“You’re going to unman me, Ana,” he whispers
　　suddenly, breaking away from me and kneeling up. He
　　briskly pulls down his jeans and hands me a foil packet.
　　“You want me, baby, and I sure as hell want you. You
　　“You want me, baby, and I sure as hell want you. You
　　know what to do.”
　　With anxious, dexterous fingers, I rip open the foil and
　　unroll the condom over him. He grins down at me, his
　　mouth open, eyes misty gray and full of carnal promise.
　　Leaning over me, he rubs his nose against mine, his eyes
　　closed, and deliciously, slowly, he enters me.
　　I grasp his arms and tilt my chin up, reveling in the
　　exquisitely full feeling of his possession. He runs his teeth
　　along my chin, eases back, and then slides into me again—
　　so slow, so sweet, so tender—his body pressing down on
　　me, his elbows and his hands on either side of my face.
　　“You make me forget everything. You are the best
　　therapy,” he breathes, moving at an achingly leisurely pace,
　　savoring every inch of me.
　　“Please, Christian—faster,” I murmur, wanting more,
　　now.
　　“Oh no, baby. I need this slow.” He kisses me sweetly,
　　gently biting my lower lip and absorbing my soft moans.
　　I move my hands into his hair and surrender myself to
　　I move my hands into his hair and surrender myself to
　　his rhythm as slowly and surely my body climbs higher and
　　higher and plateaus, then falls hard and fast as I come
　　around him.
　　“Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he lets go, my name a
　　benediction on his lips as he finds his release.
　　His head rests on my belly, his arms wrapped around me.
　　My fingers forage in his unruly hair, and we lie like this for
　　I don’t know how long. It’s so late and I am so tired, but I
　　just want to enjoy the quiet serene after-glow of making
　　love with Christian Grey, because that’s what we’ve done,
　　gentle, sweet lovemaking.
　　He’s come a long way, as have I, in such a short time.
　　It’s almost too much to absorb. With all the fucked-up
　　stuff, I am losing sight of his simple, honest journey with
　　me.
　　“I will never get enough of you. Don’t leave me,” he
　　murmurs and kisses my belly.
　　murmurs and kisses my belly.
　　“I’m not going anywhere, Christian, and I seem to
　　remember that I wanted to kiss your belly,” I grumble
　　sleepily.
　　He grins against my skin. “Nothing stopping you now
　　baby.”
　　“I don’t think I can move I’m so tired.”
　　Christian sighs and shifts reluctantly, coming to lie
　　beside me with his head on his elbow and dragging the
　　covers over us. He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing,
　　warm, loving.
　　“Sleep now, baby.” He kisses my hair and wraps his
　　arm around me and I drift.
　　When I open my eyes, light is filling the room, making me
　　blink. My head is fuzzy from lack of sleep. Where am I?
　　Oh—the hotel . . .
　　“Hi,” Christian murmurs, smiling fondly at me. He’s
　　lying beside me, fully dressed, on top of the bed. How
　　long has he been here? Has he been studying me?
　　Suddenly, I feel incredibly shy as my face heats under his
　　steady gaze.
　　“Hi,” I murmur, grateful that I am lying on my front.
　　“How long have you been watching me?”
　　“I could watch you sleep for hours, Anastasia. But I’ve
　　only been here about five minutes.” He leans over and
　　kisses me gently. “Dr. Greene will be here shortly.”
　　“Oh.” I’d forgotten about Christian’s inappropriate
　　intervention.
　　“Did you sleep well?” he inquires mildly. “Certainly
　　seemed like it to me, with all that snoring.”
　　Oh, playful teasing Fifty.
　　“I do not snore!” I pout petulantly.
　　“No. You don’t.” He grins at me. The faint line of red
　　lipstick is still visible around his neck.
　　“Did you shower?”
　　“No. Waiting for you.”
　　“Oh . . . okay.”
　　“What time is it?”
　　“What time is it?”
　　“Ten fifteen. I didn’t have the heart to wake you
　　earlier.”
　　“You told me you didn’t have a heart at all.”
　　He smiles, sadly but doesn’t answer. “Breakfast is here
　　—pancakes and bacon for you. Come, get up, I’m getting
　　lonely out here.” He swats me sharply on my behind,
　　making me jump, and rises from the bed.
　　Hmm . . . Christian’s version of warm affection.
　　As I stretch, I’m aware I ache all over . . . no doubt a
　　result of all the sex, dancing, and teetering in expensive
　　high-heeled shoes. I stagger out of bed and make my way
　　into the sumptuously appointed bathroom while going over
　　the events of the previous day in my mind. When I come
　　out, I don one of the over-fluffy bathrobes that hang on a
　　brass peg in the bathroom.
　　Leila—the girl who looks like me—that’s the most
　　startling image my brain conjures for conjecture, that and
　　her eerie presence in Christian’s bedroom. What did she
　　want? Me? Christian? To do what? And why the fuck has
　　want? Me? Christian? To do what? And why the fuck has
　　she wrecked my car?
　　Christian said I would have another Audi, like all his
　　submissives. The thought is unwelcome. Since I was so
　　generous with the money he gave me, there’s not a lot I
　　can do.
　　I wander into the main room of the suite—no sign of
　　Christian. I finally locate him in the dining room. I take a
　　seat, grateful for the impressive breakfast laid before me.
　　Christian is reading the Sunday papers and drinking coffee,
　　his breakfast finished. He smiles at me.
　　“Eat up. You’re going to need your strength today,” he
　　teases.
　　“And why is that? You going to lock me in the
　　bedroom?” My inner goddess jerks awake suddenly, all
　　disheveled with a just-fucked look.
　　“Appealing as that idea is, I thought we’d go out
　　today. Get some fresh air.”
　　“Is it safe?” I ask innocently, trying and failing to keep
　　the irony from my voice.
　　Christian’s face falls, and his mouth presses in a line.
　　“Where we’re going, it is. And it’s not a joking matter,” he
　　adds sternly, narrowing his eyes.
　　I flush and stare down at my breakfast. I don’t feel like
　　being scolded after all the drama and such a late night. I
　　eat my breakfast in silence, feeling petulant.
　　My subconscious is shaking her head at me. Fifty
　　doesn’t joke about my safety—I should know this by
　　now. I want to roll my eyes at him, but I refrain.
　　Okay, I’m tired and testy. I had a long day yesterday
　　and not enough sleep. Why, oh why does he get to look as
　　fresh as a daisy? Life is not fair.
　　There’s a knock at the door.
　　“That’ll be the good doctor,” Christian grumbles,
　　obviously still smarting from my irony. He stalks from the
　　table.
　　Can’t we just have a calm, normal morning? I sigh
　　heavily, leaving half my breakfast, and get up to greet
　　Doctor Depo-Provera.
　　We’re in the bedroom, and Dr. Greene is staring at me
　　open-mouthed. She’s dressed more casually than last time
　　in a pale pink cashmere twin set and black pants, and her
　　fine blond hair is loose.
　　“And you just stopped taking it? Just like that?”
　　I flush, feeling beyond foolish.
　　“Yes.” Could my voice be any smaller?
　　“You could be pregnant,” she says matter-of-factly.
　　What! The world falls away at my feet. My
　　subconscious collapses on the floor retching, and I think
　　I’m going to be sick, too. No!
　　“Here, go pee in this.” She’s all business today—
　　taking no prisoners.
　　Meekly, I accept the small plastic container she’s
　　offered and wander in a daze into the bathroom. No. No.
　　No. No way . . . No way . . . Please no. No.
　　What will Fifty do? I go pale. He’ll freak.
　　No, please! I whisper a silent prayer.
　　No, please! I whisper a silent prayer.
　　I hand Dr. Greene my sample, and she carefully places
　　a small white stick in it.
　　“When did your period start?”
　　How am I supposed to think about such minutiae when
　　all I can do is stare anxiously at the white stick?
　　“Er . . . Wednesday? Not the one just gone, the one
　　before that. June first.”
　　“And when did you stop taking the pill?”
　　“Sunday. Last Sunday.”
　　She purses her lips.
　　“You should be okay,” she says sharply. “I can tell by
　　your expression that an unplanned pregnancy would not be
　　welcome news. So Medroxyprogesterone is a good idea if
　　you can’t remember to take the pill every day.” She gives
　　me a stern look, and I quail under her authoritative glare.
　　Picking up the white stick, she peers at it.
　　“You’re in the clear. You’ve not ovulated yet, so
　　provided you’ve been taking proper precautions, you
　　shouldn’t be pregnant. Now, let me counsel you about this
　　shot. We discounted it last time because of the side
　　effects, but quite frankly, the side effects of a child are farreaching
　　and go on for years.” She smiles, pleased with
　　herself and her little joke, but I can’t begin to respond—
　　I’m too stunned.
　　Dr. Greene launches into full disclosure mode about
　　side effects, and I sit paralyzed with relief, not listening to a
　　word. I think I’d tolerate any number of strange women
　　standing at the end of my bed rather than confess to
　　Christian that I might be pregnant.
　　“Ana!” Dr. Greene snaps. “Let’s do this thing.” She
　　pulls me out of my reverie, and I willingly roll up my
　　sleeve.
　　Christian closes the door behind her and gazes at me
　　warily. “Everything okay?” he asks.
　　I nod mutely, and he tilts his head to one side, his face
　　tense with concern.
　　“Anastasia, what is it? What did Dr. Greene say?”
　　I shake my head. “You’re good to go in seven days,” I
　　mutter.
　　“Seven days?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Ana, what’s wrong?”
　　I swallow. “It’s nothing to worry about. Please,
　　Christian, just leave it.”
　　Christian looms in front of me. He grasps my chin,
　　tipping my head back, and stares emphatically into my
　　eyes, trying to decipher my panic.
　　“Tell me,” he snaps insistently.
　　“There’s nothing to tell. I’d like to get dressed.” I pull
　　my chin out of his reach.
　　He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frowning at
　　me. “Let’s shower,” he says eventually.
　　“Of course,” I mutter, distracted, and his mouth twists.
　　“Come,” he says sulkily, clasping my hand firmly. He
　　stalks toward the bathroom as I trail behind him. I am not
　　the only one in a bad mood, it seems. Firing up the
　　the only one in a bad mood, it seems. Firing up the
　　shower, Christian quickly strips before turning to me.
　　“I don’t know what’s upset you, or if you’re just badtempered
　　through lack of sleep,” he says while unfastening
　　my robe. “But I want you to tell me. My imagination is
　　running away with me, and I don’t like it.”
　　I roll my eyes at him, and he glares back at me,
　　narrowing his eyes. Shit! Okay . . . here goes.
　　“Dr. Greene scolded me about missing the pill. She
　　said I could be pregnant.”
　　“What?” He pales, and his hands freeze as he gazes at
　　me, suddenly ashen.
　　“But I’m not. She did a test. It was a shock, that’s all.
　　I can’t believe I was that stupid.”
　　He visibly relaxes. “You’re sure you’re not?”
　　“Yes.”
　　He blows out a deep breath. “Good. Yes, I can see
　　that news like that would be very upsetting.”
　　I frown. . . . upsetting? “I was more worried about
　　your reaction.”
　　your reaction.”
　　He furrows his brow at me, puzzled. “My reaction?
　　Well, naturally I’m relieved . . . it would be the height of
　　carelessness and bad manners to knock you up.”
　　“Then maybe we should abstain,” I snap.
　　He gazes at me for a moment, bewildered, as if I’m
　　some kind of science experiment. “You are in a bad
　　temper this morning.”
　　“It was just a shock, that’s all,” I repeat petulantly.
　　Clasping the lapels of my robe, he pulls me into a
　　warm embrace, kisses my hair, and presses my head
　　against his chest. I’m distracted by his chest hair as it
　　tickles my cheek. Oh, if I could just nuzzle him!
　　“Ana, I’m not used to this,” he murmurs. “My natural
　　inclination is to beat it out of you, but I seriously doubt you
　　want that.”

　　Holy shit. “No, I don’t. This helps.” I hug Christian
　　tighter, and we stand for an age in a strange embrace,
　　Christian naked and me wrapped in a robe. I am once
　　again floored by his honesty. He knows nothing about
　　relationships, and neither do I, except what I’ve learned
　　from him. Well, he’s asked for faith and patience; maybe I
　　should do the same.
　　“Come, let’s shower,” Christian says eventually,
　　releasing me.
　　Stepping back, he peels me out of my robe, and I
　　follow him into the cascading water, holding my face up to
　　the torrent. There’s room for both of us under the
　　gargantuan showerhead. Christian reaches for the
　　shampoo and starts washing his hair. He hands it to me
　　and I follow suit.
　　Oh, this feels good. Closing my eyes, I succumb to
　　the cleansing, warming water. As I rinse off the shampoo, I
　　feel his hands on me, soaping my body: my shoulders, my
　　arms, under my arms, my breasts, my back. Gently he
　　turns me around and pulls me against him as he continues
　　down my body: my stomach, my belly, his skilled fingers
　　between my legs—hmm—my behind. Oh, that feels good
　　and so intimate. He turns me around to face him again.
　　“Here,” he says quietly, handing me the body wash. “I
　　“Here,” he says quietly, handing me the body wash. “I
　　want you to wash off the remains of the lipstick.”
　　My eyes open in a flurry and dart quickly to his. He’s
　　staring at me intently, soaking wet and beautiful, his
　　glorious, bright gray eyes giving nothing away.
　　“Don’t stray far from the line, please,” he mutters
　　tightly.
　　“Okay,” I murmur, trying to absorb the enormity of
　　what he’s just asked me to do—to touch him on the edge
　　of the forbidden zone.
　　I squeeze a small amount of soap on my hand, rub my
　　hands together to create a lather, then place them on his
　　shoulders and gently wash away the line of lipstick on each
　　side. He stills and closes his eyes, his face impassive, but
　　he’s breathing rapidly, and I know it’s not lust but fear. It
　　cuts me to the quick.
　　With trembling fingers, I carefully follow the line down
　　the side of his chest, soaping and rubbing softly, and he
　　swallows, his jaw tense as if his teeth are clenched. Oh!
　　My heart constricts and my throat tightens. Oh no, I’m
　　My heart constricts and my throat tightens. Oh no, I’m
　　going to cry.
　　I stop to add more soap to my hand and feel him relax
　　in front of me. I can’t look up at him. I can’t bear to see
　　his pain—it’s too much. I swallow.
　　“Ready?” I murmur and the tension is loud and clear in
　　my voice.
　　“Yes,” he whispers, his voice husky, laced with fear.
　　Gently, I place my hands on either side of his chest,
　　and he freezes again.
　　It’s too much. I am overwhelmed by his trust in me—
　　overwhelmed by his fear, by the damage done to this
　　beautiful, fallen, flawed man.
　　Tears pool in my eyes and spill down my face, lost in
　　the water from the shower. Oh, Christian! Who did this
　　to you?
　　His diaphragm moves rapidly with each shallow breath,
　　his body is rigid, tension radiating off him in waves as my
　　hands move along the line, erasing it. Oh, if I could just
　　erase your pain, I would—I’d do anything—and I want
　　nothing more than to kiss every single scar I see, to kiss
　　away those hideous years of neglect. But I know I can’t,
　　and my tears fall unbidden down my cheeks.
　　“No. Please, don’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice
　　anguished as he wraps me tightly in his arms. “Please don’t
　　cry for me.” And I burst into full-blown sobs, burying my
　　face against his neck, as I think of a little boy lost in a sea
　　of fear and pain, frightened, neglected, abused—hurt
　　beyond all endurance.
　　Pulling away, he clasps my head with both hands, tilts it
　　backward, and leans down to kiss me.
　　“Don’t cry, Ana, please,” he murmurs against my
　　mouth. “It was long ago. I am aching for you to touch me,
　　but I just can’t bear it. It’s too much. Please, please don’t
　　cry.”
　　“I want to touch you, too. More than you’ll ever know.
　　To see you like this . . . so hurt and afraid, Christian . . . it
　　wounds me deeply. I love you so much.”
　　He runs his thumb across my bottom lip. “I know. I
　　know,” he whispers.
　　know,” he whispers.
　　“You’re very easy to love. Don’t you see that?”
　　“No, baby, I don’t.”
　　“You are. And I do and so does your family. So do
　　Elena and Leila—they have a strange way of showing it—
　　but they do. You are worthy.”
　　“Stop.” He puts his finger over my lips and shakes his
　　head, an agonized expression on his face. “I can’t hear
　　this. I’m nothing, Anastasia. I’m a husk of a man. I don’t
　　have a heart.”
　　“Yes, you do. And I want it, all of it. You’re a good
　　man, Christian, a really good man. Don’t ever doubt that.
　　Look at what you’ve done . . . what you’ve achieved,” I
　　sob. “Look what you’ve done for me . . . what you’ve
　　turned your back on, for me,” I whisper. “I know. I know
　　how you feel about me.”
　　He gazes down at me, his eyes wide and panicked,
　　and all we can hear is the steady stream of water as it
　　flows over us in the shower.
　　“You love me,” I whisper.
　　“You love me,” I whisper.
　　His eyes widen further and his mouth opens. He takes
　　a huge breath as if winded. He looks tortured—vulnerable.
　　“Yes,” he whispers. “I do.”
　　I cannot contain my jubilation. My subconscious gapes at
　　me open-mouthed—in stunned silence—and I wear a
　　face-splitting grin as I gaze longingly up into Christian’s
　　wide, tortured eyes.
　　His soft sweet confession calls to me on some deep
　　elemental level as if he’s seeking absolution; his three small
　　words are my manna from heaven. Tears prick my eyes
　　once more. Yes, you do. I know you do.
　　It’s such a liberating realization as if a crushing
　　millstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, fucked-up
　　millstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, fucked-up
　　man, whom I once thought of as my romantic hero—
　　strong, solitary, mysterious—possesses all these traits, but
　　he’s also fragile and alienated and full of self-loathing. My
　　heart swells with joy but also pain for his suffering. And I
　　know in this moment that my heart is big enough for both
　　of us. I hope it’s big enough for both of us.
　　I reach up to clasp his dear, dear, handsome face and
　　kiss him gently, pouring all the love I feel into this one
　　sweet connection. I want to devour him beneath the hot
　　cascading water. Christian groans and encircles me in his
　　arms, holding me as if I am the air he needs to breathe.
　　“Oh, Ana,” he whispers hoarsely, “I want you, but not
　　here.”
　　“Yes,” I murmur fervently into his mouth.
　　He switches off the shower and takes my hand, leading
　　me out and enfolding me in my bathrobe. Grabbing a
　　towel, he wraps it around his waist, then takes a smaller
　　one and begins to gently dry my hair. When he’s satisfied,
　　he swathes the towel around my head so that in the large
　　he swathes the towel around my head so that in the large
　　mirror over the sink I look like I’m wearing a veil. He’s
　　standing behind me and our eyes meet in the mirror,
　　smoldering gray to bright blue, and it gives me an idea.
　　“Can I reciprocate?” I ask.
　　He nods, though his brow creases. I reach for another
　　towel from the plethora of fluffy towels stacked beside the
　　vanity, and standing before him on tiptoe, I start to dry his
　　hair. He bends forward, making the process easier, and as
　　I catch the occasional glimpse of his face beneath the
　　towel, I see he’s grinning at me like a small boy.
　　“It’s a long time since anyone did this to me. A very
　　long time,” he murmurs, but then frowns. “In fact I don’t
　　think anyone’s ever dried my hair.”
　　“Surely Grace did? Dried your hair when you were
　　young?”
　　He shakes his head, hampering my progress.
　　“No. She respected my boundaries from day one,
　　even though it was painful for her. I was very self-sufficient
　　as a child,” he says quietly.
　　I feel a swift kick in the ribs as I think of a small
　　copper-haired child looking after himself because no one
　　else cares. The thought is sickeningly sad. But I don’t want
　　my melancholy to hijack this blossoming intimacy.
　　“Well, I’m honored,” I gently tease him.
　　“That you are, Miss Steele. Or maybe it is I who am
　　honored.”
　　“That goes without saying, Mr. Grey,” I respond
　　tartly.
　　I finish with his hair, reach for another small towel, and
　　move round to stand behind him. Our eyes meet again in
　　the mirror, and his watchful, questioning look prompts me
　　to speak.
　　“Can I try something?”
　　After a moment, he nods. Warily, and very gently, I
　　run the soft cloth down his left arm, soaking up the water
　　that has beaded on his skin. Glancing up, I check his
　　expression in the mirror. He blinks at me, his eyes burning
　　into mine.
　　I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips part
　　I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips part
　　infinitesimally. I dry his other arm in a similar fashion,
　　trailing kisses around his bicep, and a small smile plays on
　　his lips. Carefully, I wipe his back beneath the faint lipstick
　　line, which is still visible. I hadn’t gotten round to washing
　　his back.
　　“Whole back,” he says quietly, “with the towel.” He
　　takes a sharp breath and screws his eyes closed as I
　　briskly dry him, careful to touch him only with the towel.
　　He has such an attractive back—broad, sculptured
　　shoulders, all the small muscles clearly defined. He really
　　looks after himself. The beautiful sight is marred only by his
　　scars.
　　With difficulty, I ignore them and suppress my
　　overwhelming urge to kiss each and every one. When I
　　finish he exhales, and I lean forward and reward him with a
　　kiss on his shoulder. Putting my arms around him, I dry his
　　stomach. Our eyes meet once more in the mirror, his
　　expression amused but wary, too.
　　“Hold this.” I hand him a smaller face towel, and he
　　“Hold this.” I hand him a smaller face towel, and he
　　gives me a bemused frown. “Remember in Georgia? You
　　made me touch myself using your hands,” I add.
　　His face darkens, but I ignore his reaction and put my
　　arms around him. Gazing at us both in the mirror—his
　　beauty, his nakedness, and me with my covered hair—we
　　look almost Biblical, as if from an Old Testament baroque
　　painting.
　　I reach for his hand, which he willingly entrusts to me,
　　and guide it up to his chest to dry it, sweeping the towel
　　slowly, awkwardly across his body. Once, twice—then
　　again. He’s completely immobilized, rigid with tension,
　　except for his eyes, which follow my hand clasped around
　　his.
　　My subconscious looks on with approval, her normally
　　pursed mouth smiling, and I am the supreme puppet
　　master. His anxiety ripples off his back in waves, but he
　　maintains eye contact, though his eyes are darker, more
　　deadly. Showing their secrets maybe.
　　Is this a place I want to go? Do I want to confront his
　　demons?
　　“I think you’re dry now,” I whisper as I drop my hand,
　　gazing into the gray depths of his eyes in the mirror. His
　　breathing is accelerated, lips parted.
　　“I need you, Anastasia,” he whispers.
　　“I need you, too.” And as I say the words, I am struck
　　how true they are. I cannot imagine being without
　　Christian, ever.
　　“Let me love you,” he says hoarsely.
　　“Yes,” I answer, and turning, he hauls me into his arms,
　　his lips seeking mine, beseeching me, worshipping me,
　　cherishing me . . . loving me.
　　He trails his fingers up and down my spine as we gaze at
　　each other, basking in our postcoital bliss, replete. We lie
　　together, me on my front hugging my pillow, he on his side,
　　and I am treasuring his tender touch. I know that right now
　　he needs to touch me. I am a balm for him, a source of
　　solace, and how could I deny him that? I feel exactly the
　　same about him.
　　“So you can be gentle,” I murmur.
　　“Hmm . . . so it would seem, Miss Steele.”
　　I grin. “You weren’t particularly the first time we . . .
　　um, did this.”
　　“No?” He smirks. “When, I robbed you of your

　　virtue.”
　　“I don’t think you robbed me,” I mutter haughtily
　　—Jeez, I’m not a helpless maiden. “I think my virtue
　　was offered up pretty freely and willingly. I wanted you,
　　too, and if I remember correctly, I rather enjoyed myself.”
　　I smile shyly at him, biting my lip.
　　“So did I if I recall, Miss Steele. We aim to please,” he
　　drawls and his face softens, serious. “And it means you’re
　　mine, completely.” All trace of humor has vanished as he
　　gazes at me.
　　“Yes, I am,” I murmur back at him. “I wanted to ask
　　you something.”
　　“Go ahead.”
　　“Go ahead.”
　　“Your biological father . . . do you know who he
　　was?” This thought has been bugging me.
　　His brow creases, and then he shakes his head. “I have
　　no idea. Wasn’t the savage who was her pimp, which is
　　good.”
　　“How do you know?”
　　“Something my dad . . . something Carrick said to
　　me.”
　　I gaze at my Fifty expectantly, waiting. He smirks at
　　me.
　　“So hungry for information, Anastasia,” he sighs,
　　shaking his head. “The pimp discovered the crack whore’s
　　body and phoned it in to the authorities. Took him four
　　days to make the discovery though. He shut the door
　　when he left . . . left me with her . . . her body.” His eyes
　　cloud at the memory.
　　I inhale sharply. Poor baby boy—the horror is too
　　grim to contemplate.
　　“Police interviewed him later. He denied flat out I was
　　“Police interviewed him later. He denied flat out I was
　　anything to do with him, and Carrick said he looked
　　nothing like me.”
　　“Do you remember what he did look like?”
　　“Anastasia, this isn’t a part of my life I revisit very
　　often. Yes, I remember what he looked like. I’ll never
　　forget him.” Christian’s face darkens and hardens,
　　becoming more angular, his eyes frosting with anger. “Can
　　we talk about something else?”
　　“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
　　He shakes his head. “It’s old news, Ana. Not
　　something I want to think about.”
　　“So what’s this surprise, then?” I need to change the
　　subject before he goes all Fifty on me. His expression
　　lightens immediately.
　　“Can you face going out for some fresh air? I want to
　　show you something.”
　　“Of course.”
　　I marvel how quickly he turns—mercurial as ever. He
　　grins at me with his boyish, carefree, I’m-only-twentyseven
　　smile, and my heart lurches into my mouth. So it’s
　　something close to his heart, I can tell. He swats me
　　playfully on my behind.
　　“Get dressed. Jeans will be good. I hope Taylor’s
　　packed some for you.”
　　He rises and pulls on his boxer briefs. Oh . . . I could
　　sit here all day, watching him wander around the room.
　　My inner goddess agrees, swooning as she ogles from her
　　chaise longue.
　　“Up,” he scolds, bossy as ever. I gaze at him, grinning.
　　“Just admiring the view.”
　　He rolls his eyes at me.
　　As we dress, I notice that we move with the
　　synchronization of two people who know each other well,
　　each watchful and acutely aware of the other, exchanging
　　the occasional shy smile and sweet touch. And it dawns on
　　me that this is just as new for him as it is for me.
　　“Dry your hair,” Christian orders once we’re dressed.
　　“Domineering as ever.” I smirk at him, and he leans
　　down to kiss my hair.
　　down to kiss my hair.
　　“That’s never going to change, baby. I don’t want you
　　sick.”
　　I roll my eyes at him, and his mouth twists in
　　amusement.
　　“My palms still twitch, you know, Miss Steele.”
　　“I am glad to hear it, Mr. Grey. I was beginning to
　　think you were losing your edge,” I retort.
　　“I could easily demonstrate that is not the case, should
　　you so wish.” Christian drags a large, cream, cable-knit
　　sweater out of his bag and drapes it artfully over his
　　shoulders. With his white T-shirt and jeans, his artfully
　　rumpled hair, and now this, he looks as if he’s stepped out
　　of the pages of a high-end glossy magazine.
　　No one should look this good. And I don’t know if it’s
　　the momentary distraction of his sheer perfect looks or the
　　knowledge that he loves me, but his threat no longer fills
　　me with dread. This is my Fifty Shades; this is the way he
　　is.
　　As I reach for the hairdryer, a tangible ray of hope
　　As I reach for the hairdryer, a tangible ray of hope
　　blossoms. We will find a middle way. We just have to
　　recognize each other’s needs and accommodate them. I
　　can do that, surely?
　　I gaze at myself in the dresser mirror. I’m wearing the
　　pale blue shirt that Taylor bought and had packed for me.
　　My hair is a mess, my face flushed, my lips swollen—I
　　touch them, remembering Christian’s searing kisses, and I
　　can’t help a small smile as I stare. Yes, I do, he said.
　　“Where are we going exactly?” I ask as we wait in the
　　lobby for the parking valet.
　　Christian taps the side of his nose and winks at me
　　conspiratorially, looking like he’s desperately trying to
　　contain his glee. Frankly, it’s very un-Fifty.
　　He was like this when we went gliding—perhaps that’s
　　what we’re doing. I beam back at him. He stares down his
　　nose at me in that superior way he has with his lopsided
　　grin. Leaning down, he kisses me gently.
　　“Do you have any idea how happy you make me feel?”
　　he murmurs.
　　“Yes . . . I know exactly. Because you do the same for
　　me.”
　　The valet zooms up in Christian’s car, wearing a facesplitting
　　grin. Jeez, everyone is so happy today.
　　“Great car, sir,” he mumbles as he hands over the
　　keys. Christian winks and gives him an obscenely large
　　tip.
　　I frown at him. Honestly.
　　As we cruise through the traffic, Christian is deep in
　　thought. A young woman’s voice comes over the
　　loudspeakers; it has a beautiful, rich, mellow timbre, and I
　　lose myself in her sad, soulful voice.
　　“I need to make a detour. It shouldn’t take long,” he
　　says absentmindedly, distracting me from the song.
　　Oh, why? I’m intrigued to know the surprise. My inner
　　goddess is bouncing about like a five-year-old.
　　goddess is bouncing about like a five-year-old.
　　“Sure,” I murmur. Something is amiss. Suddenly, he
　　looks grimly determined.
　　He pulls into the parking lot of large car dealership,
　　stops the car, and turns to face me, his expression wary.
　　“We need to get you a new car,” he says. I gape at
　　him.
　　Now? On a Sunday? What the hell? And this is a Saab
　　dealership.
　　“Not an Audi?” is, stupidly, the only thing I can think of
　　to say, and bless him, he actually flushes.
　　Holy cow—Christian, embarrassed. This is a first.
　　“I thought you might like something else,” he mutters.
　　He’s almost squirming.
　　Oh, please . . . This is too valuable an opportunity not
　　to tease him. I smirk. “A Saab?”
　　“Yeah. A 9-3. Come.”
　　“What is it with you and foreign cars?”
　　“The Germans and the Swedes make the safest cars in
　　the world, Anastasia.”
　　the world, Anastasia.”
　　Do they? “I thought you’d already ordered me another
　　Audi A3?”
　　He gives me a darkly amused look. “I can cancel that.
　　Come.” Climbing smoothly out of the car, he strolls
　　gracefully to my side and opens my door.
　　“I owe you a graduation present,” he says softly and
　　holds his hand out for me.
　　“Christian, you really don’t have to do this.”
　　“Yes, I do. Please. Come.” His tone says he’s not to
　　be trifled with.
　　I resign myself to my fate. A Saab? Do I want a Saab?
　　I quite like the Audi Submissive Special. It was very nifty.
　　Of course, now it’s under a ton of white paint . . . I
　　shudder. And she’s still out there.
　　I take Christian’s hand, and we wander into the
　　showroom.
　　Troy Turniansky, the salesman, is all over Fifty like a
　　cheap suit. He can smell a sale. Weirdly his accent sounds
　　mid-Atlantic, maybe British? It’s difficult to tell.
　　“A Saab, sir? Pre-owned?” He rubs his hands with
　　glee.
　　“New.” Christian’s lips set into a hard line.
　　New!
　　“Did you have a model in mind, sir?” And he’s
　　smarmy, too.
　　“9-3 2.0T Sport Sedan.”
　　“An excellent choice, sir.”
　　“What color, Anastasia?” Christian inclines his head.
　　“Er . . . black?” I shrug. “You really don’t need to do
　　this.”
　　He frowns. “Black’s not easily seen at night.”
　　Oh, for heaven’s sake. I resist the temptation to roll
　　my eyes. “You have a black car.”
　　He scowls at me.
　　“Bright canary yellow then.” I shrug.
　　Christian makes a face—canary yellow is obviously
　　not his thing.
　　“What color do you want me to have?” I ask as if he’s
　　a small child, which he is in many ways. The thought is
　　a small child, which he is in many ways. The thought is
　　unwelcome—sad and sobering at once.
　　“Silver or white.”
　　“Silver, then. You know I’ll take the Audi,” I add,
　　chastened by my thoughts.
　　Troy pales, sensing he’s losing a sale. “Perhaps you’d
　　like the convertible, ma’am?” he asks, clapping his hands
　　with enthusiasm.
　　My subconscious is cringing in disgust, mortified by the
　　whole buying-a-car business, but my inner goddess tackles
　　her to the floor. Convertible? Drool!
　　Christian frowns and peers at me. “Convertible?” he
　　asks, raising an eyebrow.
　　I flush. It’s like he has a direct hotline to my inner
　　goddess, which of course, he has. It’s most inconvenient at
　　times. I stare down at my hands.
　　Christian turns to Troy. “What are the safety stats on
　　the convertible?”
　　Troy, sensing Christian’s vulnerability, heads in for the
　　kill, reeling off all manner of statistics.
　　kill, reeling off all manner of statistics.
　　Of course, Christian wants me safe. It’s a religion with
　　him, and like the zealot he is, he listens intently to Troy’s
　　well-honed patter. Fifty really does care.
　　Yes. I do. I remember his whispered, choked words
　　from this morning, and a melting glow spreads like warm
　　honey through my veins. This man—God’s gift to women
　　—loves me.
　　I find myself grinning goofily at him, and when he
　　glances down at me, he’s amused yet puzzled by my
　　expression. I just want to hug myself, I am so happy.
　　“Whatever you’re high on, I’d like some, Miss Steele,”
　　he murmurs as Troy heads off to his computer.
　　“I’m high on you, Mr. Grey.”
　　“Really? Well you certainly look intoxicated.” He
　　kisses me briefly. “And thank you for accepting the car.
　　That was easier than last time.”
　　“Well, it’s not an Audi A3.”
　　He smirks. “That’s not the car for you.”
　　“I liked it.”
　　“Sir, the 9-3? I’ve located one at our Beverly Hills
　　dealership. We can have it here for you in a couple of
　　days.” Troy glows with triumph.
　　“Top of the range?”
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　“Excellent.” Christian produces his credit card, or is it
　　Taylor’s? The thought is unnerving. I wonder how Taylor
　　is, and if he’s located Leila in the apartment. I rub my
　　forehead. Yes, there’s all of Christian’s baggage, too.
　　“If you’ll come this way, Mr.”—Troy glances at the
　　name on the card—“Grey.”
　　Christian opens my door, and I climb back into the
　　passenger seat.
　　“Thank you,” I say when he’s seated beside me.
　　He smiles.
　　“You’re most welcome, Anastasia.”
　　The music starts again as Christian starts the engine.
　　“Who’s this?” I ask.
　　“Eva Cassidy.”
　　“She has a lovely voice.”
　　“She does, she did.”
　　“Oh.”
　　“She died young.”
　　“Oh.”
　　“Are you hungry? You didn’t finish all your breakfast.”
　　He glances quickly at me, disapproval outlined on his face.
　　Uh-oh. “Yes.”
　　“Lunch first, then.”
　　Christian drives toward the waterfront then heads north
　　along the Alaskan Way. It’s another beautiful day in
　　Seattle. It’s been uncharacteristically fine for the last few

　　weeks, I muse.
　　Christian looks happy and relaxed as we sit back
　　listening to Eva Cassidy’s sweet, soulful voice and cruise
　　down the highway. Have I ever felt this comfortable in his
　　company before? I don’t know.
　　I am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won’t
　　I am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won’t
　　punish me, and he seems more comfortable with me, too.
　　He turns left, following the coast road, and eventually pulls
　　up in a parking lot opposite a vast marina.
　　“We’ll eat here. I’ll open your door,” he says in such a
　　way that I know it’s not wise to move, and I watch him
　　move around the car. Will this ever get old?
　　We stroll arm in arm to the waterfront where the marina
　　stretches out in front of us.
　　“So many boats,” I murmur in wonder. There are
　　hundreds of them in all shapes and sizes, bobbing up and
　　down on the calm, still waters of the marina. Out on the
　　Sound there are dozens of sails in the wind, weaving to
　　and fro, enjoying the fine weather. It’s a wholesome,
　　outdoorsy sight. The wind has picked up a little, so I pull
　　my jacket around me.
　　“Cold?” he asks and pulls me tightly against him.
　　“No, just admiring the view.”
　　“No, just admiring the view.”
　　“I could stare at it all day. Come, this way.”
　　Christian leads me into a large seafront bar and makes
　　his way to the counter. The décor is more New England
　　than West Coast—white-limed walls, pale blue furnishings,
　　and boating paraphernalia hanging everywhere. It’s a
　　bright, cheery place.
　　“Mr. Grey!” the barman greets Christian warmly.
　　“What can I get you this afternoon?”
　　“Dante, good afternoon.” Christian grins as we both
　　slip onto bar stools. “This lovely lady is Anastasia Steele.”
　　“Welcome to SP’s Place.” Dante gives me a friendly
　　smile. He’s black and beautiful, his dark eyes assessing me
　　and not finding me wanting, it seems. One large diamond
　　stud winks at me from his ear. I like him immediately.
　　“What would you like to drink, Anastasia?”
　　I glance at Christian, who regards me expectantly. Oh,
　　he’s going to let me choose.
　　“Please, call me Ana, and I’ll have whatever
　　Christian’s drinking.” I smile shyly at Dante. Fifty’s so
　　much better at wine than I am.
　　“I’m going to have a beer. This is the only bar in
　　Seattle where you can get Adnam’s Explorer.”
　　“A beer?”
　　“Yes.” He grins at me. “Two Explorers, please,
　　Dante.”
　　Dante nods and sets up the beers on the bar.
　　“They do a delicious seafood chowder here,” Christian
　　says.
　　He’s asking me.
　　“Chowder and beer sounds great.” I smile at him.
　　“Two chowders?” Dante asks.
　　“Please.” Christian grins at him.
　　We talk through our meal, as we never have before.
　　Christian is relaxed and calm—he looks young, happy,
　　and animated despite all that transpired yesterday. He
　　recounts the history of Grey Enterprises Holdings, and the
　　more he reveals, the more I sense his passion for fixing
　　problem companies, his hopes for the technology he’s
　　developing, and his dreams of making land in the third
　　developing, and his dreams of making land in the third
　　world more productive. I listen enraptured. He’s funny,
　　clever, philanthropic, and beautiful, and he loves me.
　　In turn, he plagues me with questions about Ray and
　　my mom, about growing up in the lush forests of
　　Montesano, and my brief stints in Texas and Vegas. He
　　demands to know my favorite books and films, and I’m
　　surprised by how much we have in common.
　　As we talk, it strikes me that he’s turned from Hardy’s
　　Alec to Angel, debasement to high ideal in such a short
　　space of time.
　　It’s after two when we finish our meal. Christian settles
　　the tab with Dante, who wishes us a fond farewell.
　　“This is a great place. Thank you for lunch,” I say as
　　Christian takes my hand and we leave the bar.
　　“We’ll come again,” he says, and we stroll along the
　　waterfront. “I wanted to show you something.”
　　“I know . . . and I can’t wait to see it, whatever it is.”
　　We wander hand in hand along the marina. It is such a
　　pleasant afternoon. People are out enjoying their Sunday
　　—walking dogs, admiring the boats, watching their kids
　　run along the promenade.
　　As we head down the marina, the boats are getting
　　progressively larger. Christian leads me on to the dock and
　　stops in front of a huge catamaran.
　　“I thought we’d go sailing this afternoon. This is my
　　boat.”
　　Holy cow. It must be at least forty, maybe fifty feet.
　　Two sleek white hulls, a deck, a roomy cabin, and
　　towering over them a very tall mast. I know nothing about
　　boats, but I can tell this one is special.
　　“Wow . . . ,” I murmur in wonder.
　　“Built by my company,” he says proudly and my heart
　　swells. “She’s been designed from the ground up by the
　　very best naval architects in the world and constructed
　　here in Seattle at my yard. She has hybrid electric drives,
　　asymmetric dagger boards, a square-topped mainsail—”
　　“Okay . . . you’ve lost me, Christian.”
　　He grins. “She’s a great boat.”
　　“She looks mighty fine, Mr. Grey.”
　　“That she does, Miss Steele.”
　　“What’s her name?”
　　He pulls me to the side so I can see her name: The
　　Grace. I’m surprised. “You named her after your mom?”
　　“Yes.” He cocks his head to one side, quizzical. “Why
　　do you find that strange?”
　　I shrug. I am surprised—he always seems ambivalent
　　in her presence.
　　“I adore my mom, Anastasia. Why wouldn’t I name a
　　boat after her?”
　　I flush. “No, it’s not that . . . it’s just . . .” Shit, how
　　can I put this into words?
　　“Anastasia, Grace Trevelyan saved my life. I owe her
　　everything.”
　　I gaze at him, and let the reverence in his softly spoken
　　admission wash over me. It’s obvious to me, for the first
　　time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained
　　time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained
　　ambivalence toward her?
　　“Do you want to come aboard?” he asks, his eyes
　　bright, excited.
　　“Yes, please.” I smile.
　　He looks delighted and delightful in one yummy
　　scrumptious package. Grasping my hand, he strides up the
　　small gangplank and leads me aboard so that we are
　　standing on deck beneath a rigid canopy.
　　To one side there’s a table and a U-shaped banquette
　　covered in pale blue leather, which must seat at least eight
　　people. I glance through the sliding doors to the interior of
　　the cabin and jump, startled when I spy someone there.
　　The tall blond man opens the sliding doors and emerges—
　　all tanned, curly-haired and brown-eyed—wearing a faded
　　pink short-sleeved polo shirt, shorts, and deck shoes. He
　　must be in his early thirties.
　　“Mac.” Christian beams.
　　“Mr. Grey! Welcome back.” They shake hands.
　　“Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my
　　“Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my
　　girlfriend, Anastasia Steele.”
　　Girlfriend! My inner goddess performs a quick
　　arabesque. She’s still grinning over the convertible. I have
　　to get used to this—it’s not the first time he’s said it, but
　　hearing him say it is still a thrill.
　　“How do you do?” Liam and I shake hands.
　　“Call me Mac,” he says warmly, and I can’t place his
　　accent. “Welcome aboard, Miss Steele.”
　　“Ana, please,” I mutter, flushing. He has deep brown
　　eyes.
　　“How’s she shaping up, Mac?” Christian interjects
　　quickly, and for a moment, I think he’s talking about me.
　　“She’s ready to rock and roll, sir,” Mac beams. Oh,
　　the boat, The Grace. Silly me.
　　“Let’s get underway, then.”
　　“You going to take her out?”
　　“Yep.” Christian flashes Mac a quick wicked grin.
　　“Quick tour, Anastasia?”
　　“Yes, please.”
　　I follow him inside the cabin. An L-shaped cream
　　leather sofa is directly in front of us, and above it, a
　　massive curved window offers a panoramic view of the
　　marina. To the left is the kitchen area—very well
　　appointed, all pale wood.
　　“This is the main saloon. Galley beside,” Christian says,
　　waving his hand in the direction of the kitchen.
　　He takes my hand and leads me through the main
　　cabin. It’s surprisingly spacious. The floor is the same pale
　　wood. It looks modern and sleek and has a light, airy feel,
　　but it’s all very functional, as if he doesn’t spend much time
　　here.
　　“Bathrooms on either side.” Christian points to two
　　doors, then opens the small, oddly shaped door directly in
　　front of us and steps in. We’re in a plush bedroom.
　　Oh . . .
　　It has a king-size cabin bed and is all pale blue linen
　　and pale wood like his bedroom at Escala. Christian
　　obviously chooses a theme and sticks to it.
　　“This is the master cabin.” He gazes down at me, gray
　　“This is the master cabin.” He gazes down at me, gray
　　eyes glowing. “You’re the first girl in here, apart from
　　family,” he smirks. “They don’t count.”
　　I flush under his heated stare, and my pulse quickens.
　　Really? Another first. He pulls me into his arms, his
　　fingers tangling in my hair, and kisses me, long and hard.
　　We’re both breathless when he pulls away.
　　“Might have to christen this bed,” he whispers against
　　my mouth.
　　Oh, at sea!
　　“But not right now. Come, Mac will be casting off.” I
　　ignore the stab of disappointment as he takes my hand and
　　leads me back through the saloon. He indicates another
　　door.
　　“Office in there, and at the front here, two more
　　cabins.”
　　“So how many can sleep on board?”
　　“It’s a six-berth cat. I’ve only ever had the family on
　　board, though. I like to sail alone. But not when you’re
　　here. I need to keep an eye on you.”
　　here. I need to keep an eye on you.”
　　He delves into a chest and pulls out a bright red
　　lifejacket.
　　“Here.” Putting it over my head, he tightens all the
　　straps, a faint smile playing on his lips.
　　“You love strapping me in, don’t you?”
　　“In any form,” he says, a wicked grin playing on his
　　lips.
　　“You are a pervert.”
　　“I know.” He raises his eyebrows and his grin
　　broadens.
　　“My pervert,” I whisper.
　　“Yes, yours.”
　　Once secured, he grabs the sides of the jacket and
　　kisses me. “Always,” he breathes, then releases me before
　　I have a chance to respond.
　　Always! Holy shit.
　　“Come.” He grabs my hand and leads me outside, up
　　some steps, and onto the upper deck to a small cockpit
　　that houses a big steering wheel and a raised seat. At the
　　prow of the boat, Mac is doing something with ropes.
　　“Is this where you learned all your rope tricks?” I ask
　　Christian innocently.
　　“Clove hitches have come in handy,” he says, looking
　　at me appraisingly. “Miss Steele, you sound curious. I like
　　you curious, baby. I’d be more than happy to demonstrate
　　what I can do with a rope.” He smirks at me, and I gaze
　　back impassively as if he’s upset me. His face falls.
　　“Gotcha.” I grin.
　　His mouth twists and he narrows his eyes. “I may have
　　to deal with you later, but right now, I’ve got to drive my
　　boat.” He sits at the controls, presses a button, and the
　　engines roar into life.
　　Mac comes scooting back down the side of the boat,
　　grinning at me, and jumps down to the deck below where
　　he starts to unfasten a rope. Maybe he knows some rope
　　tricks, too. The idea pops unwelcome into my head and I
　　flush.
　　My subconscious glares at me. Mentally I shrug at her
　　and glance at Christian—I blame Fifty. He picks up the
　　and glance at Christian—I blame Fifty. He picks up the
　　receiver and radios the coastguard as Mac calls up that we
　　are set to go.
　　Once more, I am dazzled by Christian’s expertise.
　　He’s so competent. Is there nothing that this man can’t
　　do? Then I remember his earnest attempt to chop and dice
　　a pepper in my apartment on Friday. The thought makes
　　me smile.