kitchen island.

Could I live here, married to Christian? After all that he’s done here? All the history

this place holds for him?

Marriage. It’s almost unbelievable and completely unexpected. But then everything

about Christian is unexpected. My lips quirk up with irony. Christian Grey, expect the un-

expected—Fifty Shades of Fucked-Up.

My smile fades. I look like his mother. This wounds me, deeply, and the air leaves my

lungs in a rush. We all look like his mom.

How the hell do I move on from the disclosure of that little secret? No wonder he didn’t

want to tell me. But surely he can’t remember much of his mother. I wonder once more, if

I should talk to Dr. Flynn. Would Christian let me? Perhaps he could fill in the gaps.

I shake my head. I feel world weary, but I’m enjoying the calm serenity of the great

room and its beautiful works of art—cold and austere, but in their own way, still beautiful

in the shadows and surely worth a fortune. Could I live here? For better, for worse? In sick-

ness and in health? I close my eyes, lean my head back against the glass, and take a deep,

cleansing breath.

The peaceful tranquility is shattered by a visceral, primeval cry that makes every single

hair on my body stand to attention. Christian! Holy fuck—what’s happened?I am on my

feet, running back to the bedroom before the echoes of that horrible sound have died away,

my heart thumping with fear.

I flip one of the light switches, and Christian’s bedside light comes to life. He’s tossing

and turning, writhing in agony. No!He cries out again, and the eerie, devastating sound

lances through me anew.

Shit—a nightmare!

“Christian!” I lean over him, grab his shoulders, and shake him awake. He opens his

eyes, and they are wild and vacant, scanning quickly round the empty room before coming

back to rest on me.

“You left, you left, you must have left,” he mumbles—his wide-eyed stare becoming

accusatory—and he looks so lost, it wrenches at my heart. Poor Fifty.

“I’m here.” I sit down on the bed beside him. “I’m here,” I murmur softly in an effort

to reassure him. I reach out to place my palm on the side of his face, trying to soothe him.

“You were gone,” he whispers rapidly. His eyes are still wild and frightened, but he

seems to be calming.

“I went to get a drink. I was thirsty.”

He closes his eyes and rubs his face. When he opens them again, he looks so desolate.

“You’re here. Oh, thank God.” He reaches for me, and grabbing me tightly, he pulls me

down on the bed beside him.

“I just went for a drink,” I murmur.

Oh, the intensity of his fear . . . I can feel it.His T-shirt is drenched in sweat, and his

heartbeat is pounding as he hugs me close. He’s gazing at me as if reassuring himself that

I am really here. I gently stroke his hair and then his cheek.

“Christian, please. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” I say soothingly.

“Oh, Ana,” he breathes. He grasps my chin to hold me in place, and then his mouth is

on mine. Desire sweeps through him, and unbidden my body responds—it’s so tied and

attuned to him. His lips are at my ear, my throat, then back at my mouth, his teeth gently

pulling at my lower lip, his hand traveling up my body from my hip to my breast, dragging

my T-shirt up. Caressing me, feeling his way through the dips and shallows of my skin, he

elicits the same familiar reaction, his touch sending shivers through me. I moan as his hand

cups my breast and his fingers tighten over my nipple.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

“I’m here for you. Only you, Christian.”

He groans and kisses me once more, passionately, with a fervor and desperation I’ve

not felt from him before. Grabbing the hem of his T-shirt, I tug and he helps me pull it off

over his head. Kneeling between my legs, he hastily pulls me upright and drags my T-shirt

off. His eyes are serious, wanting, full of dark secrets—exposed. He folds his hands around

my face and kisses me, and we sink down into the bed once more, his thigh between both

of mine so that he’s half-lying on top of me. His erection is rigid against my hip through

his boxer briefs. He wants me, but his words from earlier choose this moment to come back

and haunt me, what he said about his mother. And it’s like a bucket of cold water on my

libido. Fuck. I can’t do this. Not now.

“Christian . . . Stop. I can’t do this,” I whisper urgently against his mouth, my hands

pushing on his upper arms.

“What? What’s wrong?” he murmurs and starts kissing my neck, running the tip of his

tongue lightly down my throat. Oh . . .

“No, please. I can’t do this, not now. I need some time, please.”

“Oh, Ana, don’t overthink this,” he whispers as he nips my earlobe.

“Ah!” I gasp, feeling it in my groin, and my body bows, betraying me. This is so con-

fusing.

“I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need you. Touch me. Please.” He rubs his

nose against mine, and his quiet heartfelt plea moves me and I melt.

Touch him. Touch him while we make love. Oh my.

He rears up over me, gazing down, and in the half-light from the dimmed bedside light,

I can tell that he’s waiting, waiting for my decision, and he’s caught in my spell.

I reach up and tentatively place my hand on the soft patch of hair over his sternum. He

gasps and scrunches his eyes closed as if in pain, but I don’t take my hand away this time.

I move it up to his shoulders, feeling the tremor run through him. He groans, and I pull him

down to me and place both my hands on his back, where I’ve never touched him before, on

his shoulder blades, holding him to me. His strangled moan arouses me like nothing else.

He buries his head in my neck, kissing and sucking and biting me, before trailing his

nose up my chin and kissing me, his tongue possessing my mouth, his hands moving over

my body once more. His lips move down . . . down . . . down to my breasts, worshipping

as they go, and my hands stay on his shoulders and his back, enjoying the flex and ripple

of his finely honed muscles, his skin still damp from his nightmare. His lips close over my

nipple, pulling and tugging, so that it rises to greet his glorious skilled mouth.

I groan and run my fingernails across his back. And he gasps, a strangled moan.

“Oh, fuck, Ana,” he chokes, and it’s half cry, half groan. It tears at my heart, but also

deep inside me, tightening all the muscles below my waist. Oh, what I can do to him! My

inner goddess is writhing with want and I’m panting now, matching his tortured breaths

with my own.

His hand travels south, over my belly, down to my sex—and his fingers are on me, then

in me. I groan as he moves his fingers around inside me, in that way, and I push my pelvis

up to welcome his touch.

“Ana,” he breathes. He suddenly releases me and sits up; he removes his boxer briefs

and leans over to the bedside table to grab a foil packet. His eyes are a blazing gray as he

passes me the condom. “You want to do this? You can still say no. You can always say no,”

he murmurs.

“Don’t give me a chance to think, Christian. I want you, too.” I rip the packet open

with my teeth as he kneels between my legs, and with trembling fingers I slide it on to him.

“Steady,” he says. “You are going to unman me, Ana.”

I marvel at what I can do to this man with my touch. He stretches out over me, and for

now my doubts are pushed down and locked away in the dark, scary depths at the back of

my mind. I’m intoxicated with this man, my man, my Fifty Shades. He shifts suddenly,