on his arms. He thrusts into me sharply, causing me to cry out.

“That’s right, baby, feel me,” he says, his voice strained.

I tip my head back and do exactly that. This is what he does so well.

I move—countering his rhythm in perfect symmetry—numbing all thought and reason.

I am just sensation lost in this void of pleasure. Up and down . . . again and again . . . Oh

yes . . .Opening my eyes, I stare down at him, my breathing ragged, and he’s staring back

at me, eyes blazing.

“My Ana,” he mouths.

“Yes,” I rasp. “Always.”

He groans loudly, closing his eyes again, tipping his head back. Oh my . . .Seeing

Christian undone is enough to seal my fate, and I come audibly, exhaustingly, spinning

down and around, collapsing on top of him.

“Oh, baby,” he groans as he finds his release, holding me still and letting go.

My head is on his chest in the no-go area, my cheek nestled against the springy hair on

his sternum. I am panting, glowing, and I resist the urge to pucker my lips and kiss him.

I just lie on top of him, catching my breath. He smoothes my hair, and his hand runs

down my back, caressing me as his breathing calms.

“You are so beautiful.”

I lift my head to gaze at him, my expression skeptical. He frowns in response and sits

up quickly, taking me by surprise, his arm sweeping round to hold me in place. I clutch his

biceps as we are nose to nose.

“You. Are. Beautiful,” he says again, his tone emphatic.

“And you’re amazingly sweet sometimes.” I kiss him gently.

He lifts me and eases out of me. I wince as he does. Leaning forward, he kisses me

softly.

“You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?”

I flush. Why’s he going on about this?

“All those boys pursuing you—that isn’t enough of a clue?”

“Boys? What boys?”

“You want the list?” Christian frowns. “The photographer, he’s crazy about you, that

boy in the hardware store, your roommate’s older brother. Your boss,” he adds bitterly.

“Oh, Christian, that’s just not true.”

“Trust me. They want you. They want what’s mine.” He pulls me against him, and I lift

my arms to his shoulders, my hands in his hair, regarding him with amusement.

“Mine,” he repeats, his eyes glowing possessively.

“Yes, yours.” I reassure him, smiling. He looks mollified, and I feel perfectly comfort-

able naked in his lap on a bed in the full light of a Saturday afternoon. Who would have

thought? The lipstick marks remain on his exquisite body. I note some smears on the duvet

cover though, and wonder briefly what Mrs. Jones will make of them.

“The line is still intact,” I murmur and bravely trace the mark on his shoulder with my

index finger. He stiffens, blinking suddenly. “I want to go exploring.”

He regards me skeptically.

“The apartment?”

“No. I was thinking of the treasure map that we’ve drawn on you.” My fingers itch to

touch him.

His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he blinks with uncertainty. I rub my nose against his.

“And what would that entail exactly, Miss Steele?”

I lift my hand from his shoulder and run my fingertips down this face.

“I just want to touch you everywhere I’m allowed.”

Christian catches my index finger in his teeth, biting down gently.

“Ow,” I protest and he grins, a low growl coming from his throat.

“Okay,” he says, releasing my finger, but his voice is laced with apprehension. “Wait.”

He leans behind me, lifting me again, and removes his condom, dropping it unceremoni-

ously on the floor beside the bed.

“I hate those things. I’ve a good mind to call Dr. Greene around to give you a shot.”

“You think the top ob-gyn in Seattle is going to come running?”

“I can be very persuasive,” he murmurs, hooking my hair behind my ear. “Franco’s

done a great job on your hair. I like these layers.”

What?

“Stop changing the subject.”

He shifts me back so I’m straddling him, leaning on his propped-up knees, my feet on

either side of his hips. He leans back on his arms.

“Touch away,” he says without humor. He looks nervous, but he’s trying to hide it.

Keeping my eyes on his, I reach down and trace my finger underneath the lipstick line,

across his finely sculptured abdominal muscles. He flinches and I stop.

“I don’t have to,” I whisper.

“No, it’s fine. Just takes some . . . readjustment on my part. No one’s touched me for a

long time,” he murmurs.

“Mrs. Robinson?” The words pop unbidden out of my mouth, and amazingly, I manage

to keep all bitterness and rancor out of my voice.

He nods, his discomfort obvious. “I don’t want to talk about her. It will sour your good

mood.”

“I can handle it.”

“No, you can’t, Ana. You see red whenever I mention her. My past is my past. It’s a

fact. I can’t change it. I’m lucky that you don’t have one, because it would drive me crazy

if you did.”

I frown at him, but I don’t want to fight. “Drive you crazy? More than you are al-

ready?” I smile, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between us.

His lips twitch. “Crazy for you,” he whispers.

My heart swells with joy.

“Shall I call Dr. Flynn?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says dryly.

Shifting back so he drops his legs, I place my fingers back on his stomach and let them

drift across his skin. He stills once more.

“I like touching you.” My fingers skate down to his navel then southward along his

happy, happy trail. His lips part as his breathing changes, his eyes darken and his erection

stirs and twitches beneath me. Holy cow. Round two.

“Again?” I murmur.

He smiles. “Oh yes, Miss Steele, again.”

What a delicious way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I stand beneath the shower, absent-

mindedly washing myself, careful not to wet my tied-back hair, contemplating the last

couple of hours. Christian and vanilla seem to be going well.

He’s revealed so much today. It’s staggering, trying to assimilate all the information

and to reflect on what I’ve learned: his salary details— Whoa, he’s stinking rich, and for

someone so young; it’s just extraordinary—and the dossiers he has on me and on all his

brunette submissives. I wonder if they are all in that filing cabinet?

My subconscious purses her lips at me and shakes her head— don’t even go there.I

frown. Just a quick peek?

And there’s Leila—with a gun, potentially, somewhere—and her crap taste in music

still on his iPod. But even worse, Mrs. PaedoRobinson, I cannot wrap my head around her,

and I don’t want to. I don’t want her to be a shimmering-haired specter in our relationship.

He’s right, I do go off the deep end when I think of her, so perhaps it’s best if I don’t.

I step out of the shower and dry myself, and I’m suddenly seized by unexpected anger.

But who wouldn’t go off the deep end? What normal, sane person would do that to a

fifteen-year-old boy? How much has she contributed to his fuckedupness? I don’t under-

stand her. And worse still, he says she helped him. How?

I think of his scars, the stark physical embodiment of a horrific childhood and a sicken-

ing reminder of what mental scars he must bear. My sweet, sad Fifty Shades. He’s said such

loving things today. He’s crazy for me.

Staring at my reflection, I smile at the memory of his words, my heart brimming once

more, and my face transforms with a ridiculous smile. Perhaps we can make this work. But

how long will he want to do this without wanting to beat the crap out of me because I cross

some arbitrary line?