already? No way!

“No to the tattoo!” I laugh to hide my horror.

“Lipstick, then.” He grins.

Shutting the Mac, I push it to the side. This could be fun.

“Come.” He holds his hands out to me. “Sit on me.”

I push my flats off my feet, scramble into a sitting position, and crawl over to him. He

lies down on the bed but keeps his knees flexed.

“Lean against my legs.”

I clamber over him and sit astride as instructed. His eyes are wide and cautious. But

he’s amused, too.

“You seem—enthusiastic for this,” he comments wryly.

“I’m always eager for information, Mr. Grey, and it means you’ll relax, because I’ll

know where the boundaries lie.”

He shakes his head, as if he can’t quite believe that he’s about to let me draw all over

his body.

“Open the lipstick,” he orders.

Oh, he’s in über-bossy mode, but I don’t care.

“Give me your hand.”

I give him my other hand.

“The one with the lipstick.” He rolls his eyes at me.

“Are you rolling your eyes at me?”

“Yep.”

“That’s very rude, Mr. Grey. I know some people who get positively violent at eye-

rolling.”

“Do you now?” His tone is ironic.

I give him my hand with the lipstick, and suddenly he sits up so we are nose to nose.

“Ready?” he asks in a low, soft murmur that makes everything tighten and tense inside

me. Oh wow.

“Yes,” I whisper. His proximity is alluring, his toned flesh close, his Christian-smell

mixed with my bodywash. He guides my hand up to the curve of his shoulder.

“Press down,” he breathes, and my mouth goes dry as he directs my hand down, from

the top of his shoulder, around his arm socket then down the side of his chest. The lipstick

leaves a broad, livid red streak it in its wake. He stops at the bottom of this ribcage then

directs me across his stomach. He tenses and stares, seemingly impassive, into my eyes,

but beneath his careful blank look, I see his restraint.

His aversion is held in strict check, the line of his jaw is strained, and there’s tension

around his eyes. Midway across his stomach he murmurs, “And up the other side.” He

releases my hand.

I mirror the line I’ve drawn on his left side. The trust he’s giving me is heady but tem-

pered by the fact that I can I count his pain. Seven small, round white scars dot his chest,

and it’s deep, dark purgatory to see this hideous, evil desecration of his beautiful body.

Who would do this to a child?

“There, done,” I whisper, containing my emotion.

“No, you’re not,” he replies and traces a line with his long index finger around the base

of his neck. I follow the line of his finger with a scarlet streak. Finishing, I gaze into the

gray depths of his eyes.

“Now my back,” he murmurs. He shifts so I have to climb off him, then he turns around

on the bed and sits cross-legged with his back to me.

“Follow the line from my chest, all the way round to the other side.” His voice is low

and husky.

I do as he says until a crimson line runs across the middle of his back, and as I do, I

count more scars marring his beautiful body. Nine in all.

Holy fuck.I have to fight the overwhelming need to kiss each one and stop the tears

pooling in my eyes. What kind of animal would do this? His head is down, and his body

tense as I complete the circuit round his back.

“Around your neck, too?” I whisper.

He nods, and I draw another line joining the first around the base of his neck beneath

his hair.

“Finished,” I murmur, and it looks like he’s wearing a bizarre skin-colored vest with a

harlot-red trim.

His shoulders slump as he relaxes, and he turns slowly to face me once again.

“Those are the boundaries,” he says quietly, his eyes dark and pupils dilated . . . from

fear? From lust? I want to hurl myself at him, but I restrain myself and gaze at him in

wonder.

“I can live with those. Right now I want to launch myself at you,” I whisper.

He gives me a wicked smile and holds out his hands, a gesture of supplication.

“Well, Miss Steele, I’m all yours.”

I squeal with childish delight and catapult myself into his arms, knocking him flat. He

twists, letting out a boyish laugh filled with relief that the ordeal is over. Somehow, I end

up beneath him on the bed.

“Now, about that rain check,” he breathes and his mouth claims mine once more.

My hands fist in his hair while my mouth is feverish against Christian’s, consuming him,

relishing the feel of his tongue against mine. And he’s the same, devouring me. It’s heav-

enly. Suddenly he drags me up and grasps the hem of my T-shirt, whipping it over my head

and throwing it on the floor.

“I want to feel you,” he says greedily against my mouth as his hands move behind me

to undo my bra. In one smooth move, it’s off and he pitches it aside.

He pushes me back down onto the bed, pressing me into the mattress, and his mouth

and hand move to my breasts. My fingers curl into his hair as he takes one of my nipples

between his lips and tugs hard.

I cry out as the sensation sweeps through my body, spikes, and tightens all the muscles

around my groin.

“Yes, baby, let me hear you,” he murmurs against my overheated skin.

Boy, I want him inside me, now. With his mouth, he toys with my nipple, pulling at it,

making me squirm and writhe and yearn for him. I sense his longing mixed with—what?

Veneration. It’s as if he’s worshipping me.

He teases me with his fingers, my nipple growing hard and elongating under his skillful

touch. His hand moves to my jeans, and he deftly undoes the button, tugs the zipper down,

and slips his hand inside my panties, sliding his fingers against my sex.

His breath hisses out as his finger glides into me. I push my pelvis up into the heel of

his hand, and he responds, rubbing against me.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes as he hovers over me, staring intently into my eyes. “You’re so

wet.” His voice is filled with wonder.

“I want you,” I murmur.

His mouth joins with mine again, and I feel his hungry desperation, his need for me.

This is new—it’s never been like this except perhaps when I came back from Geor-

gia—and his words from earlier drift back to me . . . I need to know we’re okay. This is the

only way I know how.

The thought unravels me. To know that I have such an effect on him, that I can offer

him so much solace, doing this—my inner goddess purrs with pure pleasure. He sits up,

grasps the hem of my jeans, and tugs them off, followed by my panties.

Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he stands, takes a foil packet out of his pocket, and

tosses it at me, then removes his jeans and boxers in one swift motion.

I rip the packet open greedily, and when he lies beside me again, I slowly roll the con-

dom on to him. He grabs both my hands and rolls on to his back.

“You. On top,” he orders, pulling me astride him. “I want to see you.”

Oh.

He guides me, and hesitantly I ease myself down onto him. He closes his eyes and

flexes his hips to meet me, filling me, stretching me, his mouth forming a perfect Oas he

exhales.

Oh, that feels so good—possessing him, possessing me.

He holds my hands, and I don’t know if it’s to steady me or keep me from touching

him, even though I have my road map.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs.

I rise again, heady with the power I have over him, watching Christian Grey slowly

coming apart beneath me. He lets go of my hands and grabs my hips, and I place my hands