit,
  white shirt and navy tie, and he looks every inch the
  CEO . . . the hot CEO.
  “Laters, baby,” he murmurs and he’s off.
  Glancing at the clock I note it’s already seven—I must
  have slept through the alarm. Well, time to get up.
  In the shower, inspiration hits me. I’ve thought of another
  birthday present for Christian. It’s so difficult to buy
  something for the man who has everything. I’ve already
  given him my main present, and I still have the other item I
  bought at the tourist shop, but this is one present that will
  really be for me. I hug myself in anticipation as I switch off
  the shower. I just have to prepare it.
  In the walk-in closet, I put on a dark red fitted dress
  with a square neckline, cut quite low. Yes, this will do for
  work.
  Now for Christian’s present . I start rummaging
  through his drawers, looking for his ties. In the bottom
  drawer I find those faded, ripped jeans, the ones he wears
  in the playroom—the ones he looks so hot in. I stroke
  them gently, using my whole hand. Oh my, the material is
  so soft.
  Beneath them, I find a large, black, flat cardboard box.
  It piques my interest immediately. What’s in here? I stare
  at it, feeling like I’m trespassing again. Taking it out, I
  shake it. It’s heavy as if it holds papers or manuscripts. I
  cannot resist, I open the lid—and quickly shut it again.
  Holy fuck—photographs from the Red Room. The shock
  makes me sit back on my heels as I try to wipe the image
  from my brain. Why did I open the box? Why has he
  kept them?
  I shudder. My subconscious scowls at me—this is
  before you. Forget them.
  She’s right. Standing up I notice his ties are hanging at
  the end of his clothes rail. I find my favorite and exit
  quickly.
  I try to tell myself those photos are BA—Before Ana.
  My subconscious nods with approval, but it’s with a
  heavier heart that I head into the main room for breakfast.
  Mrs. Jones smiles at me warmly and then frowns.
  “Everything all right, Ana?” she asks kindly.
  “Yes,” I murmur, distracted. “Do you have a key to
  the . . . um, playroom?”
  She pauses momentarily, surprised.
  “Yes, of course.” She unclips a small bunch of keys
  from her belt. “What would you like for breakfast, dear?”
  she asks as she hands me the keys.
  “Just granola. I won’t be long.”
  I feel more ambivalent about this gift now but only
  since the discovery of those photographs. Nothing’s
  changed, my subconscious barks at me again, glaring at
  me over her half-moon winged glasses. That picture was
  hot, my inner goddess chips in, and mentally I scowl at
  her. Yes it was—too hot for me.
  What else does he have hidden away? Quickly I ferret
  through the museum chest, take what I need, and lock the
  playroom door behind me. Wouldn’t do for José to
  discover this!
  I hand the keys back to Mrs. Jones and sit down to
  devour my breakfast, feeling odd that Christian is absent.
  The photograph image dances unwelcome around my
  mind. I wonder who it was? Leila perhaps?
  On my drive in to work, I debate whether or not to tell
  Christian I found his photographs. No, screams my
  subconscious, her Edvard Munch face on. I decide she’s
  probably right.
  As I sit down at my desk, my Blackberry buzzes.
  From: Christian Grey
  Subject: Surfaces
  Date: June 17, 2011 08:59
  To: Anastasia Steele
  I calculate that there are at least 30 surfaces to go. I am looking
  forward to each and every one of them. Then there’s the floors,
  the walls—and let’s not forget the balcony.
  After that there’s my office . . .
  Miss you. x
  Christian Grey
  Priapic CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
  His e-mail makes me smile, and all my earlier reservations
  evaporate. It’s me he wants now, and memories of last
  night’s sexcapades flood my mind . . . the elevator, the
  foyer, the bed. Priapic is right. I wonder idly what the
  female equivalent might be?
  From: Anastasia Steele
  Subject: Romance?
  Date: June 17, 2011 09:03
  To: Christian Grey
  To: Christian Grey
  Mr. Grey
  You have a one-track mind.
  I missed you at breakfast
  But Mrs. Jones was very accommodating.
  A x
  From: Christian Grey
  Subject: Intrigued
  Date: June 17, 2011 09:07
  To: Anastasia Steele
  What was Mrs. Jones accommodating about?
  What are you up to Miss Steele?
  Christian Grey
  Curious CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
  How does he know?
  From: Anastasia Steele
  Subject: Tapping Nose
  Date: June 17, 2011 09:10
  To: Christian Grey
  Wait and see—it’s a surprise.
  I need to work . . . let me be.
  Love you.
  A x
  From: Christian Grey
  Subject: Frustrated
  Date: June 17, 2011 09:12
  To: Anastasia Steele
  I hate it when you keep things from me.
  Christian Grey
  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
  I stare at the small screen of my Blackberry. The
  vehemence implicit in his e-mail takes me by surprise. Why
  does he feel like this? It’s not like I’m hiding erotic
  photographs of my exes.
  From: Anastasia Steele
  Subject: Indulging you
  Subject: Indulging you
  Date: June 17, 2011 09:14
  To: Christian Grey
  It’s for your birthday.
  Another surprise.
  Don’t be so petulant.
  A x
  He doesn’t reply immediately, and I’m called into a
  meeting so I can’t dwell on it for too long.
  When I next glance at my Blackberry, to my horror I
  realize it’s four in the afternoon. Where has the day gone?
  Still no message from Christian. I decide to e-mail him
  again.
  From: Anastasia Steele
  Subject: Hello
  Date: June 17, 2011 16:03
  To: Christian Grey
  Are you not talking to me?
  Don’t forget I am going for a drink with José, and that he’s
  staying with us tonight.
  Please rethink about joining us.
  Please rethink about joining us.
  A x
  He doesn’t reply, and I feel a frisson of unease. I hope
  he’s okay. Calling his mobile, I get his voicemail. The
  announcement simply says Grey, leave a message in his

  most clipped tone.
  “Hi . . . um . . . it’s me. Ana. Are you okay? Call me,”
  I stutter through my message. I’ve never had to leave one
  for him before. I flush as I hang up. Of course he’ll know
  it’s you, idiot! My subconscious rolls her eyes at me. I am
  tempted to ring his PA Andrea but decide that’s a step too
  far. Reluctantly I continue my work.
  My phone rings unexpectedly and my heart jumps.
  Christian! But no—it’s Kate, my best friend finally!
  “Ana!” she shouts from wherever she is.
  “Kate! Are you back? I’ve missed you.”
  “Me, too. I have so much to tell you. We’re at Sea-
  Tac—me and my man.” She giggles in a most un-Katelike
  way.
  “Cool. I have so much to tell you, too.”
  “See you back at the apartment?”
  “I’m having drinks with José. Join us.”
  “José’s in town? Sure! Text me where.”
  “Okay.” I beam. My best friend is home. After all this
  time!
  “You good, Ana?”
  “Yeah, I’m fine.”
  “Still with Christian?”
  “Yes.”
  “Good. Laters!”
  Oh, not her as well. Elliot’s influence knows no
  bounds.
  “Yeah—laters, baby.” I grin and she hangs up.
  Wow. Kate is home. How am I going to tell her all that
  has happened? I should write it down so I don’t forget
  anything.
  An hour later my office phone rings—Christian? No, it’s
  Claire.
  “You should see the guy asking for you in reception.
  How come you know all these hot guys, Ana?”
  José must be here. I glance at the clock—it’s five fiftyfive,
  and a small thrill of excitement pulses through me. I
  haven’t seen him in ages.
  “Ana, wow! You look great. So grown up.” He grins
  at me.
  Just because I’m wearing a smart dress . . . jeez!
  He hugs me hard. “And tall,” he mutters in amazement.
  “It’s just the shoes, José. You don’t look so bad
  yourself.”
  He’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black and
  white check flannel shirt.
  “I’ll grab my things and we can go.”
  “I’ll grab my things and we can go.”
  “Cool. I’ll wait here.”
  I pick up two Rolling Rocks from the crowded bar and
  head over to the table where José is seated.
  “You found Christian’s place okay?”
  “Yeah. I haven’t been inside. I just delivered the
  photos to the service elevator. Some guy named Taylor
  took them up. Looks like quite a place.”
  “It is. You should see inside.”
  “Can’t wait. Salud, Ana. Seattle agrees with you.”
  I flush as we clink bottles. It’s Christian that agrees
  with me. “Salud. Tell me about your show and how it
  went.”
  He beams and launches into the story. He sold all but
  three of his photos, which has taken care of his student
  loans and left him some cash to spare.
  “And I’ve been commissioned to do some landscapes
  for the Portland Tourist Authority. Pretty cool, huh?” he
  finishes proudly.
  “Oh José—that’s wonderful. Not interfering with your
  studies though?” I frown at him.
  “Nah. Now that you guys have gone and three of the
  guys I used to hang out with, I have more time.”
  “No hot babe to keep you busy? Last time I saw you,
  you had half a dozen women hanging on your every
  word.” I arch an eyebrow at him.
  “Nah, Ana. None of them are woman enough for me.”
  He’s all bravado.
  He’s all bravado.
  “Oh sure. José Rodriguez, lady killer.” I giggle.
  “Hey—I have my moments, Steele.” He looks vaguely
  hurt, and I am chastened.
  “Sure you do.” I mollify him.
  “So, how’s Grey?” he asks, his tone changing,
  becoming cooler.
  “He’s good. We’re good,” I murmur.
  “Serious, you say?”
  “Yes. Serious.”
  “He’s not too old for you?”
  “Oh José. You know what my mom says—I was born
  old.”
  José’s mouth twists wryly.
  “How is your mom?” And like that, we are out of the
  danger zone.
  “Ana!”
  I turn and there’s Kate with Ethan. She looks
  gorgeous: sun-kissed, bleached strawberry-blond hair,
  golden tan, and beaming white smile, and so shapely in her
  white cami and tight white jeans. All eyes are on Kate. I
  leap up from my seat to give her a hug. Oh how I’ve
  missed this woman!
  She pushes me away from her and holds me at arm’s
  length, examining me closely. I flush under her intense
  gaze.
  “You’ve lost weight. A lot of weight. And you look
  different. Grown up. What’s been going on?” she says, all
  mother hen, concerned and bossy. “I like your dress. Suits
  you.”
  you.”
  “A lot’s happened since you went away. I’ll tell you
  later when we’re on our own.” I am not ready for the
  Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition just yet. She regards me
  suspiciously.
  “You’re okay?” she asks gently.
  “Yes,” I smile, though I’d be happier knowing where
  Christian is.
  “Cool.”
  “Hi, Ethan.” I grin at him, and he gives me a quick hug.
  “Hi, Ana,” he whispers in my ear.
  José frowns at him.
  “How was lunch with Mia?” I ask Ethan.
  “Interesting,” he says cryptically.
  Oh?
  “Ethan—you know José?”
  “We’ve met once,” José mutters, assessing Ethan as
  they shake hands.
  “Yeah, at Kate’s place in Vancouver,” Ethan says,
  smiling pleasantly at José. “Right—who’s for a drink?”
  I make my way to the restrooms. While there I text
  Christian our location; perhaps he’ll join us. There are no
  missed calls from him and no e-mails. This is not like him.
  “Whassup, Ana?” José asks as I come back to the
  table.
  “I can’t reach Christian. I hope he’s okay.”
  “He’ll be fine. Like another beer?”
  “Sure.”
  “Sure.”
  Kate leans across. “Ethan says some mad stalker exgirlfriend
  was in the apartment with a gun?”
  “Well . . . yeah.” I shrug apologetically. Oh jeez—do
  we have to do this now?
  “Ana—what the hell’s been going on?” Kate stops
  abruptly and checks her phone.
  “Hi, baby,” she says when she answers it. Baby! She
  frowns and looks at me. “Sure,” she says and turns to me.
  “It’s Elliot . . . he wants to talk to you.”
  “Ana.” Elliot’s voice is clipped and quiet, and my scalp
  prickles ominously.
  “What’s wrong?”
  “It’s Christian. He’s not back from Portland.”
  “What? What do you mean?”
  “His helicopter has gone missing.”
  “Charlie Tango?” I whisper as all the breath leaves my
  body. “No!”
  I stare at the flames, mesmerized. They dance and weave
  bright blazing orange with tips of cobalt blue in the
  fireplace in Christian’s apartment. And despite the heat
  pumping out of the fire and the blanket draped around my
  shoulders, I’m cold. Bone-chillingly cold.
  I’m aware of hushed voices, many hushed voices. But
  they’re in the background, a distant buzz. I don’t hear the
  words. All I can hear, all I can focus on, is the soft hiss of
  the gas from the fire.
  My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and
  My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and
  the huge fireplaces—real fireplaces for burning wood. I’d
  like to make love with Christian in front of a real fire. I’d
  like to make love with Christian in front of this fire. Yes,
  that would be fun. No doubt, he’d think of some way to
  make it memorable like all the times we’ve made love. I
  snort wryly to myself, even the times when we were just
  fucking. Yes, those were pretty memorable, too. Where is
  he?
  The flames shimmy and flicker, holding me captive,
  keeping me numb. I focus solely on their flaring, scorching
  beauty. They are bewitching.
  Anastasia, you’ve bewitched me.
  He said that the first time he slept with me in my bed.
  Oh no . . .
  I wrap my arms around myself, and the world falls
  away from me and reality bleeds into my consciousness.
  The creeping emptiness inside expands some more.
  Charlie Tango is missing.
  “Ana. Here,” Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice
  “Ana. Here,” Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice
  bringing me back into the room, into the now, into the
  anguish. She hands me a cup of tea. I take the cup and
  saucer gratefully, the rattle betraying my shaking hands.
  “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from unshed
  tears and the large lump in my throat.
  Mia sits across from me on the larger-than-large Ushaped
  couch, holding hands with Grace. They gaze at me,
  pain and anxiety etched on their lovely faces. Grace looks
  older—a mother worried for her son. I blink
  dispassionately at them. I can’t offer a reassuring smile, a
  tear even—there’s nothing, just blankness and the growing
  emptiness. I gaze at Elliot, José, and Ethan, who stand
  around the breakfast bar, all serious faces, talking quietly.
  Discussing something in soft subdued voices. Behind them,
  Mrs. Jones busies herself in the kitchen.
  Kate is in the TV room, monitoring the local news. I
  hear the faint squawk from the big plasma TV. I can’t bear
  to see the news item again—CHRISTIAN GREY MISSING—
  his beautiful face on TV.
  Idly, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen so many
  people in this room, yet they are still dwarfed by its sheer
  size. Little islands of lost, anxious people in my Fifty’s
  home. What would he think about them being here?
  Somewhere, Taylor and Carrick are talking to the
  authorities who are drip-feeding us information, but it’s all
  meaningless. The fact is—he’s missing. He’s been missing
  for eight hours. No sign, no word from him. The search
  has been called off—this much I do know. It’s just too
  dark. And we don’t know where he is. He could be hurt,
  hungry, or worse. No!
  I offer another silent prayer to God. Please let
  Christian be okay. Please let Christian be okay. I
  repeat it over and over in my head—my mantra, my
  lifeline, something concrete to cling to in my desperation. I
  refuse to think the worst. No, don’t go there. There is
  hope.
  “You’re my lifeline.”
  Christian’s words come back to haunt me. Yes, there
  is always hope. I must not despair. His words echo
  is always hope. I must not despair. His words echo
  through my mind.
  “I’m now a firm advocate of instant gratification.
  Carpe diem, Ana.”
  Why didn’t I seize the day?
  “I’m doing this because I’ve finally met someone I
  want to spend the rest of my life with.”
  I close my eyes in silent prayer, rocking gently. Please,
  let the rest of his life not be this short. Please, please.
  We haven’t had enough time . . . we need more time.
  We’ve done so much in the last few weeks, come so far.
  It can’t end. All our tender moments: the lipstick, when he
  made love to me for the first time at the Olympic hotel, on
  his knees in front of me offering himself to me, finally
  touching him.
  “I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need
  you. Touch me. Please.”
  Oh, I love him so. I will be nothing without him, nothing
  but a shadow—all the light eclipsed. No, no, no . . . my
  poor Christian.
  poor Christian.
  “This is me, Ana. All of me . . . and I’m all yours.
  What do I have to do to make you realize that? To
  make you see that I want you any way I can get you.
  That I love you.”
  And I you, my Fifty Shades.
  I open my eyes and gaze unseeing into the fire once
  more, memories of our time together flitting through my
  mind: his boyish joy when we were sailing and gliding; his
  suave, sophisticated, hot-as-hell look at the masked ball;
  dancing, oh yes, dancing here in the apartment to Sinatra,
  whirling round the room; his quiet, anxious hope yesterday
  at the house—that stunning view.
  “I will lay my world at your feet, Anastasia. I want
  you, body and soul, forever.”
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作者:佚名
章节:7 人气:0
摘要:“她过去很坏……一向如此,他们常常在第五大道旅馆见面。”我母亲这么说,好像那一越轨的情景增加了她所提起的那对男女的罪过。她斜挎着眼镜,看着手里的编织活,声音厚重得嘶嘶作响,好像要烤焦她毫不倦怠的手指间编织的雪白童毯一样。(我母亲是一个典型的乐善好施的人,然而说出的话却尖酸刻薄,一点也不慈善。 [点击阅读]
关于莉莉周的一切
作者:佚名
章节:19 人气:0
摘要:自从那次涉谷四叶大厦现场演唱会结束之后,已经过了三个月。在这几个月中,事件的余波依旧冲击着莉莉周。 [点击阅读]
其他诗集
作者:佚名
章节:8 人气:0
摘要:[印]戈斯这一时期②,诗人一开始便尝试一种新的样式——散文诗。虽然泰戈尔的大部分翻译作品都采用了散文诗这种形式,然而这些作品的孟加拉文原著,显然都是些出色的韵文。那么,诗人到底为什么动手写起了散文诗呢?人们自然会以为,采用散文诗写作与“散文”③《吉檀迦利》的成功(指英译本)有关,诗人自己也赞同这种观点(《再次集》导言)。 [点击阅读]
冒险史系列
作者:佚名
章节:12 人气:0
摘要:一歇洛克-福尔摩斯始终称呼她为那位女人。我很少听见他提到她时用过别的称呼。在他的心目中,她才貌超群,其他女人无不黯然失色。这倒并不是说他对艾琳-艾德勒有什么近乎爱情的感情。因为对于他那强调理性、严谨刻板和令人钦佩、冷静沉着的头脑来说,一切情感,特别是爱情这种情感,都是格格不入的。我认为,他简直是世界上一架用于推理和观察的最完美无瑕的机器。但是作为情人,他却会把自己置于错误的地位。 [点击阅读]
冤家,一个爱情故事
作者:佚名
章节:10 人气:0
摘要:第一章1赫尔曼·布罗德翻了个身,睁开一只眼睛。他睡得稀里糊涂,拿不准自己是在美国,在齐甫凯夫还是在德国难民营里。他甚至想象自己正躲在利普斯克的草料棚里。有时,这几处地方在他心里混在一起。他知道自己是在布鲁克林,可是他能听到纳粹分子的哈喝声。他们用刺刀乱捅,想把他吓出来,他拚命往草料棚深处钻。刺刀尖都碰到了他的脑袋。需要有个果断的动作才能完全清醒过来。 [点击阅读]
冰与火之歌1
作者:佚名
章节:73 人气:0
摘要:“既然野人①已经死了,”眼看周围的树林逐渐黯淡,盖瑞不禁催促,“咱们回头吧。”“死人吓着你了吗?”威玛·罗伊斯爵士带着轻浅的笑意问。盖瑞并未中激将之计,年过五十的他也算得上是个老人,这辈子看过太多贵族子弟来来去去。“死了就是死了,”他说,“咱们何必追寻死人。”“你能确定他们真死了?”罗伊斯轻声问,“证据何在?”“威尔看到了,”盖瑞道,“我相信他说的话。 [点击阅读]