fifty shades darker (25 page)

“Oh, baby, there was no danger of that. There was no way I would let anyone else dance with you.”

“You let Dr. Flynn.”

“He’s always the exception to the rule.”

Christian pulls into the impressive, leafy driveway of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel and parks near the front door, beside a quaint stone fountain.

“Come.” He climbs out of the car and retrieves our luggage. A valet rushes toward us, looking surprised—no doubt at our late arrival. Christian tosses him the car keys.

“Name of Taylor,” he says. The valet nods and can’t contain his glee as he leaps into the R8 and drives off. Christian takes my hand and strides into the lobby.

As I stand beside him at the reception desk, I feel utterly, utterly ridiculous. Here I am, in Seattle’s most prestigious hotel, dressed in an oversized denim jacket, oversized sweatpants, and an old T-shirt next to this elegant, beautiful, Greek god. No wonder the receptionist is looking from one to the other as if the equation doesn’t add up. Of course, she’s over-awed by Christian. I roll my eyes as she flushes crimson and stutters.
Jeez, even
her hands are shaking.

“Do . . . you need a hand . . . with your bags, Mr. Taylor?” she asks, going scarlet again.

“No, Mrs. Taylor and I can manage.”

Mrs. Taylor!
But I’m not wearing a ring. I put my hands behind my back.

“You’re in the Cascade Suite, Mr. Taylor, eleventh floor. Our bellboy will help with your bags.”

“We’re fine,” Christian says curtly. “Where are the elevators?”

Miss Flushing Crimson explains, and Christian grasps my hand once more. I glance briefly round the impressive, sumptuous lobby full of overstuffed chairs, deserted save for a dark-haired woman sitting on a cozy sofa, feeding tidbits to her westie. She glances up and smiles at us as we make our way to the elevators. So the hotel allows pets? Odd for a place so grand!

The suite has two bedrooms, a formal dining room, and comes complete with grand piano. A log fire blazes in the massive main room.
Jeez . . .
This suite is bigger than my apartment.

“Well, Mrs. Taylor, I don’t know about you, but I’d really like a drink,” Christian mutters, locking the front door securely.

In the bedroom, he puts my case and his satchel on the ottoman at the foot of the king-size four-poster bed and leads me by the hand into the main room where the fire is burning brightly. It’s a welcome sight. I stand and warm my hands while Christian fixes us both a drink.

“Armagnac?”

“Please.”

After a moment, he joins me by the fire and hands me a crystal brandy glass.

“It’s been quite a day, huh?”

I nod and his gray eyes gaze at me searchingly, concerned.

“I’m okay,” I whisper reassuringly. “How about you?”

“Well, right now I’d like to drink this and then, if you’re not too tired, take you to bed and lose myself in you.”

“I think that can be arranged, Mr. Taylor.” I smile shyly at him as he shuffles out of his shoes and peels off his socks.

“Mrs. Taylor, stop biting your lip,” he whispers.

I blush into my glass. The Armagnac is delicious, leaving a burning warmth in its wake as it glides silkily down my throat. When I glance up at Christian, he’s sipping his brandy, watching me, his eyes dark—hungry.

“You never cease to amaze me, Anastasia. After a day like today—or yesterday, rather—you’re not whining or running off into the hills screaming. I am in awe of you. You’re very strong.”

“You’re a very good reason to stay,” I murmur. “I told you, Christian, I’m not going anywhere, no matter what you’ve done. You know how I feel about you.”

His mouth twists as if he doubts my words, and his brow creases as if what I’m saying is painful for him to hear. Oh, Christian, what do I have to do to make you realize how I feel?
Let him beat you,
my subconscious sneers at me. I scowl inwardly at her.

“Where are you going to hang José’s portraits of me?” I try to lighten the mood.

“That depends.” His lips twitch. This is obviously a much more palatable topic of conversation for him.

“On what?”

“Circumstances,” he says mysteriously. “His show’s not over yet, so I don’t have to decide straight away.”

I cock my head to one side and narrow my eyes.

“You can look as sternly as you like, Mrs. Taylor. I’m saying nothing,” he teases.

“I may torture the truth from you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really, Anastasia, I don’t think you should make promises you can’t fulfill.”

Oh my, is that what he thinks? I place my glass on the mantelpiece, reach over, and much to Christian’s surprise, take his glass and place it beside mine.

“We’ll just have to see about that,” I murmur. Very bravely—emboldened by the brandy, no doubt—I take Christian’s hand and pull him toward the bedroom. At the foot of the bed I stop. Christian is trying to hide his amusement.

“Now you have me in here, Anastasia, what are you going to do with me?” he teases, his voice low.

“I’m going to start by undressing you. I want to finish what I started earlier.” I reach for the lapels on his jacket, careful not to touch him, and he doesn’t flinch but he’s holding his breath.

Gently, I push his jacket over his shoulders, and his eyes stay on mine, all traces of humor gone, as they grow larger, burning into me, wary and needful? There are so many interpretations of his look.
What is he thinking?
I place his jacket on the ottoman.

“Now your T-shirt,” I whisper and lift it by the hem. He cooperates, raising his arms and backing away, making it easier for me to pull it off. Once off, he gazes down at me, intently, wearing just his jeans that hang so provocatively from his hips. The band of his boxer briefs is visible.

My eyes move hungrily up across his taut stomach to the remains of the lipstick line, faded and smudged, then up to his chest. I want nothing more than to run my tongue through his chest hair to savor his taste.

“Now what?” he whispers, eyes blazing.

“I want to kiss you here.” I run my finger from hipbone to hipbone across his belly.

His lips part as he inhales sharply. “I’m not stopping you,” he breathes.

I take his hand. “You’d better lie down then,” I murmur and lead him to the side of the four-poster bed. He seems bewildered, and it occurs to me that perhaps no one has taken the lead with him since . . . her.
No, don’t go there.

Lifting the covers, he sits on the edge of the bed, gazing up at me, waiting, his expression wary and serious. I stand before him and slip off his denim jacket and let it drop to the floor, then I shuffle out of his sweatpants.

He rubs his thumb over the tips of his fingers. He’s itching to touch me, I can tell, but he suppresses the urge. Taking a deep breath and beyond courageous, I reach for the hem of my T-shirt and lift it over my head so I am naked before him. His eyes don’t leave mine, but he swallows and his lips part.

“You are Aphrodite, Anastasia,” he murmurs.

I clasp his face in my hands, tip his head up, and bend to kiss him. He groans low in his throat.

As I place my mouth on his, he grabs my hips, and before I know it, I am pinned beneath him, his legs forcing mine apart so that he’s cradled against my body between my legs. He’s kissing me, ravaging my mouth, our tongues entwined. His hand trails from my thigh, over my hip, along my belly to my breast, squeezing, kneading, and pulling entic-ingly on my nipple.

I groan and tilt my pelvis involuntarily against him, finding a delicious friction against the seam of his fly and his growing erection. He stops kissing me and gazes down at me bemused and breathless. He flexes his hips so his erection pushes against me
. . . . Yes. Right
there.

I close my eyes and moan, and he does it again, but this time I push back, relishing his answering moan as he kisses me again. He continues the slow delicious torture—rubbing me, rubbing him. And he’s right—getting lost in him—it’s intoxicating to the exclusion of everything else. All my worries are obliterated.

I am here in this moment with him—my blood singing in my veins, thrumming loudly through my ears, mixed with the sound of our panting breaths. I bury my hands in his hair, holding him to my mouth, consuming him, my tongue as avaricious as his. I trail my fingers down his arms, down his lower back to the waistband of his jeans and push my intrepid, greedy hands inside, urging him on and on—forgetting everything, except us.

“You’re going to unman me, Ana,” he whispers suddenly, breaking away from me and kneeling up. He briskly pulls down his jeans and hands me a foil packet.

“You want me, baby, and I sure as hell want you. You know what to do.”

With anxious, dexterous fingers, I rip open the foil and unroll the condom over him. He grins down at me, his mouth open, eyes misty gray and full of carnal promise. Leaning over me, he rubs his nose against mine, his eyes closed, and deliciously, slowly, he enters me.

I grasp his arms and tilt my chin up, reveling in the exquisitely full feeling of his possession. He runs his teeth along my chin, eases back, and then slides into me again—so slow, so sweet, so tender—his body pressing down on me, his elbows and his hands on either side of my face.

“You make me forget everything. You are the best therapy,” he breathes, moving at an achingly leisurely pace, savoring every inch of me.

“Please, Christian—faster,” I murmur, wanting more, now.

“Oh no, baby. I need this slow.” He kisses me sweetly, gently biting my lower lip and absorbing my soft moans.

I move my hands into his hair and surrender myself to his rhythm as slowly and surely my body climbs higher and higher and plateaus, then falls hard and fast as I come around him.“Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he lets go, my name a benediction on his lips as he finds his release.

His head rests on my belly, his arms wrapped around me. My fingers forage in his unruly hair, and we lie like this for I don’t know how long. It’s so late and I am so tired, but I just want to enjoy the quiet serene after-glow of making love with Christian Grey, because that’s what we’ve done, gentle, sweet lovemaking.

He’s come a long way, as have I, in such a short time. It’s almost too much to absorb.

With all the fucked-up stuff, I am losing sight of his simple, honest journey with me.

“I will never get enough of you. Don’t leave me,” he murmurs and kisses my belly.

“I’m not going anywhere, Christian, and I seem to remember that I wanted to kiss your belly,” I grumble sleepily.

He grins against my skin. “Nothing stopping you now baby.”

“I don’t think I can move I’m so tired.”

Christian sighs and shifts reluctantly, coming to lie beside me with his head on his elbow and dragging the covers over us. He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing, warm, loving.

“Sleep now, baby.” He kisses my hair and wraps his arm around me and I drift.

When I open my eyes, light is filling the room, making me blink. My head is fuzzy from lack of sleep.
Where am I? Oh—the hotel . . .

“Hi,” Christian murmurs, smiling fondly at me. He’s lying beside me, fully dressed, on top of the bed. How long has he been here? Has he been studying me? Suddenly, I feel incredibly shy as my face heats under his steady gaze.

“Hi,” I murmur, grateful that I am lying on my front. “How long have you been watching me?”

“I could watch you sleep for hours, Anastasia. But I’ve only been here about five minutes.” He leans over and kisses me gently. “Dr. Greene will be here shortly.”

“Oh.” I’d forgotten about Christian’s inappropriate intervention.

“Did you sleep well?” he inquires mildly. “Certainly seemed like it to me, with all that snoring.”

Oh, playful teasing Fifty.

“I do not snore!” I pout petulantly.

“No. You don’t.” He grins at me. The faint line of red lipstick is still visible around his neck.“Did you shower?”

“No. Waiting for you.”

“Oh . . . okay.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten fifteen. I didn’t have the heart to wake you earlier.”

“You told me you didn’t have a heart at all.”

He smiles, sadly but doesn’t answer. “Breakfast is here—pancakes and bacon for you.

Come, get up, I’m getting lonely out here.” He swats me sharply on my behind, making me jump, and rises from the bed.

Hmm . . .
Christian’s version of warm affection.

As I stretch, I’m aware I ache all over . . . no doubt a result of all the sex, dancing, and teetering in expensive high-heeled shoes. I stagger out of bed and make my way into the sumptuously appointed bathroom while going over the events of the previous day in my mind. When I come out, I don one of the over-fluffy bathrobes that hang on a brass peg in the bathroom.

Leila—the girl who looks like me—that’s the most startling image my brain conjures for conjecture, that and her eerie presence in Christian’s bedroom. What did she want? Me?

Christian? To do what? And why the fuck has she wrecked my car?

Christian said I would have another Audi, like all his submissives. The thought is unwelcome. Since I was so generous with the money he gave me, there’s not a lot I can do.

I wander into the main room of the suite—no sign of Christian. I finally locate him in the dining room. I take a seat, grateful for the impressive breakfast laid before me. Christian is reading the Sunday papers and drinking coffee, his breakfast finished. He smiles at me.

“Eat up. You’re going to need your strength today,” he teases.

“And why is that? You going to lock me in the bedroom?” My inner goddess jerks awake suddenly, all disheveled with a just-fucked look.

“Appealing as that idea is, I thought we’d go out today. Get some fresh air.”

“Is it safe?” I ask innocently, trying and failing to keep the irony from my voice.

Christian’s face falls, and his mouth presses in a line. “Where we’re going, it is. And it’s not a joking matter,” he adds sternly, narrowing his eyes.

I flush and stare down at my breakfast. I don’t feel like being scolded after all the drama and such a late night. I eat my breakfast in silence, feeling petulant.