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五十度灰英文版 - Part II 3
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  laugh!
  laugh!
  “Yes.” I struggle to maintain my look of moral outrage.
  “An arse?” Christian says again. This time his lips
  twitch with a repressed smile.
  “Don’t make me laugh when I am mad at you!” I
  shout.
  And he smiles, a dazzling, full-toothed, all-Americanboy
  smile, and I can’t help it. I am grinning and laughing,
  too. How could I not be affected by the joy I see in his
  smile?
  “Just because I have a stupid damn grin on my face
  doesn’t mean I’m not mad as hell at you,” I mutter
  breathlessly, trying to suppress my high-schoolcheerleader
  giggling. Though I was never cheerleader—
  the bitter thought crosses my mind.
  He leans in, and I think he’s going to kiss me but he
  doesn’t. He nuzzles my hair and inhales deeply.
  “As ever, Miss Steele, you are unexpected.” He leans
  back and gazes at me, his eyes dancing with humor. “So
  are you going to invite me in, or am I to be sent packing
  for exercising my democratic right as an American citizen,
  entrepreneur, and consumer to purchase whatever I damn
  well please?”
  “Have you spoken to Dr. Flynn about this?”
  He laughs. “Are you going to let me in or not,
  Anastasia?”
  I try for a grudging look—biting my lip helps—but I’m
  smiling as I open the door. Christian turns and waves to
  Taylor, and the Audi pulls away.
  It’s odd having Christian Grey in the apartment. The place
  feels too small for him.
  I am still mad at him—his stalking knows no bounds,
  and it dawns on me that this is how he knew about the email
  being monitored at SIP. He probably knows more
  about SIP than I do. The thought is unsavory.
  What can I do? Why does he have this need to keep
  me safe? I am a grown-up—sort of—for heaven’s sake.
  What can I do to reassure him?
  I gaze at his beautiful face as he paces the room like a
  caged predator, and my anger subsides. Seeing him here in
  my space when I thought we were over is heartwarming.
  More than heartwarming, I love him, and my heart swells
  with a nervous, heady elation. He glances around,
  assessing his surroundings.
  “Nice place,” he says.
  “Kate’s parents bought it for her.”
  He nods distractedly, and his bold gray eyes come to
  rest on mine, staring at me.
  “Er . . . would you like a drink?” I mutter, flushing with
  nerves.
  “No, thank you, Anastasia.” His eyes darken.
  Oh crap. Why am I so nervous?
  “What would you like to do, Anastasia?” he asks softly
  as he walks toward me, all feral and hot. “I know what I
  want to do,” he adds in a low voice.
  I back up until I bump against the concrete kitchen
  island.
  “I’m still mad at you.”
  “I know.” He smiles a lopsided apologetic smile and I
  melt . . . Well, maybe not so mad.
  “Would you like something to eat?” I ask.
  He nods slowly. “Yes. You,” he murmurs. Everything
  south of my waistline clenches. I’m seduced by his voice
  alone, but that look, that hungry I-want-you-now look—
  oh my.
  He’s standing in front of me, not quite touching, staring
  down into my eyes and bathing me in the heat that’s
  radiating off his body. I’m stiflingly hot, flustered, and my
  legs are like jelly as dark desire courses through me. I
  want him.
  “Have you eaten today?” he murmurs.
  “I had a sandwich at lunch,” I whisper. I don’t want to
  talk food.
  He narrows his eyes. “You need to eat.”
  “I’m really not hungry right now . . . for food.”
  “What are you hungry for, Miss Steele?”
  “I think you know, Mr. Grey.”
  He leans down, and again I think he’s going to kiss me,
  but he doesn’t.
  “Do you want me to kiss you, Anastasia?” he whispers
  softly in my ear.
  “Yes,” I breathe.
  “Where?”
  “Everywhere.”
  “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than
  that. I told you I am not going to touch you until you beg
  me and tell me what to do.”
  My inner goddess is writhing on her chaise longue. I
  am lost; he’s not playing fair.
  “Please,” I whisper.
  “Please what?”
  “Touch me.”
  “Where, baby?”
  He is so tantalizingly close, his scent intoxicating. I
  reach up, and immediately he steps back.
  “No, no,” he chides, his eyes suddenly wide and
  alarmed.
  “What?” No . . . come back.
  “No.” He shakes his head.
  “Not at all?” I can’t keep the longing out of my voice.
  He looks at me uncertainly, and I’m emboldened by
  his hesitation. I step toward him, and he steps back,
  holding up his hands in defense, but smiling.
  “Look, Ana.” It’s a warning, and he runs his hand
  through his hair, exasperated.
  “Sometimes you don’t mind,” I observe plaintively.
  “Perhaps I should find a marker pen, and we could map
  out the no-go areas.”
  He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a bad idea.
  Where’s your bedroom?”
  I nod in the direction. Is he deliberately changing the
  subject?
  “Have you been taking your pill?”
  Oh shit. My pill.
  His face falls at my expression.
  “No,” I squeak.
  “I see,” he says, and his lips press into a thin line.
  “Come, let’s have something to eat.”
  Oh no!
  “I thought we were going to bed! I want to go to bed
  with you.”
  “I know, baby.” He smiles, and suddenly darting
  toward me, he grabs my wrists and pulls me into his arms
  so that his body is pressed against mine.
  “You need to eat and so do I,” he murmurs, burning
  gray eyes gazing down at me. “Besides . . . anticipation is
  the key to seduction, and right now, I’m really into delayed
  gratification.”
  Huh, since when?
  “I’m seduced and I want my gratification now. I’ll beg,
  please.” I sound whiney. My inner goddess is beside
  herself.
  He smiles at me tenderly. “Eat. You’re too slender.”
  He kisses my forehead and releases me.
  This is a game, part of some evil plan. I scowl at him.
  “I’m still mad that you bought SIP, and now I am mad
  at you because you’re making me wait.” I pout.
  “You are one angry little madam, aren’t you? You’ll
  feel better after a good meal.”
  “I know what I’ll feel better after.”
  “Anastasia Steele, I’m shocked.” His tone is gently
  mocking.
  “Stop teasing me. You don’t fight fair.”
  “Stop teasing me. You don’t fight fair.”
  He stifles his grin by biting his lower lip. He looks
  simply adorable . . . playful Christian toying with my libido.
  If only my seduction skills were better, I’d know what to
  do, but not being able to touch him does hamper me.
  My inner goddess narrows her eyes and looks
  thoughtful. We need to work on this.
  As Christian and I gaze at each other—me hot,
  bothered and yearning and him, relaxed and amused at my
  expense—I realize I have no food in the apartment.
  “I could cook something—except we’ll have to go
  shopping.”
  “Shopping?”
  “For groceries.”
  “You have no food here?” His expression hardens.
  I shake my head. Crap, he looks quite angry.
  “Let’s go shopping, then,” he says sternly as he turns
  on his heel and heads for the door, opening it wide for me.
  “When was the last time you were in a supermarket?”
  Christian looks out of place, but he follows me
  dutifully, holding a shopping basket.
  “I can’t remember.”
  “Does Mrs. Jones do all the shopping?”
  “I think Taylor helps her. I’m not sure.”
  “Are you happy with a stir-fry? It’s quick.”
  “Stir-fry sounds good.” Christian grins, no doubt
  figuring out my ulterior motive for a speedy meal.
  “Have they worked for you long?”
  “Have they worked for you long?”
  “Taylor, four years, I think. Mrs. Jones about the
  same. Why didn’t you have any food in the apartment?”
  “You know why,” I murmur, flushing.
  “It was you who left me,” he mutters disapprovingly.
  “I know,” I reply in a small voice, not wanting that
  reminder.
  We reach the checkout and silently stand in line.
  If I hadn’t left, would he have offered the vanilla
  alternative? I wonder idly.
  “Do you have anything to drink?” He pulls me back to
  the present.
  “Beer . . . I think.”
  “I’ll get some wine.”
  Oh dear. I’m not sure what sort of wine is available in
  Ernie’s Supermarket. Christian remerges empty handed,
  grimacing with a look of disgust.
  “There’s a good liquor store next door,” I say quickly.
  “I’ll see what they have.”
  Maybe we should just go to his place, then we
  wouldn’t have all this hassle. I watch as he strolls
  purposefully and with easy grace out of the door. Two
  women coming in stop and stare. Oh yes, eye my Fifty
  Shades, I think despondently.
  I want the memory of him in my bed, but he’s playing
  hard to get. Maybe I should, too. My inner goddess nods
  frantically in agreement. And as I stand in line, we come up
  with a plan. Hmm . . .
  Christian carries the grocery bags into the apartment. He’s
  carried them as we’ve walked back to the apartment from
  the store. He looks odd. Not his usual CEO demeanor at
  all.
  “You look very—domestic.”
  “No one has ever accused me of that before,” he says
  dryly. He places the bags on the kitchen island. As I start
  to unload them, he takes out a bottle of white wine and
  searches for a corkscrew.
  “This place is still new to me. I think the opener is in
  that drawer there.” I point with my chin.
  This feels so . . . normal. Two people, getting to know
  each other, having a meal. Yet it’s so strange. The fear that
  I’d always felt in his presence has gone. We’ve already
  done so much together, I blush just thinking about it, and
  yet I hardly know him.
  “What are you thinking about?” Christian interrupts my
  reverie as he shrugs out of his pinstripe jacket and places it
  on the couch.
  “How little I know you, really.”
  He gazes at me and his eyes soften. “You know me
  better than anyone.”
  “I don’t think that’s true.” Mrs. Robinson comes
  unbidden, and very unwelcome, into my mind.
  “It is, Anastasia. I am a very, very private person.”
  He hands me a glass of white wine.
  “Cheers,” he says.
  “Cheers,” I respond taking a sip as he puts the bottle in
  the fridge.
  the fridge.
  “Can I help you with that?” he asks.
  “No it’s fine . . . sit.”
  “I’d like to help.” His expression is sincere.
  “You can chop the vegetables.”
  “I don’t cook,” he says, regarding the knife I hand him
  with suspicion.
  “I imagine you don’t need to.” I place a chopping
  board and some red peppers in front of him. He stares
  down at them in confusion.
  “You’ve never chopped a vegetable?”
  “No.”
  I smirk at him.
  “Are you smirking at me?”
  “It appears this is something that I can do and you
  can’t. Let’s face it, Christian, I think this is a first. Here, I’ll
  show you.”
  I brush up against him and he steps back. My inner
  goddess sits up and takes notice.
  “Like this.” I slice the red pepper, careful to remove
  the seeds.
  “Looks simple enough.”
  “You shouldn’t have any trouble with it,” I mutter
  ironically.
  He gazes at me impassively for a moment then sets
  about his task as I continue to prepare the diced chicken.
  He starts to slice, carefully, slowly. Oh my, we’ll be here
  all day.
  I wash my hands and hunt for the wok, the oil, and the
  other ingredients I need, repeatedly brushing against him—
  my hip, my arm, my back, my hands. Small, seemingly

  innocent touches. He stills each time I do.
  “I know what you’re doing, Anastasia,” he murmurs
  darkly, still preparing the first pepper.
  “I think it’s called cooking,” I say, fluttering my
  eyelashes. Grabbing another knife, I join him at the
  chopping board peeling and slicing garlic, shallots, and
  French beans, continually bumping against him.
  “You’re quite good at this,” he mutters as he starts on
  his second red pepper.
  “Chopping?” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Years of
  practice.” I brush against him again, this time with my
  behind. He stills once more.
  “If you do that again, Anastasia, I am going to take you
  on the kitchen floor.”
  Oh, wow. It’s working. “You’ll have to beg me first.”
  “Is that a challenge?”
  “Maybe.”
  He puts down his knife and saunters slowly over to
  me, his eyes burning. Leaning past me, he switches the gas
  off. The oil in the wok quiets almost immediately.
  “I think we’ll eat later,” he says. “Put the chicken in the
  fridge.”
  This is not a sentence I had ever expected to hear from
  Christian Grey, and only he can make it sound hot, really
  hot. I pick up the bowl of diced chicken, rather shakily
  place a plate on top of it, and stow it in the fridge. When I
  turn back, he’s beside me.
  “So you’re going to beg?” I whisper, bravely gazing
  into his darkening eyes.
  “No, Anastasia.” He shakes his head. “No begging.”
  His voice is soft, seductive.
  And we stand staring at each other, drinking each
  other in—the atmosphere charging between us, almost
  crackling, neither saying anything, just looking. I bite my lip
  as desire for this beautiful man seizes me with a vengeance,
  igniting my blood, shallowing my breath, pooling below my
  waist. I see my reactions reflected in his stance, in his
  eyes.
  In a beat, he grabs me by my hips and pulls me to him
  as my hands reach for his hair and his mouth claims me.
  He pushes me against the fridge, and I hear the vague
  protesting rattle of bottles and jars from within as his
  tongue finds mine. I moan into his mouth, and one of his
  hands moves into my hair, pulling my head back as we
  kiss, savagely.
  “What do you want, Anastasia?” he breathes.
  “You.” I gasp.
  “Where?”
  “Bed.”
  He breaks free, scoops me into his arms, and carries
  me quickly and seemingly without any strain into my
  bedroom. Setting me on my feet beside my bed, he leans
  down and switches on my bedside lamp. He glances
  quickly round the room and hastily closes the pale cream
  curtains.
  “Now what?” he says softly.
  “Make love to me.”
  “How?”
  Jeez.
  “You have got to tell me, baby.”
  Holy crap. “Undress me.” I am panting already.
  He smiles and hooks his index finger into my open
  shirt, pulling me toward him.
  “Good girl,” he murmurs, and without taking his blazing
  eyes off mine, slowly starts to unbutton my shirt.
  Tentatively I put my hands on his arms to steady
  myself. He doesn’t complain. His arms are a safe area.
  When he’s finished with the buttons, he pulls my shirt over
  my shoulders, and I let go of him to let the shirt fall to the
  floor. He reaches down to the waistband of my jeans,
  pops the button, and pulls down the zipper.
  “Tell me what you want, Anastasia.” His eyes smolder
  and his lips part as he takes quick shallow breaths.
  “Kiss me from here to here,” I whisper trailing my
  finger from the base of my ear, down my throat. He
  smoothes my hair out of the line of fire and bends, leaving
  sweet soft kisses along the path my finger took and then
  back again.
  “My jeans and panties,” I murmur, and he smiles
  against my throat before he drops to his knees in front of
  me. Oh, I feel so powerful. Hooking his thumbs into my
  jeans, he gently pulls them and my panties down my legs. I
  step out of my pumps and my clothes so that I’m left
  wearing only my bra. He stops and looks up at me
  expectantly, but he doesn’t get up.
  expectantly, but he doesn’t get up.
  “What now, Anastasia?”
  “Kiss me,” I whisper.
  “Where?”
  “You know where.”
  “Where?”
  Oh, he’s taking no prisoners. Embarrassed I quickly
  point at the apex of my thighs, and he grins wickedly. I
  close my eyes, mortified, but at the same time beyond
  aroused.
  “Oh, with pleasure,” he chuckles. He kisses me and
  unleashes his tongue, his joy-inspiring expert tongue. I
  groan and fist my hands into his hair. He doesn’t stop, his
  tongue circling my clitoris, driving me insane, on and on,
  round and round. Ahhh . . . it’s only been . . . how
  long . . . ? Oh . . .
  “Christian, please,” I beg. I don’t want to come
  standing up. I don’t have the strength.
  “Please what, Anastasia?”
  “Make love to me.”
  “I am,” he murmurs, gently blowing against me.
  “No. I want you inside me.”
  “Are you sure?”
  “Please.”
  He doesn’t stop his sweet, exquisite torture. I moan
  loudly.
  “Christian . . . please.”
  He stands and gazes down at me, and his lips glisten
  with the evidence of my arousal.
  Holy cow . . .
  Holy cow . . .
  “Well?” he asks.
  “Well what?” I pant, staring up at him in frantic need.
  “I’m still dressed.”
  I gape at him in confusion.
  Undress him? Yes, I can do this. I reach for his shirt
  and he steps back.
  “Oh no,” he admonishes. Shit, he means his jeans.
  Oh, and this gives me an idea. My inner goddess
  cheers loudly to the rafters, and I drop to my knees in
  front of him. Rather clumsily and with shaking fingers, I
  undo his waistband and fly, then yank down his jeans and
  boxers, and he springs free. Wow.
  I peek up at him through my lashes, and he’s gazing at
  me with . . . what? Trepidation? Awe? Surprise?
  He steps out of his jeans and pulls off his socks, and I
  take hold of him in my hand and squeeze tightly, pushing
  my hand back like he’s shown me before. He groans and
  tenses, and his breath hisses through clenched teeth. Very
  tentatively, I put him in my mouth and suck—hard. Mmm,
  he tastes good.
  “Ahh. Ana . . . whoa, gently.”
  He cups my head tenderly, and I push him deeper into
  my mouth, pressing my lips together as tightly as I can,
  sheathing my teeth, and sucking hard.
  “Fuck,” he hisses.
  Oh, that’s a good, inspiring, sexy sound, so I do it
  again, pulling his length deeper, swirling my tongue around
  the end. Hmm . . . I feel like Aphrodite.
  “Ana, that’s enough. No more.”
  “Ana, that’s enough. No more.”
  I do it again—Beg, Grey, beg—and again.
  “Ana, you’ve made your point,” he grunts through
  gritted teeth. “I do not want to come in your mouth.”
  I do it once more, and he bends down, grasps me by
  my shoulders, hauls me to my feet, and tosses me on the
  bed. Dragging his shirt over his head, he then reaches
  down to his discarded jeans, and like a good boy scout,
  produces a foil packet. He’s panting, like me.
  “Take your bra off,” he orders.
  I sit up and do as I’m told.
  “Lie down. I want to look at you.”
  I lie down, gazing up at him as he slowly rolls the
  condom on. I want him so badly. He stares down at me
  and licks his lips.
  “You are a fine sight, Anastasia Steele.” He bends
  over the bed and slowly crawls up and over me, kissing
  me as he goes. He kisses each of my breasts and teases
  my nipples in turn, while I groan and writhe beneath him,
  and he doesn’t stop.
  No . . . Stop. I want you.
  “Christian, please.”
  “Please what?” he murmurs between my breasts.
  “I want you inside me.”
  “Do you now?”
  “Please.”
  Gazing at me, he pushes my legs apart with his and
  moves so that he’s hovering above me. Without taking his
  eyes off mine, he sinks into me at a deliciously slow pace.
  I close my eyes, relishing the fullness, the exquisite
  I close my eyes, relishing the fullness, the exquisite
  feeling of his possession, instinctively tilting my pelvis up to
  meet him, to join with him, groaning loudly. He eases back
  and very slowly fills me again. My fingers find their way
  into his silken unruly hair, and he oh-so-slowly moves in
  and out again.
  “Faster, Christian, faster . . . please.”
  He gazes down at me in triumph and kisses me hard,
  then really starts to move—holy cow, a punishing,
  relentless . . . oh fuck—and I know it will not be long. He
  sets a pounding rhythm. I start to quicken, my legs tensing
  beneath him.
  “Come on, baby,” he gasps. “Give it to me.”
  His words are my undoing, and I explode,
  magnificently, mind-numbingly, into a million pieces around
  him, and he follows calling out my name.
  “Ana! Oh fuck, Ana!” He collapses on top of me, his
  head buried in my neck.
  As sanity returns, I open my eyes and gaze up into the face
  of the man I love. Christian’s expression is soft, tender. He
  strokes his nose against mine, bearing his weight on his
  elbows, his hands holding mine by the side of my head.
  Sadly, I suspect that’s so I don’t touch him. He plants a
  gentle kiss on my lips as he eases himself out of me.
  “I’ve missed this,” he breathes.
  “Me too,” I whisper.
  He takes hold of my chin and kisses me hard. A
  passionate, beseeching kiss, asking for what? I don’t
  passionate, beseeching kiss, asking for what? I don’t
  know. It leaves me breathless.
  “Don’t leave me again,” he implores, looking deep into
  my eyes, his face serious.
  “Okay,” I whisper and smile at him. His answering
  smile is dazzling; relief, elation, and boyish delight
  combined into one enchanting look that would melt the
  coldest of hearts. “Thank you for the iPad.”
  “You are most welcome, Anastasia.”
  “What’s your favorite song on there?”
  “Now that would be telling.” He grins. “Come cook
  me some food, wench. I’m famished,” he adds, sitting up
  suddenly and dragging me with him.
  “Wench?” I giggle.
  “Wench. Food, now, please.”
  “Since you ask so nicely, sire, I’ll get right on to it.”
  As I scramble out of bed, I dislodge my pillow,
  revealing the deflated helicopter balloon underneath.
  Christian reaches for it and gazes up at me, puzzled.
  “That’s my balloon,” I say, feeling proprietary as I
  “That’s my balloon,” I say, feeling proprietary as I
  reach for my robe and wrap it round myself. Oh jeez . . .
  why did he have to find that?
  “In your bed?” he murmurs.
  “Yes,” I flush. “It’s been keeping me company.”
  “Lucky Charlie Tango,” he says, in surprise.
  Yes, I’m sentimental, Grey, because I love you.
  “My balloon,” I say again and turn on my heel and
  head out to the kitchen, leaving him grinning from ear to
  ear.
  Christian and I sit on Kate’s persian rug, eating stir-fry
  chicken and noodles from white china bowls with
  chopsticks and sipping chilled white Pinot Grigio. Christian
  leans against the couch, his long legs stretched out in front
  of him. He’s wearing his jeans and his shirt with his justfucked
  hair, and that’s all. The Buena Vista Social Club
  croons softly in the background from Christian’s iPod.
  “This is good,” he says appreciatively as he digs into
  his food.
  I sit cross-legged beside him, eating greedily, beyond
  hungry, and admire his naked feet.
  “I usually do all the cooking. Kate isn’t a great cook.”
  “Did you your mother teach you?”
  “Not really,” I scoff. “By the time I was interested in
  learning, my mom was living with Husband Number Three
  in Mansfield, Texas. And Ray, well, he would’ve lived on
  toast and takeout if it wasn’t for me.”

  Christian gazes down at me. “You didn’t stay in Texas
  with your mom?”
  “No. Steve, her husband and I, we didn’t get along.
  And I missed Ray. Her marriage to Steve didn’t last long.
  She came to her senses, I think. She never talks about
  him,” I add quietly. I think that’s a dark part of her life,
  which we’ve never discussed.
  “So you came back to Washington to live with your
  stepfather.”
  “Yes.”
  “Sounds like you looked after him,” he says softly.
  “Sounds like you looked after him,” he says softly.
  “I suppose.” I shrug.
  “You’re used to taking care of people.”
  The edge in his voice attracts my attention, and I
  glance up at him.
  “What is it?” I ask, startled by his wary expression.
  “I want to take care of you.” His luminous eyes glow
  with some unnamed emotion.
  My heart rate spikes.
  “I’ve noticed,” I whisper. “You just go about it in a
  strange way.”
  His brow creases. “It’s the only way I know how,” he
  says quietly.
  “I’m still mad at you for buying SIP.”
  He smiles. “I know but you being mad, baby, wouldn’t
  stop me.”
  “What am I going to say to my work colleagues, to
  Jack?”
  He narrows his eyes. “That fucker better watch
  himself.”
  himself.”
  “Christian!” I admonish. “He’s my boss.”
  Christian’s mouth presses into a hard line. He looks
  like a recalcitrant schoolboy.
  “Don’t tell them,” he says.
  “Don’t tell them what?”
  “That I own it. The heads of agreement was signed
  yesterday. The news is embargoed for four weeks while
  the management at SIP makes some changes.”
  “Oh . . . will I be out of a job?” I ask, alarmed.
  “I sincerely doubt it,” Christian says wryly, trying to
  stifle his smile.
  I scowl. “If I leave and find another job, will you buy
  that company, too?”
  “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” His
  expression alters, wary once more.
  “Possibly. I’m not sure you’ve given me a great deal of
  choice.”
  “Yes, I will buy that company, too.” He is adamant.
  I scowl at him again. I am in a no-win situation here.
  “Don’t you think you’re being a tad overprotective?”
  “Yes. I am fully aware of how this looks.”
  “Paging Dr. Flynn,” I murmur.
  He puts down his empty bowl and gazes at me
  impassively. I sigh. I don’t want to fight. Standing up, I
  reach for his bowl.
  “Would you like dessert?”
  “Now you’re talking!” he says, giving me a lascivious
  grin.
  “Not me.” Why not me? My inner goddess wakes
  from her doze and sits upright, all ears. “We have ice
  cream. Vanilla.” I snicker.
  “Really?” Christian’s grin gets bigger. “I think we could
  do something with that.”
  What? I stare at him dumbfounded as he gracefully
  gets to his feet.
  “Can I stay?” he asks.
  “What do you mean?”
  “The night.”
  “I assumed that you were.” I flush.
  “I assumed that you were.” I flush.
  “Good. Where’s the ice cream?”
  “In the oven.” I smile sweetly at him.
  He cocks his head to one side, sighs, and shakes his
  head at me. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Miss
  Steele.” His eyes glitter.
  Oh shit. What’s he planning?
  “I could still take you across my knee.”
  I place the bowls in the sink. “Do you have those silver
  ball things?”
  He pats his hands down his chest, belly, and the
  pockets of his jeans. “Funnily enough, I don’t carry a
  spare set around with me. Not much call for them in the
  office.”
  “I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Grey, and I thought you
  said that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit.”
  “Well, Anastasia, my new motto is if you can’t beat
  ‘em, join ‘em.”
  I gape at him—I can’t believe he’s just said that —
  and he looks sickeningly pleased with himself as he grins at
  and he looks sickeningly pleased with himself as he grins at
  me. Turning, he opens the freezer and takes out the carton
  of Ben & Jerry’s finest vanilla.
  “This will do just fine.” He looks up at me, eyes dark.
  “Ben & Jerry’s & Ana.” He says each word slowly,
  enunciating every syllable clearly.
  Oh fucking my. I think my lower jaw is on the floor.
  He opens the cutlery drawer and grabs a spoon. When he
  looks up, his are eyes hooded, and his tongue skims his
  top teeth. Oh, that tongue.
  I feel winded. Desire, dark, sleek, and wanton runs hot
  through my veins. We’re going to have fun, with food.
  “I hope you’re warm,” he whispers. “I’m going to cool
  you down with this. Come.” He holds out his hand, and I
  place mine in his.
  In my bedroom he places the ice cream on my bedside
  table, pulls the duvet off the bed, and removes both the
  pillows, placing them all in a pile on the floor.
  “You have a change of sheets, don’t you?”
  I nod, watching him, fascinated. He holds up Charlie
  Tango.
  “Don’t mess with my balloon,” I warn.
  His lips quirk upward in half a smile. “Wouldn’t dream
  of it, baby, but I do want to mess with you and these
  sheets.”
  My body practically convulses.
  “I want to tie you up.”
  Oh. “Okay,” I whisper.
  “Just your hands. To the bed. I need you still.”
  “Okay,” I whisper again, incapable of anything more.
  He strolls over to me, not taking his eyes off mine.
  “We’ll use this.” He takes hold of my robe sash and
  with delicious, teasing slowness, releases the bow, and
  gently pulls it free of the garment.
  My robe falls open while I stand paralyzed under his
  heated gaze. After a moment, he pushes the robe off my
  shoulders. It falls and pools at my feet so that I’m standing
  naked before him. He strokes my face with the backs of
  his knuckles, and his touch resonates in the depths of my
  groin. Bending, he kisses my lips briefly.
  groin. Bending, he kisses my lips briefly.
  “Lie on the bed, face up,” he murmurs, his eyes
  darkening, burning into mine.
  I do as I’m told. My room is shrouded in darkness
  except for the soft, insipid light from my lamp.
  Normally, I hate energy-saving bulbs—they are so dim
  —but being naked here, with Christian, I’m grateful for the
  muted light. He stands by the bed gazing down at me.
  “I could look at you all day, Anastasia,” he says, and
  with that crawls on to the bed, up my body, and straddles
  me.
  “Arms above your head,” he commands.
  I comply and he fastens the end of my robe sash round
  my left wrist and threads the end through the metal bars at
  the head of my bed. He pulls it tight so my left arm is
  flexed above me. He then secures my right hand, tying the
  sash tightly.
  When I’m tied-up, staring at him, he visibly relaxes. He
  likes me tethered. I can’t touch him this way. It occurs to
  me that none of his subs would have touched him either—
  me that none of his subs would have touched him either—
  and what’s more, they would never have the opportunity
  to. He would have always been in control and at a
  distance. That’s why he likes his rules.
  He climbs off me and bends to give me a quick peck
  on the lips. Then he stands and lifts his shirt over his head.
  He undoes his jeans and drops them to the floor.
  He is gloriously naked. My inner goddess is doing a
  triple axel dismount off the uneven bars, and abruptly my
  mouth is dry. He really is beyond beautiful. He has a
  physique drawn on classical lines: broad muscular
  shoulders, narrow hips, the inverted triangle. He obviously
  works out. I could look at him all day. He moves to the
  end of the bed and grasps my ankles, pulling me swiftly
  and sharply downward so that my arms are stretched out
  and unable to move.
  “That’s better,” he mutters.
  Picking up the tub of ice cream, he climbs smoothly
  back onto the bed to straddle me once more. Very slowly,
  he peels off the lid of the tub and dips the spoon in.
  “Hmm . . . it’s still quite hard,” he says with a raised
  brow. Scooping out a spoonful of the vanilla, he pops it
  into his mouth. “Delicious,” he murmurs, licking his lips.
  “Amazing how good plain old vanilla can taste.” He gazes
  down at me and smirks. “Want some?” he teases.
  He looks so freaking hot, young and carefree—sitting
  on me and eating from a tub of ice cream—eyes bright,
  face luminous. Oh what the hell is he going to do to me?
  As if I can’t tell. I nod, shyly.
  He scoops out another spoonful and offers me the
  spoon, so I open my mouth, then he quickly pops it in his
  mouth again.
  “This is too good to share,” he says, smiling wickedly.
  “Hey,” I start in protest.
  “Why, Miss Steele, do you like your vanilla?”
  “Yes,” I say more forcefully than I mean and try in vain
  to buck him off.
  He laughs. “Getting feisty, are we? I wouldn’t do that if
  I were you.”
  “Ice cream,” I plead.
  “Ice cream,” I plead.
  “Well, as you’ve pleased me so much today, Miss
  Steele.” He relents and offers me another spoonful. This
  time he lets me eat it.
  I want to giggle. He’s really enjoying himself, and his
  good humor is infectious. He scoops another spoonful and
  feeds me some more, then he does it again. Okay,
  enough.
  “Hmm, well, this is one way to ensure you eat—forcefeed
  you. I could get used to this.”
  Taking another spoonful, he offers me more. This time
  I keep my mouth shut and shake my head, and he lets it
  slowly melt on the spoon so that the melted ice cream
  drips, onto my throat, onto my chest. He dips down and
  very slowly licks it off. My body lights up with longing.
  “Mmm. Tastes even better off you, Miss Steele.”
  I pull against my restraints and the bed creaks
  ominously, but I don’t care—I’m burning with desire, it’s
  consuming me. He takes another spoonful and lets the ice
  cream dribble onto my breasts. Then with the back of the
  cream dribble onto my breasts. Then with the back of the
  spoon, he spreads it over each breast and nipple.
  Oh . . . it’s cold. Each nipple peaks and hardens
  beneath the cool of the vanilla.
  “Cold?” Christian asks softly and bends to lick and
  suckle all the ice cream off me once more, his mouth hot
  compared to the cool of the ice.
  Oh my. It’s torture. As it starts to melt, the ice cream
  runs off me in rivulets on to the bed. His lips continue their
  slow torture, sucking hard, nuzzling, softly—Oh please!—
  I’m panting.
  “Want some?” And before I can confirm or deny his
  offer, his tongue is in my mouth, and it’s cold and skilled
  and tastes of Christian and vanilla. Delicious.
  And just as I am getting used to the sensation, he sits
  up again and trails a spoonful of ice cream down the center
  of my body, across my stomach, and into my navel where
  he deposits a large dollop of ice cream. Oh, this is chillier
  than before, but weirdly it burns.
  “Now, you’ve done this before.” Christian’s eyes
  shine. “You’re going to have to stay still, or there will be
  ice cream all over the bed.” He kisses each of my breasts
  and sucks each of my nipples hard, then follows the line of
  ice cream down my body, sucking and licking as he goes.
  And I try, I try to stay still despite the heady
  combination of cold and his inflaming touch. But my hips
  start to move involuntarily, gyrating to their own rhythm,
  caught up in his cool vanilla spell. He shifts lower and
  starts eating the ice cream in my belly, swirling his tongue
  into and around my navel.
  I moan. Holy cow. It’s cold, it’s hot, it’s tantalizing,
  but he doesn’t stop. He trails the ice cream further down
  my body, into my pubic hair, on to my clitoris. I cry out,
  loudly.

  “Hush now,” Christian says softly as his magical tongue
  sets to work lapping up the vanilla, and now I’m keening
  quietly.
  “Oh . . . please . . . Christian.”
  “I know, baby, I know,” he breathes as his tongue
  works its magic. He doesn’t stop, just doesn’t stop, and
  works its magic. He doesn’t stop, just doesn’t stop, and
  my body is climbing—higher, higher. He slips one finger
  inside me, then another and he moves them with agonizing
  slowness in and out.
  “Just here,” he murmurs, and he rhythmically strokes
  the front wall of my vagina while he continues the exquisite,
  relentless licking and sucking. Holy fucking cow.
  I erupt unexpectedly into a mind-blowing orgasm that
  stuns all my senses, obliterating all that’s happening outside
  of my body as I writhe and groan. Jeez, that was so
  quick.
  I am vaguely aware that he has stopped his
  ministrations. He’s hovering over me, sliding on a condom,
  and then he’s inside me, hard and fast.
  “Oh yes!” He groans as he slams into me. He’s sticky
  —the residual melted ice cream spreading between us. It’s
  a strangely distracting sensation, but one I can’t dwell on
  for more than a few seconds as Christian suddenly pulls
  out of me and flips me over.
  “This way,” he murmurs and abruptly is inside me once
  “This way,” he murmurs and abruptly is inside me once
  more, but he doesn’t start his usual punishing rhythm
  straight away. He leans over, releases my hands, and pulls
  me upright so I am practically sitting on him. His hands
  move up to my breasts, and he palms them both, tugging
  gently on my nipples. I groan, tossing my head back
  against his shoulder. He nuzzles my neck, biting down, as
  he flexes his hips, deliciously slowly, filling me again and
  again.
  “Do you know how much you mean to me?” he
  breathes against my ear.
  “No,” I gasp.
  He smiles against my neck, and his fingers curl around
  my jaw and throat, holding me fast for a moment.
  “Yes, you do. I’m not going to let you go.”
  I groan as he picks up speed.
  “You are mine, Anastasia.”
  “Yes, yours,” I pant.
  “I take care of what’s mine,” he hisses and bites my
  ear.
  I cry out.
  “That’s right, baby, I want to hear you.” He snakes
  one hand around my waist while his other hand grasps my
  hip, and he pushes into me harder, making me cry out
  again. And the punishing rhythm starts. His breathing
  grows harsher and harsher, ragged, matching mine. I feel
  the familiar quickening deep inside. Jeez again!
  I am just sensation. This is what he does to me—takes
  my body and possesses it wholly so that I think of nothing
  but him. His magic is powerful, intoxicating. I’m a butterfly
  caught in his net, unable and unwilling to escape. I’m
  his . . . totally his.
  “Come on, baby,” he growls through gritted teeth and
  on cue, like the sorcerer’s apprentice I am, I let go, and
  we find our release together.
  I am lying curled up in his arms on sticky sheets. His front
  is pressed to my back, his nose in my hair.
  “What I feel for you frightens me,” I whisper.
  He stills. “Me too, baby,” he says quietly.
  “What if you leave me?” The thought is horrific.
  “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t think I could ever
  have my fill of you, Anastasia.”
  I turn and gaze at him. His expression is serious,
  sincere. I lean over and kiss him gently. He smiles and
  reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ear.
  “I’ve never felt the way I felt when you left, Anastasia.
  I would move heaven and earth to avoid feeling like that
  again.” He sounds so sad, dazed even.
  I kiss him again. I want to lighten our mood somehow,
  but Christian does it for me.
  “Will you come with me to my father’s summer party
  tomorrow? It’s an annual charity thing. I said I’d go.”
  I smile, feeling suddenly shy.
  “Of course I’ll come.” Oh shit. I have nothing to wear.
  “What?”
  “Nothing.”
  “Tell me,” he insists.
  “Tell me,” he insists.
  “I have nothing to wear.”
  Christian looks momentarily uncomfortable.
  “Don’t be mad, but I still have all those clothes for you
  at home. I am sure there are a couple of dresses in there.”
  I purse my lips. “Do you, now?” I mutter, my voice
  sardonic. I don’t want to fight with him tonight. I need a
  shower.
  The girl who looks like me is standing outside SIP. Hang
  on—she is me. I am pale and unwashed, and all my
  clothes are too big; I’m staring at her, and she’s wearing
  my clothes—happy, healthy.
  “What do you have that I don’t?” I ask her.
  “Who are you?”
  “I’m nobody . . . Who are you? Are you nobody,
  too . . . ?”
  “Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell, they’d banish us,
  you know . . .” She smiles, a slow, evil grimace that
  you know . . .” She smiles, a slow, evil grimace that
  spreads across her face, and it’s so chilling that I start to
  scream.
  “Jesus, Ana!” Christian is shaking me awake.
  I am so disorientated. I’m at home . . . in the
  dark . . . in bed with Christian. I shake my head, trying
  to clear my mind.
  “Baby, are you okay? You were having a bad dream.”
  “Oh.”
  He switches on the lamp so we’re bathed in its dim
  light. He gazes down at me, his face etched with concern.
  “The girl,” I whisper.
  “What is it? What girl?” he asks soothingly.
  “There was a girl outside SIP when I left this evening.
  She looked like me . . . but not really.”
  Christian stills, and as the light from the bedside lamp
  warms up, I see his face is ashen.
  “When was this?” he whispers, dismayed. He sits up,
  staring down at me.
  “When I left this afternoon. Do you know who she is?”
  “Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair.
  “Who?”
  His mouth presses into a hard line, but he says nothing.
  “Who?” I press.
  “It’s Leila.”
  I swallow. The ex-sub! I remember Christian talking
  about her before we went gliding. Suddenly, he’s radiating
  tension. Something is going on.
  “The girl who put ‘Toxic’ on your iPod?”
  He glances at me anxiously.
  “Yes,” he says. “Did she say anything?”
  “She said, ‘what do you have that I don’t have?’ and
  when I asked who she was, she said, ‘nobody.’ ”
  Christian closes his eyes as if in pain. Oh no. What’s
  happened? What does she mean to him?
  My scalp prickles as adrenaline spikes through my
  body. What if she means a lot to him? Perhaps he
  misses her? I know so little about his past . . . um,
  misses her? I know so little about his past . . . um,
  relationships. She must have had a contract, and she
  would have done what he wanted, given him what he
  needed gladly.
  Oh no—when I can’t. The thought makes me
  nauseous.
  Climbing out of bed, Christian drags on his jeans and
  heads into the main room. A glance at my alarm clock
  shows it’s five in the morning. I roll out of bed, putting his
  white shirt on, and follow him.
  Holy shit, he’s on the phone.
  “Yes, outside SIP, yesterday . . . early evening,” he
  says quietly. He turns to me as I move toward the kitchen
  and asks me directly, “What time exactly?”
  “About ten to six?” I mumble. Who on earth is he
  calling at this hour? What’s Leila done? He relays the
  information to whoever’s on the line, not taking his eyes off
  me, his expression dark and earnest.
  “Find out how . . . Yes . . . I wouldn’t have said so,
  but then I wouldn’t have thought she could do this.” He
  but then I wouldn’t have thought she could do this.” He
  closes his eyes as if he’s in pain. “I don’t know how that
  will go down . . . Yes, I’ll talk to her . . . Yes . . . I
  know . . . Follow it up and let me know. Just find her,
  Welch—she’s in trouble. Find her.” He hangs up.
  “Do you want some tea?” I ask. Tea, Ray’s answer to
  every crisis and the only thing he does well in the kitchen. I
  fill the kettle with water.
  “Actually, I’d like to go back to bed.” His look tells
  me that it’s not to sleep.
  “Well, I need some tea. Would you like to join me for
  a cup?” I want to know what’s going on. I will not be
  sidetracked by sex.
  He runs his hand through his hair in exasperation. “Yes,
  please,” he says, but I can tell he’s irritated.
  I put the kettle on the stove and busy myself with
  teacups and the teapot. My anxiety level has shot to
  DEFCON ONE. Is he going to tell me the problem? Or am I
  going to have to dig?
  I sense his eyes on me—sense his uncertainty, and his
  I sense his eyes on me—sense his uncertainty, and his
  anger is palpable. I glance up, and his eyes glitter with
  apprehension.
  “What is it?” I ask softly.
  He shakes his head.
  “You’re not going to tell me?”
  He sighs and closes his eyes. “No.”
  “Why?”
  “Because it shouldn’t concern you. I don’t want you
  tangled up in this.”
  “It shouldn’t concern me, but it does. She found me
  and accosted me outside my office. How does she know
  about me? How does she know where I work? I think I
  have a right to know what’s going on.”
  He runs a hand through his hair again, radiating
  frustration as if waging some internal battle.
  “Please?” I ask softly.
  His mouth sets into a hard line, and he rolls his eyes at
  me.
  “Okay,” he says, resigned. “I have no idea how she
  found you. Maybe the photograph of us in Portland, I
  don’t know.” He sighs again, and I sense his frustration is
  directed at himself.
  I wait patiently, pouring boiling water into the teapot as
  he paces back and forth. After a beat he continues.
  “While I was with you in Georgia, Leila turned up at
  my apartment unannounced and made a scene in front of
  Gail.”
  “Gail?”
  “Mrs. Jones.”
  “What do you mean, ‘made a scene’?”
  He glares at me, appraising.
  “Tell me. You’re keeping something back.” My tone is
  more forceful than I feel.
  He blinks at me, surprised. “Ana, I—” he stops.
  “Please?”
  He sighs in defeat. “She made a haphazard attempt to
  open a vein.”
  “Oh no!” That explains the bandage on her wrist.
  “Gail got her to hospital. But Leila discharged herself
  “Gail got her to hospital. But Leila discharged herself
  before I could get there.”
  Crap. What does this mean? Suicidal? Why?
  “The shrink who saw her called it a typical cry for help.
  He didn’t believe her to be truly at risk—one step from
  suicidal ideation, he called it. But I’m not convinced. I’ve
  been trying to track her down since then to get her some
  help.”
  “Did she say anything to Mrs. Jones?”
  He gazes at me. He looks really uncomfortable.
  “Not much,” he says eventually, but I know he’s not
  telling me everything.
  I distract myself with pouring tea into teacups. So Leila
  wants back into Christian’s life and chooses a suicide
  attempt to attract his attention? Whoa . . . scary. But
  effective. Christian left Georgia to be at her side, but she
  disappears before he gets there? How odd.
  “You can’t find her? What about her family?”
  “They don’t know where she is. Neither does her
  husband.”
  husband.”
  “Husband?”
  “Yes,” he says distractedly, “she’s been married for
  about two years.”
  What? “So she was with you while she was married?”
  Holy fuck. He really has no boundaries.
  “No! Good God, no. She was with me nearly three
  years ago. Then she left and married this guy shortly
  afterward.”
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作者:佚名
章节:22 人气:2
摘要:乔治·戈登·拜伦(1788-1824)是苏格兰贵族。1788年1月23日出生于伦敦。他天生跛一足,并对此很敏感。十岁时,拜伦家族的世袭爵位及产业(纽斯泰德寺院是其府邸)落到他身上,成为拜伦第六世勋爵。1805-1808年在剑桥大学学文学及历史,他是个不正规的学生,很少听课,却广泛阅读了欧洲和英国的文学、哲学和历史著作,同时也从事射击、赌博、饮酒、打猎、游泳等各种活动。 [点击阅读]
四签名
作者:佚名
章节:12 人气:2
摘要:歇洛克·福尔摩斯从壁炉台的角上拿下一瓶药水,再从一只整洁的山羊皮皮匣里取出皮下注射器来。他用白而有劲的长手指装好了精细的针头,卷起了他左臂的衬衫袖口。他沉思地对自己的肌肉发达、留有很多针孔痕迹的胳臂注视了一会儿,终于把针尖刺入肉中,推动小小的针心,然后躺在绒面的安乐椅里,满足地喘了一大口气。他这样的动作每天三次,几个月来我已经看惯了,但是心中总是不以为然。 [点击阅读]
庄园迷案
作者:佚名
章节:24 人气:2
摘要:范-赖多克夫人站在镜子前,又往后退了一小步,叹了一口气。“唉,只好这样了,”她低声说,“你觉得还可以吗,简?”马普尔小姐仔细打量着服装设计大师莱范理的这件作品,“我觉得这件外衣十分漂亮。”她说。“这件衣服还可以。”范-赖多克夫人说完又叹了一口飞,“帮我把它脱下来,斯蒂芬尼。”她说。一位上了年纪的女仆顺着范-赖多克夫人往上伸起的双臂小心地把衣服脱下来,女仆的头发灰色,有些干瘪的嘴显得挺小。 [点击阅读]
德伯家的苔丝
作者:佚名
章节:66 人气:2
摘要:五月下旬的一个傍晚,一位为编写新郡志而正在考察这一带居民谱系的牧师告诉约翰·德伯:他是该地古老的武士世家德伯氏的后裔。这一突如其来的消息,使这个贫穷的乡村小贩乐得手舞足蹈,他异想天开地要17岁的大女儿苔丝到附近一个有钱的德伯老太那里去认“本家”,幻想借此摆脱经济上的困境。 [点击阅读]
日本的黑雾
作者:佚名
章节:86 人气:2
摘要:松本清张是日本当代着名的小说家,一九〇九年生于福冈县小仓市。高小毕业后,曾在电机厂、石版印刷厂做过工,生活艰苦。自一九三八年起,先后在朝日新闻社九州岛分社、西部总社、东京总社任职,同时练习写作。一九五〇年发表第一篇作品《西乡钞票》,借明治初期西乡隆盛领导的西乡军滥发军票造成的混乱状况来影射战后初期日本通货膨胀、钞票贬值的时局。一九五二年,以《〈小仓日记〉传》获芥川奖,从此登上文坛。 [点击阅读]
时间机器
作者:佚名
章节:13 人气:2
摘要:时间旅行者正在给我们讲解一个非常深奥的问题。他灰色的眼睛闪动着,显得神采奕奕,平日里他的面孔总是苍白得没有一点血色,但是此刻却由于激动和兴奋泛出红光。壁炉里火光熊熊,白炽灯散发出的柔和的光辉,捕捉着我们玻璃杯中滚动的气泡。我们坐的椅子,是他设计的专利产品,与其说是我们坐在椅子上面,还不如说是椅子在拥抱和爱抚我们。 [点击阅读]
星球大战前传1:魅影危机
作者:佚名
章节:24 人气:2
摘要:塔土尼星球。蔚蓝无云的天空中,恒星闪烁,炫目的白色光芒照耀着这颗行星上广袤的荒原。因此生成的热气从平坦的“沙质地表蒸腾上升,在巨大的断崖和高耸苍凉的山巅之间形成了一片晶莹的氤氲。这是这颗行星上惟一典型的地貌特征。大块大块风化的巨岩如哨兵般屹立,在潮湿的雾霭中俯视着一切。当飞车赛手呼啸而过,引擎发出狂野的嘶吼,炽热的光和空气似乎都在颤动,群山也为之颤栗不止。 [点击阅读]