fifty shades darker (58 page)

“Now? We leave. I believe you have certain expectations, Miss Steele. Which I intend to fulfill to the best of my ability.”

Whoa!

“The best . . . of your a . . . bil . . . ity?” I stutter.
Holy shit.

He grins and stands.

“Don’t we have to pay?” I ask, breathless.

He cocks his head to one side. “I am a member here. They’ll bill me. Come, Anastasia, after you.” He steps aside, and I stand to leave, conscious that I am not wearing my panties.

He gazes at me darkly, like he’s undressing me, and I glory in his carnal appraisal. It just makes me feel so sexy—this beautiful man desires me. Will I always get a kick out of this? Deliberately stopping in front of him, I smooth my dress over my hips.

Christian whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait to get you home.” But he still doesn’t touch me. On the way out he murmurs something about the car to the
maître d’
, but I’m not listening, my inner goddess is incandescent with anticipation. Jeez, she could light up Seattle.

Waiting by the elevators, we are joined by two middle-aged couples. When the doors open, Christian takes my elbow and steers me to the back. I glance around, and we’re surrounded by dark smoked-glass mirrors. As the other couples enter, one man in a rather unflattering brown suit greets Christian.

“Grey,” he nods politely. Christian nods in return but is silent.

The couples stand in front of us, facing the elevator doors. They are obviously friends—

the women chat loudly, excited and animated after their meal. I think they’re all a little tipsy.As the doors close, Christian briefly stoops down beside me to tie his shoelace. Odd, his shoelaces aren’t undone. Discreetly he places his hand on my ankle, startling me, and as he stands his hand travels swiftly up my leg, skating deliciously over my skin—whoa—

right up. I have to stifle my gasp of surprise as his hand reaches my backside. Christian moves behind me.

Oh my.
I gape at the people in front of us, staring at the backs of their heads. They have no idea what we’re up to. Wrapping his free arm around my waist, Christian pulls me to him, holding me in place as his fingers explore.
Holy fucking shit . . . in here?
The elevator travels smoothly down, stopping at the fifty-third floor to let some more people on, but I am not paying attention. I am focused on every little move his fingers make. Circling around . . . now moving forward, questing, as we shuffle back.

Again I stifle a groan when his fingers find their goal.

“Always so ready, Miss Steele,” he whispers as he slips a long finger inside me. I squirm and gasp. How can he do this with all these people here?

“Keep still and quiet,” he warns, murmuring in my ear.

I’m flushed, warm, wanting, trapped in an elevator with seven people, six of them oblivious to what’s occurring in the corner. His finger slides in and out of me, again and again. My breathing. Jeez, it’s embarrassing. I want to tell him to stop . . . and continue . . .

and stop. I sag against him, and he tightens his arm around me, his erection against my hip.

We halt again at the forty-fourth floor.
Oh . . . how long is this torture going to continue? In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . .
Subtly I grind myself against his persistent finger. After all this time of not touching me, he chooses now! Here! And it makes me feel so—wanton.

“Hush,” he breathes, seemingly unaffected as yet two more people come aboard. The elevator is getting crowded. Christian moves us both farther back so that we’re now pressed into the corner, holding me in place and torturing me further. He nuzzles my hair. I’m sure we look like a young couple in love, canoodling in the corner, if anyone could be bothered to turn round and see what we’re doing . . . And he eases a second finger inside me.

Fuck!
I groan, and I’m thankful that the gaggle of people in front of us are still chatting away, totally oblivious.

Oh, Christian, what you do to me.
I lean my head against his chest, closing my eyes and surrendering to his unrelenting fingers.

“Don’t come,” he whispers. “I want that later.” He splays his hand out on my belly, pressing down slightly, as he continues his sweet persecution. The feeling is exquisite.

Finally the elevator reaches the first floor. With a loud ping the doors open, and almost instantly the passengers start exiting. Christian slowly slips his fingers out of me and kisses the back of my head. I glance round at him, and he smiles, then nods again at Mr. Badly-fitted-brown-suit who returns his nod of acknowledgment as he shuffles out of the elevator with his wife. I barely notice, concentrating instead on staying upright and trying to manage my panting. Jeez, I feel aching and bereft. Christian releases me, leaving me to stand on my own two feet without leaning on him.

Turning, I gaze up at him. He looks cool and unruffled, his usual composed self.

Hmm . . . This is so not fair.

“Ready?” he asks. His eyes gleam wickedly as he slips first his index, then his middle finger into his mouth and sucks on them. “Mighty fine, Miss Steele,” he whispers. I nearly convulse on the spot.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I murmur, and I’m practically coming apart at the seams.

“You’d be surprised what I can do, Miss Steele,” he says. Reaching out, he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, a slight smile betraying his amusement.

“I want to get you home, but maybe we’ll only make it as far as the car.” He grins down at me as he takes my hand and leads me out of the elevator.

What! Sex in the car?
Can’t we just do it here on the cool marble of the lobby floor . . .

please?

“Come.”

“Yes, I want to.”

“Miss Steele!” he admonishes me with mock-amused horror.

“I’ve never had sex in a car,” I mumble. Christian halts and places those same fingers under my chin, tipping my head back and glaring down at me.

“I’m very pleased to hear that. I have to say I’d be very surprised, not to say mad, if you had.”

I flush, blinking up at him. Of course, I’ve only had sex with him. I frown at him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” His tone is unexpectedly harsh.

“Christian, it was just an expression.”

“The famous expression, ‘I’ve never had sex in a car.’ Yes, it just trips off the tongue.”

Jeez . . . what’s his problem?

“Christian, I wasn’t thinking. For heaven’s sake, you’ve just . . . um, done that to me in an elevator full of people. My wits are scattered.”

He raises his eyebrows. “What did I do to you?” he challenges.

I scowl at him. He wants me to say it.

“You turned me on, big time. Now take me home and fuck me.”

His mouth drops open then he laughs, surprised. Now he looks young and carefree. Oh, to hear him laugh. I love it because it’s so rare.

“You’re a born romantic, Miss Steele.” He takes my hand, and we head out of the building to where the valet stands by my Saab.

“So you want sex in a car,” Christian murmurs as he switches on the ignition.

“Quite frankly, I would have been happy with the lobby floor.”

“Trust me, Ana, so would I. But I don’t fancy being arrested at this time of night, and I didn’t want to fuck you in a restroom. Well, not today.”

What!
“You mean there was a possibility?”

“Oh yes.”

“Let’s go back.”

He turns to gaze at me and laughs. His laughter is infectious; soon we’re both laughing—wonderful, cathartic, head-held-back laughter. Reaching over, he places his hand on my knee, caressing it gently with long skilled fingers. I stop laughing.

“Patience, Anastasia,” he murmurs and pulls into the Seattle traffic.

He parks the Saab in the Escala garage and turns off the engine. Suddenly, in the confines of the car, the atmosphere between us changes. With wanton anticipation, I glance at him, trying to contain my palpitating heart. He’s turned toward me, leaning against the door, his elbow propped on the steering wheel.

He pulls his lower lip with his thumb and index finger. His mouth is so distracting.

I want it on me. He’s watching me intently, his eyes dark gray. My mouth goes dry. He smiles a slow sexy smile.

“We will fuck in the car at a time and place of my choosing. Right now, I want to take you on every available surface of my apartment.”

It’s like he’s addressing me below the waist . . . my inner goddess performs four
arabesques
and a
pas de Basque.

“Yes.” Jeez, I sound so breathy, desperate.

He leans forward a fraction. I close my eyes, waiting for his kiss, thinking—finally. But nothing happens. After a moment, I open my eyes to find him gazing at me. I can’t figure out what he’s thinking, but before I can say anything, he distracts me once more.

“If I kiss you now we won’t make it into the apartment. Come.”

Gah! Could this man be any more frustrating? He climbs out of the car.

Once again, we wait for the elevator, my body thrumming with anticipation. Christian holds my hand, running his thumb rhythmically across my knuckles, each stroke echoing through me. Oh, I want his hands on all of me. He’s tortured me long enough.

“So, what happened to instant gratification?” I murmur while we wait.

Christian smirks down at me.

“It’s not appropriate in every situation, Anastasia.”

“Since when?”

“Since this evening.”

“Why are you torturing me so?”

“Tit for tat, Miss Steele.”

“How am I torturing you?”

“I think you know.”

I gaze up at him and his expression is difficult to read.
He wants my answer . . . that’s it.

“I’m into delayed gratification, too,” I whisper, smiling shyly.

He tugs my hand unexpectedly, and suddenly I am in his arms. He grabs the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling gently so my head tips back.

“What can I do to make you say yes?” he asks fervently, throwing me off balance once more. I blink at him—at his lovely, serious, desperate expression.

“Give me some time? Please,” I murmur. He groans and finally he kisses me, long and hard. Then we’re in the elevator, and we’re all hands and mouths and tongues and lips and fingers and hair. Desire, thick and strong, lances through my blood, clouding all my reason.

He pushes me against the wall, pinning me with his hips, one hand in my hair, the other at my chin, holding me in place.

“You own me,” he whispers. “My fate is in your hands, Ana.”

His words are intoxicating, and in my overheated state, I want to rip off his clothes.

I push off his jacket, and as the elevator arrives at the apartment, we tumble out into the foyer.

Christian pins me to the wall by the elevator, his jacket falling to the floor, and his hand travels up my leg, his lips never leaving mine. He hoists up my dress.

“First surface here,” he breathes and abruptly he lifts me. “Wrap your legs around me.”

I do as I’m told, and he turns and lays me down on the foyer table, so he’s standing between my legs. I’m aware that the usual vase of flowers is missing.
Huh?
Reaching into his jeans pocket, he fishes out a foil packet and hands it to me, undoing his fly.

“Do you know how much you turn me on?”

“What?” I pant. “No . . . I . . .”

“Well, you do,” he mutters, “all the time.” He grabs the foil packet from my hands. Oh, this is so quick, but after all his tantalizing teasing, I want him badly—right now. He gazes down at me as he rolls on the condom, then puts his hands under my thighs, spreading my legs wider.

Positioning himself, he pauses. “Keep your eyes open. I want to see you,” he whispers and clasping both my hands with his, he sinks slowly into me.

I try, I really do, but the feeling is so exquisite. What I’ve been waiting for after all his teasing.
Oh, the fullness, this feeling . . .
I groan and arch my back off the table.

“Open!” he growls, tightening his hands on mine and thrusting sharply into me so that I cry out.

I blink my eyes open, and he stares down at me wide-eyed. Slowly he withdraws then sinks into me once more, his mouth slackening and then forming an
Ah . . .
, but he says nothing. Seeing his arousal, his reaction to me—I light up inside, my blood scorching through my veins. His gray eyes burn into mine. He picks up the rhythm, and I revel in it, glory in it, watching him, watching me—his passion, his love—as we come apart, together.

I call out as I explode around him, and Christian follows.

“Yes, Ana!” he cries. He collapses on me, releasing my hands and resting his head on my chest. My legs are still wrapped around him, and under the patient, maternal eyes of the Madonna paintings, I cradle his head against me and struggle to catch my breath.

He raises his head to look at me. “I’m not finished with you yet,” he murmurs and leaning up, he kisses me.

I lie naked in Christian’s bed, sprawled over his chest, panting. Holy cow—does his energy ever wane? Christian trails his fingers up and down my back.

“Satisfied, Miss Steele?”

I murmur my assent. I have no energy left for talking. Raising my head, I turn unfo-cused eyes to him and bask in his warm, fond gaze. Very deliberately, I angle my head down so he knows I am going to kiss his chest.

He tenses momentarily, and I plant a soft kiss in his chest hair, breathing in his unique Christian smell, mixed with sweat and sex. It’s heady. He rolls onto his side so I’m lying beside him and gazes down at me.

“Is sex like this for everyone? I’m surprised anyone ever goes out,” I murmur, feeling suddenly shy.

He grins. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s pretty damned special with you, Anastasia.” He bends and kisses me.

“That’s because you’re pretty damned special, Mr. Grey,” I agree, smiling up at him and caressing his face. He blinks down at me at a loss.

“It’s late. Go to sleep,” he says. He kisses me, then lies down and pulls me to him so we’re spooning in bed.

“You don’t like compliments.”

“Go to sleep, Anastasia.”

Hmm . . . But he is pretty damned special. Jeez . . . why doesn’t he realize this?