“Why did you stop? That was lovely.”

“Do you have any idea how desirable you look at the moment?” he says, his voice soft.

Oh.“Come to bed,” I whisper and his eyes heat as he holds out his hand. When I take

it, he tugs unexpectedly so I fall into his lap. He wraps his arms around me and nuzzles my

neck behind my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

“Why do we fight?” he whispers, as his teeth graze my earlobe.

Holy cow.My heart skips a beat, then starts pounding, coursing heat throughout my

body.“Because we’re getting to know each other, and you’re stubborn and cantankerous and

moody and difficult,” I murmur breathlessly, shifting my head to give him better access to

my throat. He runs his nose down my neck, and I feel his smile.

“I’m all those things, Miss Steele. It’s a wonder you put up with me.” He nips my ear-

lobe and I moan. “Is it always like this?” he sighs.

“I have no idea.”

“Me neither.” He yanks the sash of my robe so it falls open, and his hand skims down

my body, over my breast. My nipples harden beneath his gentle touch and strain against the

satin. He continues down to my waist, down to my hip.

“You feel so fine under this material, and I can see everything—even this.” He tugs

gently on my pubic hair through the fabric, making me gasp, while his other hand fists

in my hair at my nape. Pulling my head back, he kisses me, his tongue urgent, relentless,

needy. I moan in response and caress his dear, dear face. His hand gently pulls my night-

dress up, slowly, tantalizingly until he’s fondling my naked behind and then running his

thumbnail down the inside of my thigh.

Suddenly he rises, startling me, and he lifts me bodily onto the piano. My feet rest on

the keys, sounding discordant, disjointed notes, and his hands skim up my legs and part my

knees. He grabs my hands.

“Lie back,” he orders, holding my hands while I sink back on top of the piano. The lid

is hard and uncompromising against my back. He lets go and pushes my legs open wider,

my feet dancing over the keys, over the lower and higher notes.

Oh boy.I know what he’s going to do, and the anticipation . . . I groan loudly as he

kisses the inside of my knee, then kisses and sucks and nips his way higher up my leg to my

thigh. The soft satin of my nightgown rises higher, skimming over my sensitized skin, as he

pushes the fabric. I flex my feet and the chords sound again. Closing my eyes, I surrender

myself to him as his mouth reaches the apex of my thighs.

He kisses me . . . there . . . Oh boy . . .then gently blows before his tongue circles my

clitoris. He pushes my legs wider. I feel so open—so exposed. He holds me in place, his

hands just above my knees as his tongue tortures me, giving no quarter, no respite . . . no

reprieve. Tilting my hips up, meeting and matching his rhythm, I am consumed.

“Oh, Christian, please.” I moan.

“Oh no, baby, not yet,” he teases, but I feel myself quicken as does he, and he stops.

“No,” I whimper.

“This is my revenge, Ana,” he growls softly. “Argue with me, and I am going to take

it out on your body somehow.” He trails kisses along my belly, his hands traveling up my

thighs, stroking, kneading, tantalizing. His tongue circles my navel as his hands— and his

thumbs . . . oh his thumbs—reach the summit of my thighs.

“Ah!” I cry out as he pushes one inside me. The other persecutes me, slowly, agoniz-

ingly, circling round and round. My back arches off the piano as I writhe beneath his touch.

It’s almost unbearable.

“Christian!” I cry, spiraling out of control with need.

He takes pity on me and stops. Lifting my feet off the keys, he pushes me; and sud-

denly, I’m sliding effortlessly up the piano, gliding on satin, and he’s following me up

there, briefly kneeling between my legs to roll on a condom. He hovers over me and I’m

panting, gazing up at him with raging need, and I realize he’s naked. When did he take off

his clothes?

He stares down at me, and there’s wonder in his eyes, wonder and love and passion,

and it’s breathtaking.

“I want you so badly,” he says and very slowly, exquisitely, he sinks into me.

I am sprawled on top of him, wrung out, my limbs heavy and languid, as we lie on top of

his grand piano. Oh my.He’s much more comfortable to lie on than the piano. Careful not

to touch his chest, I rest my cheek against him and keep perfectly still. He doesn’t object,

and I listen to his breathing as it slows like mine. Gently he strokes my hair.

“Do you drink tea or coffee in the evening?” I ask sleepily.

“What a strange question,” he says dreamily.

“I thought I could bring you tea in your study, and then I realized I didn’t know what

you would like.”

“Oh, I see. Water or wine in the evening, Ana. Though maybe I should try tea.”

His hand moves rhythmically down my back, stroking me tenderly.

“We really know very little about each other,” I murmur.

“I know,” he says, and his voice is mournful. I sit up to gaze at him.

“What is it?” I ask. He shakes his head as if to rid himself of some unpleasant thought,

and raising his hand, he caresses my cheek, his eyes bright and earnest.

“I love you, Ana Steele,” he says.

The alarm blasts on with the six am traffic news, and I am rudely awakened from my dis-

turbing dream of over-blond and dark-haired women. I can’t grasp what it’s about, and I’m

immediately distracted because Christian Grey is wrapped around me like silk, his unruly-

haired head on my chest, his hand on my breast, his leg over me, holding me down. He’s

still asleep, and I am too warm. But I ignore my discomfort, tentatively reaching up to run

my fingers gently through his hair, and he stirs. Raising bright gray eyes, he grins sleepily.

Holy cow . . . he’s adorable.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he says.

“Good morning, beautiful yourself.” I smile back at him. He kisses me, disentangles

himself, and leans up on his elbow, staring down at me.

“Sleep okay?” he asks.

“Yes, despite the interruption to my sleep last night.”

His grin broadens. “Hmm. You can interrupt me like that anytime.” He kisses me again.

“How about you? Did you sleep well?”

“I always sleep well with you, Anastasia.”

“No more nightmares?”

“No.”

I frown and chance a question. “What are your nightmares about?”

His brow creases and his grin fades. Shit—my stupid curiosity.

“They’re flashbacks of my early childhood, or so Dr. Flynn says. Some vivid, some

less so.” His voice drops and a distant, harrowed look crosses his face. Absentmindedly, he

begins to trace my collarbone with his finger, distracting me.

“Do you wake up crying and screaming?” I try in vain to joke.

He looks at me, puzzled. “No, Anastasia. I’ve never cried. As far as I can remember.”

He frowns, as if reaching into the depths of his memories. Oh no—that’s too dark a place

to go at this hour, surely.

“Do you have any happy memories of your childhood?” I ask quickly, mainly to dis-

tract him. He looks pensive for a moment, still running his finger along my skin.

“I recall the crack whore baking. I remember the smell. A birthday cake I think. For

me. And then there’s Mia’s arrival with my mom and dad. My mom was worried about

my reaction, but I adored baby Mia immediately. My first word was Mia.I remember my

first piano lesson. Miss Kathie, my tutor, was awesome. She kept horses, too.” He smiles