“Now your T-shirt,” I whisper and lift it by the hem. He cooperates, raising his arms

and backing away, making it easier for me to pull it off. Once off, he gazes down at me,

intently, wearing just his jeans that hang so provocatively from his hips. The band of his

boxer briefs is visible.

My eyes move hungrily up across his taut stomach to the remains of the lipstick line,

faded and smudged, then up to his chest. I want nothing more than to run my tongue

through his chest hair to savor his taste.

“Now what?” he whispers, eyes blazing.

“I want to kiss you here.” I run my finger from hipbone to hipbone across his belly.

His lips part as he inhales sharply. “I’m not stopping you,” he breathes.

I take his hand. “You’d better lie down then,” I murmur and lead him to the side of the

four-poster bed. He seems bewildered, and it occurs to me that perhaps no one has taken

the lead with him since . . . her. No, don’t go there.

Lifting the covers, he sits on the edge of the bed, gazing up at me, waiting, his expres-

sion wary and serious. I stand before him and slip off his denim jacket and let it drop to the

floor, then I shuffle out of his sweatpants.

He rubs his thumb over the tips of his fingers. He’s itching to touch me, I can tell, but

he suppresses the urge. Taking a deep breath and beyond courageous, I reach for the hem

of my T-shirt and lift it over my head so I am naked before him. His eyes don’t leave mine,

but he swallows and his lips part.

“You are Aphrodite, Anastasia,” he murmurs.

I clasp his face in my hands, tip his head up, and bend to kiss him. He groans low in

his throat.

As I place my mouth on his, he grabs my hips, and before I know it, I am pinned be-

neath him, his legs forcing mine apart so that he’s cradled against my body between my

legs. He’s kissing me, ravaging my mouth, our tongues entwined. His hand trails from my

thigh, over my hip, along my belly to my breast, squeezing, kneading, and pulling entic-

ingly on my nipple.

I groan and tilt my pelvis involuntarily against him, finding a delicious friction against

the seam of his fly and his growing erection. He stops kissing me and gazes down at me

bemused and breathless. He flexes his hips so his erection pushes against me . . . . Yes. Right

there.

I close my eyes and moan, and he does it again, but this time I push back, relishing his

answering moan as he kisses me again. He continues the slow delicious torture—rubbing

me, rubbing him. And he’s right—getting lost in him—it’s intoxicating to the exclusion of

everything else. All my worries are obliterated.

I am here in this moment with him—my blood singing in my veins, thrumming loudly

through my ears, mixed with the sound of our panting breaths. I bury my hands in his

hair, holding him to my mouth, consuming him, my tongue as avaricious as his. I trail my

fingers down his arms, down his lower back to the waistband of his jeans and push my in-

trepid, greedy hands inside, urging him on and on—forgetting everything, except us.

“You’re going to unman me, Ana,” he whispers suddenly, breaking away from me and

kneeling up. He briskly pulls down his jeans and hands me a foil packet.

“You want me, baby, and I sure as hell want you. You know what to do.”

With anxious, dexterous fingers, I rip open the foil and unroll the condom over him. He

grins down at me, his mouth open, eyes misty gray and full of carnal promise. Leaning over

me, he rubs his nose against mine, his eyes closed, and deliciously, slowly, he enters me.

I grasp his arms and tilt my chin up, reveling in the exquisitely full feeling of his pos-

session. He runs his teeth along my chin, eases back, and then slides into me again—so

slow, so sweet, so tender—his body pressing down on me, his elbows and his hands on

either side of my face.

“You make me forget everything. You are the best therapy,” he breathes, moving at an

achingly leisurely pace, savoring every inch of me.

“Please, Christian—faster,” I murmur, wanting more, now.

“Oh no, baby. I need this slow.” He kisses me sweetly, gently biting my lower lip and

absorbing my soft moans.

I move my hands into his hair and surrender myself to his rhythm as slowly and surely

my body climbs higher and higher and plateaus, then falls hard and fast as I come around

him.“Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he lets go, my name a benediction on his lips as he finds his

release.

His head rests on my belly, his arms wrapped around me. My fingers forage in his unruly

hair, and we lie like this for I don’t know how long. It’s so late and I am so tired, but I just

want to enjoy the quiet serene after-glow of making love with Christian Grey, because

that’s what we’ve done, gentle, sweet lovemaking.

He’s come a long way, as have I, in such a short time. It’s almost too much to absorb.

With all the fucked-up stuff, I am losing sight of his simple, honest journey with me.

“I will never get enough of you. Don’t leave me,” he murmurs and kisses my belly.

“I’m not going anywhere, Christian, and I seem to remember that I wanted to kiss your

belly,” I grumble sleepily.

He grins against my skin. “Nothing stopping you now baby.”

“I don’t think I can move I’m so tired.”

Christian sighs and shifts reluctantly, coming to lie beside me with his head on his

elbow and dragging the covers over us. He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing, warm,

loving.

“Sleep now, baby.” He kisses my hair and wraps his arm around me and I drift.

When I open my eyes, light is filling the room, making me blink. My head is fuzzy from

lack of sleep. Where am I? Oh—the hotel . . .

“Hi,” Christian murmurs, smiling fondly at me. He’s lying beside me, fully dressed,

on top of the bed. How long has he been here? Has he been studying me? Suddenly, I feel

incredibly shy as my face heats under his steady gaze.

“Hi,” I murmur, grateful that I am lying on my front. “How long have you been watch-

ing me?”

“I could watch you sleep for hours, Anastasia. But I’ve only been here about five min-

utes.” He leans over and kisses me gently. “Dr. Greene will be here shortly.”

“Oh.” I’d forgotten about Christian’s inappropriate intervention.

“Did you sleep well?” he inquires mildly. “Certainly seemed like it to me, with all that

snoring.”

Oh, playful teasing Fifty.

“I do not snore!” I pout petulantly.

“No. You don’t.” He grins at me. The faint line of red lipstick is still visible around his

neck.“Did you shower?”

“No. Waiting for you.”

“Oh . . . okay.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten fifteen. I didn’t have the heart to wake you earlier.”

“You told me you didn’t have a heart at all.”

He smiles, sadly but doesn’t answer. “Breakfast is here—pancakes and bacon for you.

Come, get up, I’m getting lonely out here.” He swats me sharply on my behind, making me

jump, and rises from the bed.

Hmm . . .Christian’s version of warm affection.

As I stretch, I’m aware I ache all over . . . no doubt a result of all the sex, dancing, and

teetering in expensive high-heeled shoes. I stagger out of bed and make my way into the

sumptuously appointed bathroom while going over the events of the previous day in my

mind. When I come out, I don one of the over-fluffy bathrobes that hang on a brass peg in

the bathroom.

Leila—the girl who looks like me—that’s the most startling image my brain conjures

for conjecture, that and her eerie presence in Christian’s bedroom. What did she want? Me?