Fifty Shades of Grey Read online

  “I’d like to do that again,” I whisper. For a moment, I think I see a fleeting look of relief on his face, before the shutters come down, and he gazes at me through hooded eyes.

  “Would you now, Miss Steele?” he murmurs dryly. He leans down and kisses me very gently at the corner of my mouth. “Demanding little thing aren’t you. Turn on your front.”

  I blink at him momentarily, and then I turn over. He unhooks my bra and runs his hand down my back to my behind.

  “You really have the most beautiful skin,” he murmurs. He shifts so that one of his legs pushes between mine, and he’s half lying across my back. I can feel the buttons of his shirt pressing into me as he gathers my hair off my face and kisses my bare shoulder.

  “Why are you wearing your shirt?” I ask. He stills. After a beat, he shuffles out of his shirt, and he lies back down on me. I feel his warm skin against mine. Hmm… it feels heavenly. He has a light dusting of hair across his chest, which tickles my back.

  “So you want me to fuck you again?” he whispers in my ear, and he begins to trail feather light kisses around my ear and down my neck.

  His hand moves down, skimming my waist, over my hip, and down my thigh to the back of my knee. He pushes my knee up higher, and my breath hitches… oh my, what’s he doing now? He shifts so he’s between my legs, pressed against my back, and his hand travels up my thigh to my behind. He caresses my cheek slowly, and then trails his fingers down between my legs.

  “I’m going to take you from behind, Anastasia,” he murmurs, and with his other hand, he grasps my hair at the nape in a fist and pulls gently, holding me in place. I cannot move my head. I am pinioned beneath him, helpless.

  “You are mine,” he whispers. “Only mine. Don’t forget it.” His voice is intoxicating, his words heady, seductive. I feel his growing erection against my thigh.

  His long fingers reach round to gently massage my clitoris, circling slowly. His breath is soft against my face as he slowly nips me along my jaw.

  “You smell divine,” he nuzzles behind my ear. His hand rubs against me, round and round. Reflexively, my hips start to circle, mirroring his hand, as excruciating pleasure spikes through my blood like adrenaline.

  “Keep still,” he orders, his voice soft but urgent, and slowly he inserts his thumb inside me, rotating it round and round, stroking the front wall of my vagina. The effect is mind-blowing – all my energy concentrating on this one small space inside my body. I moan.

  “You like this?” he asks softly, his teeth grazing my outer ear, and he starts to flex his thumb slowly, in, out, in, out… his fingers still circling.

  I close my eyes, trying to keep my breathing under control, trying to absorb the disordered, chaotic sensations that his fingers are unleashing on me, fire coursing through my body. I moan again.

  “You’re so wet, so quickly. So responsive. Oh, Anastasia, I like that. I like that a lot,”

  he whispers.

  I want to stiffen my legs, but I can’t move. He’s pinning me down, keeping up a constant, slow, tortuous rhythm. It’s absolutely exquisite. I moan again, and he moves suddenly.

  “Open your mouth,” he commands and thrusts his thumb in my mouth. My eyes fly open, blinking wildly.

  “See how you taste,” he breathes against my ear. “Suck me, baby.” His thumb presses on my tongue, and my mouth closes round him, sucking wildly. I taste the saltiness on his thumb and the faint metallic tang of blood . Holy fuck. This is wrong, but holy hell is it erotic.

  “I want to fuck your mouth, Anastasia, and I will soon,” his voice is hoarse, raw, his breathing more disjointed.

  Fuck my mouth! I moan, and I bite down on him. He gasps, and he pulls my hair tighter, painfully, so I release him.

  “Naughty, sweet girl,” he whispers, and then reaches over to the bedside table for a foil packet. “Stay still, don’t move,” he orders as he releases my hair.

  He rips the foil while I’m breathing hard, my blood singing in my veins. The anticipation is exhilarating. He leans down, his weight on me again, and he grabs my hair holding my head immobile. I cannot move. I’m enticingly ensnared by him, and he’s poised and ready to take me once more.

  “We’re going to go real, slow this time, Anastasia,” he breathes.

  And slowly he eases into me, slowly, slowly, until he’s buried in me. Stretching, filling, relentless. I groan loudly. It feels deeper this time, delectable. I groan again, and he deliberately circles his hips and pulls back, pauses a beat, and then eases his way back in.

  He repeats this motion again and again. It’s driving me insane – his teasing, deliberately slow thrusts, and the intermittent feeling of fullness is overwhelming.

  “You feel so good,” he groans, and my insides start to quiver. He pulls back and waits.

  “Oh no, baby, not yet,” he murmurs, and as the quivering ceases, he starts the whole delicious process again.

  “Oh, please,” I beg. I’m not sure I can take much more. My body is wound so tight, craving release.

  “I want you sore, baby,” he murmurs, and he continues his sweet, leisurely torment, 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 entrance, 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 mesmerized 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 hai
r 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 darkness. 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 – evidence 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 remember 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 bathroom, 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 different. 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.

  She’s staring at me with pursed lips, tapping her foot. So you’ve just slept with him, given him your virginity, a man who doesn’t love you. In fact, he has very odd ideas about you, wants to make you some sort of kinky sex slave.

  ARE YOU CRAZY? She’s shouting at me.

  I wince as I look in the mirror. I am going to have to process all this. Honestly, fancy falling for a man who’s beyond beautiful, richer than Croesus, and has a Red Room of Pain waiting for me. I shudder. I’m bewildered and confused. My hair is its usual wayward self. Just-fucked hair doesn’t suit me. I try and bring order to the chaos with my fingers but fail miserably and give up – maybe I’ll find hair ties in my purse.

  I’m starving. I head back out to the bedroom. Sleeping beauty is still sleeping, so I leave him and head for the kitchen.

  Oh no… Kate. I left my purse in Christian’s study. I fetch it and reach for my cell phone. Three texts.

  *RU OK Ana*

  *Where RU Ana*

  *Damn it Ana*

  I call Kate. When she doesn’t answer, I leave her a groveling message to tell her I am alive and have not succumbed to Bluebeard, well not in the sense she would be worried about – or perhaps I have. Oh this is so confusing. I have to try and categorize and analyze my feelings for Christian Grey. It’s an impossible task. I shake my head in defeat. I need alone time, away from here to think.

  I find two welcome hair ties at the same time in my bag and quickly tie my hair in pigtails. Yes! The more girly I look, perhaps the safer I’ll be from Bluebeard. I take my iPod out of the bag and plug my headphones in. There’s nothing like music to cook by. I slip it into the breast pocket of Christian’s shirt, turn it up loud, and start dancing.

  Holy hell, I’m hungry.

  I am daunted by his kitchen. It’s so sleek and modern and none of the cupboards have handles. It takes me a few seconds to deduce that I have to push the cupboard doors to open them. Perhaps I should cook Christian breakfast. He was eating an omelet the other day… um, yesterday at the Heathman. Jeez, so much has happened since then. I check in the fridge, where there are plenty of eggs, and decide I want pancakes and bacon. I set about making some batter, dancing my way round the kitchen.

  Being busy is good. It allows a bit of time to think but not too deeply. Music blaring in my ears also helps to stave off deep thought. I came here to spend the night in Christian Grey’s bed, and managed it, even though he doesn’t let anyone in his bed. I smile, mission accomplished. Big time. I grin. Big, big time, and I’m distracted by the memory of last night. His words, his body, his lovemaking… I close my eyes as my body hums at the recollection, and my muscles contract deliciously deep in my belly. My subconscious scowls at me… fucking – not lovemaking – she screams at me like a harpy . I ignore her, but deep down I know she has a point. I shake my head to concentrate on the task at hand.

  There is a state-of-the-art range. I think I have the hang of it. I need somewhere to keep the pancakes warm, and I start on the bacon. Amy Studt is singing in my ear about misfits. This song used to mean so much to me, that’s because I’m a misfit. I have never fitted in anywhere and now… I have an indecent proposal to consider from King Misfit himself. Why is he this way? Nature or Nurture? It’s so alien to anything I know.

  I put the bacon under the grill, and while it’s cooking, I whisk some eggs. I turn, and Christian is sitting on one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar, leaning
on it, his face supported by his steepled hands. He’s still wearing the t-shirt he’s slept in. Just-fucked hair really, really suits him, as does his designer stubble. He looks both amused and bewildered.

  I freeze, flush, then gather myself and pull the headphones out of my ears, my knees weak at the sight of him.

  “Good morning, Miss Steele. You’re very energetic this morning,” he says dryly.

  “I slept well,” I stutter my explanation. His lips try to mask his smile.

  “I can’t imagine why.” He pauses and frowns. “So did I, after I came back to bed.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Very,” he says with an intense look, and I don’t think he’s referring to food.

  “Pancakes, bacon, and eggs?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “I don’t know where you keep your placemats.” I shrug, trying desperately hard not to look flustered.

  “I’ll do that. You cook. Would you like me to put some music on so you can continue your… err… dancing?”

  I stare down at my fingers, knowing that I am turning puce.

  “Please, don’t stop on my account. It’s very entertaining.” His tone is one of wry amusement.

  I purse my lips. Entertaining eh? My subconscious has doubled over in laughter at me.

  I turn and continue to whisk the eggs, probably beating them a little harder than they need.

  In a moment, he’s beside me. He gently pulls my pigtail.

  “I love these,” he whispers. “They won’t protect you.” Hmm Bluebeard…

  “How would you like your eggs?” I ask tartly. He smiles.

  “Thoroughly whisked and beaten,” he smirks.

  I turn back to the task at hand, trying to hide my smile. He’s hard to stay mad at. Especially when he’s being so uncharacteristically playful. He opens a drawer and takes out two black slate placemats for the breakfast bar. I pour the egg mix into a pan, pull out the bacon and turn it over, and put it back under the grill.