Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey Read online

  “So the obedience thing still stands?”

  “Oh, yes.” He grins.

  I shake my head amused, and before I realize it, I roll my eyes at him.

  “Did you just roll your eyes at me, Anastasia?” he breathes.

  Oh fuck.

  “Possibly, depends what your reaction is.”

  “Same as always,” he says, shaking his head slightly, his eyes alight with excitement.

  I swallow instinctively and a frisson of exhilaration runs through me.

  “So... ” Holy shit. What am I going to do?

  “Yes?” He licks his lower lip.

  “You want to spank me now.”

  “Yes. And I will.”

  “Oh, really, Mr. Grey?” I challenge, grinning back at him. Two can play this game.

  “Are you going to stop me?”

  “You’re going to have to catch me first.”

  His eyes widen a fraction, and he grins, slowly getting to his feet.

  “Oh, really, Miss Steele?”

  The breakfast bar is between us. I have never been so grateful for its existence than in this moment.

  “And you’re biting your lip,” he breathes, moving slowly to his left as I move to mine.

  “You wouldn’t,” I tease. “After all, you roll your eyes.” I try reasoning with him. He continues to move toward his left, as do I.

  “Yes, but you’ve just raised the bar on the excitement stakes with this game.” His eyes blaze, and wild anticipation emanates from him.

  “I’m quite fast, you know.” I try for nonchalance.

  “So am I.”

  He’s stalking me, in his own kitchen.

  “Are you going to come quietly?” he asks.

  “Do I ever?”

  “Miss Steele, what do you mean?” he smirks. “It’ll be worse for you if I have to come and get you.”

  “That’s only if you catch me, Christian. And right now, I have no intention of letting you catch me.”

  “Anastasia, you may fall and hurt yourself. Which will put you in direct contravention of rule number seven.”

  “I have been in danger since I met you, Mr. Grey, rules or no rules.”

  “Yes you have.” He pauses, and his brow furrows slightly.

  Suddenly, he lunges for me, making me squeal and run for the dining room table. I manage to escape, putting the table between us. My heart is pounding and adrenaline has spiked through my body… boy... this is so thrilling. I’m a child again, though that’s not right. I watch him carefully as he paces deliberately toward me. I inch away.

  “You certainly know how to distract a man, Anastasia.”

  “We aim to please, Mr. Grey. Distract you from what?”

  “Life. The universe.” He waves one of his hands vaguely.

  “You did seem very preoccupied as you were playing.”

  He stops and folds his arms, his expression amused.

  “We can do this all day, baby, but I will get you, and it will just be worse for you when I do.”

  “No, you won’t.” I must not be overconfident. I repeat this as a mantra. My subconscious has found her Nikes, and she’s on the starting blocks.

  “Anyone would think you didn’t want me to catch you.”

  “I don’t. That’s the point. I feel about punishment the way you feel about me touching you.”

  His entire demeanor changes in a nanosecond. Gone is playful Christian, and he stands staring at me as if I’d slapped him. He’s ashen.

  “That’s how you feel?” he whispers.

  Those four words, and the way he utters them, speaks volumes. Oh no. They tell me so much more about him and how he feels. They tell me about his fear and loathing. I frown. No, I don’t feel that bad. No way. Do I?

  “No. It doesn’t affect me quite as much as that, but it gives you an idea,” I murmur, staring anxiously at him.

  “Oh,” he says.

  Crap. He looks completely and utterly lost, like I’ve pulled the rug from under his feet.

  Taking a deep breath, I move round the table until I am standing in front of him, gazing into his apprehensive eyes.

  “You hate it that much?” he breathes, his eyes filled with horror.

  “Well… no,” I reassure him. Jeez – that’s how he feels about people touching him? “No. I feel ambivalent about it. I don’t like it, but I don’t hate it.”

  “But last night, in the playroom, you… ” he trails off.

  “I do it for you, Christian, because you need it. I don’t. You didn’t hurt me last night. That was in a different context, and I can rationalize that internally, and I trust you. But when you want to punish me, I worry that you’ll hurt me.”

  His gray eyes blaze like a turbulent storm. Time moves, and expands and slips away before he answers softly.

  “I want to hurt you. But not beyond anything that you couldn’t take.”

  Fuck!

  “Why?”

  He runs his hand through his hair, and he shrugs.

  “I just need it.” He pauses, gazing at me with anguish, and he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t tell you,” he whispers.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Won’t.”

  “So you know why.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you won’t tell me.”

  “If I do, you will run screaming from this room, and you’ll never want to return.” He stares at me warily. “I can’t risk that, Anastasia.”

  “You want me to stay.”

  “More than you know. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

  Oh my.

  He gazes down at me, and suddenly, he pulls me into his arms and he’s kissing me, kissing me passionately. It takes me completely by surprise, and I sense his panic and desperate need in his kiss.

  “Don’t leave me. You said you wouldn’t leave me, and you begged me not to leave you, in your sleep,” he murmurs against my lips.

  Oh… my nocturnal confessions.

  “I don’t want to go.” And my heart clenches, turning itself inside out.

  This is a man in need. His fear is naked and obvious, but he’s lost… somewhere in his darkness. His eyes are wide and bleak and tortured. I can soothe him, join him briefly in the darkness and bring him into the light.

  “Show me,” I whisper.

  “Show you?”

  “Show me how much it can hurt.”

  “What?”

  “Punish me. I want to know how bad it can get.”

  Christian steps back away from me, completely confused.

  “You would try?”

  “Yes. I said I would.” But I have an ulterior motive. If I do this for him, maybe he will let me touch him.

  He blinks at me.

  “Ana, you’re so confusing.”

  “I’m confused, too. I’m trying to work this out. And you and I will know, once and for all, if I can do this. If I can handle this, then maybe you –” My words fail me, and his eyes widen again. He knows I am referring to the touch thing. For a moment, he looks torn, but then a steely resolve settles on his features, and he narrows his eyes, gazing at me speculatively as if weighing up alternatives.

  Abruptly, he clasps my arm in a firm grip and turns, leading me out of the great room, up the stairs, and to the playroom. Pleasure and pain, reward and punishment – his words from so long ago echo through my mind.

  “I’ll show you how bad it can be, and you can make your own mind up.” He pauses by the door. “Are you ready for this?”

  I nod, my mind made up, and I’m vaguely lightheaded, faint as all the blood leaves my face.

  He opens the door, and still grasping my arm, grabs what looks like a belt from the rack beside the door, then leads me over to the red leather bench in the far corner of the room.

  “Bend over the bench,” he murmurs softly.

  Okay. I can do this. I bend over the smooth soft leather. He’s left my bathrobe on. In a quiet part of my brain, I’m vaguely surprised th
at he hasn’t made me take it off. Holy fuck, this is going to hurt… I know. My subconscious has passed out, and my inner goddess is endeavoring to look brave.

  “We’re here because you said yes, Anastasia. And you ran from me. I am going to hit you six times, and you will count with me.”

  Why the hell doesn’t he just get on with it? He always makes such a meal of punishing me. I roll my eyes, knowing full well he can’t see me.

  He lifts the hem of my bathrobe, and for some reason, this feels more intimate than being naked. He gently caresses my behind, running his warm hand all over both cheeks and down to the tops of my thighs.

  “I am doing this so that you remember not to run from me, and as exciting as it is, I never want you to run from me,” he whispers.

  And the irony is not lost on me. I was running to avoid this. If he’d opened his arms, I’d run to him, not away from him.

  “And you rolled your eyes at me. You know how I feel about that.” Suddenly, it’s gone – that nervous edgy fear in his voice. He’s back from wherever he’s been. I hear it in his tone, in the way he places his fingers on my back, holding me – and the atmosphere in the room changes.

  I close my eyes, bracing myself for the blow. It comes hard, snapping across my backside, and the bite of the belt is everything I feared. I cry out involuntarily, and take a huge gulp of air.

  “Count, Anastasia!” he commands.

  “One!” I shout at him, and it sounds like an expletive.

  He hits me again, and the pain pulses and echoes along the line of the belt. Holy shit… that smarts.

  “Two!” I scream. It feels so good to scream.

  His breathing is ragged and harsh, whereas mine is almost nonexistent as I desperately scrabble around my psyche looking for some internal strength. The belt cuts into my flesh again.

  “Three!” Tears spring unwelcome into my eyes. Jeez – this is harder than I thought – so much harder than the spanking. He’s not holding anything back.

  “Four!” I yell as the belt bites me again, and now the tears are streaming down my face. I don’t want to cry. It angers me that I am crying. He hits me again.

  “Five.” My voice is more a choked, strangled sob, and in this moment I think I hate him. One more, I can do one more. My backside feels as if it’s on fire.

  “Six,” I whisper as the blistering pain cuts across me again, and I hear him drop the belt behind me, and he’s pulling me into his arms, all breathless and compassionate… and I want none of him.

  “Let go… no... ” And I find myself struggling out of his grasp, pushing him away. Fighting him.

  “Don’t touch me!” I hiss. I straighten and stare at him, and he’s watching me as if I might bolt, gray eyes wide, bemused. I dash the tears angrily out of my eyes with the backs of my hands, glaring at him.

  “This is what you really like? Me, like this?” I use the sleeve of the bathrobe to wipe my nose.

  He gazes at me warily.

  “Well, you are one fucked-up son of a bitch.”

  “Ana,” he pleads, shocked.

  “Don’t you dare ‘Ana’ me! You need to sort your shit out, Grey!” And with that, I turn stiffly, and I walk out of the playroom, closing the door quietly behind me.

  I clasp the door handle behind me and briefly lean back against the door. Where to go? Do I run? Do I stay? I am so mad, angry scalding tears spill down my cheeks, and I brush them furiously aside. I just want to curl up. Curl up and recuperate in some way. Heal my shattered faith. How could I have been so stupid? Of course it hurts.

  Tentatively, I rub my backside. Aah! It’s sore. Where to go? Not his room. My room, or the room that will be mine, no, is mine… was mine. This is why he wanted me to keep it. He knew I would need distance from him.

  I launch myself stiffly in that direction, conscious that Christian may follow me. It is still dark in the bedroom, dawn only a whisper in the skyline. I climb awkwardly into bed, careful not to sit on my aching and tender backside. I keep the bathrobe on, wrapping it around me, and curl up and really let go – sobbing hard into my pillow.

  What was I thinking? Why did I let him do that to me? I wanted the dark, to explore how bad it could be – but it’s too dark for me. I cannot do this. Yet, this is what he does; this is how he gets his kicks.

  What a monumental wake-up call. And to be fair to him, he warned me and warned me, time and again. He’s not normal. He has needs that I cannot fulfill. I realize that now. I don’t want him to hit me like that again, ever. I think of the couple of times he has hit me, and how easy he was on me by comparison. Is that enough for him? I sob harder into the pillow. I am going to lose him. He won’t want to be with me if I can’t give him this. Why, why, why have I fallen in love with Fifty Shades? Why? Why can’t I love José, or Paul Clayton, or someone like me?

  Oh, his distraught look as I left. I was so cruel, so shocked by the savagery… will he forgive me… will I forgive him? My thoughts are all haywire and jumbled, echoing and bouncing off the inside of my skull. My subconscious is shaking her head sadly, and my inner goddess is nowhere to be seen. Oh, this is a dark morning of the soul for me. I’m so alone. I want my mom. I remember her parting words at the airport,

  Follow your heart, darling, and please, please – try not to over-think things. Relax and enjoy. You are so young, sweetheart, you have so much to experience, just let it happen. You deserve the best of everything.

  I did follow my heart, and I have a sore ass and an anguished, broken spirit to show for it. I have to go. That’s it… I have to leave. He’s no good for me, and I am no good for him. How can we possibly make this work? And the thought of not seeing him again practically chokes me… my Fifty Shades.

  I hear the door click open. Oh no – he’s here. He puts something down on the bedside table, and the bed shifts under his weight as he climbs in behind me.

  “Hush,” he breathes, and I want to pull away from him, move to the other side of the bed, but I’m paralyzed. I cannot move and lie stiffly, not yielding at all. “Don’t fight me, Ana, please,” he whispers. Gently, he pulls me into his arms, burying his nose in my hair, kissing my neck.

  “Don’t hate me,” he breathes softly against my skin, his voice achingly sad. My heart clenches anew and releases a fresh wave of silent sobbing. He continues to kiss me softly, tenderly, but I remain aloof and wary.

  We lie together like this, neither saying anything for ages. He just holds me, and very gradually, I relax and stop crying. Dawn comes and goes, and the soft light gets brighter as morning moves on, and still we lie quietly.

  “I brought you some Advil and some arnica cream,” he says after a long while.

  I turn very slowly in his arms so I can face him. I am resting my head on his arm. His eyes are flinty gray and guarded.

  I gaze at his beautiful face. He’s giving nothing away, but he keeps his eyes on mine, hardly blinking. Oh, he is so breathtakingly good-looking. In such a short time, he’s become so, so dear to me. Reaching up, I caress his cheek and run the tips of my fingers through his stubble. He closes his eyes and exhales slightly.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He opens his eyes and looks at me puzzled.

  “What for?”

  “What I said.”

  “You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know.” And his eyes soften with relief. “I am sorry I hurt you.”

  I shrug.

  “I asked for it.” And now I know. I swallow. Here goes. I need to say my piece. “I don’t think I can be everything you want me to be,” I whisper. His eyes widen slightly, and he blinks, his fearful expression returning.

  “You are everything I want you to be.”

  What?

  “I don’t understand. I’m not obedient, and you can be as sure as hell I’m not going to let you do that to me again. And that’s what you need, you said so.”

  He closes his eyes again, and I can see a myriad of emotions cross his face. When he reopens them, his expressio
n is bleak. Oh no.

  “You’re right. I should let you go. I am no good for you.”

  My scalp prickles as every single hair follicle on my body stands to attention, and the world falls away from me, leaving a wide, yawning abyss for me to fall into. Oh no.

  “I don’t want to go,” I whisper. Fuck – this is it. Pay or play. Tears swim in my eyes once more.

  “I don’t want you to go either,” he whispers, his voice raw. He reaches up and gently strokes my cheek and wipes away a falling tear with his thumb. “I’ve come alive since I met you.” His thumb traces the contours of my lower lip.

  “Me, too,” I whisper. “I’ve fallen in love with you, Christian.”

  His eyes widen again, but this time, with pure, undiluted fear.

  “No,” he breathes as if I’ve knocked the wind out of him.

  Oh no.

  “You can’t love me, Ana. No… that’s wrong.” He’s horrified.

  “Wrong? Why’s it wrong?”

  “Well, look at you. I can’t make you happy.” His voice is anguished.

  “But you do make me happy.” I frown.

  “Not at the moment, not doing what I want to do.”

  Holy fuck. This really is it. This is what it boils down to – incompatibility – and all those poor subs come to mind.

  “We’ll never get past that, will we?” I whisper, my scalp prickling in fear.

  He shakes his head bleakly. I close my eyes. I cannot bear to look at him.

  “Well… I’d better go, then,” I murmur, wincing as I sit up.

  “No, don’t go.” He sounds panicked.

  “There’s no point in me staying.” Suddenly, I feel tired, really dog-tired, and I want to go now. I climb out of bed, and Christian follows.

  “I’m going to get dressed. I’d like some privacy,” I say, my voice flat and empty as I leave him standing in the bedroom.

  Heading downstairs, I glance at the great room, thinking how only hours before I had rested my head on his shoulder as he played the piano. So much has happened since then. I have had my eyes opened and glimpsed the extent of his depravity, and I now know he’s not capable of love – of giving or receiving love. My worst fears have been realized. And strangely, it’s very liberating.

  The pain is such that I refuse to acknowledge it. I feel numb. I have somehow escaped from my body and am now a casual observer to this unfolding tragedy. I shower quickly and methodically, thinking only of each second in front of me. Now squeeze body wash bottle. Put body wash bottle back in rack. Rub cloth on face, on shoulders… on and on, all simple, mechanical actions, requiring simple mechanical thoughts.