backward, forward.

“Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here. Only

me. You are mine.”

I groan.

“Please, Christian,” I whisper.

“What do you want, Anastasia? Tell me.”

I groan again. He pulls out and moves slowly back into me, circling his hips once

more.

“Tell me,” he murmurs.

“You, please.”

He increases the rhythm infinitesimally, and his breathing becomes more erratic. My

insides start quickening, and Christian picks up the rhythm.

“You. Are. So. Sweet,” he murmurs between each thrust. “I. Want. You. So. Much.”

I moan.

“You. Are. Mine. Come for me, baby,” he growls.

His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice. My body convulses around

him, and I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress, and

Christian follows with two sharp thrusts, and he freezes, pouring himself into me as he

finds his release. He collapses on top of me, his face in my hair.

“Fuck. Ana,” he breathes. He pulls out of me immediately and rolls onto his side of

the bed. I pull my knees up to my chest, utterly spent, and immediately drift off or pass out

into an exhausted sleep.

When I wake, it’s still dark. I have no idea how long I’ve slept. I stretch out beneath the

duvet, and I feel sore, deliciously sore. Christian is nowhere to be seen. I sit up, staring

out at the cityscape in front of me. There are fewer lights on amongst the skyscrapers, and

there’s a whisper of dawn in the east. I hear the music. The lilting notes of the piano, a sad,

sweet lament. Bach, I think, but I’m not sure.

I wrap the duvet round me and quietly pad down the corridor toward the big room.

Christian is at the piano, completely lost in the music he’s playing. His expression is sad

and forlorn, like the music. His playing is stunning. Leaning against the wall at the en-

trance, I listen enraptured. He’s such an accomplished musician. He sits naked, his body

bathed in the warm light cast by a solitary freestanding lamp beside the piano. With the rest

of the large room in darkness, it’s like he’s in his own isolated little pool of light, untouch-

able… lonely, in a bubble.

I pad quietly toward him, enticed by the sublime, melancholy music. I’m mesmer-

ized watching his long skilled fingers as they find and gently press the keys, thinking how

those same fingers have expertly handled and caressed my body. I flush and gasp at the

memory and press my thighs together. He glances up, his unfathomable gray eyes bright,

his expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

A frown flits across his face.

“Surely, I should be saying that to you,” he murmurs. He finishes playing and puts his

hands on his legs.

I notice now that he’s wearing PJ pants. He runs his fingers through his hair and stands.

His pants hang from his hips, in that way… oh my.My mouth goes dry as he casually

strolls around the piano toward me. He has broad shoulders, narrow hips, and his abdomi-

nal muscles ripple as he walks. He really is stunning.

“You should be in bed,” he admonishes.

“That was a beautiful piece. Bach?”

“Transcription by Bach, but it’s originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello.”

“It was exquisite, but very sad, such a melancholy melody.”

His lips quirk up in a half smile.

“Bed,” he orders. “You’ll be exhausted in the morning.”

“I woke and you weren’t there.”

“I find it difficult to sleep, and I’m not used to sleeping with anyone,” he murmurs. I

can’t fathom his mood. He seems a little despondent, but it’s difficult to tell in the dark-

ness. Perhaps it was the tone of the piece he was playing. He puts his arm around me and

gently walks me back to the bedroom.

“How long have you been playing? You play beautifully.”

“Since I was six.”

“Oh.” Christian as a six-year-old boy… my mind conjures an image of a beautiful,

copper-haired little boy with gray eyes and my heart melts – a moppet-haired kid who likes

impossibly sad music.

“How are you feeling?” he asks when we are back in the room. He switches on a

sidelight.

“I’m good.”

We both glance down at the bed at the same time. There’s blood on the sheets – evi-

dence of my lost virginity. I flush, embarrassed, pulling the duvet tighter around me.

“Well, that’s going to give Mrs. Jones something to think about,” Christian mutters as

he stands in front of me. He puts his hand under my chin and tips my head back, staring

down at me. His eyes are intense as he examines my face. I realize that I’ve not seen his

naked chest before. Instinctively, I reach out to run my fingers through the smattering of

dark hair on his chest to see how it feels. Immediately, he steps back out of my reach.

“Get into bed,” he says sharply. “I’ll come and lie down with you.” His voice softens.

I drop my hand and frown. I don’t think I’ve ever touched his torso. He opens a chest of

drawers and pulls out a t-shirt and quickly slips it on.

“Bed,” he orders again. I climb back onto the bed, trying not to think about the blood.

He clambers in beside me and pulls me into his embrace, wrapping his arms around me so

that I’m facing away from him. He kisses my hair gently, and he inhales deeply.

“Sleep, sweet Anastasia,” he murmurs, and I close my eyes, but I can’t help feel a re-

sidual melancholy either from the music or his demeanor. Christian Grey has a sad side.

Light fills the room, coaxing me from deep sleep to wakefulness. I stretch out and open

my eyes. It’s a beautiful May morning, Seattle at my feet. Wow, what a view. Beside

me, Christian Grey is fast asleep. Wow, what a view. I’m surprised he’s still in bed. He’s

facing me, and I have an unprecedented opportunity to study him. His lovely face looks

younger, relaxed in sleep. His sculptured, pouty lips are parted slightly, and his shiny,

clean hair is a glorious mess. How could anyone look this good and still be legal? I re-

member his room upstairs… perhaps he’s not legal. I shake my head, so much to think

about. It’s tempting to reach out and touch him, but like a small child, he’s so lovely when

he’s asleep. I don’t have to worry about what I’m saying, what he’s saying, what plans he

has, especially his plans for me.

I could gaze at him all day, but I have needs – bathroom needs. Slipping out of bed, I

find his white shirt on the floor and shrug it on. I walk through a door thinking that it might

be the bathroom, but I’m in a vast walk-in closet as big as my bedroom. Lines and lines

of expensive suits, shirts, shoes, and ties. How can anyone need this many clothes? I tut

with disapproval. Actually, Kate’s wardrobe probably rivals this. Kate! Oh no.I didn’t

think about her all evening. I was supposed to text her. Crap. I’m going to be in trouble. I

wonder briefly how she’s getting on with Elliot.

Returning to the bedroom, Christian is still asleep. I try the other door. It’s the bath-

room, and it’s bigger than my bedroom. Why does one man need so much space? Two

sinks, I notice with irony. Given he doesn’t sleep with anyone, one of them can’t have

been used.

I stare at myself in the gigantic mirror above the sinks. Do I look different? I feel dif-

ferent. I feel a little sore, if I’m honest, and my muscles - jeez it’s like I’ve never done any

exercise in my life. You don’t do any exercise in your life,my subconscious has woken.