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五十度灰英文版 - Part II 19
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  “Thirty-four pounds? Not bad. Ana’s father though, he
  holds the record. A forty-three pounder.”
  “You’re kidding! He never said.”
  “Happy birthday, by the way.”
  “Thanks. So, where do you like to fish?”
  I zone out. This I do not need to know. But at the
  same time I’m relieved. See, Christian? José’s not so bad.
  By the time José makes to leave, both of them are much
  more relaxed with each other. Christian quickly changes
  into T-shirt and jeans and barefoot he accompanies José
  and me to the foyer.
  “Thanks for letting me crash here,” José says to
  Christian as they shake hands.
  “Anytime,” Christian smiles.
  José hugs me quickly. “Stay safe, Ana.”
  “Sure. Great to see you. Next time we’ll have a proper
  evening out.”
  “I’ll hold you to that.” He waves at us from inside the
  elevator, and then he’s gone.
  “See, he’s not so bad.”
  “He still wants into your panties, Ana. But can’t say I
  blame him.”
  “Christian, that’s not true!”
  “You have no idea, do you?” He smirks down at me.
  “He wants you. Big time. ”
  I frown. “Christian, he’s just a friend, a good friend.”
  And I’m suddenly aware that I sound like Christian when
  he’s talking about Mrs. Robinson. The thought is
  unsettling.
  Christian holds up his hands in a placating gesture.
  “I don’t want to fight,” he says softly.
  Oh! We’re not fighting . . . are we? “Me neither.”
  “You didn’t tell him we were getting married.”
  “No. I figured I ought to tell Mom and Ray first.” Shit.
  It’s the first time I’ve thought about this since I said yes.
  Jeez—what are my parents going to say?
  Jeez—what are my parents going to say?
  Christian nods. “Yes, you’re right. And I . . . um, I
  should ask your father.”
  I laugh. “Oh, Christian—this isn’t the eighteenth
  century.”
  Holy shit. What will Ray say? The thought of that
  conversation fills me with horror.
  “It’s traditional.” Christian shrugs.
  “Let’s talk about that later. I want to give you your
  other present.” My aim is to distract him. The thought of
  my present is burning a hole in my consciousness. I need
  to give it to him and see how he reacts.
  He gives me his shy smile, and my heart skips a beat.
  For as long as I live, I’ll never tire of looking at that smile.
  “You’re biting your lip,” he says and pulls on my chin.
  A thrill runs through my body as his fingers touch me.
  Without a word, and while I still have a modicum of
  courage, I take his hand and lead him back to the
  bedroom. I drop his hand, leaving him standing by the bed,
  and from under my side of the bed, I take out the two
  and from under my side of the bed, I take out the two
  remaining gift boxes.
  “Two?” he says, surprised.
  I take a deep breath. “I bought this before the, um . . .
  incident yesterday. I’m not sure about it now.” I quickly
  hand him one of the parcels before I can change my mind.
  He gazes at me, puzzled, sensing my uncertainty.
  “Sure you want me to open it?”
  I nod, anxious.
  Christian tears off the packaging and gazes in surprise
  at the box.
  “Charlie Tango,” I whisper.
  He grins. The box contains a small wooden helicopter
  with a large, solar-powered rotor blade. He opens it up.
  “Solar powered,” he murmurs. “Wow.” And before I
  know it he’s sitting on the bed assembling it. It snaps
  together quickly, and Christian holds it up in the palm of
  his hand. A blue wooden helicopter. He looks up at me
  and gives me his glorious, all-American-boy smile, then
  heads to the window so that the little helicopter is bathed
  in sunlight and the rotor starts to spin.
  “Look at that,” he breathes, examining it closely.
  “What we can already do with this technology.” He holds
  it at eye level, watching the blades spin. He’s fascinated
  and fascinating to watch as he loses himself in thought,
  staring at the little helicopter. What is he thinking?
  “You like it?”
  “Ana, I love it. Thank you.” He grabs me and kisses
  me swiftly, then turns back to watch the rotor spin. “I’ll
  add it to the glider in my office,” he says distractedly,
  watching the blade spin. He moves his hand out of the
  sunlight, and the blade slows down and comes to a stop.
  I can’t help my face-splitting grin, and I want to hug
  myself. He loves it. Of course, he’s all about alternative
  technologies. I’d forgotten that in my haste to buy it.
  Placing it on the chest of drawers, he turns to face me.
  “It’ll keep me company while we salvage Charlie
  Tango.”
  “Is it salvageable?”
  “I don’t know. I hope so. I’ll miss her, otherwise.”
  “I don’t know. I hope so. I’ll miss her, otherwise.”
  Her? I am shocked at myself for the small pang of
  jealousy I feel for an inanimate object. My subconscious
  snorts with derisory laughter. I ignore her.
  “What’s in the other box?” he asks, his eyes wide with
  almost childish excitement.
  Holy fuck. “I’m not sure if this present is for you or
  me.”
  “Really?” he asks, and I know I have piqued his
  interest. Nervously I hand him the second box. He shakes
  it gently and we both hear a heavy rattle. He glances up at
  me.
  “Why are you so nervous?” he asks, bemused. I shrug,
  embarrassed and excited as I flush. He raises an eyebrow
  at me.
  “You have me intrigued, Miss Steele,” he whispers,
  and his voice runs right through me, desire and anticipation
  spawning in my belly. “I have to say I’m enjoying your
  reaction. What have you been up to?” He narrows his
  eyes speculatively.
  eyes speculatively.
  I remain tight-lipped as I hold my breath.
  He removes the lid of the box and takes out a small
  card. The rest of the contents are wrapped in tissue. He
  opens the card, and his eyes dart quickly to mine—
  widening with shock or surprise. I just don’t know.
  “Do rude things to you?” he murmurs. I nod and
  swallow. He cocks his head to one side warily, assessing
  my reaction, and frowns. Then turns his attention back to
  the box. He tears through the pale-blue tissue paper and
  fishes out an eye mask, some nipple clamps, a butt plug,
  his iPod, his silver-gray tie—and last but by no means least
  —the key to his playroom.
  He gazes at me, his expression dark, unreadable. Oh
  shit. Is this a bad move?
  “You want to play?” he asks softly.
  “Yes,” I breathe.
  “For my birthday?”
  “Yes.” Could my voice sound any smaller?
  A myriad of emotions cross his face, none of which I
  can place, but he settles for anxious. Hmm . . . Not quite
  the reaction I was expecting.
  “You’re sure?” he asks.
  “Not the whips and stuff.”
  “I understand that.”
  “Yes, then. I’m sure.”
  He shakes his head and gazes down at the contents of
  the box. “Sex mad and insatiable. Well, I think we can do
  something with this lot,” he murmurs almost to himself, then
  puts the contents back in the box. When he glances at me
  again, his expression has completely changed. Holy cow,
  his gray eyes burn, and his mouth lifts in a slow erotic
  smile. He holds out his hand.
  “Now,” he says, and it’s not a request. My belly
  clenches, tight and hard, deep, deep down.
  I put my hand in his.
  “Come,” he orders, and I follow him out of the
  bedroom, my heart in my mouth. Desire races slick and
  hot through my blood as my insides tighten with hungry
  anticipation. My inner goddess somersaults round her
  anticipation. My inner goddess somersaults round her
  chaise longue. Finally!
  Christian pauses outside the playroom.
  “You’re sure about this?” he asks, his gaze heated yet
  anxious.
  “Yes,” I murmur, smiling shyly at him.
  His eyes soften. “Anything you don’t want to do?”
  I’m derailed by his unexpected question, and my mind
  goes into overdrive. One thought occurs. “I don’t want
  you to take photos of me.”
  He stills, and his expression hardens as he cocks his
  head to one side and eyes me speculatively.
  Oh shit. I think he’s going to ask me why, but
  fortunately he doesn’t.
  “Okay,” he murmurs. His brow furrows as he unlocks
  the door, then stands aside to usher me into the room. I
  feel his eyes on me as he follows me inside and closes the
  door.
  Placing the gift box on the chest of drawers, he takes
  out the iPod, switches it on, then waves at the music center
  on the wall so that the smoked glass doors glide silently
  on the wall so that the smoked glass doors glide silently
  open. He presses some buttons, and after a moment, the
  sound of a subway train echoes round the room. He turns
  it down so that the slow, hypnotic electronic beat that
  follows becomes ambient. A woman starts to sing, I don’t
  know who she is but her voice is soft yet rasping and the
  beat is measured, deliberate . . . erotic. Oh my. It’s music
  to make love to.
  Christian turns to face me as I stand in the middle of
  the room, my heart pounding, my blood singing in my
  veins, pulsing—or so it feels—in time to the music’s
  seductive beat. He saunters casually over to me and tugs
  on my chin so I’m no longer biting my lip.
  “What do you want to do, Anastasia?” he murmurs,
  planting a soft chaste kiss at the corner of my mouth, his
  fingers still grasping my chin.
  “It’s your birthday. Whatever you want,” I whisper.
  He traces his thumb along my lower lip, his brow creased
  once more.
  “Are we in here because you think I want to be in
  here?” His words are softly spoken, but he regards me
  intently.
  “No,” I whisper. “I want to be in here, too.”
  His gaze darkens, growing bolder as he assesses my
  response. After what seems an eternity, he speaks.
  “Oh, there are so many possibilities, Miss Steele.” His
  voice is low, excited. “But let’s start with getting you
  naked.” He pulls the sash of my robe so that it falls open,
  revealing my silk nightdress, then steps back and sits
  nonchalantly down on the arm of the chesterfield couch.
  nonchalantly down on the arm of the chesterfield couch.
  “Take your clothes off. Slowly.” He gives me a
  sensual, challenging look.
  I swallow compulsively, pressing my thighs together.
  I’m already damp between my legs. My inner goddess is
  stripped naked and standing in line, ready and waiting and
  begging me to play catch-up. I pull the robe away from my
  shoulders, my eyes never leaving his, and shrug, letting it
  fall billowing to the floor. His mesmerizing gray eyes heat,
  and he runs his index finger over his lips as he gazes at me.
  Slipping the spaghetti straps of my gown off my
  shoulders, I gaze at him for a beat, then release them. My
  nightdress skims and ripples softly down my body, pooling
  at my feet. I am naked and practically panting and oh-soready.
  Christian pauses for a moment, and I marvel at the
  frankly carnal appreciation in his expression. Standing up,
  he makes his way over to the chest and picks up his silvergray
  tie—my favorite tie. He pulls it through his fingers as
  he turns and strolls casually toward me, a smile playing on
  his lips. When he stands in front of me, I expect him to ask
  for my hands, but he doesn’t.
  “I think you’re underdressed, Miss Steele,” he
  murmurs. He places the tie around my neck, and slowly
  but dexterously ties it in what I assume is a fine Windsor
  knot. As he tightens the knot, his fingers brush the base of
  my throat and electricity shoots through me, making me
  gasp. He leaves the wide end of the tie long, long enough
  so the tip skims my pubic hair.
  “You look mighty fine now, Miss Steele,” he says and
  “You look mighty fine now, Miss Steele,” he says and
  bends to kiss me gently on my lips. It’s a swift kiss, and I
  want more, desire spiraling wantonly through my body.
  “What shall we do with you now?” he says, and then
  picking up the tie, he yanks sharply so that I’m forced
  forward into his arms. His hands dive into my hair and pull
  my head back, and he really kisses me, hard, his tongue
  unforgiving and merciless. One of his hands roams freely
  down my back to cup my behind. When he pulls away,
  he’s panting too and gazing down at me, his eyes molten

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

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

  thoroughly fucked hair and bright gray eyes—a visually
  nourishing feast. He looks up when he sees me and
  doesn’t take his eyes off me. He frowns slightly, and I
  don’t know if it’s at me or because of his conversation.
  “Just let them in and leave them alone. Do you
  understand, Mia?” he hisses and rolls his eyes. “Good.”
  I mime eating, and he grins at me and nods.
  “I’ll see you later.” He hangs up. “One more call?” he
  asks.
  “Sure.”
  “Sure.”
  “That dress is very short,” he adds.
  “You like it?” I give him a quick twirl. It’s one of
  Caroline Acton’s purchases. A soft turquoise sundress,
  probably more suitable for the beach, but it’s such a lovely
  day on so many levels. He frowns and my face falls.
  “You look fantastic in it, Ana. I just don’t want anyone
  else to see you like that.”
  “Oh!” I scowl at him. “We’re at home, Christian. No
  one but the staff.”
  His mouth twists, and either he’s trying to hide his
  amusement or he really doesn’t think that’s funny. But
  eventually he nods, reassured. I shake my head at him—
  he’s actually being serious? I head back to the kitchen.
  Five minutes later, he’s back in front of me, holding the
  phone.
  “I have Ray for you,” he murmurs, his eyes wary.
  All the air leaves my body at once. I take the phone
  and cover the mouthpiece.
  “You told him!” I hiss. Christian nods, and his eyes
  widen at my obvious look of distress.
  Shit! I take a deep breath. “Hi, Dad.”
  “Christian has just asked me if he can marry you,” Ray
  says.
  Oh Shit. The silence stretches between us as I
  desperately think what to say. Ray as usual stays silent,
  giving me no clue as to his reaction to this news.
  “What did you say?” I crack first.
  “I said I wanted to talk to you. It’s kind of sudden,
  don’t you think, Annie? You’ve not known him long. I
  don’t you think, Annie? You’ve not known him long. I
  mean, he’s a nice guy, knows his fishing . . . but so soon?”
  His voice is calm and measured.
  “Yes. It is sudden . . . hang on.” Hastily, I leave the
  kitchen area away from Christian’s anxious gaze and head
  toward the great window. The doors to the balcony are
  open, and I step out into the sunshine. I can’t quite walk to
  the edge. It’s just too far up.
  “I know it’s sudden and all—but . . . well, I love him.
  He loves me. He wants to marry me, and there’ll never be
  anyone else for me.” I flush thinking this is probably the
  most intimate conversation I have ever had with my
  stepfather.
  Ray is silent on the other end of the phone.
  “Have you told your mother?”
  “No.”
  “Annie . . . I know he’s all kinds of rich and eligible,
  but marriage? It’s such a big step. You’re sure?”
  “He’s my happily ever after,” I whisper.
  “Whoa.” Ray says after a moment, his tone softer.
  “He’s everything.”
  “Annie, Annie, Annie. You’re such a headstrong young
  woman. I hope to God you know what you’re doing.
  Hand me back to him, will you?”
  “Sure, Dad, and will you give me away at the
  wedding?” I ask quietly.
  “Oh, honey.” His voice cracks, and he’s quiet for a
  few moments, the emotion in his voice bringing tears to my
  eyes. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he says
  eventually.
  eventually.
  Oh, Ray. I love you so much . . . I swallow, to keep
  from crying. “Thank you, Dad. I’ll hand you back to
  Christian. Be gentle with him. I love him,” I whisper.
  I think Ray is smiling on the other end of the line, but
  it’s hard to tell. It’s always hard to tell with Ray.
  “Sure thing, Annie. And come and visit this old man
  and bring that Christian with you.”
  I march back into the room—pissed at Christian for
  not warning me—and hand him the phone, my expression
  letting him know just how pissed I am. He’s amused as he
  takes the phone and heads back into his study.
  Two minutes later, he reappears.
  “I have your stepfather’s rather begrudging blessing,”
  he says proudly, so proudly, in fact, that it makes me
  giggle, and he grins at me. He’s acting like he’s just
  negotiated a major new merger or acquisition, which I
  suppose on one level, he has.
  “Damn, you’re a good cook, woman.” Christian swallows
  his last mouthful and raises his glass of white wine to me. I
  blossom under his praise, and it occurs to me I’ll only get
  to cook for him on weekends. I frown. I enjoy cooking.
  Perhaps I should have made him a cake for his birthday. I
  check my watch. I still have time.
  “Ana?” He interrupts my thoughts. “Why did you ask
  me not to take your photo?” His question startles me all
  the more because his voice is deceptively soft.
  Oh . . . shit. The photos. I stare down at my empty
  plate, twisting my fingers in my lap. What can I say? I’d
  promised myself not to mention that I’d found his version
  of Readers’ Wives.
  “Ana,” he snaps. “What is it?” He makes me jump,
  and his voice commands me to look at him. When did I
  think he didn’t intimidate me?
  “I found your photos,” I whisper.
  His eyes widen in shock. “You’ve been in the safe?”
  he asks, incredulous.
  “Safe? No. I didn’t know you had a safe.”
  He frowns. “I don’t understand.”
  “In your closet. The box. I was looking for your tie,
  and the box was under your jeans . . . the ones you
  normally wear in the playroom. Except today.” I flush.
  He gapes at me, appalled, and nervously runs his hand
  through his hair as he processes this information. He rubs
  his chin, lost in thought, but he can’t mask the perplexed
  annoyance etched on his face. Abruptly he shakes his
  head, exasperated—but amused, too—and a faint smile of
  admiration kisses the corner of his mouth. He steeples his
  hands in front of him and focuses on me once more.
  “It’s not what you think. I’d forgotten all about them.
  That box has been moved. Those photographs belong in
  my safe.”
  “Who moved them?” I whisper.
  He swallows. “There’s only one person who could
  have done that.”
  “Oh. Who? And what do you mean, ‘it’s not what I
  think’?”
  He sighs and tilts his head to one side, and I think he’s
  embarrassed. So he should be! My subconscious snarls.
  “This is going to sound cold, but—they’re an insurance
  policy,” he whispers steeling himself for my response.
  “Insurance policy?”
  “Against exposure.”
  The penny drops and rattles uncomfortably round and
  round in my empty head.
  “Oh,” I murmur, because I can’t think of what else to
  say. I close my eyes. This is it. This is Fifty Shades of
  Fucked-Up, right here, right now. “Yes. You’re right,” I
  mutter. “That does sound cold.” I stand to clear our
  dishes. I don’t want to know any more.
  “Ana.”
  “Do they know? The girls . . . the subs?”
  He frowns. “Of course they know.”
  Oh, well, that’s something. He reaches out, grabbing
  me and pulling me to him.
  “Those photos are supposed to be in the safe. They’re
  not for recreational use.” He stops. “Maybe they were
  when they were taken originally. But—” He stops,
  imploring me. “They don’t mean anything.”
  “Who put them in your closet?”
  “It could only have been Leila.”
  “She knows your safe combination?”
  He shrugs. “It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s a very long
  combination, and I use it so rarely. It’s the one number I
  have written down and haven’t changed.” He shakes his
  head. “I wonder what else she knows and if she’s taken
  anything else out of there.” He frowns, then turns his
  attention back to me. “Look, I’ll destroy the photos. Now,
  if you like.”
  “They’re your photos, Christian. Do with them as you
  wish,” I mutter.
  “Don’t be like that,” he says, taking my head in his
  hands and holding my gaze to his. “I don’t want that life. I
  want our life, together.”
  Holy cow. How does he know that beneath my horror
  about these photos is the fact that I’m paranoid?
  “Ana, I thought we exorcised all those ghosts this
  morning. I feel that way. Don’t you?”
  I blink at him, recalling our very, very pleasurable and
  romantic and downright dirty morning in his playroom.
  “Yes,” I smile. “Yes, I feel like that, too.”
  “Good.” He leans forward and kisses me, folding me in
  his arms. “I’ll shred them,” he murmurs. “And then I have
  to go to work. I’m sorry, baby, but I have a mountain of
  business to get through this afternoon.”
  “It’s cool. I have to call my mother.” I grimace. “Then
  I want to do some shopping and bake you a cake.”
  He grins and his eyes light up like a small boy’s.
  “A cake?”
  I nod.
  “A chocolate cake?”
  “You want a chocolate cake?” His grin is infectious.
  He nods.
  “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Grey.”
  “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Grey.”
  He kisses me once more.
  Carla is stunned into silence.
  “Mom, say something.”
  “You’re not pregnant, are you, Ana?” she whispers in
  horror.
  “No, no, no, nothing like that.” Disappointment slices
  through my heart, and I’m saddened that she would think
  that of me. But then I remember with an ever-sinking
  feeling that she was pregnant with me when she married
  my father.
  “I’m sorry, darling. This is just so sudden. I mean,
  Christian is quite a catch, but you’re so young, and you
  should see a little of the world.”
  “Mom, can’t you just be happy for me? I love him.”
  “Darling, I just need to get used to the idea. It’s a
  shock. I could tell in Georgia that there was something
  very special between you two, but marriage . . . ?”
  In Georgia he wanted me to be his submissive, but I
  won’t tell her that.
  “Have you set a date?”
  “No.”
  “I wish your father was alive,” she whispers. Oh no . . .
  not this. Not this, now.
  “I know, Mom. I would have liked to know him, too.”
  “He only held you once, and he was so proud. He
  thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world.” Her
  voice is a deathly hush as the familiar tale is retold . . .
  voice is a deathly hush as the familiar tale is retold . . .
  again. She will be in tears next.
  “I know, Mom.”
  “And then he died.” She sniffs, and I know this has set
  her off as it does every time.
  “Mom,” I whisper, wanting to reach down the phone
  and hold her.
  “I’m a silly old woman,” she murmurs and she sniffs
  again. “Of course I am happy for you, darling. Does Ray
  know?” she adds, and she seems to have recovered her
  equilibrium.
  “Christian’s just asked him.”
  “Oh, that’s sweet. Good.” She sounds melancholic,
  but she’s making an effort.
  “Yes, it was,” I murmur.
  “Ana, darling, I love you so much. I am happy for you.
  And you must both visit.”
  “Yes, Mom. I love you, too.”
  “Bob is calling me, I have to go. Let me have a date.
  We need to plan . . . are you having a big wedding?”
  Big wedding, crap. I haven’t even thought about that.
  Big wedding? No. I don’t want a big wedding.
  “I don’t know yet. As soon as I do, I’ll call.”
  “Good. You take care now and be safe. You two
  need to have some fun . . . plenty of time for kids later.”
  Kids! Hmm . . . and there it is again—a not-so-veiled
  reference to the fact that she had me so early.
  “Mom, I didn’t really ruin your life, did I?”
  She gasps. “Oh no, Ana, never think that. You were
  the best thing that ever happened to your father and me. I
  the best thing that ever happened to your father and me. I
  just wish he was here to see you so grown up and getting
  married.” She’s wistful and maudlin again.
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作者:佚名
章节:12 人气:0
摘要:虽然我不知道望月那天原来打算邀请的第四个人是谁,不过我恐怕得感谢那家伙一辈子。托了这家伙临时爽约的福,我才得以与她邂逅。电话打过来时已经过了下午五点,望月随便寒暄了两句便直奔主题。“抱歉突然给你打电话,其实呢,今天晚上有一个酒会,有一个人突然来不了了。你今天……有空吗?有什么安排吗?”“不,没什么。 [点击阅读]
爱者之贻
作者:佚名
章节:6 人气:0
摘要:石真译1沙杰汗①,你宁愿听任皇权消失,却希望使一滴爱的泪珠②永存。岁月无情,它毫不怜悯人的心灵,它嘲笑心灵因不肯忘却而徒劳挣扎。沙杰汗,你用美诱惑它,使它着迷而被俘,你给无形的死神戴上了永不凋谢的形象的王冠。静夜无声,你在情人耳边倾诉的悄悄私语已经镌刻在永恒沉默的白石上。 [点击阅读]
父与子
作者:佚名
章节:30 人气:0
摘要:《父与子》描写的是父辈与子辈冲突的主题。这一冲突在屠格涅夫笔下着上了时代的色彩。 [点击阅读]
牙医谋杀案
作者:佚名
章节:10 人气:0
摘要:吃早饭的时候,莫利先生的心情绝称不上极佳。他抱怨熏肉的味道不好,不明白咖啡为什么非要给弄得象泥浆似的,而他对面包的评价是每一片都比上一片更难以下咽。莫利先生个头不高,却有一副给人决断感的颚和好斗感的下巴。他姐姐身材高大,颇有女手榴弹兵的气度,她料理着他的生活。她若有所思地看着弟弟,问他洗澡水是不是又该冷了。莫利先生勉强回答了一声没冷。 [点击阅读]
牛虻
作者:佚名
章节:38 人气:0
摘要:六月里一个炎热的傍晚,所有的窗户都敞开着,大学生亚瑟·勃尔顿正在比萨神学院的图书馆里翻查一大迭讲道稿。院长蒙太尼里神甫慈爱地注视着他。亚瑟出生在意大利的一个英国富商勃尔顿家中,名义上他是勃尔顿与后妻所生,但实则是后妻与蒙太尼里的私生子。亚瑟从小在家里受异母兄嫂的歧视,又看到母亲受他们的折磨和侮辱,精神上很不愉快,却始终不知道事情的真相。 [点击阅读]
牧羊少年奇幻之旅
作者:佚名
章节:33 人气:0
摘要:那个男孩名叫圣狄雅各。日落时分他领着一群羊抵达了一座废弃的教堂。教堂圉顶看起来在很久前就已经塌落了,而曾经是更衣室的地方,如今却磐立着一株巨大的无花果树。他决定在此过夜。看着羊儿一一跳进门后,男孩在毁圯的门上横竖着一些木板,以防羊儿走失。这附近并没有狼,但若有羊只脱队,他可得花上一整天去找回来。他用夹克掸了掸地面,然后躺下来,头枕着一本才刚读完的书。 [点击阅读]
物种起源
作者:佚名
章节:23 人气:0
摘要:有关物种起源的见解的发展史略关于物种起源的见解的发展情况,我将在这里进行扼要叙述。直到最近,大多数博物学者仍然相信物种(species)是不变的产物,并且是分别创造出来的。许多作者巧妙地支持了这一观点。另一方面,有些少数博物学者已相信物种经历着变异,而且相信现存生物类型都是既往生存类型所真正传下来的后裔。 [点击阅读]