Chapter Twenty-five
　　I can barely breathe. Do I want to hear this? Christian closes his eyes and
　　swallows. When he opens them again, they are bright but diffident, full of
　　disquieting memories.
　　“It was a hot summer day. I was working hard.” He snorts and shakes his
　　head, suddenly amused. “It was backbreaking work shifting that rubble. I was
　　on my own, and Ele—Mrs. Lincoln appeared out of nowhere and brought me
　　some lemonade. We exchanged small talk, and I made some smart-ass
　　remark . . . and she slapped me. She slapped me so hard.” Unconsciously,
　　his hand moves to his face and he caresses his cheek, his eyes clouding at
　　the memory. Holy shit!
　　“But then she kissed me. And when she finished, she slapped me again.” He
　　blinks, seemingly still confounded even after all this time.
　　“I’d never been kissed before or hit like that.”
　　Oh. She pounced. On a kid.
　　“Do you want to hear this?” Christians asks.
　　Yes . . . No . . .
　　“Only if you want to tell me.” My voice is small as I lie facing him, my mind
　　reeling.
　　“I’m trying to give you some context.”
　　I nod in what I hope is an encouraging manner. But I suspect I may look like a
　　statue, frozen and wide-eyed with shock. He frowns, his eyes searching
　　mine, trying to gauge my reaction. Then he turns onto his back and stares up
　　at the ceiling.
　　“Well, naturally, I was confused and angry and horny as hell. I mean, a hot
　　older woman comes on to you like that—” He shakes his head as if he still
　　can’t believe it.
　　Hot? I feel queasy.
　　“She went back into the house, leaving me in the backyard. She acted as if
　　nothing had happened. I was at a total loss. So I went back to work, loading
　　the rubble into the dumpster. When I left that evening, she asked me to come
　　back the next day. She didn’t mention what had 467 | P a g e
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　　happened. So the next day I went back. I couldn’t wait to see her again,” he
　　whispers as if it’s a dark confession . . . because frankly it is.
　　“She didn’t touch me when she kissed me,” he murmurs and turns his head
　　to gaze at me. “You have to understand . . . my life was hell on earth. I was a
　　walking hard-on, fifteen years old, tall for my age, hormones raging. The girls
　　at school—” He stops, but I’ve got the picture: a scared, lonely, but attractive
　　adolescent. My heart twists.
　　“I was angry, so fucking angry at everyone; at myself, my folks. I had no
　　friends. My therapist at the time was a total asshole. My folks, they kept me
　　on a tight leash; they didn’t understand.” He stares back up at the ceiling and
　　runs a hand through his hair. I itch to run my fingers through his hair, too, but I
　　stay still.
　　“I just couldn’t bear anyone to touch me. I couldn’t. Couldn’t bear anyone near
　　me. I used to fight . . . fuck, did I fight. I got into some god-awful brawls. I was
　　expelled from a couple of schools. But it was a way to let off steam. To
　　tolerate some kind of physical contact.” He stops again. “Well, you get the
　　idea. And when she kissed me, she only grabbed my face. She didn’t touch
　　me.” His voice is barely audible. She must have known. Perhaps Grace had
　　told her. Oh, my poor Fifty. I have to fold my hands beneath my pillow and
　　rest my head on it in order to resist the urge to hold him.
　　“Well, the next day I went back to the house, not knowing what to expect. And
　　I’ll spare you the gory details, but there was more of the same. And that’s
　　how our relationship started.”
　　Oh fuck, this is painful to hear.
　　He shifts again onto his side so he’s facing me.
　　“And you know something, Ana? My world came into focus. Sharp and clear.
　　Everything. It was exactly what I needed. She was a breath of fresh air.
　　Making the decisions, taking all that shit away from me, letting me breathe.”
　　Holy shit.
　　“And even when it all finished, my world stayed in focus because of her. And
　　it stayed that way until I met you.”
　　What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Tentatively, he smoothes a stray
　　lock of my hair behind my ear.
　　“You turned my world on its head.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens
　　them again, they are raw. “My world was ordered, calm and 468 | P a g e
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　　controlled, then you came into my life with your smart mouth, your innocence,
　　your beauty, and your quiet temerity . . . and everything before you was just
　　dull, empty, mediocre . . . it was nothing.”
　　Oh my.
　　“I fell in love,” he whispers.
　　I stop breathing. He caresses my cheek.
　　“So did I,” I murmur with the little breath I have left. His eyes soften. “I know,”
　　he mouths.
　　“You do?”
　　“Yes.”
　　Hallelujah! I smile shyly at him. “Finally,” I whisper. He nods.
　　“And it’s put everything into perspective for me. When I was younger, Elena
　　was the center of my world. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her. And she
　　did a lot for me. She stopped my drinking. Made me work hard at school . . .
　　You know, she gave me a coping mechanism I hadn’t had before, allowed
　　me to experience things that I never thought I could.”
　　“Touch,” I whisper.
　　He nods. “After a fashion.”
　　I frown, wondering what he means.
　　He hesitates at my reaction.
　　Tell me! I will him.
　　“If you grow up with a wholly negative self-image, thinking you’re some kind
　　of reject, an unlovable savage, you think you deserve to be beaten.”
　　Christian . . . you are none of those things.
　　He pauses and runs his hand through his hair. “Ana, it’s much easier to wear
　　your pain on the outside . . .” Again, it’s a confession. Oh.
　　“She channeled my anger.” His mouth presses together in a bleak line.
　　“Mostly inward—I realize that now. Dr. Flynn’s been on and on about this for
　　some time. It was only recently that I saw our relationship for what it was. You
　　know . . . on my birthday.”
　　I shudder as the unwelcome memory of Elena and Christian verbally
　　eviscerating each other at Christian’s birthday party surfaces unwelcome in
　　my mind.
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　　“For her that side of our relationship was about sex and control and a lonely
　　woman finding some kind of comfort with her boy toy.”
　　“But you like control,” I whisper.
　　“Yes. I do. I always will, Ana. It’s who I am. I surrendered it for a brief while.
　　Let someone make all my decisions for me. I couldn’t do it myself—I wasn’t
　　in a fit state. But through my submission to her, I found myself and found the
　　strength to take charge of my life . . . take control and make my own
　　decisions.”
　　“Become a Dom?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Your decision?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Dropping out of Harvard?”
　　“My decision, and it was the best decision I ever made. Until I met you.”
　　“Me?”
　　“Yes.” His lips quirk up in a soft smile. “The best decision I ever made was
　　marrying you.”
　　Oh my. “Not starting your company?”
　　He shakes his head.
　　“Not learning to fly?”
　　He shakes his head. “You,” he mouths. He caresses my cheek with his
　　knuckles. “She knew,” he whispers.
　　I frown. “She knew what?”
　　“That I was head over heels in love with you. She encouraged me to go down
　　to Georgia to see you, and I’m glad she did. She thought you’d freak out and
　　leave. Which you did.”
　　I pale. I’d rather not think about that.
　　“She thought I needed all the trappings of the lifestyle I enjoyed.”
　　“The Dom?” I whisper.
　　He nods. “It enabled me to keep everyone at arm’s length, gave me control,
　　and kept me detached, or so I thought. I’m sure you’ve worked out why,” he
　　adds softly.
　　“Your birth mom?”
　　“I didn’t want to be hurt again. And then you left me.” His words are barely
　　audible. “And I was a mess.”
　　Oh no.
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　　“I’ve avoided intimacy for so long—I don’t know how to do this.”
　　“You’re doing fine,” I murmur. I trace his lips with my index finger. He purses
　　them into a kiss. You’re talking to me.
　　“Do you miss it?” I whisper.
　　“Miss it?”
　　“That lifestyle.”
　　“Yes, I do.”
　　Oh!
　　“But only insofar as I miss the control it brings. And frankly, your stupid
　　stunt”—he stops—“that saved my sister,” he whispers, his words full of relief,
　　awe, and disbelief. “That’s how I know.”
　　“Know?”
　　“Really know that you love me.”
　　I frown. “What?”
　　“Because you risked so much . . . for me, for my family.”
　　My frown deepens. He reaches over and traces his finger over the middle of
　　my brow above my nose.
　　“You have a V here when you frown,” he murmurs. “It’s very soft to kiss. I can
　　behave so badly . . . and yet you’re still here.”
　　“Why are you surprised I’m still here? I told you I wasn’t going to leave you.”
　　“Because of the way that I behaved when you told me you were pregnant.” He
　　runs his finger down my cheek. “You were right. I am an adolescent.”
　　Oh shit . . . I did say that. My subconscious glares at me. His doctor said
　　that!
　　“Christian, I said some awful things.” He puts his index finger over my lips.
　　“Hush. I deserved to hear them. Besides this is my bedtime story.”
　　He rolls onto his back again.
　　“When you told me you were pregnant—” He stops. “I’d thought it would be
　　just you and me for a while. I’d considered children, but only in the abstract. I
　　had this vague idea we’d have a child sometime in the future.”
　　Just one? No . . . Not an only child. Not like me. Perhaps now’s not the best
　　time to bring that up.
　　“You are still so young, and I know you’re quietly ambitious.”
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　　Ambitious? Me?
　　“Well, you pulled the rug from under me. Christ, was that unexpected. Never
　　in a million years, when I asked you what was wrong, did I expect you to be
　　pregnant.” He sighs. “I was so mad. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad at
　　everyone. And it took me back, that feeling of nothing being in my control. I
　　had to get out. I went to see Flynn, but he was at some school parents’
　　evening.” Christian pauses and arches an eyebrow.
　　“Ironic,” I whisper. Christian smirks in agreement.
　　“So I walked and walked and walked, and I just . . . found myself at the salon.
　　Elena was leaving. She was surprised to see me. And, truth be told, I was
　　surprised to find myself there. She could tell I was mad and asked me if I
　　wanted a drink.”
　　Oh shit. We’ve cut to the chase. My heart doubles in speed. Do I really want
　　to know this? My subconscious glares at me, a plucked eyebrow raised in
　　warning.
　　“We went to a quiet bar I know and had a bottle of wine. She apologized for
　　the way she behaved the last time she saw us. She’s hurt that my mom will
　　have nothing to do with her any more—it’s narrowed her social circle—but
　　she understands. We talked about the business, which is doing fine, in spite
　　of the recession . . . I mentioned that you wanted kids.”
　　I frown. What? “I thought you let her know I was pregnant.”
　　He regards me, his face guileless. “No, I didn’t.”
　　“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
　　He shrugs. “I never got the chance.”
　　“Yes, you did.”
　　“I couldn’t find you the next morning, Ana. And when I did, you were so mad at
　　me . . .”
　　Oh, yes. “I was.”
　　“Anyway, at some point in the evening—about halfway through the second
　　bottle—she leaned over to touch me. And I froze,” he whispers, throwing his
　　arm over his eyes.
　　My scalp tingles. What’s this?
　　“She saw that I recoiled from her. It shocked both of us.” His voice is low, too
　　low.
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　　to gaze into my eyes. Shit. His face is pale, his eyes wide.
　　“What?” I breathe.
　　He frowns, and swallows.
　　Oh . . . what isn’t he telling me? Do I want to know?
　　“She made a pass at me.” He’s shocked, I can tell.
　　All the breath is sucked from my body. I feel winded, and I think my heart has
　　stopped. That fucking bitch troll!
　　“It was a moment, suspended in time. She saw my expression, and she
　　realized how far she’d crossed the line. I said . . . no. I haven’t thought of her
　　like that for years, and besides”—he swallows—“I love you. I told her, I love
　　my wife.”
　　I gaze at him. I don’t know what to say.
　　“She backed right off. Apologized again, made it seem like a joke. I mean,
　　she said she’s happy with Isaac and with the business and she doesn’t bear
　　either of us any ill will. She said she missed my friendship, but she could see
　　that my life was with you now. And how awkward that was, given what
　　happened last time we were all in the same room. I couldn’t have agreed with
　　her more. We said our goodbyes—our final goodbyes. I said I wouldn’t see
　　her again, and she went on her way.”
　　I swallow, fear gripping my heart. “Did you kiss?”
　　“No!” he snorts. “I couldn’t bear to be that close to her.”
　　Oh. Good.
　　“I was miserable. I wanted to come home to you. But . . . I knew I’d behaved
　　badly. I stayed and finished the bottle, then started on the bourbon. While I
　　was drinking, I remember you saying to me some time ago, ‘If that was my
　　son . . .’ And I got to thinking about Junior and about how Elena and I started.
　　And it made me feel . . . uncomfortable. I’d never thought of it like that
　　before.”
　　A memory blossoms in my mind—a whispered conversation from when I was
　　half conscious—Christian’s voice: “But seeing her finally put it all in
　　perspective for me. You know . . . with the child. For the first time I felt . . .
　　What we did . . . it was wrong.” He’d been speaking to Grace.
　　“That’s it?”
　　“Pretty much.”
　　“Oh.”
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　　“Oh?”
　　“It’s over?”
　　“Yes. It’s been over since I laid eyes on you. I finally realized it that night and
　　so did she.”
　　“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
　　He frowns. “What for?”
　　“Being so angry the next day.”
　　He snorts. “Baby, I understand angry.” He pauses then sighs. “You see, Ana, I
　　want you to myself. I don’t want to share you. What we have, I’ve never had
　　before. I want to be the center of your universe, for a while at least.”
　　Oh, Christian. “You are. That’s not going to change.”
　　He gives me an indulgent, sad, resigned smile. “Ana,” he whispers.
　　“That’s just not true.”
　　Tears prick my eyes.
　　“How can it be?” he murmurs.
　　Oh no.
　　“Shit—don’t cry, Ana. Please, don’t cry.” He caresses my face.
　　“I’m sorry.” My lower lip trembles, and he brushes his thumb over it, soothing
　　me.
　　“No, Ana, no. Don’t be sorry. You’ll have someone else to love as well. And
　　you’re right. That’s how it should be.”
　　“Blip will love you, too. You’ll be the center of Blip’s—Junior’s world,” I
　　whisper. “Children love their parents unconditionally, Christian. That’s how

　　they come into the world. Programmed to love. All babies . . . even you. Think
　　about that children’s book you liked when you were small. You still wanted
　　your mom. You loved her.”
　　He furrows his brow and withdraws his hand, fisting it against his chin.
　　“No,” he whispers.
　　“Yes. You did.” My tears flow freely now. “Of course you did. It wasn’t an
　　option. That’s why you’re so hurt.”
　　He stares at me, his expression raw.
　　“That’s why you’re able to love me,” I murmur. “Forgive her. She had her own
　　world of pain to deal with. She was a shitty mother, and you loved her.”
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　　begin to fathom.
　　Oh, please don’t stop talking.
　　Eventually he says, “I used to brush her hair. She was pretty.”
　　“One look at you and no one would doubt that.”
　　“She was a shitty mother.” His voice is barely audible. I nod and he closes
　　his eyes. “I’m scared I’ll be a shitty father.”
　　I stroke his dear face. Oh my Fifty, Fifty, Fifty. “Christian, do you think for one
　　minute I’d let you be a shitty father?”
　　He opens his eyes and gazes at me for what feels like an eternity. He smiles
　　as relief slowly illuminates his face. “No, I don’t think you would.” He caresses
　　my face with the back of his knuckles, gazing at me in wonder. “God, you’re
　　strong, Mrs. Grey. I love you so much.”
　　He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “I didn’t know I could.”
　　“Oh, Christian,” I whisper, trying to contain my emotions.
　　“Now, that’s the end of your bedtime story.”
　　“That’s some bedside story . . . ”
　　He smiles wistfully, but I think he’s relieved. “How’s your head?”
　　“My head?” Actually, it’s about to explode with all you’ve told me!
　　“Does it hurt?”
　　“No.”
　　“Good. I think you should sleep now.”
　　Sleep! How can I sleep after all that?
　　“Sleep,” he says sternly. “You need it.”
　　I pout. “I have one question.”
　　“Oh? What?” He eyes me warily.
　　“Why have you suddenly become all . . . forthcoming, for want of a better
　　word?”
　　He frowns.
　　“You’re telling me all this, when getting information out of you is normally a
　　pretty harrowing and trying experience.”
　　“It is?
　　“You know it is.”
　　“Why am I being forthcoming? I can’t say. Seeing you practically dead on the
　　cold concrete, maybe. The fact I’m going to be a father. I don’t know. You
　　said you wanted to know, and I don’t want Elena to come between us. She
　　can’t. She’s the past, and I’ve said that to you so many times.”
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　　“If she hadn’t made a pass at you . . . would you still be friends?”
　　“That’s more than one question.”
　　“Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.” I flush. “You’ve already volunteered more
　　than I ever thought you would.”
　　His gaze softens. “No, I don’t think so, but she’s felt like unfinished business
　　since my birthday. She stepped over the line, and I’m done. Please, believe
　　me. I’m not going to see her again. You said she’s a hard limit for you. That’s
　　a term I understand,” he says with quiet sincerity.
　　Okay. I’m going to let this go now. My subconscious sags into her armchair.
　　Finally!
　　“Goodnight, Christian. Thank you for the enlightening bedtime story.” I lean
　　over to kiss him, and our lips touch briefly, but he pulls back when I try to
　　deepen the kiss.
　　“Don’t,” he whispers. “I am desperate to make love to you.”
　　“Then do.”
　　“No, you need to rest, and it’s late. Go to sleep.” He leans over and switches
　　off the bedside light, plunging us into darkness.
　　“I love you unconditionally, Christian,” I murmur as I cuddle into his side.
　　“I know,” he whispers, and I sense his shy smile.
　　~o0o~
　　I wake with a start. Light is flooding the room, and Christian is not in bed. I
　　glance at the clock and see it’s seven fifty-three. I take a deep breath and
　　wince as my ribs smart though not as badly as yesterday. I think I could go to
　　work. Work—Yes. I want to go to work. It’s Monday, and I spent all of
　　yesterday lounging about in bed. Christian only let me go out briefly to see
　　Ray. Honestly, he’s still such a control freak. I smile fondly. My control freak.
　　He’s been attentive and loving and chatty . . . and hands-off since I arrived
　　home. I scowl. I am going to have to do something about this. My head
　　doesn’t hurt, the pain around my ribs has eased—though, admittedly,
　　laughing has to be undertaken with caution—but I’m frustrated. I think this is
　　the longest I’ve gone without sex since . . . well, since the first time. I think
　　we’ve both recovered our equilibrium. Christian is much 476 | P a g e
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　　more relaxed; his long bedtime story seems to have laid some ghosts to
　　rest, for him and for me. We’ll see.
　　I shower quickly, and once I’m dry, I browse carefully through my clothes. I
　　want something sexy. Something that might galvanize Christian into action.
　　Who would have thought such an insatiable man could actually exercise so
　　much self-control? I don’t really want to dwell on how Christian learned such
　　discipline over his body. We haven’t spoken of the Bitch Troll once since his
　　confessional. I hope we never do. To me she’s dead and buried.
　　I choose an almost indecently short black skirt and a white silk blouse with a
　　frill. I slide on thigh-highs with lacy tops and my black Louboutin pumps. A
　　little mascara and lip gloss for a natural look, and after a ferocious brushing, I
　　leave my hair loose. Yes. This should do it. Christian is eating at the
　　breakfast bar. His forkful of omelet stops in midair when he sees me. He
　　frowns.
　　“Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Going somewhere?”
　　“Work.” I smile sweetly.
　　“I don’t think so.” Christian snorts with amused derision. “Dr. Singh said a
　　week off.”
　　“Christian, I am not spending the day lounging in bed on my own. So I may as
　　well go to work. Good morning, Gail.”
　　“Mrs. Grey.” Mrs. Jones tries to hide a smile. “Would you like some
　　breakfast?”
　　“Please.”
　　“Granola?”
　　“I’d prefer scrambled eggs with whole wheat toast.”
　　Mrs. Jones beams and Christian registers his surprise.
　　“Very good, Mrs. Grey,” Mrs. Jones says.
　　“Ana, you are not going to work.”
　　“But—”
　　“No. It’s simple. Don’t argue.” Christian is adamant. I glare at him, and only
　　then do I notice that he’s in the same pajama bottoms and Tshirt he was
　　wearing last night.
　　“Are you going to work?” I ask.
　　“No.”
　　Am I going crazy? “It is Monday, right?”
　　He smiles. “Last time I looked.”
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　　I narrow my eyes. “Are you playing hooky?”
　　“I’m not leaving you here on your own to get into trouble. And Dr. Singh said it
　　would be a week before you could go back to work. Remember?”
　　I slide onto a bar stool beside him and hoist my skirt up a little. Mrs. Jones
　　places a cup of tea in front of me.
　　“You look good,” Christian says. I cross my legs. “Very good. Especially
　　here.” He traces a finger over the bare flesh that shows above my thighhighs.
　　My pulse quickens as his finger runs across my skin. “This skirt is very
　　short,” he murmurs, vague disapproval in his voice as his eyes follow his
　　finger.
　　“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
　　Christian gazes at me, mouth twisted in an amused yet exasperated smirk.
　　“Really, Mrs. Grey?”
　　I blush.
　　“I’m not sure this look is suitable for the workplace,” he murmurs.
　　“Well, since I’m not going to work, that’s a moot point.”
　　“Moot?”
　　“Moot,” I mouth.
　　Christian smirks again and resumes eating his omelet. “I have a better idea.”
　　“You do?”
　　He glances at me through long lashes, gray eyes darkening. I inhale sharply.
　　Oh my. About time.
　　“We can go see how Elliot’s getting on with the house.”
　　What? Oh! Tease! I vaguely remember we were supposed to do that before
　　Ray was injured.
　　“I’d love to.”
　　“Good.” he grins.
　　“Don’t you have to work?”
　　“No. Ros is back from Taiwan. That all went well. Today, everything’s fine.”
　　“I thought you were going to Taiwan.”
　　He snorts again. “Ana, you were in the hospital.”
　　“Oh.”
　　“Yeah—oh. So today I’m spending some quality time with my 478 | P a g e
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　　wife.” He smacks his lips together as he takes a sip of coffee.
　　“Quality time?” I can’t disguise the hope in my voice. Mrs. Jones places my
　　scrambled eggs in front of me, again failing to hide her smile.
　　Christian smirks. “Quality time.” He nods.
　　I am too hungry to flirt anymore with my husband.
　　“It’s good to see you eat,” he murmurs. Rising, he leans over and kisses my
　　hair. “I’m going to shower.”
　　“Um . . . can I come and scrub your back?” I mumble through a mouth full of
　　toast and scrambled egg.
　　“No. Eat.”
　　Leaving the breakfast bar, he tugs his T-shirt over his head, treating me to
　　the sight of his finely sculptured shoulders and naked back as he saunters
　　out of the great room. I stop mid-chew. He’s doing this on purpose. Why?
　　Ray is in good spirits. Mr. Rodriguez is visiting, too, and they’ve both settled
　　down in front of the large new flat-screen TV in Ray’s room. I suspect
　　Christian had something to do with that. We leave them watching the sports
　　highlights from the previous weekend.
　　Christian is relaxed on the drive north. He’s been this way ever since
　　“the talk.” It’s as if a weight has been lifted; Mrs. Robinson’s shadow no
　　longer looms so large over us, maybe because I’ve decided to let it go—or
　　because he has, I don’t know. But I feel closer to him now than I ever have
　　before. Perhaps because he’s finally confided in me. I hope he continues to
　　do so. And he’s more accepting of the baby, too. He hasn’t gone out and
　　bought a crib yet, but I have high hopes. I gaze at him, drinking him in as he
　　drives. He looks casual, cool . . . sexy with his tousled hair, Ray-Bans,
　　pinstripe jacket, white linen shirt, and jeans.
　　He glances at me, reaches over, and clasps my leg above the knee, his
　　fingers stroking gently. “I’m glad you didn’t change.”
　　I did slip on a denim jacket and change to flats, but I’m still wearing the short
　　skirt. His hand lingers above my knee. I put my hand on his. 479 | P a g e
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　　“Are you going to continue to tease me?”
　　“Maybe.” Christian smiles.
　　“Why?”
　　“Because I can.” He grins, boyish as ever.
　　“Two can play at that game,” I whisper.
　　His fingers move tantalizingly up my thigh. “Bring it on, Mrs. Grey.” His grin
　　broadens.
　　I pick up his hand and put it back on his knee. “Well, you can keep your
　　hands to yourself.”
　　He smirks. “As you wish, Mrs. Grey.”
　　Dammit. This game is going to backfire on me.
　　Christian turns into the driveway of our new house. He stops at the keypad
　　and punches in a number, and the ornate white metal gates swing open. We
　　roar up the tree-lined lane, under leaves that are a blend of green, yellow,
　　and burnished copper. The tall grass in the meadow is turning gold, but there
　　are still a few yellow wildflowers dotted among the grass. It’s a beautiful day.
　　The sun is shining, and the salty tang of the Sound is in the air mixed with the
　　scent of the coming fall. This is such a tranquil and beautiful place. And to
　　think we’re going to make our home here.
　　The lane curves around, and our house comes into view. Several large
　　trucks, sides emblazoned with GREY CONSTRUCTION, are parked out
　　front. The house is decked in scaffolding, and several workmen in hard hats
　　are busy on the roof.
　　Christian pulls up outside the portico and switches off the engine. I can sense
　　his excitement.
　　“Let’s go find Elliot.”
　　“Is he here?”
　　“I hope so. I’m paying him enough.”
　　I snort, and Christian grins as we get out of the car.
　　“Yo, Bro!” Elliot shouts from somewhere. We both glance around.
　　“Up here!” He’s up on the roof, waving down at us and beaming from ear to
　　ear. “About time we saw you here. Stay where you are. I’ll be right down.”
　　I glance at Christian, who shrugs. A few minutes later, Elliot 480 | P a g e
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　　appears at the front door.
　　“Hey, Bro.” He shakes Christian’s hand. “And how are you, little lady?” He
　　picks me up and swings me around.
　　“Better, thanks,” I giggle breathlessly, my ribs protesting. Christian frowns at
　　him, but Elliot ignores him.
　　“Let’s head over to the site office. You’ll need one of these.” He taps his hard
　　hat.
　　The house is a shell. The floors are covered in a hard fibrous material that
　　looks like burlap; some of the original walls have disappeared and new ones
　　have taken their place. Elliot leads us through, explaining what’s happening,
　　while men—and a few women—work everywhere around us. I’m relieved to
　　see the stone staircase with its intricate iron balustrade is still in place and
　　draped completely in white dustsheets. In the main living area, the back wall
　　has been removed to make way for Gia’s glass wall, and work is beginning
　　on the terrace. In spite of the mess, the view is still stunning. The new work is
　　sympathetic and in keeping with the old-world charm of the house . . . Gia’s
　　done well. Elliot patiently explains the processes and gives us a rough
　　timeframe for each. He’s hoping we can be in by Christmas, although
　　Christian thinks this is optimistic.
　　Holy cow—Christmas overlooking the Sound. I can’t wait. A bubble of
　　excitement blooms inside me. I have visions of us trimming an enormous
　　tree while a copper-haired little boy looks on in wonder. Elliot finishes our
　　tour in the kitchen.
　　“I’ll leave you two to roam. Be careful. This is a building site.”
　　“Sure. Thanks, Elliot,” Christian murmurs, taking my hand.
　　“Happy?” he asks once Elliot has left us alone. I am gazing at this empty shell
　　of a room and wondering where I will hang the pepper pictures that we
　　bought in France.
　　“Very. I love it. You?”
　　“Ditto.” He grins.
　　“Good. I was thinking of the pepper pictures in here.”
　　Christian nods. “I want to put up José’s portraits of you in this house. You
　　need to decide where they should go.”
　　I flush. “Somewhere I won’t see them often.”
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　　“Don’t be like that,” he scolds, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip.
　　“They’re my favorite pictures. I love the one in my office.”
　　“I have no idea why,” I murmur and kiss the pad of his thumb.
　　“Worse things to do than look at your beautiful smiling face all day. Hungry?”
　　he asks.
　　“Hungry for what?” I whisper.
　　He smirks, his eyes darkening. Hope and desire unfurl in my veins.
　　“Food, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs, and he plants a swift kiss on my lips. I give

　　him my faux pout and sigh.
　　“Yes. These days I’m always hungry.”
　　“The three of us can have a picnic.”
　　“Three of us? Is someone joining us?”
　　Christian cocks his head to one side. “In about seven or eight months.”
　　Oh . . . Blip. I grin goofily at him.
　　“I thought you might like to eat al fresco.”
　　“In the meadow?” I ask.
　　He nods.
　　“Sure.” I grin.
　　“This will be a great place to raise a family,” he murmurs, gazing down at me.
　　Family! More than one? Dare I mention this now?
　　He spreads his fingers over my belly. Holy shit. I hold my breath and place
　　my hand over his.
　　“It’s hard to believe,” he whispers, and for the first time I hear wonder in his
　　voice.
　　“I know. Oh—here, I have evidence. A picture.”
　　“You do? Baby’s first smile?”
　　I pull out the ultrasound of Blip from my wallet.
　　“See?”
　　Christian examines it closely, staring for several seconds.
　　“Oh . . . Blip. Yeah, I see.” He sounds distracted, awed.
　　“Your child,” I whisper.
　　“Our child,” he counters.
　　“First of many.”
　　“Many?” Christian’s eyes widen with alarm.
　　“At least two.”
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　　“Two?” He tests the word. “Can we just take this one child at a time?”
　　I grin. “Sure.”
　　We head back outside into the warm fall afternoon.
　　“When are you going to tell your folks?” Christian asks.
　　“Soon,” I murmur. “I thought about telling Ray this morning, but Mr. Rodriguez
　　was there.” I shrug.
　　Christian nods and opens the hood of the R8. Inside are a wicker picnic
　　basket and the tartan blanket we bought in London.
　　“Come,” he says, taking the basket and blanket in one hand and holding the
　　other out to me. Together we walk into the meadow.
　　“Sure, Ros, go for it.” Christian hangs up. That’s the third call he’s taken
　　during our picnic. He’s kicked off his shoes and socks, and is watching me,
　　arms on his raised knees. His jacket lies discarded on top of mine, as we’re
　　warm in the sun. I lie beside him, stretched out on the tartan picnic blanket,
　　both of us surrounded by tall golden and green grass, far, far from the noise
　　at the house and hidden from the prying eyes of the construction workers.
　　We are in our own bucolic haven. He feeds me another strawberry, and I
　　chew and suck it gratefully, gazing at his darkening eyes.
　　“Tasty?” he whispers.
　　“Very.”
　　“Had enough?”
　　“Of strawberries, yes.”
　　His eyes glitter dangerously, and he grins down at me. “Mrs. Jones packs a
　　mighty fine picnic,” he says.
　　“That she does,” I whisper.
　　Shifting suddenly, he lies down so his head is resting on my belly. He closes
　　his eyes and seems content. I tangle my fingers in his hair. He sighs heavily,
　　then scowls and checks the number on the screen of his buzzing BlackBerry.
　　He rolls his eyes and takes the call.
　　“Welch,” he snaps. He tenses, listens for a second or two, then suddenly
　　bolts upright.
　　“24-7 . . . Thanks,” he says through gritted teeth and hangs up. The change in
　　his mood is instant. Gone is my teasing, flirtatious husband, 483 | P a g e
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　　replaced by a cold, calculating master of the universe. He narrows his eyes
　　for a moment then gives me a cool, chilling smile. A shiver runs down my
　　back. He picks up his BlackBerry and presses a speed dial.
　　“Ros, how much stock do we own in Lincoln Timber?” He kneels up.
　　My scalp prickles. Oh no, what’s this?
　　“So, consolidate the shares into GEH, then fire the board . . . except the
　　CEO. . . . I don’t give a fuck . . . I hear you, just do it . . . thank you . . . keep me
　　informed.” He hangs up, and gazes at me impassively for a moment.
　　Holy shit! Christian is mad.
　　“What’s happened?”
　　“Linc,” he murmurs.
　　“Linc? Elena’s ex?”
　　“The same. He’s the one who posted Hyde’s bail.”
　　What? Why? I gape at Christian in shock. His mouth is pressed in a hard
　　line.
　　“Well—he’ll look like an idiot,” I murmur, dismayed. “I mean, Hyde committed
　　another crime while out on bail.”
　　Christian’s eyes narrow and he smirks. “Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey.”
　　“What did you just do?” I kneel up, facing him.
　　“I fucked him over.”
　　Oh! “Um . . . that seems a little impulsive,” I murmur.
　　“I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.”
　　“I’m aware of that.”
　　His eyes narrow and his lips thin. “I’ve had this plan in my back pocket for a
　　while,” he says dryly.
　　I frown. “Oh?”
　　He pauses, seeming to weigh up something in his mind, then takes a deep
　　breath.
　　“Several years back, when I was twenty-one, Linc beat his wife to a pulp. He
　　broke her jaw, her left arm, and four of her ribs because she was fucking
　　me.” His eyes harden. “And now I learn he posted bail for a man who tried to
　　kill me, kidnapped my sister, and fractured my wife’s skull. I’ve had enough. I
　　think it’s payback time.”
　　I blanch. Holy shit. “Fair point well made, Mr. Grey,” I whisper. 484 | P a g e
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　　“Ana, this is what I do. I’m not usually motivated by revenge, but I cannot let
　　him get away with this. What he did to Elena . . . well, she should have
　　pressed charges, but she didn’t. That was her prerogative.
　　“But he’s seriously crossed the line with Hyde. Linc’s made this personal by
　　going after my family. I’m going to crush him, break up his company right
　　under his nose, and sell the pieces to the highest bidder. I am going to
　　bankrupt him.”
　　Oh . . .
　　“Besides,” Christian smirks. “We’ll make good money out of the deal.”
　　I stare into blazing gray eyes that soften suddenly.
　　“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he whispers.
　　“You didn’t,” I lie.
　　He arches a brow, amused.
　　“You just took me by surprise,” I whisper, then swallow. Christian is really
　　quite scary sometimes.
　　Leaning down he brushes his lips against mine. “I will do anything to keep
　　you safe. Keep my family safe. Keep this little one safe,” he murmurs and
　　splays his hand out over my belly in a gentle caress. Oh . . . I stop breathing.
　　Christian gazes down at me, his eyes darkening. His lips part as he inhales
　　and, in a deliberate move, the tips of his fingers brush against my sex.
　　Holy shit. Desire detonates like an incendiary device igniting my
　　bloodstream. I grasp his head, my fingers weaving into his hair, and tug hard
　　so my lips find his. He gasps, surprised by my assault, giving my tongue free
　　passage into his mouth. He groans and kisses me back, his lips and tongue
　　hungry for mine, and for a moment we consume each other, lost in tongues
　　and lips and breaths and sweet, sweet sensation as we rediscover each
　　other.
　　Oh, I want this man. It’s been too long. I want him here, now, in the open air, in
　　our meadow.
　　“Ana,” he breathes, entranced, and his hand skims over my backside to the
　　hem of my skirt. I scramble to unbutton his shirt, all fingers and thumbs.
　　“Whoa, Ana—stop.” He pulls back, his jaw clenched, and grabs my hands.
　　“No.” My teeth clamp gently around his lower lip and I tug. “No,” I 485 | P a g e
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　　murmur again, gazing at him. I release him. “I want you.”
　　He inhales sharply. He’s torn, his indecision writ large in luminous gray eyes.
　　“Please, I need you.” Every pore of my being is begging. This is what we do.
　　He groans in defeat as his mouth finds mine, molding my lips to his. One
　　hand cradles my head while the other skims down my body to my waist, and
　　he eases me onto my back and stretches out beside me, never breaking
　　contact with my mouth.
　　He pulls back, hovering over me and gazing down. “You are so beautiful,
　　Mrs. Grey.”
　　I caress his lovely face. “So are you, Mr. Grey. Inside and out.”
　　He frowns, and my fingers trace the furrow in his brow.
　　“Don’t frown. You are to me, even when you’re angry,” I whisper. He groans
　　once more, and his mouth captures mine, pushing me into the soft grass
　　beneath the blanket.
　　“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, and his teeth graze my jaw. My heart soars.
　　“I’ve missed you, too. Oh, Christian.” I fist one hand in his hair and clutch his
　　shoulder with the other.
　　His lips move to my throat, leaving tender kisses in their wake, and his
　　fingers follow, deftly undoing each button of my blouse. Tugging my blouse
　　apart, he kisses the soft swell of my breasts. He murmurs appreciatively, low
　　in his throat, and the sound echoes through my body to my deep dark places.
　　“Your body’s changing,” he whispers. His thumb teases my nipple until it’s
　　erect and straining against my bra. “I like,” he adds. I watch his tongue taste
　　and trace the line between my bra and my breast, tantalizing and teasing me.
　　Taking my bra cup delicately between his teeth, he pulls it down, freeing my
　　breast and nuzzling my nipple with his nose in the process. It puckers at his
　　touch and from the chill of the gentle fall breeze. His lips close around me,
　　and he sucks long and hard.
　　“Ah!” I groan, inhaling sharply then wincing as pain radiates outward from my
　　bruised ribs.
　　“Ana!” Christian exclaims and glares down at me, concern etched on his
　　face. “This is what I’m talking about,” he admonishes. “Your 486 | P a g e
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　　lack of self-preservation. I don’t want to hurt you.”
　　“No . . . don’t stop,” I whimper. He stares at me, warring with himself.
　　“Please.”
　　“Here.” Abruptly he moves, and I’m sitting astride him, my short skirt now
　　bunched up around my hips. His hands glide over the top of my thigh-highs.
　　“There. That’s better, and I can enjoy the view.” He reaches up and hooks his
　　long index finger into my other bra cup, freeing that breast, too. He grasps
　　both of my breasts, and I throw my head back, pushing them into his
　　welcome, expert hands. He teases me, tugging and rolling my nipples until I
　　cry out, then sits up so we’re nose to nose, his greedy gray eyes on mine. He
　　kisses me, his fingers still teasing me. I scramble for his shirt, undoing the
　　first two buttons, and it’s like sensory overload—I want to be kissing him
　　everywhere, undressing him, making love with him all at once.
　　“Hey—” He gently grasps my head and pulls back, eyes dark and full of
　　sensual promise. “There’s no rush. Take it slow. I want to savor you.”
　　“Christian, it’s been so long.” I’m panting.
　　“Slow,” he whispers, and it’s a command. He kisses the right corner of my
　　mouth. “Slow.” He kisses the left corner. “Slow, baby.” He tugs my bottom lip
　　with his teeth. “Let’s take this slow.” He unfurls his fingers in my hair, keeping
　　me in place as his tongue invades my mouth, seeking, tasting, calming . . .
　　inflaming. Oh, my man can kiss. I caress his face, my fingers moving
　　tentatively down to his chin then to his throat, and I start again on the buttons
　　of his shirt, taking my time, as he continues to kiss me. Slowly I pull his shirt
　　of his shirt, taking my time, as he continues to kiss me. Slowly I pull his shirt
　　apart, my fingers trailing over his clavicles, feeling their way across his warm,
　　silky skin. I push him gently back until he’s lying beneath me. Sitting up, I
　　gaze down at him, aware that I’m squirming against his growing erection.
　　Hmm. I trace my fingers across his lips to his jaw then down his neck, over
　　his Adam’s apple to that little dip at the base of his throat. My beautiful man.
　　I lean down, and my kisses follow the tips of my fingers. My teeth graze his
　　jaw and kiss his throat. He closes his eyes.
　　“Ah.” He groans and tilts his head back, giving me easier access to the base
　　of his throat, his mouth slack and open in silent veneration. 487 | P a g e
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　　Christian lost and aroused is just so exhilarating . . . and so arousing to me.
　　My tongue trails down his sternum, twirling through his chest hair. Hmm. He
　　tastes so good. He smells so good. Intoxicating. I kiss first one, then two of
　　his small round scars, and he grasps my hips, so my fingers halt on his chest
　　as I gaze down at him. His breathing is harsh.
　　“You want this? Here?” he breathes, his eyes hooded with a heady
　　combination of love and lust.
　　“Yes,” I murmur, and my lips and tongue graze across his chest to his nipple. I
　　pull and roll it gently with my teeth.
　　“Oh, Ana,” he whispers and circling my waist he lifts me, tugging at his button
　　and fly so he springs free. He sits me down again, and I push against him,
　　delighting in the feel of him hot and hard beneath me. He runs his hands up
　　my thighs, pausing where my thigh-highs stop and my flesh begins, his hands
　　running small teasing circles at the top of my thighs so that the tips of his
　　thumbs touch me . . . touch me where I want to be touched. I gasp.
　　“I hope you’re not attached to your underwear,” he murmurs, his eyes wild
　　and bright. His fingers trace the elastic along my belly then slide inside,
　　teasing me, before grabbing my panties tightly and pushing his thumbs
　　through the delicate material. My panties disintegrate. His hands splay out on
　　my thighs, and his thumbs brush against my sex once more. He flexes his
　　hips so his erection rubs against me.
　　“I can feel how wet you are.” His voice is tinged with carnal appreciation, and
　　he suddenly sits up, his arm around my waist again, so we’re nose to nose.
　　He rubs his nose against mine.
　　“We’re going to take this slow, Mrs. Grey. I want to feel all of you.”
　　He lifts me, and with exquisite, frustrating, slow ease, lowers me onto him. I
　　feel each blessed inch of him fill me.
　　“Ah—” I moan incoherently as I reach out to clasp his arms. I try to lift myself
　　off him for some welcome friction, but he holds me in place.
　　“All of me,” he whispers, and tilts his pelvis, pushing himself into me all the
　　way. I throw my head back and let out a strangled cry of pure pleasure.
　　“Let me hear you,” he murmurs. “No—don’t move, just feel.”
　　I open my eyes, my mouth frozen in a silent Ah! And he’s gazing at me,
　　hooded, licentious gray eyes into dazed blue. He shifts, rolling his 488 | P a g
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　　hips, but holds me in place.
　　I groan. His lips are at my throat, kissing me.
　　“This is my favorite place. Buried in you,” he murmurs against my skin.
　　“Please, move,” I plead.
　　“Slow, Mrs. Grey.” He flexes his hips again and pleasure radiates through
　　me. I cup his face and kiss him, consuming him.
　　“Love me. Please, Christian.”
　　His teeth skim my jaw up to my ear. “Go,” he whispers, and he lifts me up and
　　down. My inner goddess is unleashed, and I push him down on the ground
　　and start to move, savoring the feeling of him inside me . . . riding him . . .
　　riding him hard. With his hands around my waist he matches my rhythm. I
　　have missed this . . . the heady feeling of him beneath me, inside me . . . the
　　sun on my back, the sweet smell of fall in the air, the gentle autumnal breeze.
　　It’s a heady fusion of senses: touch, taste, smell, and the sight of my beloved
　　husband beneath me.
　　“Oh, Ana,” he groans. Eyes closed, head back, mouth open. Ah . . . I love
　　this. And inside, I’m building . . . building . . . climbing . . . higher. Christian’s
　　hands move to my thighs, and delicately his thumbs press at their apex, and I

　　explode around him over and over and over and over, and I collapse,
　　sprawled on his chest as he cries out in turn, letting go and calling out my
　　name with love and joy.
　　He cuddles me against his chest, cradling my head. Hmm. Closing my eyes,
　　I savor the feel of his arms around me. My hand is on his chest, feeling the
　　steady beat of his heart as it slows and calms. I kiss and nuzzle him, and
　　marvel briefly that not long ago he would not have let me do this.
　　“Better?” he whispers. I raise my head. He’s grinning broadly.
　　“Much. You?” My answering grin reflects his.
　　“I’ve missed you, Mrs. Grey.” He’s serious for a moment.
　　“Me, too.”
　　“No more heroics, eh?”
　　“No,” I promise.
　　“You should always talk to me,” he whispers.
　　“Back at you, Grey.”
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　　He smirks. “Fair point well made. I’ll try.” He kisses my hair.
　　“I think we’re going to be happy here,” I whisper, closing my eyes again.
　　“Yep. You, me and . . . Blip. How do you feel, incidentally?”
　　“Fine. Relaxed. Happy.”
　　“Good.”
　　“You?”
　　“Yeah, all those things,” he murmurs.
　　I look up at him, trying to gauge his expression.
　　“What?” he asks.
　　“You know, you’re very bossy when we have sex.”
　　“Are you complaining?”
　　“No. I’m just wondering . . . you said you missed it.”
　　He stills, gazing at me. “Sometimes,” he whispers.
　　Oh. “Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that,” I murmur and kiss
　　him lightly on his lips, curling around him like a vine. Images of us together, in
　　the playroom; the Tallis, the table, on the cross, shackled to the bed . . . I love
　　his kinky fuckery—our kinky fuckery. Yes. I can do that stuff. I can do that for
　　him, with him. I can do that for me. My skin tingles as I remember the riding
　　crop.
　　“I like to play, too,” I murmur, and glancing up, I’m treated to his shy smile.
　　“You know, I’d really like to test your limits,” he whispers.
　　“My limits for what?”
　　“Pleasure.”
　　“Oh, I think I’d like that.” My inner goddess drops into a dead faint.
　　“Well, maybe when we get home,” he whispers, leaving that promise hanging
　　between us.
　　I nuzzle him once more. I love him so.
　　~o0o~
　　It’s been two days since our picnic. Two days since the promise of well,
　　maybe when we get home was made. Christian is still treating me like I’m
　　made of glass. He still won’t let me go to work, so I have been working from
　　home. I put the stack of query letters I’ve been reading aside on my desk and
　　sigh. Christian and I haven’t been back in the 490 | P a g e
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　　playroom since I safe worded. And he’s said he misses it. Well, so do I . . .
　　especially now that he wants to explore my limits. I flush, thinking what that
　　could possibly entail. I glance at the billiard table . . . Yes I can’t wait to
　　explore those.
　　My thoughts are interrupted by soft, lyrical music that fills the apartment.
　　Christian is playing the piano; not one of his usual laments but a sweet
　　melody, a hopeful melody—one that I recognize, but have never heard him
　　play.
　　I tiptoe to the archway of the great room and watch Christian at the piano. It’s
　　dusk. The sky is an opulent pink, and the light is reflected off his burnished
　　copper hair. He looks his beautiful breathtaking self, concentrating as he
　　plays, unaware of my presence. He’s been so forthcoming over the last few
　　days, so attentive—offering small insights into his day, his thoughts, his
　　plans. It’s as if he’s breached a dam and started talking.
　　I know he’ll come to check on me in a few minutes, and it gives me an idea.
　　Excited, I steal away, hoping that he still hasn’t noticed me, and race to our
　　room, stripping off my clothes as I go, until I’m wearing nothing but pale blue
　　lace panties. I find a pale blue camisole and slip into it quickly. It will hide my
　　bruise. ping into the closet, I pull out Christian’s faded jeans—his playroom
　　jeans, my favorite jeans—from the drawer. From my bedside table I pick up
　　my BlackBerry, fold the jeans neatly, and kneel by the bedroom door. The
　　door is ajar, and I can hear the strains of another piece, one I don’t know. But
　　it’s another hopeful tune; it’s lovely. Quickly I type an email.
　　From: Anastasia Grey
　　Subject: My Husband’s Pleasure
　　Date: September 21, 2011 20:45
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Sir
　　I await your instructions.
　　Yours always
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　　Mrs. G x
　　I press send.
　　A few moments later the music stops abruptly. My heart lurches and starts
　　pounding. I wait and wait and eventually my BlackBerry buzzes.
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: My Husband’s Pleasure
　　21, 2011 20:48
　　To: Anastasia Grey
　　Mrs. G
　　I’m intrigued. I’l come find you.
　　Be ready.
　　Christian Grey
　　Anticipative CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　Be ready! My heart starts to pound and I begin to count. Thirtyseven seconds
　　later the door opens. I’m looking down at his bare feet as they pause on the
　　threshold. Hmm. He says nothing. For ages he says nothing. Oh shit. I resist
　　the urge to look up at him and keep my eyes downcast.
　　Finally, he reaches down and picks up his jeans. He stays silent but heads
　　into the walk-in closet while I remain stock-still. Oh my . . . this is it. My heart
　　is thundering, and I relish the rush of adrenaline that spikes through my body.
　　I squirm as my excitement builds. What will he do to me? A few moments
　　later he’s back, wearing the jeans.
　　“So you want to play?” he murmurs.
　　“Yes.”
　　He says nothing, and I risk a quick glance . . . up his jeans, his denim clad
　　thighs, the soft bulge at his fly, the open button at the waist, his happy trail, his
　　navel, his chiseled abdomen, his chest hair, his gray eyes blazing, and his
　　head cocked to one side. He’s arching an 492 | P a g e
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　　eyebrow. Oh shit.
　　“Yes what?” he whispers.
　　Oh.
　　“Yes, Sir.”
　　His eyes soften. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and he caresses my head.
　　“I think we’d better get you upstairs now,” he adds. My insides liquefy, and my
　　belly clenches in that delicious way.
　　He takes my hand and I follow him through the apartment and up the stairs.
　　Outside the playroom door, he halts and bends and kisses me gently before
　　grasping my hair hard.
　　“You know, you’re topping from the bottom,” he murmurs against my lips.
　　“What?” I don’t understand what he’s talking about.
　　“Don’t worry. I’ll live with it,” he whispers, amused, and he runs his nose along
　　my jaw and gently bites my ear. “Once inside, kneel, like I’ve shown you.”
　　“Yes . . . Sir.”
　　He gazes down at me, eyes shining with love, wonder, and wicked thoughts.
　　Jeez . . . Life is never going to be boring with Christian, and I’m in this for the
　　long haul. I love this man: my husband, my lover, father of my child, my
　　sometimes Dominant . . . my Fifty Shades.
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　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　Epilogue
　　The Big House, May 2014
　　I lie on our tartan picnic blanket and gaze up at the clear, blue, summer sky,
　　my view framed by meadow flowers and tall green grasses. The heat of the
　　afternoon summer sun warms my skin, my bones and my belly, and I relax,
　　my body turning to Jell-O. This is comfortable. Hell no . . . this is wonderful. I
　　savor the moment, a moment of peace, a moment of pure and utter
　　contentment. I should feel guilty for feeling this joy, this completeness, but I
　　don’t. Life right here right now is good, and I’ve learned to appreciate it and
　　live in the moment like my husband. I smile and squirm as my mind drifts to
　　the delicious memory of last night at our home in Escala . . .
　　~o0o~
　　The strands of the flogger skim across my swollen belly at an aching,
　　languorous pace.
　　“Have you had enough yet, Ana?” Christian whispers in my ear.
　　“Oh, please.” I beg, pulling on the restraints above my head as I stand
　　blindfolded and tethered to the grid in the playroom. The flogger’s sweet
　　sting bites into my behind.
　　“Please what?”
　　I gasp. “Please, Sir.”
　　Christian places his hand over my ringing skin and rubs gently.
　　“There. There. There.” His words are soft. His hand moves south and around,
　　and his fingers slide inside me.
　　I groan.
　　I groan.
　　“Mrs. Grey,” he breathes, and his teeth pull at my earlobe. “You’re so ready.”
　　His fingers slide in and out of me, hitting that spot, that sweet, sweet spot
　　again. The flogger clatters onto the floor and his hand moves over 494 | P a
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　　my belly and up to my breasts. I tense. They are sensitive.
　　“Hush,” Christian says, cupping one, and he gently brushes his thumb over
　　my nipple.
　　“Ah.”
　　His fingers are gentle and enticing, and pleasure spirals out from my breast,
　　down, down . . . deep down. I tilt my head back, pushing my nipple into his
　　palm, and moan once more.
　　“I like to hear you,” Christian whispers. His erection is at my hip, the buttons
　　of his fly pressing into my flesh as his fingers continue their relentless assault:
　　in, out, in, out—keeping a rhythm. “Shall I make you come like this?” he asks.
　　“No.”
　　His fingers stop moving inside me.
　　“Really, Mrs. Grey? Is it up to you?” His fingers tighten around my nipple.
　　“No . . . No, Sir.”
　　“That’s better.”
　　“Ah. Please,” I beg.
　　“What do you want, Anastasia?”
　　“You. Always.”
　　He inhales sharply.
　　“All of you,” I add, breathless.
　　He eases his fingers out of me, pulls me around to face him, and removes
　　the blindfold. I blink up into darkening gray eyes that burn into mine. His index
　　fingers trace my bottom lip, and he pushes his index and middle fingers into
　　my mouth, letting me taste the salty tang of my arousal.
　　“Suck,” he whispers. I swirl my tongue around and between his fingers.
　　Hmm . . . even I taste good on his fingers.
　　His hands skim up my arms to the cuffs above my head, and he unclips them,
　　freeing me. Turning me around so I’m facing the wall, he tugs on my braid,
　　pulling me into his arms. He angles my head to one side and skims his lips
　　up my throat to my ear while holding me flush against him.
　　“I want in your mouth.” His voice is soft and seductive. My body, ripe and
　　ready, clenches deep inside. The pleasure is sweet and sharp. 495 | P a g e
　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　I moan. Turning to face him, I pull his head down to mine and kiss him hard,
　　my tongue invading his mouth, tasting and savoring him. He groans, places
　　his hands on my behind and tugs me against him, but only my pregnant belly
　　touches him. I bite his jaw and trail kisses down his throat and run my fingers
　　down to his jeans. He tilts his head back, exposing more of his throat to me,
　　and I run my tongue down to his chest and through his chest hair.
　　“Ah.”
　　I tug the waistband of his jeans, the buttons popping, and he grasps my
　　shoulders as I sink to my knees in front of him. As I gaze up at him through
　　my lashes, he stares down at me. His eyes are dark, his lips parted, and he
　　inhales deeply when I free him and ensnare him with my mouth. I love doing
　　this to Christian. Watching him come apart, hearing his breath hitch, and the
　　soft moans he makes deep in his throat. I close my eyes and suck hard,
　　pressing down on him, relishing his taste and his breathless gasp. He
　　grasps my head, stilling me, and I sheath my teeth with my lips and push him
　　deeper into my mouth.
　　“Open your eyes and look at me,” he orders, his voice low. Blazing eyes
　　meet mine and he flexes his hips, filling my mouth to the back of my throat
　　then withdrawing quickly. He pushes into me again and I reach up to grab
　　him. He stops and holds me in place.
　　“Don’t touch or I’ll cuff you again. I just want your mouth,” he growls.
　　Oh my. Like that is it? I put my hands behind my back and gaze up at him
　　innocently, his cock in my mouth.
　　“Good girl,” he says, smirking down at me, his voice hoarse. He eases back,
　　and holding me gently but firmly, he pushes into me again.
　　“You have such a fuckable mouth, Mrs. Grey.” He closes his eyes and eases
　　into my mouth as I squeeze him between my lips, running my tongue over and
　　around him. I take him deeper and withdraw, again and again and again, the
　　air hissing between his teeth.
　　“Ah! Stop,” he says, and he pulls out of me, leaving me wanting more. He
　　grasps my shoulders and pulls me to my feet. Grabbing my braid, he kisses
　　me hard, his persistent tongue greedy and giving at once. Suddenly he
　　releases me, and before I know it, he’s lifted me into his arms and moved
　　over to the four-poster. Gently, he lays me down 496 | P a g e
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　　so that my behind is just on the edge of the bed.
　　“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he orders. I do as I’m bid and pull him
　　toward me. He leans down, hands either side of my head, and still standing,
　　very slowly eases himself into me.
　　Oh, that feels so good. I close my eyes and revel in his slow possession.
　　“Okay?” he asks, his concern evident in his tone.
　　“Oh, God, Christian. Yes. Yes. Please.” I tighten my legs around him and
　　push against him. He groans. I clasp his arms, and he flexes his hips slowly
　　at first, in, out.
　　“Christian, please. Harder—I won’t break.”
　　He groans and starts to move, really move, pounding into me again and
　　again. Oh, it’s heavenly.
　　“Yes,” I gasp, tightening my hold on him as I start to build . . . He moans,
　　grinding into me with renewed determination . . . and I’m close. Oh, please.
　　Don’t stop.
　　“Come on, Ana,” he groans through gritted teeth, and I explode around him,
　　my orgasm going on and on and on. I call out his name and Christian stills,
　　groaning loudly, as he climaxes inside me.
　　“Ana,” he cries.
　　Christian lies beside me, his hand caressing my belly, his long fingers
　　splayed out wide.
　　“How’s my daughter?”
　　“She’s dancing.” I laugh.
　　“Dancing? Oh yes! Wow. I can feel her.” He grins as Blip Two somersaults
　　inside me.
　　“I think she likes sex already.”
　　Christian frowns. “Really?” he says dryly. He moves so his lips are against
　　my bump. “There’ll be none of that until you’re thirty, young lady.”
　　I giggle. “Oh, Christian, you are such a hypocrite.”
　　“No, I’m an anxious father.” He gazes up at me, his brow furrowed betraying
　　his anxiety.
　　“You’re a wonderful father, as I knew you would be.” I caress his lovely face,
　　and he gives me his shy smile.
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　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　“I like this,” he murmurs stroking then kissing my belly. “There’s more of you.”
　　I pout. “I don’t like more of me.”
　　“It’s great when you come.”
　　“Christian!”
　　“And I’m looking forward to the taste of breast milk again.”
　　“Christian! You are such a kinky—”
　　He swoops on me suddenly, kissing me hard, throwing his leg over mine,
　　and grabbing my hands so they are above my head. “You love the kinky
　　fuckery,” he whispers, and he runs his nose down mine. I grin, caught in his
　　infectious, wicked smile. “Yes, I love the kinky fuckery. And I love you. Very
　　much.”
　　~o0o~
　　I jerk awake, woken by a high-pitched squeal of delight from my son, and