Fifty Shades Darker

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
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Author : E.L. James
Category : Romance

When unworldly student Anastasia Steele first encountered the driven and dazzling young entrepreneur Christian Grey it sparked a sensual affair that changed both of their lives irrevocably. Shocked, intrigued, and, ultimately, repelled by Christian’s singular erotic tastes, Ana demands a deeper commitment. Determined to keep her, Christian agrees.
Now, Ana and Christian have it all—love, passion, intimacy, wealth, and a world of possibilities for their future. But Ana knows that loving her Fifty Shades will not be easy, and that being together will pose challenges that neither of them would anticipate. Ana must somehow learn to share Christian’s opulent lifestyle without sacrificing her own identity. And Christian must overcome his compulsion to control as he wrestles with the demons of a tormented past.
Just when it seems that their strength together will eclipse any obstacle, misfortune, malice, and fate conspire to make Ana’s deepest fears turn to reality.

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter One

Mr. Jack Hyde... he smiles down at me, his blue eyes twinkling, as he leans against my desk."Excellent work, Ana. I think we're going to make a great team."

Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in a semblance of a smile.

"I'll be off, if that's okay with you," I murmur.

"Of course, it's five thirty. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Jack."

"Goodnight, Ana."

Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head for the door. Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take a deep breath. It doesn't begin to fill the void in my chest, a void that's been present since Saturday morning, a painful hollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward the bus stop with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating being without my beloved Wanda, my old Beetle... or the Audi.

I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don't think about him. Of course, I can afford a car - a nice, new car. I suspect he has been overgenerous in his payment, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as numb and as blank as possible. I can't think about him. I don't want to start crying again -

not out on the street.

The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her lying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail. I turn on the flat-screen television so there's noise to fill the vacuum and provide some semblance of company, but I don't listen or watch. I sit and stare blankly at the brick wall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long must I endure this?

The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my heart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press the intercom.

"Delivery for Ms. Steele." A bored, disembodied voice answers, and disappointment crashes through me. I listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man noisily chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, and leaning against the front door. I sign for the package and take it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly light. Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a card.

Congratulations on your first day at work.

I hope it went well.

And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful.

It has pride of place on my desk.

Christian

I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest expanding. No doubt, his assistant sent this. Christian probably had very little to do with it. It's too painful to think about. I examine the roses - they are beautiful, and I can't bring myself to throw them in the trash.

Dutifully, I make my way into the kitchen to hunt down a vase.

And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep. Well, try to sleep. I can't even escape him in my dreams. Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and bright all haunt me. And the music... so much music - I cannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to avoid it at all costs. Even the jingles in commercials make me shudder.

I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. I don't have the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want none of it. I have become my own island state. A ravaged, war-torn land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak. Yes, that's me. I can interact impersonally at work, but that's it. If I talk to Mom, I know I will break even further - and I have nothing left to break.

I am finding it difficult to eat. By Wednesday lunchtime, I manage a cup of yogurt, and it's the first thing I've eaten since Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for lattes and Diet Coke. It's the caffeine that keeps me going, but it's making me anxious.

Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me, asking me personal questions. What does he want? I'm polite, but I need to keep him at arm's length.

I sit and begin trawling through a pile of correspondence addressed to him, and I'm pleased with the distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and I quickly check to see who it's from.

Holy shit. An e-mail from Christian. Oh no, not here... not at work.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:05

To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it's going well. Did you get my flowers?

I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend's show, and I'm sure you've not had time to purchase a car, and it's a long drive. I would be more than happy to take you - should you wish.

Let me know.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and bolt to the restroom to escape into one of the stalls. Jose's show. Crap. I'd forgotten all about it, and I promised him I'd go. Shit, Christian is right; how am I going to get there?

I clutch my forehead. Why hasn't Jose phoned? Come to think of it - why hasn't anyone phoned? I've been so absentminded, I haven't noticed that my cell phone has been silent.

Shit! I am such an idiot! I still have it on divert to the Blackberry. Holy hell. Christian's been getting my calls - unless he's just thrown the Blackberry away. How did he get my e-mail address?

He knows my shoe size, an e-mail address is hardly going to present him with many problems.

Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to see him? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and longing lance through me. Of course I do.

Perhaps, perhaps I can tell him I've changed my mind... No, no, no. I cannot be with someone who takes pleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can't love me.

Torturous memories flash through my mind - the gliding, holding hands, kissing, the bathtub, his gentleness, his humor, and his dark, brooding, sexy stare. I miss him. It's been five days, five days of agony that has felt like an eternity.

I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself tightly, holding myself together. I miss him. I really miss him... I love him. Simple.

I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn't walked out, wishing that he could be different, wishing that we were together. How long will this hideous overwhelming feeling last? I am in purgatory.

Anastasia Steele, you are at work! I must be strong, but I want to go to Jose's show, and deep down, the masochist in me wants to see Christian. Taking a deep breath, I head back to my desk.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:25

To: Christian Grey

Hi Christian

Thank you for the flowers; they are lovely.

Yes, I would appreciate a lift.

Thank you.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

Checking my phone, I find that it is still switched to divert. Jack is in a meeting, so I quickly call Jose.

"Hi, Jose. It's Ana."

"Hello, stranger." His tone is so warm and welcoming it's almost enough to push me over the edge again.

"I can't talk long. What time should I be there tomorrow for your show?"

"You're still coming?" He sounds excited.

"Yes, of course." I smile my first genuine smile in five days as I picture his broad grin.

"Seven thirty."

"See you then. Good-bye, Jose."

"Bye, Ana."

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:27

To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

What time shall I collect you?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:32

To: Christian Grey

Jose's show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:34

To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

Portland is some distance away. I shall collect you at 5:45.

I look forward to seeing you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:38

To: Christian Grey

See you then.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

Oh my. I'm going to see Christian, and for the first time in five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to wonder how he's been.

Has he missed me? Probably not like I've missed him. Has he found a new submissive from wherever they come from? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it immediately. I look at the pile of correspondence I need to sort for Jack and tackle it as I try to push Christian out of my mind once more.

That night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep. It is the first time in a while I haven't cried myself to sleep.

In my mind's eye, I visualize Christian's face the last time I saw him as I left his apartment. His tortured expression haunts me. I remember he didn't want me to go, which was odd. Why would I stay when things had reached such an impasse? We were each skirting around our own issues - my fear of punishment, his fear of... what? Love?

Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, filled with an overwhelming sadness. He thinks he doesn't deserve to be loved. Why does he feel that way? Is it something to do with his upbringing? His birth mom, the ***** whore? My thoughts plague me into the early hours until eventually I fall into a fitful, exhausted sleep.

The day drags and drags and Jack is unusually attentive. I suspect it's Kate's plum dress and the black high-heeled boots I've stolen from her closet, but I don't dwell on the thought.

I resolve to go clothes shopping with my first paycheck. The dress is looser on me than it was, but I pretend not to notice.

Finally, it's five thirty, and I collect my jacket and purse, trying to quell my nerves. I'm going to see him!

"Do you have a date tonight?" Jack asks as he strolls past my desk on his way out.

"Yes. No. Not really."

He cocks an eyebrow at me, his interest clearly piqued. "Boyfriend?"

I flush. "No, a friend. An ex-boyfriend."

"Maybe tomorrow you'd like to come for a drink after work. You've had a stellar first week, Ana. We should celebrate." He smiles and some unknown emotion flits across his face, making me uneasy.

Putting his hands in his pockets, he saunters through the double doors. I frown at his retreating back. Drinks with the boss, is that a good idea?

I shake my head. I have an evening of Christian Grey to get through first. How am I going to do this? I hurry into the restroom to make last-minute adjustments.

In the large mirror on the wall, I take a long, hard look at my face. I am my usual pale self, dark circles round my too-large eyes. I look gaunt, haunted.

Jeez, I wish I knew how to use makeup. I apply some mascara and eyeliner and pinch my cheeks, hoping to bring some color their way. Tidying my hair so that it hangs artfully down my back, I take a deep breath. This will have to do.

Nervously I walk through the foyer with a smile and a wave to Claire at reception. I think she and I could become friends. Jack is talking to Elizabeth as I

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Two

He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.

"This place will have to do," Christian grumbles. "We don't have much time."

The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen tablecloths, and walls the same color as Christian's playroom - deep blood red - with small gilt mirrors randomly placed, white candles, and small vases of white roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background about this thing called love. It's very romantic.

The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove, and I sit, apprehensive and wondering what he's going to say.

"We don't have long," Christian says to the waiter as we sit. "So we'll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, bearnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list."

"Certainly, sir." The waiter, taken aback by Christian's cool, calm efficiency, scuttles off. Christian places his Blackberry on the table. Jeez, don't I get a choice?

"And if I don't like steak?"

He sighs. "Don't start, Anastasia."

"I am not a child, Christian."

"Well, stop acting like one."

It's as if he's slapped me. I blink at him. So this is how it will be, an agitated, fraught conversation, albeit in a very romantic setting but certainly no hearts and flowers.

"I'm a child because I don't like steak?" I mutter trying to conceal my hurt.

"For deliberately making me jealous. It's a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend's feelings, leading him on like that?" Christian presses his lips together in a thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the wine list.

I blush - I hadn't thought of that. Poor Jose - I certainly don't want to encourage him.

Suddenly, I'm mortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thing to do. He glances at the wine list.

"Would you like to choose the wine?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He knows I know nothing about wine.

"You choose," I answer, sullen but chastened.

"Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please."

"Er... we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir."

"A bottle then," Christian snaps.

"Sir." He retreats, subdued, and I don't blame him. I frown at Fifty. What's eating him?

Oh, me probably, and somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She's been asleep for a while.

"You're very grumpy."

He gazes at me impassively. "I wonder why that is?"

"Well, it's good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn't you say?" I smile at him sweetly.

His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he's trying to stifle his smile.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Apology accepted, and I'm pleased to inform you I haven't decided to become a veg-etarian since we last ate."

"Since that was the last time you ate, I think that's a moot point."

"There's that word again, moot."

"Moot," he mouths and his eyes soften with humor. He runs his hand through his hair, and he's serious again. "Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I'm a little nervous. I've told you I want you back, and you've said... nothing." His gaze is intense and expectant while his candor is totally disarming. What the hell do I say to this?

"I've missed you... really missed you, Christian. The past few days have been...

difficult." I swallow, and a lump in my throat swells as I recall my desperate anguish since I left him.

This last week has been the worst in my life, the pain almost indescribable. Nothing has come close. But reality hits home, winding me.

"Nothing's changed. I can't be what you want me to be." I squeeze the words out past the lump in my throat.

"You are what I want you to be," he says, his soft voice emphatic.

"No, Christian, I'm not."

"You're upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you... So did you. Why didn't you safe word, Anastasia?" His tone changes, becoming accusatory.

What? Whoa - change of direction. I flush, blinking at him.

"Answer me."

"I don't know. I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind. You know... I forgot," I whisper ashamed, and I shrug apologetically.

Jeez, perhaps we could have avoided all this heartache.

"You forgot!" he gasps with horror, grabbing the sides of the table and glaring at me.

I wither under his stare.

Shit! He's furious again. My inner goddess glares at me, too. See, you brought all this on yourself!

"How can I trust you?" he says, his voice low. "Ever?"

The waiter arrives with our wine as we sit staring at each other, blue eyes to gray. Both of us filled with unspoken recriminations, while the waiter removes the cork with an un-necessary flourish and pours a little wine into Christian's glass. Automatically Christian reaches out and takes a sip.

"That's fine." His voice is curt.

Gingerly the waiter fills our glasses, placing the bottle on the table before beating a hasty retreat. Christian has not taken his eyes off me the whole time. I am the first to *****, breaking eye contact, picking up my glass and taking a large gulp. I barely taste it.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, suddenly feeling stupid. I left because I thought we were incompatible, but he's saying I could have stopped him?

"Sorry for what?" he says alarmed.

"Not using the safe word."

He closes his eyes, as if in relief.

"We might have avoided all this suffering," he mutters.

"You look fine." More than fine. You look like you.

"Appearances can be deceptive," he says quietly. "I'm anything but fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. I'm in perpetual night here."

I'm winded by his admission. Oh my, like me.

"You said you'd never leave, yet the going gets tough and you're out the door."

"When did I say I'd never leave?"

"In your sleep. It was the most comforting thing I'd heard in so long, Anastasia. It made me relax."

My heart constricts and I reach for my wine.

"You said you loved me," he whispers. "Is that now in the past tense?" His voice is low, laced with anxiety.

"No, Christian, it's not."

He gazes at me, and he looks so vulnerable as he exhales. "Good," he murmurs.

I'm shocked by his admission. He's had a change of heart. When I told him I loved him before, he was horrified. The waiter is back. Briskly he places our plates in front of us and scuttles away.

Holy hell. Food.

"Eat," Christian commands.

Deep down I know I'm hungry, but right now, my stomach is in knots. Sitting across from the only man I have ever loved and debating our uncertain future does not promote a healthy appetite. I look dubiously at my food.

"So help me God, Anastasia, if you don't eat, I will take you across my knee here in this restaurant, and it will have nothing to do with my sexual gratification. Eat!"

Jeez, keep your hair on, Grey. My subconscious stares at me over her half-moon specs.

She is wholeheartedly in agreement with Fifty Shades.

"Okay, I'll eat. Stow your twitching palm, please."

He doesn't smile but continues to glare at me. Reluctantly I lift my knife and fork and slice into my steak. Oh, it's mouthwateringly good. I am hungry, really hungry. I chew and he visibly relaxes.

We eat our supper in silence. The music's changed. A soft-voiced woman sings in the background, her words echoing my thoughts.

I glance at Fifty. He's eating and watching me. Hunger, longing, anxiety combined in one hot look.

"Do you know who's singing?" I try for some normal conversation.

Christian pauses and listens. "No... but she's good, whoever she is."

"I like her, too."

Finally he smiles his private enigmatic smile. What's he planning?

"What?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Eat up," he says mildly.

I have eaten half the food on my plate. I cannot eat any more. How can I negotiate this?

"I can't manage any more. Have I eaten enough for Sir?"

He stares at me impassively, not answering, then glances at his watch.

"I am really full," I add, taking a sip of the delicious wine.

"We have to go shortly. Taylor's here, and you have to be up for work in the morning."

"So do you."

"I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia. At least you've eaten something."

"Aren't we going back via Charlie Tango?"

"No, I thought I might have a drink. Taylor will collect us. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?"

Oh, that's his plan.

Christian summons the waiter to ask for the check, then picks up his Blackberry and makes a call.

"We're at Le Picotin, South West Third Avenue." He hangs up.

Jeez, he's curt over the phone.

"You're very brusque with Taylor, in fact, with most people."

"I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia."

"You haven't gotten to the point this evening. Nothing's changed, Christian."

"I have a proposition for you."

"This started with a proposition."

"A different proposition."

The waiter returns, and Christian hands over his credit card without checking the bill.

He gazes at me speculatively while the waiter swipes his card. Christian's phone buzzes once, and he peers at it.

He has a proposition? What now? A couple of scenarios run through my mind: kidnap, working for him. No, nothing makes sense. Christian finishes paying.

"Come. Taylor's outside."

We stand and he takes my hand.

"I don't want to lose you, Anastasia." He kisses my knuckles tenderly, and the touch of his lips on my skin resonates throughout my body.

Outside the Audi is waiting. Christian opens my door. Climbing in, I sink into the plush leather. He heads to the driver's side, Taylor steps out of the car and they talk briefly.

This isn't their usual protocol. I'm curious. What are they talking about? Moments later, they both climb in, and I glance at Christian who's wearing his impassive face as he stares ahead.

I allow myself a brief moment to examine his godlike profile: straight nose, sculptured full lips, hair falling deliciously over his forehead. This divine man is surely not meant for me. Soft music suddenly fills the rear of the car, an orchestral piece that I don't know, and Taylor pulls into the lig

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Three

The one good thing about being car-less is that on the bus on my way to work, I can plug my headphones into my iPad while it's safely in my purse and listen to all the wonderful tunes Christian has given me. By the time I arrive at the office, I have the most ludicrous grin on my face.

Jack glances up at me and does a double take.

"Good morning, Ana. You look... radiant." His remark flusters me. How inappropriate! "I slept well, thank you, Jack. Good morning."

His brow crinkles.

"Can you read these for me and have reports on them by lunchtime, please?" He hands me four manuscripts. At my horrified expression, he adds, "Just first chapters."

"Sure," I smile with relief, and he gives me a broad smile in return.

I switch on the computer to start work, finishing my latte and eating a banana. There's an e-mail from Christian.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: So Help Me...

Date: June 10, 2011 08:05

To: Anastasia Steele

I do hope you've had breakfast.

I missed you last night.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Old books...

Date: June 10, 2011 08:33

To: Christian Grey

I am eating a banana as I type. I have not had breakfast for several days, so it is a step forward. I love the British Library App - I started rereading Robinson Crusoe... and of course, I love you.

Now leave me alone - I am trying to work.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Is that all you've eaten?

Date: June 10, 2011 08:36

To: Anastasia Steele

You can do better than that. You're going to need your energy for begging.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Pest

Date: June 10, 2011 08:39

To: Christian Grey

Mr. Grey - I am trying to work for a living - and it's you that will be begging.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Bring it On!

Date: June 10, 2011 08:36

To: Anastasia Steele

Why Miss Steele, I love a challenge...

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I sit grinning at the screen like an idiot. But I need to read these chapters for Jack and write reports on all of them. Placing the manuscripts on my desk, I begin.

At lunchtime I head to the deli for a pastrami sandwich and listen to the playlist on my iPad. First up there's Nitin Sawhney, some world music called "Homelands" - it's good.

Mr. Grey has an eclectic taste in music. I wander back, listening to a classical piece, Fanta-sia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis by Vaughn Williams. Oh, Fifty has a sense of humor, and I love him for it. Will this stupid grin ever leave my face?

The afternoon drags. I decide, in an unguarded moment, to e-mail Christian.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Bored...

Date: June 10, 2011 16:05

To: Christian Grey

Twiddling my thumbs.

How are you?

What are you doing?

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Your thumbs

Date: June 10, 2011 16:15

To: Anastasia Steele

You should have come to work for me.

You wouldn't be twiddling your thumbs.

I am sure I could put them to better use.

In fact I can think of a number of options...

I am doing the usual humdrum mergers and acquisitions.

It's all very dry.

Your e-mails at SIP are monitored.

Christian Grey

Distracted CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Oh shit. I had no idea. How the hell does he know? I scowl at the screen and quickly check the e-mails we've sent, deleting them as I do.

Promptly at five thirty, Jack is at my desk. It is Dress-down Friday so he's wearing jeans and a black shirt. He looks very casual.

"Drink, Ana? We usually like to go for a quick one at the bar across the street."

"We?" I ask, hopeful.

"Yeah, most of us go... you coming?"

For some unknown reason, which I don't want to examine too closely, relief floods through me.

"I'd love to. What's the bar called?"

"50s."

"You're kidding."

He looks at me oddly. "No. Some significance for you?"

"No, sorry. I'll join you over there."

"What would you like to drink?"

"A beer please."

"Cool."

I make my way to the powder room and e-mail Christian from the Blackberry.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: You'll Fit Right In

Date: June 10, 2011 17:36

To: Christian Grey

We are going to a bar called Fifty's.

The rich seam of humor that I could mine from this is endless.

I look forward to seeing you there, Mr. Grey.

A x

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Hazards

Date: June 10, 2011 17:38

To: Anastasia Steele

Mining is a very, very dangerous occupation.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Hazards?

Date: June 10, 2011 17:40

To: Christian Grey

And your point is?

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Merely...

Date: June 10, 2011 17:42

To: Anastasia Steele

Making an observation, Miss Steele.

I'll see you shortly.

Sooners rather than laters, baby.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I check myself in the mirror. What a difference a day can make. I have more color in my cheeks, and my eyes are shining. It's the Christian Grey effect. A little e-mail sparring with him will do that to a girl. I grin at the mirror and straighten my pale blue shirt - the one Taylor bought me. I am wearing my favorite jeans today, too. Most of the women in the office wear either jeans or floaty skirts. I will need to invest in a floaty skirt or two. Perhaps I'll do that this weekend and bank the check Christian gave me for Wanda, my Beetle.

As I head out of the building, I hear my name called.

"Miss Steele?"

I turn expectantly, and an ashen young woman approaches me cautiously. She looks like a ghost - so pale and strangely blank.

"Miss Anastasia Steele?" she repeats, and her features stay static even though she's speaking.

"Yes?"

She stops, staring at me from about three feet away on the sidewalk, and I stare back, immobilized. Who is she? What does she want?

"Can I help you?" I ask. How does she know my name?

"No... I just wanted to look at you." Her voice is eerily soft. Like me, she has dark hair that starkly contrasts with her fair skin. Her eyes are brown, like bourbon, but flat.

There's no life in them at all. Her beautiful face is pale, and etched with sorrow.

"Sorry - you have me at a disadvantage," I say politely, trying to ignore the warning tingle up my spine. On closer inspection, she looks odd, disheveled and uncared for. Her clothes are two sizes too big, including her designer trench coat.

She laughs, a strange, discordant sound that only feeds my anxiety.

"What do you have that I don't?" she asks sadly.

My anxiety turns to fear. "I'm sorry - who are you?"

"Me? I'm nobody." She lifts her arm to drag her hand through her shoulder length hair, and as she does, the sleeve of her trench coat rides up, revealing a soiled bandage around her wrist.

Holy fuck.

"Good day, Miss Steele." Turning, she walks up the street as I stand rooted to the spot.

I watch as her slight frame disappears from view, lost amongst the workers pouring out of their various offices.

What was that about?

Confused, I cross the street to the bar, trying to assimilate what has just happened, while my subconscious rears her ugly head and hisses at me -nbsp;nbsp;She has something to do with Christian.

Fifty's is a cavernous, impersonal bar with baseball pennants and posters hanging on the wall. Jack is at the bar with Elizabeth, Courtney the other commissioning editor, two guys from finance, and Claire from reception. She is wearing her trademark silver hooped earrings.

"Hi, Ana!" Jack hands me a bottle of Bud.

"Cheers... thank you," I murmur, still shaken by my encounter with Ghost Girl.

"Cheers." We clink bottles, and he continues his conversation with Elizabeth. Claire smiles sweetly at me.

"So, how has your first week been?" she asks.

"Good, thank you. Everyone seems very friendly."

"You seem much happier today."

I flush. "It's Friday," I mutter quickly. "So - have you any plans this weekend?"

My patented distraction technique works and I'm saved. Claire turns out to be one of seven kids, and she's going to a big family get-together in Tacoma. She becomes quite animated, and I realize I haven't spoken to any women my own age since Kate left for Barbados.

Absently I wonder how Kate is... and Elliot. I must remember to ask Christian if he's heard from him. Oh, and Ethan her brother will be back next Tuesday, and he'll be staying in our apartment. I can't imagine Christian is going to be happy about that. My earlier encounter with strange Ghost Girl slips further from my mind.

During my conversation with Claire, Elizabeth hands me another beer.

"Thanks," I smile at her.

Claire is very easy to talk to - she likes to talk - and before I know it, I am on my third beer, courtesy of one of the guys from finance.

When Elizabeth and Courtney leave, Jack joins Claire and me. Where is Christian?

One of the finance guys engages Claire in conversation.

"Ana, think you made the right decision coming here?" Jack's voice is soft, and he's standing a bit too close. But I've noticed that he has a tendency to do this with everyone, even at the office. My subconscious narrows her eyes. You're reading too much into this, she admonishes me.

"I've enjoyed myself this week, thank you, Jack. Yes, I think I made the right decision."

"You're a very bright girl, Ana. You'll go far."

I blush. "Thank you," I mutter, because I don't know what else to say.

"Do you live far?"

"The Pike Market district."

"Not far from me." Smiling, he moves even closer and leans against the bar, effectively trapping me. "Do you have any plans this weekend?"

"Well... um - "

I feel him before I see him. It's as if my whole body is highly attuned to his presence.

It relaxes and ignites at the same time - a weird, internal duality - and I sense that strange pulsing electricity.

Christian drapes his arm around my shoulder in a seemingly casual display of affection - but I know differently. He is staking a claim, and on this occasion, it's very welcome.

Softly he kisses my hair.

"Hello, baby," he murmurs.

I can't help but feel relieved, safe, and excited with his arm around me. He draws me to his side, and I glance up at him

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Four

As sanity returns, I open my eyes and gaze up into the face of the man I love. Christian's expression is soft, tender. He strokes his nose against mine, bearing his weight on his elbows, his hands holding mine by the side of my head. Sadly, I suspect that's so I don't touch him. He plants a gentle kiss on my lips as he eases himself out of me.

"I've missed this," he breathes.

"Me too," I whisper.

He takes hold of my chin and kisses me hard. A passionate, beseeching kiss, asking for what? I don't know. It leaves me breathless.

"Don't leave me again," he implores, looking deep into my eyes, his face serious.

"Okay," I whisper and smile at him. His answering smile is dazzling; relief, elation, and boyish delight combined into one enchanting look that would melt the coldest of hearts.

"Thank you for the iPad."

"You are most welcome, Anastasia."

"What's your favorite song on there?"

"Now that would be telling." He grins. "Come cook me some food, wench. I'm famished," he adds, sitting up suddenly and dragging me with him.

"Wench?" I giggle.

"Wench. Food, now, please."

"Since you ask so nicely, sire, I'll get right on to it."

As I scramble out of bed, I dislodge my pillow, revealing the deflated helicopter balloon underneath. Christian reaches for it and gazes up at me, puzzled.

"That's my balloon," I say, feeling proprietary as I reach for my robe and wrap it round myself. Oh jeez... why did he have to find that?

"In your bed?" he murmurs.

"Yes," I flush. "It's been keeping me company."

"Lucky Charlie Tango," he says, in surprise.

Yes, I'm sentimental, Grey, because I love you.

"My balloon," I say again and turn on my heel and head out to the kitchen, leaving him grinning from ear to ear.

Christian and I sit on Kate's persian rug, eating stir-fry chicken and noodles from white china bowls with chopsticks and sipping chilled white Pinot Grigio. Christian leans against the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He's wearing his jeans and his shirt with his just-fucked hair, and that's all. The Buena Vista Social Club croons softly in the background from Christian's iPod.

"This is good," he says appreciatively as he digs into his food.

I sit cross-legged beside him, eating greedily, beyond hungry, and admire his naked feet."I usually do all the cooking. Kate isn't a great cook."

"Did you your mother teach you?"

"Not really," I scoff. "By the time I was interested in learning, my mom was living with Husband Number Three in Mansfield, Texas. And Ray, well, he would've lived on toast and takeout if it wasn't for me."

Christian gazes down at me. "You didn't stay in Texas with your mom?"

"No. Steve, her husband and I, we didn't get along. And I missed Ray. Her marriage to Steve didn't last long. She came to her senses, I think. She never talks about him," I add quietly. I think that's a dark part of her life, which we've never discussed.

"So you came back to Washington to live with your stepfather."

"Yes."

"Sounds like you looked after him," he says softly.

"I suppose." I shrug.

"You're used to taking care of people."

The edge in his voice attracts my attention, and I glance up at him.

"What is it?" I ask, startled by his wary expression.

"I want to take care of you." His luminous eyes glow with some unnamed emotion.

My heart rate spikes.

"I've noticed," I whisper. "You just go about it in a strange way."

His brow creases. "It's the only way I know how," he says quietly.

"I'm still mad at you for buying SIP."

He smiles. "I know but you being mad, baby, wouldn't stop me."

"What am I going to say to my work colleagues, to Jack?"

He narrows his eyes. "That fucker better watch himself."

"Christian!" I admonish. "He's my boss."

Christian's mouth presses into a hard line. He looks like a recalcitrant schoolboy.

"Don't tell them," he says.

"Don't tell them what?"

"That I own it. The heads of agreement was signed yesterday. The news is embargoed for four weeks while the management at SIP makes some changes."

"Oh... will I be out of a job?" I ask, alarmed.

"I sincerely doubt it," Christian says wryly, trying to stifle his smile.

I scowl. "If I leave and find another job, will you buy that company, too?"

"You're not thinking of leaving, are you?" His expression alters, wary once more.

"Possibly. I'm not sure you've given me a great deal of choice."

"Yes, I will buy that company, too." He is adamant.

I scowl at him again. I am in a no-win situation here.

"Don't you think you're being a tad overprotective?"

"Yes. I am fully aware of how this looks."

"Paging Dr. Flynn," I murmur.

He puts down his empty bowl and gazes at me impassively. I sigh. I don't want to fight.

Standing up, I reach for his bowl.

"Would you like dessert?"

"Now you're talking!" he says, giving me a lascivious grin.

"Not me." Why not me? My inner goddess wakes from her doze and sits upright, all ears. "We have ice cream. Vanilla." I snicker.

"Really?" Christian's grin gets bigger. "I think we could do something with that."

What? I stare at him dumbfounded as he gracefully gets to his feet.

"Can I stay?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"The night."

"I assumed that you were." I flush.

"Good. Where's the ice cream?"

"In the oven." I smile sweetly at him.

He cocks his head to one side, sighs, and shakes his head at me. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Miss Steele." His eyes glitter.

Oh shit. What's he planning?

"I could still take you across my knee."

I place the bowls in the sink. "Do you have those silver ball things?"

He pats his hands down his chest, belly, and the pockets of his jeans. "Funnily enough, I don't carry a spare set around with me. Not much call for them in the office."

"I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Grey, and I thought you said that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit."

"Well, Anastasia, my new motto is if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

I gape at him -nbsp;nbsp;I can't believe he's just said that - and he looks sickeningly pleased with himself as he grins at me. Turning, he opens the freezer and takes out the carton of Ben amp; Jerry's finest vanilla.

"This will do just fine." He looks up at me, eyes dark. "Ben amp; Jerry's amp; Ana." He says each word slowly, enunciating every syllable clearly.

Oh fucking my. I think my lower jaw is on the floor. He opens the cutlery drawer and grabs a spoon. When he looks up, his are eyes hooded, and his tongue skims his top teeth.

Oh, that tongue.

I feel winded. Desire, dark, sleek, and wanton runs hot through my veins. We're going to have fun, with food.

"I hope you're warm," he whispers. "I'm going to cool you down with this. Come." He holds out his hand, and I place mine in his.

In my bedroom he places the ice cream on my bedside table, pulls the duvet off the bed, and removes both the pillows, placing them all in a pile on the floor.

"You have a change of sheets, don't you?"

I nod, watching him, fascinated. He holds up Charlie Tango.

"Don't mess with my balloon," I warn.

His lips quirk upward in half a smile. "Wouldn't dream of it, baby, but I do want to mess with you and these sheets."

My body practically convulses.

"I want to tie you up."

Oh. "Okay," I whisper.

"Just your hands. To the bed. I need you still."

"Okay," I whisper again, incapable of anything more.

He strolls over to me, not taking his eyes off mine.

"We'll use this." He takes hold of my robe sash and with delicious, teasing slowness, releases the bow, and gently pulls it free of the garment.

My robe falls open while I stand paralyzed under his heated gaze. After a moment, he pushes the robe off my shoulders. It falls and pools at my feet so that I'm standing naked before him. He strokes my face with the backs of his knuckles, and his touch resonates in the depths of my groin. Bending, he kisses my lips briefly.

"Lie on the bed, face up," he murmurs, his eyes darkening, burning into mine.

I do as I'm told. My room is shrouded in darkness except for the soft, insipid light from my lamp.

Normally, I hate energy-saving bulbs - they are so dim - but being naked here, with Christian, I'm grateful for the muted light. He stands by the bed gazing down at me.

"I could look at you all day, Anastasia," he says, and with that crawls on to the bed, up my body, and straddles me.

"Arms above your head," he commands.

I comply and he fastens the end of my robe sash round my left wrist and threads the end through the metal bars at the head of my bed. He pulls it tight so my left arm is flexed above me. He then secures my right hand, tying the sash tightly.

When I'm tied-up, staring at him, he visibly relaxes. He likes me tethered. I can't touch him this way. It occurs to me that none of his subs would have touched him either - and what's more, they would never have the opportunity to. He would have always been in control and at a distance. That's why he likes his rules.

He climbs off me and bends to give me a quick peck on the lips. Then he stands and lifts his shirt over his head. He undoes his jeans and drops them to the floor.

He is gloriously naked. My inner goddess is doing a triple axel dismount off the un-even bars, and abruptly my mouth is dry. He really is beyond beautiful. He has a physique drawn on classical lines: broad muscular shoulders, narrow hips, the inverted triangle. He obviously works out. I could look at him all day. He moves to the end of the bed and grasps my ankles, pulling me swiftly and sharply downward so that my arms are stretched out and unable to move.

"That's better," he mutters.

Picking up the tub of ice cream, he climbs smoothly back onto the bed to straddle me once more. Very slowly, he peels off the lid of the tub and dips the spoon in.

"Hmm... it's still quite hard," he says with a raised brow. Scooping out a spoonful of the vanilla, he pops it into his mouth. "Delicious," he murmurs, licking his lips. "Amazing how good plain old vanilla can taste." He gazes down at me and smirks. "Want some?" he teases.

He looks so freaking hot, young and carefree - sitting on me and eating from a tub of ice cream - eyes bright, face luminous. Oh what the hell is he going to d

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Five

"Greta, who is Mr. Grey talking to?" My scalp is trying to leave the building. It's prickling with apprehension, and my subconscious is screaming at me to follow it. But I sound nonchalant enough.

"Oh, that's Mrs. Lincoln. She owns the place with Mr. Grey." Greta seems more than happy to share.

"Mrs. Lincoln?" I thought Mrs. Robinson was divorced. Perhaps she's remarried to some poor sap.

"Yes. She's not usually here, but one of our technicians is sick today so she's filling in."

"Do you know Mrs. Lincoln's first name?"

Greta looks up at me, frowning, and purses her bright pink lips, questioning my curiosity. Shit, perhaps this is a step too far.

"Elena," she says, almost reluctantly.

I'm swamped by a strange sense of relief that my spidey sense has not let me down.

Spidey sense? My subconscious snorts, Paedo sense.

They are still deep in discussion. Christian is talking rapidly to Elena, and she looks worried, nodding, grimacing, and shaking her head. Reaching out, she rubs his arm soothingly while biting her lip. Another nod, and she glances at me and offers me a small reassuring smile.

I can only stare at her stony-faced. I think I'm in shock. How could he bring me here?

She murmurs something to Christian, and he looks my way briefly then turns back to her and replies. She nods, and I think she's wishing him luck, but my lip-reading skills aren't highly developed.

Fifty strides back to me, anxiety etched on his face. Damn right. Mrs. Robinson returns to the back room, closing the door behind her.

Christian frowns. "Are you okay?" he asks, but his voice is strained, cautious.

"Not really. You didn't want to introduce me?" My voice sounds cold, hard.

His mouth drops open, he looks as if I've pulled the rug from under his feet.

"But I thought - "

"For a bright man, sometimes..." Words fail me. "I'd like to go, please."

"Why?"

"You know why." I roll my eyes.

He gazes down at me, his eyes burning.

"I'm sorry, Ana. I didn't know she'd be here. She's never here. She's opened a new branch at the Bravern Center, and that's where she's normally based. Someone was sick today."

I turn on my heel and head for the door.

"We won't need Franco, Greta," Christian snaps as we head out of the door. I have to suppress the impulse to run. I want to run fast and far away. I have an overwhelming urge to cry. I just need to get away from all this fuckedupness.

Christian walks wordlessly beside me as I try to mull all this over in my head. Wrapping my arms protectively around myself, I keep my head down, avoiding the trees on Second Avenue. Wisely, he makes no move to touch me. My mind is boiling with unanswered questions. Will Mr. Evasive fess up?

"You used to take your subs there?" I snap.

"Some of them, yes," he says quietly, his tone clipped.

"Leila?"

"Yes."

"The place looks very new."

"It's been refurbished recently."

"I see. So Mrs. Robinson met all your subs."

"Yes."

"Did they know about her?"

"No. None of them did. Only you."

"But I'm not your sub."

"No, you most definitely are not."

I stop and face him. His eyes are wide, fearful. His lips are pressed into a hard, uncompromising line.

"Can you see how fucked-up this is?" I glare up at him, my voice low.

"Yes. I'm sorry." And he has the grace to look contrite.

"I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere where you haven't fucked either the staff or the clientele."

He flinches.

"Now, if you'll excuse me."

"You're not running. Are you?" he asks.

"No, I just want a damn haircut. Somewhere I can close my eyes, have someone wash my hair, and forget about all this baggage that accompanies you."

He runs his hand through his hair. "I can have Franco come to the apartment, or your place," he says quietly.

"She's very attractive."

He blinks. "Yes, she is."

"Is she still married?"

"No. She divorced about five years ago."

"Why aren't you with her?"

"Because that's over between us. I've told you this." His brow creases suddenly. Holding his finger up, he fishes his Blackberry out of his jacket pocket. It must be vibrating because I don't hear it ring.

"Welch," he snaps, then listens. We are standing on Second Avenue, and I gaze in the direction of the larch sapling in front of me, its leaves the newest green.

People bustle past us, lost in their Saturday morning chores. No doubt contemplating their own personal dramas. I wonder if they include stalker ex-submissives, stunning ex-Dommes, and a man who has no concept of privacy under United States law.

"Killed in a car crash? When?" Christian interrupts my reverie.

Oh no. Who? I listen more closely.

"That's twice that bastard's not been forthcoming. He must know. Does he have no feelings for her whatsoever?" Christian shakes his head in disgust. "This is beginning to make sense... no... explains why, but not where." Christian glances around us as if searching for something, and I find myself mirroring his actions. Nothing catches my eye.

There are just the shoppers, the traffic, and the trees.

"She's here," Christian continues. "She's watching us... Yes... No. Two or four, twenty-four seven... I haven't broached that yet." Christian looks at me directly.

Broached what? I frown, at him and he regards me warily.

"What... ," he whispers and pales, his eyes widening. "I see. When?... That recently? But how?... No background checks?... I see. E-mail the name, address, and photos if you have them... twenty-four seven, from this afternoon. Liaise with Taylor." Christian hangs up.

"Well?" I ask, exasperated. Is he going to tell me?

"That was Welch."

"Who's Welch?"

"My security advisor."

"Okay. So what's happened?"

"Leila left her husband about three months ago and ran off with a guy who was killed in a car accident four weeks ago."

"Oh."

"The asshole shrink should have found that out," he says angrily. "Grief, that's what this is. Come." He holds out his hand, and I automatically place mine in his before I snatch it away again.

"Wait a minute. We were in the middle of a discussion, about us. About her, your Mrs.

Robinson."

Christian's face hardens. "She's not my Mrs. Robinson. We can talk about it at my place."

"I don't want to go to your place. I want to get my hair cut!" I shout. If I can just focus on this one thing...

He grabs his Blackberry from his pocket again and dials a number. "Greta, Christian Grey. I want Franco at my place in an hour. Ask Mrs. Lincoln... Good." He puts his phone away. "He's coming at one."

"Christian... !" I splutter, exasperated.

"Anastasia, Leila is obviously suffering a psychotic break. I don't know if it's you or me she's after, or what lengths she's prepared to go to. We'll go to your place, pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we've tracked her down."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"So I can keep you safe."

"But - "

He glares at me. "You are coming back to my apartment if I have to drag you there by your hair."

I gape at him... this is beyond belief. Fifty Shades in Glorious Technicolor.

"I think you're overreacting."

"I don't. We can continue our discussion back at my place. Come."

I fold my arms and glare at him. This has gone too far.

"No," I state stubbornly. I have to make a stand.

"You can walk or I can carry you. I don't mind either way, Anastasia."

"You wouldn't dare." I scowl at him. Surely he wouldn't make a scene on Second Avenue?

He half smiles at me, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Oh, baby, we both know that if you throw down the gauntlet I'll be only too happy to pick it up."

We glare at each other - and abruptly he sweeps down, clasps me round my thighs, and lifts me. Before I know it, I am over his shoulder.

"Put me down!" I scream. Oh, it feels good to scream.

He starts striding along Second Avenue, ignoring me. Clasping his arm firmly around my thighs, he swats my behind with his free hand.

"Christian!" I shout. People are staring. Could this be any more humiliating? "I'll walk! I'll walk."

He puts me down, and before he's even stood upright, I stomp off in the direction of my apartment, seething, ignoring him. Of course, he's by my side in moments, but I continue to ignore him. What am I going to do? I am so angry, but I'm not even sure what I am angry about - there's so much.

As I stalk back home, I make a mental list:

1. Shoulder carrying - unacceptable for anyone over the age of six.

2. Taking me to the salon that he owns with his ex-lover - how stupid can he be?

3. The same place he took his submissives - same stupidity at work here.

4. Not even realizing that this was a bad idea - and he's supposed to be a bright guy.

5. Having crazy ex-girlfriends. Can I blame him for that? I am so furious; yes, I can.

6. Knowing my bank account number - that's just too stalkery by half.

7. Buying SIP - he's got more money than sense.

8. Insisting I stay with him - the threat from Leila must be worse than he feared...

he didn't mention that yesterday.

Oh no, realization dawns. Something's changed. What could that be? I halt, and Christian halts with me. "What's happened?" I demand.

He knits his brow. "What do you mean?"

"With Leila."

"I've told you."

"No, you haven't. There's something else. You didn't insist that I go to your place yesterday. So what's happened?"

He shifts uncomfortably.

"Christian! Tell me!" I snap.

"She managed to obtain a concealed weapons permit yesterday."

Oh shit. I gaze at him, blinking, and feel the blood draining from my face as I absorb this news. I may faint. Suppose she wants to kill him? No.

"That means she can just buy a gun," I whisper.

"Ana," he says, his voice full of concern. He places his hands on my shoulders, pulling me close to him. "I don't think she'll do anything stupid, but - I just don't want to take that risk with you."

"Not me... what about you?" I whisper.

He frowns down at me, and I wrap my arms around him and hug him hard, my face against his chest. He doesn't seem to mind.

"Let's get back," he murmurs, and he reaches down and kisses my hair, and that's it.

All my fury is gone,

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Six

My hands fist in his hair while my mouth is feverish against Christian's, consuming him, relishing the feel of his tongue against mine. And he's the same, devouring me. It's heavenly. Suddenly he drags me up and grasps the hem of my T-shirt, whipping it over my head and throwing it on the floor.

"I want to feel you," he says greedily against my mouth as his hands move behind me to undo my bra. In one smooth move, it's off and he pitches it aside.

He pushes me back down onto the bed, pressing me into the mattress, and his mouth and hand move to my breasts. My fingers curl into his hair as he takes one of my nipples between his lips and tugs hard.

I cry out as the sensation sweeps through my body, spikes, and tightens all the muscles around my groin.

"Yes, baby, let me hear you," he murmurs against my overheated skin.

Boy, I want him inside me, now. With his mouth, he toys with my nipple, pulling at it, making me squirm and writhe and yearn for him. I sense his longing mixed with - what?

Veneration. It's as if he's worshipping me.

He teases me with his fingers, my nipple growing hard and elongating under his skillful touch. His hand moves to my jeans, and he deftly undoes the button, tugs the zipper down, and slips his hand inside my panties, sliding his fingers against my sex.

His breath hisses out as his finger glides into me. I push my pelvis up into the heel of his hand, and he responds, rubbing against me.

"Oh, baby," he breathes as he hovers over me, staring intently into my eyes. "You're so wet." His voice is filled with wonder.

"I want you," I murmur.

His mouth joins with mine again, and I feel his hungry desperation, his need for me.

This is new - it's never been like this except perhaps when I came back from Georgia - and his words from earlier drift back to me... I need to know we're okay. This is the only way I know how.

The thought unravels me. To know that I have such an effect on him, that I can offer him so much solace, doing this - my inner goddess purrs with pure pleasure. He sits up, grasps the hem of my jeans, and tugs them off, followed by my panties.

Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he stands, takes a foil packet out of his pocket, and tosses it at me, then removes his jeans and boxers in one swift motion.

I rip the packet open greedily, and when he lies beside me again, I slowly roll the condom on to him. He grabs both my hands and rolls on to his back.

"You. On top," he orders, pulling me astride him. "I want to see you."

Oh.

He guides me, and hesitantly I ease myself down onto him. He closes his eyes and flexes his hips to meet me, filling me, stretching me, his mouth forming a perfect O as he exhales.

Oh, that feels so good - possessing him, possessing me.

He holds my hands, and I don't know if it's to steady me or keep me from touching him, even though I have my road map.

"You feel so good," he murmurs.

I rise again, heady with the power I have over him, watching Christian Grey slowly coming apart beneath me. He lets go of my hands and grabs my hips, and I place my hands on his arms. He thrusts into me sharply, causing me to cry out.

"That's right, baby, feel me," he says, his voice strained.

I tip my head back and do exactly that. This is what he does so well.

I move - countering his rhythm in perfect symmetry - numbing all thought and reason.

I am just sensation lost in this void of pleasure. Up and down... again and again... Oh yes... Opening my eyes, I stare down at him, my breathing ragged, and he's staring back at me, eyes blazing.

"My Ana," he mouths.

"Yes," I rasp. "Always."

He groans loudly, closing his eyes again, tipping his head back. Oh my... Seeing Christian undone is enough to seal my fate, and I come audibly, exhaustingly, spinning down and around, collapsing on top of him.

"Oh, baby," he groans as he finds his release, holding me still and letting go.

My head is on his chest in the no-go area, my cheek nestled against the springy hair on his sternum. I am panting, glowing, and I resist the urge to pucker my lips and kiss him.

I just lie on top of him, catching my breath. He smoothes my hair, and his hand runs down my back, caressing me as his breathing calms.

"You are so beautiful."

I lift my head to gaze at him, my expression skeptical. He frowns in response and sits up quickly, taking me by surprise, his arm sweeping round to hold me in place. I clutch his biceps as we are nose to nose.

"You. Are. Beautiful," he says again, his tone emphatic.

"And you're amazingly sweet sometimes." I kiss him gently.

He lifts me and eases out of me. I wince as he does. Leaning forward, he kisses me softly.

"You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?"

I flush. Why's he going on about this?

"All those boys pursuing you - that isn't enough of a clue?"

"Boys? What boys?"

"You want the list?" Christian frowns. "The photographer, he's crazy about you, that boy in the hardware store, your roommate's older brother. Your boss," he adds bitterly.

"Oh, Christian, that's just not true."

"Trust me. They want you. They want what's mine." He pulls me against him, and I lift my arms to his shoulders, my hands in his hair, regarding him with amusement.

"Mine," he repeats, his eyes glowing possessively.

"Yes, yours." I reassure him, smiling. He looks mollified, and I feel perfectly comfortable naked in his lap on a bed in the full light of a Saturday afternoon. Who would have thought? The lipstick marks remain on his exquisite body. I note some smears on the duvet cover though, and wonder briefly what Mrs. Jones will make of them.

"The line is still intact," I murmur and bravely trace the mark on his shoulder with my index finger. He stiffens, blinking suddenly. "I want to go exploring."

He regards me skeptically.

"The apartment?"

"No. I was thinking of the treasure map that we've drawn on you." My fingers itch to touch him.

His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he blinks with uncertainty. I rub my nose against his.

"And what would that entail exactly, Miss Steele?"

I lift my hand from his shoulder and run my fingertips down this face.

"I just want to touch you everywhere I'm allowed."

Christian catches my index finger in his teeth, biting down gently.

"Ow," I protest and he grins, a low growl coming from his throat.

"Okay," he says, releasing my finger, but his voice is laced with apprehension. "Wait."

He leans behind me, lifting me again, and removes his condom, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor beside the bed.

"I hate those things. I've a good mind to call Dr. Greene around to give you a shot."

"You think the top ob-gyn in Seattle is going to come running?"

"I can be very persuasive," he murmurs, hooking my hair behind my ear. "Franco's done a great job on your hair. I like these layers."

What?

"Stop changing the subject."

He shifts me back so I'm straddling him, leaning on his propped-up knees, my feet on either side of his hips. He leans back on his arms.

"Touch away," he says without humor. He looks nervous, but he's trying to hide it.

Keeping my eyes on his, I reach down and trace my finger underneath the lipstick line, across his finely sculptured abdominal muscles. He flinches and I stop.

"I don't have to," I whisper.

"No, it's fine. Just takes some... readjustment on my part. No one's touched me for a long time," he murmurs.

"Mrs. Robinson?" The words pop unbidden out of my mouth, and amazingly, I manage to keep all bitterness and rancor out of my voice.

He nods, his discomfort obvious. "I don't want to talk about her. It will sour your good mood."

"I can handle it."

"No, you can't, Ana. You see red whenever I mention her. My past is my past. It's a fact. I can't change it. I'm lucky that you don't have one, because it would drive me crazy if you did."

I frown at him, but I don't want to fight. "Drive you crazy? More than you are already?" I smile, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between us.

His lips twitch. "Crazy for you," he whispers.

My heart swells with joy.

"Shall I call Dr. Flynn?"

"I don't think that will be necessary," he says dryly.

Shifting back so he drops his legs, I place my fingers back on his stomach and let them drift across his skin. He stills once more.

"I like touching you." My fingers skate down to his navel then southward along his happy, happy trail. His lips part as his breathing changes, his eyes darken and his erection stirs and twitches beneath me. Holy cow. Round two.

"Again?" I murmur.

He smiles. "Oh yes, Miss Steele, again."

What a delicious way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I stand beneath the shower, absentmindedly washing myself, careful not to wet my tied-back hair, contemplating the last couple of hours. Christian and vanilla seem to be going well.

He's revealed so much today. It's staggering, trying to assimilate all the information and to reflect on what I've learned: his salary details -nbsp;nbsp;Whoa, he's stinking rich, and for someone so young; it's just extraordinary - and the dossiers he has on me and on all his brunette submissives. I wonder if they are all in that filing cabinet?

My subconscious purses her lips at me and shakes her head -nbsp;nbsp;don't even go there. I frown. Just a quick peek?

And there's Leila - with a gun, potentially, somewhere - and her crap taste in music still on his iPod. But even worse, Mrs. Paedo Robinson, I cannot wrap my head around her, and I don't want to. I don't want her to be a shimmering-haired specter in our relationship.

He's right, I do go off the deep end when I think of her, so perhaps it's best if I don't.

I step out of the shower and dry myself, and I'm suddenly seized by unexpected anger.

But who wouldn't go off the deep end? What normal, sane person would do that to a fifteen-year-old boy? How much has she contributed to his fuckedupness? I don't understand her. And worse still, he says she helped him. How?

I think of his scars, the stark physical embodiment of a horrific childhood and a sickening reminder of what mental scars he must bear. My sweet, sad Fifty Shades. He's said such loving things today. He's crazy for me.

Staring at my reflection, I smile at the memory of his words, my heart brimming once more, and my face transforms with a ridiculous smile. Perhaps we can make this work. But how long will he want to do this without wanting to beat the crap out of me because I cross some arbitrary line?

My smile dissolves. This is what I don't know. This is the shadow that hangs over us.

Kinky fuckery, yes, I can do that, but more?

My subconscious stares at me blankly,

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Seven

Holy shit, did I really just do that? It must be the alcohol. I've had champagne plus four glasses of four different wines. I glance up at Christian who's busy applauding.

Crap, he's going to be so angry, and we've been getting on so well. My subconscious has finally decided to make an appearance, and she's wearing her Edvard Munch Scream face.Christian leans over to me, a large fake smile plastered across his face. He kisses my cheek and then moves closer to whisper in my ear in a very cold, controlled voice.

"I don't know whether to worship at your feet or spank the living shit out of you."

Oh, I know what I want right now. I gaze up at him, blinking through my mask. I just wish I could read what's in his eyes.

"I'll take option two, please," I whisper frantically as the applause dies down. His lips part as he inhales sharply. Oh that chiseled mouth - I want it on me, now. I ache for him. He gives me a radiant sincere smile that leaves me breathless.

"Suffering, are you? We'll have to see what we can do about that," he murmurs as he runs his fingers along my jaw.

His touch resonates deep, deep inside where that ache has spawned and grown. I want to jump him right here, right now, but we sit back to watch the auction of the next lot.

I can barely sit still. Christian drapes an arm around my shoulders, his thumb rhythmically stroking my back, sending delicious tingles down my spine. His free hand clasps mine, bringing it to his lips, then letting it rest on his lap.

Slowly and surreptitiously, so I don't realize his game until it's too late, he eases my hand up his leg and against his erection. I gasp, and my eyes dart in panic around the table, but all eyes are fixed on the stage. Thank heavens for my mask.

Taking full advantage, I slowly caress him, letting my fingers explore. Christian keeps his hand over mine, hiding my bold fingers, while his thumb skates softly over the nape of my neck. His mouth opens as he gasps softly, and it's the only reaction I can see to my inexperienced touch. But it means so much. He wants me. Everything south of my navel contracts. This is becoming unbearable.

A week by Lake Adriana in Montana is the final lot for auction. Of course Mr. and Dr.

Grey have a house in Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am barely aware of it. I feel him growing beneath my fingers, and it makes me feel so powerful.

"Sold, for one hundred ten thousand dollars!" the MC declares victoriously. The whole room bursts into applause, and reluctantly I follow as does Christian, ruining our fun.

He turns to me and his lips twitch. "Ready?" he mouths over the rapturous cheering.

"Yes," I mouth back

"Ana!" Mia calls. "It's time!"

What? No. Not again! "Time for what?"

"The First Dance Auction. Come on!" She stands and holds out her hand.

I glance at Christian who is, I think, scowling at Mia, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry, but it's laughter that wins. I succumb to a cathartic bubble of schoolgirl giggles, as we are thwarted once more by the tall, pink powerhouse that is Mia Grey. Christian peers at me, and after a beat, there's a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"The first dance will be with me, okay? And it won't be on the dance floor," he murmurs lasciviously into my ear. My giggles subside as anticipation fans the flames of my need. Oh, yes! My inner goddess performs a perfect triple Salchow in her ice skates.

"I look forward to it." I lean over and plant a soft, chaste kiss on his mouth. Glancing around, I realize that our fellow guests at the table are astonished. Of course, they've never seen Christian with a date before.

He smiles broadly at me. And he looks... happy. Wow.

"Come on, Ana," Mia nags. Taking her outstretched hand, I follow her onto the stage where ten more young women have assembled, and I note with vague unease that Lily is one of them.

"Gentlemen, the highlight of the evening!" the MC booms over the babble of voices.

"The moment you've all been waiting for! These twelve lovely ladies have all agreed to auction their first dance to the highest bidder!"

Oh no. I blush from head to toe. I hadn't realized what this meant. How humiliating!

"It's for a good cause," Mia hisses at me, sensing my discomfort. "Besides, Christian will win." She rolls her eyes. "I can't imagine him letting anyone outbid him. He hasn't taken his eyes off you all evening."

Yes, focus on the good cause, and Christian is bound to win. Let's face it, he's not short of a dime or two.

But it means spending more money on you! my subconscious snarls at me. But I don't want to dance with anyone else - I can't dance with anyone else - and it's not spending money on me, he's donating it to the charity. Like the twenty-four thousand dollars he's already spent? My subconscious narrows her eyes.

Shit. I seem to have gotten away with my impulsive bid. Why am I arguing with myself?"Now, gentlemen, pray gather round, and take a good look at what could be yours for the first dance. Twelve comely and compliant wenches."

Jeez! I feel like I'm in a meat market. I watch, horrified, as at least twenty men make their way to the stage area, Christian included, moving with easy grace between the tables and pausing to say a few hellos on the way. Once the bidders are assembled, the MC begins.

"Ladies and gentlemen, in the tradition of the masquerade we shall maintain the mystery behind the masks and stick to first names only. First up we have the lovely Jada."

Jada is giggling like a schoolgirl, too. Maybe I won't be so out of place. She's dressed head to foot in navy taffeta with a matching mask. Two young men step forward expectantly. Lucky Jada.

"Jada speaks fluent Japanese, is a qualified fighter pilot, and an Olympic gymnast...

hmm." The MC winks. "Gentleman, what am I bid?"

Jada gapes, astounded at the MC; obviously, he's talking complete garbage. She grins shyly back at the two contenders.

"A thousand bucks!" one calls.

Very quickly the bidding escalates to five thousand dollars.

"Going once... going twice... sold!" the MC declares loudly, "to the gentleman in the mask!" And of course all the men are wearing masks so there are hoots of laughter, applause, and cheering. Jada beams at her purchaser and quickly exits the stage.

"See? This is fun!" whispers Mia. "I hope Christian wins you, though... We don't want a brawl," she adds.

"Brawl?" I answer horrified.

"Oh yes. He was very hot-headed when he was younger." She shudders.

Christian brawling? Refined, sophisticated, likes-Tudor-choral-music Christian? I can't see it. The MC distracts me with his next introduction - a young woman in red, with long jet-black hair.

"Gentlemen, may I present the wonderful Mariah. What are we going to do about Mariah? She's an experienced matador, plays the cello to concert standard, and she's a champion pole-vaulter... how about that, gentlemen? What am I bid, please, for a dance with the delightful Mariah?"

Mariah glares at the MC and someone yells, very loudly, "Three thousand dollars!" It's a masked man with blond hair and beard.

There is one counter-bid, but Mariah sells for four thousand dollars.

Christian is watching me like a hawk. Brawler Trevelyan-Grey - who would have known?

"How long ago?" I ask Mia.

She glances at me, nonplussed.

"How long ago was Christian brawling?"

"Early teens. Drove my parents crazy, coming home with cut lips and black eyes. He was expelled from two schools. He inflicted some serious damage on his opponents."

I gape at her.

"Hasn't he told you?" She sighs. "He got quite a bad rep among my friends. He was really persona non grata for a few years. But it stopped when he was about fifteen or sixteen." She shrugs.

Holy fuck. Another piece of the jigsaw falls into place.

"So, what am I bid for the gorgeous Jill?"

"Four thousand dollars," a deep voice calls from the left side. Jill squeals in delight.

I stop paying attention to the auction. So Christian was in that kind of trouble at school, fighting. I wonder why. I stare at him. Lily is watching us closely.

"And now, allow me to introduce the beautiful Ana."

Oh shit, that's me. I glance nervously at Mia, and she shoos me center stage. Fortunately, I don't fall over, but stand embarrassed as hell on display for everyone. When I look at Christian, he's smirking at me. The bastard.

"Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks fluent Mandarin, and is keen on yoga... well, gentlemen - " Before he can even finish his sentence Christian interrupts him, glaring at the MC through his mask.

"Ten thousand dollars." I hear Lily's gasp of disbelief behind me.

Oh fuck.

"Fifteen."

What? We all turn as one to a tall, impeccably dressed man standing to the left of the stage. I blink at Fifty. Shit, what will he make of this? But he's scratching his chin and giving the stranger an ironic smile. It's obvious Christian knows him. The stranger nods politely at Christian.

"Well, gentlemen! We have high rollers in the house this evening." The MC's excitement emanates through his harlequin mask as he turns to beam at Christian. This is a great show, but it's at my expense. I want to wail.

"Twenty," counters Christian quietly.

The babble of the crowd has died. Everyone is staring at me, Christian, and Mr. Mysterious by the stage.

"Twenty-five," the stranger says.

Could this be any more embarrassing?

Christian stares at him impassively, but he's amused. All eyes are on Christian. What's he going to do? My heart is in my mouth. I feel sick.

"One hundred thousand dollars," he says his voice ringing clear and loud through the marquee.

"What the fuck?" Lily hisses audibly behind me, and a general gasp of dismay and amusement ripples through the crowd. The stranger holds his hands up in defeat, laughing, and Christian smirks at him. From the corner of my eye, I can see Mia bouncing up and down with glee. My subconscious is gazing at Christian, utterly gobsmacked.

"One-hundred thousand dollars for the lovely Ana! Going once... going twice..."

The MC stares at the stranger who shakes his head with mock regret and bows chivalrously.

"Sold!" the MC cries out triumphantly.

In a deafening round of applause and cheering, Christian steps forward to take my hand and help me from the stage. He gazes at me with an amused grin as I make my way down, kisses the back of my hand then tucks it into the crook of his arm, and leads me toward the marquee's exit.

"Who was that?" I ask.

He gazes down at me. "Someone you can meet later. Right now, I want to show you something. We have about thirty minutes until the First Dance Auction finishes. Then we have to be back on the dance floor so that I can enjoy

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Eight

Sawyer talks into his sleeve again.

"Taylor, Mr. Grey has entered the apartment." He flinches and grabs the earpiece, pulling it out of his ear, presumably receiving some powerful invective from Taylor.

Oh no - if Taylor is worried...

"Please let me go in," I plead.

"Sorry, Miss Steele. This won't take long." Sawyer holds both hands up in a defensive gesture. "Taylor and the guys are just coming into the apartment now."

Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen avidly for the slightest sound, but all I hear is my aggravated breathing. It's loud and shallow, my scalp prickles, my mouth is dry, and I feel faint. Please, let Christian be okay, I pray silently.

I have no idea how much time passes, and still we hear nothing. Surely no sound is good - there are no gunshots. I begin pacing around the table in the foyer and examine the paintings on the walls to distract myself.

I've never really looked at them before: all figurative paintings, all religious - the Madonna and child, all sixteen of them. How odd?

Christian isn't religious, is he? All of the paintings in the great room are abstracts -

these are so different. They don't distract me for long -nbsp;nbsp;Where is Christian?

I stare at Sawyer and he watches me impassively.

"What's happening?"

"No news, Miss Steele."

Abruptly, the doorknob moves. Sawyer spins like a top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.

I freeze. Christian appears at the door.

"All clear," he says, frowning at Sawyer, who puts his gun away immediately and steps back to let me in.

"Taylor is overreacting," Christian grumbles as he holds out his hand to me. I stand gaping at him, unable to move, drinking in every little detail: his unruly hair, the tightness round his eyes, the tense jaw, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. I think I must have aged ten years. Christian frowns at me in concern, his eyes dark.

"It's alright, baby." He moves toward me, enveloping me in his arms, and kisses my hair. "Come on, you're tired. Bed."

"I was so worried," I murmur, rejoicing in his embrace and inhaling his sweet, sweet scent with my head against his chest.

"I know. We're all jumpy."

Sawyer has disappeared, presumably into the apartment.

"Honestly, your exes are proving to be very challenging, Mr. Grey," I mutter wryly.

Christian relaxes.

"Yes. They are."

He releases me and taking my hand, leads me across the hallway and into the great room.

"Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards. I don't think she's here."

"Why would she be here?" It makes no sense.

"Exactly."

"Could she get in?"

"I don't see how. But Taylor is overcautious sometimes."

"Have you searched your playroom?" I whisper.

Christian glances quickly at me, his brow creasing. "Yes, it's locked - but Taylor and I checked."

I take a deep, cleansing breath.

"Do you want a drink or anything?" Christian asks.

"No." Fatigue sweeps through me - I just want to go to bed.

"Come. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted." Christian's expression softens.

I frown. Isn't he coming, too? Does he want to sleep alone?

I'm relieved when he leads me into his bedroom. I place my clutch bag on the chest of drawers and open it to empty the contents. I spy Mrs. Robinson's note.

"Here." I pass it to Christian. "I don't know if you want to read this. I want to ignore it." Christian scans it briefly and his jaw tenses.

"I'm not sure what blanks she can fill in," he says dismissively. "I need to talk to Taylor." He gazes down at me. "Let me unzip your dress."

"Are you going to call the police about the car?" I ask as I turn around.

He sweeps my hair out of the way, his fingers softly grazing my naked back, and tugs down my zipper.

"No. I don't want the police involved. Leila needs help, not police intervention, and I don't want them here. We just have to double our efforts to find her." He leans down and plants a gentle kiss on my shoulder.

"Go to bed," he orders and then he's gone.

I lie, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to return. So much has happened today, so much to process. Where to start?

I wake with a jolt - disorientated. Have I been asleep? Blinking in the dim glow the hallway casts through the slightly open bedroom door, I notice that Christian is not with me. Where is he? I glance up. Standing at the end of the bed is a shadow. A woman, maybe?

Dressed in black? It's difficult to tell.

In my befuddled state, I reach across and switch on the bedside light, then turn back to look but there's no one there. I shake my head. Did I imagine it? Dream it?

I sit up and look around the room, a vague, insidious unease gripping me - but I am quite alone.

I rub my face. What time is it? Where's Christian? The alarm says it's two fifteen in the morning.

Climbing groggily out of bed, I set off to hunt him down, disconcerted by my overactive imagination. I am seeing things now. It must be a reaction to the dramatic events of the evening.

The main room is empty, the only light emanating from the three pendulum lamps above the breakfast bar. But his study door is ajar, and I hear him on the phone.

"I don't know why you're calling at this hour. I have nothing to say to you... well, you can tell me now. You don't have to leave a message."

I stand motionless by the door, eavesdropping guiltily. Who is he talking to?

"No, you listen. I asked you, and now I am telling you. Leave her alone. She's nothing to do with you. Do you understand?"

He sounds belligerent and angry. I hesitate to knock.

"I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the fuck alone. Do I need to put it in triplicate for you? Are you hearing me?... Good. Good night." He slams the phone down on the desk.

Oh shit. I knock tentatively on the door.

"What?" he snarls, and I almost want to run and hide.

He sits at his desk with his head in his hands. He glances up, his expression ferocious, but his face softens immediately when he sees me. His eyes are wide and cautious. Suddenly, he looks so tired and my heart constricts.

He blinks, and his eyes sweep down my legs and back again. I am wearing one of his T-shirts.

"You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia," he breathes. "But even in my T-shirt you look beautiful."

Oh, an unexpected compliment. "I missed you. Come to bed."

He rises slowly out of the chair still in his white shirt and black dress pants. But now his eyes are shining and full of promise... but there's a trace of sadness, too. He stands in front of me, staring intently but not touching me.

"Do you know what you mean to me?" he murmurs. "If something happened to you, because of me..." His voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes across his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable - his fear very much apparent.

"Nothing's going to happen to me," I reassure him, my voice soothing. I reach up and stroke his face, running my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It's unexpectedly soft. "Your beard grows quickly," I whisper, unable to hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, fucked-up man who stands before me.

I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers down his throat, to the faint smudge of lipstick at the base of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his lips parted. I run my index finger along the line, and he closes his eyes. His soft breathing quickens. My fingers reach the edge of his shirt, and I run them down to the next fastened button.

"I'm not going to touch you. I just want to undo your shirt," I whisper.

His eyes open wide, regarding me with alarm. But he doesn't move, and he doesn't stop me. Very slowly I unfasten the button, holding the material away from his skin, and move tentatively down to the next button, repeating the process - slowly, concentrating on what I am doing.

I don't want to touch him. Well, I do... but I won't. On the fourth button, the red line reappears, and I smile shyly up at him.

"Back on home territory." I trace the line with my fingers before undoing the final button. I pull his shirt open and move to his cuffs, removing his black polished stone cufflinks one at a time.

"Can I take your shirt off?" I ask, my voice low.

He nods, eyes still wide, as I reach up and pull his shirt over his shoulders. He frees his hands so he's standing in front of me naked from the waist up. With his shirt off, he seems to recover his equilibrium. He smirks down at me.

"What about my pants, Miss Steele?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"In the bedroom. I want you in your bed."

"Do you now? Miss Steele, you are insatiable."

"I can't think why." I grab his hand, pull him from his study, and lead him to his bedroom. The room is chilly.

"You opened the balcony door?" he asks, frowning down at me as we arrive in his room.

"No." I don't remember doing that. I recall scanning the room when I woke. The door was definitely closed.

Oh shit... All the blood rushes from my face, and I stare at Christian as my mouth falls open.

"What?" he snaps, glaring at me.

"When I woke... there was someone in here," I whisper. "I thought it was my imagination."

"What?" He looks horrified and dashes to the balcony door, peers out, then steps back into the room and locks the door behind him. "Are you sure? Who?" he asks his voice tight.

"A woman, I think. It was dark. I'd only just woken up."

"Get dressed," he snarls at me on his way back in. "Now!"

"My clothes are upstairs," I whimper.

He pulls open one of the drawers in his chest of drawers and fishes out a pair of sweatpants.

"Put these on." They are far too big, but he is not to be argued with.

He swipes a T-shirt, too, and quickly pulls it over his head. Grabbing the bedside phone, he presses two buttons.

"She's still fucking here," he hisses down the phone.

Approximately three seconds later, Taylor and one of the other security guys, burst into Christian's bedroom. Christian gives them a precis of what has happened.

"How long ago?" Taylor demands, staring at me all businesslike. He's still wearing his jacket. Does this man ever sleep?

"About ten minutes," I mutter, for some reason feeling guilty.

"She knows the apartment like the back of her hand," says Christian. "I am taking Anastasia away now. She's hiding here somewhere. Find her. When is Gail back?

"Tomorrow evening, sir."

"She's not to return until this place is secure. Understand?" Christian snaps.

"Yes, sir. Will you be going to Bellevue?"

quo

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Nine

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 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 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 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 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 -nbsp;nbsp;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."

"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 ***** 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 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-twenty-seven 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.

"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 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

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Ten

"Mac will be back soon," he murmurs.

"Hmm." My eyes flicker open to meet his soft gray gaze. Lord, his eyes are an amazing color - especially here, out on the sea - reflecting the light bouncing off the water through the small portholes into the cabin.

"As much as I'd like to lie here with you all afternoon, he'll need a hand with the din-ghy." Leaning over, Christian kisses me tenderly. "Ana, you look so beautiful right now, all mussed up and sexy. Makes me want you more." He smiles and rises from the bed. I lay on my front admiring the view.

"You ain't so bad yourself, captain." I smack my lips in admiration and he grins.

I watch him move gracefully about the cabin as he dresses. He really is divinely beautiful, and what's more, he's just made such sweet love to me again. I can hardly believe my good fortune. I can't quite believe that this man is mine. He sits down beside me to put on his shoes.

"Captain, eh?" he says dryly. "Well, I am master of this vessel."

I cock my head to one side. "You are master of my heart, Mr. Grey." And my body...

and my soul.

He shakes his head incredulously and bends to kiss me. "I'll be on deck. There's a shower in the bathroom if you want one. Do you need anything? A drink?" he asks solici-tously, and all I can do is grin at him. Is this the same man? Is this the same Fifty?

"What?" he says, reacting to my stupid grin.

"You."

"What about me?"

"Who are you and what have you done with Christian?"

He lips twitch with a sad smile.

"He's not very far away, baby," he says softly, and there's a touch of melancholy in his voice that makes me instantly regret asking the question. But he shakes it off. "You'll see him soon enough" - he smirks at me - "especially if you don't get up." Reaching over, he smacks me hard on my behind so I yelp and laugh at the same time.

"You had me worried."

"Did I, now?" Christian's brow creases. "You do give off some mixed signals, Anastasia. How's a man supposed to keep up?" He leans down and kisses me again. "Laters, baby," he adds, and with a dazzling smile, he gets up and leaves me to my scattered thoughts.

When I surface on deck, Mac is back on board, but he disappears onto the upper deck as I open the saloon doors. Christian is on his Blackberry. Talking to whom? I wonder. He wanders over and pulls me close, kissing my hair.

"Great news... good. Yeah... Really? The fire escape stairwell?... I see... Yes, tonight."

He hits the end button, and the sound of the engines firing up startles me. Mac must be in the cockpit above.

"Time to head back," Christian says, kissing me once more as he straps me into my lifejacket.

The sun is low in the sky behind us as we make our way back to the marina, and I reflect on a wonderful afternoon. Under Christian's careful, patient tuition, I have now stowed a mainsail, a headsail, and a spinnaker and learned to tie a reef knot, clove hitch, and sheep-shank. His lips were twitching throughout the lesson.

"I may tie you up one day," I mutter crabbily.

His mouth twists with humor. "You'll have to catch me first, Miss Steele."

His words bring to mind him chasing me round the apartment, the thrill, then the hideous aftermath. I frown and shudder. After that, I left him.

Would I leave him again now that he's admitted he loves me? I gaze up into his clear gray eyes. Could I ever leave him again - no matter what he did to me? Could I betray him like that? No. I don't think I could.

He's given me a more thorough tour of this beautiful boat, explaining all the innova-tive designs and techniques, and the high-quality materials used to build it. I remember the interview when I first met him. I picked up then on his passion for ships. I thought his love was only for the ocean-going freighters his company builds - not for super-sexy, sleek catamarans, too.

And, of course, he's made sweet, unhurried love to me. I shake my head, remembering my body bowed and wanting beneath his expert hands. He is an exceptional lover, I'm sure - though, of course, I have no comparison. But Kate would have raved more if it was always like this; it's not like her to hold back on details.

But how long will this be enough for him? I just don't know, and the thought is unnerving.

Now he sits, and I stand in the safe circle of his arms for hours, it seems, in comfortable, companionable silence as The Grace glides closer and closer to Seattle. I have the wheel, Christian advising on adjustments every so often.

"There is poetry in sailing as old as the world,"1 he murmurs in my ear.

"That sounds like a quote."

I sense his grin. "It is. Antoine de Saint-Exupery."

"Oh... I adore The Little Prince."

"Me, too."

It is early evening as Christian, his hands still on mine, steers us into the marina. There are lights winking from the boats, reflecting off the dark water, but it is still light - a balmy, bright evening, an overture for what is sure to be a spectacular sunset.

A crowd gathers on the dockside as Christian slowly turns the boat around in a rela-tively small space. He does it with ease and reverses smoothly into the same berth we left earlier. Mac jumps on to the dock and ties The Grace securely to a bollard.

"Back again," Christian murmurs.

"Thank you," I murmur shyly. "That was a perfect afternoon."

Christian grins. "I thought so, too. Perhaps we can enroll you in sailing school, so we can go out for a few days, just the two of us."

"I'd love that. We can christen the bedroom again and again."

He leans forward and kisses me under my ear. "Hmm... I look forward to it, Anastasia," he whispers, making every single hair follicle on my body stand to attention.

How does he do that?

"Come, the apartment is clean. We can go back."

"What about our things at the hotel?"

"Taylor has collected them already."

Oh! When?

"Earlier today, after he did a sweep of The Grace with his team." Christian answers my unspoken question.

"Does that poor man ever sleep?"

1 de Saint-Exupery, Antoine. Night Flight. Translated by Stuart Gilbert. New Jersey: Prentice Hall, June 1932. (First published in 1931 under the original title of Vol de nuit. )

"He sleeps." Christian quirks an eyebrow at me, puzzled. "He's just doing his job, Anastasia, which he's very good at. Jason is a real find."

"Jason?"

"Jason Taylor."

I remember when I thought Taylor was his first name. Jason. It suits him - solid, reliable. For some reason it makes me smile.

"You're fond of Taylor," Christian says, eyeing me with speculation.

"I suppose I am." His question derails me. He frowns. "I'm not attracted to him, if that's why you're frowning. Stop."

Christian is almost pouting - sulky.

Jeez, he's such a child sometimes. "I think Taylor looks after you very well. That's why I like him. He seems kind, reliable and loyal. He has an avuncular appeal to me."

"Avuncular?"

"Yes."

"Okay, avuncular." Christian is testing the word and meaning. I laugh.

"Oh, Christian, grow up, for heaven's sake."

His mouth drops open, surprised by my outburst, but then he frowns as if considering my statement. "I'm trying," he says eventually.

"That you are. Very." I answer softly but then roll my eyes at him.

"What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at me, Anastasia." He grins.

I smirk at him. "Well, if you behave yourself, maybe we can relive some of those memories."

His mouth twists with humor. "Behave myself?" He raises his eyebrows. "Really, Miss Steele - what makes you think I want to relive them?"

"Probably the way your eyes lit up like Christmas when I said that."

"You know me so well already," he says dryly.

"I'd like to know you better."

He smiles softly. "And I you, Anastasia."

"Thanks, Mac." Christian shakes McConnell's hand and steps on the dock.

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Grey, and good-bye. Ana, great to meet you."

I shake his hand shyly. He must know what Christian and I were up to on the boat while he went ashore.

"Good day, Mac, and thank you."

He grins at me and winks, making me flush. Christian takes my hand, and we walk up the dock to the marina's promenade.

"Where's Mac from?" I ask, curious about his accent.

"Ireland... Northern Ireland," Christian corrects himself.

"Is he your friend?"

"Mac? He works for me. Helped build The Grace."

"Do you have many friends?"

He frowns. "Not really. Doing what I do... I don't cultivate friendships. There's only - " He stops, his frown deepening, and I know he was going to mention Mrs. Robinson."Hungry?" he asks, trying to change the subject.

I nod. Actually, I'm famished.

"We'll eat where I left the car. Come."

Next to SP's is a small Italian bistro called Bee's. It reminds me of the place in Portland - a few tables and booths, the decor very crisp and modern with a large black and white photograph of a turn-of-the-century fiesta serving as a mural.

Christian and I are seated in a booth, poring over the menu and sipping a delicious light Frascati. When I glance up from the menu, having made my choice, Christian is gazing at me speculatively.

"What?" I ask.

"You look lovely, Anastasia. The outdoors agrees with you."

I flush. "I feel rather wind-burned to tell the truth. But I had a lovely afternoon. A perfect afternoon. Thank you."

He smiles, his eyes warm. "My pleasure," he murmurs.

"Can I ask you something?" I decide on a fact-finding mission.

"Anything, Anastasia. You know that." He cocks his head to one side, looking delicious.

"You don't seem to have many friends. Why is that?"

He shrugs and frowns. "I told you, I don't really have time. I have business associ-ates - though that's very different from friendships, I suppose. I have my family and that's it. Apart from Elena."

I ignore the mention of the bitch-troll. "No male friends your own age that you can go out with and let off steam?"

"You know how I like to let off steam, Anastasia." Christian's mouth twists. "And I've been working, building up the business." He looks puzzled. "That's all I do - except sail and fly occasionally."

"Not even in college?"

"Not really."

"Just Elena, then?"

He nods, his expression wary.

"Must be lonely."

His lips curl in a small wistful smile. "What would you like to eat?" he asks, changing the subject again.

"I'm going for the ri

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Eleven

With easy grace, Christian taps the white ball so that it glides across the table, kisses the black and oh-so-slowly the black rolls, teeters on the edge, and finally drops into the top right pocket of the billiard table.

Damn.

He stands, and his mouth twists in a triumphant I-so-own-you-Steele smile. Putting down his cue, he saunters casually toward me, all tousled hair, jeans, and white T-shirt. He doesn't look like a CEO - he looks like a bad boy from the wrong side of town. Holy cow, he's so fucking sexy.

"You're not going to be a sore loser, are you?" he murmurs, barely containing his grin.

"Depends how hard you spank me," I whisper, holding on to my cue for support. He takes my cue and puts it to one side, hooks his finger into the top of my shirt, and pulls me toward him.

"Well, let's count your misdemeanors, Miss Steele." He counts on his long fingers.

"One, making me jealous of my own staff. Two, arguing with me about working. And three, waving your delectable derriere at me for the last twenty minutes."

His eyes glow a soft gray with excitement, and leaning down, he rubs his nose against mine. "I want you to take your jeans and this very fetching shirt off. Now." He plants a feather-soft kiss on my lips, wanders nonchalantly over to the door, and locks it.

Oh my.

When he turns and gazes at me, his eyes are burning. I stand paralyzed like a complete zombie, my heart pounding, my blood pumping, not actually able to move a muscle. In my mind, all I can think is -nbsp;nbsp;this is for him - the thought repeating like a mantra over and over again.

"Clothes, Anastasia. You appear to still be wearing them. Take them off - or I will do it for you."

"You do it." I finally find my voice, and it sounds low and heated. Christian grins.

"Oh, Miss Steele. It's a dirty job, but I think I can rise to the challenge."

"You normally rise to most challenges, Mr. Grey." I raise an eyebrow at him, and he smirks.

"Why, Miss Steele, whatever do you mean?" On his way over to me, he pauses at the small desk built into one of the bookshelves. Reaching over, he picks up a twelve-inch Perspex ruler. He holds each end and flexes it, his eyes not leaving mine.

Holy shit - his weapon of choice. My mouth goes dry.

Suddenly, I'm hot and bothered and damp in all the right places. Only Christian could turn me on with just a look and the flex of a ruler. He slips it into the back pocket of his jeans and ambles toward me, eyes dark and full of promise. Without saying a word, he drops to his knees in front of me and starts to undo my laces, quickly and efficiently, dragging both my Converse and socks off. I lean on the side of the billiard table so I don't fall.

Gazing down at him as he undoes my laces, I marvel at the depth of feeling that I have for this beautiful flawed man. I love him.

He grabs my hips, slips his fingers into the waistband of my jeans, and undoes the button and zipper. He peers up through his long lashes, grinning his most salacious grin as he slowly peels my jeans off. I step out of them, glad that I'm wearing these pretty, pretty panties, and he grasps the back of my legs and runs his nose along the apex of my thighs.

I practically melt.

"I want to be quite rough with you, Ana. You'll have to tell me to stop if it's too much,"

he breathes.

Oh my. He kisses me... there. I moan softly.

"Safe word?" I murmur.

"No, no safe word, just tell me to stop, and I'll stop. Understand?" He kisses me again, nuzzling me. Oh, that feels good. He stands, his stare intense. "Answer me," he orders his voice velvet soft.

"Yes, yes, I understand." I'm puzzled by his insistence.

"You've been dropping hints and giving me mixed signals all day, Anastasia," he says.

"You said you were worried I'd lost my edge. I'm not sure what you meant by that, and I don't know how serious you were, but we are going to find out. I don't want to go back into the playroom yet, so we can try this now, but if you don't like it, you must promise to tell me." A burning intensity born of his anxiety replaces his earlier cockiness.

Whoa, please don't be anxious, Christian. "I'll tell you. No safe word," I reiterate to reassure him.

"We're lovers, Anastasia. Lovers don't need safe words." He frowns. "Do they?"

"I guess not," I murmur. Jeez - how do I know? "I promise."

He searches my face for any clue that I might lack the courage of my convictions, and I'm nervous but excited, too. I'm much happier to do this, knowing that he loves me. It's very simple to me, and right now, I don't want to overthink it.

A slow smile stretches across his face, and he starts to unbutton my shirt, his deft fingers making short work of it, though he doesn't take it off. He leans over and picks up the cue. Oh fuck, what's he going to do with that? A frisson of fear runs through me.

"You play well, Miss Steele. I must say I'm surprised. Why don't you sink the black?"

My fear forgotten, I pout, wondering why the hell he should be surprised - sexy, arrogant bastard. My inner goddess is limbering up in the background, doing her floor exercises - a great fat smile on her face.

I position the white ball. Christian strolls back around the table and stands right behind me as I lean over to take my shot. He places his hand on my right thigh and runs his fingers up and down my leg, up to my behind and back again, lightly stroking me.

"I am going to miss if you keep doing that," I whisper, closing my eyes and relishing the feel of his hands on me.

"I don't care if you hit or miss, baby. I just wanted to see you like this - partially dressed, stretched out on my billiard table. Do you have any idea how hot you look at the moment?"

I flush, and my inner goddess grabs a rose between her teeth and starts to tango. Taking a deep breath, I try to ignore him and line up my shot. It's impossible. He caresses my behind, over and over again.

"Top left," I murmur, then hit the white ball. He smacks me hard, squarely on my backside.

It's so unexpected, I yelp. The white hits the black, which bounces off the cushion wide of the pocket. Christian caresses my behind again.

"Oh, I think you need to try that again," he whispers. "You should concentrate, Anastasia."

I am panting now, excited by this game. He strolls to the end of the table, sets up the black ball again, then runs the white ball back down to me. He looks so carnal, dark eyed with a lascivious smile. How could I ever resist this man? I catch the ball and line it up, ready to strike again.

"Uh-uh," he admonishes. "Just wait." Oh, he just loves prolonging the agony. He wanders back and stands behind me again. I close my eyes once more as he strokes my left thigh this time then fondles my backside again.

"Take aim," he breathes.

I can't help my moan as desire twists and turns inside me. And I try, really try, to think about where I should hit the black with the white. I shift slightly to my right, and he follows me. I bend over the table once more. Using every last vestige of inner strength - which has diminished considerably since I know what will happen once I strike the white ball - I take aim and hit the white again. Christian smacks me once more, hard.

Ow! I miss again. "Oh no! " I groan.

"Once more, baby. And if you miss this time, I'm really going to let you have it."

What? Have what?

He sets up the black ball once more and walks, achingly slow, back to me until he's standing behind me, caressing my backside once more.

"You can do it," he coaxes.

Oh - not when you're distracting me like this. I push my behind back against his hand, and he smacks me lightly.

"Eager, Miss Steele?" he murmurs.

Yes. I want you.

"Well, let's get rid of these." He gently slides my panties down my thighs and off. I can't see what he does with them, but he leaves me feeling exposed as he plants a soft kiss on each cheek.

"Take the shot, baby."

I want to whimper, this is so not going to happen. I know I am going to miss. I line up the white, hit it, and in my impatience, miss the black completely. I wait for the blow - but it doesn't come. Instead he leans right over me, flattening me against the table, takes the cue out of my hand and rolls it to the side cushion. I can feel him, hard, against my backside.

"You missed," he says softly in my ear. My cheek is pressed against the baize. "Put your hands flat on the table."

I do as he says.

"Good. I'm going to spank you now and next time, maybe you won't." He shifts so he's standing to my left side, his erection against my hip.

I groan and my heart leaps into my mouth. My breath comes in short pants and a hot, heavy excitement courses through my veins. Gently, he caresses my behind and curls his other hand around the nape of my neck, his fingers fisting in my hair, his elbow at my back, holding me down. I am completely helpless.

"Open your legs," he murmurs and for a moment, I hesitate. And he smacks me hard -

with the ruler! The noise is harsher than the sting, and it takes me by surprise. I gasp, and he hits me again.

"Legs," he orders. I open my legs, panting. The ruler strikes again. Ow - it stings, but its ***** across my skin sounds worse than it feels.

I close my eyes and absorb the pain. It's not too bad, and Christian's breathing becomes harsher. He hits me again and again, and I moan. I am not sure how many more strokes I can bear - but hearing him, knowing how turned on he is, feeds my arousal and my willingness to continue. I am crossing to the dark side, a place in my psyche I don't know well but have visited before in the playroom - with the Tallis. The ruler strikes once more, and I moan loudly, and Christian groans in response. He hits me again - and again... and once more... harder this time - and I wince.

"Stop." The word is out of my mouth before I'm even aware that I've said it. Christian drops the ruler immediately and releases me.

"Enough?" he whispers.

"Yes."

"I want to fuck you now," he says, his voice strained.

"Yes," I murmur with longing. He undoes his fly, as I lie panting on the table, knowing that he's going to be rough.

I marvel once more at how I have managed - and yes, enjoyed -nbsp;nbsp;what he's done to me up to this point. It's so dark but so him.

He eases two fingers inside me and moves them in a circular motion. The feeling is exquisite. Closing my eyes, I revel in the sensation. I hear the telltale rip of foil, then he's standing behind me, between my legs, pushing them wider.

Slowly he sinks into me, filling me. I hear his groan of pure pleasure, and it stirs my soul. He grasps my hips firmly, eases out of me again, and this time slams back into me, causing me to cry out. He stills for a moment.

"Again?" he asks softly.

quo

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Twelve

"Did you talk to her today?" I ask Christian as we wait for Mrs. Robinson's arrival.

"Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I said that you didn't want to see her, and that I understood your reasons why. I also told her that I didn't appreciate her going behind my back." His gaze is impassive, giving nothing away.

Oh, good. "What did she say?"

"She brushed it off in a way that only Elena can." His mouth flattens to a crooked line.

"Why do you think she's here?"

"I have no idea." Christian shrugs.

Taylor enters the great room again. "Mrs. Lincoln," he announces.

And here she is... Why is she so damned attractive? She's dressed entirely in black: tight jeans, a shirt that emphasizes her perfect figure, and a halo of bright, glossy hair.

Christian pulls me close. "Elena," he says, his tone puzzled.

She gapes at me in shock, frozen to the spot. She blinks before finding her soft voice.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had company, Christian. It's Monday," she says as if this explains why she's here.

"Girlfriend," he says by way of explanation and tilts his head to one side and smirks.

She smiles, a slow, beaming smile directed entirely at him. It's unnerving.

"Of course. Hello, Anastasia. I didn't know you'd be here. I know you don't want to talk to me. I accept that."

"Do you?" I assert quietly, gazing at her and taking all of us by surprise. With a slight frown, she moves farther into the room.

"Yes, I get the message. I'm not here to see you. Like I said, Christian rarely has company during the week." She pauses. "I have a problem, and I need to talk to Christian about it." "Oh?" Christian straightens up. "Do you want a drink?"

"Yes, please," she murmurs gratefully.

Christian fetches a glass while Elena and I stand awkwardly gazing at each other. She fidgets with a large silver ring on her middle finger, while I don't know where to look.

Finally, she gives me a small tight smile and approaches the kitchen island and sits on the bar stool at the end. She obviously knows the place well and feels comfortable moving around here.

Do I stay? Do I go? Oh, this is so difficult. My subconscious scowls at the woman with her most hostile harpy face.

There's so much I want to say to this woman, and none of it complimentary. But she's Christian's friend - his only friend - and for all my loathing of this woman, I am innately polite. Deciding to stay, I sit as gracefully as I can manage on the stool Christian's vacated.

Christian pours wine into each of our glasses and sits between us at the breakfast bar. Can't he feel how weird this is?

"What's up?" he asks her.

Elena looks nervously at me, and Christian reaches over and clasps my hand.

"Anastasia's with me now," he says to her silent query and squeezes my hand. I flush, and my subconscious beams at him, harpy face forgotten.

Elena's face softens as if she's pleased for him. Really pleased for him. Oh, I don't understand this woman at all, and I'm uncomfortable and edgy in her presence.

She takes a deep breath and shifts, perching on the edge of her bar stool and looking agitated. She glances nervously down at her hands and starts manically twisting the large silver ring around and around on her middle finger.

Jeez, what's wrong with her? Is it my presence? Do I have that effect on her? Because I feel the same way - I don't want her here. She raises her head and looks Christian squarely in the eye.

"I'm being blackmailed."

Holy shit. Not what I expected out of her mouth. Christian stiffens. Has someone found out about her penchant for beating and fucking underage boys? I suppress my revulsion, and a fleeting thought about chickens coming home to roost crosses my mind. My subconscious rubs her hands together with ill-disguised glee. Good.

"How?" Christian asks, his horror clear in his voice.

She reaches into her oversized, patent-leather, designer purse, pulls out a note, and hands it to him.

"Put it down, lay it out." Christian points to the breakfast bar counter with his chin.

"You don't want to touch it?'

"No. Fingerprints."

"Christian, you know I can't go to the police with this."

Why am I listening to this? Is she fucking some other poor boy?

She lays the note out for him, and he bends to read it.

"They're only asking for five thousand dollars," he says almost absentmindedly. "Any idea who it might be? Someone in the community?"

"No," she says in her soft sweet voice.

"Linc?"

Linc? Who's that?

"What - after all this time? I don't think so," she grumbles.

"Does Isaac know?"

"I haven't told him."

Who's Isaac?

"I think he needs to know," Christian says. She shakes her head, and now I feel I'm intruding. I want none of this. I try to retrieve my hand from Christian's grasp, but he just tightens his hold and turns to gaze at me.

"What?" he asks.

"I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed."

His eyes search mine, looking for what? Censure? Acceptance? Hostility? I keep my expression as bland as possible.

"Okay," he says. "I won't be long."

He releases me and I stand. Elena watches me warily. I stay tightlipped and return her gaze, giving nothing away.

"Goodnight, Anastasia." She gives me a small smile.

"Goodnight," I mutter, my voice sounds cold. I turn to leave. The tension is too much for me to bear. As I exit the room they continue their conversation.

"I don't think there's a great deal I can do, Elena," Christian says to her. "If it's a question of money." His voice trails off. "I could ask Welch to investigate."

"No, Christian, I just wanted to share," she says.

When I am out of the room, I hear her say, "You look very happy."

"I am," Christian responds.

"You deserve to be."

"I wish that were true."

"Christian," she scolds.

I freeze, listening intently. I can't help it.

"Does she know how negative you are about yourself? About all your issues."

"She knows me better than anyone."

"Ouch! That hurts."

"It's the truth, Elena. I don't have to play games with her. And I mean it, leave her alone."

"What is her problem?"

"You... What we were. What we did. She doesn't understand."

"Make her understand."

"It's in the past, Elena, and why would I want to taint her with our fucked-up relationship? She's good and sweet and innocent, and by some miracle she loves me."

"It's no miracle, Christian," Elena scoffs good-naturedly. "Have a little faith in yourself. You really are quite a catch. I've told you often enough. And she seems lovely, too.

Strong. Someone to stand up to you."

I can't hear Christian's response. So I'm strong, am I? I certainly don't feel that way.

"Don't you miss it?" Elena continues.

"What?"

"Your playroom."

I stop breathing.

"That really is none of your fucking business," Christian snaps.

Oh.

"I'm sorry." Elena snorts insincerely.

"I think you'd better go. And please, call before you come again."

"Christian, I am sorry," she says, and from her tone, this time she means it. "Since when are you so sensitive?" She's scolding him again.

"Elena, we have a business relationship which has profited us both immensely. Let's keep it that way. What was between us is part of the past. Anastasia is my future, and I won't jeopardize it in any way, so cut the fucking crap."

His future!

"I see."

"Look, I'm sorry for your trouble. Perhaps you should ride it out and call their bluff."

His tone is softer.

"I don't want to lose you, Christian."

"I'm not yours to lose, Elena," he snaps again.

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?" He's brusque, angry.

"Look, I don't want to argue with you. Your friendship means a lot to me. I'll back off from Anastasia. But I'm here if you need me. I always will be."

"Anastasia thinks that you saw me last Saturday. You called, that's all. Why did you tell her otherwise?"

"I wanted her to know how upset you were when she left. I don't want her to hurt you."

"She knows. I've told her. Stop interfering. Honestly, you're like a mother hen." Christian sounds more resigned, and Elena laughs, but there's a sad tone to her laugh.

"I know. I'm sorry. You know I care about you. I never thought you'd end up falling in love, Christian. It's very gratifying to see. But I couldn't bear it if she hurt you."

"I'll take my chances," he says dryly. "Now are you sure you don't want Welch to sniff around?"

She sighs heavily. "I suppose it wouldn't do any harm."

"Okay. I'll call him in the morning."

I listen to them bickering, trying to figure this out. They do sound like old friends, as Christian says. Just friends. And she cares about him - maybe too much. Well, who wouldn't, if they knew him?

"Thank you, Christian. And I am sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. I'll go. Next time I'll call.""Good."

She's going! Shit! I scamper up the hallway to Christian's bedroom and sit down on the bed. Christian enters a few moments later.

"She's gone," he says warily, gauging my reaction.

I gaze up at him, trying to frame my question. "Will you tell me all about her? I am trying to understand why you think she helped you." I pause, thinking carefully about my next sentence. "I loathe her, Christian. I think she did you untold damage. You have no friends.

Did she keep them away from you?"

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

"Why the fuck do you want to know about her? We had a very long-standing affair, she beat the shit out of me often, and I fucked her in all sorts of ways you can't even imagine, end of story."

I pale. Shit, he's angry - with me. I blink at him. "Why are you so angry?"

"Because all of that shit is over!" he shouts, glowering at me. He sighs in exasperation and shakes his head.

I blanch. Shit. I look down at my hands, knotted in my lap. I just want to understand.

He sits down beside me. "What do you want to know?" he asks wearily.

"You don't have to tell me. I don't mean to intrude."

"Anastasia, it's not that. I don't like talking about this shit. I've lived in a bubble for years with nothing affecting me and not having to justify mys

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Thirteen

Holy fuck.

She's here, gazing at me with an unnerving blank expression, holding a gun. My subconscious swoons into a dead faint, and I don't think even smelling salts will bring her back.

I blink repeatedly at Leila as my mind goes into overdrive. How did she get in? Where's Ethan? Holy shit! Where is Ethan?

A creeping cold fear grips my heart, and my scalp prickles as each and every follicle on my head tightens with terror. What if she's harmed him? I start breathing rapidly as adrenaline and bone-numbing dread course through my body. Keep calm, keep calm - I repeat the mantra over and over in my head.

She tilts her head to one side, regarding me as if I'm an exhibit in a freak show. Jeez, I'm not the freak here.

It feels like an eon has passed while I process all this, though in reality it is only a split second. Leila's expression remains blank, and her appearance is as scruffy and ill-kempt as ever. She's still wearing that grubby trench coat, and she looks desperately in need of a wash. Her hair is greasy and lank, plastered against her head, and her eyes are a dull brown, cloudy, and vaguely confused.

Despite the fact that my mouth has no moisture in it whatsoever, I attempt to speak.

"Hi. Leila, isn't it?" I rasp. She smiles, but it's a disturbing curl of her lip rather than a true smile.

"She speaks," she whispers, and her voice is soft and hoarse at the same time, an eerie sound.

"Yes, I speak," I say gently as if to a child. "Are you here alone?" Where is Ethan? My heart pounds at the thought that he might have come to some harm.

Her face falls, so much so that I think she's about to burst into tears - she looks so forlorn.

"Alone," she whispers. "Alone." And the depth of sadness in that one word is heart wrenching. What does she mean? I am alone? She's alone? She's alone because she's harmed Ethan? Oh... no... I have to fight the choking fear clawing at my throat as tears threaten.

"What are you doing here? Can I help you?" My words are a calm, gentle interrogation despite the suffocating fear in my throat. Her brow furrows as if she's completely befuddled by my questions. But she makes no violent move against me. Her hand is still relaxed around her gun. I take a different tack, trying to ignore my tightening scalp.

"Would you like some tea?" Why am I asking her if she wants tea? It's Ray's answer to any emotional situation, resurfacing inappropriately. Jeez, he'd have a fit if he saw me right this minute. His army training would have kicked in, and he'd have disarmed her by now. She's not actually pointing that gun at me. Perhaps I can move. She shakes her head and tilts it from side to side as if stretching her neck.

I take a deep precious lungful of air, trying to calm my panicked breathing, and move toward the kitchen island. She frowns as if she can't quite understand what I am doing and shifts a little so she is still facing me. I reach the kettle and with a shaking hand fill it from the faucet. As I move, my breathing eases. Yes, if she wanted me dead, surely she would have shot me by now. She watches me with an absent, bemused curiosity. As I switch on the kettle, I'm plagued by the thought of Ethan. Is he hurt? Tied up?

"Is there anyone else in the apartment?" I ask tentatively.

She inclines her head the other way, and with her right hand - the hand not holding the revolver - she grabs a strand of her long greasy hair and starts twirling and fiddling with it, pulling and twisting. It's obviously a nervous habit, and while I am distracted by this, I am struck once again by how much she resembles me. I hold my breath, waiting for her answer, the anxiety building to an almost unbearable pitch.

"Alone. All alone," she murmurs. I find this comforting. Maybe Ethan isn't here. The relief is empowering.

"Are you sure you don't want tea or coffee?"

"Not thirsty," she answers softly, and she takes a cautious step toward me. My feeling of empowerment evaporates. Fuck! I start panting with fear again, feeling it surge thick and rough through my veins. In spite of this and feeling beyond brave, I turn and fetch a couple of cups from the cupboard.

"What do you have that I don't?" she asks, her voice assuming the singsong intonation of a child.

"What do you mean, Leila?" I ask as gently as I can.

"Master - Mr. Grey - he lets you call him by his given name."

"I'm not his submissive, Leila. Er... Master understands that I am unable, inadequate to fulfill that role."

She tilts her head to the other side. It's wholly unnerving and unnatural as a gesture.

"In-ad-e-quate." She tests the word, sounding it out, seeing how it feels on her tongue.

"But Master is happy. I have seen him. He laughs and smiles. These reactions are rare...

very rare for him."

Oh.

"You look like me." Leila changes tack, surprising me, her eyes seeming to focus on me properly for the first time. "Master likes obedient ones who look like you and me. The others, all the same... all the same... and yet you sleep in his bed. I saw you."

Shit! She was in the room. I didn't imagine it.

"You saw me in his bed?" I whisper.

"I never slept in Master's bed," she murmurs. She's like a fallen ethereal wraith. Half a person. She looks so slight, and in spite of the fact that she's holding a gun, I suddenly feel overwhelmed with sympathy for her. Her hands flex around the weapon, and my eyes widen, threatening to pop from my head.

"Why does Master like us like this? It makes me think something... something...

Master is dark... Master is a dark man, but I love him."

No, no, he's not. I bristle internally. He's not dark. He's a good man, and he's not in the dark. He's joined me in the light. And now she's here, trying to drag him back with some warped idea that she loves him.

"Leila, do you want to give me the gun?" I ask softly. Her hand grips it tightly, and she hugs it to her chest.

"This is mine. It's all I have left." She gently caresses the gun. "So she can join her love."

Holy shit! Which love - Christian? It's like she's punched me in the stomach. I know he will be here momentarily to find out what's keeping me. Does she mean to shoot him?

The thought is so horrific, I feel my throat swell and ache as a huge knot forms there, almost choking me, matching the fear that's balled tightly in my stomach.

Right on cue the door bursts open, and Christian is standing in the doorway, Taylor behind him.

Glancing at me briefly, Christian's eyes sweep over me from head to toe, and I notice the small spark of relief in his look. But his relief is fleeting as his gaze darts to Leila and stills, focusing on her, not wavering in the slightest. He glares at her with an intensity I have not seen before, his eyes wild, wide, angry, and scared.

Oh no... oh no.

Leila's eyes widen, and for a moment, it seems her reason returns. She blinks rapidly while her hand tightens once more around the gun.

My breath catches in my throat, and my heart starts thumping so loud that I hear the blood pounding in my ears. No, no, no!

My world teeters precariously in the hands of this poor, fucked-up woman. Will she shoot? Both of us? Christian? The thought is crippling.

But after an eternity, as time hangs suspended around us, her head dips slightly and she gazes up at him, through her long lashes, her expression contrite.

Christian holds up his hand, signaling to Taylor to stay where he is. Taylor's blanched face betrays his fury. I have never seen him like this, but he stands stock-still as Christian and Leila stare at each other.

I realize I'm holding my breath. What will she do? What will he do? But they just continue to stare at each other. Christian's expression is raw, full of some unnamed emotion. It could be pity, fear, affection... or is it love? No, please, not love!

His eyes bore into her, and agonizingly slowly, the atmosphere in the apartment changes. The tension is building so that I can sense their connection, the charge between them .

No! Suddenly I feel I'm the interloper, intruding on them as they stand gazing at each other. I'm an outsider - a voyeur, spying on a forbidden, intimate scene behind closed curtains.

Christian's intense gaze burns brighter, and his bearing changes subtly. He looks taller, more angular somehow, colder, and more distant. I recognize this stance. I've seen him like this before - in his playroom.

My scalp prickles anew. This is Dominant Christian, and how at ease he looks. Whether he was born to or made for this role, I just don't know, but with a sinking heart and sickened stomach, I watch as Leila responds, her lips parting, her breathing picking up as the first flush of color stains her cheeks. No! It's such an unwelcome glimpse into his past, agonizing to witness.

Finally, he mouths a word at her. I can't make out what it is, but the effect on Leila is immediate. She drops to the floor on her knees, her head bowed, and the gun falls and skit-ters uselessly across the wooden floor. Holy fuck.

Christian walks calmly over to where the gun has fallen and bends gracefully to pick it up. He regards it with ill-disguised disgust then slips it into his jacket pocket. He gazes once more at Leila as she kneels compliantly beside the kitchen island.

"Anastasia, go with Taylor," he commands. Taylor crosses the threshold and stares at me. "Ethan," I whisper.

"Downstairs." He responds matter-of-factly, his eyes never leaving Leila.

Downstairs. Not here. Ethan's okay. Relief floods hard and fast through my blood, and for a moment I think I'm going to faint.

"Anastasia," Christian's tone is clipped in warning.

I blink at him, and I'm suddenly unable to move. I don't want to leave him - leave him with her. He moves to stand beside Leila as she kneels at his feet. He's hovering over her, protectively. She's so still, it's unnatural. I can't take my eyes off the two of them -

together...

"For the love of God, Anastasia, will you do as you're told for once in your life and go!"

Christian's eyes lock with mine as he glowers at me, his voice a blistering cold shard of ice.

The anger beneath the quiet, deliberate delivery of his words is palpable.

Angry at me? Surely not. Please - No! I feel like he's slapped me hard. Why does he want to stay with her?

"Taylor. Take Miss Steele downstairs. Now."

Taylor nods at him as I stare at Christian.

"Why?" I whisper.

"Go. Back to the apartment." His eyes blaze frostily at me. "I need to be alone with Leila." He says it urgently.

I think he's trying to convey some kind of message, but I'm so thrown by all that's happened that I'm not sure. I glance down at Leila and notice a very small smile cross her lips, but otherwise she remains truly impassive. A complete submissive. Fuck! My heart chills.

This is what he n

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Fourteen

Christian on his knees at my feet, holding me with his steady gray gaze, is the most chilling and sobering sight I have ever seen - more so than Leila and her gun. The vague alcoholic fuzziness I'm suffering from evaporates in an instant and is replaced by a prickling scalp and a creeping sense of doom as the blood drains from my face.

I inhale sharply with shock. No. No, this is wrong, so wrong and so disturbing.

"Christian, please, don't do this. I don't want this."

He continues to regard me passively, not moving, saying nothing.

Oh fuck. My poor Fifty. My heart squeezes and twists. What the hell have I done to him? Tears prick my eyes.

"Why are you doing this? Talk to me," I whisper.

He blinks once.

"What would you like me to say?" he says softly, blandly, and for a moment I'm relieved that he's talking, but not like this - no. No.

Tears begin to ooze down my cheeks, and suddenly it is too much to see him in the same prostrate position as the pathetic creature that was Leila. The image of a powerful man who's really still a little boy, who was horrifically abused and neglected, who feels unworthy of love from his perfect family and his much-less-than perfect girlfriend... my lost boy... it's heartbreaking.

Compassion, loss, and despair all swell in my heart, and I feel a choking sense of desperation. I am going to have to fight to bring him back, to bring back my Fifty.

The thought of me dominating anyone is appalling. The thought of dominating Christian is nauseating. It would make me like her - the woman who did this to him.

I shudder at that thought, fighting the bile in my throat. No way can I do that. No way do I want that.

As my thoughts clear, I can see only one way. Not taking my eyes off his, I sink to my knees in front of him.

The wooden floor is hard against my shins, and I dash my tears away roughly with the back of my hand.

Like this, we are equals. We're on a level. This is the only way I'm going to retrieve him.His eyes widen fractionally as I stare up at him, but beyond that his expression and stance don't change.

"Christian, you don't have to do this," I plead. "I'm not going to run. I've told you and told you and told you, I won't run." All that's happened... it's overwhelming. I just need some time to think... some time to myself. Why do you always assume the worst?" My heart clenches again because I know; it's because he's so doubting, so full of self-loathing.

Elena's words come back to haunt me. "Does she know how negative you are about yourself? About all your issues?"

Oh, Christian. Fear grips my heart once more and I start babbling, "I was going to suggest going back to my apartment this evening. You never give me any time... time to just think things through," I sob, and a ghost of a frown crosses his face. "Just time to think. We barely know each other, and all this baggage that comes with you... I need... I need time to think it through. And now that Leila is... well, whatever she is... she's off the streets and not a threat... I thought... I thought..." My voice trails off and I stare at him. He regards me intently and I think he's listening

"Seeing you with Leila..." I close my eyes as the painful memory of his interaction with his ex-sub gnaws at me anew. "It was such a shock. I had a glimpse into how your life has been... and..." I gaze down at my knotted fingers, tears still trickling down my cheeks. "This is about me not being good enough for you. It was an insight into your life, and I am so scared you'll get bored with me, and then you'll go... and I'll end up like Leila... a shadow. Because I love you, Christian, and if you leave me, it will be like a world without light. I'll be in darkness. I don't want to run. I'm just so frightened you'll leave me..."

I realize as I say these words to him - in the hope that he's listening - what my real problem is. I just don't get why he likes me. I have never understood why he likes me.

"I don't understand why you find me attractive," I murmur. "You're, well, you're you... and I'm..." I shrug and gaze up at him. "I just don't see it. You're beautiful and sexy and successful and good and kind and caring - all those things - and I'm not. And I can't do the things you like to do. I can't give you what you need. How could you be happy with me? How can I possibly hold you?" My voice is a whisper as I express my darkest fears. "I have never understood what you see in me. And seeing you with her, it brought all that home." I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand, gazing at his impassive expression.

Oh, he's so exasperating. Talk to me, damn it!

"Are you going to kneel here all night? Because I'll do it, too," I snap at him.

I think his expression softens - maybe he looks vaguely amused. But it's so hard to tell.

I could reach across and touch him, but this would be a gross abuse of the position he's put me in. I don't want that, but I don't know what he wants, or what he's trying to say to me. I just don't understand.

"Christian, please, please... talk to me," I beseech him, wringing my hands in my lap.

I am uncomfortable on my knees, but I continue to kneel, staring into his serious, beautiful, gray eyes, and I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

"Please," I beg once more.

His intense gaze darkens suddenly and he blinks.

"I was so scared," he whispers.

Oh, thank the Lord! Inside, my subconscious staggers back into her armchair, sagging with relief, and takes a large swig of gin.

He's talking! Gratitude overwhelms me, and I swallow, trying to contain my emotion and the fresh bout of tears that threatens.

His voice is soft and low. "When I saw Ethan arrive outside, I knew someone had let you into your apartment. Both Taylor and I leapt out of the car. We knew and to see her there like that with you - and armed. I think I died a thousand deaths, Ana. Someone threatening you... all my worst fears realized. I was so angry, with her, with you, with Taylor, with myself."

He shakes his head revealing his agony. "I didn't know how volatile she would be. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how she'd react." He stops and frowns. "And then she gave me a clue; she looked so contrite. And I just knew what I had to do." He pauses, gazing at me, trying to gauge my reaction.

"Go on," I whisper.

He swallows. "Seeing her in that state, knowing that I might have something to do with her mental breakdown..." He closes his eyes once more. "She was always so mischievous and lively." He shudders and takes a rasping breath, almost like a sob. This is torture to listen to, but I kneel, attentive, lapping up this insight.

"She might have harmed you. And it would have been my fault." His eyes drift off, filled with uncomprehending horror, and he's silent once more.

"But she didn't," I whisper. "And you weren't responsible for her being in that state, Christian." I blink up at him, encouraging him to continue.

Then it dawns on me afresh that everything he did was to keep me safe, and perhaps Leila, too, because he also cares for her. But how much does he care for her? The question lingers in my head, unwelcome. He says he loves me, but then he was so harsh, throwing me out of my own apartment.

"I just wanted you gone," he murmurs, with his uncanny ability to read my thoughts.

"I wanted you away from the danger, and... You. Just. Wouldn't. Go," he hisses through clenched teeth and shakes his head. His exasperation is palpable.

He gazes at me intently. "Anastasia Steele, you are the most stubborn woman I know."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head once more in disbelief.

Oh, he's back. I breathe a long, cleansing sigh of relief.

He opens his eyes again, and his expression is forlorn - sincere. "You weren't going to run?" he asks.

"No! "

He closes his eyes again and his whole body relaxes. When he opens his eyes, I can see his pain and anguish.

"I thought - " He stops. "This is me, Ana. All of me... and I'm all yours. What do I have to do to make you realize that? To make you see that I want you any way I can get you. That I love you."

"I love you, too, Christian, and to see you like this is..." I choke and my tears start afresh. "I thought I'd broken you."

"Broken? Me? Oh no, Ana. Just the opposite." He reaches out and takes my hand.

"You're my lifeline," he whispers, and he kisses my knuckles before pressing my palm against his.

With his eyes wide and full of fear, he gently tugs my hand and places it on his chest over his heart - in the forbidden zone. His breathing quickens. His heart is beating a frantic, pounding tattoo beneath my fingers. He doesn't take his eyes off mine; his jaw is tense, his teeth clenched.

I gasp. Oh my Fifty! He's letting me touch him. And it's like all the air in my lungs has vaporized - gone. The blood is pounding in my ears as the rhythm of my heart rises to match his.

He releases my hand, leaving it in place over his heart. I flex my fingers slightly, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He's holding his breath. I can't bear it. I make to move my hand.

"No," he says quickly and places his hand once more over mine, pressing my fingers against him. "Don't."

Emboldened by these two words, I shuffle closer so our knees are touching and tentatively raise my other hand so that he knows exactly what I intend to do. His eyes grow wider but he doesn't stop me.

Gently I start to undo the buttons on his shirt. It's tricky with one hand. I flex my fingers beneath his hand and he lets go, allowing me to use both hands to undo his shirt. My eyes don't leave his as I pull his shirt open, revealing his chest.

He swallows, and his lips part as his breathing increases, and I sense his rising panic, but he doesn't pull away. Is he still in sub mode? I have no idea.

Should I do this? I don't want to hurt him, physically or mentally. The sight of him like this, offering himself to me, has been a wake-up call.

I reach up, and my hand hovers over his chest, and I stare at him... asking his permission. Very subtly he tilts his head to one side, steeling himself in anticipation of my touch, and the tension radiates from him, but this time it's not in anger - it's in fear.

I hesitate. Can I really do this to him?

"Yes," he breathes - again with the weird ability to answer my unspoken questions.

I extend my fingertips into his chest hair and lightly brush them down his sternum. He closes his eyes, and his face creases as if he's experiencing intolerable pain. It's unbearable to witness, so I lift my fingers immediately, but he quickly grabs my hand and replaces it firmly, flat on his bare chest so that the hair tickles my palm.

"No," he says, his voice straine

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Fifteen

"Hey," Christian's says gently as he pulls me into his arms, "please don't cry, Ana, please,"

he begs. He's on the bathroom floor, and I am in his lap. I put my arms around him and weep into his neck. Cooing softly into my hair, he gently strokes my back, my head.

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispers, and that makes me cry harder and hug him tighter.

We sit like this forever. Eventually, when I'm all cried out, Christian staggers to his feet, holding me, and carries me into his room where he lays me down in the bed. In a few moments, he's beside me and the lights are off. He pulls me into his arms, hugging me tightly, and I finally drift off into a dark and troubled sleep.

I awake with a jolt. My head is fuzzy and I'm too warm. Christian is wrapped around me like a vine. He grumbles in his sleep as I slip out of his arms, but he doesn't wake. Sitting up I glance at the alarm clock. It's three in the morning. I need an Advil and a drink. I swing my legs out of bed and make my way to the kitchen in the great room.

In the fridge, I find a carton of orange juice and pour myself a glass. Hmm... it's delicious, and my fuzzy head eases immediately. I hunt through the cupboards looking for some painkillers and eventually come across a plastic box full of meds. I sink two Advil and pour myself another orange juice.

Wandering to the great wall of glass, I look out on a sleeping Seattle. The lights twinkle and wink beneath Christian's castle in the sky, or should I say fortress? I press my forehead against the cool window - it's a relief. I have so much to think about after all the revelations of yesterday. I place my back against the glass and slide down onto the floor. The great room is cavernous in the dark, the only light coming from the three lamps above the kitchen island.

Could I live here, married to Christian? After all that he's done here? All the history this place holds for him?

Marriage. It's almost unbelievable and completely unexpected. But then everything about Christian is unexpected. My lips quirk up with irony. Christian Grey, expect the unexpected - Fifty Shades of Fucked-Up.

My smile fades. I look like his mother. This wounds me, deeply, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush. We all look like his mom.

How the hell do I move on from the disclosure of that little secret? No wonder he didn't want to tell me. But surely he can't remember much of his mother. I wonder once more, if I should talk to Dr. Flynn. Would Christian let me? Perhaps he could fill in the gaps.

I shake my head. I feel world weary, but I'm enjoying the calm serenity of the great room and its beautiful works of art - cold and austere, but in their own way, still beautiful in the shadows and surely worth a fortune. Could I live here? For better, for worse? In sick-ness and in health? I close my eyes, lean my head back against the glass, and take a deep, cleansing breath.

The peaceful tranquility is shattered by a visceral, primeval cry that makes every single hair on my body stand to attention. Christian! Holy fuck - what's happened? I am on my feet, running back to the bedroom before the echoes of that horrible sound have died away, my heart thumping with fear.

I flip one of the light switches, and Christian's bedside light comes to life. He's tossing and turning, writhing in agony. No! He cries out again, and the eerie, devastating sound lances through me anew.

Shit - a nightmare!

"Christian!" I lean over him, grab his shoulders, and shake him awake. He opens his eyes, and they are wild and vacant, scanning quickly round the empty room before coming back to rest on me.

"You left, you left, you must have left," he mumbles - his wide-eyed stare becoming accusatory - and he looks so lost, it wrenches at my heart. Poor Fifty.

"I'm here." I sit down on the bed beside him. "I'm here," I murmur softly in an effort to reassure him. I reach out to place my palm on the side of his face, trying to soothe him.

"You were gone," he whispers rapidly. His eyes are still wild and frightened, but he seems to be calming.

"I went to get a drink. I was thirsty."

He closes his eyes and rubs his face. When he opens them again, he looks so desolate.

"You're here. Oh, thank God." He reaches for me, and grabbing me tightly, he pulls me down on the bed beside him.

"I just went for a drink," I murmur.

Oh, the intensity of his fear... I can feel it. His T-shirt is drenched in sweat, and his heartbeat is pounding as he hugs me close. He's gazing at me as if reassuring himself that I am really here. I gently stroke his hair and then his cheek.

"Christian, please. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," I say soothingly.

"Oh, Ana," he breathes. He grasps my chin to hold me in place, and then his mouth is on mine. Desire sweeps through him, and unbidden my body responds - it's so tied and attuned to him. His lips are at my ear, my throat, then back at my mouth, his teeth gently pulling at my lower lip, his hand traveling up my body from my hip to my breast, dragging my T-shirt up. Caressing me, feeling his way through the dips and shallows of my skin, he elicits the same familiar reaction, his touch sending shivers through me. I moan as his hand cups my breast and his fingers tighten over my nipple.

"I want you," he murmurs.

"I'm here for you. Only you, Christian."

He groans and kisses me once more, passionately, with a fervor and desperation I've not felt from him before. Grabbing the hem of his T-shirt, I tug and he helps me pull it off over his head. Kneeling between my legs, he hastily pulls me upright and drags my T-shirt off. His eyes are serious, wanting, full of dark secrets - exposed. He folds his hands around my face and kisses me, and we sink down into the bed once more, his thigh between both of mine so that he's half-lying on top of me. His erection is rigid against my hip through his boxer briefs. He wants me, but his words from earlier choose this moment to come back and haunt me, what he said about his mother. And it's like a bucket of cold water on my libido. Fuck. I can't do this. Not now.

"Christian... Stop. I can't do this," I whisper urgently against his mouth, my hands pushing on his upper arms.

"What? What's wrong?" he murmurs and starts kissing my neck, running the tip of his tongue lightly down my throat. Oh...

"No, please. I can't do this, not now. I need some time, please."

"Oh, Ana, don't overthink this," he whispers as he nips my earlobe.

"Ah!" I gasp, feeling it in my groin, and my body bows, betraying me. This is so confusing.

"I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need you. Touch me. Please." He rubs his nose against mine, and his quiet heartfelt plea moves me and I melt.

Touch him. Touch him while we make love. Oh my.

He rears up over me, gazing down, and in the half-light from the dimmed bedside light, I can tell that he's waiting, waiting for my decision, and he's caught in my spell.

I reach up and tentatively place my hand on the soft patch of hair over his sternum. He gasps and scrunches his eyes closed as if in pain, but I don't take my hand away this time.

I move it up to his shoulders, feeling the tremor run through him. He groans, and I pull him down to me and place both my hands on his back, where I've never touched him before, on his shoulder blades, holding him to me. His strangled moan arouses me like nothing else.

He buries his head in my neck, kissing and sucking and biting me, before trailing his nose up my chin and kissing me, his tongue possessing my mouth, his hands moving over my body once more. His lips move down... down... down to my breasts, worshipping as they go, and my hands stay on his shoulders and his back, enjoying the flex and ripple of his finely honed muscles, his skin still damp from his nightmare. His lips close over my nipple, pulling and tugging, so that it rises to greet his glorious skilled mouth.

I groan and run my fingernails across his back. And he gasps, a strangled moan.

"Oh, fuck, Ana," he chokes, and it's half cry, half groan. It tears at my heart, but also deep inside me, tightening all the muscles below my waist. Oh, what I can do to him! My inner goddess is writhing with want and I'm panting now, matching his tortured breaths with my own.

His hand travels south, over my belly, down to my sex - and his fingers are on me, then in me. I groan as he moves his fingers around inside me, in that way, and I push my pelvis up to welcome his touch.

"Ana," he breathes. He suddenly releases me and sits up; he removes his boxer briefs and leans over to the bedside table to grab a foil packet. His eyes are a blazing gray as he passes me the condom. "You want to do this? You can still say no. You can always say no,"

he murmurs.

"Don't give me a chance to think, Christian. I want you, too." I rip the packet open with my teeth as he kneels between my legs, and with trembling fingers I slide it on to him.

"Steady," he says. "You are going to unman me, Ana."

I marvel at what I can do to this man with my touch. He stretches out over me, and for now my doubts are pushed down and locked away in the dark, scary depths at the back of my mind. I'm intoxicated with this man, my man, my Fifty Shades. He shifts suddenly, completely taking me by surprise, so I am on top. Whoa.

"You - take me," he murmurs, his eyes glowing with a feral intensity.

Oh my, and slowly, oh-so-slowly, I sink down on to him. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes as he groans. I grab his hands and start to move, reveling in the fullness of my possession, reveling in his reaction, watching him unravel beneath me. I feel like a goddess. I lean down and kiss his chin, running my teeth along his stubbled jaw. He tastes delicious. He clasps my hips and steadies my rhythm, slow and easy.

"Ana, touch me... please."

Oh. I lean forward and steady myself with my hands on his chest. And he calls out, his cry almost a sob, and he thrusts deep inside me.

"Ahh," I whimper and run my fingernails gently over his chest, through the hair there, and he groans loudly and twists abruptly so I am once more beneath him.

"Enough." He moans. "No more, please." And it's a heartfelt plea.

Reaching up, I clasp his face in my hands, feeling the dampness on his cheeks, and pull him down to my lips so that I can kiss him. I curl my hands around his back.

He groans deep and low in his throat as he moves inside me, pushing me onward and upward, but I can't find my release. My head is too cloudy, cloudy with issues. I am too wrapped up in him.

"Let go, Ana," he urges me.

"No."

"Yes," he snarls. He shifts slightly and gyrates his hips, again and again.

Jeez... argh!

"Come on baby, I need this. Give it to me."

And I explode, my body a slave to his, and wrap myself around him, clinging to him like a vine as he cries out my name, and climaxes with me, then collapses, his full weight pressing me into the mattress.<p

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Sixteen

Jack's eyes flash the darkest blue, and he sneers as he casts a leering look down my body.

Fear chokes me. What is this? What does he want? From somewhere deep inside and despite my dry mouth, I find the resolve and courage to squeeze out some words, my self-defense class keep-them-talking mantra circling my brain like an ethereal sentinel.

"Jack, now might not be a good time for this. Your cab is due in ten minutes, and I need to give you all your documents." My voice is quiet but hoarse, betraying me.

He smiles, and it's a despotic fuck-you smile that finally touches his eyes. They glint in the harsh fluorescent glow of the strip light above us in the drab windowless room. He takes a step toward me, glaring at me, his eyes never leaving mine. His pupils are dilating as I watch - the black eclipsing the blue. Oh no. My fear escalates.

"You know I had to fight with Elizabeth to give you this job..." His voice trails off as he takes another step toward me, and I step back against the dingy wall cupboards. Keep-him-talking, keep-him-talking, keep-him-talking.

"Jack, what exactly is your problem? If you want to air your grievances, then perhaps we should ask HR to get involved. We could do this with Elizabeth in a more formal setting."Where is security? Are they in the building yet?

"We don't need HR to overmanage this situation Ana," he sneers. "When I hired you, I thought you would be a hard worker. I thought you had potential. But now, I don't know.

You've become distracted and sloppy. And I wondered... is it your boyfriend who's leading you astray?" He says boyfriend with chilling contempt.

"I decided to check through your e-mail account to see if I could find any clues. And you know what I found, Ana? What was out of place? The only personal e-mails in your account were to your hot-shot boyfriend." He pauses, assessing my reaction. "And I got to thinking... where are the e-mails from him? There are none. Nada. Nothing. So what's going on, Ana? How come his e-mails to you aren't on our system? Are you some company spy, planted in here by Grey's organization? Is that what this is?"

Holy shit, the e-mails. Oh no. What have I said?

"Jack, what are you talking about?" I try for bewildered, and I'm pretty convincing.

This conversation is not going as I expected, but I don't trust him in the slightest. Some subliminal pheromone that Jack is exuding has me on high alert. This man is angry, volatile, and totally unpredictable. I try to reason with him.

"You just said that you had to persuade Elizabeth to hire me. So how could I be planted as a spy? Make up your mind, Jack."

"But Grey fucked the New York trip, didn't he?"

Oh shit.

"How did he manage that, Ana? What did your rich, Ivy League boyfriend do?"

What little blood remains in my face drains away, and I think I'm going to faint. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jack," I whisper. "Your cab will be here shortly.

Shall I fetch your things?" Oh please, let me go. Stop this.

Jack continues, enjoying my discomfort. "And he thinks I'd make a pass at you?" He smirks and his eyes heat. "Well, I want you to think about something while I'm in New York. I gave you this job, and I expect you to show me some gratitude. In fact, I'm entitled to it. I had to fight to get you. Elizabeth wanted someone better qualified, but I - I saw something in you. So, we need to work out a deal. A deal where you keep me happy. D'you understand what I'm saying, Ana?"

Fuck!

"Look at it as refining your job description, if you like. And if you keep me happy, I won't dig any further into how your boyfriend is pulling strings, milking his contacts, or cashing in some favor from one of his Ivy League frat-boy sycophants."

My mouth drops open. He's blackmailing me. For sex! And what can I say? News of Christian's takeover is embargoed for another three weeks. I can barely believe this. Sex -

with me!

Jack moves closer until he's standing right in front of me, staring down into my eyes.

His cloying sweet cologne invades my nostrils - it's nauseating - and if I'm not mistaken, the bitter stench of alcohol is on his breath. Fuck, he's been drinking... when?

"You are such a tight-assed, cock-blocking, prick tease, you know, Ana," he whispers through clenched teeth.

What? Prick tease... Me?

"Jack, I have no idea what you're talking about," I whisper, as I feel the adrenaline surge through my body. He's closer now. I am waiting to make my move. Ray will be proud. Ray taught me what to do. Ray knows his self-defense. If Jack touches me - if he even breathes too close to me - I will take him down. My breath is shallow. I must not faint, I must not faint.

"Look at you." He gives me a leering look. "You're so turned on, I can tell. You've really led me on. Deep down you want it. I know."

Holy fuck. The man is completely delusional. My fear rises to defcon one, threatening to overwhelm me. "No, Jack. I have never led you on."

"You have, you prick-teasing bitch. I can read the signs." Reaching up, he gently strokes my face with the back of his knuckles, down to my chin. His index finger strokes my throat, and my heart leaps into my mouth as I fight my gag reflex. He reaches the dip at the base of my neck, where the top button of my black shirt is open, and presses his hand against my chest.

"You want me. Admit it, Ana."

Keeping my eyes firmly fixed on his and concentrating on what I have to do - rather than my mushrooming revulsion and dread - I place my hand gently over his in a caress.

He smiles in triumph. I grab his little finger, and twist it back, pulling it sharply down backward to his hip.

"Arrgh!" he cries out in pain and surprise, and as he leans off balance, I bring my knee, swift and hard, up into his groin, and make perfect contact with my goal. I dodge deftly to my left as his knees buckle, and he collapses with a groan onto the kitchen floor, grasping himself between his legs.

"Don't you ever touch me again," I snarl at him. "Your itinerary and the brochures are packaged on my desk. I am going home now. Have a nice trip. And in the future, get your own damn coffee."

"You fucking bitch!" he half screams, half groans at me, but I am already out the door.

I run full pelt to my desk, grab my jacket and my purse, and dash to front reception, ignoring the moans and curses emanating from the bastard still prostrate on the kitchen floor.

I burst out of the building and stop for a moment as the cool air hits my face, take a deep breath, and compose myself. But I haven't eaten all day, and as the very unwelcome surge of adrenaline recedes, my legs give out beneath me and I sink to the ground.

I watch with mild detachment the slow motion movie that plays out in front of me: Christian and Taylor in dark suits and white shirts, leaping out of the waiting car and running toward me. Christian sinks to his knees at my side, and on some unconscious level, all I can think is: He's here. My love is here.

"Ana, Ana! What's wrong?" He scoops me into his lap, running his hands up and down my arms, checking for any signs of injury. Grabbing my head between his hands, he stares with wide, terrified, gray eyes into mine. I sag against him, suddenly overwhelmed with relief and fatigue. Oh, Christian's arms. There is no place I'd rather be.

"Ana." He shakes me gently. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

I shake my head as I realize I need to start communicating.

"Jack," I whisper, and I sense rather than see Christian's swift glance at Taylor, who abruptly disappears into the building.

"Fuck!" Christian enfolds me in his arms. "What did that sleazeball do to you?"

And from somewhere just the right side of crazy, a giggle bubbles in my throat. I recall Jack's utter shock as I grabbed his finger.

"It's what I did to him." I start giggling and I can't stop.

"Ana!" Christian shakes me again, and my giggling fit ceases. "Did he touch you?"

"Only once."

I feel Christian's muscles bunch and tense as rage sweeps through him, and he stands up swiftly, powerfully - rock steady - with me in his arms. He's furious. No!

"Where is that fucker?"

From inside the building we hear muffled shouting. Christian sets me on my feet.

"Can you stand?"

I nod.

"Don't go in. Don't, Christian." Suddenly my fear is back, fear of what Christian will do to Jack.

"Get in the car," he barks at me.

"Christian, no." I grab his arm.

"Get in the goddamned car, Ana." He shakes me off.

"No! Please!" I plead with him. "Stay. Don't leave me on my own." I deploy my ultimate weapon.

Seething, Christian runs his hand through his hair and glares down at me, clearly wracked with indecision. The shouting inside the building escalates, and then stops suddenly.

Oh, no. What has Taylor done?

Christian fishes out his Blackberry.

"Christian, he has my e-mails."

"What?"

"My e-mails to you. He wanted to know where your e-mails to me were. He was trying to blackmail me."

Christian's look is murderous. Oh shit. "Fuck!" he splutters and narrows his eyes at me. He punches a number into his Blackberry.

Oh no. I'm in trouble. Who's he calling?

"Barney. Grey. I need you to access the SIP main server and wipe all Anastasia Steele's e-mails to me. Then access the personal data files of Jack Hyde and check they aren't stored there. If they are, wipe them... Yes, all of them. Now. Let me know when it's done."

He stabs the off button then dials another number.

"Roach. Grey. Hyde - I want him out. Now. This minute. Call security. Get him to clear his desk immediately, or I will liquidate this company first thing in the morning. You already have all the justification you need to give him his pink slip. Do you understand?"

He listens for a moment and hangs up seemingly satisfied.

"Blackberry," he hisses at me through clenched teeth.

"Please don't be mad at me." I blink up at him.

"I am so mad at you right now," he snarls and once more sweeps his hand through his hair. "Get in the car."

"Christian, please - "

"Get in the fucking car, Anastasia, or so help me I'll put you in there myself," he threatens, his eyes blazing with fury.

Oh shit. "Don't do anything stupid, please," I beg.

"STUPID! " he explodes. "I told you to use your fucking Blackberry. Don't talk to me about stupid. Get in the motherfucking car, Anastasia -nbsp;nbsp;NOW! " he snarls and a frisson of fear runs through me. This is Very Angry Christian. I've not seen him this mad before. He's barely holding on to his self-control.

"Okay," I mutter, placating him. "But please, be careful."

Pressing his l

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Seventeen

Hmm.

Christian is nuzzling my neck as I slowly wake.

"Morning, baby," he whispers and nips at my earlobe. My eyes flutter open and close again quickly. Bright early morning light floods the room, and his hand is softly caressing my breast, gently teasing me. Moving down he grasps my hip as he lies behind me, holding me close.

I stretch out beside him, relishing his touch, and feel his erection against my behind .

Oh my. A Christian Grey wake-up call.

"You're pleased to see me," I mumble sleepily, squirming suggestively against him. I feel his grin against my jaw.

"I'm very pleased to see you," he says as he skates his hand over my stomach and down to cup my sex and explore with his fingers. "There are definite advantages to waking up beside you, Miss Steele," he teases and gently pulls me round so that I'm lying on my back.

"Sleep well?" he asks as his fingers continue their sensual torture. He's smiling down at me - his dazzling, all-American-drop-dead-male-model-perfect-teeth smile. He takes my breath away.

My hips begin to sway to the rhythm of the dance his fingers have begun. He kisses me chastely on the lips and then moves down my neck, nipping slowly, kissing, and sucking as he goes. I moan. He's gentle and his touch is light and heavenly. His intrepid fingers move down, and slowly he eases one inside me, hissing quietly in awe.

"Oh, Ana," he murmurs reverentially against my throat. "You're always ready." He moves his finger in time with his kisses as his lips journey leisurely across my clavicle and then down to my breast. He torments first one, then the other nipple with teeth and lips, but oh-so-gently, and they tighten and lengthen in sweet response.

I groan.

"Hmm," he growls softly and raises his head to give me a blazing gray-eyed look. "I want you now." He reaches over to the bedside table. He shifts on top of me, taking his weight on his elbows, and rubs his nose along mine while easing my legs apart with his. He kneels up and rips open the foil packet.

"I can't wait until Saturday," he says, his eyes glowing with salacious delight.

"Your party?" I pant.

"No. I can stop using these fuckers."

"Aptly named." I giggle.

He smirks at me as he rolls on the condom. "Are you giggling, Miss Steele?"

"No." I try and fail to straighten my face.

"Now is not the time for giggling." He shakes his head in admonishment and his voice is low, stern, but his expression -nbsp;nbsp;holy cow - is glacial and volcanic at once.

My breath catches in my throat. "I thought you liked it when I giggle," I whisper hoarsely, gazing into the dark depths of his stormy eyes.

"Not now. There's a time and a place for giggling. This is neither. I need to stop you, and I think I know how," he says ominously, and his body covers mine.

"What would you like for breakfast, Ana?"

"I'll just have some granola. Thank you, Mrs. Jones."

I flush as I take my place at the breakfast bar beside Christian. The last time I set eyes on the very prim and proper Mrs. Jones, I was being unceremoniously dragged into the bedroom over Christian's shoulder.

"You look lovely," Christian says softly. I'm wearing my gray pencil skirt and gray silk blouse again.

"So do you." I smile shyly at him. He's wearing a pale blue shirt and jeans, and he looks cool and fresh and perfect, as always.

"We should buy you some more skirts," he says matter-of-factly. "In fact - I'd love to take you shopping."

Hmm - shopping. I hate shopping. But with Christian, maybe it won't be so bad. I decide on distraction as the best form of defense.

"I wonder what will happen at work today?"

"They'll have to replace the sleazeball." Christian frowns, scowling as if he's just stepped in something extraordinarily unpleasant.

"I hope they take on a woman as my new boss."

"Why?"

"Well, you're less likely to object to me going away with her," I tease him.

His lips twitch and he starts on his omelet.

"What's so funny?" I ask.

"You are. Eat your granola, all of it, if that's all you're having."

Bossy as ever. I purse my lips at him, but dig in.

"So, the key goes here." Christian points out the ignition beneath the gearshift.

"Strange place," I mutter. But I'm delighted with every little detail, practically bouncing like a small child in the comfortable leather seat. Christian has finally let me drive my car. He regards me coolly, though his eyes are alight with humor. "You're quite excited about this, aren't you?" he murmurs, amused.

I nod, grinning like a fool. "Just smell that new car smell. This is even better than the Submissive Special... um, the A3," I add quickly, blushing.

Christian's mouth twists. "Submissive Special, eh? You have such a way with words, Miss Steele." He leans back with a faux look of disapproval, but he can't fool me. I know he's enjoying himself.

"Well, let's go." He waves his long-fingered hand toward the entrance of the garage.

I clap my hands, start the car, and the engine purrs to life. Putting the gearshift into drive, I ease my foot off the brake and the Saab moves smoothly forward. Taylor starts up the Audi behind us and once the garage barrier lifts, follows us out of Escala onto the street.

"Can we have the radio on?" I ask as we wait at the first stop sign.

"I want you to concentrate," he says sharply.

"Christian, please, I can drive with music on." I roll my eyes. He scowls for a moment and then reaches for the radio.

"You can play your iPod and mp3 discs as well as CDs on this," he murmurs.

The too-loud dulcet tones of The Police suddenly fill the car. Christian turns the music down. Hmm... "King of Pain."

"Your anthem," I tease him, then instantly regret it when his mouth tightens in a thin line. Oh no. "I have this album, somewhere." I continue hastily to distract him. Hmm...

somewhere in the apartment I have spent very little time in.

I wonder how Ethan is. I should try to call him today. I won't have much to do at work.

Anxiety blooms in my stomach. What will happen when I get to the office? Will everyone know about Jack? Will everyone know of Christian's involvement? Will I still have a job? Sheesh, if I have no job, what will I do?

Marry the gazillionaire, Ana! My subconscious has her snarky face on. I ignore her -

rapacious bitch.

"Hey, Miss Smart Mouth. Come back." Christian drags me into the here and now as I pull up at the next stoplight.

"You're very distracted. Concentrate, Ana," he scolds. "Accidents happen when you don't concentrate."

Oh, for heaven's sake - and suddenly I'm catapulted back in time to when Ray was teaching me to drive. I don't need another father. A husband maybe, a kinky husband.

Hmm.

"I'm just thinking about work."

"Baby, you'll be fine. Trust me." Christian smiles.

"Please don't interfere - I want to do this on my own. Christian, please. It's important to me," I say as gently as I can. I don't want to argue. His mouth sets once more into a hard stubborn line, and I think he's going to berate me again.

Oh no.

"Let's not argue, Christian. We've had such a wonderful morning. And last night was - " Words fail me, last night was - "Heaven."

He says nothing. I glance over at him and his eyes are closed.

"Yes. Heaven," he says softly. "I meant what I said."

"What?"

"I don't want to let you go."

"I don't want to go."

He smiles and it's this new, shy smile that dissolves everything in its path. Boy, it's powerful.

"Good," he says simply, and he visibly relaxes.

I drive into the parking lot half a block from SIP.

"I'll walk you to work. Taylor will take me from there," Christian offers. I clamber out of the car, restricted by my pencil skirt while Christian climbs out gracefully, at ease with his body or giving the impression of someone at ease with his body. Hmm... someone who can't bear to be touched can't be that at ease. I frown at my errant thought.

"Don't forget we're seeing Flynn at seven this evening," he says as he holds his hand out to me. I press the remote door lock and take his hand.

"I won't forget. I'll compile a list of questions for him."

"Questions? About me?"

I nod.

"I can answer any questions you have about me." Christian looks affronted.

I smile at him. "Yes, but I want the unbiased, expensive charlatan's opinion."

He frowns and suddenly pulls me into his embrace, holding both my hands tightly behind my back.

"Is this a good idea?" he says, his voice low and husky. I lean back to see the anxiety looming large and wide in his eyes. It tears at my soul.

"If you don't want me to, I won't." I stare at him, blinking, wanting to caress the concern out of his face. I tug on one of my hands and he frees it. I touch his cheek tenderly -

it's smooth from shaving this morning.

"What are you worried about?" I ask, my voice soft and soothing.

"That you'll go."

"Christian, how many times do I have to tell you - I'm not going anywhere. You've already told me the worst. I'm not leaving you."

"Then why haven't you answered me?"

"Answered you?" I murmur disingenuously.

"You know what I'm talking about, Ana."

I sigh. "I want to know that I'm enough for you, Christian. That's all."

"And you won't take my word for it?" he says exasperated, releasing me.

"Christian, this has all been so quick. And by your own admission, you're fifty shades of fucked-up. I can't give you what you need," I mutter. "It's just not for me. But that makes me feel inadequate, especially seeing you with Leila. Who's to say that one day you won't meet someone who likes doing what you do? And who's to say you won't, you know... fall for her? Someone much better suited to your needs." The thought of Christian with anyone else sickens me. I stare down at my knotted fingers.

"I knew several women who like doing what I like to do. None of them appealed to me the way you do. I've never had an emotional connection with any of them. It's only ever been you, Ana."

"Because you never gave them a chance. You've spent too long locked up in your fortress, Christian. Look, let's discuss this later. I have to go to work. Maybe Dr. Flynn can offer us his insight." This is all far too heavy a discussion for a parking lot at eight fifty in the morning, and Christian, for once, seems to agree. He nods but his eyes are wary.

"Come," he orders, holding out his ha

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Eighteen

Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept, clapboard houses where kids play either clustered around their basketball hoops in their yards or cycling and running around in the street. It all looks affluent and wholesome with the houses nestling among the trees.

Perhaps we're going to visit someone? Who?

A few minutes later, Christian turns sharply left, and we're confronted by two ornate white metal gates set in a six-foot-high, sandstone wall. Christian presses a button on his door handle and the electric window hums quietly down into the doorframe. He punches a number into the keypad and the gates swing open in welcome.

He glances at me, and his expression has changed. He looks uncertain, nervous even.

"What is it?" I ask, and I can't mask the concern in my voice.

"An idea," he says quietly and eases the Saab through the gates.

We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two cars. On one side, the trees ring a densely wooded area, and on the other there's a vast area of grassland where a once-cultivated field has been left fallow. Grasses and wildflowers have reclaimed it, creating a rural idyll - a meadow, where the late evening breeze softly ripples through the grass and the evening sun gilds the wildflowers. It's lovely - utterly tranquil, and suddenly I imagine myself lying in the grass and gazing up at a clear blue summer sky. The thought is tantalizing yet makes me feel homesick for some strange reason. How odd.

The lane curves around and opens into a sweeping driveway in front of an impressive Mediterranean-style house of soft pink sandstone. It's palatial. All the lights are on, each window brightly illuminated in the dusk. There's a smart, black BMW parked in front of the four-car garage, but Christian pulls up outside the grand portico.

Hmm... I wonder who lives here? Why are we visiting?

Christian glances anxiously at me as he switches off the car engine.

"Will you keep an open mind?" he asks.

I frown.

"Christian, I've needed an open mind since the day I met you."

He smiles ironically and nods. "Fair point well made, Miss Steele. Let's go."

The dark wood doors open, and a woman with dark brown hair, a sincere smile, and a sharp lilac suit stands waiting. I'm grateful I changed into my new navy shift dress to impress Dr. Flynn. Okay, I'm not wearing killer heels like her - but still, I'm not in jeans.

"Mr. Grey." She smiles warmly and they shake hands.

"Miss Kelly," he says politely.

She smiles at me and holds out her hand, which I shake. Her isn't-he-dreamily-gorgeous-wish-he-was-mine flush does not go unnoticed.

"Olga Kelly," she announces breezily.

"Ana Steele," I mutter back at her. Who is this woman? She stands aside, welcoming us into the house. It's a shock when I step in. The place is empty - completely empty. We find ourselves in a large entrance hall. The walls are a faded primrose yellow with scuff-marks where pictures must once have hung. All that remains are the old-fashioned crystal light fixtures. The floors are dull hardwood. There are closed doors to either side of us, but Christian gives me no time to assimilate what's happening.

"Come," he says, and taking my hand, he leads me through the archway in front of us into a larger inner vestibule. It's dominated by a curved, sweeping staircase with an intricate iron balustrade but still he doesn't stop. He takes me through to the main living area, which is empty, save for a large faded gold rug - the biggest rug I have ever seen. Oh - and there are four crystal chandeliers.

But Christian's intention is now clear as we head across the room and outside through open French doors to a large stone terrace. Below us there's half a football field of manicured lawn, but beyond that is the view. Wow.

The panoramic, uninterrupted vista is breathtaking - staggering even: twilight over the Sound. Oh my.

In the distance lies Bainbridge Island, and further still on this crystal clear evening, the setting sun sinks slowly, glowing blood and flame orange, beyond Olympic National Park. Vermillion hues bleed into the sky - opals, aquamarines, ceruleans - melding with the darker purples of the scant wispy clouds and the land beyond the Sound. It is nature's best, a visual symphony orchestrated in the sky and reflected in the deep, still waters of the Sound. I am lost to the view - staring, trying to absorb such beauty.

I realize I'm holding my breath in awe, and Christian is still holding my hand. As I reluctantly turn my eyes away from the view, he's gazing anxiously at me.

"You brought me here to admire the view?" I whisper. He nods, his expression serious.

"It's staggering, Christian. Thank you," I murmur, letting my eyes feast on it once more. He releases my hand.

"How would you like to look at it for the rest of your life?" he breathes.

What? I whip my face back to his, startled blue eyes to pensive gray. I think my mouth drops open, and I gape at him blankly.

"I've always wanted to live on the coast. I sail up and down the Sound coveting these houses. This place hasn't been on the market long. I want to buy it, demolish it, and build a new house - for us," he whispers, and his eyes glow, translucent with his hopes and dreams.

Holy cow. Somehow I remain upright. I'm reeling. Live, here! In this beautiful haven!

For the rest of my life...

"It's just an idea," he adds, cautiously.

I glance back to assess the interior of the house. How much is it worth? It must be, what - five, ten million dollars? I have no idea. Holy shit.

"Why do you want to demolish it?" I ask, looking back at him. His face falls slightly.

Oh no.

"I'd like to make a more sustainable home, using the latest ecological techniques. Elliot could build it."

I gaze back at the room again. Miss Olga Kelly is on the far side, hovering by the entrance. She's the realtor, of course. I notice the room is huge and double height, a little like the great room at Escala. There's a balcony above - that must be the landing on the second floor. There's a huge fireplace and a whole line of French doors opening onto the terrace.

It has an old-world charm.

"Can we look around the house?"

He blinks at me. "Sure," he shrugs, puzzled.

Miss Kelly's face lights up like Christmas when we head back in. She's delighted to take us on a tour and gives us the spiel.

The house is enormous: twelve thousand square feet on six acres of land. As well as this main living room, there's the eat-in - no, banquet-in - kitchen with family room attached -nbsp;nbsp;Family!nbsp;nbsp;- a music room, a library, a study and, much to my amazement, an indoor pool and exercise suite with sauna and steam room attached. Downstairs in the basement there's a cinema -nbsp;nbsp;Jeez - and game room. Hmm... what sort of games could we play in here?Miss Kelly points out all sorts of features, but basically the house is beautiful and was obviously at one time a happy family home. It's a little shabby now, but nothing that some TLC couldn't cure.

As we follow Miss Kelly up the magnificent main stairs to the second floor, I can hardly contain my excitement... this house has everything I could ever wish for in a home.

"Couldn't you make the existing house more ecological and self-sustaining?"

Christian blinks at me, nonplussed. "I'd have to ask Elliot. He's the expert in all this."

Miss Kelly leads us into the master suite where full height windows open onto a balcony, and the view is still spectacular. I could sit in bed and gaze out all day, watching the sailing boats and the changing weather.

There are five additional bedrooms on this floor. Jeez - kids. I push the thought hastily to one side. I have too much to process already. Miss Kelly is busily suggesting to Christian how the grounds could accommodate riding stables and a paddock. Horses! Terrifying images of my few riding lessons flash through my mind, but Christian doesn't appear to be listening.

"The paddock would be where the meadow is at the moment?" I ask.

"Yes," Miss Kelly says brightly.

To me the meadow looks like somewhere to lie in the long grass and have picnics, not for some four-legged fiend of Satan to roam.

Back in the main room, Miss Kelly discreetly disappears, and Christian leads me out once more onto the terrace. The sun has set and lights from the towns on the Olympic pen-insula are twinkling on the far side of the Sound.

Christian pulls me into his arms and tips my chin up with his index finger, staring intently down at me.

"Lot to take in?" he asks, his expression unreadable.

I nod.

"I wanted to check you liked it before I bought it."

"The view?"

He nods.

"I love the view, and I like the house that's here."

"You do?"

I smile shyly at him. "Christian, you had me at the meadow."

His lips part as he inhales sharply, then his face transforms with a grin, and his hands are suddenly fisting into my hair and his mouth is on mine.

Back in the car as we head for Seattle, Christian's mood has lifted considerably.

"So you're going to buy it?" I ask.

"Yes."

"You'll put Escala on the market?"

He frowns. "Why would I do that?"

"To pay for..." My voice trails off - of course. I flush.

He smirks at me. "Trust me, I can afford it."

"Do you like being rich?"

"Yes. Show me someone who doesn't," he says darkly.

Okay, get off that subject quickly.

"Anastasia, you're going to have to learn to be rich, too, if you say yes," he says softly.

"Wealth isn't something I've ever aspired to, Christian." I frown.

"I know. I love that about you. But then you've never been hungry," he says simply.

His words are sobering.

"Where are we going?" I ask brightly, changing the subject.

"To celebrate." Christian relaxes.

Oh! "Celebrate what, the house?"

"Have you forgotten already? Your acting editor role."

"Oh yes." I grin. Unbelievably, I had forgotten.

"Where?"

"Up high at my club."

"Your club?"

"Yes. One of them."

The Mile High Club is on the seventy-sixth floor of Columbia Tower, higher even than Christian's apartment. It's very now and has the most head-spinning views over Seattle.

"Cristal, ma'am?" Christian hands me a glass of chilled champagne as I sit perched on a barstool.

"Why thank you, sir. " I stress the last word flirtatiously, batting my eyelashes at him deliberately.

He gazes at me and his face darkens. "Are you flirting with me, Miss Steele?"

"Yes, Mr. Grey, I am. What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm sure I can think of something," he says, his voice low. "Come - our table's ready."

As we approach the table, Christian stops me, his han

books4u · 2 Tháng tư 2015

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Nineteen

I stare at the flames, mesmerized. They dance and weave bright blazing orange with tips of cobalt blue in the fireplace in Christian's apartment. And despite the heat pumping out of the fire and the blanket draped around my shoulders, I'm cold. Bone-chillingly cold.

I'm aware of hushed voices, many hushed voices. But they're in the background, a distant buzz. I don't hear the words. All I can hear, all I can focus on, is the soft hiss of the gas from the fire.

My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and the huge fireplaces - real fireplaces for burning wood. I'd like to make love with Christian in front of a real fire. I'd like to make love with Christian in front of this fire. Yes, that would be fun. No doubt, he'd think of some way to make it memorable like all the times we've made love. I snort wryly to myself, even the times when we were just fucking. Yes, those were pretty memorable, too. Where is he?

The flames shimmy and flicker, holding me captive, keeping me numb. I focus solely on their flaring, scorching beauty. They are bewitching.

Anastasia, you've bewitched me.

He said that the first time he slept with me in my bed. Oh no...

I wrap my arms around myself, and the world falls away from me and reality bleeds into my consciousness. The creeping emptiness inside expands some more. Charlie Tango is missing.

"Ana. Here," Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice bringing me back into the room, into the now, into the anguish. She hands me a cup of tea. I take the cup and saucer gratefully, the rattle betraying my shaking hands.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice hoarse from unshed tears and the large lump in my throat.

Mia sits across from me on the larger-than-large U-shaped couch, holding hands with Grace. They gaze at me, pain and anxiety etched on their lovely faces. Grace looks older -

a mother worried for her son. I blink dispassionately at them. I can't offer a reassuring smile, a tear even - there's nothing, just blankness and the growing emptiness. I gaze at Elliot, Jose, and Ethan, who stand around the breakfast bar, all serious faces, talking quietly.

Discussing something in soft subdued voices. Behind them, Mrs. Jones busies herself in the kitchen.

Kate is in the TV room, monitoring the local news. I hear the faint squawk from the big plasma TV. I can't bear to see the news item again - cHristian grey missing - his beautiful face on TV.

Idly, it occurs to me that I've never seen so many people in this room, yet they are still dwarfed by its sheer size. Little islands of lost, anxious people in my Fifty's home. What would he think about them being here?

Somewhere, Taylor and Carrick are talking to the authorities who are drip-feeding us information, but it's all meaningless. The fact is - he's missing. He's been missing for eight hours. No sign, no word from him. The search has been called off - this much I do know.

It's just too dark. And we don't know where he is. He could be hurt, hungry, or worse. No!

I offer another silent prayer to God. Please let Christian be okay. Please let Christian be okay. I repeat it over and over in my head - my mantra, my lifeline, something concrete to cling to in my desperation. I refuse to think the worst. No, don't go there. There is hope.

"You're my lifeline."

Christian's words come back to haunt me. Yes, there is always hope. I must not despair.

His words echo through my mind.

"I'm now a firm advocate of instant gratification. Carpe diem, Ana."

Why didn't I seize the day?

"I'm doing this because I've finally met someone I want to spend the rest of my life with."

I close my eyes in silent prayer, rocking gently. Please, let the rest of his life not be this short. Please, please. We haven't had enough time... we need more time. We've done so much in the last few weeks, come so far. It can't end. All our tender moments: the lipstick, when he made love to me for the first time at the Olympic hotel, on his knees in front of me offering himself to me, finally touching him.

"I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need you. Touch me. Please."

Oh, I love him so. I will be nothing without him, nothing but a shadow - all the light eclipsed. No, no, no... my poor Christian.

"This is me, Ana. All of me... and I'm all yours. What do I have to do to make you realize that? To make you see that I want you any way I can get you. That I love you."

And I you, my Fifty Shades.

I open my eyes and gaze unseeing into the fire once more, memories of our time together flitting through my mind: his boyish joy when we were sailing and gliding; his suave, sophisticated, hot-as-hell look at the masked ball; dancing, oh yes, dancing here in the apartment to Sinatra, whirling round the room; his quiet, anxious hope yesterday at the house - that stunning view.

"I will lay my world at your feet, Anastasia. I want you, body and soul, forever."

Oh, please, let him be okay. He cannot be gone. He is the center of my universe.

An involuntary sob escapes my throat, and I clutch my hand to my mouth. No. I must be strong.

Jose is suddenly at my side, or has he been there a while? I have no idea.

"Do you want to call your mom or dad?" he asks gently.

No! I shake my head and clutch Jose's hand. I cannot speak, I know I will dissolve if I do, but the warmth and gentle squeeze of his hand offers me no solace.

Oh, Mom. My lip trembles at the thought of my mother. Should I call her? No. I couldn't deal with her reaction. Maybe Ray, he wouldn't get emotional - he never gets emotional, not even when the Mariners lose.

Grace rises to join the boys, distracting me. That must be the longest she's sat still. Mia comes to sit beside me too and grabs my other hand.

"He will come back," she says, her voice initially determined but cracking on the last word. Her eyes are wide and red-rimmed, her face pale and pinched from lack of sleep.

I gaze up at Ethan, who is watching Mia and Elliot, who has his arms around Grace. I glance at the clock. It's after eleven, heading toward midnight. Damn time! With each passing hour, the clawing emptiness expands, consuming me, choking me. I know deep down inside I am preparing myself, preparing myself for the worst. I close my eyes and offer up another silent prayer, clasping both Mia and Jose's hands.

Opening them again, I stare into the flames once more. I can see his shy smile - my favorite of all his expressions, a glimpse of the real Christian, my real Christian. He is so many people: control freak, CEO, stalker, sex god, Dom - and at the same time - such a boy with his toys. I smile. His car, his boat, his plane... Charlie Tango... no... no...

my lost boy, truly lost right now. My smile fades and pain lances through me. I remember him in the shower, wiping away the lipstick marks.

"I'm nothing, Anastasia. I'm a husk of a man. I don't have a heart."

The lump in my throat expands. Oh, Christian, you do, you do have a heart, and it's mine. I want to cherish it forever. Even though he's so complex and difficult, I love him. I will always love him. There will never be anyone else. Ever.

I remember sitting in Starbucks weighing up my Christian pros and cons. All those cons, even those photographs I found this morning, melt into insignificance now. There's just him and whether he'll come back. Oh please, Lord, bring him back, please let him be okay. I'll go to church... I'll do anything. Oh, if I get him back, I shall seize the day. His voice echoes around my head once more: "Carpe diem, Ana."

I gaze deeper into the fire, the flames still licking and curling around each other, blazing brightly. Then Grace shrieks, and everything goes into slow motion.

"Christian!"

I turn my head in time to see Grace barreling across the great room from where she had been pacing somewhere behind me, and there in the entrance stands a dismayed Christian.

He's dressed in just his shirtsleeves and suit pants, and he's holding his navy jacket, shoes, and socks. He looks tired, dirty, and utterly beautiful.

Holy fuck... Christian. He's alive. I gaze numbly at him, trying to work out if I'm hallucinating or if he's really here.

His expression is one of utter bewilderment. He deposits his jacket and shoes on the floor in time to catch Grace, who throws her arms around his neck and kisses him hard on the cheek.

"Mom?"

Christian gazes down at her, completely at a loss.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Grace whispers, voicing our collective fear.

"Mom, I'm here." I hear the consternation in his voice.

"I died a thousand deaths today," she whispers, her voice barely audible, echoing my thoughts. She gasps and sobs, no longer able to hold back her tears. Christian frowns, horrified or mortified - I don't know which - then after a beat, envelops her in a huge hug, holding her close.

"Oh, Christian," she chokes, wrapping her arms around him, weeping into his neck -

all self-restraint forgotten - and Christian doesn't balk. He just holds her, rocking to and fro, comforting her. Scalding tears pool in my eyes. Carrick hollers from the hallway.

"He's alive! Shit - you're here!" He appears from Taylor's office, clutching his cell phone, and embraces both of them, his eyes closed in sweet relief.

"Dad?"

Mia squeals something unintelligible from beside me, then she's up, running, joining her parents, hugging all of them, too.

Finally the tears start to cascade down my cheeks. He's here, he's fine. But I cannot move.

Carrick is the first to pull away, wiping his eyes and clapping Christian on the shoulder.

Mia releases them and Grace steps back.

"Sorry," she mumbles.

"Hey, Mom - it's okay," Christian says, consternation still evident on his face.

"Where were you? What happened?" Grace cries and puts her head in her hands.

"Mom," Christian mutters. He draws her into his arms again and kisses the top of her head. "I'm here. I'm good. It's just taken me a hell of a long time to get back from Portland.

What's with the welcoming committee?" He looks up and scans the room until his eyes lock with mine.

He blinks and glances briefly at Jose, who lets go of my hand. Christian's mouth tightens. I drink in the sight of him and relief courses through me, leaving me spent, exhausted, and completely elated. Yet my tears don't stop. Christian turns his attention back to his mother.

"Mom, I'm good. What's wrong?" Christian says reassuringly. She places her hands on either side of his face.

"Christian, you've been missing. Your flight plan - you never made it to Seattle. Why didn't you contact us?"

Christian's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "I didn't think it would take this long."

"Why didn't you call?"

"No power in my cell."

"You didn't stop... call collect?"

"Mom - it's a long story.q

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