"My limits for what?"
"Pleasure."
"Oh, I think I'd like that." My inner goddess drops into a dead faint.
"Well, maybe when we get home," he whispers, leaving that promise hanging between us.
I nuzzle him once more. I love him so.
It's been two days since our picnic. Two days since the promise of well, maybe when we get home was made. Christian is still treating me like I'm made of glass. He still won't let me go to work, so I have been working from home. I put the stack of query letters I've been reading aside on my desk and sigh. Christian and I haven't been back in the playroom since I safe worded. And he's said he misses it. Well, so do I . . . especially now that he wants to explore my limits. I flush, thinking what that could possibly entail. I glance at the billiard table . . . Yes I can't wait to explore those.
My thoughts are interrupted by soft, lyrical music that fills the apartment. Christian is playing the piano; not one of his usual laments but a sweet melody, a hopeful melody - one that I recognize, but have never heard him play.
I tiptoe to the archway of the great room and watch Christian at the piano. It's dusk. The sky is an opulent pink, and the light is reflected off his burnished copper hair. He looks his beautiful breathtaking self, concentrating as he plays, unaware of my presence. He's been so forthcoming over the last few days, so attentive - offering small insights into his day, his thoughts, his plans. It's as if he's breached a dam and started talking.
I know he'll come to check on me in a few minutes, and it gives me an idea. Excited, I steal away, hoping that he still hasn't noticed me, and race to our room, stripping off my clothes as I go, until I'm wearing nothing but pale blue lace panties. I find a pale blue camisole and slip into it quickly. It will hide my bruise. Diving into the closet, I pull out Christian's faded jeans - his playroom jeans, my favorite jeans - from the drawer. From my bedside table I pick up my BlackBerry, fold the jeans neatly, and kneel by the bedroom door. The door is ajar, and I can hear the strains of another piece, one I don't know. But it's another hopeful tune; it's lovely. Quickly I type an email.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: My Husband's Pleasure
Date: September 21, 2011 20:45
To: Christian Grey
Sir
I await your instructions.
Yours always
Mrs. G x
I press send.
A few moments later the music stops abruptly. My heart lurches and starts pounding. I wait and wait and eventually my BlackBerry buzzes.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: My Husband's Pleasure <---love this title baby Date: September 21, 2011 20:48
To: Anastasia Grey
Mrs. G
I'm intrigued. I'l come find you.
Be ready.
Christian Grey
Anticipative CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Be ready! My heart starts to pound and I begin to count. Thirtyseven seconds later the door opens. I'm looking down at his bare feet as they pause on the threshold. Hmm. He says nothing. For ages he says nothing. Oh shit. I resist the urge to look up at him and keep my eyes downcast.
Finally, he reaches down and picks up his jeans. He stays silent but heads into the walk-in closet while I remain stock-still. Oh my . . . this is it. My heart is thundering, and I relish the rush of adrenaline that spikes through my body. I squirm as my excitement builds. What will he do to me? A few moments later he's back, wearing the jeans.
"So you want to play?" he murmurs.
"Yes."
He says nothing, and I risk a quick glance . . . up his jeans, his denim clad thighs, the soft bulge at his fly, the open button at the waist, his happy trail, his navel, his chiseled abdomen, his chest hair, his gray eyes blazing, and his head cocked to one side. He's arching an eyebrow. Oh shit.
"Yes what?" he whispers.
Oh.
"Yes, Sir."
His eyes soften. "Good girl," he murmurs, and he caresses my head.
"I think we'd better get you upstairs now," he adds. My insides liquefy, and my belly clenches in that delicious way.
He takes my hand and I follow him through the apartment and up the stairs. Outside the playroom door, he halts and bends and kisses me gently before grasping my hair hard.
"You know, you're topping from the bottom," he murmurs against my lips.
"What?" I don't understand what he's talking about.
"Don't worry. I'll live with it," he whispers, amused, and he runs his nose along my jaw and gently bites my ear. "Once inside, kneel, like I've shown you."
"Yes . . . Sir."
He gazes down at me, eyes shining with love, wonder, and wicked thoughts.
Jeez . . . Life is never going to be boring with Christian, and I'm in this for the long haul. I love this man: my husband, my lover, father of my child, my sometimes Dominant . . . my Fifty Shades.
Epilogue
The Big House, May 2014
I lie on our tartan picnic blanket and gaze up at the clear, blue, summer sky, my view framed by meadow flowers and tall green grasses. The heat of the afternoon summer sun warms my skin, my bones and my belly, and I relax, my body turning to Jell-O. This is comfortable. Hell no . . . this is wonderful. I savor the moment, a moment of peace, a moment of pure and utter contentment. I should feel guilty for feeling this joy, this completeness, but I don't. Life right here right now is good, and I've learned to appreciate it and live in the moment like my husband. I smile and squirm as my mind drifts to the delicious memory of last night at our home in Escala . . .
The strands of the flogger skim across my swollen belly at an aching, languorous pace.
"Have you had enough yet, Ana?" Christian whispers in my ear.
"Oh, please." I beg, pulling on the restraints above my head as I stand blindfolded and tethered to the grid in the playroom. The flogger's sweet sting bites into my behind.