Chapter Eleven
　　“Have you now?” I whisper. My mouth goes drier still, my heart pounding in
　　my chest. Why’s he dressed like this? What does it mean?
　　Is he still sulking?
　　“I have.” His voice is kitten soft, but he’s smirking as he strolls closer to me.
　　Holy crap he looks hot—his jeans hanging, that way, from his hips. Oh no, I’m
　　not going to be distracted by Mr. Sex-on-legs. I try to gauge his mood as he
　　stalks toward me. Angry? Playful? Lustful? Gah! It’s impossible to tell.
　　“I like your jeans,” I murmur. He grins a disarming wolfish grin that doesn’t
　　reach his eyes. Shit—he’s still mad. He’s wearing these to distract me . . .
　　He halts in front of me, and I’m seared by his intensity. He gazes down, wide
　　unreadable eyes burning into mine. I swallow.
　　“I understand you have issues, Mrs. Grey,” he says silkily, and he pulls
　　something from the back pocket of his jeans. I can’t tear my gaze from his
　　but hear him unfold a piece of paper. He holds it up, and glancing briefly in its
　　direction, I recognize my e-mail. My gaze returns to his, as his eyes blaze
　　bright with anger.
　　“Yes, I have issues,” I whisper, feeling breathless. I need distance if we’re
　　going to discuss this. But before I can step back, he leans down and runs his
　　nose along mine. My eyes flutter to a close as I welcome his unexpected,
　　gentle touch.
　　“So do I,” he whispers against my skin, and I open my eyes at his words. He
　　straightens and gazes intently at me once more.
　　“I think I’m familiar with your issues, Christian.” My voice is wry, and he
　　narrows his eyes, suppressing the amusement that sparks there
　　momentarily. Are we going to fight? I take a precautionary step back. I must
　　physically distance myself from him—from his smell, his look, his distracting
　　body in those hot jeans. He frowns as I move away.
　　“Why did you fly back from New York?” I whisper. Let’s get this over and
　　done with.
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　　“You know why.” His tone carries a warning ring.
　　“Because I went out with Kate?”
　　“Because you went back on your word and you defied me—putting yourself
　　at unnecessary risk.”
　　“Went back on my word? Is that how you see it?” I gasp, ignoring the rest of
　　his sentence.
　　“Yes.”
　　Holy crap. Talk about overreaction! I start to roll my eyes but stop when he
　　scowls at me. “Christian, I changed my mind,” I explain slowly, patiently as if
　　he’s a child. “I’m a woman. We’re renowned for it. That’s what we do.”
　　He blinks at me as if he doesn’t comprehend this.
　　“If I had thought for one minute that you would cancel your business trip . . .”
　　Words fail me. I realize I don’t know what to say. I am momentarily catapulted
　　back to the argument over our vows. I never promised to obey you,
　　Christian. But I hold my tongue, because deep down I’m glad he came back.
　　In spite of his fury, I’m glad he’s here in one piece, angry and smoldering in
　　front of me.
　　“You changed your mind?” He can’t hide his contemptuous disbelief.
　　“Yes.”
　　“And you didn’t think to call me?” He glares at me, incredulous, before
　　continuing. “What’s more, you left the security detail short here and put Ryan
　　at risk.”
　　Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.
　　“I should have called, but I didn’t want to worry you. If I had, I’m sure you would
　　have forbidden me to go and I’ve missed Kate. I wanted to see her. Besides,
　　it kept me out of the way when Jack was here. Ryan shouldn’t have let him
　　in.” This is so confusing. If Ryan hadn’t, Jack would still be at large.
　　Christian’s eyes gleam wildly, then shut, his face tightening as if in pain. Oh
　　no. What’s he going to do? He shakes his head, and before I know it he has
　　folded me in his arms, pulling me hard against him.
　　“Oh Ana,” he whispers as he tightens his hold on me so that I can barely
　　breathe. “If something were to happen to you—” His voice is barely a
　　whisper.
　　“It didn’t,” I manage to say.
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　　“But it could have. I’ve died a thousand deaths today thinking about what
　　might have happened. I was so mad, Ana. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad
　　at everyone. I can’t remember being this angry . . . except—” He stops again.
　　Oh?
　　“Except?” I prompt.
　　“Once in your old apartment. When Leila was there.”
　　Oh. Then. I don’t want to think about that.
　　“You were so cold this morning,” I murmur. My voice cracks on the last word
　　as I remember the hideous feeling of rejection in the shower. His hands
　　move to the nape of my neck, loosening their grip on me, and I take a deep
　　breath. He pulls my head back.
　　“I don’t know how to deal with this anger. I don’t think I want to hurt you,” he
　　says, his eyes wide and wary. “This morning, I wanted to punish you, badly
　　and—” He stops, lost for words I think, or too afraid to say them.
　　“You were worried you’d hurt me?” I finish his sentence for him, not believing
　　that he’d hurt me for a minute, but relieved, too. A small vicious part of me
　　feared it was because he didn’t want me anymore.
　　“I didn’t trust myself,” he says quietly.
　　“Christian, I know you’d never hurt me. Not physically, anyway.” I clasp his
　　head between my hands.
　　“Do you?” he asks, and there’s skepticism in his voice.
　　“Yes. I knew what you said was an empty, idle threat. I know you’re not going
　　to beat the shit out of me.”
　　“I wanted to.”
　　“No you didn’t. You just thought you did.”
　　“I don’t know if that’s true,” he murmurs.
　　“Think about it,” I urge, wrapping my arms around him once more and
　　nuzzling his chest through the black T-shirt. “About how you felt when I left.
　　You’ve told me often enough what that did to you. How it altered your view of
　　the world, of me. I know what you’ve given up for me. Think about how you felt
　　about the cuff marks on our honeymoon.”
　　He stills, and I know he’s processing this information. I tighten my arms
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　　beneath his T-shirt. Gradually, he relaxes as the tension slowly ebbs away.
　　Is this what’s been worrying him? That he’ll hurt me? Why do I have more
　　faith in him than he has in himself? I don’t understand, surely we’ve moved
　　on. He’s normally so strong, so in control, but without that, he’s lost. Oh Fifty,
　　Fifty, Fifty—I’m sorry. He kisses my hair, and I turn my face up to his, and his
　　lips find mine, searching, taking, giving, begging—for what, I don’t know. I
　　just want to feel his mouth on mine, and I return his kiss passionately.
　　“You have such faith in me,” he whispers after he breaks away.
　　“I do.” He strokes my face with the back of his knuckles and the tip of his
　　thumb, gazing intently into my eyes. His anger has gone. My Fifty is back
　　from wherever he’s been. It’s good to see him. I glance shyly up and smirk.
　　“Besides,” I whisper, “you don’t have the paperwork.”
　　His mouth drops open in amused shock, and he clutches me to his chest
　　again.
　　“You’re right. I don’t,” he laughs.
　　We stand in the middle of the great room, locked in our embrace, just holding
　　each other.
　　“Come to bed,” he whispers, after heaven knows how long. Oh my . . .
　　“Christian, we need to talk.”
　　“Later,” he urges softly.
　　“Christian, please. Talk to me.”
　　He sighs. “About what?”
　　He sighs. “About what?”
　　“You know. You keep me in the dark.”
　　“I want to protect you.”
　　“I’m not a child.”
　　“I am fully aware of that, Mrs. Grey.” He runs his hands down my body and
　　cups my backside. Flexing his hips he presses his growing erection into me.
　　“Christian!” I scold. “Talk to me.”
　　He sighs once more with exasperation. “What do you want to know?” His
　　voice is resigned as he releases me. I baulk— I didn’t mean you had to let
　　me go. Taking my hand, he reaches down to pick up my e-mail from the
　　floor.
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　　“Lots of things,” I mutter, as I let him lead me to the couch.
　　“Sit,” he orders. Some things never change, I muse, doing as I’m told.
　　Christian sits beside me, and leaning forward, puts his head in his hands.
　　Oh no. Is this too hard for him? Then he sits up, rakes both hands through his
　　hair, and turns to me, at once expectant and reconciled to his fate.
　　“Ask me,” he says simply.
　　Oh. Well, that was easier than I thought. “Why the additional security for your
　　family?”
　　“Hyde was a threat to them.”
　　“How do you know?”
　　“From his computer. It held personal details about me and the rest of my
　　family. Especially Carrick.”
　　“Carrick? Why him?”
　　“I don’t know yet. Let’s go to bed.”
　　“Christian, tell me!”
　　“Tell you what?”
　　“You are so . . . exasperating.”
　　“So are you.” He glares at me.
　　“You didn’t ramp up the security when you first found out there was
　　information about your family on the computer. So what happened?
　　Why now?”
　　Christian narrows his eyes at me.
　　“I didn’t know he was going to attempt to burn down my building, or—” He
　　stops. “We thought it was an unwelcome obsession, but you know”—he
　　shrugs—“when you’re in the public eye, people are interested. It was random
　　stuff: news reports on me from when I was at Harvard—my rowing, my
　　career. Reports on Carrick—following his career, following my mom’s career
　　—and to some extent, Elliot and Mia.

　　How strange.
　　“You said or,” I prompt.
　　“Or what?”
　　“You said, ‘attempt to burn down my building, or . . .’ like you were going to
　　say something else.”
　　“Are you hungry?”
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　　What? I frown at him, and my stomach rumbles.
　　“Did you eat today?” His voice is sterner and his eyes frost. I’m betrayed by
　　my flush.
　　“As I thought.” His voice is clipped. “You know how I feel about you not eating.
　　Come,” he says. He stands and holds out his hand. “Let me feed you.” And
　　he shifts again . . . this time his voice full of sensual promise.
　　“Feed me?” I whisper as everything south of my navel liquefies. Hell. This is
　　such a typically mercurial persion from what we’ve been discussing. Is that
　　it? Is that all I’m getting out of him for now?
　　Leading me over to the kitchen, Christian grabs a bar stool and hefts it
　　around to the other side of the island.
　　“Sit,” he says.
　　“Where’s Mrs. Jones?” I ask, noticing her absence for the first time as I perch
　　on the stool.
　　“I’ve given her and Taylor the night off.”
　　Oh.
　　“Why?”
　　He gazes at me for a beat, and his arrogant amusement is back.
　　“Because I can.”
　　“So you’re going to cook?” I give him an incredulous smirk.
　　“Oh, ye of little faith, Mrs. Grey. Close your eyes.”
　　I blink at him, marveling. I thought we were going to have a full-on fight, and
　　here we are, playing in the kitchen.
　　“Close them,” he orders.
　　I roll them first, then oblige.
　　“Hmm. Not good enough,” he mutters. I open one eye and see him take a
　　plum-colored silk scarf out of the back pocket of his jeans. It matches my
　　dress. Holy cow. I look quizzically at him. When did he get that?
　　“Close,” he orders again. “No peeking.”
　　“You’re going to blindfold me?” I mutter, shocked. All of a sudden I’m
　　breathless.
　　“Yes.”
　　“Christian—” He places a finger upon my lips, silencing me. I want to talk.
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　　“We’ll talk later. I want you to eat now. You said you were hungry.” Leaning
　　over, he lightly kisses my lips. The silk of the scarf is soft against my eyelids
　　as he ties it securely at the back of my head.
　　“Can you see?” he asks.
　　“No,” I mutter, figuratively rolling my eyes. He chuckles softly.
　　“I can tell when you’re rolling your eyes, you know . . . and you know how that
　　makes me feel.”
　　I purse my lips. “Can we just get this over and done with?” I snap.
　　“Such impatience, Mrs. Grey. So eager to talk.” His tone is playful.
　　“Yes!”
　　“I must feed you first,” he says and brushes his lips over my temple, calming
　　me instantly.
　　Okay . . . have it your way. I resign myself to my fate and listen to his
　　movements around the kitchen. The fridge door opens and Christian places
　　various dishes on the countertop behind me. He pads over to the microwave,
　　pops something in, and turns it on. My curiosity is piqued. I hear the toaster
　　lever drop, the turn of the control, and the quiet tick of the timer. Hmm—
　　toast?
　　“Yes. I am eager to talk,” I murmur, distracted. An assortment of exotic, spicy
　　aromas fills the kitchen. What is he doing? I shift in my chair.
　　“Be still, Anastasia,” he murmurs, and he’s close to me again. “I want you to
　　behave . . . ,” he whispers.
　　Oh my. My inner goddess freezes, not even blinking.
　　“And don’t bite your lip.” Gently he tugs my bottom lip free of my teeth, and I
　　can’t help my smile.
　　Next, I hear the soft pop of a cork being drawn from a bottle and the gentle
　　glug of wine being poured into a glass. He leans across behind me and I
　　hear a soft click and the quiet white noise of the surroundsound speakers
　　hissing to life. A loud twang of a guitar begins a song I don’t know. Christian
　　turns the volume down to background level. A man starts to sing, his voice
　　deep, low, and sexy.
　　“A drink first, I think,” Christian whispers, perting me from the song. “Head
　　back.” I tip my head back. “Further,” he prompts. I oblige, and his lips are on
　　mine. Cool crisp wine flows into my mouth. I swallow reflexively. Oh my, and
　　memories flood back of not so long ago—me trussed up on my bed in
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　　graduated, with a hot, angry Christian not appreciating my e-mail. Hmm . . .
　　have times changed? Not much. Except now I recognize the wine,
　　Christian’s favorite—a Sancerre.
　　“Hmm,” I murmur in appreciation.
　　“You like the wine?” he whispers his breath warm on my cheek. I’m bathed in
　　his proximity, his vitality, the heat radiating from his body, even though he
　　doesn’t touch me.
　　“Yes,” I breathe.
　　“More?”
　　“I always want more, with you.”
　　I almost hear his grin. It makes me grin, too. “Mrs. Grey, are you flirting with
　　me?”
　　“Yes.”
　　His wedding ring clinks against the glass as he takes another sip of wine.
　　Now that is a sexy sound. This time he pulls my head right back, cradling me.
　　He kisses me once more, and greedily I swallow the wine he gives me. He
　　smiles as he kisses me again.
　　“Hungry?”
　　“I think we’ve already established that, Mr. Grey.”
　　The troubadour on the iPod is singing about wicked games. Hmm . . . how
　　apt.
　　The microwave pings, and Christian releases me. I sit upright. The food
　　smells spicy: garlic, mint, oregano, rosemary, and lamb, I think. What is he
　　cooking? The door to the microwave opens, and the appetizing smell grows
　　stronger.
　　“Shit! Christ!” Christian curses, and a dish clatters onto the countertop.
　　Oh no.
　　“You okay?”
　　“Yes!” he snaps, his voice tight. A moment later he’s standing beside me
　　once more.
　　“I just burnt myself. Here.” He eases his index finger into my mouth. “Maybe
　　you could suck it better.”
　　“Oh.” Clasping his hand, I draw his finger slowly from my mouth.
　　“There, there,” I soothe, and leaning forward I blow, cooling his finger, then
　　kiss it gently twice. He stops breathing. I reinsert it into my mouth and suck
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　　my groin. He tastes as delicious as ever, and I realize that this is his game—
　　the slow seduction of his wife. I thought he was mad, and now . . . ? This man,
　　my husband, is so confusing. But right now this is how I like him. Playful. Fun.
　　Sexy as hell. He’s given me some answers, but I’m greedy. I want more, but I
　　want to play, too. After the anxiety and tension of today, and the nightmare of
　　last night with Jack, this is a welcome persion.
　　“What are you thinking?” Christian murmurs, stopping my thoughts in their
　　tracks as he pulls his finger out of my mouth.
　　“How mercurial you are.”
　　He stills beside me. “Fifty Shades, baby,” he says eventually, and plants a
　　tender kiss at the corner of my mouth.
　　“My Fifty Shades,” I whisper. Grabbing his T-shirt, I pull him back to me.
　　“Oh no you don’t, Mrs. Grey. No touching . . . not yet.” He takes my hand,
　　pries it off his T-shirt, and kisses each finger in turn.
　　“Sit up,” he commands.
　　I pout.
　　“I will spank you if you pout. Now open wide.”
　　Oh shit. I open my mouth, and he pops in a forkful of spicy hot lamb, covered
　　in a cool, minty, yogurt sauce. Mmm. I chew.
　　“You like?”
　　“Yes.”
　　He makes an appreciative noise, and I know he’s eating and enjoying, too.
　　“More?”
　　I nod. He gives me another forkful and I chew it enthusiastically. He puts the
　　fork down and he tears . . . bread, I think.
　　“Open,” he orders.
　　This time it’s pita bread and hummus. I realize Mrs. Jones—or maybe even
　　Christian—has been shopping at the delicatessen I discovered about five
　　weeks ago only two blocks from Escala. I chew gratefully. Christian in a
　　playful mood increases my appetite.
　　“More?” he asks.
　　I nod. “More of everything. Please. I’m starving.”
　　I hear his delighted grin. Slowly and patiently he feeds me, occasionally
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　　wiping it off with his fingers. Intermittently, he offers me a sip of wine in his
　　unique way.
　　“Open wide, then bite,” he murmurs. I follow his command. Hmm—one of my
　　favorites, stuffed vine leaves. Even cold they are delicious, though I prefer
　　them heated up, but I don’t want to risk Christian burning himself again. He
　　feeds it to me slowly, and when I’ve finished I lick his fingers clean.
　　“More?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
　　I shake my head. I’m full.
　　“Good,” he whispers against my ear,” because it’s time for my favorite
　　course. You.”
　　What? He scoops me up in his arms, surprising me so much I squeal.
　　“Can I take the blindfold off?”
　　“No.”
　　I almost pout, then remember his threat and think better of it.
　　“Playroom,” he murmurs.
　　Oh—I don’t know if that’s a good idea.
　　“You up for the challenge?” he asks. And because he’s used the word
　　challenge, I can’t say no.
　　“Bring it on,” I murmur, desire and something that I don’t want to name
　　thrumming through my body. He carries me through the door, then up the
　　stairs to the second floor.
　　“I think you’ve lost weight,” he mutters disapprovingly. I have?
　　Good. I remember his comment when we arrived back from our honeymoon,
　　and how much it smarted. Jeez—was that just a week ago?
　　Outside the playroom, he slides me down his body and sets me on my feet,
　　but keeps his arm wrapped around my waist. Briskly he unlocks the door.
　　It always smells the same: polished wood and citrus. It’s actually become a
　　comforting smell. Releasing me, Christian turns me around until I’m facing

　　away from him. He undoes the scarf, and I blink in the soft light. Gently, he
　　pulls the hairpins from my updo, and my braid falls free. He grasps it and
　　tugs gently so I have to step back against him.
　　“I have a plan,” he whispers in my ear, sending delicious shivers down my
　　spine.
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　　“I thought you might,” I answer. He kisses me beneath my ear.
　　“Oh, Mrs. Grey, I do.” His tone is soft, mesmerizing. He tugs my braid to the
　　side and plants a trail of soft kisses down my throat.
　　“First we have to get you naked.” His voice hums low in his throat and
　　resonates through my body. I want this—whatever he has planned. I want to
　　connect the way we know how. He turns me around to face him. I glance
　　down at his jeans, the top button still undone, and I can’t help myself.
　　Reaching out, I brush my index finger around the waistband, feeling the hairs
　　of his happy trail tickle my knuckle. He inhales sharply, and I look up to meet
　　his eyes. I stop at the unfastened button. His eyes darken to a deeper gray . .
　　. oh my.
　　“You should keep these on,” I whisper.
　　“I fully intend to, Anastasia.”
　　And he moves, grabbing me with one hand to the back of my neck and the
　　other around my backside. He pulls me against him, then his mouth is on
　　mine and he’s kissing me like his life depends on it. Whoa!
　　He walks me backward, our tongues entwined, until I feel the wooden cross
　　behind me. He leans into me, the contours of his body pressing into mine.
　　“Let’s get rid of this dress,” he says, peeling my dress up my thighs, my hips,
　　my belly . . . deliciously slowly, the material skimming over my skin, skimming
　　over my breasts.
　　“Lean forward,” he says.
　　I comply, and he pulls my dress over my head and discards it on the floor,
　　leaving me in my sandals, panties, and bra. His eyes blaze as he grasps
　　both my hands and raises them over my head. He blinks once and tilts his
　　head to one side, and I know he’s asking for my permission. What is he
　　going to do to me? I swallow, then nod, and a trace of an admiring—almost
　　proud—smile touches his lips. He clips my wrists into the leather cuffs on the
　　bar above and produces the scarf once more.
　　“Think you’ve seen enough,” he murmurs. He wraps it around my head,
　　blindfolding me again, and I feel a frisson run through me as all my other
　　senses heighten; the sound of his soft breathing, my own excited response,
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　　with the citrus and polish in the room—all are bought into sharper focus
　　because I can’t see. His nose touches mine.
　　“I’m going to drive you wild,” he whispers. His hands grasp my hips, and he
　　moves down, removing my panties as his hands glide down my legs. Drive
　　me wild . . . wow.
　　“Lift your feet, one at a time.” I oblige and he removes first my panties, then
　　each sandal in turn. Gently grasping my ankle, he tugs my leg gently to the
　　right.
　　“Step,” he says. He cuffs my right ankle to the cross then proceeds to do the
　　same with my left. I am helpless, spread-eagled on the cross. Standing,
　　Christian steps toward me, and my body is bathed in his warmth once more
　　though he doesn’t touch me. After a moment he grasps my chin, tilts my head
　　up, and kisses me chastely.
　　“Some music and toys, I think. You look beautiful like this, Mrs. Grey. I may
　　take a moment to admire the view.” His voice is soft. Everything clenches,
　　deep inside.
　　After a moment, maybe two, I hear him pad quietly to the museum chest and
　　open one of the drawers. The butt drawer? I have no idea. He takes
　　something out and places it on the top, followed by something else. What?
　　The speakers spring to life, and after a moment the strains of a single piano
　　playing a soft, lilting melody fill the room. It’s familiar—Bach, I think—but I
　　don’t know what piece it is. Something about the music makes me
　　apprehensive. Perhaps because the music is too cool, too detached. I frown,
　　trying to grasp why it unsettles me, but Christian grasps my chin, startling me,
　　and tugs gently so that I release my bottom lip. I smile, trying to reassure
　　myself. Why do feel uneasy?
　　Is it the music?
　　Christian runs his hand from my chin, along my throat, and down my chest to
　　my breast. Using his thumb he pulls on the cup, freeing my breast from the
　　restraint of my bra. He makes a low, appreciative humming noise in his
　　throat and kisses my neck. His lips follow the path of his fingers to my breast,
　　kissing and sucking all the way. His fingers move to my left breast, releasing
　　it from my bra. I moan as he skates his thumb across my left nipple, and his
　　lips close around my right, tugging and teasing gently until both nipples are
　　long and hard.
　　“Ah.”
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　　He doesn’t stop. Slowly, with exquisite care, he increases the intensity on
　　each. I pull fruitlessly against my restraints as sharp pleasure spikes from my
　　nipples to my groin. I try to squirm but I can hardly move, and it makes the
　　torture all the more exquisite.
　　“Christian,” I plead.
　　“I know,” he murmurs his voice hoarse. “This is what you make me feel.”
　　What? I groan, and he begins again, subjecting my nipples to his sweet
　　What? I groan, and he begins again, subjecting my nipples to his sweet
　　agonizing touch over and over—taking me closer.
　　“Please,” I mewl.
　　He makes a low primal sound in his throat, then stands, leaving me bereft,
　　breathless, and squirming against my restraints. He runs his hands down my
　　sides, one pausing on my hip while the other travels down my belly.
　　“Let’s see how you’re doing,” he croons softly. Gently, he cups my sex,
　　brushing his thumb across my clitoris and making me cry out. Slowly, he
　　inserts one, then two fingers inside me. I groan and thrust my hips forward,
　　eager to meet his fingers and the palm of his hand.
　　“Oh, Anastasia, you’re so ready,” he says.
　　He circles his fingers inside me, around and around, while his thumb strokes
　　my clitoris, back and forth, once more. It’s the only point on my body where
　　he’s touching me, and all the tension, all the anxiety of the day, is
　　concentrated on this one part of my anatomy. Holy shit . . . it’s intense . . .
　　and strange . . . the music . . . I begin to build . . . Christian shifts, his hand
　　still moving against and in me, and I hear a low buzzing noise.
　　“What?” I gasp.
　　“Hush,” he soothes, and his lips are on mine, effectively silencing me. I
　　welcome the warmer, more intimate contact, kissing him voraciously. He
　　breaks the contact and the buzzing noise gets nearer.
　　“This is a wand, baby. It vibrates.”
　　He holds it against my chest, and it feels like a large ball-like object vibrating
　　against me. I shiver as it moves across my skin, down between my breasts,
　　across to first one, then the other nipple, and I’m awash with sensation,
　　tingling everywhere, synapses firing as dark, dark need pools at the base of
　　my belly.
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　　“Ah,” I groan, while Christian’s fingers continue to move inside me . I’m close
　　. . . all this stimulation . . . Tilting my head back, I moan loudly and Christian
　　stills his fingers. All sensation stops.
　　“No! Christian,” I plead, trying to thrust my hips forward for some friction.
　　“Still, baby,” he says while my impending orgasm melts away. He leans
　　forward once more and kisses me.
　　“Frustrating, isn’t it?” he murmurs.
　　Oh no! Suddenly I understand his game.
　　“Christian, please.”
　　“Hush,” he says and kisses me. And he starts to move again—wand, fingers,
　　thumb—a lethal combination of sensual torture. He shifts so his body
　　brushes against mine. He’s still dressed, and the soft denim of his jeans
　　brushes against my leg, his erection at my hip. So tantalizingly close. He
　　brings me to the brink again, my body singing with need, and stops.
　　“No,” I mewl loudly.
　　He plants soft wet kisses on my shoulder as he withdraws his fingers from
　　me, and moves the wand down. It oscillates over my stomach, my belly, onto
　　my sex, against my clitoris. Fuck, it’s intense.
　　“Ah!” I cry out, pulling hard on the restraints.
　　My body is so sensitized I feel I am going to explode, and just as I am,
　　Christian stops again.
　　“Christian!” I cry out.
　　“Frustrating, yes?” he murmurs against my throat. “Just like you. Promising
　　one thing and then . . .” His voice trails off.
　　“Christian, please!” I beg.
　　He pushes the wand against me again and again, stopping just at the vital
　　moment each time. Ah!
　　“Each time I stop, it feels more intense when I start again. Right?”
　　“Please,” I whimper. My nerve endings are screaming for release. The
　　buzzing stops and Christian kisses me. He runs his nose down mine. “You
　　are the most frustrating woman I have ever met.”
　　No, No, No.
　　“Christian, I never promised to obey you. Please, please—”
　　He moves in front of me, grabs my behind and pushes his hips against me,
　　making me gasp—his groin rubbing into mine, the buttons 230 | P a g e
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　　of his jeans pressing into me, barely containing his erection. With one hand
　　he pulls off the blindfold and grasps my chin, and I blink up into his scorching
　　eyes.
　　“You drive me crazy,” he whispers, flexing his hips against me once, twice,
　　three times more, causing my body to spark—ready to burn. And again he
　　denies me. I want him so badly. I need him so badly. I close my eyes and
　　mutter a prayer. I can’t help but feel I’m being punished. I’m helpless and he’s
　　ruthless. Tears spring to my eyes. I don’t know how far he’s going to take
　　this.
　　“Please,” I whisper once more.
　　But he gazes down at me, implacable. He’s just going to continue. For how
　　long? Can I play this game? No. No. No—I can’t do this. I know he’s not
　　going to stop. He’s going to continue to torture me. His hand travels down my

　　body once more. No . . . And the dam bursts—all the apprehension, the
　　anxiety, and the fear from the last couple of days overwhelming me anew as
　　tears spring to my eyes. I turn away from him. This is not love. It’s revenge.
　　“Red,” I whimper. “Red. Red.” The tears course down my face. He stills. “No,”
　　he gasps, stunned. “Jesus Christ, no.”
　　He moves quickly, unclipping my hands, clasping me around my waist and
　　leaning down to unclip my ankles, while I put my head in my hands and weep.
　　“No, no, no. Ana, please. No.”
　　Picking me up, he moves to the bed, sitting down and cradling me in his lap
　　while I sob inconsolably. I’m overwhelmed . . . my body wound up to breaking
　　point, my mind a blank and my emotions scattered to the wind. He reaches
　　behind him, drags the satin sheet off the four-poster bed and drapes it
　　around me. The cool sheets feel alien and unwelcome against my sensitized
　　skin. He wraps his arms around me, hugging me close, rocking me gently
　　backward and forward.
　　“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Christian murmurs, his voice raw. He kisses my hair
　　over and over again. “Ana, forgive me, please.”
　　Turning my face into his neck, I continue to cry, and it’s a cathartic release.
　　So much has happened over the last few days—fires in computer rooms, car
　　chases, careers planned out for me, slutty architects, armed lunatics in the
　　apartment, arguments, his anger—and Christian has been away. I hate
　　Christian going away . . . I use the 231 | P a g e
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　　corner of the sheet to wipe my nose and gradually become aware that the
　　clinical tones of Bach are still echoing around the room.
　　“Please switch the music off.” I sniff.
　　“Yes, of course.” Christian shifts, not letting me go, and pulls the remote out
　　of his back pocket. He presses a button and the piano music ceases, to be
　　replaced by my shuddering breaths. “Better?” he asks. I nod, my sobs
　　easing. Christian wipes my tears away gently with his thumb.
　　“Not a fan of Bach’s Goldberg Variations?” he asks.
　　“Not that piece.”
　　He gazes down at me, trying and failing to hide the shame in his eyes.
　　“I’m sorry,” he says again.
　　“Why did you do that?” My voice is barely audible as I try to process my
　　scrambled thoughts and feelings.
　　He shakes his head sadly and closes his eyes. “I got lost in the moment,” he
　　says unconvincingly.
　　I frown at him, and he sighs. “Ana. Orgasm denial is a standard tool in––You
　　never—” He stops. I shift in his lap, and he winces. Oh. I flush. “Sorry,” I
　　mutter.
　　He rolls his eyes, then leans back suddenly, taking me with him, so that we’re
　　both lying on the bed, me in his arms. My bra is uncomfortable, and I adjust it.
　　“Need a hand?” he asks quietly.
　　I shake my head. I don’t want him to touch my breasts. He shifts so he’s
　　looking down at me, and tentatively raising his hand, he strokes his fingers
　　gently down my face. Tears pool in my eyes again. How can he be so callous
　　one minute and so tender the next?
　　“Please don’t cry,” he whispers.
　　I’m dazed and confused by this man. My anger has deserted me in my hour
　　of need . . . I feel numb. I want to curl up in a ball and withdraw. I blink, trying
　　to hold back my tears as I gaze into his harrowed eyes. I take a shuddering
　　breath, my eyes not leaving his. What am I going to do with this controlling
　　man? Learn to be controlled? I don’t think so . . .
　　“I never what?” I ask
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　　“Do as you’re told. You changed your mind; you didn’t tell me where you
　　were. Ana, I was in New York, powerless and livid. If I’d been in Seattle I’d
　　have brought you home.”
　　“So you are punishing me?”
　　He swallows, then closes his eyes. He doesn’t have to answer, and I know
　　that punishing me was his exact intention.
　　“You have to stop doing this,” I murmur.
　　His brow furrows.
　　“For a start, you only end up feeling shittier about yourself.”
　　He snorts. “That’s true,” he mutters. “I don’t like to see you like this.”
　　“And I don’t like feeling like this. You said on the Fair Lady that you hadn’t
　　married a submissive.”
　　“I know. I know.” His voice is soft and raw.
　　“Well stop treating me like one. I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I won’t be so selfish
　　again. I know you worry about me.”
　　He gazes at me, scrutinizing me closely, his eyes bleak and anxious.
　　“Okay. Good,” he says eventually. He leans down, but pauses before his lips
　　touch mine, silently asking if it’s allowed. I raise my face to his, and he kisses
　　me tenderly.
　　“Your lips are always so soft when you’ve been crying,” he murmurs.
　　“I never promised to obey you, Christian,” I whisper.
　　“I know.”
　　“Deal with it, please. For both our sakes. And I will try and be more
　　considerate of your . . . controlling tendencies.”
　　He blinks, looking lost and vulnerable, completely at sea.
　　“I’ll try,” he murmurs, his voice burning with sincerity. I sigh, a long shuddering
　　sigh. “Please do. Besides, if I had been here . . .”
　　“I know,” he says and blanches. Lying back, he puts his free arm over his
　　face. I curl around him and lay my head on his chest. We both lie silent for a
　　few moments. His hand moves to the end of my braid. He pulls the tie from it,
　　freeing my hair, and gently, rhythmically, combs his fingers through it. This is
　　what this is really about—his fear . . . his irrational fear for my safety. An
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　　slumped on the floor in my apartment with a Glock comes to mind . . . well,
　　maybe not so irrational, which reminds me . . .
　　“What did you mean earlier, when you said or?” I ask.
　　“Or?”
　　“Something about Jack.”
　　He peers down at me. “You don’t give up, do you?”
　　I rest my chin on his sternum, enjoying the soothing caress of his fingers in
　　my hair.
　　“Give up? Never. Tell me. I don’t like being kept in the dark. You seem to
　　have some overblown idea that I need protecting. You don’t even know how
　　to shoot—I do. Do you think I can’t handle whatever it is you won’t tell me,
　　Christian? I’ve had your stalker ex-sub pull a gun on me, your pedophile exlover
　　harass me—and don’t look at me like that,” I snap when he scowls at
　　me. “Your mother feels the same way about her.”
　　“You talked to my mother about Elena?” Christian’s voice rises a few
　　octaves.
　　“Yes, Grace and I talked about her.”
　　He gapes at me.
　　“She’s very upset about it. Blames herself.”
　　“I can’t believe you spoke to my mother. Shit!” He lies down and puts his arm
　　over his face again.
　　“I didn’t go into any specifics.”
　　“I should hope not. Grace doesn’t need all the gory details. Christ, Ana. My
　　dad, too?”
　　“No!” I shake my head vehemently. I don’t have that kind of relationship with
　　Carrick. His comments about the prenup still sting.
　　“Anyway, you’re trying to distract me—again. Jack. What about him?”
　　Christian lifts his arm briefly and gazes at me, his expression unreadable.
　　Sighing, he puts his arm back over his face.
　　“Hyde is implicated in Charlie Tango’s sabotage. The investigators found a
　　partial print—just partial, so they couldn’t make a match. But then you
　　recognized Hyde in the server room. He has convictions as a minor in
　　Detroit, and the prints matched his.”
　　My mind reels as I try to absorb this information. Jack brought down Charlie
　　Tango? But Christian is on a roll. “This morning, a cargo van was found in the
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　　delivered some shit to that new guy who’s moved in. The guy we met in the
　　elevator.”
　　“I don’t remember his name.”
　　“Me neither.” Christian says. “But that’s how Hyde managed to get into the
　　building legitimately. He was working for a delivery company—”
　　“And? What’s so important about the van?”
　　Christian says nothing.
　　“Christian, tell me.”
　　“The cops found . . . things in the van.” He stops again and tightens his hold
　　around me.
　　“What things?”
　　He’s quiet for several moments, and I open my mouth to prompt him again,
　　but he speaks. “A mattress, enough horse tranquilizer to take down a dozen
　　horses, and a note.” His voice has softened to barely a whisper while horror
　　and revulsion roll off him.
　　Holy fuck.
　　“Note?” My voice mirrors his.
　　“Addressed to me.”
　　“What did it say?”
　　Christian shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t know or that he won’t
　　pulge its contents.
　　Oh.
　　“Hyde came here last night with the intention of kidnapping you.”
　　Christian freezes, his face taut with tension. As he says those words I recall
　　the duct tape, and a shudder runs through me, though deep down this is not
　　news to me.
　　“Shit,” I mutter.
　　“Quite,” Christian says tightly.
　　I try and remember Jack in the office. Was he always insane? How did he
　　think he could get away with this? I mean he was pretty creepy, but this
　　unhinged?
　　“I don’t understand why,” I murmur. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”
　　“I know. The police are digging further, and so is Welch. But we think Detroit
　　is the connection.”
　　“Detroit?” I gaze at him, confused.
　　“Yeah. There’s something there.”
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　　“I still don’t understand.”
　　Christian lifts his face and gazes at me, his expression unreadable.
　　“Ana, I was born in Detroit.”
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