fifty shades darker (29 page)

Reaching over, I whisper, “Let me.”

His lips purse briefly into an
ooh
shape, and he smiles. “Be my guest.”

I step toward him, slip my fearless fingers inside the waistband of his jeans, and tug so he’s forced to take a step closer to me. He gasps involuntarily at my unexpected audacity then smiles down at me. I undo the button, but before I unzip him I let my fingers wander, tracing his erection through the soft denim. He flexes his hips into my palm and closes his eyes briefly, relishing my touch.

“You’re getting so bold, Ana, so brave,” he whispers and clasps my face with both hands, bending to kiss me deeply.

I put my hands on his hips—half on his cool skin and half on the low-slung waistband of his jeans. “So are you,” I murmur against his lips as my thumbs rub slow circles on his skin, and he smiles.

“Getting there.”

I move my hands to the front of his jeans and pull down the zipper. My intrepid fingers move through his pubic hair to his erection, and I grasp him tightly.

He makes a low sound in his throat, his sweet breath washing over me, and he kisses me again, lovingly. As my hand moves over him, around him, stroking him, squeezing him tightly, he puts his arms around me, his right hand flat against the middle of my back and his fingers spread. His left hand is in my hair, holding me to his mouth.

“Oh, I want you so much, baby,” he breathes, and steps back suddenly to remove his jeans and boxers in one swift, agile move. He is a fine, fine sight in or out of clothes, every single inch of him.

He is perfect. His beauty desecrated only by his scars, I think sadly. And they run so much deeper than his skin.

“What’s wrong, Ana?” he murmurs and gently strokes my cheek with his knuckles.

“Nothing. Love me, now.”

He pulls me into his arms, kissing me, twisting his hands into my hair. Our tongues entwined, he walks me backward to the bed and gently lowers me onto it, following me down so that he’s lying by my side.

He runs his nose along my jawline as my hands move to his hair.

“Do you have any idea how exquisite your scent is, Ana? It’s irresistible.”

His words do what they always do—flame my blood, quicken my pulse—and he trails his nose down my throat, across my breasts, kissing me reverentially as he does.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, as he takes one of my nipples in his mouth and softly suckles.

I moan as my body bows off the bed.

“Let me hear you, baby.”

His hand trails down to my waist, and I glory in the feel of his touch, skin to skin—his hungry mouth at my breasts and his skilled long fingers caressing and stroking me, cherishing me. Moving over my hips, over my behind, and down my leg to my knee, and all this time he’s kissing and sucking my breasts—
oh my.

Grasping my knee, he suddenly hitches my leg up, curling it over his hips, making me gasp, and I feel rather than see his responding grin against my skin. He rolls over so that I am astride him and hands me a foil packet.

I shift back, taking him in my hands, and I just can’t resist him in all his glory. I bend and kiss him, taking him in my mouth, swirling my tongue around him, then sucking hard.

He groans and flexes his hips so that he’s deeper in my mouth.

Mmm . . . he tastes good.
I want him inside me. I sit up and gaze at him; he’s breathless, mouth open, watching me intently.

Hurriedly I tear open the condom and unroll it over him. He holds out his hands for me. I take one and with my other hand, position myself over him, then slowly claim him as mine.

He groans low in his throat, closing his eyes.

The feel of him in me . . . stretching . . . filling me
—I moan softly—
it’s divine.
He places his hands on my hips and moves me up, down, and pushes into me.
Oh . . . it’s so good.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers, and suddenly he sits up so we’re nose to nose, and the sensation is extraordinary—so full. I gasp, grabbing his upper arms as he clasps my head in his hands and gazes into my eyes—his intense and gray, burning with desire.

“Oh, Ana. What you make me feel,” he murmurs and kisses me passionately with fervent ardor. I kiss him back, dizzy with the delicious feeling of him buried deep inside me.

“Oh, I love you,” I murmur. He groans as if pained to hear my whispered words and rolls over, taking me with him without breaking our precious contact, so that I’m lying beneath him. I wrap my legs around his waist.

He stares down at me with adoring wonder, and I am sure I mirror his expression as I reach up to caress his beautiful face. Very slowly, he starts to move, closing his eyes as he does and moaning softly.

The gentle sway of the boat and the peace and quiet tranquility of the cabin are broken only by our mingled breaths as he moves slowly in and out of me, so controlled and so good—it’s heavenly. He puts his arm over my head, his hand on my hair, and he caresses my face with the other as he bends to kiss me.

I’m cocooned by him, as he loves me, slowly moving in and out, savoring me. I touch him—sticking to the boundaries—his arms, his hair, his lower back, his beautiful behind—

and my breathing accelerates as his steady rhythm pushes me higher and higher. He’s kissing my mouth, my chin, my jaw, then nibbling my ear. I can hear his staccato breaths with each gentle thrust of his body.

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.

“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 din-ghy.” 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 lay on my front admiring the view.

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

I watch him move gracefully about the cabin as he dresses. He really is divinely beautiful, and what’s more, he’s just made such sweet love to me again. I can hardly believe my good fortune. I can’t quite believe that this man is 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 solici-tously, 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?”

He 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 and learned to tie a reef knot, clove hitch, and sheep-shank. 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 round the apartment, the thrill, 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 innova-tive 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 in sailing as old as the world,”1 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 rela-tively 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?”

1 de Saint-Exupéry, Antoine.
Night Flight.
Translated by Stuart Gilbert. New Jersey: Prentice Hall, June 1932. (First published in 1931 under the original title of
Vol de nuit.
)

“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 remember when 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.