“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.

“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 . . .

“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.”

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 feeling of his possession, instinc-

tively 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 mil-

lion 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 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 fam-

ished,” 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 bal-

loon underneath. Christian reaches for it and gazes up at me, puzzled.

“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 just-fucked 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