I want to make love to you,” he says gazing down at me, his gray eyes burning with bright, loving sincerity. Softly in background, a familiar voice starts to sing “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” And his lips find mine.
As I tighten around him, finding my release once more, Christian unravels in my arms, his head thrown back as he calls out my name. He clasps me tightly to his chest as we sit nose to nose in the middle of his vast bed, me astride him. And in this moment—this moment of joy with this man to this music—the intensity of my experience this morning in here with him and all that has occurred during the past week overwhelms me anew, not just physically but emotionally. I am completely overcome with all these feelings. I am so deeply, deeply in love with him. For the first time I’m offered a glimmer of understanding as to how he feels about my safety.
Recalling his close call with Charlie Tango yesterday, I shudder at the thought and tears pool in my eyes. If anything ever happened to him—I love him so. My tears run unchecked down my cheeks. So many sides of Christian—his sweet, gentle persona and his rugged, I-can-do-what-I-fucking-well-like-to-you-and-you’ll-come-like-a-train Dominant side—his fifty shades—all of him. All spectacular. All mine. And I’m aware we don’t know each other well, and we have a mountain of issues to overcome, but I know for each other, we will—and we’ll have a lifetime to do it.
“Hey,” he breathes, clasping my head in his hands, gazing down at me. He’s still inside me. “Why are you crying?” His voice is filled with concern.
“Because I love you so much,” I whisper. He half-closes his eyes as if drugged, absorbing my words. When he opens them again, they blaze with his love.
“And I you, Ana. You make me . . . whole.” He kisses me gently as Roberta Flack finishes her song.
We have talked and talked and talked, sitting upright together on the bed in the playroom, me in his lap, our legs curled around each other. The red satin sheet is draped around us like a royal cocoon, and I have no idea how much time has passed. Christian is laughing at my impersonation of Katherine during the photo shoot at the Heathman.
“To think it could have been her who came to interview me. Thank the Lord for the common cold,” he murmurs and kisses my nose.
“I believe she had flu, Christian,” I scold him, trailing my fingers idly through his chest hair and marveling that he’s tolerating it so well. “All the canes have gone,” I murmur, recalling my distraction from earlier. He tucks my hair behind my ear for the umpteenth time.
“I didn’t think you’d ever get past that hard limit.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” I whisper wide-eyed at him, then find myself glancing over at the whips, paddles and floggers lining the opposite wall. He follows my gaze.
“You want me to get rid of them, too?” He’s amused but sincere.
“Not the crop . . . the brown one. Or that suede flogger, you know.” I flush.
He smiles down at me.
“Okay, the crop and the flogger. Why, Miss Steele, you’re full of surprises.”
“As are you, Mr. Grey. It’s one of the things I love about you.” I kiss him gently at the corner of his mouth.
“What else do you love about me?” he asks and his eyes widen.
I know it’s a huge deal for him to ask this question. It humbles me and I blink at him. I love everything about him—even his fifty shades. I know that life with Christian will never be boring.
“This.” I stroke my index finger across his lips. “I love this, and what comes out of it, and what you do to me with it. And what’s in here.” I caress his temple. “You’re so smart and witty and knowledgeable, competent in so many things. But most of all, I love what’s in here.” I press my palm gently against his chest, feeling his steady, beating heart. “You are the most compassionate man I’ve met. What you do. How you work. It’s awe-inspiring,” I whisper.
“Awe-inspiring?” He’s puzzled, but there’s a trace of humor on his face. Then his face transforms, and his shy smile appears as if he’s embarrassed, and I want to launch myself at him. So I do.
I am dozing, wrapped in satin and Grey. Christian nuzzles me awake.
“Hungry?” he whispers
“Hmm, famished.”
“Me, too.”
I lean up to gaze down at him sprawled on the bed.
“It’s your birthday, Mr. Grey. I’ll cook you something. What would you like?”
“Surprise me.” He runs his hand down my back, stroking me gently. “I should check my Blackberry for all the messages I missed yesterday.” He sighs and starts to sit up, and I know this special time is over . . . for now.
“Let’s shower,” he says.
Who am I to turn down the birthday boy?
Christian is in his study on the phone. Taylor is with him, looking serious but casual in jeans and a tight, black T-shirt. I busy myself in the kitchen fixing lunch. I have found salmon steaks in the fridge, and I’m poaching them with lemon, making a salad, and boiling some baby potatoes. I feel extraordinarily relaxed and happy, on top of the world—literally. Turning toward the large window, I stare out at the glorious blue sky. All that talking . . . all that sexing . . . hmm. A girl could get used to that.
Taylor emerges from the study, interrupting my reverie. I turn down my iPod and take out an ear bud.
“Hi, Taylor.”
“Ana.” He nods.
“Your daughter okay?”
“Yes, thanks. My ex-wife thought she had appendicitis, but she was overreacting as usual.” Taylor rolls his eyes, surprising me. “Sophie’s fine, though she has a nasty stomach bug.”
“I’m sorry.”
He smiles.
“Has Charlie Tango been located?”
“Yes. The recovery team is on its way. She should be back at Boeing Field late tonight.”
“Oh, good.”
He gives me a tight smile. “Will that be all, ma’am?”
“Yes, yes of course.” I flush . . . will I ever get used to Taylor calling me ma’am? It makes me feel so old, at least thirty.
He nods and heads out of the great room. Christian is still on the phone. I am waiting for the potatoes to boil. It gives me an idea. Fetching my purse, I fish out my Blackberry. There’s a text from Kate.
*C U this evening. Looking forward to a loooooong chat*
I text back.
*Same here*
It will be good to talk to Kate.
Calling up the e-mail program, I type a quick message to Christian.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Lunch
Date: June 18, 2011 13:12
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey
I am e-mailing to inform you that your lunch is nearly ready.
And that I had some mind-blowing, kinky fuckery earlier today.
Birthday kinky fuckery is to be recommended.
And another thing—I love you.
A x
(Your fiancée)
I listen carefully for a reaction, but he’s still on the phone. I shrug. Perhaps he’s just too busy. My Blackberry vibrates.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Kinky Fuckery
Date: June 18, 2011 13:15
To: Anastasia Steele
What aspect was most mind-blowing?
I’m taking notes.
Christian Grey
Famished and Wasting Away After the Mornings Exertions CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
PS: I love your signature
PPS: What happened to the art of conversation?
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Famished?
Date: June 18, 2011 13:18
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey
May I draw your attention to the first line of my previous e-mail informing you that your lunch is indeed almost ready . . . so none of this famished and wasting away nonsense. With regard to the mind-blowing aspects of the kinky fuckery . . . frankly—all of it. I’d be interested in reading your notes. And I like my bracketed signature, too.
A x
(Your fiancée)
PS: Since when have you been so loquacious? And you’re on the phone!
I press send and look up, and he’s standing in front of me, smirking. Before I can say anything, he bounds around the kitchen island, sweeps me up in his arms, and kisses me soundly.
“That is all, Miss Steele,” he says, releasing me, and he saunters—in his jeans, bare feet and untucked white shirt—back to his office, leaving me breathless.
I’ve made a watercress, cilantro, and sour cream dip to accompany the salmon, and I’ve set the breakfast bar. I hate interrupting him while he’s working, but now I stand in the doorway of his office. He’s still on the phone, all thoroughly fucked hair and bright gray eyes—a visually nourishing feast. He looks up when he sees me and doesn’t take his eyes off me. He frowns slightly, and I don’t know if it’s at me or because of his conversation.
“Just let them in and leave them alone. Do you understand, Mia?” he hisses and rolls his eyes. “Good.”
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