Monday, November 26, 2012

Fifty Shades Freed CHAPTER 1


CHAPTER 1

I stare up through gaps in the sea grass parasol at the bluest of skies, summer blue,
Mediterranean blue with a contented sigh. Christian is beside me, stretched out on
a sun lounger. My husband—my hot, beautiful husband, shirtless, and in cut-off
jeans—is reading a book predicting the collapse of the Western banking system.
By all accounts, it’s a page-turner. I haven’t seen him sit this still, ever. He looks
more like a student than the hotshot CEO of one the top privately owned companies
in the United States.
On the final leg of our honeymoon, we laze in the afternoon sun on the beach
of the aptly named Beach Plaza Monte Carlo in Monaco, although we’re not
actually staying in this hotel. I open my eyes and gaze out at the Fair Lady
anchored in the harbor. We are staying, of course, on board a luxury motor yacht.
Built in 1928, she floats majestically on the water, queen of the all the yachts in
the harbor. She looks like a child’s wind-up toy. Christian loves her—I suspect
he’s tempted to buy her. Honestly, boys and their toys.
Sitting back, I listen to the Christian Grey mix on my new iPod and doze in
the late afternoon sun, idly remembering his proposal. Oh his dreamy proposal in
the boathouse . . . I can almost smell the scent of the meadow flowers . . .
“Can we marry tomorrow?” Christian murmurs softly in my ear. I am sprawled on
his chest in the flowery bower in the boathouse, sated from our passionate
lovemaking.
“Hmm.”
“Is that a yes?” I hear his hopeful surprise.
“Hmm.”
“A no?”
“Hmm.”
I sense his grin. “Miss Steele, are you incoherent?”
I grin. “Hmm.”
He laughs and hugs me tightly, kissing the top of my head. “Vegas, tomorrow,
it is then.”
Sleepily I raise my head. “I don’t think my parents would be very happy with
that.”
He thrums his fingertips up and down my naked back, caressing me gently.
“What do you want, Anastasia? Vegas? A big wedding with all the trimmings?
Tell me.”
“Not big . . . Just friends and family.” I gaze up at him moved by the quiet
entreaty in his glowing gray eyes. What does he want?
“Okay.” He nods. “Where?”
I shrug.
“Could we do it here?” he asks tentatively.
“Your folks’ place? Would they mind?”
He snorts. “My mother would be in seventh heaven.”
“Okay, here. I’m sure my mom and dad would prefer that.”
He strokes my hair. Could I be any happier?
“So, we’ve established where, now the when.”
“Surely you should ask your mother.”
“Hmm.” Christian’s smile dips. “She can have a month, that’s it. I want you
too much to wait any longer.”
“Christian, you have me. You’ve had me for a while. But okay—a month it
is.” I kiss his chest, a soft chaste kiss, and smile up at him.
“You’ll burn.” Christian whispers in my ear, startling me from my doze.
“Only for you.” I give him my sweetest smile. The late afternoon sun has
shifted, and I am under its full glare. He smirks and in one swift move pulls my
sun lounger into the shade of the parasol.
“Out of the Mediterranean sun, Mrs. Grey.”
“Thank you for your altruism, Mr. Grey.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Grey, and I’m not being altruistic at all. If you burn, I
won’t be able to touch you.” He raises an eyebrow, his eyes shining with mirth,
and my heart expands. “But I suspect you know that and you’re laughing at me.”
“Would I?” I gasp, feigning innocence.
“Yes you would and you do. Often. It’s one of the many things I love about
you.” He leans down and kisses me, playfully biting my lower lip.
“I was hoping you’d rub me down with more sunscreen.” I pout against his
lips.
“Mrs. Grey, it’s a dirty job . . . but that’s an offer I can’t refuse. Sit up,” he
orders, his voice husky. I do as I’m told, and with slow meticulous strokes from
strong and supple fingers, he coats me in sunscreen.
“You really are very lovely. I’m a lucky man,” he murmurs as his fingers
skim over my breasts, spreading the lotion.
“Yes, you are, Mr. Grey.” I gaze coyly up at him through my lashes.
“Modesty becomes you, Mrs. Grey. Turn over. I want to do your back.”
Smiling, I roll over, and he undoes the back strap of my hideously expensive
bikini.
“How would you feel if I went topless, like the other women on the beach?” I
ask.
“Displeased,” he says without hesitation. “I’m not very happy about you
wearing so little right now.” He leans down and whispers in my ear. “Don’t push
your luck.”
“Is that a challenge, Mr. Grey?”
“No. It’s a statement of fact, Mrs. Grey.”
I sigh and shake my head. Oh, Christian . . . my possessive, jealous, control
freak Christian.
When he’s finished, he slaps my behind.
“You’ll do, wench.”
His ever-present, ever-active BlackBerry buzzes. I frown and he smirks.
“My eyes only, Mrs. Grey.” He raises his eyebrow in playful warning, slaps
my backside once more, and sits back down on his lounger to take the call.
My inner goddess purrs. Maybe tonight we could do some kind of floor show
for his eyes only. She smirks knowingly, arching a brow. I grin at the thought and
drift back into my afternoon siesta.
“Mam’selle? Un Perrier pour moi, un Coca-Cola light pour ma femme, s’il vous
plait. Et quelque chose a manger . . . laissez-moi voir la carte.”
Hmm . . . Christian speaking fluent French wakes me. My eyelashes flutter in
the glare of the sun, and I find Christian watching me while a liveried young woman
walks away, her tray held aloft, her high blond ponytail swinging
provocatively.
“Thirsty?” he asks.
“Yes,” I mutter sleepily.
“I could watch you all day. Tired?”
I flush. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Me neither.” He grins, puts down his BlackBerry, and stands. His shorts fall
a little and hang . . . in that way so his swim trunks are visible beneath. Christian
takes his shorts off, stepping out of his flip-flops. I lose my train of thought.
“Come for a swim with me.” He holds out his hand while I look up at him,
dazed. “Swim?” he says again, cocking his head to one side, an amused expression
on his face. When I don’t respond, he shakes his head slowly.
“I think you need a wake-up call.” Suddenly he pounces and lifts me into his
arms while I shriek, more from surprise than alarm.
“Christian! Put me down!” I squeal.
He chuckles. “Only in the sea, baby.”
Several sunbathers on the beach watch with that bemused disinterest so typical,
I now realize, of the French as Christian carries me to the sea, laughing, and
wades in.
I clasp my arms around his neck. “You wouldn’t.” I say breathlessly, trying
to stifle my giggling.
He grins. “Oh, Ana, baby, have you learned nothing in the short time we’ve
known each other?” He kisses me, and I seize my opportunity, running my fingers
through his hair, grasping two handfuls and kissing him back while invading his
mouth with my tongue. He inhales sharply and leans back, eyes smoky but wary.
“I know your game,” he whispers and slowly sinks into the cool, clear water,
taking me with him as his lips find mine once more. The chill of the Mediterranean
is soon forgotten as I wrap myself around my husband.
“I thought you wanted to swim,” I murmur against his mouth.
“You’re very distracting.” Christian grazes his teeth along my lower lip. “But
I’m not sure I want the good people of Monte Carlo to see my wife in the throes
of passion.”
I run my teeth along his jaw, his stubble tickly against my tongue, not caring
a dime for the good people of Monte Carlo.
“Ana,” he groans. He wraps my ponytail around his wrist and tugs gently,
tilting my head back, exposing my throat. He trails kisses from my ear down my
neck.
“Shall I take you in the sea?” he breathes.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Christian pulls away and gazes down at me, his eyes warm, wanting, and
amused. “Mrs. Grey, you’re insatiable and so brazen. What sort of monster have I
created?”
“A monster fit for you. Would you have me any other way?”
“I’ll take you any way I can get you, you know that. But not right now. Not
with an audience.” He jerks his head toward the shore.
What?
Sure enough, several sunbathers on the beach have abandoned their indifference
and now regard us with interest. Suddenly, Christian grabs me around my
waist and launches me into the air, letting me fall into the water and sink beneath
the waves to the soft sand below. I surface, coughing, spluttering and giggling.
“Christian!” I scold, glaring at him. I thought we were going to make love in
the sea . . . and chalk up yet another first. He bites his lower lip to stifle his
amusement. I splash him, and he splashes me right back.
“We have all night,” he says, grinning like a fool. “Laters, baby.” He dives
beneath the sea and surfaces three feet away from me, then in a fluid, graceful
crawl, swims away from the shore, away from me.
Gah! Playful, tantalizing Fifty! I shield my eyes from the sun as I watch him
go. He’s such a tease . . . what can I do to get him back? While I swim back to the
shore, I contemplate my options. At the sun loungers our drinks have arrived, and
I take a quick sip of Coke. Christian is a faint speck in the distance.
Hmm . . . I lie down on my front and, fumbling with the straps, take my bikini
top off and toss it casually onto Christian’s sun lounger. There . . . see how brazen
I can be, Mr. Grey. Put this in your pipe and smoke it. I shut my eyes and let the
sun warm my skin . . . warm my bones, and I drift away under its heat, my
thoughts turning to my wedding day.
“You may kiss the bride,” Reverend Walsh announces.
I beam at my husband.
“Finally, you’re mine,” he whispers and pulls me into his arms and kisses me
chastely on the lips.
I am married. I am Mrs. Christian Grey. I am giddy with joy.
“You look beautiful, Ana,” he murmurs and smiles, his eyes glowing with
love . . . and something darker, something hot. “Don’t let anyone take that dress
off but me, understand?” His smile heats a hundred degrees as his fingertips trail
down my cheek, igniting my blood.
Holy crap . . . How does he do this, even here with all these people staring at
us?
I nod mutely. Jeez, I hope no one can hear us. Luckily Reverend Walsh has
discreetly stepped back. I glance at the throng gathered in their wedding finery . . .
My mom, Ray, Bob, and the Greys are all applauding—even Kate, my maid of
honor, who looks stunning in pale pink as she stands beside Christian’s best man,
his brother Elliot. Who knew that even Elliot could scrub up so well? All wear
huge, beaming smiles—except Grace, who weeps graciously into a dainty white
handkerchief.
“Ready to party, Mrs. Grey?” Christian murmurs, giving me his shy smile. I
melt. He looks divine in a simple black tux with silver waistcoat and tie. He’s
so . . . dashing.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I grin, a totally goofy smile on my face.
Later the wedding party is in full swing . . . Carrick and Grace have gone to
town. They have the marquee set up again and beautifully decorated in pale pink,
silver, and ivory with its sides open, facing the bay. We have been blessed with
fine weather, and the late afternoon sun shines over the water. There’s a dance
floor at one end of the marquee, a lavish buffet at the other.
Ray and my mother are dancing and laughing with each other. I feel bittersweet
watching them together. I hope Christian and I last longer. I don’t know
what I’d do if he left me. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. The saying haunts me.
Kate is beside me, looking so beautiful in her long silk gown. She glances at
me and frowns. “Hey, this is supposed to be the happiest day of your life,” she
scolds.
“It is,” I whisper.
“Oh, Ana, what’s wrong? Are you watching your mom and Ray?”
I nod sadly.
“They’re happy.”
“Happier apart.”
“You’re having doubts?” Kate asks, alarmed.
“No, not at all. It’s just . . . I love him so much.” I freeze, unable or unwilling
to articulate my fears.
“Ana, it’s obvious he adores you. I know you had an unconventional start to
your relationship, but I can see how happy you’ve both been over the past
month.” She grasps my hands, squeezing them. “Besides, it’s too late now,” she
adds with a grin.
I giggle. Trust Kate to point out the obvious. She pulls me into a Katherine
Kavanagh Special Hug. “Ana, you’ll be fine. And if he hurts one hair on your
head, he’ll have me to answer to.” Releasing me, she grins at whoever is behind
me.
“Hi, baby.” Christian puts his arms around me, surprising me, and kisses my
temple. “Kate,” he acknowledges. He’s still cool toward her even after six weeks.
“Hello again, Christian. I’m off to find your best man, who happens to be my
best man, too.” With a smile to us both, she heads over to Elliot, who is drinking
with her brother Ethan and our friend José.
“Time to go,” Christian murmurs.
“Already? This is the first party I’ve been to where I don’t mind being the
center of attention.” I turn in his arms to face him.
“You deserve to be. You look stunning, Anastasia.”
“So do you.”
He smiles, his expression heating. “This beautiful dress becomes you.”
“This old thing?” I blush shyly and pull on the fine lace trim of the simple,
fitted wedding dress designed for me by Kate’s mother. I love that the lace is just
off the shoulder—demure, yet alluring, I hope.
He bends and kisses me. “Let’s go. I don’t want to share you with all these
people anymore.”
“Can we leave our own wedding?”
“Baby, it’s our party, and we can do whatever we want. We’ve cut the cake.
And right now, I’d like to whisk you away and have you all to myself.”
I giggle. “You have me for a lifetime, Mr. Grey.”
“I’m very glad to hear that, Mrs. Grey.”
“Oh, there you two are! Such lovebirds.”
I groan inwardly . . . Grace’s mother has found us.
“Christian, darling—one more dance with your grandma?”
Christian purses his lips. “Of course, Grandmother.”
“And you, beautiful Anastasia, go and make an old man happy—dance with
Theo.”
“Theo, Mrs. Trevelyan?”
“Grandpa Trevelyan. And I think you can call me Grandma. Now, you two
seriously need to get working on my great-grandkids. I won’t last too much
longer.” She gives us both a simpering smile.
Christian blinks at her in horror. “Come, Grandmother,” he says, hurriedly
taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor. He glances back at me, practically
pouting, and rolls his eyes. “Laters, baby.”
As I walk toward Grandpa Trevelyan, José accosts me.
“I won’t ask you for another dance. I think I monopolized too much of your
time on the dance floor as it is . . . I’m happy to see you happy, but I’m serious,
Ana. I’ll be here . . . If you need me.”
“José, thank you. You’re a good friend.”
“I mean it.” His dark eyes shine with sincerity.
“I know you do. Thank you, José. Now if you’ll please excuse me—I have a
date with an old man.”
He furrows his brow in confusion.
“Christian’s grandfather,” I clarify.
He grins. “Good luck with that, Annie. Good luck with everything.”
“Thanks, José.”
After my dance with Christian’s ever-charming grandfather, I stand by the
French doors, watching the sun sink slowly over Seattle, casting bright orange and
aquamarine shadows across the bay.
“Let’s go,” Christian urges.
“I have to change.” I grasp his hand, meaning to pull him through the French
windows and upstairs with me. He frowns, not understanding, and tugs gently on
my hand, halting me.
“I thought you wanted to be the one to take this dress off,” I explain. His eyes
light up.
“Correct.” He gives me a lascivious grin. “But I’m not undressing you here.
We wouldn’t leave until . . . I don’t know . . .” He waves his long-fingered hand,
leaving his sentence unfinished but his meaning quite clear.
I flush and let go of his hand.
“And don’t take your hair down either,” he murmurs darkly.
“But—”
“No buts, Anastasia. You look beautiful. And I want to be the one to undress
you.”
Oh. I frown.
“Pack your going-away clothes,” he orders. “You’ll need them. Taylor has
your main suitcase.”
“Okay.” What has he got planned? He hasn’t told me where we’re going. In
fact, I don’t think anyone knows where we’re going. Neither Mia nor Kate has
managed to inveigle the information out of him. I turn to where my mother and
Kate are hovering nearby.
“I’m not changing.”
“What?” my mother says.
“Christian doesn’t want me to.” I shrug as if this should explain everything.
Her brow furrows briefly.
“You didn’t promise to obey,” she reminds me tactfully. Kate tries to disguise
her snort as a cough. I narrow my eyes at her. Neither she nor my mother
have any idea of the fight Christian and I had about that. I don’t want to rehash
that argument. Jeez, can my Fifty Shades sulk . . . and have nightmares. The
memory is sobering.
“I know, Mom, but he likes this dress, and I want to please him.”
Her expression softens. Kate rolls her eyes and tactfully moves away to leave
us alone.
“You look so lovely, darling.” Carla gently tugs at a loose tendril of my hair
and strokes my chin. “I am so proud of you, honey. You’re going to make Christian
a very happy man.” She pulls me into a hug.
Oh, Mom!
“I can’t believe how grown-up you look right now. Beginning a new life . . .
Just remember that men are from a different planet, and you’ll be fine.”
I giggle. Christian is from a different universe, if only she knew.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Ray joins us, smiling sweetly at both Mom and me.
“You made a beautiful baby girl, Carla,” he says, his eyes glowing with
pride. He looks so dapper in his black tux and pale pink waistcoat. Tears prick the
back of my eyes. Oh no . . . so far I have managed not to cry.
“And you watched her and helped her grow up, Ray,” Carla’s voice is
wistful.
“And I loved every single minute. You make one hell of a bride, Annie.” Ray
tucks the same loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Oh, Dad . . .” I stifle a sob, and he hugs me in his brief, awkward way.
“You’ll make one hell of a wife, too,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.
When he releases me, Christian is back at my side.
Ray shakes his hand warmly. “Look after my girl, Christian.”
“I fully intend to, Ray. Carla.” He nods at my stepdad and kisses my mom.
The rest of the wedding guests have formed a long human arch for us to
travel through, leading round to the front of the house.
“Ready?” Christian says.
“Yes.”
Taking my hand, he leads me under their outstretched arms while our guests
shout good luck and congratulations and shower us with rice. Waiting with smiles
and hugs at the end of the arch are Grace and Carrick. In turn they hug and kiss us
both. Grace is emotional again as we bid them hasty good-byes.
Taylor is waiting to whisk us away in the Audi SUV. As Christian holds the
car door open for me, I turn and toss my bouquet of white and pink roses into the
crowd of young women that has gathered. Mia triumphantly holds it aloft, grinning
from ear to ear.
As I slide into the SUV laughing at Mia’s audacious catch, Christian bends to
gather the hem of my dress. Once I’m safely in, he bids the waiting crowd a
farewell.
Taylor holds the car door open for him. “Congratulations, sir.”
“Thank you, Taylor,” Christian replies as he seats himself beside me.
As Taylor pulls away, our wedding guests shower the vehicle with rice.
Christian grasps my hand and kisses my knuckles.
“So far so good, Mrs. Grey?”
“So far so wonderful, Mr. Grey. Where are we going?”
“Sea-Tac,” he says simply and smiles a sphinxlike smile.
Hmm . . . what is he planning?
Taylor does not head for the departure terminal as I expect but through a security
gate and directly on to the tarmac. What? And then I see her—Christian’s
jet . . . Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. in large blue lettering across her fuselage.
“Don’t tell me you’re misusing company property again!”
“Oh, I hope so, Anastasia.” Christian grins.
Taylor halts at the foot of the steps leading up to the plane and leaps out of
the Audi to open Christian’s door. They have a brief discussion, then Christian
opens my door—and rather than stepping back to give me room to climb out, he
leans in and lifts me.
Whoa! “What are you doing?” I squeak.
“Carrying you over the threshold,” he says.
“Oh.” Isn’t that supposed to be at home?
He carries me effortlessly up the steps, and Taylor follows with my small
suitcase. He leaves it on the threshold of the plane before returning to the Audi.
Inside the cabin, I recognize Stephan, Christian’s pilot, in his uniform.
“Welcome aboard, sir, Mrs. Grey.” He grins.
Christian puts me down and shakes Stephan’s hand. Beside Stephan stands a
dark-haired woman in her what? Early thirties? She’s also in uniform.
“Congratulations to you both,” Stephan continues.
“Thank you, Stephan. Anastasia, you know Stephan. He’s our captain today,
and this is First Officer Beighley.”
She blushes as Christian introduces her and blinks rapidly. I want to roll my
eyes. Another female completely captivated by my too-handsome-for-his-owngood
husband.
“Delighted to meet you,” gushes Beighley. I smile kindly at her. After
all—he is mine.
“All preparations complete?” Christian asks them both as I glance around the
cabin. The interior is all pale maple wood and pale cream leather. It’s lovely.
Another young woman in uniform stands at the other end of the cabin—a very
pretty brunette.
“We have the all clear. Weather is good from here to Boston.”
Boston?
“Turbulence?”
“Not before Boston. There’s a weather front over Shannon that might give us
a rough ride.”
Shannon? Ireland?
“I see. Well, I hope to sleep through it all,” says Christian matter-of-factly.
Sleep?
“We’ll get underway, sir,” Stephan says. “We’ll leave you in the capable care
of Natalia, your flight attendant.” Christian glances in her direction and frowns,
but turns to Stephan with a smile.
“Excellent,” he says. Taking my hand, he leads me to one of the sumptuous
leather seats. There must be about twelve of them in total.
“Sit,” he says as he removes his jacket and undoes his fine sliver brocade
vest. We sit in two single seats facing each other with a small, highly polished
table between us.
“Welcome aboard, sir, ma’am, and congratulations.” Natalia is at our side,
offering us both a glass of pink champagne.
“Thank you,” Christian says, and she smiles politely at us and retreats to the
galley.
“Here’s to a happy married life, Anastasia.” Christian raises his glass to mine,
and we chink. The champagne is delicious.
“Bollinger?” I ask.
“The same.”
“The first time I drank this it was out of teacups.” I grin.
“I remember that day well. Your graduation.”
“Where are we going?” I’m unable to contain my curiosity any longer.
“Shannon,” Christian says, his eyes alight with excitement. He looks like a
small boy.
“In Ireland?” We’re going to Ireland!
“To refuel,” he adds, teasing.
“Then?” I prompt.
His grin broadens and he shakes his head.
“Christian!”
“London,” he says, gazing intently at me, trying to gauge my reaction.
I gasp. Holy cow. I thought maybe we’d be going to New York or Aspen or
maybe the Caribbean. I can hardly believe it. My lifetime ambition has been to
visit England. I’m lit up from within, incandescent with happiness.
“Then Paris.”
What?
“Then the South of France.”
Whoa!
“I know you’ve always dreamed of going to Europe,” he says softly. “I want
to make your dreams come true, Anastasia.”
“You are my dreams come true, Christian.”
“Back at you, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers.
Oh my . . .
“Buckle up.”
I grin and do as I’m told.
As the plane taxis out on to the runway, we sip our champagne, grinning inanely
at each other. I can’t believe it. At twenty-two years old, I’m finally leaving
the United States and going to Europe—to London of all places.
Once we’re airborne, Natalia serves us yet more champagne and prepares our
wedding feast. And what a feast it is—smoked salmon, followed by roast partridge
with a green bean salad and dauphinoise potatoes, all cooked and served by
the ever-efficient Natalia.
“Dessert, Mr. Grey?” she asks.
He shakes his head and runs his finger across his bottom lip as he looks questioningly
at me, his expression dark and unreadable.
“No, thank you,” I murmur, unable to break eye contact with him. His lips
curl up in a small, secret smile and Natalia retreats.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I’d rather planned on having you for dessert.”
Oh . . . here?
“Come,” he says, rising from the table and offering me his hand. He leads me
to the back of the cabin.
“There’s a bathroom here.” He points to a small door then leads me on down
a short corridor and through a door at the end.
Jeez . . . a bedroom. The cabin is cream and maple wood and the small
double bed is covered in gold and taupe cushions. It looks very comfortable.
Christian turns and pulls me into his arms, gazing down at me.
“I thought we’d spend our wedding night at thirty-five-thousand feet. It’s
something I’ve never done before.”
Holy cow . . . another first. I gape at him, my heart pounding . . . the mile
high club. I’ve heard about this.
“But first I have to get you out of this fabulous dress.” His eyes glow with
love and something darker, something I love . . . something that calls to my inner
goddess. He takes my breath away.
“Turn around.” His voice is low, authoritative, and sexy as hell. How can he
infuse so much promise into those two words? Willingly I comply and his hands
move to my hair. Gently he pulls out each hairpin one at a time, his expert fingers
making short work of the task. My hair falls in swathes over my shoulders, one
lock at a time, covering my back and down to my breasts. I try to stand still and
not squirm, but I’m aching for his touch. After our long, tiring but exciting day, I
want him—all of him.
“You have such beautiful hair, Ana.” His mouth is close to my ear and I feel
his breath, though his lips don’t touch me. When my hair is free of pins, he runs
his fingers through it, gently massaging my scalp . . . oh my . . . I close my eyes
and savor the sensation. His fingers travel on down, and he tugs, tilting my head
back to expose my throat.
“You’re mine,” he breathes and his teeth tug my ear lobe.
I groan.
“Hush now,” he admonishes. He sweeps my hair over my shoulder and trails
a finger across the top of my back from shoulder to shoulder following the lace
edge of my dress. I shiver in anticipation. He plants a tender kiss on my back
above the first button on my dress.
“So beautiful,” he says as he deftly undoes the first button. “You have made
me the happiest man alive today.” With infinite slowness, he unfastens each one,
all the way down my back. “I love you so much.” Trailing kisses from the nape of
my neck to the edge of my shoulder. Between each kiss he murmurs, “I. Want.
You. So. Much. I. Want. To. Be. Inside. You. You. Are. Mine.”
Each word is intoxicating. I close my eyes and tilt my head, giving him easier
access to my neck, and I fall further under the spell that is Christian Grey, my
husband.
“Mine,” he whispers once more. He peels my dress down my arms so that it
pools at my feet in a cloud of ivory silk and lace.
“Turn around,” he whispers, his voice suddenly hoarse. I do so and he gasps.
I’m dressed in a tight, blush-pink satin corset with garter straps, matching
lacy briefs, and white silk stockings. Christian’s eyes travel greedily down my
body, but he says nothing. He just gazes at me, his eyes wide with want.
“You like?” I whisper aware of the shy blush creeping across my cheeks.
“More than like, baby. You look sensational. Here.” He holds out his hand
and taking it, I step out of my dress.
“Keep still,” he murmurs and without taking his darkening eyes off mine, he
runs his middle finger over my breasts, following the line of my corset. My breath
shallows, and he repeats the journey over my breasts once more, his tantalizing
finger sending tingles down my spine. He stops and twirls his index finger in the
air, indicating that he wants me to turn around.
For him, right now, I’d do anything.
“Stop,” he says. I’m facing the bed, away from him. His arm encircles my
waist, pulling me against him, and he nuzzles my neck. Gently he cups my
breasts, toying with them, while his thumbs circle over my nipples so that they
strain against the fabric of my corset.
“Mine,” he whispers.
“Yours,” I breathe.
Leaving my breasts bereft he runs his hands down my stomach, over my
belly, and down to my thighs, his thumbs skimming my sex. I stifle a moan. His
fingers skate down each garter, and with his usual dexterity, he simultaneously
unhooks each one from my stockings. His hands travel around to my behind.
“Mine,” he breathes as his hands spread across my backside, the tips of his
fingers brushing my sex.
“Ah.”
“Hush.” His hands travel down the backs of my thighs, and once more he unclips
my garters.
Leaning down, he pulls back the cover on the bed. “Sit down.”
I do as I’m told in his thrall, and he kneels at my feet and gently tugs off each
of my white bridal Jimmy Choos. He grasps the top of my left stocking and
slowly peels it off, running his thumbs down my leg . . . Oh my. He repeats the
process with my other stocking.
“This is like unwrapping my Christmas presents.” He smiles up at me
through his long dark lashes.
“A present you’ve had already . . .”
He frowns in admonishment. “Oh no, baby. This time it’s really mine.”
“Christian, I’ve been yours since I said yes.” I scoot forward, cupping his beloved
face in my hands. “I’m yours. I will always be yours, husband of mine.
Now, I think you’re wearing too many clothes.” I bend to kiss him, and suddenly
he leans up, kisses my lips, and grasps my head with his hands, his fingers threading
into my hair.
“Ana,” he breathes. “My Ana.” His lips claim mine once more, his tongue invasively
persuasive.
“Clothes,” I whisper, our breath mingling as I push back his vest and he
struggles out of it, releasing me for a moment. He pauses, gazing at me, eyes
wide, eyes wanting.
“Let me, please.” My voice is soft and cajoling. I want to undress my husband,
my Fifty.
He sits back on his heels, and leaning forward I grasp his tie—his sliver-gray
tie, my favorite tie—and slowly undo it and pull it free. He raises his chin to let
me tackle the top button of his white shirt; then once it’s undone, I move on to his
cuffs. He’s wearing platinum cufflinks—engraved with an entwined A and
C—my wedding present to him. When I’ve removed them, he takes the cufflinks
from me and fists them in his hand. Then he kisses his fist and shoves them into
his pants pocket.
“Mr. Grey, so romantic.”
“For you Mrs. Grey—hearts and flowers. Always.”
I take his hand, and glancing up through my lashes, I kiss his plain platinum
wedding ring. He groans and closes his eyes.
“Ana,” he whispers and my name is a prayer.
Reaching up to his second shirt button and mirroring him from earlier, I plant
a soft kiss on his chest as I undo each of them and whisper between each kiss,
“You. Make. Me. So. Happy. I. Love. You.”
He groans, and in one swift move, he clasps me around the waist and lifts me
on to the bed, following me down on to it. His lips find mine, his hands curling
around my head, holding me, stilling me as our tongues glory in each other.
Abruptly Christian kneels up, leaving me breathless and wanting more.
“You are so beautiful . . . wife.” He runs his hands down my legs then grasps
my left foot. “You have such lovely legs. I want to kiss every inch of them. Starting
here.” He presses his lips against my big toe and then grazes the pad with his
teeth. Everything south of my waistline convulses. His tongue glides up my instep
and his teeth skim my heel and up to my ankle. He trails kisses up the inside of
my calf; soft wet kisses. I wriggle beneath him.
“Still, Mrs. Grey,” he warns, and suddenly he flips me on to my stomach and
continues his leisurely journey with his mouth up the back of my legs, to my
thighs, my behind, and then he stops. I groan.
“Please . . .”
“I want you naked,” he murmurs and slowly unhooks my corset, one hook at
a time. When it’s flat on the bed beneath me, he runs his tongue up the length of
my spine.
“Christian, please.”
“What do you want, Mrs. Grey.” His words are soft and close to my ear. He’s
almost lying on top of me . . . I can feel him hard against my behind.
“You.”
“And I you, my love, my life . . . ,” he whispers, and before I know it, he’s
flipped me on to my back. He stands swiftly and in one efficient move dispenses
with his pants and boxer briefs so that he’s gloriously naked and looming large
and ready over me. The small cabin is eclipsed by his dazzling beauty and his
want and need of me. He leans down and peels off my panties then gazes down at
me.
“Mine,” he mouths.
“Please,” I beg and he grins . . . a salacious, wicked, tempting, all-Fifty grin.
He crawls back onto the bed and trails kisses up my right leg this time . . . until
he reaches the apex of my thighs. He pushes my legs wider apart.
“Ah . . . wife of mine,” he murmurs and then his mouth is on me. I close my
eyes and surrender to his oh-so-adroit tongue. My hands fist in his hair as my hips
swing and sway, slave to his rhythm, then buck off the small bed. He grabs my
hips to still me . . . but doesn’t stop the delicious torture. I’m close, so close.
“Christian.” I moan.
“Not yet,” he breathes and he moves up my body, his tongue dipping into my
navel.
“No!” Damn! I sense his smile against my belly as his journey continues
north.
“So impatient, Mrs. Grey. We have until we touch down on the Emerald
Isle.” Reverentially he kisses my breasts and tugs my left nipple between his lips.
Gazing up at me, his eyes are dark like a tropical storm as he teases me.
Oh my . . . I’d forgotten. Europe.
“Husband, I want you. Please.”
He looms up over me, his body covering mine, resting his weight on his elbows.
He runs his nose down mine, and I run my hands down his strong, supple
back to his fine, fine backside.
“Mrs. Grey . . . wife. We aim to please.” His lips brush. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Eyes open. I want to see you.”
“Christian . . . ah . . . ,” I cry, as he slowly sinks into me.
“Ana, oh Ana,” he breathes and he starts to move.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Christian shouts, waking me
from my very pleasant dream. He’s standing all wet and beautiful at the end of my
sun lounger and glaring down at me.
What have I done? Oh no . . . I’m lying on my back . . . Crap, crap, crap and
he’s mad. Shit. He’s really mad.

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