Chapter Two
　　I blink up at him, suddenly very awake after my sleep, my erotic dream
　　forgotten.
　　“I was on my front. I must have turned over in my sleep.” I whisper weakly in
　　my defense.
　　His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his
　　sun lounger, and tosses it at me.
　　“Put this on!” he hisses.
　　“Christian, no one is looking.”
　　“Trust me. They’re looking. I’m sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying
　　the show!” he snarls.
　　Holy shit! Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp my breasts in panic,
　　hiding them. Ever since Charlie Tango’s sabotaged demise we are
　　constantly shadowed by damned security.
　　“Yes,” Christian snarls. “And some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot
　　of you, too. Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked
　　this time?”
　　Shit! The paparazzi! Fuck! As I hurriedly scramble into my top, all fingers and
　　thumbs, the color drains from my face. I shudder. The unpleasant memory of
　　being besieged by the paparazzi outside SIP
　　after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome to mind—all part of the
　　Christian Grey package.
　　“L’addition!” Christian snaps at the passing waitress. “We’re going,” he says
　　to me.
　　“Now?”
　　“Yes. Now.”
　　Oh shit, he’s not to be argued with.
　　He pulls on his shorts, even though his trunks are dripping wet, then his gray
　　T-shirt. The waitress is back in a moment with his credit card and the check.
　　Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops.
　　Once the waitress has left, Christian snatches up his book
　　22 | P a g e
　　E L JAMES
　　and BlackBerry and masks his fury behind mirrored aviator glasses. He’s
　　bristling with tension and anger. My heart sinks. Every other woman on the
　　beach is topless—it’s not that big of a crime. In fact I look odd with my top
　　on. I sigh inwardly, my spirits sinking. I thought Christian would see the funny
　　side . . . sort of . . . maybe if I’d stayed on my front, but his sense of humor
　　has evaporated.
　　“Please don’t be mad at me,” I whisper, taking his book and BlackBerry from
　　him and placing them in my backpack.
　　“Too late for that,” he says quietly—too quietly. “Come.” Taking my hand, he
　　signals up to Taylor and his two sidekicks, the French security officers
　　Philippe and Gaston. Weirdly, they are identical twins. They have been
　　patiently watching us and everyone else on the beach from the verandah.
　　Why do I keep forgetting about them? How? Taylor is stony-faced behind his
　　dark glasses. Shit, he’s mad at me, too. I’m still not used to seeing him so
　　casually dressed in shorts and a black polo shirt.
　　Christian leads me into the hotel, through the lobby, and out onto the street.
　　He remains silent, brooding, and bad-tempered, and it’s all my fault. Taylor
　　and his team shadow us.
　　“Where are we going?” I ask tentatively, gazing up at him.
　　“Back to the boat.” He doesn’t look at me.
　　I have no idea of the time. I think it must be about five or six in the afternoon.
　　When we reach the quayside, Christian leads me onto the dock where the
　　motorboat and Jet Ski belonging to the Fair Lady are moored. As Christian
　　unties the Jet Ski, I hand my backpack to Taylor. I glance nervously up at him,
　　but like Christian, his expression gives nothing away. I flush, thinking about
　　what he’s seen on the beach.
　　“Here you go, Mrs. Grey.” Taylor passes me a life vest from the motorboat,
　　and I dutifully put it on. Why am I the only one who has to wear a life jacket?
　　Christian and Taylor exchange some kind of look. Jeez, is he angry with
　　Taylor, too? Christian then checks the straps on my life jacket, cinching the
　　middle one tightly.
　　“You’ll do,” he mutters sullenly, still not turning to look at me. Shit. He climbs
　　gracefully on to the Jet Ski and holds out his hand for me to join him.
　　Grasping it tightly, I manage to throw my leg over the seat behind him without
　　falling into the water, while Taylor and the twins
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　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　clamber into the motorboat. Christian kicks the Jet Ski away from the quay,
　　and it floats gently into the marina.
　　“Hold on,” he orders, and I put my arms around him. This is my favorite part of
　　traveling by Jet Ski. I hug him closely, my nose nuzzling into his back,
　　marveling that there was a time when he would not have tolerated me
　　touching him this way. He smells good . . . of Christian and the sea. Forgive
　　me, Christian, please?
　　He stiffens. “Steady,” he says, his tone softer. I kiss his back and rest my
　　cheek against him, looking back toward the quay where a few holidaymakers
　　have gathered to watch the show.
　　Christian turns the key and the motor roars to life. With one twist of the
　　accelerator, the Jet Ski bucks forward and speeds across the cool dark
　　water, through the marina and out to the center of the harbor toward the Fair
　　Lady. I hold him tighter. I love this—it’s so exciting. Every muscle in
　　Christian’s lean frame is evident as I cling to him. Taylor pulls alongside in
　　the motorboat. Christian glances at him then accelerates again, and we
　　shoot forward, whipping over the top of the water like an expertly tossed
　　pebble. Taylor shakes his head in resigned exasperation and heads straight
　　to the yacht, while Christian shoots past the Fair Lady and heads out toward
　　the open sea. The sea spray is splashing us, the warm wind buffeting my
　　face and flaying my ponytail crazily around me. This is so much fun. Maybe
　　the thrill of this ride will dispel Christian’s bad mood. I can’t see his face, but I
　　know he’s enjoying himself—carefree, acting his age for a change.
　　He steers in a huge semicircle and I study the shoreline—the boats in the
　　marina, the mosaic of yellow, white and sand-colored offices and
　　apartments, and the craggy mountains behind. It looks so disorganized—not
　　the regimented blocks that I am used to—but so picturesque. Christian
　　glances over his shoulder at me, and there’s the ghost of a smile playing on
　　his lips.
　　“Again?” he shouts over the noise of the engine.
　　I nod enthusiastically. His answering grin is dazzling, and he opens the
　　throttle and speeds around the Fair Lady and on out to sea once more . . .
　　and I think I’m forgiven.
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　　E L JAMES
　　“You’ve caught the sun,” Christian says mildly as he undoes my life vest. I
　　anxiously try to assess his mood. We are on deck aboard the yacht, and one
　　of the stewards is standing quietly nearby, waiting for my life vest. Christian
　　passes it to him.
　　“Will that be all, sir?” the young man asks. I love his French accent. Christian
　　glances at me, takes off his shades, and slips them into the collar of his Tshirt,
　　letting them hang.
　　“Would you like a drink?” he asks me.
　　“Do I need one?”
　　He cocks his head to one side.
　　“Why would you say that?” His voice is soft.
　　“You know why.”
　　He frowns as if weighing something up in his mind. Oh, what is he thinking?
　　“Two gin and tonics, please. And some nuts and olives,” he says to the
　　steward, who nods and quickly vanishes.
　　“You think I’m going to punish you?” Christian’s voice is silky.
　　“Do you want to?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“How?”
　　“I’ll think of something. Maybe when you’ve had your drink.” And it’s a sensual
　　threat. I swallow, and my inner goddess blinks up from her sun lounger where
　　she’s trying to catch rays with a silver reflector fanned out at her neck.
　　Christian’s frowns once more.
　　“You want to be?”
　　“You want to be?”
　　How does he know?
　　“Depends,” I mutter, flushing.

　　“On what?” He hides his smile.
　　“If you want to hurt me or not.”
　　His mouth presses into a hard line, humor forgotten. He leans forward and
　　kisses my forehead.
　　“Anastasia, you’re my wife, not my sub. I don’t ever want to hurt you. You
　　should know that by now. Just . . . just don’t take your clothes off in public. I
　　don’t want you naked all over the tabloids. You don’t want that, and I’m sure
　　your mom and Ray don’t want that either.”
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　　Oh! Ray. Holy shit, he’d have a coronary. What was I thinking? I mentally
　　castigate myself.
　　The steward appears with our drinks and snacks and places them on the
　　teak table.
　　“Sit,” Christian commands. I do as he says and settle into a director’s chair.
　　Christian takes a seat beside me and passes me a gin and tonic.
　　“Cheers, Mrs. Grey.”
　　“Cheers, Mr. Grey.”
　　I take a welcome sip. It’s thirst-quenching, cold, and delicious. When I gaze
　　at him, he’s watching me carefully, his mood unreadable. It’s very frustrating .
　　. . I don’t know if he’s still mad at me. I deploy my patented distraction
　　technique.
　　“Who owns this boat?” I ask.
　　“A British knight. Sir Somebody-or-Other. His great-grandfather started a
　　grocery store. His daughter’s married to one of the Crown Princes of
　　Europe.”
　　Oh. “Super-rich?”
　　Christian looks suddenly wary. “Yes.”
　　“Like you,” I murmur.
　　“Yes.”
　　Oh.
　　“And like you,” Christian whispers and pops an olive into his mouth. I blink
　　rapidly . . . a vision of him in his tux and silver waistcoat comes to mind . . .
　　his eyes burning with sincerity as he gazes down at me during our wedding
　　ceremony.
　　“All that is mine is now yours,” he says, his voice ringing out clearly reciting
　　his vows from memory.
　　All mine? Holy cow.
　　“It’s odd. Going from nothing to”—I wave my hand to indicate our opulent
　　surroundings—“to everything.”
　　“You’ll get used to it.”
　　“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
　　Taylor appears on deck. “Sir, you have a call.” Christian frowns but takes the
　　proffered Blackberry.
　　“Grey,” he snaps and rises from his seat to stand at the bow of the yacht.
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　　E L JAMES
　　I gaze out at the sea, tuning out his conversation with Ros—I think—his
　　number two. I am rich . . . stinking rich. I have done nothing to earn this money
　　. . . just married a rich man. I shudder as my mind drifts back to our
　　conversation about prenups. It was Sunday after his birthday and we were
　　seated at the kitchen table enjoying a leisurely breakfast . . . all of us, Elliot,
　　Kate, Grace, and I were debating the merits of bacon versus sausage, while
　　Carrick and Christian read the Sunday paper . . .
　　~o0o~
　　“Look at this,” squeals Mia as she sets her netbook on the table before us on
　　the kitchen table. “There’s a gossipy item on the Seattle Nooz website about
　　you being engaged, Christian.”
　　“Already?” Grace says in surprise. Then her mouth purses as some
　　obviously unpleasant thought crosses her mind. Christian frowns. Mia reads
　　the column out loud. “Word has reached us here at The Nooz that Seattle’s
　　most eligible bachelor, the Christian Grey, has finally been snapped up and
　　wedding bells are in the air. But who is the lucky, lucky lady? The Nooz is on
　　the hunt. Bet she’s reading one helluva prenup.”
　　Mia giggles then stops abruptly as Christian glares at her. Silence descends,
　　and the atmosphere in the Grey kitchen plunges to below zero.
　　Oh no! A prenup? The thought has never crossed my mind. I swallow, feeling
　　all the blood drain from my face. Please ground, swallow me up now!
　　Christian shifts uncomfortably in his chair as I glance apprehensively at him.
　　Christian shifts uncomfortably in his chair as I glance apprehensively at him.
　　“No,” he mouths at me.
　　“Christian,” Carrick says gently.
　　“I’m not discussing this again,” Christian snaps at Carrick who glances at me
　　nervously and opens his mouth to say something.
　　“No prenup!” Christian almost shouts at him and broodingly goes back to
　　reading his paper, ignoring everyone else at the table. They look alternately
　　at me then him . . . then anywhere but at the two of us.
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　　“Christian,” I murmur. “I’ll sign anything you and Mr. Grey want.”
　　Jeez, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s made me sign something. Christian
　　looks up and glares at me.
　　“No!” he snaps. I blanch once more.
　　“It’s to protect you.”
　　“Christian, Ana—I think you should discuss this in private,” Grace
　　admonishes us. She glares at Carrick and Mia. Oh dear, looks like they’re in
　　trouble, too.
　　“Ana, this is not about you,” Carrick murmurs reassuringly. “And please call
　　me Carrick.”
　　Christian narrows cold eyes at his father and my heart sinks. Hell . . . He’s
　　really mad.
　　Everyone erupts into animated conversation, and Mia and Kate leap up to
　　clear the table.
　　“I definitely prefer sausage,” exclaims Elliot.
　　I stare down at my knotted fingers. Crap. I hope Mr. and Mrs. Grey don’t think
　　I’m some kind of gold digger. Christian reaches over and grasps both my
　　hands gently in one of his.
　　“Stop it.”
　　How does he know what I’m thinking?
　　“Ignore my dad,” Christian says so only I can hear him. “He’s really pissed
　　about Elena. That stuff was all aimed at me. I wish my mom had kept her
　　mouth shut.”
　　I know Christian is still smarting from his “talk” with Carrick about Elena last
　　night.
　　“He has a point, Christian. You’re very wealthy, and I’m bringing nothing to
　　our marriage but my student loans.”
　　Christian gazes at me, his eyes bleak. “Anastasia, if you leave me, you might
　　as well take everything. You left me once before. I know how that feels.”
　　Holy Fuck! “That was different,” I whisper, moved by his intensity.
　　“But . . . you might want to leave me.” The thought makes me sick.
　　He snorts and shakes his head with mock disgust.
　　“Christian, you know, I might do something exceptionally stupid—
　　and you . . .” I glance down at my knotted hands, pain lancing through me
　　unable to finish my sentence. Losing Christian . . . fuck.
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　　E L JAMES
　　“Stop. Stop now. This subject is closed, Ana. We’re not discussing it any
　　more. No prenup. Not now—not ever.” He gives me a pointed give-it-up-now
　　look, which silences me. Then he turns to Grace.
　　“Mom,” he says. “Can we have the wedding here?”
　　~o0o~
　　And he’s not mentioned it again. In fact at every opportunity he’s tried to
　　reassure me about his wealth . . . that’s it mine, too. I shudder as I recall the
　　crazy shopping fest Christian demanded I go on with Caroline Acton—the
　　personal shopper from Niemans—in preparation for this honeymoon. My
　　bikini alone cost five hundred and forty dollars. I mean, it’s nice, but really—
　　that’s a ridiculous amount of money for four triangular scraps of material.
　　“You will get used to it,” Christian interrupts my reverie as he resumes his
　　place at the table.
　　“Used to it?”
　　“The money,” he says rolling his eyes.
　　Oh, Fifty, maybe with time. I push the small dish of salted almonds and
　　cashews toward him.
　　“Your nuts, sir,” I say with as straight a face as I can manage, trying to bring
　　some humor to our conversation after my dark thoughts and my bikini top

　　faux pas.
　　He smirks. “I’m nuts about you.” He takes an almond, his eyes sparkling with
　　wicked humor as he enjoys my little joke. He licks his lips. “Drink up. We’re
　　going to bed.”
　　What?
　　“Drink,” he mouths at me, his eyes darkening.
　　Oh my, the look he gives me could be solely responsible for global warming. I
　　pick up my gin and drain the glass, not taking my eyes off him. His mouth
　　drops open, and I glimpse the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He smiles
　　lewdly at me. In one fluid move, he gets up and bends over me, resting his
　　hands on the arms of my chair.
　　“I’m going to make an example of you. Come. Don’t pee,” he whispers in my
　　ear.
　　I gasp. Don’t pee? How rude. My subconscious looks up from her book—
　　The Complete works of Charles Dickens, Vol. 1—with alarm.
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　　“It’s not what you think.” Christian smirks, holding his hand out to me. “Trust
　　me.” He looks so sexy and genial. How can I resist?
　　“Okay.” I place my hand in his, because quite simply, I’d trust him with my life.
　　What has he got planned? My heart starts pounding in anticipation.
　　He leads me across the deck and through the doors into the plush, beautifully
　　appointed main salon, along a narrow corridor, through the dining room, and
　　down the stairs to the main master cabin. The cabin has been cleaned since
　　this morning and the bed made. It’s a lovely room. With two portholes on both
　　the starboard and port sides, it’s elegantly decorated in dark walnut furniture
　　with cream walls and soft furnishings in gold and red.
　　Christian releases my hand, pulls his T-shirt off over his head, and tosses it
　　onto a chair. He steps out of his flip-flops and removes his shorts and trunks
　　in one graceful move . Oh my. Will I ever tire of looking at him naked? He is
　　utterly gorgeous, and all mine. His skin glows—he’s caught the sun, too, and
　　his hair is longer, flopping over his forehead. I am one lucky, lucky girl.
　　He reaches forward and grasps my chin, pulling slightly so that I stop biting
　　my lip and runs his thumb along my lower lip.
　　“That’s better.” He turns and strides over to the impressive armoire that
　　houses his clothes. He produces two pairs of metal handcuffs and an airline
　　eye mask from the bottom drawer.
　　Handcuffs! We’ve never used handcuffs. I glance quickly and nervously at the
　　bed. Where the hell is he going to attach those? He turns and gazes steadily
　　at me, his eyes dark and luminous.
　　“These can be quite painful. They can bite into the skin if you pull too hard.”
　　He holds up one pair. “But I really want to use them on you now.”
　　Holy fuck. My mouth goes dry.
　　“Here.” He stalks gracefully forward and hands me a set. “Do you want to try
　　them first?”
　　They feel solid, the metal cold. Vaguely, I hope I never have to wear a pair of
　　these for real.
　　Christian is watching me intently.
　　“Where are the keys?” My voice wavering.
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　　He holds out his palm, revealing a small metallic key. “This does both sets. In
　　fact, all sets.”
　　How many sets does he have? I don’t remember seeing any in the museum
　　chest.
　　Reaching up, he strokes my cheek with his index finger, trailing it down to my
　　mouth. He leans in as if to kiss me.
　　“Do you want to play?” he says, his voice low, and everything in my body
　　heads south as desire unfurls deep in my belly.
　　“Yes,” I breathe.
　　He smiles. “Good.” He plants a featherlight kiss on my forehead.
　　“We’re going to need a safe word.”
　　What?
　　“Stop won’t be enough because you will probably say that, but you won’t
　　mean it.” He runs his nose down mine—the only contact between us.
　　What does he mean? My heart starts pounding. Shit . . . How can he do this
　　with just words?
　　“This is not going to hurt. It will be intense. Very intense, because I am not
　　going to let you move. Okay?”
　　Oh my. This sounds so hot. My breathing is too loud. Fuck, I am panting
　　already. My inner goddess has her sequins on and is warming up to dance
　　the rumba. Thank heavens I’m married to this man, otherwise this would be
　　embarrassing. My eyes flick down to his arousal.
　　“Okay.” My voice is barely audible.
　　“Choose a word, Ana.”
　　Oh . . .
　　“A safe word,” he says softly.
　　“Popsicle.” I say, panting.
　　“Popsicle?” he says, amused.
　　“Yes.”
　　He grins as he leans back to gaze down at me. “Interesting choice. Lift up
　　your arms.”
　　I do as I’m told, and Christian grasps the hem of my sundress, lifts it over my
　　head, and tosses it on the floor. He holds out his hand, and I give him back
　　the handcuffs. He places both sets on the bedside table
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　　along with the blindfold and yanks the quilt off the bed, letting it fall to the
　　floor.
　　“Turn round.”
　　I turn, and he undoes my bikini top so that it falls to the floor.
　　“Tomorrow, I will staple this to you,” he mutters and tugs on my hair tie,
　　freeing my hair. He gathers it into one hand and yanks gently so I step back
　　against him. Against his chest. Against his erection. I gasp as he pulls my
　　head to one side and kisses my neck.
　　“You were very disobedient,” he murmurs in my ear, sending delicious
　　shivers through me.
　　“Yes,” I whisper.
　　“Hmm. What are we going to do about that?”
　　“Learn to live with it,” I breathe. His soft languid kisses are driving me wild.
　　He grins against my neck.
　　“Ah, Mrs. Grey. You are ever the optimist.”
　　He straightens. Taking my hair, he carefully parts it into three strands, braids
　　it slowly, and then fastens my hair tie to the end. He tugs my braid gently and
　　leans down to my ear.
　　“I am going to teach you a lesson,” he murmurs.
　　Moving suddenly, he grabs me by the waist, sits down on the bed, and yanks
　　me across his knee so that I feel his erection pressed against my belly. He
　　smacks my backside once, hard. I yelp, then I’m on my back on the bed and
　　he’s gazing down at me, his eyes molten gray. I’m going to combust.
　　“Do you know how beautiful you are?” He trails his fingertips up my thigh so
　　that I tingle . . . everywhere. Without taking his eyes off me, he gets up from
　　the bed and gathers both sets of handcuffs. He grasps my left leg and snaps
　　one cuff around my ankle. Oh!
　　Lifting my right leg, he repeats the process so I have a pair of handcuffs
　　attached to each ankle. I still have no idea where he’s going to attach them.
　　“Sit up,” he orders and I comply immediately.
　　“Now hug your knees.”
　　I blink at him then draw my legs up so they are bent in front of me and wrap
　　my arms around them. He reaches down, lifts my chin, and plants a soft wet
　　kiss on my lips before slipping the blindfold over my
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　　eyes. I can see nothing, all I can hear is my rapid breathing and the sound of
　　the water lapping against the sides of the yacht as she bobs gently on the
　　sea.
　　Oh my. I am so aroused . . . already.
　　“What’s the safe word, Anastasia?”
　　“Popsicle.”
　　“Good.” Taking my left hand, he snaps a cuff around my wrist then repeats
　　the process with my right. My left hand is tied to my left ankle, my right hand
　　to the right leg. I cannot straighten my legs. Holy fuck.
　　“Now,” Christian breathes, “I’m going to fuck you till you scream.”
　　What? And all the air leaves my body.
　　He grasps both of my heels and tips me back so that I fall backward on to the
　　bed. I have no choice but to keep my legs bent. The cuffs tighten as I pull

　　against them. He’s right . . . they cut into me almost to the point of pain . . .
　　This feels weird—being trussed up and helpless—
　　on a boat. He pulls my ankles apart, and I groan.
　　He kisses my inner thigh, and I want to squirm beneath him, but I can’t. I have
　　no purchase to move my hips. My feet are suspended. I cannot move. Holy
　　shit.
　　“You’re going to have to absorb all the pleasure, Anastasia. No moving,” he
　　murmurs as he crawls up my body, kissing me along the edge of my bikini
　　bottoms. He pulls the strings on each side, and the scraps of material fall
　　away. I am now naked and at his mercy. He kisses my belly, nipping my
　　navel with his teeth.
　　“Ah,” I sigh. This is going to be tough . . . I had no idea. He traces soft kisses
　　and little bites up to my breasts.
　　“Shhh . . . ,” he soothes. “You are so beautiful, Ana.”
　　I groan, frustrated. Normally I’d be grinding my hips, responding to his touch
　　with a rhythm of my own, but I cannot move. I moan, pulling on my restraints.
　　The metal bites into my skin.
　　“Argh!” I cry. But I really don’t care.
　　“You drive me crazy,” he whispers. “So I am going to drive you crazy.” He’s
　　resting on me now, his weight on his elbows, and he turns his attention to my
　　breasts. Biting, sucking, rolling my nipples between his fingers and thumbs,
　　driving me wild. He doesn’t stop. It’s maddening. Oh. Please. His erection
　　pushes against me.
　　“Christian,” I beg.
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　　I feel his triumphant smile against my skin.
　　“Shall I make you come this way?” He murmurs against my nipple, causing it
　　to harden some more. “You know I can.” He suckles me hard and I cry out,
　　pleasure lancing from my chest directly to my groin. I pull helplessly on the
　　cuffs, swamped by the sensation.
　　“Yes,” I whimper.
　　“Oh baby, that would be too easy.”
　　“Oh . . . please.”
　　“Shh.” His teeth scrape my chin as he trails his lips to my mouth, and I gasp.
　　He kisses me. His skilled tongue invades my mouth, tasting, exploring,
　　dominating, but my tongue meets his challenge, writhing against his. He
　　tastes of cool gin and Christian Grey, and he smells of the sea. He grasps
　　my chin, holding my head in place.
　　“Still, baby. I want you still,” he whispers against my mouth.
　　“I want to see you.”
　　“Oh no, Ana. You’ll feel more this way.” And agonizingly slowly he flexes his
　　hips and pushes partway into me. I would normally tilt my pelvis up to meet
　　him but I can’t move. He withdraws.
　　“Ah! Christian, please!”
　　“Again?” he teases, his voice hoarse.
　　“Christian!”
　　He pushes fractionally into me again then withdraws while kissing me, his
　　fingers tugging at my nipple. It’s pleasure overload.
　　“No!”
　　“Do you want me, Anastasia?”
　　“Yes,” I beg.
　　“Tell me,” he murmurs, his breathing harsh, and he teases me once more—in
　　. . . and out.
　　“I want you,” I whimper. “Please.”
　　I hear his soft sigh against my ear.
　　“And have me you will, Anastasia.”
　　He rears up and slams into me. I scream, tilting my head back, pulling on the
　　restraints as he hits my sweet spot, and I am all sensation, everywhere—a
　　sweet, sweet agony, and I cannot move. He stills then circles his hips, and
　　the motion radiates deep inside me.
　　“Why do you defy me, Ana?”
　　“Christian, stop . . .”
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　　He circles deep inside me again, ignoring my plea, easing out slowly and
　　then slamming into me again.
　　“Tell me. Why?” he hisses, and I’m vaguely aware that it’s through gritted
　　teeth.
　　I cry out in an incoherent wail . . . this is too much.
　　“Tell me.”
　　“Christian . . .”
　　“Ana, I need to know.”
　　He slams into me again, thrusting so deep, and I’m building . . . the feeling is
　　so intense—it swamps me, spiraling out from deep within my belly, to each
　　limb, to each biting metal restraint.
　　“I don’t know!” I cry out. “Because I can! Because I love you!
　　Please, Christian.”
　　He groans loudly and thrusts deep, again and again, over and over, and I am
　　lost, trying to absorb the pleasure. It’s mind blowing . . . body blowing . . . I
　　long to straighten my legs, to control my imminent orgasm, but I can’t . . . I’m
　　helpless. I’m his, just his, to do with as he wills . . . Tears spring to my eyes.
　　This is too intense. I can’t stop him. I don’t want to stop him . . . I want . . . I
　　want . . . oh no, oh no . . . this is too . . .
　　“That’s it,” Christian growls. “Feel it, baby!”
　　I detonate around him, again and again, round and round, screaming loudly
　　as my orgasm rips me apart, scorching through me like a wildfire, consuming
　　everything. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face—my body left
　　pulsing and shaking.
　　And I’m aware that Christian kneels, still inside me, pulling me upright onto
　　his lap. He clutches my head with one hand and my back with another, and
　　he comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with
　　aftershocks. It’s draining, it’s exhausting, it’s hell . . . it’s heaven. It’s
　　hedonism gone wild.
　　Christian tears off the blindfold and kisses me. He kisses my eyes, my nose,
　　my cheeks. He kisses away the tears, clutching my face in between his
　　hands.
　　“I love you, Mrs. Grey,” he breathes. “Even though you make me so mad—I
　　feel so alive with you.” I don’t have the energy to open either my eyes or my
　　mouth to respond. Very gently, he lays me back on the bed and eases out of
　　me.
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　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　I mouth some wordless protest. He climbs off the bed and undoes the
　　handcuffs. When I’m free, he gently rubs my wrists and ankles, then lies down
　　beside me again, pulling me into his arms. I stretch out my legs. Oh my, that
　　feels good. I feel good. That was, without doubt, the most intense climax I
　　have ever endured. Hmm . . . a Christian Grey fifty shades punishment fuck.
　　I really must misbehave more often.
　　A pressing need from my bladder wakes me. When I open my eyes, I’m
　　disorientated. It’s dark outside. Where am I? London? Paris? Oh—the boat.
　　I feel her pitch and roll, and hear the quiet hum of the engines. We’re on the
　　move. How odd. Christian is beside me, working on his laptop, casually
　　dressed in a white linen shirt and chino trousers, his feet bare. His hair is still
　　wet, I presume from a shower. I can smell his body wash and his Christian
　　smell . . . Hmm.
　　“Hi,” he murmurs, gazing down at me, his eyes warm.
　　“Hi.” I smile, feeling suddenly shy. “How long have I been asleep?”
　　“Just an hour or so.”
　　“We’re moving?”
　　“I figured since we ate out last night and went to the ballet and the Casino
　　that we’d dine on board tonight. A quiet night à deux.”
　　I grin at him. “Where are we going?”
　　“Cannes.”
　　“Okay.” I stretch, feeling stiff. No amount of training with Claude could have
　　prepared me for this afternoon.
　　I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it
　　on. Why am I so shy? I feel Christian’s eyes on me. When I glance at him, he
　　returns to his laptop, his brow furrowed. Why’s he frowning?
　　As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at
　　the Casino, my robe falls open. I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked.
　　Holy fuck! What has he done to me?
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