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五十度灰英文版 - Part II 9
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  Slowly, Christian eases The Grace out of her berth
  and toward the marina entrance. Behind us, a small crowd
  has gathered on the dockside to watch our departure.
  Small children are waving, and I wave back.
  Christian glances over his shoulder, then pulls me
  between his legs and points out various dials and gadgets
  in the cockpit. “Grab the wheel,” he orders, bossy as ever,
  but I do as I’m told.
  “Aye, aye, captain!” I giggle.
  Placing his hands snugly over mine, he continues to
  steer our course out of the marina, and within a few
  minutes, we are out on the open sea, slap into the cold
  minutes, we are out on the open sea, slap into the cold
  blue waters of Puget Sound. Away from the shelter of the
  marina’s protective wall, the wind is stronger, and the sea
  pitches and rolls beneath us.
  I can’t help but grin, feeling Christian’s excitement—
  this is such fun. We make a large curve until we are
  heading west toward the Olympic Peninsula, the wind
  behind us.
  “Sail time,” Christian says, excited. “Here—you take
  her. Keep her on this course.”
  What? He grins, reacting to the horror in my face.
  “Baby, it’s really easy. Hold the wheel and keep your
  eye on the horizon over the bow. You’ll do great; you
  always do. When the sails go up, you’ll feel the drag. Just
  hold her steady. I’ll signal like this”—he makes a slashing
  motion across his throat—“and you can cut the engines.
  This button here.” He points to a large black button.
  “Understand?”
  “Yes.” I nod frantically, feeling panicky. Jeez—I
  hadn’t expected to do anything!
  He kisses me quickly, then he steps off his captain’s
  chair and bounds up to the front of the boat to join Mac
  where he starts unfurling sails, untying ropes, and operating
  winches and pulleys. They work well together in a team,
  shouting various nautical terms to each other, and it’s
  warming to see Fifty interacting with someone else in such
  a carefree manner.
  Perhaps Mac is Fifty’s friend. He doesn’t seem to
  have many, as far as I can tell, but then, I don’t have many
  either. Well, not here in Seattle. The only friend I have is
  on vacation sunning herself in St. James on the west coast
  of Barbados.
  I have a sudden pang for Kate. I miss my roommate
  more than I thought I would when she left. I hope she
  changes her mind and comes home with her brother Ethan,
  rather than prolong her stay with Christian’s brother Elliot.
  Christian and Mac hoist the mainsail. It fills and billows
  out as the wind seizes it hungrily, and the boat lurches
  suddenly, zipping forward. I feel it through the wheel.
  Whoa!
  Whoa!
  They get to work on the headsail, and I watch
  fascinated as it flies up the mast. The wind catches it,
  stretching it taut.
  “Hold her steady, baby, and cut the engines!” Christian
  cries out to me over the wind, motioning me to switch off
  the engines. I can only just hear his voice, but I nod
  enthusiastically, gazing at the man I love, all windswept,
  exhilarated, and bracing himself against the pitch and yaw
  of the boat.
  I press the button, the roar of the engines ceases, and
  The Grace soars toward the Olympic Peninsula, skimming
  across the water as if she’s flying. I want to yell and
  scream and cheer—this has to be one of the most
  exhilarating experiences of my life—except perhaps the
  glider, and maybe the Red Room of Pain.
  Holy cow, this boat can move! I stand firm, grasping
  the wheel, fighting the rudder, and Christian is behind me
  once more, his hands on mine.
  “What do you think?” he shouts above the sound of
  “What do you think?” he shouts above the sound of
  the wind and the sea.
  “Christian! This is fantastic.”
  He beams, grinning from ear to ear. “You wait until the
  spinney’s up.” He points with his chin toward Mac, who is
  unfurling the spinnaker—a sail that’s a dark, rich red. It
  reminds me of the walls in the playroom.
  “Interesting color,” I shout.
  He gives me a wolfish grin and winks. Oh, it’s
  deliberate.
  The spinney balloons out—a large, odd elliptical shape
  —putting The Grace in overdrive. Finding her head, she
  speeds over the Sound.
  “Asymmetrical sail. For speed.” Christian answers my
  unasked question.
  “It’s amazing.” I can think of nothing better to say. I
  have the most ridiculous grin on my face as we whip
  through the water, heading for the majesty of the Olympic
  Mountains and Bainbridge Island. Glancing back, I see
  Seattle shrinking behind us, Mount Rainier in the far
  distance.
  I had not really appreciated how beautiful and rugged
  Seattle’s surrounding landscape is—verdant, lush, and
  temperate, tall evergreens and cliff faces jutting out here
  and there. It has a wild but serene beauty on this glorious
  sunny afternoon that takes my breath away. The stillness is
  stunning compared to our speed as we whip across the
  water.
  “How fast are we going?”
  “She’s doing 15 knots.”
  “I have no idea what that means.”
  “It’s about 17 miles an hour.”
  “Is that all? It feels much faster.”
  He squeezes my hands, smiling. “You look lovely,
  Anastasia. It’s good to see some color in your cheeks . . .
  and not from blushing. You look like you do in José’s
  photos.”
  I turn and kiss him.
  “You know how to show a girl a good time, Mr.
  Grey.”
  Grey.”
  “We aim to please, Miss Steele.” He scoops my hair
  out of the way and kisses the back of my neck, sending
  delicious tingles down my spine. “I like seeing you happy,”
  he murmurs and tightens his arms around me.
  I gaze out over the wide blue water, wondering what I
  could possibly have done in the past to have fortune smile
  and deliver this beautiful man to me.
  Yes, you’re a lucky bitch, my subconscious snaps.
  But you have your work cut out with him. He’s not
  going to want this vanilla crap forever . . . you’re
  going to have to compromise. I glare mentally at her
  snarky, insolent face and rest my head against Christian’s
  chest. But deep down I know my subconscious is right,
  but I banish the thoughts. I don’t want to spoil my day.
  An hour later, we are anchored in a small, secluded cove
  off Bainbridge Island. Mac has gone ashore in the
  inflatable—for what, I don’t know—but I have my
  inflatable—for what, I don’t know—but I have my
  suspicions because as soon as Mac starts the outboard
  engine, Christian grabs my hand and practically drags me
  into his cabin, a man with a mission.
  Now he stands before me, exuding his intoxicating
  sensuality as his deft fingers make quick work of the straps
  on my lifejacket. He tosses it to one side and gazes intently
  down at me, eyes dark, dilated.
  I’m already lost and he’s barely touched me. He raises
  his hand to my face, and his fingers move down my chin,
  the column of my throat, my sternum, searing me with his
  touch, to the first button of my blue blouse.
  “I want to see you,” he breathes and dexterously
  undoes the button. Bending, he plants a soft kiss on my
  parted lips. I am panting and eager, aroused by the potent
  combination of his captivating beauty, his raw sexuality in
  the confines of this cabin, and the gentle sway of the boat.
  He stands back.
  “Strip for me,” he whispers, eyes burning.
  Oh my. I’m only too happy to comply. Not taking my
  Oh my. I’m only too happy to comply. Not taking my
  eyes off his, I slowly undo each button, savoring his
  scorching gaze. Oh, this is heady stuff. I can see his desire
  —it’s evident on his face . . . and elsewhere.
  I let my shirt fall to the floor and reach for the button
  on my jeans.
  “Stop,” he orders. “Sit.”
  I sit down on the edge of the bed, and in one fluid
  movement he’s on his knees in front of me, undoing the
  laces of first one and then the other sneaker, pulling each
  off, followed by my socks. He picks up my left foot and
  raising it, plants a soft kiss on the pad of my big toe, then
  grazes his teeth against it.
  “Ah!” I moan as I feel the effect in my groin. He stands
  in one smooth move, holds his hand out to me, and pulls
  me up off the bed.
  “Continue,” he says and stands back to watch me.
  I ease the zipper of my jeans down and hook my
  thumbs in the waistband as I sashay then slide the denim
  down my legs. A soft smile plays on his lips, but his eyes
  remain dark.
  And I don’t know if it’s because he made love to me
  this morning, and I mean really made love to me, gently,
  sweetly, or if it was his impassioned declaration—yes . . . I
  do—but I don’t feel embarrassed at all. I want to be sexy
  for this man. He deserves sexy—he makes me feel sexy.
  Okay, it’s new to me, but I’m learning under his expert
  tutelage. And then again, so much is new to him, too. It
  balances the seesaw between us, a little, I think.
  I am wearing some of my new underwear—a white
  lacy thong and matching bra—a designer brand with a
  price tag to match. I step out of my jeans and stand there
  for him in the lingerie he’s paid for, but I no longer feel
  cheap. I feel his.
  Reaching behind I unhook my bra, sliding the straps
  down my arms, and drop it on top of my blouse. Slowly, I
  slip my panties off, letting them fall to my ankles, and step
  out of them, surprised by my grace.
  Standing before him, I am naked and unashamed, and
  I know it’s because he loves me. I no longer have to hide.
  I know it’s because he loves me. I no longer have to hide.
  He says nothing, just gazes at me. All I see is his desire, his
  adoration even, and something else, the depth of his need
  —the depth of his love for me.
  He reaches down, lifts the hem of his cream-colored
  sweater, and pulls it over his head, followed by his T-shirt,
  revealing his chest, never taking his bold gray eyes off
  mine. His shoes and socks follow before he grasps the
  button of his jeans.
  Reaching over, I whisper, “Let me.”
  His lips purse briefly into an ooh shape, and he smiles.
  “Be my guest.”
  I step toward him, slip my fearless fingers inside the
  waistband of his jeans, and tug so he’s forced to take a
  step closer to me. He gasps involuntarily at my unexpected
  audacity then smiles down at me. I undo the button, but
  before I unzip him I let my fingers wander, tracing his
  erection through the soft denim. He flexes his hips into my
  palm and closes his eyes briefly, relishing my touch.
  “You’re getting so bold, Ana, so brave,” he whispers
  “You’re getting so bold, Ana, so brave,” he whispers
  and clasps my face with both hands, bending to kiss me
  deeply.
  I put my hands on his hips—half on his cool skin and
  half on the low-slung waistband of his jeans. “So are you,”
  I murmur against his lips as my thumbs rub slow circles on
  his skin, and he smiles.
  “Getting there.”
  I move my hands to the front of his jeans and pull
  down the zipper. My intrepid fingers move through his
  pubic hair to his erection, and I grasp him tightly.
  He makes a low sound in his throat, his sweet breath
  washing over me, and he kisses me again, lovingly. As my
  hand moves over him, around him, stroking him, squeezing
  him tightly, he puts his arms around me, his right hand flat
  against the middle of my back and his fingers spread. His
  left hand is in my hair, holding me to his mouth.
  “Oh, I want you so much, baby,” he breathes, and
  steps back suddenly to remove his jeans and boxers in one
  swift, agile move. He is a fine, fine sight in or out of
  clothes, every single inch of him.
  He is perfect. His beauty desecrated only by his scars,
  I think sadly. And they run so much deeper than his skin.
  “What’s wrong, Ana?” he murmurs and gently strokes
  my cheek with his knuckles.
  “Nothing. Love me, now.”
  He pulls me into his arms, kissing me, twisting his
  hands into my hair. Our tongues entwined, he walks me
  backward to the bed and gently lowers me onto it,
  following me down so that he’s lying by my side.
  He runs his nose along my jawline as my hands move
  to his hair.
  “Do you have any idea how exquisite your scent is,
  Ana? It’s irresistible.”
  His words do what they always do—flame my blood,
  quicken my pulse—and he trails his nose down my throat,

  across my breasts, kissing me reverentially as he does.
  “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, as he takes one of
  my nipples in his mouth and softly suckles.
  I moan as my body bows off the bed.
  I moan as my body bows off the bed.
  “Let me hear you, baby.”
  His hand trails down to my waist, and I glory in the feel
  of his touch, skin to skin—his hungry mouth at my breasts
  and his skilled long fingers caressing and stroking me,
  cherishing me. Moving over my hips, over my behind, and
  down my leg to my knee, and all this time he’s kissing and
  sucking my breasts—oh my.
  Grasping my knee, he suddenly hitches my leg up,
  curling it over his hips, making me gasp, and I feel rather
  than see his responding grin against my skin. He rolls over
  so that I am astride him and hands me a foil packet.
  I shift back, taking him in my hands, and I just can’t
  resist him in all his glory. I bend and kiss him, taking him in
  my mouth, swirling my tongue around him, then sucking
  hard. He groans and flexes his hips so that he’s deeper in
  my mouth.
  Mmm . . . he tastes good. I want him inside me. I sit
  up and gaze at him; he’s breathless, mouth open, watching
  me intently.
  me intently.
  Hurriedly I tear open the condom and unroll it over
  him. He holds out his hands for me. I take one and with
  my other hand, position myself over him, then slowly claim
  him as mine.
  He groans low in his throat, closing his eyes.
  The feel of him in me . . . stretching . . . filling me—
  I moan softly—it’s divine. He places his hands on my hips
  and moves me up, down, and pushes into me. Oh . . . it’s
  so good.
  “Oh, baby,” he whispers, and suddenly he sits up so
  we’re nose to nose, and the sensation is extraordinary—so
  full. I gasp, grabbing his upper arms as he clasps my head
  in his hands and gazes into my eyes—his intense and gray,
  burning with desire.
  “Oh, Ana. What you make me feel,” he murmurs and
  kisses me passionately with fervent ardor. I kiss him back,
  dizzy with the delicious feeling of him buried deep inside
  me.
  “Oh, I love you,” I murmur. He groans as if pained to
  hear my whispered words and rolls over, taking me with
  him without breaking our precious contact, so that I’m
  lying beneath him. I wrap my legs around his waist.
  He stares down at me with adoring wonder, and I am
  sure I mirror his expression as I reach up to caress his
  beautiful face. Very slowly, he starts to move, closing his
  eyes as he does and moaning softly.
  The gentle sway of the boat and the peace and quiet
  tranquility of the cabin are broken only by our mingled
  breaths as he moves slowly in and out of me, so controlled
  and so good—it’s heavenly. He puts his arm over my
  head, his hand on my hair, and he caresses my face with
  the other as he bends to kiss me.
  I’m cocooned by him, as he loves me, slowly moving
  in and out, savoring me. I touch him—sticking to the
  boundaries—his arms, his hair, his lower back, his
  beautiful behind—and my breathing accelerates as his
  steady rhythm pushes me higher and higher. He’s kissing
  my mouth, my chin, my jaw, then nibbling my ear. I can
  hear his staccato breaths with each gentle thrust of his
  hear his staccato breaths with each gentle thrust of his
  body.
  My body starts to quiver. Oh . . . This feeling that I
  now know so well . . . I am close . . . Oh . . .
  “That’s right, baby . . . give it up for me . . . Please . . .
  Ana,” he murmurs and his words are my undoing.
  “Christian,” I call out, and he groans as we both come
  together.
  “Mac will be back soon,” he murmurs.
  “Hmm.” My eyes flicker open to meet his soft gray gaze.
  Lord, his eyes are an amazing color—especially here, out
  on the sea—reflecting the light bouncing off the water
  through the small portholes into the cabin.
  “As much as I’d like to lie here with you all afternoon,
  he’ll need a hand with the dinghy.” Leaning over, Christian
  kisses me tenderly. “Ana, you look so beautiful right now,
  all mussed up and sexy. Makes me want you more.” He
  smiles and rises from the bed. I lay on my front admiring
  smiles and rises from the bed. I lay on my front admiring
  the view.
  “You ain’t so bad yourself, captain.” I smack my lips in
  admiration and he grins.
  I watch him move gracefully about the cabin as he
  dresses. He really is divinely beautiful, and what’s more,
  he’s just made such sweet love to me again. I can hardly
  believe my good fortune. I can’t quite believe that this man
  is mine. He sits down beside me to put on his shoes.
  “Captain, eh?” he says dryly. “Well, I am master of this
  vessel.”
  I cock my head to one side. “You are master of my
  heart, Mr. Grey.” And my body . . . and my soul.
  He shakes his head incredulously and bends to kiss
  me. “I’ll be on deck. There’s a shower in the bathroom if
  you want one. Do you need anything? A drink?” he asks
  solicitously, and all I can do is grin at him. Is this the same
  man? Is this the same Fifty?
  “What?” he says, reacting to my stupid grin.
  “You.”
  “You.”
  “What about me?”
  “Who are you and what have you done with
  Christian?”
  He lips twitch with a sad smile.
  “He’s not very far away, baby,” he says softly, and
  there’s a touch of melancholy in his voice that makes me
  instantly regret asking the question. But he shakes it off.
  “You’ll see him soon enough”—he smirks at me
  —“especially if you don’t get up.” Reaching over, he
  smacks me hard on my behind so I yelp and laugh at the
  same time.
  “You had me worried.”
  “Did I, now?” Christian’s brow creases. “You do give
  off some mixed signals, Anastasia. How’s a man supposed
  to keep up?” He leans down and kisses me again. “Laters,
  baby,” he adds, and with a dazzling smile, he gets up and
  leaves me to my scattered thoughts.
  When I surface on deck, Mac is back on board, but he
  disappears onto the upper deck as I open the saloon
  doors. Christian is on his Blackberry. Talking to whom? I
  wonder. He wanders over and pulls me close, kissing my
  hair.
  “Great news . . . good. Yeah . . . Really? The fire
  escape stairwell? . . . I see . . . Yes, tonight.”
  He hits the end button, and the sound of the engines
  firing up startles me. Mac must be in the cockpit above.
  “Time to head back,” Christian says, kissing me once
  more as he straps me into my lifejacket.
  The sun is low in the sky behind us as we make our way
  back to the marina, and I reflect on a wonderful afternoon.
  Under Christian’s careful, patient tuition, I have now
  stowed a mainsail, a headsail, and a spinnaker and learned
  to tie a reef knot, clove hitch, and sheepshank. His lips
  were twitching throughout the lesson.
  “I may tie you up one day,” I mutter crabbily.
  His mouth twists with humor. “You’ll have to catch me
  first, Miss Steele.”
  His words bring to mind him chasing me round the
  apartment, the thrill, then the hideous aftermath. I frown
  and shudder. After that, I left him.
  Would I leave him again now that he’s admitted he
  loves me? I gaze up into his clear gray eyes. Could I ever
  leave him again—no matter what he did to me? Could I
  betray him like that? No. I don’t think I could.
  He’s given me a more thorough tour of this beautiful
  boat, explaining all the innovative designs and techniques,
  and the high-quality materials used to build it. I remember
  the interview when I first met him. I picked up then on his
  passion for ships. I thought his love was only for the
  ocean-going freighters his company builds—not for supersexy,
  sleek catamarans, too.
  And, of course, he’s made sweet, unhurried love to
  me. I shake my head, remembering my body bowed and
  wanting beneath his expert hands. He is an exceptional
  wanting beneath his expert hands. He is an exceptional
  lover, I’m sure—though, of course, I have no comparison.
  But Kate would have raved more if it was always like this;
  it’s not like her to hold back on details.
  But how long will this be enough for him? I just don’t
  know, and the thought is unnerving.
  Now he sits, and I stand in the safe circle of his arms
  for hours, it seems, in comfortable, companionable silence
  as The Grace glides closer and closer to Seattle. I have
  the wheel, Christian advising on adjustments every so
  often.
  “There is poetry in sailing as old as the world,” he
  murmurs in my ear.
  “That sounds like a quote.”
  I sense his grin. “It is. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”
  “Oh . . . I adore The Little Prince.”
  “Me, too.”
  It is early evening as Christian, his hands still on mine,
  It is early evening as Christian, his hands still on mine,
  steers us into the marina. There are lights winking from the
  boats, reflecting off the dark water, but it is still light—a
  balmy, bright evening, an overture for what is sure to be a
  spectacular sunset.
  A crowd gathers on the dockside as Christian slowly
  turns the boat around in a relatively small space. He does it
  with ease and reverses smoothly into the same berth we
  left earlier. Mac jumps on to the dock and ties The Grace
  securely to a bollard.
  “Back again,” Christian murmurs.
  “Thank you,” I murmur shyly. “That was a perfect
  afternoon.”
  Christian grins. “I thought so, too. Perhaps we can
  enroll you in sailing school, so we can go out for a few
  days, just the two of us.”
  “I’d love that. We can christen the bedroom again and
  again.”
  He leans forward and kisses me under my ear.
  “Hmm . . . I look forward to it, Anastasia,” he whispers,
  making every single hair follicle on my body stand to
  attention.
  How does he do that?
  “Come, the apartment is clean. We can go back.”
  “What about our things at the hotel?”
  “Taylor has collected them already.”
  Oh! When?
  “Earlier today, after he did a sweep of The Grace with
  his team.” Christian answers my unspoken question.
  “Does that poor man ever sleep?”
  “He sleeps.” Christian quirks an eyebrow at me,
  puzzled. “He’s just doing his job, Anastasia, which he’s
  very good at. Jason is a real find.”
  “Jason?”
  “Jason Taylor.”
  I remember when I thought Taylor was his first name.
  Jason. It suits him—solid, reliable. For some reason it
  makes me smile.
  “You’re fond of Taylor,” Christian says, eyeing me
  with speculation.
  with speculation.
  “I suppose I am.” His question derails me. He frowns.
  “I’m not attracted to him, if that’s why you’re frowning.
  Stop.”
  Christian is almost pouting—sulky.
  Jeez, he’s such a child sometimes. “I think Taylor
  looks after you very well. That’s why I like him. He seems
  kind, reliable and loyal. He has an avuncular appeal to
  me.”
  “Avuncular?”
  “Yes.”
  “Okay, avuncular.” Christian is testing the word and
  meaning. I laugh.
  “Oh, Christian, grow up, for heaven’s sake.”
  His mouth drops open, surprised by my outburst, but
  then he frowns as if considering my statement. “I’m trying,”
  he says eventually.
  “That you are. Very.” I answer softly but then roll my
  eyes at him.
  “What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at
  “What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at
  me, Anastasia.” He grins.
  I smirk at him. “Well, if you behave yourself, maybe
  we can relive some of those memories.”
  His mouth twists with humor. “Behave myself?” He
  raises his eyebrows. “Really, Miss Steele—what makes
  you think I want to relive them?”
  “Probably the way your eyes lit up like Christmas
  when I said that.”
  “You know me so well already,” he says dryly.
  “I’d like to know you better.”
  He smiles softly. “And I you, Anastasia.”
  “Thanks, Mac.” Christian shakes McConnell’s hand and
  steps on the dock.
  “Always a pleasure, Mr. Grey, and good-bye. Ana,
  great to meet you.”
  I shake his hand shyly. He must know what Christian
  and I were up to on the boat while he went ashore.

  “Good day, Mac, and thank you.”
  He grins at me and winks, making me flush. Christian
  takes my hand, and we walk up the dock to the marina’s
  promenade.
  “Where’s Mac from?” I ask, curious about his accent.
  “Ireland . . . Northern Ireland,” Christian corrects
  himself.
  “Is he your friend?”
  “Mac? He works for me. Helped build The Grace.”
  “Do you have many friends?”
  He frowns. “Not really. Doing what I do . . . I don’t
  cultivate friendships. There’s only—” He stops, his frown
  deepening, and I know he was going to mention Mrs.
  Robinson.
  “Hungry?” he asks, trying to change the subject.
  I nod. Actually, I’m famished.
  “We’ll eat where I left the car. Come.”
  Next to SP’s is a small Italian bistro called Bee’s. It
  reminds me of the place in Portland—a few tables and
  booths, the décor very crisp and modern with a large
  black and white photograph of a turn-of-the-century fiesta
  serving as a mural.
  Christian and I are seated in a booth, poring over the
  menu and sipping a delicious light Frascati. When I glance
  up from the menu, having made my choice, Christian is
  gazing at me speculatively.
  “What?” I ask.
  “You look lovely, Anastasia. The outdoors agrees with
  you.”
  I flush. “I feel rather wind-burned to tell the truth. But I
  had a lovely afternoon. A perfect afternoon. Thank you.”
  He smiles, his eyes warm. “My pleasure,” he murmurs.
  “Can I ask you something?” I decide on a fact-finding
  mission.
  “Anything, Anastasia. You know that.” He cocks his
  head to one side, looking delicious.
  “You don’t seem to have many friends. Why is that?”
  “You don’t seem to have many friends. Why is that?”
  He shrugs and frowns. “I told you, I don’t really have
  time. I have business associates—though that’s very
  different from friendships, I suppose. I have my family and
  that’s it. Apart from Elena.”
  I ignore the mention of the bitch-troll. “No male friends
  your own age that you can go out with and let off steam?”
  “You know how I like to let off steam, Anastasia.”
  Christian’s mouth twists. “And I’ve been working, building
  up the business.” He looks puzzled. “That’s all I do—
  except sail and fly occasionally.”
  “Not even in college?”
  “Not really.”
  “Just Elena, then?”
  He nods, his expression wary.
  “Must be lonely.”
  His lips curl in a small wistful smile. “What would you
  like to eat?” he asks, changing the subject again.
  “I’m going for the risotto.”
  “Good choice.” Christian summons the waiter, putting
  “Good choice.” Christian summons the waiter, putting
  an end to that conversation.
  After we’ve placed our order, I shift uncomfortably in
  my seat, staring at my knotted fingers. If he’s in a talking
  mood, I need to take advantage.
  I have to talk to him about his expectations, about his,
  um . . . needs.
  “Anastasia, what’s wrong? Tell me.”
  I glance up into his concerned face.
  “Tell me,” he says more forcefully, and his concern
  evolves into what? Fear? Anger?
  I take a deep breath. “I’m just worried that this isn’t
  enough for you. You know, to let off steam.”
  His jaw tenses and his eyes harden. “Have I given you
  any indication that this isn’t enough?”
  “No.”
  “Then why do you think that?”
  “I know what you’re like. What you . . . um . . . need,”
  I stutter.
  He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with long
  fingers.
  “What do I have to do?” His voice is ominously soft as
  if he’s angry, and my heart sinks.
  “No, you misunderstand—you have been amazing, and
  I know it’s just been a few days, but I hope I’m not
  forcing you to be someone you’re not.”
  “I’m still me, Anastasia—in all my fifty shades of
  fuckedupness. Yes, I have to fight the urge to be
  controlling . . . but that’s my nature, how I’ve dealt with
  my life. Yes, I expect you to behave a certain way, and
  when you don’t it’s both challenging and refreshing. We
  still do what I like to do. You let me spank you after your
  outrageous bid yesterday.” He smiles fondly at the
  memory. “I enjoy punishing you. I don’t think the urge will
  ever go . . . but I’m trying, and it’s not as hard as I thought
  it would be.”
  I squirm and flush, remembering our illicit tryst in his
  childhood bedroom. “I didn’t mind that,” I whisper, smiling
  shyly.
  “I know.” His lips curl in a reluctant smile. “Neither did
  “I know.” His lips curl in a reluctant smile. “Neither did
  I. But let me tell you, Anastasia, this is all new to me and
  these last few days have been the best in my life. I don’t
  want to change anything.”
  Oh!
  “They’ve been the best in my life, too, without
  exception,” I murmur and his smile broadens. My inner
  goddess nods frantically in agreement—and nudges me
  hard. Okay, okay.
  “So you don’t want to take me into your playroom?”
  He swallows and pales, all trace of humor gone. “No, I
  don’t.”
  “Why not?” I whisper. This is not the answer I
  expected.
  And yes, there it is, that little pinch of disappointment.
  My inner goddess stomps off pouting, her arms crossed
  like an angry toddler.
  “The last time we were in there you left me,” he says
  quietly. “I will shy away from anything that could make you
  leave me again. I was devastated when you left. I
  leave me again. I was devastated when you left. I
  explained that. I never want to feel like that again. I’ve told
  you how I feel about you.” His gray eyes are wide and
  intense with his sincerity.
  “But it hardly seems fair. It can’t be very relaxing for
  you—to be constantly concerned about how I feel.
  You’ve made all these changes for me, and I . . . I think I
  should reciprocate in some way. I don’t know—
  maybe . . . try . . . some role-playing games,” I stutter, my
  face as crimson as the walls of the playroom.
  Why is this so hard to talk about? I have done all
  manner of kinky fuckery with this man, things I hadn’t even
  heard of a few weeks ago, things that I would never have
  thought possible, yet the hardest of all is talking to him.
  “Ana, you do reciprocate, more than you know.
  Please, please don’t feel like this.”
  Gone is carefree Christian. His eyes are wider now
  with alarm, and it’s gut-wrenching. “Baby, it’s only been
  one weekend,” he continues. “Give us some time. I
  thought a great deal about us last week when you left. We
  need time. You need to trust me, and I you. Maybe in time
  we can indulge, but I like how you are now. I like seeing
  you this happy, this relaxed and carefree, knowing that I
  had something to do with it. I have never—” He stops and
  runs his hand through his hair. “We have to walk before
  we can run.” Suddenly he smirks.
  “What’s so funny?”
  “Flynn. He says that all the time. I never thought I’d be
  quoting him.”
  “A Flynnism.”
  Christian laughs. “Exactly.”
  The waiter arrives with our starters and bruschetta, and
  our conversation changes tack as Christian relaxes.
  But when the unfeasibly large plates are placed before
  us, I can’t help think how I have thought of Christian today
  —relaxed, happy and carefree. At least he’s laughing now,
  at ease again.
  I breathe an inward sigh of relief as he starts quizzing
  me about places I’ve been. This is a short discussion, since
  I have never been anywhere except the continental US.
  I have never been anywhere except the continental US.
  Christian, on the other hand, has traveled the world. We
  slip into an easier, happier conversation, talking about all
  the places he’s visited.
  After our tasty and filling meal, Christian drives back to
  Escala, Eva Cassidy’s gentle sweet voice singing over the
  speakers. It allows me a peaceful interlude in which to
  think. I have had a mind-blowing day. Dr. Greene, our
  shower, Christian’s admission, making love at the hotel
  and on the boat, buying the car. Even Christian himself has
  been so different. It’s as if he’s letting go of something or
  rediscovering something—I don’t know.
  Who knew he could be so sweet? Did he?
  When I glance at him, he, too, looks lost in thought. It
  strikes me then that he never really had an adolescence—a
  normal one anyway. I shake my head.
  My mind drifts back to the ball and dancing with Dr.
  Flynn and Christian’s fear that Flynn had told me all about
  Flynn and Christian’s fear that Flynn had told me all about
  him. Christian is still hiding something from me. How can
  we move on if he feels that way?
  He thinks I might leave if I know him. He thinks that I
  might leave if he’s himself. Oh, this man is so
  complicated.
  As we get closer to his home, he starts radiating
  tension until it becomes palpable. As we drive, he scans
  the sidewalks and side alleys, his eyes darting everywhere,
  and I know he’s looking for Leila. I start looking, too.
  Every young brunette is a suspect, but we don’t see her.
  When he pulls into the garage, his mouth is set in a
  tense, grim line. I wonder why we’ve come back here if
  he’s going to be so wary and uptight. Sawyer is in the
  garage, patrolling. The defiled Audi is gone. He comes to
  open my door as Christian pulls in beside the SUV.
  “Hello, Sawyer,” I murmur my greeting.
  “Miss Steele.” He nods. “Mr. Grey.”
  “No sign?” Christian asks.
  “No, sir.”
  Christian nods, grasps my hand, and heads for the
  elevator. I know his brain is working overtime—he’s
  distracted. Once we’re inside he turns to me.
  “You are not allowed out of here alone. You
  understand?” he snaps.
  “Okay.” Jeez—keep your hair on. But his attitude
  makes me smile. I want to hug myself—now this man, all
  domineering and short with me I know. I marvel that I
  would have found it so threatening only a week or so ago
  when he spoke to me this way. But now, I understand him
  so much better. This is his coping mechanism. He’s
  stressed about Leila, he loves me, and he wants to protect
  me.
  “What’s so funny?” he murmurs, a hint of amusement
  in his expression.
  “You are.”
  “Me? Miss Steele? Why am I funny?” he pouts.
  Christian pouting is . . . hot.
  “Don’t pout.”
  “Why?” He’s even more amused.
  “Why?” He’s even more amused.
  “Because it has the same effect on me as I have on you
  when I do this.” I bite my lip deliberately.
  He raises his eyebrows, surprised and pleased at the
  same time. “Really?” He pouts again and leans down to
  give me a swift chaste kiss.
  I raise my lips to meet his, and in the nanosecond when
  our lips touch, the nature of the kiss changes—wildfire
  spreading through my veins from this intimate point of
  contact, driving me to him.
  Suddenly, my fingers are curling in his hair as he grabs
  me and pushes me against the elevator wall, his hands
  framing my face, holding me to his lips as our tongues
  thrash against each other. And I don’t know if it’s the
  confines of the elevator making everything much more real,
  but I feel his need, his anxiety, his passion.
  Holy shit. I want him, here, now.
  The elevator pings to a halt, the doors slide open, and
  Christian drags his face from mine, his hips still pinning me
  to the wall, his erection digging into me.
  to the wall, his erection digging into me.
  “Whoa,” he murmurs panting.
  “Whoa,” I mirror him, dragging a welcome breath into
  my lungs.
  He gazes at me, eyes blazing. “What you do to me,
  Ana.” He traces my lower lip with his thumb.
  Out of the corner of my eye, Taylor steps backward
  so he’s no longer in my line of sight. I reach up and kiss
  Christian at the corner of his beautifully sculptured mouth.
  “What you do to me, Christian.”
  He steps back and takes my hand, his eyes darker

  now, hooded. “Come,” he orders.
  Taylor is still in the foyer, waiting discreetly for us.
  “Good evening, Taylor,” Christian says cordially.
  “Mr. Grey, Miss Steele.”
  “I was Mrs. Taylor yesterday.” I grin at Taylor, who
  flushes.
  “That has a nice ring to it, Miss Steele,” Taylor says
  matter-of-factly.
  “I thought so, too.”
  Christian tightens his hold on my hand, scowling. “If
  you two have quite finished, I’d like a debrief.” He glares
  at Taylor, who now looks uncomfortable, and I cringe
  inwardly. I have overstepped the mark.
  “Sorry,” I mouth at Taylor, who shrugs and smiles
  kindly before I turn to follow Christian.
  “I’ll be with you shortly. I just want a word with Miss
  Steele,” Christian says to Taylor, and I know I’m in
  trouble.
  Christian leads me into his bedroom and closes the
  door.
  “Don’t flirt with the staff, Anastasia,” he scolds.
  I open my mouth to defend myself—then close it again,
  then open it. “I wasn’t flirting. I was being friendly—there
  is a difference.”
  “Don’t be friendly with the staff or flirt with them. I
  don’t like it.”
  Oh. Good-bye, carefree Christian. “I’m sorry,” I
  mutter and stare down at my fingers. He hasn’t made me
  feel like a child all day. Reaching down he cups my chin,
  feel like a child all day. Reaching down he cups my chin,
  pulling my head up to meet his eyes.
  “You know how jealous I am,” he whispers.
  “You have no reason to be jealous, Christian. You
  own me body and soul.”
  He blinks as if he’s finding this fact hard to process. He
  leans down and kisses me quickly, but with none of the
  passion we experienced a moment ago in the elevator.
  “I won’t be long. Make yourself at home,” he says
  sulkily and turns, leaving me standing in his bedroom,
  dazed and confused.
  Why on earth would he be jealous of Taylor? I
  shake my head in disbelief.
  Glancing at the alarm clock, I notice it’s just after eight.
  I decide to get my clothes ready for work tomorrow. I
  head upstairs to my room and open the walk-in closet. It’s
  empty. All the clothes have gone. Oh no! Christian has
  taken me at my word and disposed of the clothes. Shit.
  My subconscious glares at me. Well, that will be you
  and your big mouth.
  and your big mouth.
  Why did he take me at my word? My mother’s advice
  comes back to haunt me, “Men are so literal, darling.” I
  pout, staring at the empty space. There were some lovely
  clothes, too, like the silver dress I wore to the ball.
  I wander disconsolately into the bedroom, Wait a
  moment—what is going on? The iPad is gone. Where’s
  my Mac? Oh no. My first uncharitable thought is that Leila
  may have stolen them.
  I fly back downstairs and back into Christian’s
  bedroom. On the bedside table are my Mac, my iPad, and
  my satchel. It’s all here.
  I open the walk-in closet door. My clothes are here—
  all of them—sharing space with Christian’s clothes. When
  did this happen? Why does he never warn me before he
  does things like this?
  I turn, and he’s standing in the doorway.
  “Oh, they managed the move,” he mutters, distracted.
  “What’s wrong?” I ask. His face is grim.
  “Taylor thinks Leila was getting in through the
  emergency stairwell. She must have had a key. All the
  locks have been changed now. Taylor’s team has done a
  sweep of every room in the apartment. She’s not here.”
  He stops and runs a hand through his hair. “I wish I knew
  where she was. She’s evading all our attempts to find her
  when she needs help.” He frowns, and my earlier pique
  vanishes. I put my arms around him. Folding me into his
  embrace, he kisses my hair.
  “What will you do when you find her?” I ask.
  “Dr. Flynn has a place.”
  “What about her husband?”
  “He’s washed his hands of her.” Christian’s tone is
  bitter. “Her family is in Connecticut. I think she’s very
  much on her own out there.”
  “That’s sad.”
  “Are you okay with all your stuff being here? I want
  you to share my room,” he murmurs.
  Whoa, quick change of direction.
  “Yes.”
  “I want you sleeping with me. I don’t have nightmares
  “I want you sleeping with me. I don’t have nightmares
  when you’re with me.”
  “You have nightmares?”
  “Yes.”
  I tighten my hold around him. Holy cow. More
  baggage. My heart contracts for this man.
  “I was just getting my clothes ready for work
  tomorrow,” I mutter.
  “Work!” Christian exclaims as if it’s a dirty word, and
  he releases me, glaring.
  “Yes, work,” I reply, confused by his reaction.
  He stares at me with complete incomprehension. “But
  Leila—she’s out there,” he pauses. “I don’t want you to
  go to work.”
  What? “That’s ridiculous, Christian. I have to go to
  work.”
  “No, you don’t.”
  “I have a new job, which I enjoy. Of course I have to
  go to work.” What does he mean?
  “No, you don’t,” he repeats, emphatically.
  “No, you don’t,” he repeats, emphatically.
  “Do you think I am going to stay here twiddling my
  thumbs while you’re off being Master of the Universe?”
  “Frankly . . . yes.”
  Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty . . . give me strength.
  “Christian, I need to go to work.”
  “No, you don’t.”
  “Yes. I. Do.” I say it slowly as if he’s a child.
  He scowls at me. “It’s not safe.”
  “Christian . . . I need to work for a living, and I’ll be
  fine.”
  “No, you don’t need to work for a living—and how do
  you know you’ll be fine?” He’s almost shouting.
  What does he mean? He’s going to support me? Oh,
  this is beyond ridiculous—I’ve known him for what—five
  weeks?
  He’s angry now, his gray eyes stormy and flashing, but
  I don’t give a shit.
  “For heaven’s sake, Christian, Leila was standing at
  the end of your bed, and she didn’t harm me, and yes, I
  do need to work. I don’t want to be beholden to you. I
  have my student loans to pay.”
  His mouth presses into a grim line, as I place my hands
  on my hips. I am not budging on this. Who the fuck does
  he think he is?
  “I don’t want you going to work.”
  “It’s not up to you, Christian. This is not your decision
  to make.”
  He runs his hand through his hair as he stares at me.
  Seconds, minutes tick by as we glare at each other.
  “Sawyer will come with you.”
  “Christian, that’s not necessary. You’re being
  irrational.”
  “Irrational?” he growls. “Either he comes with you, or I
  will be really irrational and keep you here.”
  He wouldn’t, would he? “How, exactly?”
  “Oh, I’d find a way, Anastasia. Don’t push me.”
  “Okay!” I concede, holding up both my hands,
  placating him. Holy fuck—Fifty is back with a
  vengeance.
  vengeance.
  We stand, scowling at each other.
  “Okay—Sawyer can come with me if it makes you feel
  better.” I concede rolling my eyes. Christian narrows his
  and takes a menacing step in my direction. I immediately
  step back. He stops and takes a deep breath, closes his
  eyes, and runs both his hands through his hair. Oh no. Fifty
  is well and truly wound up.
  “Shall I give you a tour?”
  A tour? Are you kidding me? “Okay,” I mutter
  warily. Another change of tack—Mr. Mercurial is back in
  town. He holds out his hand and when I take it, he
  squeezes mine softly.
  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
  “You didn’t. I was just getting ready to run,” I quip.
  “Run?” Christian eyes widen.
  “I’m joking!” Oh jeez.
  He leads me out of the closet, and I take a moment to
  calm down. Adrenaline is still coursing through my body.
  A fight with Fifty is not to be undertaken lightly.
  A fight with Fifty is not to be undertaken lightly.
  He gives me a tour of the apartment, showing me the
  various rooms. Along with the playroom and three spare
  bedrooms upstairs, I’m intrigued to find that Taylor and
  Mrs. Jones have a wing to themselves—a kitchen,
  spacious living area, and a bedroom each. Mrs. Jones has
  not yet returned from visiting her sister who lives in
  Portland.
  Downstairs, the room that catches my eye is opposite
  his study—a TV room with a too-large plasma screen and
  assorted games consoles. It’s cozy.
  “So you do have an Xbox?” I smirk.
  “Yes, but I’m crap at it. Elliot always beats me. That
  was funny, when you thought I meant this room was my
  playroom.” He grins down at me his snit-fit forgotten.
  Thank heavens he’s recovered his good mood.
  “I’m glad you find me amusing, Mr. Grey,” I respond
  haughtily.
  “That you are, Miss Steele—when you’re not being
  exasperating, of course.”
  “I’m usually exasperating when you’re being
  unreasonable.”
  “Me? Unreasonable?”
  “Yes, Mr. Grey. Unreasonable could be your middle
  name.”
  “I don’t have a middle name.”
  “Unreasonable would suit then.”
  “I think that’s a matter of opinion, Miss Steele.”
  “I would be interested in Dr. Flynn’s professional
  opinion.”
  Christian smirks.
  “I thought Trevelyan was your middle name.”
  “No. Surname.”
  “But you don’t use it.”
  “It’s too long. Come,” he commands. I follow him out
  of the TV room through the great room to the main
  corridor past the utility room and an impressive wine cellar
  and into Taylor’s own large, well-equipped office. Taylor
  stands when we enter. There’s room in here for a meeting
  table that seats six. Above one desk is a bank of monitors.
  table that seats six. Above one desk is a bank of monitors.
  I had no idea the apartment had CCTV. It appears to
  monitor the balcony, stairwell, service elevator, and foyer.
  “Hi, Taylor. I’m just giving Anastasia a tour.”
  Taylor nods but doesn’t smile. I wonder if he’s been
  told off, too, and why is he still working? When I smile at
  him, he nods politely. Christian grabs my hand once more
  and leads me to the library.
  “And, of course, you’ve been in here.” Christian opens
  the door. I spy the green baize of the billiard table.
  “Shall we play?” I ask. Christian smiles, surprised.
  “Okay. Have you played before?”
  “A few times,” I lie, and he narrows his eyes, cocking
  his head to one side.
  “You’re a hopeless liar, Anastasia. Either you’ve never
  played before or—”
  I lick my lips. “Frightened of a little competition?”
  “Frightened of a little girl like you?” Christian scoffs
  good-naturedly.
  “A wager, Mr. Grey.”
  “A wager, Mr. Grey.”
  “You’re that confident, Miss Steele?” He smirks,
  amused and incredulous at once. “What would you like to
  wager?”
  “If I win, you’ll take me back into the playroom.”
  He gazes at me as if he can’t quite comprehend what
  I’ve said. “And if I win?” he asks after several shellshocked
  beats.
  “Then it’s your choice.”
  His mouth twists as he contemplates his answer.
  “Okay, deal.” He smirks. “Do you want to play pool,
  English snooker or carom billiards?”
  “Pool, please. I don’t know the others.”
  From a cupboard beneath one of the bookshelves,
  Christian takes out a large leather case. Inside the pool
  balls are nested in velvet. Quickly and efficiently, he racks
  the balls on the baize. I don’t think I’ve ever played pool
  on such a large table before. Christian hands me a cue and
  some chalk.
  “Would you like to break?” He feigns politeness. He’s
  enjoying himself—he thinks he’s going to win.
  “Okay.” I chalk the end of my cue, and blow the
  excess chalk off—staring up at Christian through my
  lashes. His eyes darken as I do.
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作者:佚名
章节:30 人气:2
摘要:四月八日至十二日据估计,美国南北战争期间约有六百名妇女参战。她们女扮男装投身军旅。在这方面,好莱坞错过了文化史上重要的一章,又或者就意识形态而言,这段历史太难处理?历史学者经常努力研究那些不遵守性别分际的女性,然而没有其他议题比武装战斗更清楚地画出这条分际线。(直至今日,女性参与瑞典传统的麋鹿狩猎活动仍会引发争议。 [点击阅读]
秘密花园
作者:佚名
章节:27 人气:2
摘要:玛丽·伦诺克斯被送到米瑟斯韦特庄园她舅舅那里,每个人都说没见过这么别扭的小孩。确实是这样。她的脸蛋瘦削,身材单薄,头发细薄,一脸不高兴。她的头发是黄色的,脸色也是黄的,因为她在印度出生,不是生这病就是得那病。她父亲在英国政府有个职务,他自己也总是生病。她母亲是个大美人,只关心宴会,想着和社交人物一起寻欢作乐。 [点击阅读]
老人与海
作者:佚名
章节:9 人气:2
摘要:1961年7月2日,蜚声世界文坛的海明威用自己的猎枪结束了自己的生命。整个世界都为此震惊,人们纷纷叹息这位巨人的悲剧。美国人民更是悲悼这位美国重要作家的陨落。欧内斯特·米勒尔·海明威(1899—1961年),美国小说家。1899年7月21日,海明威出生在美国伊利诺伊州芝加哥郊外橡树园镇一个医生的家庭。 [点击阅读]
茶花女
作者:佚名
章节:34 人气:2
摘要:玛格丽特原来是个贫苦的乡下姑娘,来到巴黎后,开始了卖笑生涯。由于生得花容月貌,巴黎的贵族公子争相追逐,成了红极一时的“社交明星”。她随身的装扮总是少不了一束茶花,人称“茶花女”。茶花女得了肺病,在接受矿泉治疗时,疗养院里有位贵族小姐,身材、长相和玛格丽特差不多,只是肺病已到了第三期,不久便死了。 [点击阅读]
追忆似水年华
作者:佚名
章节:129 人气:2
摘要:《追忆逝水年华》是一部与传统小说不同的长篇小说。全书以叙述者“我”为主体,将其所见所闻所思所感融合一体,既有对社会生活,人情世态的真实描写,又是一份作者自我追求,自我认识的内心经历的记录。除叙事以外,还包含有大量的感想和议论。整部作品没有中心人物,没有完整的故事,没有波澜起伏,贯穿始终的情节线索。 [点击阅读]
野性的呼唤
作者:杰克·伦敦
章节:13 人气:2
摘要:它目睹了人与人、狗与狗、强者与弱者之间冷酷无情和生死争斗,于是为了生存,它学会了只求活命、不顾道义的处世原则,变得凶悍、机智而狡诈。最后,在森林中狼群的呼唤下,巴克狼性*复萌,逃入丛林,重归荒野。在小说中,杰克·伦敦运用拟人手法,把狗眼中的世界及人类的本质刻画地淋漓尽致,反映了资本主义社会冷酷的现实和“优胜劣汰,适者生存”的客观现实。 [点击阅读]
金粉之谜
作者:佚名
章节:16 人气:2
摘要:一、夜访侦探夜晚,拉乌尔看完了戏,回到自己家里。在前厅的穿衣镜前面,他站了一会儿,自我欣赏了一番:优美的身躯,宽阔的肩膀,高挺的胸脯,健壮的肌肉,配上一套高级衣料制做的西服,真是一表人材。前厅不大,陈设挺考究。可以清楚地看出,这是单身汉居住的公寓套间,家具精美,起居恬适。住在这里,准是一个重视生活享受、又很富裕的人。每天晚上,拉乌尔都喜欢坐在工作间宽大的坐椅里,抽上一支香烟,闭目养神。 [点击阅读]
饥饿游戏1
作者:佚名
章节:27 人气:2
摘要:我睡醒的时候,床的另外半边冷冰冰的。我伸出手想试探一下波丽姆留在被子里的余温,结果只摸到了粗糙的帆布被单,她准是又做了噩梦,爬到妈妈被窝里去了。嗯,准没错。今天是收获节。我用胳膊支起身子,屋子里挺亮,正好看得见他们。小妹妹波丽姆侧身躺着,偎在妈妈怀里,她们的脸紧挨在一块儿。睡着的时候,妈妈看上去要年轻些,脸上尽管还是一样疲倦,可已经不那么憔悴了。 [点击阅读]