him shave. He pulls up his chin and shaves beneath it, taking long deliberate
strokes, and I find n If in t mm n is Pulling my upper
lip down just as he does, to shave his philtrum. He turns and smirks at me, one
h ill" of his lace still eosered in shasing snap.
Oh, Christian, I could watch you for hours. "One of my all-time favorites," I
murmur, and he leans down and kisses me quickly, smearing shaving soap on my
I purse my lips at him. "No," I mutter, pretending to sulk. "I'll wax next
time." I remember Christian's jos in London '.-.hen he'd diseosercd that during his
one meeting there, I'd shaved off my pubic hair out of curiosity. Of course I
hadn't done it to Mr. kxacling's high standards . .
"Whal i hell h i i Chrisiia i I i! I leu i i in
: to himself. He sits up in bed in our suite at Browns Hotel near Picca-
dilly, switches on th I I i ! I i i i i mouth a startled O.
It must be midnight. I blush the color of the •.heel', in the play room and try to pull
down my satin nightdress so he can't see. He grabs my hand to stop me.
"I— err . . . shaved."
"I can see that. Why?" He's grinning from ear to car.
1 cover my face with my hands. Why am I so embarrassed?
"Hey," he says softly and pulls my hand aw ay . "•Don't hide." He's biting his
lip so that he won't laugh. "Tell me. W hy?" His eyes dance w ith merriment. Why
docs he find this so runny .'
"Stop laughing at me."
"I'm not laughing at you. I'm sorry. I'm . . . delighted." he says.
"Oh . . ."
"Tell me. Why?"
1 take a deep breath. "This morning, al'tet you left for your meeting, I took a
He blinks. The humor in his expression has vanished, and he regards me
cautiously.
"And I was ticking them oil' one by one and how I felt about them, and I re-
brave enough to get a wax." My oiee disappears into a whisper.
He stares at me, his eyes glowing — this time not with mirth at my folly, but
"Oh, Ana," he breatl He I n u id I met i del lv "You beguile
mc," he whispers against my lips and kisses me once more, clasping my face in
both his hands.
After a bicathle i i till k and leans u one elbow. The hu-
"I think I should do a thorough inspection of y our handiw ork, Mrs. (h ey ."
"What? No." He has id he kicUing ' 1 eo er my self, protecting my recently de-
forested area.
"Oh, no you don't, Anastasia." He grasps my hands and pries them away,
moving nimbly so he's between my legs and pinning my hands to my sides. He
gives me a scorching look that could light dry tinder, but before I combust, he
bends and skims his lips down my naked belly directly to my sex. I squirm be-
neath him, reluctantly resigned to my fate.
"Well, what have we here?" Christian plants a kiss where, until this morning,
I had pubic hair — then scrapes his bristly chin across mc.
"Ah!" I exclaim. Wow . . . that's sensitive.
Christian's eye nil) I i I i I think you missed a
bit," he mutters and tugs gcnll . right underneath.
"Oh . . . Damn," I mutter, hoping this will put an end to his frankly inlrush e
scrutiny.
"1 have an idea lie lea| i I heads 1 the bathioom.
What on earth i [e returns i i i irrying a glass of wa-
ter, a mug, my razor, his shaving brush, soap, and a towel. He puts the water,
brash, soap, and razor on the bedside table and gazes down at mc, holding the
towel.
Oh no! My subconscious slams down her ( 'omplele Works of Charles Dick-
ens, leaps up from hci armchair, and puis her hands on her hips.
"No. No. No," I squeak.
"Mrs. Grey, if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well. Lift your hips." His
eyes glow summer storm gray.
■'Christian! You are not shaving me."
He tilts his head to one side. "Why ever not?"
I flush . . . isn't it obvious? "Because . . . It's just too . . ."
"Intimate?" he whispers. "Ana, 1 crave intimacy with you — you know that.
And, I know this put i than you i
1 gape at him. Of all the arrogant . . . true, he does — but still. "It's just
wrong!" My voice is prissy and whiney.
"This isn't wrong — this is hot."
Ilol'.' Really? "This turns you on?" I can't keep the astonishment out of my
He snorts. "Can't you tell?" He glances down at his arousal. "I want to shave
you," he whispers
Oh, what the hell. I lie back, throwing my arm over my face so I don't have
"If it makes you happy, Christian, go ahead. You are so kinky," I mutter, as I
lilt my hips, and he slips [lie low el beneath me. He kisses my inner thigh.
"Oh, baby, how right you are."
I hear the slosh t i i the gla of water,
then the soft swirl of the brush in the mug. He grasps m left ankle and parts m>
legs, and the bed dips as he sits between my legs. "I'd really like to tie you up
right now," he murmurs.
"Good."
I gasp as he runs the lathered brush o er im pubic bone. It's warm. The water
in the glass must be hot. I squirm a little. It tickles ... but in a good way.
"Don't move," Christian admonishes and applies (he brush again. "Or 1 will
tie you down," he adds darkly, and a delicious shiver runs down my spine.
"Have you done this before'.'" I risk tentati cl w hen he reaches for the razor.
"No."
"Oh. Good." I grin.
"Another first, Mrs. Grey."
"Me, too. Here goes." And with a gentleness that surprises me, he runs the
razor over my sensitive flesh. "Keep slill." he says dislraeiedly. and 1 know he's
concentrating hard.
It only takes a matter of minutes before he grabs the towel and w ipes all the
"There — that's more like it," he muses, and I finally lift my arm to look at
"But that was fun," he say „ his ey cs gently mocking.
"For you maybe." 1 try to pout — but he's right ... it was . . . arousing.
"I seem to recall the aftermath was very satisfying." Christian returns to fin-
ishing his sha e. 1 glance quickly clow n at my fingers. Yes. il was. I had no idea
thai the absence of pubic hair could make such a difference.
"Hey, I'm just teasing. Isn't that what husbands who are hopelessly in love
with their wives do?" Christian tips my chin up and gazes at me, his eyes sud-
den!) filled with apprehension as lie endeavors to read my expression
Hmm . . . payback time.
"Sit," I mutter.
He stares, not understanding. 1 push him gently tow ard the lone white stool in
the bathroom. Perplexed, he sits down, and i take the razor from him.
"Ana." he wants as lie realizes my intention, i lean down and kiss him.
"Head back," 1 whisper.
He hesitates.
"Tit for tat, Mr. Grey."
He stares at me with wary, amused disbelief. "You know what you're do-
as serious as possible. He closes his eyes and shakes his head then tilts his head
Holy shit, he's going to let me shave him. My inner goddess flexes and
stretches her arms outward, her lingers interlocked, palms out. limbering up. Tent-
atively I slide my hand into the damp hair at his forehead, gripping tightly to hold
him still, lie clenches his eves closed and parts his lips as he inhales. Very gently,
lather. C hristian exhales.
"Did you think I was going to hurt you?"
"I never know what you're going to do, Ana, but no not intentionally ."
I run the razor up his i 1 _ i In I path in the lather.
"I would never intentionally hurl y ou, Christian."
He opens his ey es and circles ills arms around me as I gently drag the razor
down his check from the bottom of his sideburn.
"1 know," he says, angling his face so 1 can shave the rest of his cheek. Two
more strokes and I've finished
"All done, and not a drop of blood spilled." I grin proudly.
He runs his hand up m leg ,o thai m nightdress rides up my thigh and pulls
me on to his lap so thai I'm astride him. I steady m sell' w i ill my hands on his up-
per arms. He's really very muscular.
"Can I take you somewhere today?"
"No sunbathing?" I arch a caustic brow at him.
He licks his lips nervously. "No. No sunbathing today. I ihoughl you might
prefer something else."
"Well, since you've covered me in hickcys and el'i'ecti el put the kibosh on
that, sure, why not?"
Wisely he chooses to ignore my tone. "It's a drive, but it's worth a visit from
what INc read. 1 dad recommended no isit. It's a hilltop village called Saint
Paul dc Venee. There are some galleries there. 1 ihoughl we could pick out some
paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like."
Holy crap. I lew b 1 a it him Ait . he wants to buy art. How can
I buy art?
"What?" he asks.
"I know nothing about art, Christian."
lie shrugs and smiles al me indulgently "We'll only buy what we like. This
"What?" he says again.
"Look, I know we only got the architect's drawings the other day — but
there's no harm in looking, and the town is an ancient, medieval place."
(>lt. the architeel. He had lo remind me ol'hcr . . . (da Maltco. a friend of El-
liot's who worked on Christian's place in Aspen. During our meetings, she'd been
all over Christian like a rash.
"What now?" Christian exclaims. I shake my head. "Tell me," he urges.
How can I tell him that I don't like Gia? My dislike is irrational. I don't want
to come across as the jealous wife.
"You're not still mad about what 1 did yesterday?" He sighs and nuzzles his
face between my breasts.
"No. I'm hungry." I mutter, know ing full well lhal litis w ill dislraei him from
this line iif questioning.
"Why didn't you say?" He eases me off his lap and stands.
Saint Paul de Vence is a medieval, fortified, hilltop village, one of the most pic-
turesque places I have ever seen. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through the
narrow cobblestone streets with tin hand m the back pocket of his shorts. Taylor
and either Gallon or Philippe I can't tell the difference between them — trail be-
hind us. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a tradi-
tional beret in spite ol I 1 : heat ire pk z boules. It's |nite crowded with tour-
ists, but I feel comfortable tucked under Christian's arm. There is so much to
sec — little alleys and _ tys leading to lyard t! intricate stone foun-
tains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating hide boutiques and shops.
In die lirsl gallon-. Christian gazes distractedly al the erotic photographs ai
front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his aviator specs. They are the work of
Florence D'clle — naked women in various poses.
"Not quite what I had in mind," I mumble disappro ingly. They make me
think of the box of photographs I found in his chisel, our eiosct. I wonder if he
ever did destroy them.
we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me.
I nnc goddess nod t, ii f Mill approval.
The next display is by a female painter who specializes in figurative
art — fruit and vegetables super close up am! in rich, glorious color.
"I like those." I point to three paintings of peppers. "They remind me of you
chopping vegetables in my apartment." I giggle. Christian's mouth twists as he
"I thought I managed that quite competently." lie mutters. "I was just a bit
slow, and anyway" — he pulls me into an embrace — "you were distracting me.
Where would you put them?"
"What?"
Christian is nuzzling my car. "The paintings where would you put them?"
He bites my earlobe and I feel it in my groin.
"Kitchen," I murmur.
I ! u It v i Mi 1 1 .
I squint at the price Fixe thousand euros each. Holy shit!
"The 're really expensive!" I gasp.
"So?" He nuzzles me again. "Get used lo it. Ana." He releases me and
saunters over to the desk where a young woman dressed entirely in white is
gaping at him. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings.
Five thousand euros . . .jeez.
We have finished lunch and are relaxing over coffee at the Hotel Le Saint
Paul. 1 he > iew of the surrounding countryside is stunning. Vineyards and fields
of sunflowers form i patch i i t inl t | i I here and there with
neat little French farmhouses. It's such a clear, beautiful day c can see all the
way to the sea, glinting faintly on the horizon. Christian interrupts my reverie.
"You asked me why I braid your hair," he murmurs. His tone alarms me. He
looks . . . guilty.
"Yes." Oh, shit.
"The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, 1 think. I don't know if
H'luia! His birth mom.
t i xpre i ilc. VIv heart lca| t i it
What do I say when he says things like this?
"I like you playing w ith my hair." My voice is hesitant,
i le regards nie w ilh uncertainly "Do you?"
Christian." His eyes widen and he -lares at me impassively, saying nothing.
resolutely mute, gazing at me with fathomless gray eyes while the silence
stretches between us. He looks lost.
He glances down at my hand on his and he frowns.
"Sa> something." I whisper, because I cannot bear the silence any longer.
" Lei's go." He releases my hand and stand,. Ills expression guarded. Have I
overstepped the mark? 1 have no idea. My heart sinks and 1 don't know whether to
say anything else or just let it go. I decide on the latter and follow him dutifully
out of the restaurant.
In the lovely narrow street, he takes my hand.
"Where do you want to go?"
He speaks! And he's not mad at me — thank heavens. I exhale, relieved, and
shrug. "I am just glad you're slill speaking to me."
"You know I don't like talking about all that shit. It's done. Finished," he
says quietly.
No, Christian, it isn't. The thought saddens me, and for the first lime I won-
der if it will ever be finished. He'll always be Fifty Shades ... my Fifty Shades.
Do I want him to change'.' No. not really only insofat as I want him to feel
loved. Pecking up at him, I take a moment to admire his captivating beauty . . .
and he's mine. And it's not just the allure of his fine, fine face and his body that
has me spellbound. It's what's behind the perfection that draws me, that calls to
me . . . his fragile, damaged soul.
He gives me thai look, down his nose, half amused, half wary, wholly sexy
then tucks me under his arm, and we make our way through the tourists toward
the spot where Philippe Gaston has parked the roomv Mercedes. I slip m; hand
back into die back pocket of < hristian's shorts, grateful that he isn't mad. Bui.
honestly, what four-year-old child doesn't love his mom, no matter how bad a
mom she is? I sigh heavily and hug him closer. I know behind us the security
team lurks, and I wonder idly if they've eaten.
Christian stops i c i nail bo liqu elh fin i ind gazes in the
window, then down at me. He grasps my free hand and runs his thumb across the
faded red line of the handcuff mark, inspecting it.
his pocket. He clasps that hand. loo. turning a gently over to examine my wrist.
The platinum Omega watch he gave me at breakfast on our first morning in Lon-
don obscures the red line. The inscription still makes me swoon.
Anastasia
You are my More
My Love, My Life
Christian
In spite of everything, all Ins Fiflyncss tin husband can he so romantic. I gaze
down at the faint marks on my wrist. Then again, he can be savage sometimes.
Releasing m> left hand, he tills my chin up with ho fingers and scrutinizes my ex-
pression, his eyes troubled.
"They don't hurt," I repeat. He pulls my hand to his lips and plants a soft
apologetic kiss on the inside of my wrist.
"Come," he says and leads me into the shop.
"Here," Christian holds open the platinum bracelet lie's just purchased. It's ex-
quisite, so delicately crafted, the filigree in the shape of small abstract flowers
with small diamonds at their heart. He fastens it around my wrist. It's wide and
cuff-like and hides the red marks. It also cost around thirty thousand euros, I
think, though I couldn't really follow the comcrsalion in French with the sales as-
sistant. 1 ha c !:e cr w orn anything so expensive.
"There, that's better," he murmurs.
"Better?" I whisper, gazing into luminous gray eyes, conscious that the stick-
I i I i i i I h
"I don't need this." I shake my wrist and the cuff moves. It catches the after-
noon light streaming I the bouli mall s| klii rainl
dance off the diamonds all over the walls of the store.
"I do," he says with utter sincerity.
Why? Why does he need this? Does he feel guilty? About what? The marks?
His birth mother? Not confiding in me? Oh, Fifty.
"No, Christian, you don't. You've given me so much already. A magical hon-
eymoon, London, Paris, the Cote D'Azur . . . and you. I'm a very lucky girl," I
"No. Anaslasia, I'm a very lucky man."
"Thank you." Stretching up on tiptoes, I put my arms around his neck and
kiss him . . . not lor gi ing me the bracelet but for being mine.
their heads following and basking in the afternoon sun. One of the twins — I think
it's Gaston — is driving and His lor is beside him up front. Christian is brooding
about something. I clasp his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He glances at
me before releasing tin hand and caressing m> knee. I'm wearing a short, full,
blue and whrte skn 1 md a bin hied, sic eh , liirl Christian hesitates, and I
don't know if his han i i ra el up my thigh im leg. I tense with
anticipation at the gc lei h of his king* , ' m ire th catches What's he
going to do? He eh i ps my ankl pulls my foot on to
his lap. I swivel my backside so I am facing him in the back of the car.
"I want the other one, too."
I glance nervously toward Taylor and Gaston, whose eyes are resolutely on
the road ahead, and place my other foot on his lap. His eyes cool, he reaches over
and presses a button located in his door. In front of us, a lightly tinted privacy
screen slides out of a panel, and ten seconds later we are effectively on our own.
Wow . . no w onder ike back of litis ear lias so much legroom.
"I want to look at your ankles," Christian offers his quiet explanation. His
gaze is anxious. The cuff marks? . la. . . I thought w e'd deall w ith this. If there
are marks, they are hidden by the sandal straps. I don't recall seeing any this
morning. Gently, he strokes his thumb up m; right iiWcp. making me wriggle. A
smile plays on his lips and deftly he undoes one strap, and Ins smile fades as he's
confronted w ilh the darker red marks.
"Doesn't hurt," I murmur. He glances at me and his expression is sad, his
mouth a thin line. He nods once as if he's taking me at my word while 1 shake my
sandal loose so it falls to the floor, but I knov
"Hey. What did you expect?" I ask softly. He glances at me and shrugs.
"I didn't expect to feel like I do looking at these marks," he says.
Oh! Reticent one minute and forthcoming the next? How . . . Fifty! How can
i keep up v. ilh him?
"How do you feel?"
Bleak eyes gaze at me. "Uncomfortable," he murmurs.
Oh, no. I unbuckle my seatbelt and scoot closer to him, leaving my feet in his
lap. I want to crawl into his lap and hold him, and I would, if it were just Taylor in
the front. But knowing Gaston is there cramps my stle despite the glass. If only it
i 1 1 I nit Ins hands.
"It's the hickeys I don't like," I whisper. "Everything else . . . what you
did" — I lower my voice even further — "with the handcuffs. 1 enjoyed that. Well,
more than enjoyed. It was mind-blowing. You can do that to me again anytime."
He shifts in his seal. ""Mind-blow ing?'" I innei goddess looks up startled
from her Jackie Collins.
"Yes." I grin. I lle.s im iocs into hi . hardening crotch and sec rather than hear
his sharp intake of breath, his lips parting.
"You should reali> be wearing your ,cal bell. Mrs. Grey." His voice is low,
and I curl my toes around him once more. He inhales and his eyes darken, and he
clasps my ankle in warning. Does he want me slop'.' < onlinue? He pauses, scowls
then fishes his c ci | m^s I Bl Ben I of his | I in incoming call
while glancing al his watch. 1 lis frown deepens.
"Barney," he snaps.
Crap. Work interrupting us again. 1 try to remove my feet, but he tightens his
fingers around my ankle.
sion system?"
buckle my seat bell, and fiddle ncnousK w ith the lilieen-lhousand-euro bracelet.
Christian presses the button in his door armrest again and the privacy glass slides
"Anyone injured? Damage? 1 sec . . . When?" Christian glances at his watch
again then runs his hand through his hair. "No. Not the fire department or the po-
lice. Not yet anyway."
Taylor shifts so he can hear C hi istian's conversation.
"Has he? Good . . . Okay. I want a del i I da mail re| >rt. And a complete
rundown of everyone who had access over the last five days, including the clean-
ing staff . . . Get hold of Andrea and get her to call me . . . Yeah, sounds like the
argon is just as effect", c. worth its weight in gold."
Damage report'' Irgon'.' h rings a distant bell from chemistry class — an ele-
ment, I think.
"I realize it's early . . . E-mail mc in Iwo hours . . . No. i need to know. Thank
you for calling mc." ( hrislian hangs up. then immediately punches a number into
the BlackBerry.
"Welch . . . Good . . . When?" Christian glances at his watch yd again. "An
hour then . . . yes . . . Twenty-four-seven at the off-site data store . . . good." He
hangs up.
"Philippe, I need to be onboard within the hour."
"Monsieur."
Sim. it's Philippe, no! (iaslon. The ear surges forward.
(. hrislian glances al me. his expression unreadable.
"Anyone hurl'.'" I ask quietly.
(.'hrislian shakes his head. "Yen hide damage " lie reaches over and clasps
my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "Don't worry about this. My team is on it."
And there he is, the CEO, in command, in control and not flustered at all.
"Where was the fire?"
"Grey House?"
"Yes."
I lis responses are clipped, so I know he doesn't » ant to talk about it.
"Why so little damage?"
"The serv er room is filled with a slalc-of-lhe-arl fire suppression system."
Of course it is.
"I'm not worried," I lie.
"We don't know for sure thai it was arson," he says, cutting to the heart of
What next?
Chapter Pour
I'm restless. Christian has been holed up in the onboard study for over an hour. I
have tried reading, watching TV, sunbathing — fully dressed sunbathing bin I
can't relax, and I can't rid myself of this edgy feeling. After changing into shorts
ind a T-shirt. I renn Ihe ludicro i in I nd go to find Taylor.
i 1 II i n III u
"Yes ma'am." He stands.
"I'd like to take the Jet Ski."
His mouth drops open. "Erm." He frowns, lost for words.
"'! don'l v;mi Id bother Christian with litis."
He represses a sigh. "Mrs. Grey ... um ... 1 don't think Mr. Grey would be
er comfortable with that, and I'd like to keen my job."
Oh. for heaven 's sake! I want to roll my eyes at him, but I narrow them in-
stead sighing hea il and expressing. I think, the right amount of frustrated indig-
nation that I am not mistress of my own destiny. Then again, I don't want Christi-
an mad at Taylor — or me, for that matter. Striding confidently past him. I knock
on the study door and enter.
Christian is on his BlackBerry, leaning against the mahogany desk. He
glances up. "Andrea, hold please." he mutters down the phone, his expression ser-
ious. His gaze is politely expectant. Shit. Why do I feel like I've entered the prin-
cipal's office? This t t had mc in ha I 1 refuse to be intimidated
by him, he's my husband damn it. I square my shoulders and give him a broad
"I'm going shopping. I'll lake seeuritx w ith inc."
"Sure, take one of the twins and Taylor, too," he says, and I know that
whatevcr's happening is serious because he doesn't question me further. I stand
staring at him, wondering if I can help.
"Anything else?" he asks. He wants me gone. Crap.
"Can I gel you am thing?" I ask. He smiles his sweet shy smile.
"Okay." I want to kiss him I loll. I can — he's my husband. Strolling purpose-
fully forward, I plant a kiss on Ins lips, surprising him.
"Andrea, I'll call you back," he mutters. He puts the BlackBerry down on the
desk behind him, pulls mc into I t i 1 i it ne passionately. I am
breathless when he releases me. His eyes are dark and needy.
"You're distracting me. I need to sort this, so 1 can get back to my honey-
moon." He runs an index finger down my face and caresses my chin, tilling my
"Okay. I'm sorry."
"Please don't apologize, Mrs. Grey. I love your distractions." He kisses the
corner of my mouth.
"do spend some money ." i le releases me.
"Will do." I smirk at him as I exit his study. My subconscious shakes her
head and purses her lips. You dldn 't tell him you were going on the Jet Ski, she
chastises me in her singsong voice. 1 ignore her . . . Harpy.
Taylor is patiently waiting.
"Thai's all cleared with high command . . . can we go?" I smile, trying to
keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Taylor doesn't hide his admiring smile.
"Mrs. Grey, after you."
Taylor patiently talk-, me through the controls on the .let Ski and how to ride it. He
1 Im. get i n; he 1 i I c tic n the motor
launch, bobbing and weaving on the calm waters of the harbor beside the Fair
Lmly. Gaston looks on. ins expression hidden by Ins shades, and one of the Fair
Lady's crew is at the controls of the motor launch. Jeez — three people with mc,
just because 1 want lo go shopping. It's ridiculous.
Zipping up my life jacket, 1 give Taylor a beaming grin. He holds out his
hand to assist me as I climb onto the Jet Ski.
"Fasten the sti i] il in.. _ Us i iround yoi i t lis Giey. If you fall
oil', the engine « ill cut out automatical!} ." he explains.
"Okay."
"Press the ignition v. lien oti' e drifted about lour feet away from the boat.
"Okay."
He pushes the Jet Ski away from the launch, and it floats gently into the main
harbor. When he gies mc the okay sign. I press the ignition button and the engine
"Okay, Mrs. Grey, easy docs il!" Taylor shouts. I squeeze the accelerator.
The Jet Ski lurches forward then stalls. Crap! How does Christian make it look so
easy? I try again, and once again, I stall. Double crap!
"Just steady on the gas, Mrs. Grey," Taylor calls.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I mutter under my breath. 1 try once more, very gently
squeezing lire lexer, ami the Jei Ski lurches forward bill tills lime it keeps going.
Yes! It goes some more. Ha ha! It still keeps going! I want to shout and squeal in
excitement, but I resist. I cruise gently away from the yacht into the main harbor.
Behind me, I hear the throaty roar of the motor launch. When I squeeze the gas
further, the Jet Ski L ps forward, skating a li uei ith the warm breeze
in my hair and a fine sea spray on either side of me, I feel free. This rocks! No
wonder Christian never lets me drive.
Rather than head for the shore and curtail the fun, I veer around to do a cir-
cuit of the stately Fair Lady. Wow — this is so much fun. I ignore Taylor and the
crew behind me and speed around the yacht for a second time. As I complete the
circuit, I spot Christum on deck. I think he's gaping at me. though it's difficult to
tell. Bravely, I hit otic hand from I i i 1 enlhusi islic tll it him.
tic looks like he's made of stone, but finally lie raises ins hand in the semblance
of a stiff wave. I can't work out his expression, and something tells me I don't
want to, so I head to the marina, speeding across the blue water of the Mediter-
ranean that shimmers in the late afternoon sun.
At the dock, I wait and let Taylor pull up ahead of mc. His expression is
bleak, and my he it 1 i ugl iston gu 1 tused 1 wonder briefly
suspect the problem is probably me. Gaston leaps out of the motorboat and ties it
to the moorings w hile Ta> lor directs me to come alongside. Yen gently I ease the
Jet Ski into position he ide the I a in i I ;y I lit in I expression softens
a little.
"Just switch off the ignition, Mrs. Grey," he says calmly, reaching for the
handlebars and holding out a hand to help me into the motorboat. I nimbly climb
Mis (ne Taylor blinks nen o In n 1 > ce more. "Mr. Grey
is not entirely comfortable with you riding on the Jet Ski." He's practically
squirming with embarrassment, anil I realize lie's had an irate call from Christian.
Oh. my poor, path, what am 1 going to do with
I smile serenely at Taylor. "I sec. Well, Taylor, Mr. Grey is not here, and if
he's not entirely comfortable, I'm sure he'll give me the courtesy of telling me
himself w hen km back on board."
Taylor winces. "Very good, Mrs. Grey," he says quietly, handing me im
As I climb out of the boat, 1 catch a glimpse of his reluctant smile, and it
makes me want to smile, too. I cannot believe how fond I am of Taylor, but I
really don't apprcer il i i Lied liii i ! it 1 01 my husband.
Crap, Christian s mad— in I lit il the moment.
What was I thinking? As I stand on the dock waiting for Taylor to climb up, I feel
my BlackBcrry vibrate in my purse and fish it out. Sade's "Your Love is King" is
my ring tone for Christian — only for Christian.
"Hi," I murmur.
"Hi," he says.
"I'll come back on the boat. Don't be mad."
I hear his small gasp of surprise. "Um . . ."
"It was fun, though," I whisper.
He sighs. "Well, far he il lor me lo curtail your fun. Mrs. CSrcy. Just be care-
ful. Please."
Oh my! Permission to have Jim! "I will. Anything you want from town?"
"I'll do my best to comply, Mr. Grey."
In Ihc ear. I fire up rile e-
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Thank You
Date: August 17, 2011 16:55
To: Christian Grey
For not being too grouchy.
today and our visit to the Louvre come back to me. We were looking at the Venus
de Milo at the time . . . Christian's words echo in my head, "We can all appreciate
the female form. We love to look whether in marble or oils or satin or film. "
It gives me an idea, a daring idea. 1 just need help choosing the right one. and
there's only one person who can help me. I wrestle my BlackBerry out of my
purse and call Jose.
"Who . . . ?" he mumbles sleepily.
"Jose, it's Ana."
" Ana. hi! Where are you? You okay?" He sounds more alert now, concerned.
"I'm in Cannes in the South of France, and I'm line."
"South of France, huh? You in some fancy hotel?"
"Um ... no. We're staying on a boat."
"A boat?"
"I see." His tone chills . . . Shit, I should not have called him. I don't need
this right now.
""Jose. I need our ad ice."
"My advice?" He sounds stunned. "Sure," he says, and this time he's much
more friendly. I tell him my plan.
Two hours later. Taylor helps nie out of the motor launch onto the steps up to the
deck. Gaston is helping the deckhand w illi the let Ski C hristian is nowhere to be
seen, and I scurry down to our cabin to wrap his present, feeling a childish sense
of delight.
"You were gone some time." Christian startles me just as I am applying the
last piece of tape. I turn to find him standing in the doorwa; to the cabin, watch-
ing me intently. Holy shit! Am I still in trouble over the Jet Ski'' Or is it the fire at
his office?
"kverylhing in control at your office?" I ask tentatively.
"More or less," he says, an annoyed frown flitting across his face.
"I did a little shopping I murmui It r lo ligli in, mood, and praying
his annoyance is not directed at me. i le smile-, warmth . and I know we're okay.
"What did you buy?"
'This, 11 1 put my fool up on the bed and show him my ankle chain.
"Very nice," he says. He steps over to me and fondles the tiny bells so that
ihey juiglc sweclh around my ankle, lie frowns again and runs his fingers lightly
along the mark, sending tingles up my leg.
"And this." I hold out the box, hoping to distract him.
"For me?" he asks in surprise. 1 nod shyly. He takes the box and shakes it
gently. He grins his boyish, dazzling smile and sits down beside me on the bed.
Leaning over, he grasps my chin and kisses me.
"Thank you," he says with shy delight.
"You haven't opened it yet."
"I'll love it, whatever it is." He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing. "I don't
get many presents."
"It's hard to buy you things. You have e en thing."
"You do." I grin at him. Oh, you so do, Christian.
He makes short work of the wrapping paper. "A Nikon?" He glances up at
me, puzzled.
"I know you haw sour compact digital camera but this is lor . . . um . . . por-
traits and the like, it comes w ith two lenses."
"Today in the gallery you liked the Florence D'elle photographs. And I re-
member what vol; said in the Loiore. And of course, there vote those oilier pho-
tographs." 1 swallow . try nig m> best not to recall the images I found in his closet.
He stops breathing i yes id i i il Oral i ^ id I continue
hurriedly before I lose my nerve.
"I thought you might, um . . . like to take pictures of . . . mc."
"Pictures. Of you? ,t pes i c norin the I i I is p
I nod despet ite till tzes back down at
the box, his fingers tracing over the illustration of the camera on the front with
fascinated reverence.
Winn is Oh. this is not the eviction I i i tin n n > ai
conscious glares at me like I'm a domesticated farm animal. Christian never reacts
the way I expect. He looks back up, his eyes filled with what, pain?
"Why do you think 1 w ant this?" he asks, bemused.
No, no, no! You said you 'd love it . . .
"Don't you?" I ask, refusing to acknowledge my subconscious who is ques-
[ioning win myonc lie ph i 1 i 1 hristian swallows and
runs a hand through his hair, and he looks so lost, so confused. He takes a deep
"For me, photos like those have usually been an insurance policy, Ana. I
know I've objectified « omen for so lone."' he say » ami pauses awkwardly.
"And you think taking pictures of me is . . inn. objectify ing me?" All the air
leaves my body, aire, the blood drains from my face.
He scrunches up his eyes. "I am so confused." Ire whispers. When he opens
his eyes again, they are wide and wary, full of some raw emotion.
Shit. Is it me? My questions earlier about his birth mom? The fire at his
office?
"Why do you say that?" I whisper, panic rising in my throat. I thought he was
happy. I thought we were happy. I thought I made him happy. I don't want to con-
fuse him. Do I? My mind starts racing. He hasn't seen Flynn in nearly three
weeks. Is that it? Is that the reason he's unraveling? Shit, should I call Flynn? And
in a possibly unique moment of extraordinary depth and clarity, it comes to
me— the fire, Charlie Tango, the Jet Ski . . . He's scared, he's scared for me, and
seeing these marks on my skin must bring that home. He's been fussing about
th i I fusi tin sell e u It cling uncomfortable
about in ! cling p lii 1 In h mgl eh lis me.
he bought me this afternoon used to be. Bingo!
"Christian, these don't matter." I hold up my wrist. reealing the fading well.
"You gave me a safe word. Shit — yesterday was fun. I enjoyed it. Stop brooding
about it — I like rough sex, I've told you that before." 1 blush scarlet as I try to
quash my rising panic.
He gazes at nit intend 1 1 h i i i I hat Ik dunking. Maybe he's
measuring my words. I stumble on.
"Is this about the fire? Do you think it's connected somehow to Charlie
Tango'.' Is this why you're worried'.' Talk to me. Christian— please."
He stares at me I i It lenee i between us igain is
it did this diernooi / / Hi n 1 goin t Ik to me, I know.
"Don't ovcrthink this «. hristian." 1 seold quietly, and the words echo, disturb-
ing a memory from the recent past — his words to me about his stupid contract. I
reach over, take the box from his lap, and open it. He watches me passively as if
I'm a fascinating alien creature. Know ing thai the camera is propped by the overly
helpful salesman in the store, and ready to go, I fish it out of the box and remove
the lens cap. I point ll i t i liiul tin face fills the frame.
1 press the button and keep il prosed, and ten pictures of Christian's alarmed ex-
pression are captured digitalis for posterity.
"I'll objectify you then," I murmur, pressing the shutter again. On the final
still his lips twitch almost impereeplibls I pros-, again, and this lime he smiles . . .
a small smile, but a smile nes erlheless. I hold doss n the butlon once more and see
him physically relax in front of me and pout — a full-on, posed, ridiculous, "Blue
Steel" pout, and it makes me giggle. Oh, thank heavens. Mr. Mercurial is
"'I thought il ssas «n present." lie mutters sulkih . but 1 think he's teasing.
"Well, it was supposed to be fun. but apparently it's a symbol of women's
oppression." I snap a is la i mon pi tun ifh n ind ssatch the amusement
grow on his face in super close-up. Then his eyes darken, and his expression
changes to predatory.
"You want to be oppressed?" he murmurs silkily.
"Not oppressed. No." I murmur back, snapping again.
"I know you can, Mr. Grey. And you do, frequently."
I 1 1 i III i
'"Nothing he s i I rupil lisap] rs from I Ik c under In one swift,
smooth move, he sweeps the camera box onto the cabin floor, grabs me and
pushes me down onto the bed. He sits astride me.
"Hey!" 1 exclaim i i photograp lit nl n dosvn tl me
with dark intent. He grabs the camera by the lens, and the photographer becomes
the subject as he points the N ikon at me and presses the shutter doss n.
"So, you want me to take pictures of you. Mrs. < nes V" he says, amused. All I
can see of his face is his unruly hair and a broad grin on his sculptured mouth.
"Well, for a slarl. 1 ll i 1 i I I i It i I 1 he tickles me ruth-
lessly under my ribs, making me squeal and giggle raid squirm beneath him until I
grasp his wrist in a ain ailcmpl to make him slop. I lis grin idens, and he renews
his efforts while snapping pictures.
"No! Stop!" I scream.
"Are you kidding?" lie grow Is and puis the camera dow n beside us so that he
can torture me w ith both hands.
'Christian!" I splutter and gasp my laughing protest. He has never ever
tickled me before. Fuck—stop! 1 thrash my head from side to side, trying to
wiggle out from under him. giggling and pushing both of hi* hands away, but he's
unrelenting — grinning down at me, enjoying my torment.
"Christian, stop!" I plead and he stops suddenly. Grabbing both of my hands,
he holds them down 01 c ihei id >l ni hea I in .., me I i 11
ing and breathless with laughter. His breathing mirrors mine, and he gazes down
at me with... what? My lungs slop functioning. Wonder'.' Love? Reverence?
Holy cow. That look!
"You. Are. So. Beautiful," he breathes.
I stare up at his dear, dear face baihed in the intensity of his gaze, and it's as
if he's seeing me for the first time. Leaning down, he closes his eyes and kisses
me, enraptured. His response is a wake-up call to my libido . . . seeing him like
this, undone, by me. Oh my. He releases my hands and curls his fingers around
1 ho id inio my hair, holding 11 gently in p nd m 1 < 1 1 ( s 111 d
with my arousal, responding 10 his kiss. And suddenly lite nature of his kiss alters,
needy edge. As desire course-, through m> blood, awakening every muscle and
sinew in its wake, I feel a frisson of alarm.
Oh, Fifty, whafs wrong?
lie inhales sharpb and groans. "Oil. what you do to me," he murmurs, lost
and raw. He moves suddenly . I ing dow n on lop ok me. pressing me into the mat-
tress — one hand cupping my chin, the other skimming over my body, my breast,
my waist, my hip, and around m behind, lie kisses me again, pushing his leg
between mine, raising m knee, and grinding against inc. his erection straining
against our clothes and my -ex. I gasp ami moan against Ins hps. losing myself lo
ins fervent passion. I dismiss Ihe distant alarm bells in the back of my mind,
know ing thai he wants me, that he needs me, and that when it comes to commu-
nicating with me. litis is his favorite form of self-expression. I kiss him with
renewed abandon, running my lingers through his hair, listing my hands, holding
light He tastes so I and sntel < it t my Christian.
Abruptly, he slop,, stands tip. ami pulls me off Ihe bed so that I am standing
in front of him, dazed. He undoes the button on my shorts and kneels quickly,
yanking them and my pontics dow n. ami before 1 can breathe again, I am back on
the bed beneath him and he's unbulloning ins fly. I lolv cow . he's nol hiking off
his clothes or my T-shirt. He holds my head and with no preamble whatsoever he
thrusts himself inside me. making me cry oat more in surprise than anything
eke but 1 can slill hear die hiss of his breath forced through his clenched teeth.
"Yessss," he hisses close lo my car. lie stills, then svcivcls his hips once,
i I a leepcr. mal t t
"I need you," he growls, his voice low and husky. He runs his teeth along my
jaw, nipping and s i I II t I I I
wipe out whatcci i 11 ii an t I it to move move like he's try-
ing to climb inside me. Over and over, frantic, primal, desperate, and before I lose
myself in the insane rhythm and pace he's setting, I briefly wonder once more
what's driving him, worrying him. But my body takes over, obliterating the
thought, climbing and building so I am awash with sensation, meeting him thrust