“Oh, Christian, please.”
“Oh no, baby, not yet.” Pausing, I take a deep breath. She’s laid out before me in satin, her hair spilling over the polished ebony; she’s gorgeous, lit only from the reading light.
“No,” she whimpers. She doesn’t want me to stop.
“This is my revenge, Ana. Argue with me and I am going to take it out on your body somehow.” I kiss her belly, feeling her muscles tighten beneath my lips.
Oh, baby, you are so ready.
My hands travel up her thighs, stroking, kneading, teasing.
With my tongue I circuit her navel while my thumbs reach the junction of her thighs.
“Ah!” she lets out a gargled cry as I push one thumb inside her while the other teases her clitoris, around and around and around.
She arches off the piano.
“Christian!” she cries.
Enough, Grey.
I lift her feet off the keys and push them so she slides effortlessly over the top board. I undo my fly, grab a condom, and let my pants fall to the floor. I climb up and kneel between her legs as I put on the condom. She watches me, her expression intense and filled with longing. I crawl up her body until we are face to face. My love and desire are reflected in her dark, dark eyes.
“I want you so badly,” I whisper, and slowly claim her.
And ease back.
And ease in.
She clutches my biceps and tips her head, her mouth open wide.
She’s so close.
I build up speed and her legs flex beneath me and she lets out a strangled cry as she comes and I let go. Losing myself in the woman I love.
I STROKE HER HAIR as she rests her head on my chest.
“Do you drink tea or coffee in the evening?” Ana asks.
“What a strange question.”
“I thought I could bring you tea in your study, and then I realized I didn’t know what you would like.”
“Oh, I see. Water or wine in the evening, Ana. Though maybe I should try tea.” I move my hand from her hair to her back, stroking, touching, caressing her.
“We really know very little about each other,” she whispers.
“I know.” She doesn’t know me. And when she does…
She leans up, frowning. “What is it?”
I wish I could tell you. But if I do, you’ll leave.
I cup her beautiful, sweet face. “I love you, Ana Steele.”
“I love you, too, Christian Grey. Nothing you tell me will drive me away.”
We’ll see, Ana. We’ll see.
I move her to my side, sit up and vault off the piano, and lift her down.
“Bed,” I whisper.
Grandpa Trev-yan and I are picking apples.
See these red apples on this green apple tree.
I nod.
We put these here. You and me. Remember?
We fooled this old apple tree.
It thought it would make bitter green apples.
But it makes these sweet red apples.
Remember.
I nod.
He holds the apple to his nose and sniffs.
Smell it.
It smells of good. It smells of full.
He rubs the apple against his shirt and gives it to me.
Taste it. I take a bite.
It is crunchy and yummy and apple pie.
I smile. My tummy is happy.
These apples are called fu-gee.
Here, you want to try the green one?
I don’t know.
Grandpa takes a bite and his shoulders shake.
He makes a yuk face. That’s nasty.
He offers it to me. He smiles. I smile and take a bite.
A shiver goes from my head to my toes.
NASTY.
I make a yuk face, too. He laughs. I laugh.
We pick the red apples and put them in the bucket.
We fooled the tree.
It’s not nasty. It’s sweet.
Not nasty. Sweet.
The smell is evocative. My grandfather’s orchard. I open my eyes and I’m wrapped around Ana like swaddling. Her fingers are in my hair and she’s smiling shyly at me.
“Good morning, beautiful,” I murmur.
“Good morning, beautiful, yourself.”
My body has another greeting in mind. I give her a swift kiss before disentangling my legs from hers. Balanced on one elbow, I look down at her. “Sleep okay?”
“Yes, despite the interruption to my sleep last night.”
“Hmm. You can interrupt me like that anytime.” I kiss her again.
“How about you? Did you sleep well?”
“I always sleep well with you, Anastasia.”
“No more nightmares?”
“No.”
Only dreams. Pleasant dreams.
“What are your nightmares about?”
Her question catches me off-guard, and suddenly I’m thinking of my four-year-old self—helpless, lost, lonely, hurting, and filled with rage. “They’re flashbacks of my early childhood, or so Dr. Flynn says. Some vivid, some less so.”
I was a neglected, abused child.
My mother didn’t love me.
She didn’t protect me.
She killed herself and abandoned me.
The crack whore dead on the floor.
The burn.
Not the burn.
No. Don’t go there, Grey.
“Do you wake up crying and screaming?” Ana’s question brings me back, and I’m running my finger along her collarbone, keeping contact with her. My dreamcatcher.
“No, Anastasia. I’ve never cried. As far as I can remember.”
Even that evil fucking bastard couldn’t make me cry.
“Do you have any happy memories of your childhood?”
“I recall the crack whore baking. I remember the smell. A birthday cake, I think. For me.”