Monday, November 26, 2012

Fifty Shades Freed CHAPTER 2


CHAPTER 2

I am suddenly very awake, my erotic dream forgotten.
“I was on my front. I must have turned over in my sleep.” I whisper weakly
in my defense.
His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his
sun lounger and tosses it at me.
“Put this on!” he hisses.
“Christian, no one is looking.”
“Trust me. They’re looking. I’m sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying
the show!” he snarls.
Holy shit! Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp my breasts in panic,
hiding them. Ever since Charlie Tango’s sabotaged demise, we are constantly
shadowed by damned security.
“Yes,” Christian snarls. “And some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot
of you, too. Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked this
time?”
Shit! The paparazzi! Fuck! As I hurriedly scramble into my top, all thumbs,
the color drains from my face. I shudder. The unpleasant memory of being besieged
by the paparazzi outside SIP after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome
to mind—all part of the Christian Grey package.
“L’addition!” Christian snaps at the passing waitress. “We’re going,” he says
to me.
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
Oh shit, he’s not to be argued with.
He pulls on his shorts, even though his trunks are dripping wet, then his gray
T-shirt. The waitress is back in a moment with his credit card and the check.
Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops.
Once the waitress has left, Christian snatches up his book and BlackBerry and
masks his fury behind mirrored aviator glasses. He’s bristling with tension and anger.
My heart sinks. Every other woman on the beach is topless—it’s not that big
of a crime. In fact I look odd with my top on. I sigh inwardly, my spirits sinking. I
thought Christian would see the funny side . . . sort of . . . maybe if I’d stayed on
my front, but his sense of humor has evaporated.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” I whisper, taking his book and BlackBerry from
him and placing them in my backpack.
“Too late for that,” he says quietly—too quietly. “Come.” Taking my hand,
he signals up to Taylor and his two sidekicks, the French security officers Philippe
and Gaston. Weirdly, they are identical twins. They have been patiently
watching us and everyone else on the beach from the verandah. Why do I keep
forgetting about them? How? Taylor is stony-faced behind his dark glasses. Shit,
he’s mad at me, too. I’m still not used to seeing him so casually dressed in shorts
and a black polo shirt.
Christian leads me into the hotel, through the lobby, and out onto the street.
He remains silent, brooding and bad-tempered, and it’s all my fault. Taylor and
his team shadow us.
“Where are we going?” I ask tentatively, gazing up at him.
“Back to the boat.” He doesn’t look at me.
I have no idea of the time. I think it must be about five or six in the afternoon.
When we reach the marina, Christian leads me onto the dock where the motorboat
and Jet Ski belonging to the Fair Lady are moored. As Christian unties the Jet Ski,
I hand my backpack to Taylor. I glance nervously up at him, but like Christian,
his expression gives nothing away. I flush, thinking about what he’s seen on the
beach.
“Here you go, Mrs. Grey.” Taylor passes me a life vest from the motorboat,
and I dutifully put it on. Why am I the only one who has to wear a life jacket?
Christian and Taylor exchange some kind of look. Jeez, is he angry with Taylor,
too? Christian then checks the straps on my life jacket, cinching the middle one
tightly.
“You’ll do,” he mutters sullenly, still not turning to look at me. Shit.
He climbs gracefully on to the Jet Ski and holds out his hand for me to join
him. Grasping it tightly, I manage to throw my leg over the seat behind him
without falling into the water while Taylor and the twins clamber into the motorboat.
Christian kicks the Jet Ski away from the dock, and it floats gently into the
marina.
“Hold on,” he orders, and I put my arms around him. This is my favorite part
of traveling by Jet Ski. I hug him closely, my nose nuzzling into his back, marveling
that there was a time when he would not have tolerated me touching him
this way. He smells good . . . of Christian and the sea. Forgive me, Christian,
please?
He stiffens. “Steady,” he says, his tone softer. I kiss his back and rest my
cheek against him, looking back toward the dock where a few holidaymakers have
gathered to watch the show.
Christian turns the key and the motor roars to life. With one twist of the accelerator,
the Jet Ski bucks forward and speeds across the cool dark water,
through the marina and out to the center of the harbor toward the Fair Lady. I
hold him tighter. I love this—it’s so exciting. Every muscle in Christian’s lean
frame is evident as I cling to him.
Taylor pulls alongside in the motorboat. Christian glances at him then accelerates
again, and we shoot forward, whipping over the top of the water like an expertly
tossed pebble. Taylor shakes his head in resigned exasperation and heads
straight to the yacht, while Christian shoots past the Fair Lady and heads out toward
the open water.
The sea spray is splashing us, the warm wind buffeting my face and flaying
my ponytail crazily around me. This is so much fun. Maybe the thrill of this ride
will dispel Christian’s bad mood. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s enjoying
himself—carefree, acting his age for a change.
He steers in a huge semicircle and I study the shoreline—the boats in the
marina, the mosaic of yellow, white and sand-colored offices and apartments, and
the craggy mountains behind. It looks so disorganized—not the regimented blocks
that I am used to—but so picturesque. Christian glances over his shoulder at me,
and there’s the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
“Again?” he shouts over the noise of the engine.
I nod enthusiastically. His answering grin is dazzling, and he opens the
throttle and speeds around the Fair Lady and on out to sea once more . . . and I
think I’m forgiven.
“You’ve caught the sun,” Christian says mildly as he undoes my life vest. I
anxiously try to assess his mood. We are on deck aboard the yacht, and one of the
stewards is standing quietly nearby, waiting for my life vest. Christian passes it to
him.
“Will that be all, sir?” the young man asks. I love his French accent. Christian
glances at me, takes off his shades, and slips them into the collar of his T-shirt,
letting them hang.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks me.
“Do I need one?”
He cocks his head to one side. “Why would you say that?” His voice is soft.
“You know why.”
He frowns as if weighing something in his mind.
Oh, what is he thinking?
32/551
“Two gin and tonics, please. And some nuts and olives,” he says to the steward,
who nods and quickly vanishes.
“You think I’m going to punish you?” Christian’s voice is silky.
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I’ll think of something. Maybe when you’ve had your drink.” And it’s a sensual
threat. I swallow, and my inner goddess squints from her sun lounger where
she’s trying to catch rays with a silver reflector fanned out at her neck.
Christian’s frowns once more.
“You want to be?”
How does he know? “Depends,” I mutter, flushing.
“On what?” He hides his smile.
“If you want to hurt me or not.”
His mouth presses into a hard line, humor forgotten. He leans forward and
kisses my forehead.
“Anastasia, you’re my wife, not my sub. I don’t ever want to hurt you. You
should know that by now. Just . . . just don’t take your clothes off in public. I
don’t want you naked all over the tabloids. You don’t want that, and I’m sure your
mom and Ray don’t want that either.”
Oh! Ray. Holy shit, he’d have a coronary. What was I thinking? I mentally
castigate myself.
The steward appears with our drinks and snacks and places them on the teak
table.
“Sit,” Christian commands. I do as he says and settle into a director’s chair.
Christian takes a seat beside me and passes me a gin and tonic.
“Cheers, Mrs. Grey.”
“Cheers, Mr. Grey.” I take a welcome sip. It’s thirst-quenching, cold, and delicious.
When I gaze at him, he’s watching me carefully, his mood unreadable. It’s
very frustrating . . . I don’t know if he’s still mad at me. I deploy my patented distraction
technique.
“Who owns this boat?” I ask.
“A British knight. Sir Somebody-or-Other. His great-grandfather started a
grocery store. His daughter’s married to one of the Crown Princes of Europe.”
Oh. “Super-rich?”
Christian looks suddenly wary. “Yes.”
“Like you,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
Oh.
“And like you,” Christian whispers and pops an olive into his mouth. I blink
rapidly . . . a vision of him in his tux and silver waistcoat comes to mind . . . his
eyes burning with sincerity as he gazes down at me during our wedding
ceremony.
“All that is mine is now yours,” he says, his voice ringing out clearly reciting
his vows from memory.
All mine? Holy cow. “It’s odd. Going from nothing to”—I wave my hand to
indicate our opulent surroundings—“to everything.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
Taylor appears on deck. “Sir, you have a call.” Christian frowns but takes the
proffered BlackBerry.
“Grey,” he snaps and rises from his seat to stand at the bow of the yacht.
I gaze out at the sea, tuning out his conversation with Ros—I think—his
number two. I am rich . . . stinking rich. I have done nothing to earn this
money . . . just married a rich man. I shudder as my mind drifts back to our conversation
about prenups. It was the Sunday after his birthday, and we were seated
at the kitchen table enjoying a leisurely breakfast . . . all of us. Elliot, Kate, Grace,
and I were debating the merits of bacon versus sausage, while Carrick and Christian
read the Sunday paper . . .
“Look at this,” squeals Mia as she sets her netbook on the kitchen table in front of
us. “There’s a gossipy item on the Seattle Nooz website about you being engaged,
Christian.”
“Already?” Grace says in surprise. Then her mouth purses as some obviously
unpleasant thought crosses her mind. Christian frowns.
Mia reads the column out loud. “Word has reached us here at The Nooz that
Seattle’s most eligible bachelor, the Christian Grey, has finally been snapped up
and wedding bells are in the air. But who is the lucky, lucky lady? The Nooz is on
the hunt. Bet she’s reading one helluva prenup.”
Mia giggles then stops abruptly as Christian glares at her. Silence descends,
and the atmosphere in the Grey kitchen plunges to below zero.
Oh no! A prenup? The thought has never crossed my mind. I swallow, feeling
all the blood drain from my face. Please ground, swallow me up now! Christian
shifts uncomfortably in his chair as I glance apprehensively at him.
“No,” he mouths at me.
“Christian,” Carrick says gently.
“I’m not discussing this again,” he snaps at Carrick who glances at me
nervously and opens his mouth to say something.
“No prenup!” Christian almost shouts at him and broodingly goes back to
reading his paper, ignoring everyone else at the table. They look alternately at me
then him . . . then anywhere but at the two of us.
“Christian,” I murmur. “I’ll sign anything you and Mr. Grey want.” Jeez, it
wouldn’t be the first time he’s made me sign something. Christian looks up and
glares at me.
“No!” he snaps. I blanch once more.
“It’s to protect you.”
“Christian, Ana—I think you should discuss this in private,” Grace admonishes
us. She glares at Carrick and Mia. Oh dear, looks like they’re in trouble, too.
“Ana, this is not about you,” Carrick murmurs reassuringly. “And please call
me Carrick.”
Christian narrows cold eyes at his father and my heart sinks. Hell . . . He’s
really mad.
Everyone erupts into animated conversation, and Mia and Kate leap up to
clear the table.
“I definitely prefer sausage,” exclaims Elliot.
I stare down at my knotted fingers. Crap. I hope Mr. and Mrs. Grey don’t
think I’m some kind of gold digger. Christian reaches over and grasps both my
hands gently in one of his.
“Stop it.”
How does he know what I’m thinking?
“Ignore my dad,” Christian says so only I can hear him. “He’s really pissed
about Elena. That stuff was all aimed at me. I wish my mom had kept her mouth
shut.”
I know Christian is still smarting from his “talk” with Carrick about Elena
last night.
“He has a point, Christian. You’re very wealthy, and I’m bringing nothing to
our marriage but my student loans.”
Christian gazes at me, his eyes bleak. “Anastasia, if you leave me, you might
as well take everything. You left me once before. I know how that feels.”
Holy Fuck! “That was different,” I whisper, moved by his intensity. “But . . .
you might want to leave me.” The thought makes me sick.
He snorts and shakes his head with mock disgust.
“Christian, you know I might do something exceptionally stupid—and
you . . .” I glance down at my knotted hands, pain lancing through me, and I’m
unable to finish my sentence. Losing Christian . . . fuck.
“Stop. Stop now. This subject is closed, Ana. We’re not discussing it any
more. No prenup. Not now—not ever.” He gives me a pointed give-it-up-now
look, which silences me. Then he turns to Grace. “Mom,” he says. “Can we have
the wedding here?”
And he’s not mentioned it again. In fact at every opportunity he’s tried to reassure
me about his wealth . . . that’s it mine, too. I shudder as I recall the crazy shopping
fest Christian demanded I go on with Caroline Acton—the personal shopper from
Niemans—in preparation for this honeymoon. My bikini alone cost five hundred
and forty dollars. I mean, it’s nice, but really—that’s a ridiculous amount of
money for four triangular scraps of material.
“You will get used to it,” Christian interrupts my reverie as he resumes his
place at the table.
“Used to it?”
“The money,” he says, rolling his eyes.
Oh, Fifty, maybe with time. I push the small dish of salted almonds and
cashews toward him.
“Your nuts, sir,” I say with as straight a face as I can manage, trying to bring
some humor to our conversation after my dark thoughts and my bikini top faux
pas.
He smirks. “I’m nuts about you.” He takes an almond, his eyes sparkling with
wicked humor as he enjoys my little joke. He licks his lips. “Drink up. We’re going
to bed.”
What?
“Drink,” he mouths at me, his eyes darkening.
Oh my, the look he gives me could be solely responsible for global warming.
I pick up my gin and drain the glass, not taking my eyes off him. His mouth drops
open, and I glimpse the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He smiles lewdly at
me. In one fluid move, he stands and bends over me, resting his hands on the arms
of my chair.
“I’m going to make an example of you. Come. Don’t pee,” he whispers in my
ear.
I gasp. Don’t pee? How rude. My subconscious looks up from her
book—The Complete works of Charles Dickens, Vol. 1—with alarm.
“It’s not what you think.” Christian smirks, holding his hand out to me.
“Trust me.” He looks so sexy and genial. How can I resist?
“Okay.” I place my hand in his, because quite simply, I’d trust him with my
life. What has he got planned? My heart starts pounding in anticipation.
He leads me across the deck and through the doors into the plush, beautifully
appointed main salon, along a narrow corridor, through the dining room, and
down the stairs to the main master cabin.
The cabin has been cleaned since this morning and the bed made. It’s a lovely
room. With two portholes on both the starboard and port sides, it’s elegantly decorated
in dark walnut furniture with cream walls and soft furnishings in gold and
red.
Christian releases my hand, pulls his T-shirt over his head, and tosses it onto
a chair. He steps out of his flip-flops and removes his shorts and trunks in one
graceful move. Oh my. Will I ever tire of looking at him naked? He is utterly gorgeous
and all mine. His skin glows—he’s caught the sun, too, and his hair is
longer, flopping over his forehead. I am one lucky, lucky girl.
He grasps my chin, pulling slightly so that I stop biting my lip and runs his
thumb along my lower lip.
“That’s better.” He turns and strides over to the impressive armoire that
houses his clothes. He produces two pairs of metal handcuffs and an airline eye
mask from the bottom drawer.
Handcuffs! We’ve never used handcuffs. I glance quickly and nervously at
the bed. Where the hell is he going to attach those? He turns and gazes steadily at
me, his eyes dark and luminous.
“These can be quite painful. They can bite into the skin if you pull too hard.”
He holds up one pair. “But I really want to use them on you now.”
Holy fuck. My mouth goes dry.
“Here.” He stalks gracefully forward and hands me a set. “Do you want to try
them first?”
They feel solid, the metal cold. Vaguely, I hope I never have to wear a pair of
these for real.
Christian is watching me intently.
“Where are the keys?” My voice wavering.
He holds out his palm, revealing a small metallic key. “This does both sets. In
fact, all sets.”
How many sets does he have? I don’t remember seeing any in the museum
chest.
He strokes my cheek with his index finger, trailing it down to my mouth. He
leans in as if to kiss me.
“Do you want to play?” he says, his voice low, and everything in my body
heads south as desire unfurls deep in my belly.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He smiles. “Good.” He plants a featherlight kiss on my forehead. “We’re going
to need a safe word.”
What?
“Stop won’t be enough because you will probably say that, but you won’t
mean it.” He runs his nose down mine—the only contact between us.
My heart starts pounding. Shit . . . How can he do this with just words?
“This is not going to hurt. It will be intense. Very intense, because I am not
going to let you move. Okay?”
Oh my. This sounds so hot. My breathing is too loud. Fuck, I am panting
already. My inner goddess has her sequins on and is warming up to dance the
rumba. Thank heavens I’m married to this man, otherwise this would be embarrassing.
My eyes flick down to his arousal.
“Okay.” My voice is barely audible.
“Choose a word, Ana.”
Oh . . .
“A safe word,” he says softly.
“Popsicle.” I say, panting.
“Popsicle?” he says, amused.
“Yes.”
He grins as he leans back to gaze down at me. “Interesting choice. Lift up
your arms.”
I do, and Christian grasps the hem of my sundress, lifts it over my head, and
tosses it on the floor. He holds out his hand, and I give him back the handcuffs.
He places both sets on the bedside table along with the blindfold and yanks the
quilt off the bed, letting it fall to the floor.
“Turn round.”
I turn, and he undoes my bikini top so that it falls to the floor.
“Tomorrow, I will staple this to you,” he mutters and tugs on my hair tie,
freeing my hair. He gathers it into one hand and yanks gently so I step back
against him. Against his chest. Against his erection. I gasp as he pulls my head to
one side and kisses my neck.
“You were very disobedient,” he murmurs in my ear, sending delicious
shivers through me.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Hmm. What are we going to do about that?”
“Learn to live with it,” I breathe. His soft languid kisses are driving me wild.
He grins against my neck.
“Ah, Mrs. Grey. You are ever the optimist.”
He straightens. Taking my hair, he carefully parts it into three strands, braids
it slowly, and then fastens my hair tie to the end. He tugs my braid gently and
leans down to my ear. “I am going to teach you a lesson,” he murmurs.
Moving suddenly, he grabs me by the waist, sits down on the bed, and yanks
me across his knee so that I feel his erection pressed against my belly. He smacks
my backside once, hard. I yelp, then I’m on my back on the bed, and he’s gazing
down at me, his eyes molten gray. I’m going to combust.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” He trails his fingertips up my thigh so
that I tingle . . . everywhere. Without taking his eyes off me, he gets up from the
bed and gathers both sets of handcuffs. He grasps my left leg and snaps one cuff
around my ankle.
Oh!
Lifting my right leg, he repeats the process so I have a pair of handcuffs attached
to each ankle. I still have no idea where he’s going to attach them.
“Sit up,” he orders and I comply immediately.
“Now hug your knees.”
I blink at him then draw my legs up so they are bent in front of me and wrap
my arms around them. He reaches down, lifts my chin, and plants a soft wet kiss
on my lips before slipping the blindfold over my eyes. I can see nothing, all I can
hear is my rapid breathing and the sound of the water lapping against the sides of
the yacht as she bobs gently on the sea.
Oh my. I am so aroused . . . already.
“What’s the safe word, Anastasia?”
“Popsicle.”
“Good.” Taking my left hand, he snaps a cuff around my wrist then repeats
the process with my right. My left hand is tied to my left ankle, my right hand to
the right leg. I cannot straighten my legs. Holy fuck.
“Now,” Christian breathes, “I’m going to fuck you till you scream.”
What? And all the air leaves my body.
He grasps both of my heels and tips me back so that I fall backward on to the
bed. I have no choice but to keep my legs bent. The cuffs tighten as I pull against
them. He’s right . . . they cut into me almost to the point of pain . . . This feels
weird—being trussed up and helpless—on a boat. He pulls my ankles apart, and I
groan.
He kisses my inner thigh, and I want to squirm beneath him, but I can’t. I
have no purchase to move my hips. My feet are suspended. I cannot move. Holy
shit.
“You’re going to have to absorb all the pleasure, Anastasia. No moving,” he
murmurs as he crawls up my body, kissing me along the edge of my bikini bottoms.
He pulls the strings on each side, and the scraps of material fall away. I am
now naked and at his mercy. He kisses my belly, nipping my navel with his teeth.
“Ah,” I sigh. This is going to be tough . . . I had no idea. He traces soft kisses
and little bites up to my breasts.
“Shhh . . . ,” he soothes. “You are so beautiful, Ana.”
I groan, frustrated. Normally I’d be grinding my hips, responding to his touch
with a rhythm of my own, but I cannot move. I moan, pulling on my restraints.
The metal bites into my skin.
“Argh!” I cry. But I really don’t care.
“You drive me crazy,” he whispers. “So I am going to drive you crazy.” He’s
resting on me now, his weight on his elbows, and he turns his attention to my
breasts. Biting, sucking, rolling my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, driving
me wild. He doesn’t stop. It’s maddening. Oh. Please. His erection pushes
against me.
“Christian,” I beg and feel his triumphant smile against my skin.
“Shall I make you come this way?” He murmurs against my nipple, causing it
to harden some more. “You know I can.” He suckles me hard and I cry out, pleasure
lancing from my chest directly to my groin. I pull helplessly on the cuffs,
swamped by the sensation.
“Yes,” I whimper.
“Oh, baby, that would be too easy.”
“Oh . . . please.”
“Shh.” His teeth scrape my chin as he trails his lips to my mouth, and I gasp.
He kisses me. His skilled tongue invades my mouth, tasting, exploring,
dominating, but my tongue meets his challenge, writhing against his. He tastes of
cool gin and Christian Grey, and he smells of the sea. He grasps my chin, holding
my head in place.
“Still, baby. I want you still,” he whispers against my mouth.
“I want to see you.”
“Oh no, Ana. You’ll feel more this way.” And agonizingly slowly he flexes
his hips and pushes partway into me. I would normally tilt my pelvis up to meet
him but I can’t move. He withdraws.
“Ah! Christian, please!”
“Again?” he teases, his voice hoarse.
“Christian!”
He pushes fractionally into me again then withdraws while kissing me, his
fingers tugging at my nipple. It’s pleasure overload.
“No!”
“Do you want me, Anastasia?”
“Yes,” I beg.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, his breathing harsh, and he teases me once
more—in . . . and out.
“I want you,” I whimper. “Please.”
I hear his soft sigh against my ear.
“And have me you will, Anastasia.”
He rears up and slams into me. I scream, tilting my head back, pulling on the
restraints as he hits my sweet spot, and I am all sensation, everywhere—a sweet,
sweet agony, and I cannot move. He stills then circles his hips, and the motion radiates
deep inside me.
“Why do you defy me, Ana?”
“Christian, stop . . .”
He circles deep inside me again, ignoring my plea, easing out slowly and then
slamming into me again.
“Tell me. Why?” he hisses, and I’m vaguely aware that it’s through gritted
teeth.
I cry out in an incoherent wail . . . this is too much.
“Tell me.”
“Christian . . .”
“Ana, I need to know.”
He slams into me again, thrusting so deep, and I’m building . . . the feeling is
so intense—it swamps me, spiraling out from deep within my belly, to each limb,
to each biting metal restraint.
“I don’t know!” I cry out. “Because I can! Because I love you! Please,
Christian.”
He groans loudly and thrusts deep, again and again, over and over, and I am
lost, trying to absorb the pleasure. It’s mind-blowing . . . body blowing . . . I long
to straighten my legs, to control my imminent orgasm, but I can’t . . . I’m helpless.
I’m his, just his, to do with as he wills . . . Tears spring to my eyes. This is
too intense. I can’t stop him. I don’t want to stop him . . . I want . . . I want . . . oh
no, oh no . . . this is too . . .
“That’s it,” Christian growls. “Feel it, baby!”
I detonate around him, again and again, round and round, screaming loudly as
my orgasm rips me apart, scorching through me like a wildfire, consuming
everything. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face—my body left
pulsing and shaking.
And I’m aware that Christian kneels, still inside me, pulling me upright onto
his lap. He clutches my head with one hand and my back with another, and he
comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with aftershocks.
It’s draining, it’s exhausting, it’s hell . . . it’s heaven. It’s hedonism gone wild.
Christian tears off the blindfold and kisses me. He kisses my eyes, my nose,
my cheeks. He kisses away the tears, clutching my face in between his hands.
“I love you, Mrs. Grey,” he breathes. “Even though you make me so mad—I
feel so alive with you.” I don’t have the energy to open either my eyes or my
mouth to respond. Very gently, he lays me back on the bed and eases out of me.
I mouth some wordless protest. He climbs off the bed and undoes the handcuffs.
When I’m free, he gently rubs my wrists and ankles, then lies down beside
me again, pulling me into his arms. I stretch out my legs. Oh my, that feels good. I
feel good. That was, without doubt, the most intense climax I have ever endured.
Hmm . . . a Christian Grey Fifty Shades punishment fuck.
I really must misbehave more often.
A pressing need from my bladder wakes me. When I open my eyes, I’m disorientated.
It’s dark outside. Where am I? London? Paris? Oh—the boat. I feel her pitch
and roll, and hear the quiet hum of the engines. We’re on the move. How odd.
Christian is beside me, working on his laptop, casually dressed in a white linen
shirt and chino trousers, his feet bare. His hair is still wet, and I can smell his
body wash fresh from the shower and his Christian smell . . . Hmm.
“Hi,” he murmurs, gazing down at me, his eyes warm.
“Hi.” I smile, feeling suddenly shy. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Just an hour or so.”
“We’re moving?”
“I figured since we ate out last night and went to the ballet and the Casino
that we’d dine on board tonight. A quiet night à deux.”
I grin at him. “Where are we going?”
“Cannes.”
“Okay.” I stretch, feeling stiff. No amount of training with Claude could have
prepared me for this afternoon.
I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it
on. Why am I so shy? I feel Christian’s eyes on me. When I glance at him, he returns
to his laptop, his brow furrowed.
As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at
the Casino, my robe falls open. I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked.
Holy fuck! What has he done to me?

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