who is undeserving, and I’m just sorry that I can’t do all those things for you. Maybe with

time . . . I don’t know . . . but yes, I accept your proposition. Where do I sign?”

He snakes his arms around me and crushes me to him.

“Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he buries his nose in my hair.

We sit, our arms wrapped around each other, listening to the music—a soothing piano

piece—mirroring the emotions in the car, the sweet tranquil calm after the storm. I snuggle

into his arms, resting my head in the crook of his neck. He gently strokes my back.

“Touching is a hard limit for me, Anastasia,” he whispers.

“I know. I wish I understood why.”

After a while, he sighs, and in a soft voice he says, “I had a horrific childhood. One of

the crack whore’s pimps . . .” His voice trails off, and his body tenses as he recalls some

unimaginable horror. “I can remember that,” he whispers, shuddering.

Abruptly, my heart constricts as I remember the burn scars marring his skin. Oh, Chris-

tian.I tighten my arms around his neck.

“Was she abusive? Your mother?” My voice is low and soft with unshed tears.

“Not that I remember. She was neglectful. She didn’t protect me from her pimp.”

He snorts. “I think it was me who looked after her. When she finally killed herself, it

took four days for someone to raise the alarm and find us . . . I remember that.”

I cannot contain my gasp of horror. Holy mother fuck. Bile rises in my throat.

“That’s pretty fucked-up,” I whisper.

“Fifty shades,” he murmurs.

I turn my head and press my lips against his neck, seeking and offering solace as I

imagine a small, dirty, gray-eyed boy lost and lonely beside the body of his dead mother.

Oh, Christian.I breathe in his scent. He smells heavenly, my favorite fragrance in the

entire world. He tightens his arms around me and kisses my hair, and I sit wrapped in his

embrace as Taylor speeds into the night.

When I wake, we’re driving through Seattle.

“Hey,” Christian says softly.

“Sorry,” I murmur as I sit up, blinking and stretching. I am still in his arms, on his lap.

“I could watch you sleep forever, Ana.”

“Did I say anything?”

“No. We’re nearly at your place.”

Oh? “We’re not going to yours?”

“No.”

I sit up and gaze at him. “Why not?”

“Because you have work tomorrow.”

“Oh.” I pout.

He smirks at me. “Why, did you have something in mind?”

I flush. “Well, maybe.”

He chuckles. “Anastasia, I am not going to touch you again, not until you beg me to.”

“What!”

“So that you’ll start communicating with me. Next time we make love, you’re going to

have to tell me exactly what you want in fine detail.”

“Oh.” He shifts me off his lap as Taylor pulls up outside my apartment. Christian

climbs out and holds the car door open for me.

“I have something for you.” He moves to the back of the car, opens the trunk, and pulls

out a large gift-wrapped box. What the hell is this?

“Open it when you get inside.”

“You’re not coming in?”

“No, Anastasia.”

“So when will I see you?”

“Tomorrow.”

“My boss wants me to go for a drink with him tomorrow.”

Christian’s face hardens. “Does he, now?” His voice is laced with latent menace.

“To celebrate my first week,” I add quickly.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“I could pick you up from there.”

“Okay . . . I’ll e-mail or text you.”

“Good.”

He walks me to the lobby door and waits while I dig my keys out of my purse. As I

unlock the door, he leans forward and cups my chin, tilting my head back. His mouth hov-

ers over mine, and closing his eyes, he runs a trail of kisses from the corner of my eye to

the corner of my mouth.

A small moan escapes my mouth as my insides melt and unfurl.

“Until tomorrow,” he breathes.

“Goodnight, Christian,” I whisper, and I hear the need in my voice.

He smiles.

“In you go,” he orders, and I walk through the lobby carrying my mysterious parcel.

“Laters, baby,” he calls, then turns and with his easy grace, heads back to the car.

Once in the apartment, I open the gift box and find my MacBook Pro laptop, the Black-

berry, and another rectangular box. What is this? I unwrap the silver paper. Inside is a

black, slim, leather case.

Opening the case, I find an iPad. Holy shit . . . an iPad.A white card is resting on the

screen with a message written in Christian’s handwriting:

Holy cow. I have a Christian Grey mix-tape in the guise of a high-end iPad. I shake my

head in disapproval because of the expense, but deep down I love it. Jack at the office has

one, so I know how they work.

I switch it on and gasp as the wallpaper image appears: a small model glider. Oh my.

It’s the Blanik L23 I gave him, mounted on a glass stand and sitting on what I think is

Christian’s desk at his office. I gape at it.

He built it!He really did build it. I remember now he mentioned it in the note with the

flowers. I’m reeling, and I know in that instant that he’s put a great deal of thought into

this gift.

I slide the arrow at the bottom of the screen to unlock it and gasp again. The back-

ground photograph is of Christian and me at my graduation in the marquee. It’s the one

that appeared in the Seattle Times. Christian looks so handsome and I can’t help my face-

splitting grin, as my inner goddess curls up hugging herself on her chaise longue— Yes, and

he’s mine!

With a swipe of my finger, the icons shift, and several new ones appear on the next

screen. A Kindle app, iBooks, Words—whatever that is.

Holy shit! The British Library?I touch the icon and a menu appears: Historical col-

lection. Scrolling down, I select novels of tHe 18tH and 19tH century. Another menu. I

tap on a title: The AmericAnby Henry James. A new window opens, offering me a scanned

copy of the book to read. Holy crap—it’s an early edition, published in 1879, and it’s on

my iPad! He’s bought me the British Library at a touch of a button.

I exit quickly, knowing that I could be lost in this app for an eternity. I notice a “good

food” app that makes me roll my eyes and smile at the same time, a news app, a weather

app, but his note mentioned music. I go back to the main screen, hit the iPod icon and a

playlist appears. I scroll through the songs, and the list makes me smile. Thomas Tallis—

I’m not going to forget that in a hurry. I heard it twice, after all, while he flogged and fucked

me. “Witchcraft.” My grin gets wider—dancing round the great room. The Bach Marcello

piece— oh no, that’s way too sad for my mood right now. Hmm.Jeff Buckley— yeah, I’ve

heard of him.Snow Patrol—my favorite band—and a song called “Principles of Lust” by

Enigma. How Christian. I smirk. Another called “Possession” . . . oh yes, very Fifty Shades.

And a few more I have never heard.

Selecting a song that catches my eye, I press play. It’s called “Try” by Nellie Furtado.

She starts to sing, and her voice is a silken scarf wrapping around me, enveloping me. I lie

down on my bed.

Does this mean Christian’s going to try? Try this new relationship? I drink in the lyrics,

staring at the ceiling, trying to understand his turnaround. He missed me. I missed him. He

must have some feelings for me. He must. This iPad, these songs, these apps—he cares. He