CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

My mother hugs me tightly.

“Follow your heart, darling, and please, please—try not to overthink things. Relax and enjoy yourself. You are so young, sweetheart. You have so much of life to experience yet, just let it happen. You deserve the best of everything.” She whispers in my ear, her heartfelt words comforting. She kisses my hair.

“Oh, Mom.” Hot, unwelcome tears prick my eyes as I cling to her.

“Darling, you know what they say. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.”

I give her a lopsided, bittersweet smile.

“I think I’ve kissed a prince, Mom. I hope he doesn’t turn into a frog.”

She gives me her most endearing, motherly, absolute-unconditional-love smile, and I marvel at the love I feel for this woman as we hug again.

“Ana—they’re calling your flight,” Bob’s voice is anxious.

“Will you visit, Mom?”

“Of course, darling—soon. Love you.”

“Me, too.”

Her eyes are red with unshed tears as she releases me. I hate leaving her. I hug Bob and, turning, head to the gate—I do not have time for the first class lounge today. I will myself not to glance back. But I do … and Bob is holding my mom, and tears are streaming down her face. I can no longer hold mine back. I put my head down and proceed to the gate, keeping my eyes on the shiny white floor, blurred through my watery tears.

Once on board, in the luxury of first class, I curl up in my seat and try to compose myself. It is always painful to wrench myself away from Mom … she is scatty, disorganized, but newly insightful, and she loves me. Unconditional love—what every child deserves from its parents. I frown at my wayward thoughts and, pulling out my BlackBerry, stare at it despondently.

What does Christian know of love? Seems he didn’t get the unconditional love he was entitled to during his very early years. My heart twists, and my mother’s words waft like a zephyr through my mind: Yes, Ana. Hell, what do you need? A neon sign flashing on his forehead? She thinks Christian loves me, but then she’s my mother, of course she’d think that. She thinks I deserve the best of everything. I frown. It’s true, and in a moment of startling clarity, I see it. It’s very simple: I want his love. I need Christian Grey to love me. This is why I am so reticent about our relationship—because on some basic, fundamental level, I recognize within me a deep-seated compulsion to be loved and cherished.

And because of his fifty shades, I am holding myself back. The BDSM is a distraction from the real issue. The sex is amazing, he’s wealthy, he’s beautiful, but this is all meaningless without his love, and the real heart-fail is that I don’t know if he’s capable of love. He doesn’t even love himself. I recall his self-loathing, her love being the only form he found acceptable. Punished—whipped, beaten, whatever their relationship entailed—he feels undeserving of love. Why does he feel like that? How can he feel like that? His words haunt me: It’s very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you’re not perfect.

I close my eyes, imagining his pain, and I can’t begin to comprehend it. I shudder as I remember that I may have divulged too much. What have I confessed to Christian in my sleep? What secrets have I revealed?

I stare at the BlackBerry in the vague hope that it will give me some answers. Rather unsurprisingly, it is not very forthcoming. As we haven’t taken off yet, I decide to e-mail my Fifty Shades.

His response makes me frown. It sounds clipped and formal, not his usual witty, pithy style.

Crap. Okay. Jeez. What is eating him? Perhaps “the situation”? Maybe Taylor’s gone AWOL, maybe he’s dropped a few million on the stock market—whatever the reason.

I switch off the BlackBerry, unable to shake my anxiety. Something is up with Christian. Perhaps “the situation” is out of hand. I sit back, glancing up at the overhead bin where my bags are stowed. I managed this morning, with my mother’s help, to buy Christian a small gift to say thank you for first class and for the gliding. I smile at the memory of the soaring—that was something else. I don’t know yet if I’ll give my silly gift to him. He might think it’s childish—and if he’s in a strange mood, maybe not. I am both eager to return and apprehensive of what awaits me at my journey’s end. As I mentally flick through all the scenarios that could be “the situation,” I become aware that once again the only empty seat is beside me. I shake my head as the thought crosses my mind that Christian might have purchased the adjacent seat so that I couldn’t talk to anyone. I dismiss the idea as ridiculous—no one could be that controlling, that jealous, surely. I close my eyes as the plane taxis toward the runway.

I EMERGE INTO THE Sea-Tac arrivals terminal eight hours later to find Taylor waiting and holding up a sign that reads MISS A. STEELE. Honestly! But it’s good to see him.

“Hello, Taylor.”

“Miss Steele,” he greets me formally, but I see a hint of a smile in his sharp brown eyes. He looks his usual immaculate self—smart charcoal suit, white shirt, and charcoal tie.

“I do know what you look like, Taylor, you don’t need a sign, and I do wish you’d call me Ana.”

“Ana. Can I take your bags, please?”

“No, I can manage. Thank you.”

His lips tighten perceptibly.

“B-but, if you’d be more comfortable taking them,” I stammer.

“Thank you.” He grabs my backpack and my newly acquired wheelie case for the clothes my mother has bought me. “This way, ma’am.”

I sigh. He’s so polite. I remember, though I would like to erase it from my memory, that this man has bought me underwear. In fact—and the thought unsettles me—he’s the only man who’s ever bought me underwear. Even Ray’s never had to endure that hardship. We walk in silence to the black Audi SUV outside in the airport parking lot, and he holds the door open for me. I clamber in, wondering if wearing such a short skirt for the return to Seattle was a good idea. It was cool and welcome in Georgia. Here I feel exposed. Once Taylor has stowed my bags in the trunk, we set off for Escala.

The journey is slow, caught up in rush-hour traffic. Taylor keeps his eyes on the road ahead. Taciturn does not begin to describe him.

I can bear the silence no longer.

“How’s Christian, Taylor?”

“Mr. Grey is preoccupied, Miss Steele.”

Oh, this must be “the situation.” I am mining a seam of gold.

“Preoccupied?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I frown at Taylor, and he glances at me in the rearview mirror, our eyes meeting. He’s saying no more. Jeez, he can be as tight lipped as the control freak himself.

“Is he okay?”

“I believe so, ma’am.”

“Are you more comfortable calling me Miss Steele?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, okay.”

Well, that curtails our conversation, and we continue in silence. I begin to think that Taylor’s recent slip, when he told me that Christian had been hell on wheels, was an anomaly. Perhaps he’s embarrassed about it, worried that he’s been disloyal. The silence is suffocating.

“Could you put some music on, please?”

“Certainly, ma’am. What would you like to hear?”

“Something soothing.”

I see a smile play on Taylor’s lips as our eyes meet briefly again in the mirror.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He pushes a few buttons on the steering wheel, and the gentle strains of Pachelbel’s Canon fills the space between us. Oh yes … this is what I need.

“Thank you.” I sit back as we drive slowly but steadily along Interstate 5 into Seattle.

TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER HE drops me outside the impressive façade that is the entrance to Escala.

“In you go, ma’am,” he says, holding the door open for me. “I’ll bring up your luggage.” His expression is soft, warm, avuncular even.

Jeez … Uncle Taylor, what a thought.

“Thank you for meeting me.”

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Steele.” He smiles, and I head into the building. The doorman nods and waves.

As I ride up to the thirtieth floor, a thousand butterflies stretch their wings and flutter erratically in my stomach. Why am I so nervous? And I know it’s because I have no idea what kind of mood Christian’s going to be in when I arrive. My inner goddess is hopeful for one type of mood; my subconscious, like me, is fraught with nerves.

The elevator doors open, and I’m in the foyer. It is so strange not to be met by Taylor. Of course, he’s parking the car. In the great room, Christian is on his BlackBerry, talking quietly as he stares through the glass doors at the early evening Seattle skyline. He’s wearing a gray suit with the jacket undone, and he’s running his hand through his hair. He’s agitated, tense even. Oh no—what’s wrong? Agitated or not, he’s still a fine sight. How can he look so … arresting?

“No trace … Okay … Yes.” He turns and sees me, and his whole demeanor changes. From tension to relief to something else: a look that calls directly to my inner goddess, a look of sensual carnality, his eyes scorching.

My mouth goes dry and desire blooms in my body … whoa.

“Keep me informed,” he snaps, and shuts off his phone as he strides purposefully toward me. I stand paralyzed as he closes the distance between us, devouring me with his eyes. Holy shit … something’s amiss—the strain in his jaw, the anxiety around his eyes. He shrugs out of his jacket, undoes his dark tie, and slings them both onto the couch en route to me. Then his arms are wrapped around me, and he’s pulling me to him, hard, fast, gripping my ponytail to tilt my head up, kissing me like his life depends on it. What the hell? He drags the hair tie painfully out of my hair, but I don’t care. There’s a desperate, primal quality to his kiss. He needs me, for whatever reason, at this point in time, and I have never felt so desired and coveted. It’s dark and sensual and alarming all at the same time. I kiss him back with equal fervor, my fingers twisting and fisting in his hair. Our tongues entwine, our passion and ardor erupting between us. He tastes divine, hot, sexy, and his scent—all body wash and Christian—is arousing. He drags his mouth away from mine, and he’s staring down at me, gripped by some unnamed emotion. “What’s wrong?” I breathe.

“I’m so glad you’re back. Shower with me—now.”

I can’t decide if it’s a request or a command.

“Yes,” I whisper, and he grabs my hand, leading me out of the big room into his bedroom to his bathroom.

Once there, he releases me and turns the water on in the far-too-spacious shower. Spinning around slowly, he gazes at me, eyes hooded.

“I like your skirt. It’s very short,” he says, his voice low. “You have great legs.”

He steps out of his shoes and reaches down to take off each of his socks, never taking his eyes off me. I am rendered speechless by the look of hunger in his eyes. Wow … to be this wanted by this Greek god. I mirror his actions and step out of my black flats. Suddenly, he reaches for me, backing me up against the wall. Kissing me, my face, my throat, my lips … running his hands through my hair. I feel the cool, smooth tiled wall at my back as he pushes himself against me, so that I’m flattened between his heat and the chill of the ceramic. Tentatively, I place my arms on his upper arms, and he groans as I squeeze tightly.

“I want you now. Here … fast, hard,” he breathes, and his hands are on my thighs, pushing up my skirt. “Are you still bleeding?”

“No.” I flush.

“Good.”

His thumbs hook over my white cotton panties, and abruptly he drops to his knees as he tugs them off. My skirt is now rucked up so that I’m naked from the waist down and panting, wanting. He grabs my hips, pushing me against the wall again, and kisses me at the apex of my thighs. Grabbing my upper thighs, he forces my legs apart. I groan loudly, feeling his tongue circling my clitoris. Oh my. Tipping my head back involuntarily, I moan as my fingers find their way into his hair.

His tongue is relentless, strong and insistent, washing over me—swirling around and around, again and again—nonstop. It’s exquisite, the intensity of feeling—it’s almost painful. My body starts to quicken, and he releases me. What? No! My breathing is ragged as I pant, gazing at him with delicious anticipation. He grabs my face with both hands, holding me firmly, and he kisses me hard, thrusting his tongue into my mouth so I can taste my arousal. Unzipping his fly, he frees himself, grabs the backs of my thighs, and lifts me.

“Wrap your legs around me, baby,” he commands, his voice urgent, strained.

I do as I’m told and wrap my arms around his neck, and he moves quickly and sharply, filling me. Ah! He gasps, and I groan. Holding my behind, his fingers digging into my soft flesh, he begins to move, slowly at first—a steady even tempo … but as his control unravels, he speeds up … faster and faster. Ahhh! I tip my head back and concentrate on the invading, punishing, heavenly sensation … pushing me, pushing me … onward, higher, up … and when I can take no more, I explode around him, spiraling into an intense, all-consuming orgasm. He lets go with a deep growl, and he buries his head in my neck as he buries himself inside me, groaning loudly and incoherently as he finds his release.

His breathing is erratic, but he kisses me tenderly, not moving, still inside me, and I blink, unseeing, into his eyes. As he comes into focus, he gently pulls out of me, holding me steady while I place my feet on the floor. The bathroom is now cloudy with steam … and hot. I feel overdressed.

“You seem pleased to see me,” I murmur with a shy smile.

His lips quirk up. “Yes, Miss Steele, I think my pleasure is pretty self-evident. Come—let me get you in the shower.”

He undoes the next three buttons of his shirt, removes the cuff links, tugs it over his head, and discards it on the floor. Taking off his suit pants and boxer briefs, he kicks them to one side. He begins to undo the buttons on my blouse while I watch him, yearning to reach out and stroke his chest, but I contain myself.

“How was your journey?” he asks mildly. He seems so much calmer now, his apprehension gone, dissolved by sexual congress.

“Fine, thank you,” I murmur, still breathless. “Thanks once again for first class. It really is a much nicer way to travel.” I smile shyly at him. “I have some news,” I add nervously.

“Oh?” He looks down at me as he undoes the last button, slips my blouse down my arms, and throws it on top of his discarded clothes.

“I have a job.”

He stills, then smiles at me, his eyes warm and soft.

“Congratulations, Miss Steele. Now will you tell me where?” he teases.

“You don’t know?”

He shakes his head, frowning. “Why would I know?”

“With your stalking capabilities, I thought you might have …” I trail off as his face falls.

“Anastasia, I wouldn’t dream of interfering in your career, unless you ask me to, of course.” He looks wounded.

“So you have no idea which company?”

“No. I know there are four publishing companies in Seattle—so I am assuming it’s one of them.”

“SIP.”

“Oh, the small one, good. Well done.” He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “Clever girl. When do you start?”

“Monday.”

“That soon, eh? I’d better take advantage of you while I still can. Turn around.”

I am thrown by his casual command but do as I’m bid, and he undoes my bra and unzips my skirt. He pushes my skirt down, cupping my behind as he does and kissing my shoulder. He leans against me and his nose nuzzles my hair, inhaling deeply. He squeezes my buttocks.

“You intoxicate me, Miss Steele, and you calm me. Such a heady combination.” He kisses my hair. Grabbing my hand, he tugs me into the shower.

“Ow,” I squeal. The water is practically scalding. Christian grins down at me as the water cascades over him.

“It’s only a little hot water.”

And actually he’s right. It feels heavenly, washing off the sticky Georgia morning and the stickiness from our lovemaking.

“Turn around,” he orders, and I comply, turning to face the wall. “I want to wash you,” he murmurs, and reaches for the body wash. He squirts a little into his hand.

“I have something else to tell you,” I murmur as his hands start on my shoulders.

“Oh yes?” he asks mildly.

I steel myself with a deep breath. “My friend José’s photography show is opening Thursday in Portland.”

He stills, his hands hovering over my breasts. I have emphasized the word “friend.”

“Yes, what about it?” he asks sternly.

“I said I would go. Do you want to come with me?”

After what feels like a monumental amount of time, he slowly starts washing me again.

“What time?”

“The opening is at seven thirty p.m.”

He kisses my ear.

“Okay.”

Inside my subconscious relaxes and then collapses, slumped into an old battered armchair.

“Were you nervous about asking me?”

“Yes. How can you tell?”

“Anastasia, your whole body’s just relaxed,” he says dryly.

“Well, you just seem to be, um … on the jealous side.”

“Yes, I am,” he says darkly. “And you’d do well to remember that. But thank you for asking. We’ll take Charlie Tango.”

Oh, the helicopter of course, silly me. More flying … cool! I grin.

“Can I wash you?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” he murmurs, and he kisses me gently on my neck to take the sting out of his refusal. I pout at the wall as he caresses my back with soap.

“Will you ever let me touch you?” I ask boldly.

He stills again, his hand on my behind.

“Put your hands on the wall, Anastasia. I’m going to take you again,” he murmurs in my ear as he grabs my hips, and I know that the discussion is over.

LATER, WE ARE SEATED at the breakfast bar, dressed in bathrobes, having consumed Mrs. Jones’s rather excellent pasta alle vongole.

“More wine?” Christian asks, gray eyes glowing.

“A small glass, please.” The Sancerre is crisp and delicious. Christian pours one for me and one for himself.

“How’s the, um … situation that brought you to Seattle?” I ask tentatively.

He frowns. “Out of hand,” he murmurs bitterly. “But nothing for you to worry about, Anastasia. I have plans for you this evening.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I want you ready and waiting in my playroom in fifteen minutes.” He stands and gazes down at me.

“You can get ready in your room. Incidentally, the walk-in closet is now full of clothes for you. I don’t want any arguments about them.” He narrows his eyes, daring me to say something. When I don’t, he stalks off to his study.

Me! Argue? With you, Fifty Shades? It’s more than my backside’s worth. I sit on the barstool, momentarily stupefied, trying to assimilate this morsel of information. He’s bought me clothes. I roll my eyes in an exaggerated fashion, knowing full well he can’t see me. Car, phone, computer … clothes, it’ll be a damn condo next, and then I really will be his mistress.

Ho! My subconscious has her snarky face on. I ignore her and make my way upstairs toward my room. So, it is still mine … why? I thought he’d agreed to let me sleep with him. I suppose he’s not used to sharing his personal space, but then, neither am I. I console myself with the thought that at least I have somewhere to escape from him.