“Thirty-four pounds? Not bad. Ana’s father though, he
　　holds the record. A forty-three pounder.”
　　“You’re kidding! He never said.”
　　“Happy birthday, by the way.”
　　“Thanks. So, where do you like to fish?”
　　I zone out. This I do not need to know. But at the
　　same time I’m relieved. See, Christian? José’s not so bad.
　　By the time José makes to leave, both of them are much
　　more relaxed with each other. Christian quickly changes
　　into T-shirt and jeans and barefoot he accompanies José
　　and me to the foyer.
　　“Thanks for letting me crash here,” José says to
　　Christian as they shake hands.
　　“Anytime,” Christian smiles.
　　José hugs me quickly. “Stay safe, Ana.”
　　“Sure. Great to see you. Next time we’ll have a proper
　　evening out.”
　　“I’ll hold you to that.” He waves at us from inside the
　　elevator, and then he’s gone.
　　“See, he’s not so bad.”
　　“He still wants into your panties, Ana. But can’t say I
　　blame him.”
　　“Christian, that’s not true!”
　　“You have no idea, do you?” He smirks down at me.
　　“He wants you. Big time. ”
　　I frown. “Christian, he’s just a friend, a good friend.”
　　And I’m suddenly aware that I sound like Christian when
　　he’s talking about Mrs. Robinson. The thought is
　　unsettling.
　　Christian holds up his hands in a placating gesture.
　　“I don’t want to fight,” he says softly.
　　Oh! We’re not fighting . . . are we? “Me neither.”
　　“You didn’t tell him we were getting married.”
　　“No. I figured I ought to tell Mom and Ray first.” Shit.
　　It’s the first time I’ve thought about this since I said yes.
　　Jeez—what are my parents going to say?
　　Jeez—what are my parents going to say?
　　Christian nods. “Yes, you’re right. And I . . . um, I
　　should ask your father.”
　　I laugh. “Oh, Christian—this isn’t the eighteenth
　　century.”
　　Holy shit. What will Ray say? The thought of that
　　conversation fills me with horror.
　　“It’s traditional.” Christian shrugs.
　　“Let’s talk about that later. I want to give you your
　　other present.” My aim is to distract him. The thought of
　　my present is burning a hole in my consciousness. I need
　　to give it to him and see how he reacts.
　　He gives me his shy smile, and my heart skips a beat.
　　For as long as I live, I’ll never tire of looking at that smile.
　　“You’re biting your lip,” he says and pulls on my chin.
　　A thrill runs through my body as his fingers touch me.
　　Without a word, and while I still have a modicum of
　　courage, I take his hand and lead him back to the
　　bedroom. I drop his hand, leaving him standing by the bed,
　　and from under my side of the bed, I take out the two
　　and from under my side of the bed, I take out the two
　　remaining gift boxes.
　　“Two?” he says, surprised.
　　I take a deep breath. “I bought this before the, um . . .
　　incident yesterday. I’m not sure about it now.” I quickly
　　hand him one of the parcels before I can change my mind.
　　He gazes at me, puzzled, sensing my uncertainty.
　　“Sure you want me to open it?”
　　I nod, anxious.
　　Christian tears off the packaging and gazes in surprise
　　at the box.
　　“Charlie Tango,” I whisper.
　　He grins. The box contains a small wooden helicopter
　　with a large, solar-powered rotor blade. He opens it up.
　　“Solar powered,” he murmurs. “Wow.” And before I
　　know it he’s sitting on the bed assembling it. It snaps
　　together quickly, and Christian holds it up in the palm of
　　his hand. A blue wooden helicopter. He looks up at me
　　and gives me his glorious, all-American-boy smile, then
　　heads to the window so that the little helicopter is bathed
　　in sunlight and the rotor starts to spin.
　　“Look at that,” he breathes, examining it closely.
　　“What we can already do with this technology.” He holds
　　it at eye level, watching the blades spin. He’s fascinated
　　and fascinating to watch as he loses himself in thought,
　　staring at the little helicopter. What is he thinking?
　　“You like it?”
　　“Ana, I love it. Thank you.” He grabs me and kisses
　　me swiftly, then turns back to watch the rotor spin. “I’ll
　　add it to the glider in my office,” he says distractedly,
　　watching the blade spin. He moves his hand out of the
　　sunlight, and the blade slows down and comes to a stop.
　　I can’t help my face-splitting grin, and I want to hug
　　myself. He loves it. Of course, he’s all about alternative
　　technologies. I’d forgotten that in my haste to buy it.
　　Placing it on the chest of drawers, he turns to face me.
　　“It’ll keep me company while we salvage Charlie
　　Tango.”
　　“Is it salvageable?”
　　“I don’t know. I hope so. I’ll miss her, otherwise.”
　　“I don’t know. I hope so. I’ll miss her, otherwise.”
　　Her? I am shocked at myself for the small pang of
　　jealousy I feel for an inanimate object. My subconscious
　　snorts with derisory laughter. I ignore her.
　　“What’s in the other box?” he asks, his eyes wide with
　　almost childish excitement.
　　Holy fuck. “I’m not sure if this present is for you or
　　me.”
　　“Really?” he asks, and I know I have piqued his
　　interest. Nervously I hand him the second box. He shakes
　　it gently and we both hear a heavy rattle. He glances up at
　　me.
　　“Why are you so nervous?” he asks, bemused. I shrug,
　　embarrassed and excited as I flush. He raises an eyebrow
　　at me.
　　“You have me intrigued, Miss Steele,” he whispers,
　　and his voice runs right through me, desire and anticipation
　　spawning in my belly. “I have to say I’m enjoying your
　　reaction. What have you been up to?” He narrows his
　　eyes speculatively.
　　eyes speculatively.
　　I remain tight-lipped as I hold my breath.
　　He removes the lid of the box and takes out a small
　　card. The rest of the contents are wrapped in tissue. He
　　opens the card, and his eyes dart quickly to mine—
　　widening with shock or surprise. I just don’t know.
　　“Do rude things to you?” he murmurs. I nod and
　　swallow. He cocks his head to one side warily, assessing
　　my reaction, and frowns. Then turns his attention back to
　　the box. He tears through the pale-blue tissue paper and
　　fishes out an eye mask, some nipple clamps, a butt plug,
　　his iPod, his silver-gray tie—and last but by no means least
　　—the key to his playroom.
　　He gazes at me, his expression dark, unreadable. Oh
　　shit. Is this a bad move?
　　“You want to play?” he asks softly.
　　“Yes,” I breathe.
　　“For my birthday?”
　　“Yes.” Could my voice sound any smaller?
　　A myriad of emotions cross his face, none of which I
　　can place, but he settles for anxious. Hmm . . . Not quite
　　the reaction I was expecting.
　　“You’re sure?” he asks.
　　“Not the whips and stuff.”
　　“I understand that.”
　　“Yes, then. I’m sure.”
　　He shakes his head and gazes down at the contents of
　　the box. “Sex mad and insatiable. Well, I think we can do
　　something with this lot,” he murmurs almost to himself, then
　　puts the contents back in the box. When he glances at me
　　again, his expression has completely changed. Holy cow,
　　his gray eyes burn, and his mouth lifts in a slow erotic
　　smile. He holds out his hand.
　　“Now,” he says, and it’s not a request. My belly
　　clenches, tight and hard, deep, deep down.
　　I put my hand in his.
　　“Come,” he orders, and I follow him out of the
　　bedroom, my heart in my mouth. Desire races slick and
　　hot through my blood as my insides tighten with hungry
　　anticipation. My inner goddess somersaults round her
　　anticipation. My inner goddess somersaults round her
　　chaise longue. Finally!
　　Christian pauses outside the playroom.
　　“You’re sure about this?” he asks, his gaze heated yet
　　anxious.
　　“Yes,” I murmur, smiling shyly at him.
　　His eyes soften. “Anything you don’t want to do?”
　　I’m derailed by his unexpected question, and my mind
　　goes into overdrive. One thought occurs. “I don’t want
　　you to take photos of me.”
　　He stills, and his expression hardens as he cocks his
　　head to one side and eyes me speculatively.
　　Oh shit. I think he’s going to ask me why, but
　　fortunately he doesn’t.
　　“Okay,” he murmurs. His brow furrows as he unlocks
　　the door, then stands aside to usher me into the room. I
　　feel his eyes on me as he follows me inside and closes the
　　door.
　　Placing the gift box on the chest of drawers, he takes
　　out the iPod, switches it on, then waves at the music center
　　on the wall so that the smoked glass doors glide silently
　　on the wall so that the smoked glass doors glide silently
　　open. He presses some buttons, and after a moment, the
　　sound of a subway train echoes round the room. He turns
　　it down so that the slow, hypnotic electronic beat that
　　follows becomes ambient. A woman starts to sing, I don’t
　　know who she is but her voice is soft yet rasping and the
　　beat is measured, deliberate . . . erotic. Oh my. It’s music
　　to make love to.
　　Christian turns to face me as I stand in the middle of
　　the room, my heart pounding, my blood singing in my
　　veins, pulsing—or so it feels—in time to the music’s
　　seductive beat. He saunters casually over to me and tugs
　　on my chin so I’m no longer biting my lip.
　　“What do you want to do, Anastasia?” he murmurs,
　　planting a soft chaste kiss at the corner of my mouth, his
　　fingers still grasping my chin.
　　“It’s your birthday. Whatever you want,” I whisper.
　　He traces his thumb along my lower lip, his brow creased
　　once more.
　　“Are we in here because you think I want to be in
　　here?” His words are softly spoken, but he regards me
　　intently.
　　“No,” I whisper. “I want to be in here, too.”
　　His gaze darkens, growing bolder as he assesses my
　　response. After what seems an eternity, he speaks.
　　“Oh, there are so many possibilities, Miss Steele.” His
　　voice is low, excited. “But let’s start with getting you
　　naked.” He pulls the sash of my robe so that it falls open,
　　revealing my silk nightdress, then steps back and sits
　　nonchalantly down on the arm of the chesterfield couch.
　　nonchalantly down on the arm of the chesterfield couch.
　　“Take your clothes off. Slowly.” He gives me a
　　sensual, challenging look.
　　I swallow compulsively, pressing my thighs together.
　　I’m already damp between my legs. My inner goddess is
　　stripped naked and standing in line, ready and waiting and
　　begging me to play catch-up. I pull the robe away from my
　　shoulders, my eyes never leaving his, and shrug, letting it
　　fall billowing to the floor. His mesmerizing gray eyes heat,
　　and he runs his index finger over his lips as he gazes at me.
　　Slipping the spaghetti straps of my gown off my
　　shoulders, I gaze at him for a beat, then release them. My
　　nightdress skims and ripples softly down my body, pooling
　　at my feet. I am naked and practically panting and oh-soready.
　　Christian pauses for a moment, and I marvel at the
　　frankly carnal appreciation in his expression. Standing up,
　　he makes his way over to the chest and picks up his silvergray
　　tie—my favorite tie. He pulls it through his fingers as
　　he turns and strolls casually toward me, a smile playing on
　　his lips. When he stands in front of me, I expect him to ask
　　for my hands, but he doesn’t.
　　“I think you’re underdressed, Miss Steele,” he
　　murmurs. He places the tie around my neck, and slowly
　　but dexterously ties it in what I assume is a fine Windsor
　　knot. As he tightens the knot, his fingers brush the base of
　　my throat and electricity shoots through me, making me
　　gasp. He leaves the wide end of the tie long, long enough
　　so the tip skims my pubic hair.
　　“You look mighty fine now, Miss Steele,” he says and
　　“You look mighty fine now, Miss Steele,” he says and
　　bends to kiss me gently on my lips. It’s a swift kiss, and I
　　want more, desire spiraling wantonly through my body.
　　“What shall we do with you now?” he says, and then
　　picking up the tie, he yanks sharply so that I’m forced
　　forward into his arms. His hands dive into my hair and pull
　　my head back, and he really kisses me, hard, his tongue
　　unforgiving and merciless. One of his hands roams freely
　　down my back to cup my behind. When he pulls away,
　　he’s panting too and gazing down at me, his eyes molten

　　gray; and I’m left wanting, gasping for breath, my wits
　　thoroughly scattered. I’m sure my lips will be swollen after
　　his sensual assault.
　　“Turn around,” he orders gently and I obey. Pulling my
　　hair free of the tie, he quickly braids and secures it. He
　　tugs the braid so my head tilts up.
　　“You have beautiful hair, Anastasia,” he murmurs and
　　kisses my throat, sending shivers running up and down my
　　spine. “You just have to say stop. You know that, don’t
　　you?” he whispers against my throat.
　　I nod, my eyes closed, and relish his lips on me. He
　　turns me round once more and picks up the end of the tie.
　　“Come,” he says, tugging gently, leading me over to the
　　chest where the rest of the box’s contents are on display.
　　“Anastasia, these objects.” He holds up the butt plug.
　　“This is a size too big. As an anal virgin, you don’t want to
　　start with this. We want to start with this.” He holds up his
　　pinky finger, and I gasp, shocked. Fingers . . . there? He
　　smirks at me, and the unpleasant thought of the anal fisting
　　mentioned in the contract comes to mind.
　　mentioned in the contract comes to mind.
　　“Just finger—singular,” he says softly with that uncanny
　　ability he has to read my mind. My eyes dart to his. How
　　does he do that?
　　“These clamps are vicious.” He prods the nipple
　　clamps. “We’ll use these.” He places a different pair of
　　clamps on the chest. They look like giant black hairpins,
　　but with little jet jewels hanging down. “They’re
　　adjustable,” Christian murmurs, his voice laced with gentle
　　concern.
　　I blink up at him, wide-eyed. Christian, my sexual
　　mentor. He knows so much more about all this than I do.
　　I’ll never catch up. I frown. He knows more than me
　　about most things . . . except cooking.
　　“Clear?” he asks.
　　“Yes,” I whisper, my mouth dry. “Are you going to tell
　　me what you intend to do?”
　　“No. I’m making this up as I go along. This isn’t a
　　scene, Ana.”
　　“How should I behave?”
　　His brow creases. “However you want to.”
　　Oh!
　　“Were you expecting my alter ego, Anastasia?” he
　　asks, his tone vaguely mocking and bemused at once. I
　　blink at him.
　　“Well, yes. I like him,” I murmur. He smiles his private
　　smile and reaches up to run his thumb down my cheek.
　　“Do you now,” he breathes and runs his thumb across
　　my lower lip. “I’m your lover, Anastasia, not your Dom. I
　　love to hear your laugh and your girlish giggle. I like you
　　love to hear your laugh and your girlish giggle. I like you
　　relaxed and happy, like you are in José’s photos. That’s
　　the girl that fell into my office. That’s the girl I fell in love
　　with.”
　　Holy cow. My mouth drops open, and a welcome
　　warmth blooms in my heart. It’s joy—pure joy.
　　“But having said all that, I also like to do rude things to
　　you, Miss Steele; and my alter ego knows a trick or two.
　　So, do as you’re told and turn around.” His eyes glint
　　wickedly, and the joy moves sharply south, seizing me
　　tightly and gripping every sinew below my waist. I do as
　　I’m told. Behind me, he opens one of the drawers and a
　　moment later he’s in front of me again.
　　“Come,” he orders and tugs on the tie, leading me to
　　the table. As we walk past the couch, I notice for the first
　　time that all the canes have vanished. It distracts me. Were
　　they there yesterday when I came in? I don’t remember.
　　Did Christian move them? Mrs. Jones? Christian interrupts
　　my train of thought.
　　“I want you to kneel up on this,” he says when we’re
　　at the table.
　　Oh, okay. What does he have in mind? My inner
　　goddess can’t wait to find out—she’s already scissorkicked
　　onto the table and is watching him with adoration.
　　He gently lifts me onto the table, and I fold my legs
　　beneath me and kneel in front of him, surprised by my own
　　grace. Now we are eye to eye. He runs his hands down
　　my thighs, grasps my knees, and pulls my legs apart and
　　stands directly in front of me. He looks very serious, his
　　eyes darker, hooded . . . lustful.
　　eyes darker, hooded . . . lustful.
　　“Arms behind your back. I’m going to cuff you.”
　　He produces some leather cuffs from his back pocket
　　and reaches around me. This is it. Where’s he going to
　　take me this time?
　　His proximity is intoxicating. This man is going to be
　　my husband. Can one lust after one’s husband like this? I
　　don’t remember reading about that anywhere. I can’t resist
　　him, and I run my parted lips along his jaw, feeling the
　　stubble, a heady combination of prickly and soft, under my
　　tongue. He stills and closes his eyes. His breathing falters
　　and he pulls back.
　　“Stop. Or this will be over far quicker than either of us
　　wants,” he warns. For a moment, I think he might be angry
　　but then he smiles, and his heated eyes are alight with
　　amusement.
　　“You’re irresistible,” I pout.
　　“Am I now?” he says dryly.
　　I nod.
　　“Well—don’t distract me, or I’ll gag you.”
　　“I like distracting you,” I whisper, looking mulishly at
　　him, and he cocks his eyebrow at me.
　　“Or spank you.”
　　Oh! I try to hide my smile. There was a time, not very
　　long ago, when I would have been subdued by this threat.
　　I would never have had the nerve to kiss him, unbidden,
　　while he was in this room. I realize now, I’m no longer
　　intimidated by him. It’s a revelation. I grin mischievously,
　　and he smirks at me.
　　“Behave,” he growls and stands back, gazing at me
　　and slaps the leather cuffs across his palm. And the
　　warning is there, implicit in his actions. I try for contrite,
　　and I think I succeed. He approaches me again.
　　“That’s better,” he breathes and leans behind me once
　　more with the cuffs. I resist touching him but inhale his
　　glorious Christian scent, still fresh from last night’s shower.
　　Hmm . . . I should bottle this.
　　I expect him to cuff my wrists, but he attaches each
　　cuff above my elbows. It makes me arch my back, pushing
　　my breasts forward, though my elbows are by no means
　　together. When he’s finished, he stands back to admire
　　me.
　　“Feel okay?” he asks. It’s not the most comfortable of
　　positions, but I’m so wired with anticipation to see where
　　he’s going with this that I nod, weak with wanting.
　　“Good.” He pulls the mask from his back pocket.
　　“I think you’ve seen enough now,” he murmurs. He
　　slides the mask over my head, covering my eyes. My
　　breathing spikes. Wow. Why is not being able to see so
　　erotic? I am here, trussed up and kneeling on a table,
　　waiting—sweet anticipation hot and heavy deep in my
　　belly. I can still hear, though, and the melodic steady beat
　　of the track continues. It resonates through my body. I
　　hadn’t noticed before. He must have it on repeat.
　　Christian steps away. What is he doing? He moves
　　back to the chest and opens a drawer, then closes it again.
　　A moment later he’s back, and I sense him in front of me.
　　There’s a pungent, rich, musky scent in the air. It’s
　　delicious, almost mouth-watering.
　　“I don’t want to ruin my favorite tie,” he murmurs. It
　　slowly unravels as he undoes it.
　　I inhale sharply as the tail of the tie travels up my body,
　　tickling me in its wake. Ruin his tie? I listen acutely to
　　determine what he’s going to do. He’s rubbing his hands
　　together. His knuckles suddenly brush over my cheek,
　　down to my jaw following my jawline.
　　My body leaps to attention as his touch sends a
　　delicious shiver through me. His hand flexes over my neck,
　　and it’s slick with sweet-smelling oil so his hand glides
　　smoothly down my throat, across my clavicle, and up to
　　my shoulder, his fingers kneading gently as they go. Oh,
　　I’m getting a massage. Not what I expected.
　　He places his other hand on my other shoulder and
　　begins another slow teasing journey across my clavicle. I
　　groan softly as he works his way down toward my
　　increasingly aching breasts, aching for his touch. It’s
　　tantalizing. I arch my body further into his deft touch, but
　　his hands glide to my sides, slow, measured, in time to the
　　beat of the music, and studiously avoid my breasts. I
　　groan, but I don’t know if it’s from pleasure or frustration.
　　“You are so beautiful, Ana,” he murmurs, his voice low
　　and husky, his mouth next to my ear. His nose follows
　　along my jaw as he continues to massage me—beneath my
　　breasts, across my belly, down . . . He kisses me fleetingly
　　on my lips, then he runs his nose down my neck, my
　　throat. Holy cow, I’m on fire . . . his nearness, his hands,
　　his words.
　　“And soon you’ll be my wife to have and to hold,” he
　　whispers.
　　Oh my.
　　“To love and to cherish.”
　　Jeez.
　　“With my body, I will worship you.”
　　I tip my head back and moan. His fingers run through
　　my pubic hair, over my sex, and he rubs the palm of his
　　hand against my clitoris.
　　“Mrs. Grey,” he whispers as his palm works against
　　me.
　　I groan.
　　“Yes,” he breathes as his palm continues to tease me.
　　“Open your mouth.”
　　My mouth is already open from panting. I open wider,
　　and he slips a large cool metal object between my lips.
　　Shaped like an oversized baby’s pacifier, it has small
　　grooves or carvings, and what feels like a chain at the end.
　　It’s big.
　　“Suck,” he commands softly. “I’m going to put this
　　inside you.”
　　Inside me? Inside me where? My heart lurches into
　　my mouth.
　　“Suck,” he repeats and he stops palming me.
　　No. Don’t stop, I want to shout, but my mouth is full.
　　His oiled hands glide back up my body and finally cup my
　　neglected breasts.
　　“Don’t stop sucking.”
　　Gently he rolls my nipples between his thumbs and
　　Gently he rolls my nipples between his thumbs and
　　forefingers, and they harden and lengthen under his expert
　　touch, sending synaptic waves of pleasure all the way to
　　my groin.
　　“You have such beautiful breasts, Ana,” he murmurs
　　and my nipples harden further in response. He murmurs his
　　approval and I moan. His lips move down from my neck
　　toward one breast, trailing soft bites and sucks over and
　　over, down toward my nipple, and suddenly I feel the
　　pinch of the clamp.
　　“Ah!” I garble my groan through the device in my
　　mouth. Holy cow, the feeling is exquisite, raw, painful,
　　pleasurable . . . oh—the pinch. Gently, he laves the
　　restrained nipple with his tongue, and as he does so, he
　　applies the other. The bite of the second clamp is equally
　　harsh . . . but just as good. I groan loudly.
　　“Feel it,” he whispers.
　　Oh, I do. I do. I do.
　　“Give me this.” He tugs gently on the ornate metal
　　pacifier in my mouth, and I release it. His hands once more
　　trail down my body, toward my sex. He’s re-oiled his
　　hands. They glide around to my backside.
　　I gasp. What’s he going to do? I tense up on my knees
　　as he runs his fingers between my buttocks.
　　“Hush, easy,” he breathes close to my ear and kisses
　　my neck as his fingers stroke and tease me.
　　What’s he going to do? His other hand glides down
　　my belly to my sex, palming me once more. He eases his
　　fingers inside me, and I moan loudly, appreciatively.
　　“I’m going to put this inside you,” he murmurs. “Not
　　“I’m going to put this inside you,” he murmurs. “Not
　　here.” His fingers trail between my buttocks, spreading oil.
　　“But here.” He moves his fingers round and round, in and
　　out, hitting the front wall of my vagina. I moan and my
　　restrained nipples swell.
　　“Ah.”
　　“Hush now.” Christian removes his fingers and slides
　　the object into me. He cups my face and kisses me, his
　　mouth invading mine, and I hear a very faint click. Instantly
　　the plug inside me starts to vibrate—down there! I gasp.
　　The feeling is extraordinary—beyond anything I’ve felt
　　before.
　　“Ah!”
　　“Easy,” Christian calms me, stifling my gasps with his
　　mouth. His hands move down and tug very gently on the
　　clamps. I cry out loudly.
　　“Christian, please!”
　　“Hush, baby. Hang in there.”
　　This is too much—all this overstimulation, everywhere.
　　My body starts to climb, and on my knees, I’m unable to
　　control the buildup. Oh my . . . Will I be able to handle
　　this?
　　“Good girl,” he soothes.

　　“Christian,” I pant, sounding desperate even to my
　　own ears.
　　“Hush, feel it, Ana. Don’t be afraid.” His hands are
　　now on my waist, holding me, but I can’t concentrate on
　　his hands, what’s inside me, and the clamps, too. My body
　　is building, building to an explosion—with the relentless
　　vibrations and the sweet, sweet torture of my nipples.
　　vibrations and the sweet, sweet torture of my nipples.
　　Holy hell. It will be too intense. His hands move from my
　　hips, down and around, slick and oiled, touching, feeling,
　　kneading my skin—kneading my behind.
　　“So beautiful,” he murmurs and suddenly he gently
　　pushes an anointed finger inside me . . . there! Into my
　　backside. Fuck. It feels alien, full, forbidden . . . but
　　oh . . . so . . . good. And he moves slowly, easing in and
　　out, while his teeth graze my upturned chin.
　　“So beautiful, Ana.”
　　I’m suspended high—high above a wide, wide ravine,
　　and I’m soaring then falling giddily at the same time,
　　plunging to the Earth. I can hold on no more, and I scream
　　as my body convulses and climaxes at the overwhelming
　　fullness. As my body explodes, I’m nothing but sensation
　　—everywhere. Christian releases first one and then the
　　other clamp, causing my nipples to sing with a surge of
　　sweet, sweet painful feeling, but it’s oh-so-good and
　　causing my orgasm, this orgasm, to go on and on. His
　　finger stays where it is, gently easing in and out.
　　“Argh!” I cry out, and Christian wraps himself around
　　me, holding me, as my body continues to pulse mercilessly
　　inside.
　　“No!” I shout again, pleading, and this time he tugs the
　　vibrator out of me, and his finger, too, as my body
　　continues to convulse.
　　He unstraps one of the cuffs so that my arms fall
　　forward. My head lolls on his shoulder, and I am lost, lost
　　to all this overwhelming sensation. I’m all shattered breath,
　　exhausted desire and sweet, welcome oblivion.
　　exhausted desire and sweet, welcome oblivion.
　　Vaguely, I’m aware that Christian lifts me, carries me
　　over to the bed, and lays me down on the cool satin
　　sheets. After a moment, his hands, still oiled, gently rub the
　　backs of my thighs, my knees, my calves, and my
　　shoulders. I feel the bed dip as he stretches out beside me.
　　He pulls the mask off, but I don’t have the energy to
　　open my eyes. Finding my braid he undoes the hair tie and
　　leans forward, kissing me softly on my lips. Only my
　　erratic breathing disturbs the silence in the room and
　　steadies as I float gently back to Earth. The music has
　　stopped.
　　“So beautiful,” he murmurs.
　　When I persuade one eye to open, he’s gazing down
　　at me, smiling softly.
　　“Hi,” he says. I manage a grunt in response, and his
　　smile broadens. “Rude enough for you?”
　　I nod and give him a reluctant grin. Jeez, any ruder and
　　I’d have to spank the pair of us.
　　“I think you’re trying to kill me,” I mutter.
　　“Death by orgasm.” He smirks. “There are worse
　　ways to go,” he says but then frowns ever so slightly as an
　　unpleasant thought crosses his mind. It distresses me. I
　　reach up and caress his face.
　　“You can kill me like this anytime,” I whisper. I notice
　　that he’s gloriously naked and ready for action. When he
　　takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, I lean up and
　　capture his face between my hands and pull his mouth to
　　mine. He kisses me briefly, then stops.
　　“This is what I want to do,” he murmurs and reaches
　　“This is what I want to do,” he murmurs and reaches
　　beneath his pillow for the music center remote. He presses
　　a button and the soft strains of a guitar echo round the
　　walls.
　　“I want to make love to you,” he says gazing down at
　　me, his gray eyes burning with bright, loving sincerity.
　　Softly in background, a familiar voice starts to sing “The
　　First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” And his lips find mine.
　　As I tighten around him, finding my release once more,
　　Christian unravels in my arms, his head thrown back as he
　　calls out my name. He clasps me tightly to his chest as we
　　sit nose to nose in the middle of his vast bed, me astride
　　him. And in this moment—this moment of joy with this
　　man to this music—the intensity of my experience this
　　morning in here with him and all that has occurred during
　　the past week overwhelms me anew, not just physically
　　but emotionally. I am completely overcome with all these
　　feelings. I am so deeply, deeply in love with him. For the
　　first time I’m offered a glimmer of understanding as to how
　　he feels about my safety.
　　Recalling his close call with Charlie Tango yesterday, I
　　shudder at the thought and tears pool in my eyes. If
　　anything ever happened to him—I love him so. My tears
　　run unchecked down my cheeks. So many sides of
　　Christian—his sweet, gentle persona and his rugged, Ican-
　　do-what-I-fucking-well-like-to-you-and-you’ll-comelike-
　　a-train Dominant side—his fifty shades—all of him.
　　All spectacular. All mine. And I’m aware we don’t know
　　each other well, and we have a mountain of issues to
　　overcome, but I know for each other, we will—and we’ll
　　have a lifetime to do it.
　　“Hey,” he breathes, clasping my head in his hands,
　　gazing down at me. He’s still inside me. “Why are you
　　crying?” His voice is filled with concern.
　　“Because I love you so much,” I whisper. He halfcloses
　　his eyes as if drugged, absorbing my words. When
　　he opens them again, they blaze with his love.
　　“And I you, Ana. You make me . . . whole.” He kisses
　　me gently as Roberta Flack finishes her song.
　　We have talked and talked and talked, sitting upright
　　together on the bed in the playroom, me in his lap, our legs
　　curled around each other. The red satin sheet is draped
　　around us like a royal cocoon, and I have no idea how
　　much time has passed. Christian is laughing at my
　　impersonation of Katherine during the photo shoot at the
　　Heathman.
　　“To think it could have been her who came to
　　interview me. Thank the Lord for the common cold,” he
　　murmurs and kisses my nose.
　　“I believe she had flu, Christian,” I scold him, trailing
　　my fingers idly through his chest hair and marveling that
　　he’s tolerating it so well. “All the canes have gone,” I
　　murmur, recalling my distraction from earlier. He tucks my
　　hair behind my ear for the umpteenth time.
　　“I didn’t think you’d ever get past that hard limit.”
　　“No, I don’t think I will,” I whisper wide-eyed at him,
　　then find myself glancing over at the whips, paddles and
　　floggers lining the opposite wall. He follows my gaze.
　　“You want me to get rid of them, too?” He’s amused
　　but sincere.
　　“Not the crop . . . the brown one. Or that suede
　　flogger, you know.” I flush.
　　He smiles down at me.
　　“Okay, the crop and the flogger. Why, Miss Steele,
　　you’re full of surprises.”
　　“As are you, Mr. Grey. It’s one of the things I love
　　about you.” I kiss him gently at the corner of his mouth.
　　“What else do you love about me?” he asks and his
　　eyes widen.
　　I know it’s a huge deal for him to ask this question. It
　　humbles me and I blink at him. I love everything about him
　　—even his fifty shades. I know that life with Christian will
　　never be boring.
　　“This.” I stroke my index finger across his lips. “I love
　　this, and what comes out of it, and what you do to me with
　　it. And what’s in here.” I caress his temple. “You’re so
　　smart and witty and knowledgeable, competent in so many
　　things. But most of all, I love what’s in here.” I press my
　　palm gently against his chest, feeling his steady, beating
　　heart. “You are the most compassionate man I’ve met.
　　What you do. How you work. It’s awe-inspiring,” I
　　whisper.
　　“Awe-inspiring?” He’s puzzled, but there’s a trace of
　　“Awe-inspiring?” He’s puzzled, but there’s a trace of
　　humor on his face. Then his face transforms, and his shy
　　smile appears as if he’s embarrassed, and I want to launch
　　myself at him. So I do.
　　I am dozing, wrapped in satin and Grey. Christian nuzzles
　　me awake.
　　“Hungry?” he whispers
　　“Hmm, famished.”
　　“Me, too.”
　　I lean up to gaze down at him sprawled on the bed.
　　“It’s your birthday, Mr. Grey. I’ll cook you something.
　　What would you like?”
　　“Surprise me.” He runs his hand down my back,
　　stroking me gently. “I should check my Blackberry for all
　　the messages I missed yesterday.” He sighs and starts to
　　sit up, and I know this special time is over . . . for now.
　　“Let’s shower,” he says.
　　Who am I to turn down the birthday boy?
　　Christian is in his study on the phone. Taylor is with him,
　　looking serious but casual in jeans and a tight, black Tshirt.
　　I busy myself in the kitchen fixing lunch. I have found
　　salmon steaks in the fridge, and I’m poaching them with
　　lemon, making a salad, and boiling some baby potatoes. I
　　feel extraordinarily relaxed and happy, on top of the world
　　—literally. Turning toward the large window, I stare out at
　　the glorious blue sky. All that talking . . . all that
　　the glorious blue sky. All that talking . . . all that
　　sexing . . . hmm. A girl could get used to that.
　　Taylor emerges from the study, interrupting my reverie.
　　I turn down my iPod and take out an ear bud.
　　“Hi, Taylor.”
　　“Ana.” He nods.
　　“Your daughter okay?”
　　“Yes, thanks. My ex-wife thought she had
　　appendicitis, but she was overreacting as usual.” Taylor
　　rolls his eyes, surprising me. “Sophie’s fine, though she has
　　a nasty stomach bug.”
　　“I’m sorry.”
　　He smiles.
　　“Has Charlie Tango been located?”
　　“Yes. The recovery team is on its way. She should be
　　back at Boeing Field late tonight.”
　　“Oh, good.”
　　He gives me a tight smile. “Will that be all, ma’am?”
　　“Yes, yes of course.” I flush . . . will I ever get used to
　　Taylor calling me ma’am? It makes me feel so old, at least
　　thirty.
　　He nods and heads out of the great room. Christian is
　　still on the phone. I am waiting for the potatoes to boil. It
　　gives me an idea. Fetching my purse, I fish out my
　　Blackberry. There’s a text from Kate.
　　*C U this evening. Looking forward to a loooooong
　　chat*
　　I text back.
　　I text back.
　　*Same here*
　　It will be good to talk to Kate.
　　Calling up the e-mail program, I type a quick message
　　to Christian.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Lunch
　　Date: June 18, 2011 13:12
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Dear Mr. Grey
　　I am e-mailing to inform you that your lunch is nearly ready.
　　And that I had some mind-blowing, kinky fuckery earlier today.
　　Birthday kinky fuckery is to be recommended.
　　And another thing—I love you.
　　A x
　　(Your fiancée)
　　I listen carefully for a reaction, but he’s still on the phone. I
　　shrug. Perhaps he’s just too busy. My Blackberry
　　vibrates.
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Kinky Fuckery
　　Date: June 18, 2011 13:15
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　What aspect was most mind-blowing?
　　I’m taking notes.
　　Christian Grey
　　Famished and Wasting Away After the Mornings Exertions CEO,
　　Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　PS: I love your signature
　　PPS: What happened to the art of conversation?
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Famished?
　　Date: June 18, 2011 13:18
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Dear Mr. Grey
　　May I draw your attention to the first line of my previous e-mail
　　informing you that your lunch is indeed almost ready . . . so none
　　of this famished and wasting away nonsense. With regard to the
　　mind-blowing aspects of the kinky fuckery . . . frankly—all of it.
　　I’d be interested in reading your notes. And I like my bracketed
　　signature, too.
　　A x
　　(Your fiancée)
　　PS: Since when have you been so loquacious? And you’re on the
　　phone!
　　I press send and look up, and he’s standing in front of me,
　　smirking. Before I can say anything, he bounds around the
　　kitchen island, sweeps me up in his arms, and kisses me
　　soundly.
　　“That is all, Miss Steele,” he says, releasing me, and he
　　saunters—in his jeans, bare feet and untucked white shirt
　　—back to his office, leaving me breathless.
　　I’ve made a watercress, cilantro, and sour cream dip to
　　accompany the salmon, and I’ve set the breakfast bar. I
　　hate interrupting him while he’s working, but now I stand
　　in the doorway of his office. He’s still on the phone, all

　　thoroughly fucked hair and bright gray eyes—a visually
　　nourishing feast. He looks up when he sees me and
　　doesn’t take his eyes off me. He frowns slightly, and I
　　don’t know if it’s at me or because of his conversation.
　　“Just let them in and leave them alone. Do you
　　understand, Mia?” he hisses and rolls his eyes. “Good.”
　　I mime eating, and he grins at me and nods.
　　“I’ll see you later.” He hangs up. “One more call?” he
　　asks.
　　“Sure.”
　　“Sure.”
　　“That dress is very short,” he adds.
　　“You like it?” I give him a quick twirl. It’s one of
　　Caroline Acton’s purchases. A soft turquoise sundress,
　　probably more suitable for the beach, but it’s such a lovely
　　day on so many levels. He frowns and my face falls.
　　“You look fantastic in it, Ana. I just don’t want anyone
　　else to see you like that.”
　　“Oh!” I scowl at him. “We’re at home, Christian. No
　　one but the staff.”
　　His mouth twists, and either he’s trying to hide his
　　amusement or he really doesn’t think that’s funny. But
　　eventually he nods, reassured. I shake my head at him—
　　he’s actually being serious? I head back to the kitchen.
　　Five minutes later, he’s back in front of me, holding the
　　phone.
　　“I have Ray for you,” he murmurs, his eyes wary.
　　All the air leaves my body at once. I take the phone
　　and cover the mouthpiece.
　　“You told him!” I hiss. Christian nods, and his eyes
　　widen at my obvious look of distress.
　　Shit! I take a deep breath. “Hi, Dad.”
　　“Christian has just asked me if he can marry you,” Ray
　　says.
　　Oh Shit. The silence stretches between us as I
　　desperately think what to say. Ray as usual stays silent,
　　giving me no clue as to his reaction to this news.
　　“What did you say?” I crack first.
　　“I said I wanted to talk to you. It’s kind of sudden,
　　don’t you think, Annie? You’ve not known him long. I
　　don’t you think, Annie? You’ve not known him long. I
　　mean, he’s a nice guy, knows his fishing . . . but so soon?”
　　His voice is calm and measured.
　　“Yes. It is sudden . . . hang on.” Hastily, I leave the
　　kitchen area away from Christian’s anxious gaze and head
　　toward the great window. The doors to the balcony are
　　open, and I step out into the sunshine. I can’t quite walk to
　　the edge. It’s just too far up.
　　“I know it’s sudden and all—but . . . well, I love him.
　　He loves me. He wants to marry me, and there’ll never be
　　anyone else for me.” I flush thinking this is probably the
　　most intimate conversation I have ever had with my
　　stepfather.
　　Ray is silent on the other end of the phone.
　　“Have you told your mother?”
　　“No.”
　　“Annie . . . I know he’s all kinds of rich and eligible,
　　but marriage? It’s such a big step. You’re sure?”
　　“He’s my happily ever after,” I whisper.
　　“Whoa.” Ray says after a moment, his tone softer.
　　“He’s everything.”
　　“Annie, Annie, Annie. You’re such a headstrong young
　　woman. I hope to God you know what you’re doing.
　　Hand me back to him, will you?”
　　“Sure, Dad, and will you give me away at the
　　wedding?” I ask quietly.
　　“Oh, honey.” His voice cracks, and he’s quiet for a
　　few moments, the emotion in his voice bringing tears to my
　　eyes. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he says
　　eventually.
　　eventually.
　　Oh, Ray. I love you so much . . . I swallow, to keep
　　from crying. “Thank you, Dad. I’ll hand you back to
　　Christian. Be gentle with him. I love him,” I whisper.
　　I think Ray is smiling on the other end of the line, but
　　it’s hard to tell. It’s always hard to tell with Ray.
　　“Sure thing, Annie. And come and visit this old man
　　and bring that Christian with you.”
　　I march back into the room—pissed at Christian for
　　not warning me—and hand him the phone, my expression
　　letting him know just how pissed I am. He’s amused as he
　　takes the phone and heads back into his study.
　　Two minutes later, he reappears.
　　“I have your stepfather’s rather begrudging blessing,”
　　he says proudly, so proudly, in fact, that it makes me
　　giggle, and he grins at me. He’s acting like he’s just
　　negotiated a major new merger or acquisition, which I
　　suppose on one level, he has.
　　“Damn, you’re a good cook, woman.” Christian swallows
　　his last mouthful and raises his glass of white wine to me. I
　　blossom under his praise, and it occurs to me I’ll only get
　　to cook for him on weekends. I frown. I enjoy cooking.
　　Perhaps I should have made him a cake for his birthday. I
　　check my watch. I still have time.
　　“Ana?” He interrupts my thoughts. “Why did you ask
　　me not to take your photo?” His question startles me all
　　the more because his voice is deceptively soft.
　　Oh . . . shit. The photos. I stare down at my empty
　　plate, twisting my fingers in my lap. What can I say? I’d
　　promised myself not to mention that I’d found his version
　　of Readers’ Wives.
　　“Ana,” he snaps. “What is it?” He makes me jump,
　　and his voice commands me to look at him. When did I
　　think he didn’t intimidate me?
　　“I found your photos,” I whisper.
　　His eyes widen in shock. “You’ve been in the safe?”
　　he asks, incredulous.
　　“Safe? No. I didn’t know you had a safe.”
　　He frowns. “I don’t understand.”
　　“In your closet. The box. I was looking for your tie,
　　and the box was under your jeans . . . the ones you
　　normally wear in the playroom. Except today.” I flush.
　　He gapes at me, appalled, and nervously runs his hand
　　through his hair as he processes this information. He rubs
　　his chin, lost in thought, but he can’t mask the perplexed
　　annoyance etched on his face. Abruptly he shakes his
　　head, exasperated—but amused, too—and a faint smile of
　　admiration kisses the corner of his mouth. He steeples his
　　hands in front of him and focuses on me once more.
　　“It’s not what you think. I’d forgotten all about them.
　　That box has been moved. Those photographs belong in
　　my safe.”
　　“Who moved them?” I whisper.
　　He swallows. “There’s only one person who could
　　have done that.”
　　“Oh. Who? And what do you mean, ‘it’s not what I
　　think’?”
　　He sighs and tilts his head to one side, and I think he’s
　　embarrassed. So he should be! My subconscious snarls.
　　“This is going to sound cold, but—they’re an insurance
　　policy,” he whispers steeling himself for my response.
　　“Insurance policy?”
　　“Against exposure.”
　　The penny drops and rattles uncomfortably round and
　　round in my empty head.
　　“Oh,” I murmur, because I can’t think of what else to
　　say. I close my eyes. This is it. This is Fifty Shades of
　　Fucked-Up, right here, right now. “Yes. You’re right,” I
　　mutter. “That does sound cold.” I stand to clear our
　　dishes. I don’t want to know any more.
　　“Ana.”
　　“Do they know? The girls . . . the subs?”
　　He frowns. “Of course they know.”
　　Oh, well, that’s something. He reaches out, grabbing
　　me and pulling me to him.
　　“Those photos are supposed to be in the safe. They’re
　　not for recreational use.” He stops. “Maybe they were
　　when they were taken originally. But—” He stops,
　　imploring me. “They don’t mean anything.”
　　“Who put them in your closet?”
　　“It could only have been Leila.”
　　“She knows your safe combination?”
　　He shrugs. “It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s a very long
　　combination, and I use it so rarely. It’s the one number I
　　have written down and haven’t changed.” He shakes his
　　head. “I wonder what else she knows and if she’s taken
　　anything else out of there.” He frowns, then turns his
　　attention back to me. “Look, I’ll destroy the photos. Now,
　　if you like.”
　　“They’re your photos, Christian. Do with them as you
　　wish,” I mutter.
　　“Don’t be like that,” he says, taking my head in his
　　hands and holding my gaze to his. “I don’t want that life. I
　　want our life, together.”
　　Holy cow. How does he know that beneath my horror
　　about these photos is the fact that I’m paranoid?
　　“Ana, I thought we exorcised all those ghosts this
　　morning. I feel that way. Don’t you?”
　　I blink at him, recalling our very, very pleasurable and
　　romantic and downright dirty morning in his playroom.
　　“Yes,” I smile. “Yes, I feel like that, too.”
　　“Good.” He leans forward and kisses me, folding me in
　　his arms. “I’ll shred them,” he murmurs. “And then I have
　　to go to work. I’m sorry, baby, but I have a mountain of
　　business to get through this afternoon.”
　　“It’s cool. I have to call my mother.” I grimace. “Then
　　I want to do some shopping and bake you a cake.”
　　He grins and his eyes light up like a small boy’s.
　　“A cake?”
　　I nod.
　　“A chocolate cake?”
　　“You want a chocolate cake?” His grin is infectious.
　　He nods.
　　“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Grey.”
　　“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Grey.”
　　He kisses me once more.
　　Carla is stunned into silence.
　　“Mom, say something.”
　　“You’re not pregnant, are you, Ana?” she whispers in
　　horror.
　　“No, no, no, nothing like that.” Disappointment slices
　　through my heart, and I’m saddened that she would think
　　that of me. But then I remember with an ever-sinking
　　feeling that she was pregnant with me when she married
　　my father.
　　“I’m sorry, darling. This is just so sudden. I mean,
　　Christian is quite a catch, but you’re so young, and you
　　should see a little of the world.”
　　“Mom, can’t you just be happy for me? I love him.”
　　“Darling, I just need to get used to the idea. It’s a
　　shock. I could tell in Georgia that there was something
　　very special between you two, but marriage . . . ?”
　　In Georgia he wanted me to be his submissive, but I
　　won’t tell her that.
　　“Have you set a date?”
　　“No.”
　　“I wish your father was alive,” she whispers. Oh no . . .
　　not this. Not this, now.
　　“I know, Mom. I would have liked to know him, too.”
　　“He only held you once, and he was so proud. He
　　thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world.” Her
　　voice is a deathly hush as the familiar tale is retold . . .
　　voice is a deathly hush as the familiar tale is retold . . .
　　again. She will be in tears next.
　　“I know, Mom.”
　　“And then he died.” She sniffs, and I know this has set
　　her off as it does every time.
　　“Mom,” I whisper, wanting to reach down the phone
　　and hold her.
　　“I’m a silly old woman,” she murmurs and she sniffs
　　again. “Of course I am happy for you, darling. Does Ray
　　know?” she adds, and she seems to have recovered her
　　equilibrium.
　　“Christian’s just asked him.”
　　“Oh, that’s sweet. Good.” She sounds melancholic,
　　but she’s making an effort.
　　“Yes, it was,” I murmur.
　　“Ana, darling, I love you so much. I am happy for you.
　　And you must both visit.”
　　“Yes, Mom. I love you, too.”
　　“Bob is calling me, I have to go. Let me have a date.
　　We need to plan . . . are you having a big wedding?”
　　Big wedding, crap. I haven’t even thought about that.
　　Big wedding? No. I don’t want a big wedding.
　　“I don’t know yet. As soon as I do, I’ll call.”
　　“Good. You take care now and be safe. You two
　　need to have some fun . . . plenty of time for kids later.”
　　Kids! Hmm . . . and there it is again—a not-so-veiled
　　reference to the fact that she had me so early.
　　“Mom, I didn’t really ruin your life, did I?”
　　She gasps. “Oh no, Ana, never think that. You were
　　the best thing that ever happened to your father and me. I
　　the best thing that ever happened to your father and me. I
　　just wish he was here to see you so grown up and getting
　　married.” She’s wistful and maudlin again.