Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed Read online

  My body starts to quiver. Oh … This feeling that I now know so well … I am close … Oh …

  “That’s right, baby … give it up for me … Please … Ana,” he murmurs and his words are my undoing.

  “Christian,” I call out, and he groans as we both come together.

  CHAPTER TEN

  * * *

  Mac will be back soon,” he murmurs.

  “Hmm.” My eyes flicker open to meet his soft gray gaze. Lord, his eyes are an amazing color—especially here, out on the sea—reflecting the light bouncing off the water through the small portholes into the cabin.

  “As much as I’d like to lie here with you all afternoon, he’ll need a hand with the dinghy.” Leaning over, Christian kisses me tenderly. “Ana, you look so beautiful right now, all mussed up and sexy. Makes me want you more.” He smiles and rises from the bed. I lie on my stomach, admiring the view.

  “You ain’t so bad yourself, Captain.” I smack my lips in admiration and he grins.

  I watch him move about the cabin as he dresses. This man who has just made such sweet love to me again. I can hardly believe my good fortune. I can’t quite believe that he’s mine. He sits down beside me to put on his shoes.

  “Captain, eh?” he says dryly. “Well, I am master of this vessel.”

  I cock my head to one side. “You are master of my heart, Mr. Grey.” And my body … and my soul.

  He shakes his head incredulously and bends to kiss me. “I’ll be on deck. There’s a shower in the bathroom if you want one. Do you need anything? A drink?” he asks solicitously, and all I can do is grin at him. Is this the same man? Is this the same Fifty?

  “What?” he says, reacting to my stupid grin.

  “You.”

  “What about me?”

  “Who are you and what have you done with Christian?”

  His lips twitch with a sad smile.

  “He’s not very far away, baby,” he says softly, and there’s a touch of melancholy in his voice that makes me instantly regret asking the question. But he shakes it off. “You’ll see him soon enough”—he smirks at me—“especially if you don’t get up.” Reaching over, he smacks me hard on my behind so I yelp and laugh at the same time.

  “You had me worried.”

  “Did I, now?” Christian’s brow creases. “You do give off some mixed signals, Anastasia. How’s a man supposed to keep up?” He leans down and kisses me again. “Laters, baby,” he adds, and with a dazzling smile, he gets up and leaves me to my scattered thoughts.

  WHEN I SURFACE ON deck, Mac is back on board, but he disappears onto the upper deck as I open the saloon doors. Christian is on his BlackBerry. Talking to whom? I wonder. He wanders over and pulls me close, kissing my hair.

  “Great news … good. Yeah … Really? The fire escape stairwell? … I see … Yes, tonight.”

  He hits the “end” button, and the sound of the engines firing up startles me. Mac must be in the cockpit above.

  “Time to head back,” Christian says, kissing me once more as he straps me into my lifejacket.

  THE SUN IS LOW in the sky behind us as we make our way back to the marina, and I reflect on a wonderful afternoon. Under Christian’s careful, patient tuition, I have now stowed a mainsail, a headsail, and a spinnaker, as well as learned to tie a reef knot, clove hitch, and sheepshank. His lips were twitching throughout the lesson.

  “I may tie you up one day,” I mutter crabbily.

  His mouth twists with humor. “You’ll have to catch me first, Miss Steele.”

  His words bring to mind him chasing me around the apartment, the thrill, and then the hideous aftermath. I frown and shudder. After that, I left him.

  Would I leave him again now that he’s admitted he loves me? I gaze up into his clear gray eyes. Could I ever leave him again—no matter what he did to me? Could I betray him like that? No. I don’t think I could.

  He’s given me a more thorough tour of this beautiful boat, explaining all the innovative designs and techniques, and the high-quality materials used to build it. I remember the interview when I first met him; I picked up then on his passion for ships. I thought his love was only for the ocean-going freighters his company builds—not for super-sexy, sleek catamarans, too.

  And, of course, he’s made sweet, unhurried love to me. I shake my head, remembering my body bowed and wanting beneath his expert hands. He is an exceptional lover, I’m sure—though, of course, I have no comparison. But Kate would have raved more if it was always like this; it’s not like her to hold back on details.

  But how long will this be enough for him? I just don’t know, and the thought is unnerving.

  Now he sits, and I stand in the safe circle of his arms for hours, it seems, in comfortable, companionable silence as The Grace glides closer and closer to Seattle. I have the wheel, Christian advising on adjustments every so often.

  “There is poetry of sailing as old as the world,” he murmurs in my ear.

  “That sounds like a quote.”

  I sense his grin. “It is. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”

  “Oh … I adore The Little Prince.”

  “Me, too.”

  IT IS EARLY EVENING as Christian, his hands still on mine, steers us into the marina. There are lights winking from the boats, reflecting off the dark water, but it is still light—a balmy, bright evening, an overture for what is sure to be a spectacular sunset.

  A crowd gathers on the dockside as Christian slowly turns the boat around in a relatively small space. He does it with ease and reverses smoothly into the same berth we left earlier. Mac jumps on to the dock and ties The Grace securely to a bollard.

  “Back again,” Christian murmurs.

  “Thank you,” I murmur shyly. “That was a perfect afternoon.”

  Christian grins. “I thought so, too. Perhaps we can enroll you in sailing school, so we can go out for a few days, just the two of us.”

  “I’d love that. We can christen the bedroom again and again.”

  He leans forward and kisses me under my ear. “Hmm … I look forward to it, Anastasia,” he whispers, making every single hair follicle on my body stand to attention.

  How does he do that?

  “Come, the apartment is clean. We can go back.”

  “What about our things at the hotel?”

  “Taylor has collected them already.”

  Oh! When?

  “Earlier today, after he did a sweep of The Grace with his team.” Christian answers my unspoken question.

  “Does that poor man ever sleep?”

  “He sleeps.” Christian quirks an eyebrow at me, puzzled. “He’s just doing his job, Anastasia, which he’s very good at. Jason is a real find.”

  “Jason?”

  “Jason Taylor.”

  I thought Taylor was his first name. Jason. It suits him—solid, reliable. For some reason it makes me smile.

  “You’re fond of Taylor,” Christian says, eyeing me with speculation.

  “I suppose I am.” His question derails me. He frowns. “I’m not attracted to him, if that’s why you’re frowning. Stop.”

  Christian is almost pouting—sulky.

  Jeez, he’s such a child sometimes. “I think Taylor looks after you very well. That’s why I like him. He seems kind, reliable, and loyal. He has an avuncular appeal to me.”

  “Avuncular?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, avuncular.” Christian is testing the word and meaning. I laugh.

  “Oh, Christian, grow up, for heaven’s sake.”

  His mouth drops open, surprised by my outburst, but then he frowns as if considering my statement. “I’m trying,” he says eventually.

  “That you are. Very.” I answer softly but then roll my eyes at him.

  “What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at me, Anastasia.” He grins.

  I smirk at him. “Well, if you behave yourself, maybe we can relive some of those memories.”

  His mouth twists with humo
r. “Behave myself?” He raises his eyebrows. “Really, Miss Steele—what makes you think I want to relive them?”

  “Probably the way your eyes lit up like Christmas when I said that.”

  “You know me so well already,” he says dryly.

  “I’d like to know you better.”

  He smiles softly. “And I you, Anastasia.”

  “THANKS, MAC.” CHRISTIAN SHAKES McConnell’s hand and steps on the dock.

  “Always a pleasure, Mr. Grey, and good-bye. Ana, great to meet you.”

  I shake his hand shyly. He must know what Christian and I were up to on the boat while he went ashore.

  “Good day, Mac, and thank you.”

  He grins at me and winks, making me flush. Christian takes my hand, and we walk up the dock to the marina’s promenade.

  “Where’s Mac from?” I ask, curious about his accent.

  “Ireland … Northern Ireland,” Christian corrects himself.

  “Is he your friend?”

  “Mac? He works for me. Helped build The Grace.”

  “Do you have many friends?”

  He frowns. “Not really. Doing what I do … I don’t cultivate friendships. There’s only—” He stops, his frown deepening, and I know he was going to mention Mrs. Robinson.

  “Hungry?” he asks, trying to change the subject.

  I nod. Actually, I’m famished.

  “We’ll eat where I left the car. Come.”

  NEXT TO SP’S IS a small Italian bistro called Bee’s. It reminds me of the place in Portland—a few tables and booths, the decor very crisp and modern, with a large black-and-white photograph of a turn-of-the-century fiesta serving as a mural.

  Christian and I are seated in a booth, poring over the menu and sipping a delicious light Frascati. When I glance up from the menu, having made my choice, Christian is gazing at me speculatively.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You look lovely, Anastasia. The outdoors agrees with you.”

  I flush. “I feel rather windburned, to tell the truth. But I had a lovely afternoon. A perfect afternoon. Thank you.”

  He smiles, his eyes warm. “My pleasure,” he murmurs.

  “Can I ask you something?” I decide on a fact-finding mission.

  “Anything, Anastasia. You know that.” He cocks his head to one side, looking delicious.

  “You don’t seem to have many friends. Why is that?”

  He shrugs and frowns. “I told you, I don’t really have time. I have business associates—though that’s very different from friendships, I suppose. I have my family and that’s it. Apart from Elena.”

  I ignore the mention of the bitch-troll. “No male friends your own age that you can go out with and let off steam?”

  “You know how I like to let off steam, Anastasia.” Christian’s mouth twists. “And I’ve been working, building up the business.” He looks puzzled. “That’s all I do—except sail and fly occasionally.”

  “Not even in college?”

  “Not really.”

  “Just Elena, then?”

  He nods, his expression wary.

  “Must be lonely.”

  His lips curl in a small wistful smile. “What would you like to eat?” he asks, changing the subject again.

  “I’m going for the risotto.”

  “Good choice.” Christian summons the waiter, putting an end to that conversation.

  After we’ve placed our order, I shift uncomfortably in my seat, staring at my knotted fingers. If he’s in a talking mood, I need to take advantage.

  I have to talk to him about his expectations, about his, um … needs.

  “Anastasia, what’s wrong? Tell me.”

  I glance up into his concerned face.

  “Tell me,” he says more forcefully, and his concern evolves into what? Fear? Anger?

  I take a deep breath. “I’m just worried that this isn’t enough for you. You know, to let off steam.”

  His jaw tenses and his eyes harden. “Have I given you any indication that this isn’t enough?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you think that?”

  “I know what you’re like. What you … um … need,” I stutter.

  He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with long fingers.

  “What do I have to do?” His voice is ominously soft, as if he’s angry, and my heart sinks.

  “No, you misunderstand—you have been amazing, and I know it’s just been a few days, but I hope I’m not forcing you to be someone you’re not.”

  “I’m still me, Anastasia—in all my fifty shades of fucked-upness. Yes, I have to fight the urge to be controlling … but that’s my nature, how I’ve dealt with my life. Yes, I expect you to behave a certain way, and when you don’t it’s both challenging and refreshing. We still do what I like to do. You let me spank you after your outrageous bid yesterday.” He smiles fondly at the memory. “I enjoy punishing you. I don’t think the urge will ever go … but I’m trying, and it’s not as hard as I thought it would be.”

  I squirm and flush, remembering our illicit tryst in his childhood bedroom. “I didn’t mind that,” I whisper, smiling shyly.

  “I know.” His lips curl in a reluctant smile. “Neither did I. But let me tell you, Anastasia, this is all new to me and these last few days have been the best in my life. I don’t want to change anything.”

  Oh!

  “They’ve been the best in my life, too, without exception,” I murmur and his smile broadens. My inner goddess nods frantically in agreement—and nudges me hard. Okay, okay.

  “So, you don’t want to take me into your playroom?”

  He swallows and pales, all trace of humor gone. “No, I don’t.”

  “Why not?” I whisper. This is not the answer I expected.

  And yes, there it is—that little pinch of disappointment. My inner goddess stomps off pouting, her arms crossed like an angry toddler’s.

  “The last time we were in there you left me,” he says quietly. “I will shy away from anything that could make you leave me again. I was devastated when you left. I explained that. I never want to feel like that again. I’ve told you how I feel about you.” His gray eyes are wide and intense with his sincerity.

  “But it hardly seems fair. It can’t be very relaxing for you—to be constantly concerned about how I feel. You’ve made all these changes for me, and I … I think I should reciprocate in some way. I don’t know—maybe … try … some role-playing games,” I stutter, my face as crimson as the walls of the playroom.

  Why is this so hard to talk about? I have done all manner of kinky fuckery with this man, things I hadn’t even heard of a few weeks ago, things that I would never have thought possible, yet the hardest of all is talking to him.

  “Ana, you do reciprocate, more than you know. Please, please don’t feel like this.”

  Gone is carefree Christian. His eyes are wider now with alarm, and it’s gut-wrenching. “Baby, it’s only been one weekend,” he continues. “Give us some time. I thought a great deal about us last week when you left. We need time. You need to trust me, and I you. Maybe in time we can indulge, but I like how you are now. I like seeing you this happy, this relaxed and carefree, knowing that I had something to do with it. I have never—” He stops and runs his hand through his hair. “We have to walk before we can run.” Suddenly he smirks.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Flynn. He says that all the time. I never thought I’d be quoting him.”

  “A Flynnism.”

  Christian laughs. “Exactly.”

  The waiter arrives with our starters and bruschetta, and our conversation changes tack as Christian relaxes.

  But when the unreasonably large plates are placed before us, I can’t help think how I have thought of Christian today—relaxed, happy, and carefree. At least he’s laughing now, at ease again.

  I breathe an inward sigh of relief as he starts quizzing me about places I’ve been. This is a short discussion, sinc
e I have never been anywhere except the continental United States. Christian, on the other hand, has traveled the world. We slip into an easier, happier conversation, talking about all the places he’s visited.

  AFTER OUR TASTY AND filling meal, Christian drives back to Escala, with Eva Cassidy’s gentle sweet voice singing over the speakers. It allows me a peaceful interlude in which to think. I have had a mind-blowing day: Dr. Greene; our shower; Christian’s admission; making love at the hotel and on the boat; buying the car. Even Christian himself has been so different. It’s as if he’s letting go of something or rediscovering something—I don’t know which.

  Who knew he could be so sweet? Did he?

  When I glance at him, he, too, looks lost in thought. It strikes me then that he never really had an adolescence—a normal one, anyway. I shake my head.

  My mind drifts back to the ball and dancing with Dr. Flynn and Christian’s fear that Flynn had told me all about him. Christian is still hiding something from me. How can we move on if he feels that way?

  He thinks I might leave if I know him. He thinks that I might leave if he’s himself. Oh, this man is so complicated.

  As we get closer to his home, he starts radiating tension until it becomes palpable. He scans the sidewalks and side alleys, his eyes darting everywhere, and I know he’s looking for Leila. I start looking, too. Every young brunette is a suspect, but we don’t see her.

  When he pulls into the garage, his mouth is set in a tense, grim line. I wonder why we’ve come back here if he’s going to be so wary and uptight. Sawyer is in the garage, patrolling. The defiled Audi is gone. He comes to open my door as Christian pulls in beside the SUV.

  “Hello, Sawyer,” I murmur my greeting.

  “Miss Steele.” He nods. “Mr. Grey.”

  “No sign?” Christian asks.

  “No, sir.”

  Christian nods, grasps my hand, and heads for the elevator. I know his brain is working overtime—he’s distracted. Once we’re inside he turns to me.