soaking up the water that has beaded on his skin. Glancing up, I check his expression in the

mirror. He blinks at me, his eyes burning into mine.

I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips part infinitesimally. I dry his other arm

in a similar fashion, trailing kisses around his bicep, and a small smile plays on his lips.

Carefully, I wipe his back beneath the faint lipstick line, which is still visible. I hadn’t got-

ten round to washing his back.

“Whole back,” he says quietly, “with the towel.” He takes a sharp breath and screws his

eyes closed as I briskly dry him, careful to touch him only with the towel.

He has such an attractive back—broad, sculptured shoulders, all the small muscles

clearly defined. He really looks after himself. The beautiful sight is marred only by his

scars.

With difficulty, I ignore them and suppress my overwhelming urge to kiss each and

every one. When I finish he exhales, and I lean forward and reward him with a kiss on his

shoulder. Putting my arms around him, I dry his stomach. Our eyes meet once more in the

mirror, his expression amused but wary, too.

“Hold this.” I hand him a smaller face towel, and he gives me a bemused frown. “Re-

member in Georgia? You made me touch myself using your hands,” I add.

His face darkens, but I ignore his reaction and put my arms around him. Gazing at us

both in the mirror—his beauty, his nakedness, and me with my covered hair—we look

almost Biblical, as if from an Old Testament baroque painting.

I reach for his hand, which he willingly entrusts to me, and guide it up to his chest to

dry it, sweeping the towel slowly, awkwardly across his body. Once, twice—then again.

He’s completely immobilized, rigid with tension, except for his eyes, which follow my

hand clasped around his.

My subconscious looks on with approval, her normally pursed mouth smiling, and I

am the supreme puppet master. His anxiety ripples off his back in waves, but he maintains

eye contact, though his eyes are darker, more deadly. Showing their secrets maybe.

Is this a place I want to go? Do I want to confront his demons?

“I think you’re dry now,” I whisper as I drop my hand, gazing into the gray depths of

his eyes in the mirror. His breathing is accelerated, lips parted.

“I need you, Anastasia,” he whispers.

“I need you, too.” And as I say the words, I am struck how true they are. I cannot imag-

ine being without Christian, ever.

“Let me love you,” he says hoarsely.

“Yes,” I answer, and turning, he hauls me into his arms, his lips seeking mine, beseech-

ing me, worshipping me, cherishing me . . . loving me.

He trails his fingers up and down my spine as we gaze at each other, basking in our postco-

ital bliss, replete. We lie together, me on my front hugging my pillow, he on his side, and I

am treasuring his tender touch. I know that right now he needs to touch me. I am a balm for

him, a source of solace, and how could I deny him that? I feel exactly the same about him.

“So you can be gentle,” I murmur.

“Hmm . . . so it would seem, Miss Steele.”

I grin. “You weren’t particularly the first time we . . . um, did this.”

“No?” He smirks. “When, I robbed you of your virtue.”

“I don’t think you robbed me,” I mutter haughtily— Jeez, I’m not a helpless maiden.

“I think my virtue was offered up pretty freely and willingly. I wanted you, too, and if I

remember correctly, I rather enjoyed myself.” I smile shyly at him, biting my lip.

“So did I if I recall, Miss Steele. We aim to please,” he drawls and his face softens,

serious. “And it means you’re mine, completely.” All trace of humor has vanished as he

gazes at me.

“Yes, I am,” I murmur back at him. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Your biological father . . . do you know who he was?” This thought has been bugging

me. His brow creases, and then he shakes his head. “I have no idea. Wasn’t the savage who

was her pimp, which is good.”

“How do you know?”

“Something my dad . . . something Carrick said to me.”

I gaze at my Fifty expectantly, waiting. He smirks at me.

“So hungry for information, Anastasia,” he sighs, shaking his head. “The pimp discov-

ered the crack whore’s body and phoned it in to the authorities. Took him four days to make

the discovery though. He shut the door when he left . . . left me with her . . . her body.” His

eyes cloud at the memory.

I inhale sharply. Poor baby boy—the horror is too grim to contemplate.

“Police interviewed him later. He denied flat out I was anything to do with him, and

Carrick said he looked nothing like me.”

“Do you remember what he did look like?”

“Anastasia, this isn’t a part of my life I revisit very often. Yes, I remember what he

looked like. I’ll never forget him.” Christian’s face darkens and hardens, becoming more

angular, his eyes frosting with anger. “Can we talk about something else?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He shakes his head. “It’s old news, Ana. Not something I want to think about.”

“So what’s this surprise, then?” I need to change the subject before he goes all Fifty on

me. His expression lightens immediately.

“Can you face going out for some fresh air? I want to show you something.”

“Of course.”

I marvel how quickly he turns—mercurial as ever. He grins at me with his boyish, care-

free, I’m-only-twenty-seven smile, and my heart lurches into my mouth. So it’s something

close to his heart, I can tell. He swats me playfully on my behind.

“Get dressed. Jeans will be good. I hope Taylor’s packed some for you.”

He rises and pulls on his boxer briefs. Oh . . . I could sit here all day, watching him

wander around the room. My inner goddess agrees, swooning as she ogles from her chaise

longue.

“Up,” he scolds, bossy as ever. I gaze at him, grinning.

“Just admiring the view.”

He rolls his eyes at me.

As we dress, I notice that we move with the synchronization of two people who know

each other well, each watchful and acutely aware of the other, exchanging the occasional

shy smile and sweet touch. And it dawns on me that this is just as new for him as it is for

me. “Dry your hair,” Christian orders once we’re dressed.

“Domineering as ever.” I smirk at him, and he leans down to kiss my hair.

“That’s never going to change, baby. I don’t want you sick.”

I roll my eyes at him, and his mouth twists in amusement.

“My palms still twitch, you know, Miss Steele.”

“I am glad to hear it, Mr. Grey. I was beginning to think you were losing your edge,”

I retort.

“I could easily demonstrate that is not the case, should you so wish.” Christian drags

a large, cream, cable-knit sweater out of his bag and drapes it artfully over his shoulders.

With his white T-shirt and jeans, his artfully rumpled hair, and now this, he looks as if he’s

stepped out of the pages of a high-end glossy magazine.

No one should look this good. And I don’t know if it’s the momentary distraction of his

sheer perfect looks or the knowledge that he loves me, but his threat no longer fills me with

dread. This is my Fifty Shades; this is the way he is.

As I reach for the hairdryer, a tangible ray of hope blossoms. We will find a middle

way. We just have to recognize each other’s needs and accommodate them. I can do that,

surely?

I gaze at myself in the dresser mirror. I’m wearing the pale blue shirt that Taylor bought

and had packed for me. My hair is a mess, my face flushed, my lips swollen—I touch them,