51(y)(7)
用你喜欢的方式阅读你喜欢的小说
五十度灰英文版 - Part III Chapter Six
繁体
恢复默认
返回目录【键盘操作】左右光标键:上下章节;回车键:目录;双击鼠标:停止/启动自动滚动;滚动时上下光标键调节滚动速度。
  Chapter Six
  “Do you have anything in mind?” Christian murmurs, pinning me with his bold
  gaze. I shrug, suddenly breathless and agitated. I don’t know if it’s the chase,
  the adrenaline, my earlier bad mood—I don’t understand, but I want this, and
  I want it badly. A puzzled expression flits across Christian’s face. “Kinky
  fuckery?” he asks, his words a soft caress. I nod, feeling my face flame. Why
  am I embarrassed by this? I have done all manner of kinky fuckery with this
  man. He’s my husband, damn it! Am I embarrassed because I want this and
  I’m ashamed to admit it? My subconscious glares at me. Stop overthinking.
  “Carte blanche?” He whispers the question, eyeing me speculatively as if
  he’s trying to read my mind.
  Carte blanche? Holy fuck—what will that entail? “Yes,” I murmur nervously, as
  excitement blooms deep inside me. He smiles a slow sexy smile.
  “Come,” he says and tugs me toward the stairs. His intention is clear.
  Playroom! My inner goddess wakes from her post-R8-sex slumber, wideeyed
  and raring to go.
  At the top of the stairs, he releases my hand and unlocks the playroom door.
  The key is on the Yes Seattle keychain that I gave him not so long ago.
  “After you, Mrs. Grey,” he says and swings the door open. The playroom
  smells reassuringly familiar, of leather and wood and fresh polish. I blush,
  knowing that Mrs. Jones must have been in here cleaning while we were
  away on our honeymoon. As we enter, Christian switches on the lights and
  the dark red walls are illuminated with soft, diffused light. I stand gazing at
  him, anticipation running thick and heavy through my veins. What is he going
  to do to me? He locks the door and turns. Inclining his head to one side, he
  regards me thoughtfully and then shakes his head, amused.
  “What do you want, Anastasia?” he asks gently.
  “You.” My response is breathy.
  103 | P a g e
  Fifty Shades Freed
  He smirks. “You’ve got me. You’ve had me since you fell into my office.”
  “Surprise me then, Mr. Grey.”
  His mouth twists with repressed humor and carnal promise. “As you wish,
  Mrs. Grey.” He folds his arms and raises one long index finger to his lips
  while he appraises me. “I think we’ll start by ridding you of your clothes.” He
  steps forward. Grasping the front of my short denim jacket, he opens it and
  pushes it over my shoulders so it falls to the floor. He clasps the hem of my
  black camisole.
  “Lift your arms.”
  I obey, and he peels it off over my head. Leaning down, he plants a soft kiss
  on my lips, his eyes glowing with an alluring mix of lust and love. The
  camisole joins my jacket on the floor.
  “Here,” I whisper gazing nervously at him as I remove the hair tie from around
  my wrist and hold it up for him. He stills, and his eyes widen momentarily but
  give nothing away. Finally, he takes the small band.
  “Turn around,” he orders.
  Relieved, I smile to myself and oblige immediately. Looks like we’ve
  overcome that little hurdle. He gathers my hair and braids it quickly and
  efficiently before fastening it with the tie. He tugs the braid, pulling my head
  back.
  “Good thinking, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers in my ear, then nips my earlobe.
  “Now turn around and take your skirt off. Let it fall to the floor.” He releases
  me and steps back as I turn to face him. Not taking my eyes off his, I unbutton
  the waistband of my skirt and ease the zipper down. The full skirt fans out
  and falls to the floor, pooling at my feet.
  “Step out from your skirt,” he orders. As I step toward him, he kneels swiftly
  down in front of me and grasps my right ankle. Deftly, he unbuckles my
  sandals one at a time while I lean forward, balancing myself with a hand on
  the wall under the pegs that used to hold all his whips, crops and paddles.
  The flogger and the riding crop are the only implements that remain. I eye
  them with curiosity. Will he use those?
  Having removed my shoes so I’m just in my lacy bra and panties, Christian
  sits back on his heels, gazing up at me. “You’re a fine sight, Mrs. Grey.”
  Suddenly he kneels up, grabs my hips and pulls me 104 | P a g e
  E L JAMES
  forward, burying his nose in the apex of my thighs. “And you smell of you and
  me and sex,” he says inhaling sharply. “It’s intoxicating.” He kisses me
  through my lace panties, while I gasp at his words—my insides liquefying.
  He’s just so . . . naughty. Gathering up my clothes and sandals, he stands in
  one swift, graceful move, like an athlete.
  “Go and stand beside the table,” he says calmly, pointing with his chin.
  Turning, he strides over to the museum chest of wonder. What is he going to
  do to me?
  He glances back and smirks at me. “Face the wall,” he commands.
  “That way you won’t know what I’m planning. We aim to please, Mrs. Grey,
  and you wanted a surprise.”
  I turn away from him listening acutely—my ears suddenly sensitive to the
  slightest sound. He’s good at this—building my expectations, stoking my
  desire . . . making me wait. I hear him put my shoes down and, I think, my
  clothes on the chest, followed by the telltale clatter of his shoes as they drop
  to the floor, one at a time. Hmmm . . . love barefoot Christian. A moment
  later, I hear him pull open a drawer. Toys! What the hell is he going to do?
  Oh, I love, love, love this anticipation. The drawer closes and my breathing
  spikes. How can the sound of a drawer render me a quivering mess? It
  makes no sense. The subtle hiss of the sound system coming to life tells me
  it’s going to be a musical interlude. A lone piano starts, muted and soft, and
  mournful chords fill the room. It’s not a tune I know. The piano is joined by an
  electric guitar. What is this? A man’s voice speaks and I can just make out
  the words, something about not being frightened of dying. What is this?
  Christian pads leisurely toward me, his bare feet slapping on the wooden
  floor. I sense him behind me as a woman starts to sing . . . wail . . . sing?
  “Rough, you say, Mrs. Grey?” he breathes in my left ear.
  “Hmm.”
  “You must tell me to stop if it’s too much. If you say stop, I will stop
  immediately. Do you understand?”
  “Yes.”
  “I need your promise.”
  I inhale sharply. Shit, what is he going to do? “I promise,” I murmur
  breathless, recalling his words from earlier: I don’t want to hurt you, 105 | P a
  g e
  Fifty Shades Freed
  but I’m more than happy to play.
  “Good girl.” Leaning down, he plants a kiss on my naked shoulder then
  hooks a finger beneath my bra strap and traces a line across my back
  beneath the strap. I want to moan. How does he make the slightest touch so
  erotic?
  “Take it off,” he whispers at my ear, and hurriedly I oblige and let my bra fall
  to the floor.
  His hands skim down my back, and he hooks both of his thumbs into my
  panties and slides them down my legs.
  “Step,” he orders. Once more I do as I’m told, stepping out of my panties. He
  plants a kiss on my backside and stands.
  “I am going to blindfold you so that everything will be more intense.” He slips
  an airline eye mask over my eyes, and my world is plunged into the
  darkness. The woman singing moans incoherently . . . a haunting, heartfelt
  melody.
  “Bend down and lie flat on the table.” His words are softly spoken.
  “Now.”
  Without hesitation, I bend over the side of the table and rest my torso on the

  highly polished wood, my face flush against the hard surface. It’s cool against
  my skin and it smells vaguely of beeswax with a citrus tang.
  “Stretch your arms up and hold on to the edge.”
  Okay . . . Reaching forward, I clutch the far edge of the table. It’s quite wide,
  so my arms are fully extended.
  “If you let go, I will spank you. Do you understand?”
  “Yes.”
  “Do you want me to spank you, Anastasia?”
  Everything south of my waist tightens deliciously. I realize I’ve wanted this
  since he threatened me during lunch, and neither the car chase nor our
  subsequent intimate encounter has sated this need.
  “Yes.” My voice is a hoarse whisper.
  “Why?”
  Oh . . . do I have to have a reason? Jeez. I shrug.
  “Tell me,” he coaxes.
  “Um . . .”
  And from out of nowhere he smacks me hard.
  “Ah!” I cry out.
  106 | P a g e
  E L JAMES
  “Hush now.”
  He gently rubs my behind where he’s hit me. Then he leans over me, his hips
  digging into my backside, plants a kiss between my shoulder blades and
  trails kisses across my back. He’s taken his shirt off, so his chest hair tickles
  my back, and his erection presses against me through the rough fabric of his
  jeans.
  “Open your legs,” he orders.
  I move my legs apart.
  “Wider.”
  I groan and spread my legs wider.
  “Good girl,” he breathes. He traces his finger down my back, along the crack
  between my buttocks, and over my anus, which shrink at his touch.
  “We’re going to have with some fun with this,” he whispers. What? Fuck!
  His finger continues down over my perineum and slowly slides into me.
  “I see you’re very wet, Anastasia. From earlier or from now?”
  I groan and he eases his finger in and out of me, over and over. I push back
  on his hand, relishing the intrusion.
  “Oh, Ana, I think it’s both. I think you love being here, like this. Mine.”
  I do—oh, I do. He withdraws his finger and smacks me hard once more.
  “Tell me,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and urgent.
  “Yes, I do,” I whimper.
  He smacks me hard once more so I cry out, then sticks two fingers inside
  me. He withdraws them immediately, spreading the moisture up over and
  around my anus.
  “What are you going to do?” I ask, breathless. Oh my . . . is he going to fuck
  my ass?
  “It’s not what you think,” he murmurs reassuringly. “I told you, one step at time
  with this, baby.” I hear the quiet spurt of some liquid, presumably from a tube,
  then his fingers are massaging me there again. Lubricating me. . . there! I
  squirm as my fear collides with my excitement of the unknown. He smacks
  me once more, lower, so he hits my sex. I groan. It feels . . . so good.
  107 | P a g e
  Fifty Shades Freed
  “Keep still,” he says. “And don’t let go.”
  “Ah.”
  “This is lube.” He spreads some more on me. I try not to wriggle beneath him,
  but my heart is pounding, my pulse haywire, as desire and anxiety pump
  through me.
  “I have wanted to do this to you for some time now, Ana.”
  I groan. And I feel something cool, metallically cool, run down my spine.
  “I have a small present for you here,” Christian whispers. What is it? An
  image from our show-and-tell springs to mind. Holy cow. A butt plug.
  Christian runs it down the parting between my buttocks.
  Oh my.
  “I am going to push this inside you, very slowly.”
  I gasp, anticipation and anxiety charging through me.
  “Will it hurt?”
  “No, baby. It’s small. Once it’s inside you, I’m going to fuck you real hard.”
  I practically convulse. Bending over me, he kisses me once more between
  my shoulder blades.
  “Ready?” he whispers.
  Ready? Am I ready for this?
  “Yes,” I mutter quietly, my mouth dry. He runs another finger down past my
  ass and perineum and slips it inside me. Fuck, it’s his thumb. He cups my
  sex and his fingers gently caress my clitoris. I moan . . . it feels. . . good. And
  gently, while his fingers and thumb work their magic, he pushes the cold plug
  slowly into me.
  “Ah!” I groan loudly at the unfamiliar sensation, my muscles protesting at the
  intrusion. He circles his thumb inside me and pushes the plug harder, and it
  slips in easily, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m so turned on or if he’s
  distracted me with his expert fingers, but my body seems to accept it. It’s
  heavy . . . and strange . . . there!
  “Oh, baby.”
  And I can feel it . . . where his thumb swirls inside me . . . and the plug
  presses against . . . oh, ah . . . He slowly twists the plug, eliciting a long
  drawn-out moan from me.
  108 | P a g e
  E L JAMES
  “Christian,” I mumble, his name a garbled mantra, as I adjust to the
  sensation. “Good girl,” he murmurs. He runs his free hand down my side until
  it reaches my hip. Slowly he withdraws his thumb and I hear the telltale sound
  of his zipper opening. Grasping my other hip, he pulls me back and parts my
  legs further, his foot pushing against mine.
  “Don’t let go of the table, Ana,” he warns.
  “No,” I gasp.
  “Something rough? Tell me if I’m too rough. Understand?”
  “Yes,” I whisper, and he slams into me and pulls me onto him at the same
  time, jolting the plug forward, deeper . . .
  “Fuck!” I cry out.
  He stills, his breathing harsher and my panting matches his. I try to assimilate
  all the sensations: the delicious fullness, the tantalizing feeling that I am doing
  something forbidden, the erotic pleasure that spirals outward from deep
  within me. He pulls gently on the plug. Oh jeez . . . I moan, and I hear his
  sharp intake of breath—a gasp of pure, unadulterated pleasure. It heats my
  blood. Have I ever felt so wanton . . . so—
  “Again?” he whispers.
  “Yes.”
  “Stay flat,” he orders. He eases out of me and rams into me again. Oh . . . I
  wanted this. “Yes,” I hiss.
  And he picks up the pace, his breathing more labored, matching my own as
  he thrashes into me.
  “Oh, Ana,” he gasps. He moves one of his hands from my hips and twists the
  plug again, tugging it slowly, pulling it out and pushing it back in. The feeling
  is indescribable and I think I’m going to pass out on the table. He never
  misses a beat as he takes me, again and again, moving strong and hard
  inside me, my insides tightening and quivering.
  “Oh fuck,” I moan. This is going to rip me apart.
  “Yes, baby,” he hisses.
  “Please,” I beg him and I don’t know what for—to stop, to never stop, to twist
  the plug again. My insides are tightening around him and the plug.
  “That’s right,” he breathes, and he slaps me hard on my right buttock, and I
  come—again and again, falling, falling, spinning, pulsing around and around
  —and Christian gently pulls the plug out. 109 | P a g e
  Fifty Shades Freed
  “Fuck! ” I scream and Christian grabs my hips and climaxes loudly, holding
  me still.
  The woman is still singing. Christian always puts songs on repeat in here.
  Strange. I am curled in his arms on his lap our legs tangled together, with my
  head resting against his chest. We’re on the floor of the playroom by the
  table.
  “Welcome back,” he says, peeling the blindfold off me. I blink as my eyes

  adjust to the muted light. Tipping my chin back, he plants a soft kiss on my
  lips, his eyes focused on and anxiously searching mine. I reach up to caress
  his face. He smiles.
  “Well, did I fulfill the brief?” he asks, amused.
  I frown. “Brief?”
  “You wanted rough,” he says gently.
  I grin, because I just can’t help it. “Yes. I think you did . . .”
  He raises his eyebrows and grins back at me. “I’m very glad to hear it Mrs.
  Grey. You look thoroughly well fucked and beautiful at this moment.” He
  caresses my face, his long fingers stroking my cheek.
  “I feel it,” I purr.
  He reaches down and kisses me tenderly, his lips soft and warm and giving
  against mine. “You never disappoint.” He leans back to gaze down at me.
  “How do you feel?” His voice is soft with concern.
  “Good,” I murmur, feeling a flush creep across my face.
  “Thoroughly well fucked.” I smile shyly.
  “Why, Mrs. Grey, you have a dirty, dirty mouth.” Christian feigns an offended
  expression, but I can hear his amusement.
  “That’s because I’m married to a dirty, dirty boy, Mr. Grey.”
  He grins a ridiculously stupid grin and it’s infectious. “I’m glad you’re married
  to him.” He gently takes hold of my braid, lifts it to his lips, and kisses the end
  with reverence, his eyes glowing with love. Oh my . . . did I ever have a
  chance of resisting this man?
  I reach for his left hand and plant a kiss on his wedding ring, a plain platinum
  band matching my own. “Mine,” I whisper.
  “Yours,” he responds. He curls his arms around me and presses his nose
  into my hair. “Shall I run you a bath?”
  “Hmm. Only if you join me in it.”
  110 | P a g e
  E L JAMES
  “Okay,” he says. He sets me onto my feet and stands up beside me. He’s still
  wearing his jeans.
  “Will you wear your . . . er . . . other jeans?”
  He frowns down at me. “Other jeans?”
  “The ones you used to wear in here.”
  “Those jeans?” he murmurs blinking with perplexed surprise.
  “You look very hot in them.”
  “Do I?”
  “Yeah . . . I mean, really hot.”
  He smiles, shyly. “Well for you, Mrs. Grey, maybe I will.” He bends to kiss me
  then grabs the small bowl on the table that contains the butt plug, the tube of
  lubricant, the blindfold, and my panties.
  “Who cleans these toys?” I ask as I follow him over to the chest. He frowns at
  me, as if not understanding the question. “Me. Mrs. Jones.”
  “What?”
  He nods, amused and embarrassed, I think. He switches off the music. “Well
  —um . . .”
  “Your subs used to do it?” I finish his sentence. He gives me an apologetic
  shrug.
  “Here.” He hands me his shirt and I put it on, wrapping it around myself. His
  scent still clings to the linen, and my chagrin about butt plug washing is
  forgotten. He leaves the items on the chest. Taking my hand, he unlocks the
  playroom door then leads me out and downstairs. I follow him meekly.
  The anxiety, the bad mood, the thrill, fear, and excitement of the car chase
  have all gone. I’m relaxed—finally sated and calm. As we enter our
  bathroom, I yawn loudly and stretch . . . at ease with myself for a change.
  “What is it?” Christian asks as he turns on the faucet. I shake my head.
  “Tell me,” he asks softly. He spills jasmine bath oil into the running water,
  filling the room with its sweet, sensual scent. I flush. “I just feel better.”
  He smiles. “Yes, you’ve been in a strange mood today, Mrs. Grey.”
  Standing, he pulls me into his arms. “I know you’re worrying about these
  recent events. I’m sorry you’re caught up in them. I don’t know if 111 | P a g e
  Fifty Shades Freed
  it’s a vendetta, an ex-employee, or a business rival. If anything were to
  happen to you because of me—” His voice drops to a pained whisper. I curl
  my arms around him.
  “What if something happens to you, Christian?” I voice my fear. He gazes
  down at me. “We’ll figure this out. Now let’s get you out of this shirt and into
  this bath.”
  “Shouldn’t you talk to Sawyer?”
  “He can wait.” His mouth hardens, and I feel a sudden pang of pity for
  Sawyer. What’s he done to upset Christian?
  Christian helps me out of his shirt then frowns as I turn to him. My breasts still
  bear faded bruises from the love bites he gave me during our honeymoon,
  but I decide not to tease him about them.
  “I wonder if Ryan has caught up with the Dodge?”
  “We’ll see, after this bath. Get in.” He holds his hand out for me. I climb into
  the hot, fragrant water and sit tentatively.
  “Ow.” My ass is tender, and the hot water makes me wince.
  “Easy, baby,” Christian warns, but as he says it, the uncomfortable sensation
  melts away.
  Christian strips and climbs in behind me, pulling me against his chest. I
  nestle between his legs, and we lie idle and content in the hot water. I run my
  fingers down his legs, and gathering my braid in one hand, he twirls it gently
  between his fingers.
  “We need to go over the plans for the new house. Later this evening?”
  “Sure.” That woman is coming back again. My subconscious gazes up from
  volume 3 of The Complete Works of Charles Dickens and glowers. I’m with
  my subconscious. I sigh. Unfortunately, Gia Matteo’s designs are
  breathtaking.
  “I must get my things ready for work,” I whisper.
  He stills. “You know you don’t have to go back to work,” he murmurs.
  Oh no . . . not this again. “Christian, we’ve been through this. Please don’t
  resurrect that argument.”
  He tugs my braid so my face tilts up and back. “Just saying . . .” He plants a
  soft kiss on my lips.
  112 | P a g e
  E L JAMES
  I pull on sweat pants and a camisole and decide to fetch my clothes from the
  playroom. As I make my way across the hallway, I hear Christian’s raised
  voice from his study. I freeze.
  “Where the fuck were you?”
  Oh shit. He’s shouting at Sawyer. Cringing, I dash upstairs to the playroom. I
  really don’t want to hear what he has to say to him—I still find shouty Christian
  intimidating. Poor Sawyer. At least I get to shout back.
  I gather up my clothes and Christian’s shoes, then notice the small porcelain
  bowl with the butt plug still on top of the museum chest. Well . . . I suppose I
  should clean it. I add it to the pile and make my way back downstairs. I
  glance nervously through the great room, but all is quiet . . . thank heavens.
  Taylor will be back tomorrow evening, and Christian is generally calmer when
  he’s around. Taylor is spending some quality time today and tomorrow with
  his daughter. I wonder idly if I’ll ever get to meet her.
  Mrs. Jones comes out of the utility room. We startle each other.
  “Mrs. Grey—I didn’t see you there.” Oh, I’m Mrs. Grey now!
  “Hello, Mrs. Jones.”
  “Welcome home and congratulations.” She beams at me.
  “Please call me Ana.”
  “Mrs. Grey, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.”
  Oh! Why must everything change, just because I have a ring on my finger?
  “Would you like to run through the menus for the week?” she asks, looking at

  me expectantly.
  Menus?
  “Um . . .” This is not a question I have ever anticipated being asked. She
  smiles. “When I first worked for Mr. Grey, every Sunday evening I would run
  through the menus for the upcoming week with him and list anything he might
  need from the grocery store.”
  “I see.”
  “Shall I take those for you?”
  She holds out her hands for my clothes.
  “Oh . . . um. Actually I haven’t finished with these.” And they are hiding the
  bowl with the butt plug in! I blush crimson. It’s a wonder I 113 | P a g e
  Fifty Shades Freed
  can look Mrs. Jones in the face. She knows what we do—she cleans the
  room. Jeez, it’s just weird sharing my living space with staff who know
  everything.
  “When you’re ready, Mrs. Grey. I’d be more than happy to run through things
  with you.”
  “Thank you.” We are interrupted by an ashen-faced Sawyer who stalks out of
  Christian’s study and briskly crosses the great room. He gives us both a brief
  nod, not looking either of us in the eye, and slinks into Taylor’s study. I’m
  grateful for his intervention, as I don’t wish to discuss menus or butt plugs
  with Mrs. Jones right now. Offering her a brief smile, I scurry back to the
  bedroom. Will I ever get used to having domestic staff at my beck and call? I
  shake my head . . . one day, maybe.
  I dump Christian’s shoes on the floor and my clothes on the bed, and take the
  bowl with the butt plug into the bathroom. I eye it suspiciously. It looks
  innocuous enough, and surprisingly clean. I don’t want to dwell on that, and I
  wash it quickly with soap and water. Will that be enough? I’ll have to ask Mr.
  Sexpert if it should be sterilized or something. I shudder at the thought.
  I like that Christian has turned the library over to me. It now houses an
  attractive white wooden desk I can work at. I take out my laptop and check
  my notes on the five manuscripts I read on honeymoon. Yep, I have
  everything I need. Part of me dreads going back to work, but I can never tell
  Christian that—he’d seize on the opportunity to make me quit. I remember
  Roach’s apoplectic reaction when I told him I was getting married and to
  whom, and how, shortly afterward, my position was confirmed. I realize now it
  was because I was marrying the boss. The thought is unwelcome. I am no
  longer acting commissioning editor—I am Anastasia Steele, Commissioning
  Editor. I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to tell Christian that I am not
  going to change my name at work. I think my reasons are solid—I need
  some distance from him—but I know there will be a fight when he finally
  realizes that. Perhaps I should discuss this with him tonight. Sitting back in
  my chair, I start my final chore of the day. I glance at the digital clock on my
  laptop, which tells me it’s seven in the evening. 114 | P a g e
  E L JAMES
  Christian still hasn’t emerged from his study, so I have time. Taking the
  memory card out of the Nikon camera I load it into the laptop to transfer the
  photographs. As the pictures upload, I reflect on the day. Is Ryan back? Or is
  he still on his way to Portland? Has he caught up with the mystery woman?
  Has Christian heard from him? I want some answers. I don’t care that he’s
  busy; I want to know what’s going on, and I suddenly feel a tad resentful that
  he’s keeping me in the dark. I rise, intending to go and confront him in his
  study, but as I do the photos from the last few days of our honeymoon pop up
  onscreen. Holy crap!
  Picture after picture of me. Asleep, so many of me asleep, my hair over my
  face or fanned out across the pillow, lips parted . . . shit—
  sucking my thumb. I haven’t sucked my thumb for years! So many photos . . . I
  had no idea he’d taken these. There are a few candid long shots, including
  one of me leaning over the rail of the yacht, staring moodily into the distance.
  How did I not notice him taking this? I smile at the photos of me curled up
  beneath him and laughing—my hair flying as I struggle, fighting his tickling,
  tormenting fingers. And there’s the one of him and me on the bed in the
  master cabin that he took at arm’s length. I am cuddled on his chest and he
  gazes at the camera, young, wide-eyed . . . in love. His other hand cups my
  head, and I am smiling like a love-struck fool, but I cannot take my eyes off
  Christian. Oh, my beautiful man, his ruffled just-fucked hair, his gray eyes
  glowing, his lips parted and smiling. My beautiful man who cannot bear to be
  tickled, who could not bear to be touched just a short while ago, yet now he
  tolerates my touch. I must ask him if he likes it, or whether he lets me touch
  him for my pleasure rather than his. I frown, gazing down at his image,
  suddenly overwhelmed by my feelings for him. Someone out there wants to
  harm him—first Charlie Tango, then the fire at GEH, and that damned car
  chase. I gasp, putting my hand to my mouth as an involuntary sob escapes.
  Abandoning my computer, I leap up to find him—not to confront him now—
  just to check that he’s safe.
  Not bothering to knock, I barge into his study. Christian is sitting at his desk
  and talking on the phone. He looks up in surprised annoyance, but the
  irritation on his face disappears when he sees it’s me. 115 | P a g e
  Fifty Shades Freed
  “So you can’t enhance it further?” he says, continuing his phone
  conversation, though he doesn’t take his eyes off me. Without hesitation, I
  walk around his desk, and he turns in his chair to face me, frowning. I can tell
  he’s thinking what does she want? When I crawl onto his lap, his eyebrows
  shoot up in surprise. I put my arms around his neck and cuddle into him.
  Gingerly, he puts his arm around me.
  “Um . . . yes, Barney. Could you hold one moment?” He cups the phone
  against his shoulder.
  “Ana, what’s wrong?”
  I shake my head. Tipping my chin up, he gazes into my eyes. I pull my head
  free from his hold, tuck it beneath his chin, and curl up smaller on his lap.
  Bemused, he wraps his free arm more tightly around me and kisses the top
  of my head.
  “Okay, Barney, what were you saying?” He continues, wedging the phone
  between his ear and his shoulder, and taps a key on his laptop. A grainy
  black and white CCTV image appears on the screen . . . a man with dark
  hair wearing pale coveralls comes on the screen. Christian presses another
  key, and the man walks toward the camera, but with his head bowed. When
  the man is closer to the camera, Christian freezes the frame. He’s standing
  in a bright white room with what looks like a long line of tall black cabinets to
  his left. This must be GEH’s server room.
  “Okay Barney, one more time.”
  The screen springs to life. A box appears around the head of the man in the
  CCTV footage and suddenly we zoom in. I sit up, fascinated.
  “Is Barney doing this?” I ask quietly.
  “Yes,” Christian answers. “Can you sharpen the picture at all?” he says to
  Barney.
  The picture blurs, then refocuses moderately sharper of the man consciously
  gazing down and avoiding the CCTV camera. As I stare at him, a chill of
  recognition sweeps up my spine. There is something familiar in the line of his
  jaw. He has scruffy short black hair that looks odd and unkempt . . . and in the
  newly sharpened picture, I see an earring, a small hoop.
  Holy crap! I know who it is.
  “Christian,” I whisper. “That’s Jack Hyde.”
  116 | P a g e
  E L JAMES
或许您还会喜欢:
偶发空缺
作者:佚名
章节:56 人气:0
摘要:6.11若发生如下三种情况之一,即认为偶发空缺出现:(1)地方议员未在规定时间内声明接受职位;(2)议会收到其辞职报告;(3)其死亡当天……——查尔斯·阿诺德-贝克《地方议会管理条例》,第七版星期天巴里·菲尔布拉泽不想出门吃晚饭。整个周末他都头痛欲裂,当地报纸约稿的截稿期马上就要到了,得拼命写完。 [点击阅读]
偷影子的人
作者:佚名
章节:17 人气:0
摘要:有些人只拥吻影子,于是只拥有幸福的幻影。——莎士比亚爱情里最需要的,是想象力。每个人必须用尽全力和全部的想象力来形塑对方,并丝毫不向现实低头。那么,当双方的幻想相遇……就再也没有比这更美的景象了。——罗曼·加里(RomainGary)我害怕黑夜,害怕夜影中不请自来的形影,它们在帏幔的褶皱里、在卧室的壁纸上舞动,再随时间消散。但只要我一回忆童年,它们便会再度现身,可怕又充满威胁性。 [点击阅读]
傲慢与偏见英文版
作者:佚名
章节:62 人气:0
摘要:简·奥斯汀(JaneAusten,1775年12月16日-1817年7月18日)是英国著名小说家,生于英国汉普郡,父亲是当地教区牧师。她的作品主要关注乡绅家庭的女性的婚姻和生活,以细致入微的观察和活泼风趣的文字著称。有6个兄弟和一个姐姐,家境尚可。她的父亲乔治·奥斯汀(GeorgeAusten,1731年—1805年)是一名牧师,母亲名卡桑德拉(1739年—1827年)。 [点击阅读]
儿子与情人
作者:佚名
章节:134 人气:0
摘要:戴维。赫伯特。劳伦斯是二十世纪杰出的英国小说家,被称为“英国文学史上最伟大的人物之一”。劳伦斯于1885年9月11日诞生在诺丁汉郡伊斯特伍德矿区一个矿工家庭。做矿工的父亲因贫困而粗暴、酗酒,与当过教师的母亲感情日渐冷淡。母亲对儿子的畸型的爱,使劳伦斯长期依赖母亲而难以形成独立的人格和健全的性爱能力。直到1910年11月,母亲病逝后,劳伦斯才挣扎着走出畸形母爱的怪圈。 [点击阅读]
元旦
作者:佚名
章节:7 人气:0
摘要:“她过去很坏……一向如此,他们常常在第五大道旅馆见面。”我母亲这么说,好像那一越轨的情景增加了她所提起的那对男女的罪过。她斜挎着眼镜,看着手里的编织活,声音厚重得嘶嘶作响,好像要烤焦她毫不倦怠的手指间编织的雪白童毯一样。(我母亲是一个典型的乐善好施的人,然而说出的话却尖酸刻薄,一点也不慈善。 [点击阅读]
关于莉莉周的一切
作者:佚名
章节:19 人气:0
摘要:自从那次涉谷四叶大厦现场演唱会结束之后,已经过了三个月。在这几个月中,事件的余波依旧冲击着莉莉周。 [点击阅读]
其他诗集
作者:佚名
章节:8 人气:0
摘要:[印]戈斯这一时期②,诗人一开始便尝试一种新的样式——散文诗。虽然泰戈尔的大部分翻译作品都采用了散文诗这种形式,然而这些作品的孟加拉文原著,显然都是些出色的韵文。那么,诗人到底为什么动手写起了散文诗呢?人们自然会以为,采用散文诗写作与“散文”③《吉檀迦利》的成功(指英译本)有关,诗人自己也赞同这种观点(《再次集》导言)。 [点击阅读]
冒险史系列
作者:佚名
章节:12 人气:0
摘要:一歇洛克-福尔摩斯始终称呼她为那位女人。我很少听见他提到她时用过别的称呼。在他的心目中,她才貌超群,其他女人无不黯然失色。这倒并不是说他对艾琳-艾德勒有什么近乎爱情的感情。因为对于他那强调理性、严谨刻板和令人钦佩、冷静沉着的头脑来说,一切情感,特别是爱情这种情感,都是格格不入的。我认为,他简直是世界上一架用于推理和观察的最完美无瑕的机器。但是作为情人,他却会把自己置于错误的地位。 [点击阅读]
冤家,一个爱情故事
作者:佚名
章节:10 人气:0
摘要:第一章1赫尔曼·布罗德翻了个身,睁开一只眼睛。他睡得稀里糊涂,拿不准自己是在美国,在齐甫凯夫还是在德国难民营里。他甚至想象自己正躲在利普斯克的草料棚里。有时,这几处地方在他心里混在一起。他知道自己是在布鲁克林,可是他能听到纳粹分子的哈喝声。他们用刺刀乱捅,想把他吓出来,他拚命往草料棚深处钻。刺刀尖都碰到了他的脑袋。需要有个果断的动作才能完全清醒过来。 [点击阅读]
冰与火之歌1
作者:佚名
章节:73 人气:0
摘要:“既然野人①已经死了,”眼看周围的树林逐渐黯淡,盖瑞不禁催促,“咱们回头吧。”“死人吓着你了吗?”威玛·罗伊斯爵士带着轻浅的笑意问。盖瑞并未中激将之计,年过五十的他也算得上是个老人,这辈子看过太多贵族子弟来来去去。“死了就是死了,”他说,“咱们何必追寻死人。”“你能确定他们真死了?”罗伊斯轻声问,“证据何在?”“威尔看到了,”盖瑞道,“我相信他说的话。 [点击阅读]