Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (98 page)

This is getting me nowhere.

“Who’s Linc?”

“Her ex-husband.”

“Lincoln Timber?”

“The very same,” he smirks.

“And Isaac?”

“Her current submissive.”

Oh no
.

“He’s in his mid-twenties, Anastasia. You know—a consenting adult,” he adds quickly, correctly deciphering my look of disgust.

“Your age,” I mutter.

“Look, Anastasia, as I said to her, she’s part of my past. You are my future. Don’t let her come between us, please. And quite frankly, I’m really bored of this subject. I’m going to do some work.” He stands and gazes down at me. “Let it go. Please.”

I stare mulishly up at him.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he adds. “Your car arrived a day early. It’s in the garage. Taylor has the key.”

Whoa … the Saab? “Can I drive it tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not. And that reminds me. If you are going to leave your office, let me know. Sawyer was there, watching you. It seems I can’t trust you to look after yourself at all.” He scowls, making me feel like an errant child—again. And I would argue with him, but he’s pretty worked up over Elena, and I don’t want to push him any further, but I can’t resist one comment.

“Seems I can’t trust you either,” I mutter. “You could have told me Sawyer was watching me.”

“Do you want to fight about that, too?” he snaps.

“I wasn’t aware we were fighting. I thought we were communicating,” I mumble petulantly.

He closes his eyes briefly as he struggles to contain his temper. I swallow and watch anxiously. This could go either way.

“I have to work,” he says quietly, and with that, he leaves the room.

I exhale. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. I flop back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Can we ever have a normal conversation without it disintegrating into an argument? It’s exhausting.

We just don’t know each other that well. Do I really want to move in with him? I don’t even know if I should make him a cup of tea or coffee while he’s working. Should I disturb him at all? I have no idea of his likes and dislikes.

Evidently he’s bored with the whole Elena thing—he’s right, I need to move on. Let it go. Well, at least he’s not expecting me to be friends with her, and I hope that she’ll now stop hassling me for a meeting.

I get off the bed and wander to the window. Unlocking the balcony door, I open it and stroll over to the glass railing. Its transparency is unnerving. The air’s chilly and fresh, as I’m up so high.

I gaze out over the twinkling lights of Seattle. He’s so far removed from everything up here in his fortress. Answerable to no one.
He’d just told me he loves me, then all this crap comes up because of that dreadful woman
. I roll my eyes. His life is so complicated. He’s so complicated.

With a heavy sigh and a last glance at Seattle spread like cloths of gold at my feet, I decide to call Ray. I haven’t spoken to him for a while. It’s a brief conversation as usual, but I ascertain he’s fine and that I’m interrupting an important soccer match.

“Hope all is well with Christian,” he says casually, and I know he’s fishing for information but doesn’t really want to know.

“Yeah. We’re cool.” Sort of, and I’m moving in with him. Though we haven’t discussed a timetable.

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too, Annie.”

I hang up and check my watch. It’s only ten. Because of our discussion, I am feeling strangely innervated and restless.

I shower quickly, and back in the bedroom, decide to wear one of the nightdresses that Caroline Acton procured for me from Neiman Marcus. Christian’s always moaning about my T-shirts.
There are three. I choose the pale pink and put it on over my head. The fabric skims across my skin, caressing and clinging to me as it falls around my body. It feels luxurious—the finest, thinnest satin.
Whoa!
In the mirror, I look like a 1930s movie star. It’s long, elegant—and very un-me.

I grab the matching robe and decide to hunt out a book in the library. I could read on my iPad—but right now, I want the comfort and reassurance of a physical book. I’ll leave Christian alone. Perhaps he’ll recover his good humor once he’s finished working.

There are so many books in Christian’s library. Scanning every title will take forever. I glance occasionally at the billiard table and flush as I recall our previous evening. I smile when I see that the ruler is still on the floor. Picking it up, I swat my palm. Ow! It stings.

Why can’t I take a little more pain for my man? Disconsolately, I place it on the desk and continue my hunt for a good read.

Most of the books are first editions. How can he have amassed a collection like this in such a short time? Perhaps Taylor’s job description includes book buying. I settle on
Rebecca
by Daphne du Maurier. I haven’t read this for a long time. I smile as I curl up in one of the overstuffed armchairs and read the first line:

I am jostled awake as Christian lifts me in his arms.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “you fell asleep. I couldn’t find you.” He nuzzles my hair. Sleepily, I put my arms around his neck and breathe in his scent—oh, he smells so good—as he carries me back to the bedroom. He lays me down on the bed and covers me.

“Sleep, baby,” he whispers and he presses his lips against my forehead.

I WAKE SUDDENLY FROM
a disturbing dream and am momentarily disoriented. I find myself anxiously checking the end of the
bed, but there’s no one there. Drifting from the great room, I hear the faint strains of a complex melody from the piano.

What time is it? I check the alarm clock—two in the morning. Has Christian come to sleep at all? I disentangle my legs from my robe, which I’m still wearing, and clamber out of bed.

In the great room, I stand in the shadows, listening. Christian is lost to the music. He looks safe and secure in his bubble of light. And the tune he plays has a lilting melody, parts of which sound familiar, but so elaborate.
He’s so good
. Why does this always take me by surprise?

The whole scene looks different somehow, and I realize that the piano lid is down, giving me an unhindered view. He glances up and our eyes lock, his gray and softly luminous in the diffuse glow of the lamp. He continues to play, not faltering at all, as I make my way over to him. His eyes follow me, drinking me in, burning brighter. As I reach him, he stops.

“Why did you stop? That was lovely.”

“Do you have any idea how desirable you look at this moment?” he says, his voice soft.

Oh
. “Come to bed,” I whisper and his eyes heat as he holds out his hand. When I take it, he tugs unexpectedly so I fall into his lap. He wraps his arms around me and nuzzles my neck behind my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

“Why do we fight?” he whispers, as his teeth graze my earlobe.

My heart skips a beat, then starts pounding, coursing heat throughout my body.

“Because we’re getting to know each other, and you’re stubborn and cantankerous and moody and difficult,” I murmur breathlessly, shifting my head to give him better access to my throat. He runs his nose down my neck, and I feel his smile.

“I’m all those things, Miss Steele. It’s a wonder you put up with me.” He nips my earlobe and I moan. “Is it always like this?” he sighs.

“I have no idea.”

“Me neither.” He yanks the sash of my robe so it falls open,
and his hand skims down my body, over my breast. My nipples harden beneath his gentle touch and strain against the satin. He continues down to my waist, down to my hip.

“You feel so fine under this material, and I can see everything—even this.” He tugs gently on my pubic hair through the fabric, making me gasp, while his other hand fists in my hair at my nape. Pulling my head back, he kisses me, his tongue urgent, relentless, needy. I moan in response and caress his dear, dear face. His hand gently pulls my nightdress up, slowly, tantalizingly until he’s fondling my naked behind and then running his thumbnail down the inside of my thigh.

Suddenly he rises, startling me, and he lifts me onto the piano. My feet rest on the keys, sounding discordant, disjointed notes, and his hands skim up my legs and part my knees. He grabs my hands.

“Lie back,” he orders, holding my hands while I sink back on top of the piano. The lid is hard and uncompromising against my back. He lets go and pushes my legs open wider, my feet dancing over the keys, over the lower and higher notes.

Oh, boy
. I know what he’s going to do, and the anticipation … I groan loudly as he kisses the inside of my knee, then kisses and sucks and nips his way higher up my leg to my thigh. The soft satin of my nightgown rises higher, skimming over my sensitized skin, as he pushes the fabric. I flex my feet and the chords sound again. Closing my eyes, I surrender myself to him as his mouth reaches the apex of my thighs.

He kisses me … 
there … Oh, boy …
then gently blows before his tongue circles my clitoris. He pushes my legs wider. I feel so open—so exposed. He holds me in place, his hands just above my knees as his tongue tortures me, giving no quarter, no respite … no reprieve. Tilting my hips up, meeting and matching his rhythm, I am consumed.

“Oh, Christian, please.” I moan.

“Oh no, baby, not yet,” he teases, but I feel myself quicken as does he, and he stops.

“No,” I whimper.

“This is my revenge, Ana,” he growls softly. “Argue with me, and I am going to take it out on your body somehow.” He trails kisses along my belly, his hands traveling up my thighs, stroking, kneading, tantalizing. His tongue circles my navel as his hands—
and his thumbs … oh his thumbs
—reach the summit of my thighs.

“Ah!” I cry out as he pushes one inside me. The other persecutes me, slowly, agonizingly, circling around and around. My back arches off the piano as I writhe beneath his touch. It’s almost unbearable.

“Christian!” I cry, spiraling out of control with need.

He takes pity on me and stops. Lifting my feet off the keys, he pushes me; and suddenly, I’m sliding effortlessly up the piano, gliding on satin, and he’s following me up there, briefly kneeling between my legs to roll on a condom. He hovers over me and I’m panting, gazing up at him with raging need, and I realize he’s naked. When did he take off his clothes?

He stares down at me, and there’s wonder in his eyes, wonder and love and passion, and it’s breathtaking.

“I want you so badly,” he says and very slowly, exquisitely, he sinks into me.

I AM SPRAWLED ON
top of him, wrung out, my limbs heavy and languid, as we lie on top of his grand piano.
Oh my
. He’s much more comfortable to lie on than the piano. Careful not to touch his chest, I rest my cheek against him and keep perfectly still. He doesn’t object, and I listen to his breathing as it slows like mine. Gently he strokes my hair.

“Do you drink tea or coffee in the evening?” I ask sleepily.

“What a strange question,” he says dreamily.

“I thought I could bring you tea in your study, and then I realized I didn’t know what you would like.”

“Oh, I see. Water or wine in the evening, Ana. Though maybe I should try tea.”

His hand moves rhythmically down my back, stroking me tenderly.

“We really know very little about each other,” I murmur.

“I know,” he says, and his voice is mournful. I sit up to gaze at him.

“What is it?” I ask. He shakes his head as if to rid himself of some unpleasant thought, and raising his hand, he caresses my cheek, his eyes bright and earnest.

“I love you, Ana Steele,” he says.

The alarm goes off with the six a.m. traffic news, and I am rudely awakened from my disturbing dream of overly blonde and dark-haired women. I can’t grasp what it’s about, and I’m immediately distracted because Christian Grey is wrapped around me like silk, his unruly-haired head on my chest, his hand on my breast, his leg over me, holding me down. He’s still asleep, and I am too warm. But I ignore my discomfort, tentatively reaching up to run my fingers gently through his hair, and he stirs. Raising bright gray eyes, he grins sleepily.
Oh my … he’s adorable
.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he says.

“Good morning, beautiful, yourself.” I smile back at him. He kisses me, disentangles himself, and leans up on his elbow, staring down at me.

“Sleep okay?” he asks.

“Yes, despite the interruption to my sleep last night.”

His grin broadens. “Hmm. You can interrupt me like that anytime.” He kisses me again.

“How about you? Did you sleep well?”

“I always sleep well with you, Anastasia.”

“No more nightmares?”

“No.”

I frown and chance a question. “What are your nightmares about?”

His brow creases and his grin fades.
Shit—my stupid curiosity
.

“They’re flashbacks of my early childhood, or so Dr. Flynn says. Some vivid, some less so.” His voice drops and a distant, harrowed look crosses his face. Absentmindedly, he begins to trace my collarbone with his finger, distracting me.