[English] FIFTY SHADES DARKER (50 sắc thái 2)

Author : E.L. James

Daunted by the singular tastes and dark secrets of the beautiful, tormented young entrepreneur Christian Grey, Anastasia Steele has broken off their relationship to start a new career with a Seattle publishing house.
But desire for Christian still dominates her every waking thought, and when he proposes a new arrangement, Anastasia cannot resist. They rekindle their searing sensual affair, and Anastasia learns more about the harrowing past of her damaged, driven and demanding Fifty Shades.
While Christian wrestles with his inner demons, Anastasia must confront the anger and envy of the women who came before her, and make the most important decision of her life.

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter One



Mr. Jack Hyde... he smiles down at me, his blue eyes twinkling, as he leans against my desk."Excellent work, Ana. I think we're going to make a great team."

Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in a semblance of a smile.

"I'll be off, if that's okay with you," I murmur.

"Of course, it's five thirty. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Jack."

"Goodnight, Ana."

Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head for the door. Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take a deep breath. It doesn't begin to fill the void in my chest, a void that's been present since Saturday morning, a painful hollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward the bus stop with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating being without my beloved Wanda, my old Beetle... or the Audi.

I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don't think about him. Of course, I can afford a car - a nice, new car. I suspect he has been overgenerous in his payment, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as numb and as blank as possible. I can't think about him. I don't want to start crying again -

not out on the street.

The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her lying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool ****tail. I turn on the flat-screen television so there's noise to fill the vacuum and provide some semblance of company, but I don't listen or watch. I sit and stare blankly at the brick wall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long must I endure this?

The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my heart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press the intercom.

"Delivery for Ms. Steele." A bored, disembodied voice answers, and disappointment crashes through me. I listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man noisily chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, and leaning against the front door. I sign for the package and take it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly light. Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a card.

Congratulations on your first day at work.

I hope it went well.

And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful.

It has pride of place on my desk.

Christian

I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest expanding. No doubt, his assistant sent this. Christian probably had very little to do with it. It's too painful to think about. I examine the roses - they are beautiful, and I can't bring myself to throw them in the trash.

Dutifully, I make my way into the kitchen to hunt down a vase.

And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep. Well, try to sleep. I can't even escape him in my dreams. Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and bright all haunt me. And the music... so much music - I cannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to avoid it at all costs. Even the jingles in commercials make me shudder.

I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. I don't have the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want none of it. I have become my own island state. A ravaged, war-torn land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak. Yes, that's me. I can interact impersonally at work, but that's it. If I talk to Mom, I know I will break even further - and I have nothing left to break.

I am finding it difficult to eat. By Wednesday lunchtime, I manage a cup of yogurt, and it's the first thing I've eaten since Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for lattes and Diet Coke. It's the caffeine that keeps me going, but it's making me anxious.

Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me, asking me personal questions. What does he want? I'm polite, but I need to keep him at arm's length.

I sit and begin trawling through a pile of correspondence addressed to him, and I'm pleased with the distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and I quickly check to see who it's from.

Holy ****. An e-mail from Christian. Oh no, not here... not at work.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:05

To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it's going well. Did you get my flowers?

I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend's show, and I'm sure you've not had time to purchase a car, and it's a long drive. I would be more than happy to take you - should you wish.

Let me know.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and bolt to the restroom to escape into one of the stalls. Jose's show. Crap. I'd forgotten all about it, and I promised him I'd go. ****, Christian is right; how am I going to get there?

I clutch my forehead. Why hasn't Jose phoned? Come to think of it - why hasn't anyone phoned? I've been so absentminded, I haven't noticed that my cell phone has been silent.

****! I am such an idiot! I still have it on divert to the Blackberry. Holy hell. Christian's been getting my calls - unless he's just thrown the Blackberry away. How did he get my e-mail address?

He knows my shoe size, an e-mail address is hardly going to present him with many problems.

Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to see him? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and longing lance through me. Of course I do.

Perhaps, perhaps I can tell him I've changed my mind... No, no, no. I cannot be with someone who takes pleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can't love me.

Torturous memories flash through my mind - the gliding, holding hands, kissing, the bathtub, his gentleness, his humor, and his dark, brooding, ***y stare. I miss him. It's been five days, five days of agony that has felt like an eternity.

I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself tightly, holding myself together. I miss him. I really miss him... I love him. Simple.

I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn't walked out, wishing that he could be different, wishing that we were together. How long will this hideous overwhelming feeling last? I am in purgatory.

Anastasia Steele, you are at work! I must be strong, but I want to go to Jose's show, and deep down, the masochist in me wants to see Christian. Taking a deep breath, I head back to my desk.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:25

To: Christian Grey

Hi Christian

Thank you for the flowers; they are lovely.

Yes, I would appreciate a lift.

Thank you.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning E***or, SIP

Checking my phone, I find that it is still switched to divert. Jack is in a meeting, so I quickly call Jose.

"Hi, Jose. It's Ana."

"Hello, stranger." His tone is so warm and welcoming it's almost enough to push me over the edge again.

"I can't talk long. What time should I be there tomorrow for your show?"

"You're still coming?" He sounds excited.

"Yes, of course." I smile my first genuine smile in five days as I picture his broad grin.

"Seven thirty."

"See you then. Good-bye, Jose."

"Bye, Ana."

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:27

To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

What time shall I collect you?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:32

To: Christian Grey

Jose's show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning E***or, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:34

To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

Portland is some distance away. I shall collect you at 5:45.

I look forward to seeing you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:38

To: Christian Grey

See you then.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning E***or, SIP

Oh my. I'm going to see Christian, and for the first time in five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to wonder how he's been.

Has he missed me? Probably not like I've missed him. Has he found a new submissive from wherever they come from? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it immediately. I look at the pile of correspondence I need to sort for Jack and tackle it as I try to push Christian out of my mind once more.

That night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep. It is the first time in a while I haven't cried myself to sleep.

In my mind's eye, I visualize Christian's face the last time I saw him as I left his apartment. His tortured expression haunts me. I remember he didn't want me to go, which was odd. Why would I stay when things had reached such an impasse? We were each skirting around our own issues - my fear of punishment, his fear of... what? Love?

Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, filled with an overwhelming sadness. He thinks he doesn't deserve to be loved. Why does he feel that way? Is it something to do with his upbringing? His birth mom, the crack whore? My thoughts plague me into the early hours until eventually I fall into a fitful, exhausted sleep.

The day drags and drags and Jack is unusually...

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Two



He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.

"This place will have to do," Christian grumbles. "We don't have much time."

The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen tablecloths, and walls the same color as Christian's playroom - deep blood red - with small gilt mirrors randomly placed, white candles, and small vases of white roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background about this thing called love. It's very romantic.

The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove, and I sit, apprehensive and wondering what he's going to say.

"We don't have long," Christian says to the waiter as we sit. "So we'll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, bearnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list."

"Certainly, sir." The waiter, taken aback by Christian's cool, calm efficiency, scuttles off. Christian places his Blackberry on the table. Jeez, don't I get a choice?

"And if I don't like steak?"

He sighs. "Don't start, Anastasia."

"I am not a child, Christian."

"Well, stop acting like one."

It's as if he's slapped me. I blink at him. So this is how it will be, an agitated, fraught conversation, albeit in a very romantic setting but certainly no hearts and flowers.

"I'm a child because I don't like steak?" I mutter trying to conceal my hurt.

"For deliberately making me jealous. It's a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend's feelings, leading him on like that?" Christian presses his lips together in a thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the wine list.

I blush - I hadn't thought of that. Poor Jose - I certainly don't want to encourage him.

Suddenly, I'm mortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thing to do. He glances at the wine list.

"Would you like to choose the wine?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He knows I know nothing about wine.

"You choose," I answer, sullen but chastened.

"Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please."

"Er... we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir."

"A bottle then," Christian snaps.

"Sir." He retreats, subdued, and I don't blame him. I frown at Fifty. What's eating him?

Oh, me probably, and somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She's been asleep for a while.

"You're very grumpy."

He gazes at me impassively. "I wonder why that is?"

"Well, it's good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn't you say?" I smile at him sweetly.

His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he's trying to stifle his smile.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Apology accepted, and I'm pleased to inform you I haven't decided to become a veg-etarian since we last ate."

"Since that was the last time you ate, I think that's a moot point."

"There's that word again, moot."

"Moot," he mouths and his eyes soften with humor. He runs his hand through his hair, and he's serious again. "Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I'm a little nervous. I've told you I want you back, and you've said... nothing." His gaze is intense and expectant while his candor is totally disarming. What the hell do I say to this?

"I've missed you... really missed you, Christian. The past few days have been...

difficult." I swallow, and a lump in my throat swells as I recall my desperate anguish since I left him.

This last week has been the worst in my life, the pain almost indescribable. Nothing has come close. But reality hits home, winding me.

"Nothing's changed. I can't be what you want me to be." I squeeze the words out past the lump in my throat.

"You are what I want you to be," he says, his soft voice emphatic.

"No, Christian, I'm not."

"You're upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you... So did you. Why didn't you safe word, Anastasia?" His tone changes, becoming accusatory.

What? Whoa - change of direction. I flush, blinking at him.

"Answer me."

"I don't know. I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind. You know... I forgot," I whisper ashamed, and I shrug apologetically.

Jeez, perhaps we could have avoided all this heartache.

"You forgot!" he gasps with horror, grabbing the sides of the table and glaring at me.

I wither under his stare.

****! He's furious again. My inner goddess glares at me, too. See, you brought all this on yourself!

"How can I trust you?" he says, his voice low. "Ever?"

The waiter arrives with our wine as we sit staring at each other, blue eyes to gray. Both of us filled with unspoken recriminations, while the waiter removes the cork with an un-necessary flourish and pours a little wine into Christian's glass. Automatically Christian reaches out and takes a sip.

"That's fine." His voice is curt.

Gingerly the waiter fills our glasses, placing the bottle on the table before beating a hasty retreat. Christian has not taken his eyes off me the whole time. I am the first to crack, breaking eye contact, picking up my glass and taking a large gulp. I barely taste it.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, suddenly feeling stupid. I left because I thought we were incompatible, but he's saying I could have stopped him?

"Sorry for what?" he says alarmed.

"Not using the safe word."

He closes his eyes, as if in relief.

"We might have avoided all this suffering," he mutters.

"You look fine." More than fine. You look like you.

"Appearances can be deceptive," he says quietly. "I'm anything but fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. I'm in perpetual night here."

I'm winded by his admission. Oh my, like me.

"You said you'd never leave, yet the going gets tough and you're out the door."

"When did I say I'd never leave?"

"In your sleep. It was the most comforting thing I'd heard in so long, Anastasia. It made me relax."

My heart constricts and I reach for my wine.

"You said you loved me," he whispers. "Is that now in the past tense?" His voice is low, laced with anxiety.

"No, Christian, it's not."

He gazes at me, and he looks so vulnerable as he exhales. "Good," he murmurs.

I'm shocked by his admission. He's had a change of heart. When I told him I loved him before, he was horrified. The waiter is back. Briskly he places our plates in front of us and scuttles away.

Holy hell. Food.

"Eat," Christian commands.

Deep down I know I'm hungry, but right now, my stomach is in knots. Sitting across from the only man I have ever loved and debating our uncertain future does not promote a healthy appetite. I look dubiously at my food.

"So help me God, Anastasia, if you don't eat, I will take you across my knee here in this restaurant, and it will have nothing to do with my ***ual gratification. Eat!"

Jeez, keep your hair on, Grey. My subconscious stares at me over her half-moon specs.

She is wholeheartedly in agreement with Fifty Shades.

"Okay, I'll eat. Stow your twitching palm, please."

He doesn't smile but continues to glare at me. Reluctantly I lift my knife and fork and slice into my steak. Oh, it's mouthwateringly good. I am hungry, really hungry. I chew and he visibly relaxes.

We eat our supper in silence. The music's changed. A soft-voiced woman sings in the background, her words echoing my thoughts.

I glance at Fifty. He's eating and watching me. Hunger, longing, anxiety combined in one hot look.

"Do you know who's singing?" I try for some normal conversation.

Christian pauses and listens. "No... but she's good, whoever she is."

"I like her, too."

Finally he smiles his private enigmatic smile. What's he planning?

"What?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Eat up," he says mildly.

I have eaten half the food on my plate. I cannot eat any more. How can I negotiate this?

"I can't manage any more. Have I eaten enough for Sir?"

He stares at me impassively, not answering, then glances at his watch.

"I am really full," I add, taking a sip of the delicious wine.

"We have to go shortly. Taylor's here, and you have to be up for work in the morning."

"So do you."

"I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia. At least you've eaten something."

"Aren't we going back via Charlie Tango?"

"No, I thought I might have a drink. Taylor will collect us. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?"

Oh, that's his plan.

Christian summons...

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Three



The one good thing about being car-less is that on the bus on my way to work, I can plug my headphones into my iPad while it's safely in my purse and listen to all the wonderful tunes Christian has given me. By the time I arrive at the office, I have the most ludicrous grin on my face.

Jack glances up at me and does a double take.

"Good morning, Ana. You look... radiant." His remark flusters me. How inappropriate! "I slept well, thank you, Jack. Good morning."

His brow crinkles.

"Can you read these for me and have reports on them by lunchtime, please?" He hands me four manuscripts. At my horrified expression, he adds, "Just first chapters."

"Sure," I smile with relief, and he gives me a broad smile in return.

I switch on the computer to start work, finishing my latte and eating a banana. There's an e-mail from Christian.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: So Help Me...

Date: June 10, 2011 08:05

To: Anastasia Steele

I do hope you've had breakfast.

I missed you last night.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Old books...

Date: June 10, 2011 08:33

To: Christian Grey

I am eating a banana as I type. I have not had breakfast for several days, so it is a step forward. I love the British Library App - I started rereading Robinson Crusoe... and of course, I love you.

Now leave me alone - I am trying to work.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning E***or, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Is that all you've eaten?

Date: June 10, 2011 08:36

To: Anastasia Steele

You can do better than that. You're going to need your energy for begging.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Pest

Date: June 10, 2011 08:39

To: Christian Grey

Mr. Grey - I am trying to work for a living - and it's you that will be begging.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning E***or, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Bring it On!

Date: June 10, 2011 08:36

To: Anastasia Steele

Why Miss Steele, I love a challenge...

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I sit grinning at the screen like an idiot. But I need to read these chapters for Jack and write reports on all of them. Placing the manuscripts on my desk, I begin.

At lunchtime I head to the deli for a pastrami sandwich and listen to the playlist on my iPad. First up there's Nitin Sawhney, some world music called "Homelands" - it's good.

Mr. Grey has an eclectic taste in music. I wander back, listening to a classical piece, Fanta-sia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis by Vaughn Williams. Oh, Fifty has a sense of humor, and I love him for it. Will this stupid grin ever leave my face?

The afternoon drags. I decide, in an unguarded moment, to e-mail Christian.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Bored...

Date: June 10, 2011 16:05

To: Christian Grey

Twiddling my thumbs.

How are you?

What are you doing?

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning E***or, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Your thumbs

Date: June 10, 2011 16:15

To: Anastasia Steele

You should have come to work for me.

You wouldn't be twiddling your thumbs.

I am sure I could put them to better use.

In fact I can think of a number of options...

I am doing the usual humdrum mergers and acquisitions.

It's all very dry.

Your e-mails at SIP are monitored.

Christian Grey

Distracted CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Oh ****. I had no idea. How the hell does he know? I scowl at the screen and quickly check the e-mails we've sent, deleting them as I do.

Promptly at five thirty, Jack is at my desk. It is Dress-down Friday so he's wearing jeans and a black shirt. He looks very casual.

"Drink, Ana? We usually like to go for a quick one at the bar across the street."

"We?" I ask, hopeful.

"Yeah, most of us go... you coming?"

For some unknown reason, which I don't want to examine too closely, relief floods through me.

"I'd love to. What's the bar called?"

"50s."

"You're kidding."

He looks at me oddly. "No. Some significance for you?"

"No, sorry. I'll join you over there."

"What would you like to drink?"

"A beer please."

"Cool."

I make my way to the powder room and e-mail Christian from the Blackberry.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: You'll Fit Right In

Date: June 10, 2011 17:36

To: Christian Grey

We are going to a bar called Fifty's.

The rich seam of humor that I could mine from this is endless.

I look forward to seeing you there, Mr. Grey.

A x

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Hazards

Date: June 10, 2011 17:38

To: Anastasia Steele

Mining is a very, very dangerous occupation.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Hazards?

Date: June 10, 2011 17:40

To: Christian Grey

And your point is?

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Merely...

Date: June 10, 2011 17:42

To: Anastasia Steele

Making an observation, Miss Steele.

I'll see you shortly.

Sooners rather than laters, baby.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I check myself in the mirror. What a difference a day can make. I have more color in my cheeks, and my eyes are shining. It's the Christian Grey effect. A little e-mail sparring with him will do that to a girl. I grin at the mirror and straighten my pale blue shirt - the one Taylor bought me. I am wearing my favorite jeans today, too. Most of the women in the office wear either jeans or floaty skirts. I will need to invest in a floaty skirt or two. Perhaps I'll do that this weekend and bank the check Christian gave me for Wanda, my Beetle.

As I head out of the building, I hear my name called.

"Miss Steele?"

I turn expectantly, and an ashen young woman approaches me cautiously. She looks like a ghost - so pale and strangely blank.

"Miss Anastasia Steele?" she repeats, and her features stay static even though she's speaking.

"Yes?"

She stops, staring at me from about three feet away on the sidewalk, and I stare back, immobilized. Who is she? What does she want?

"Can I help you?" I ask. How does she know my name?

"No... I just wanted to look at you." Her voice is eerily soft. Like me, she has dark hair that starkly contrasts with her fair skin. Her eyes are brown, like bourbon, but flat.

There's no life in them at all. Her beautiful face is pale, and etched with sorrow.

"Sorry - you have me at a disadvantage," I say politely, trying to ignore the warning tingle up my spine. On closer inspection, she looks odd, disheveled and uncared for. Her clothes are two sizes too big, including her designer trench coat.

She laughs, a strange, discordant sound that only feeds my anxiety.

"What do you have that I don't?" she asks sadly.

My anxiety turns to fear. "I'm sorry - who are you?"

"Me? I'm nobody." She lifts her arm to drag her hand through her shoulder length hair, and as she does, the sleeve of her trench coat rides up, revealing a soiled bandage around her wrist.

Holy ****.

"Good day, Miss Steele." Turning, she walks up the street as I stand rooted to the spot.

I watch as her slight frame disappears from view, lost amongst the workers pouring out of their various offices.

What was that about?

Confused, I cross the street to the bar, trying to assimilate what has just happened, while my subconscious rears her ugly head and hisses at me - She has something to do with Christian.

Fifty's is a ****rnous, impersonal bar with baseball pennants and posters hanging on the wall. Jack is at the bar with Elizabeth, Courtney the other commissioning e***or, two guys from finance, and Claire from reception. She is wearing her trademark silver hooped earrings.

"Hi, Ana!" Jack hands me a bottle of Bud.

"Cheers... thank you," I murmur, still shaken by my encounter with Ghost Girl.

"Cheers." We clink bottles, and he continues his conversation with Elizabeth. Claire smiles sweetly at me.

"So, how has your first week been?" she asks.

"Good, thank you. Everyone seems very friendly."

"You seem much happier today."

I flush. "It's Friday," I mutter quickly. "So - have you any plans this weekend?"

My patented distraction technique works and I'm saved. Claire turns out to be one of seven kids, and she's going to a big family get-together in Tacoma. She becomes quite animated, and I realize I haven't spoken to any women my own age since Kate left for Barbados.

Absently I wonder how Kate is... and Elliot. I must remember to ask Christian if he's heard from him. Oh, and Ethan her brother will be back next Tuesday, and he'll be staying in our apartment. I can't imagine Christian is going to be happy about that. My earlier encounter with strange Ghost Girl slips further from my mind.

During my conversation with Claire, Elizabeth hands me another...

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Four



As sanity returns, I open my eyes and gaze up into the face of the man I love. Christian's expression is soft, tender. He strokes his nose against mine, bearing his weight on his elbows, his hands holding mine by the side of my head. Sadly, I suspect that's so I don't touch him. He plants a gentle kiss on my lips as he eases himself out of me.

"I've missed this," he breathes.

"Me too," I whisper.

He takes hold of my chin and kisses me hard. A passionate, beseeching kiss, asking for what? I don't know. It leaves me breathless.

"Don't leave me again," he implores, looking deep into my eyes, his face serious.

"Okay," I whisper and smile at him. His answering smile is dazzling; relief, elation, and boyish delight combined into one enchanting look that would melt the coldest of hearts.

"Thank you for the iPad."

"You are most welcome, Anastasia."

"What's your favorite song on there?"

"Now that would be telling." He grins. "Come cook me some food, wench. I'm famished," he adds, sitting up suddenly and dragging me with him.

"Wench?" I giggle.

"Wench. Food, now, please."

"Since you ask so nicely, sire, I'll get right on to it."

As I scramble out of bed, I dislodge my pillow, revealing the deflated helicopter balloon underneath. Christian reaches for it and gazes up at me, puzzled.

"That's my balloon," I say, feeling proprietary as I reach for my robe and wrap it round myself. Oh jeez... why did he have to find that?

"In your bed?" he murmurs.

"Yes," I flush. "It's been keeping me company."

"Lucky Charlie Tango," he says, in surprise.

Yes, I'm sentimental, Grey, because I love you.

"My balloon," I say again and turn on my heel and head out to the kitchen, leaving him grinning from ear to ear.

Christian and I sit on Kate's persian rug, eating stir-fry chicken and noodles from white china bowls with chopsticks and sipping chilled white Pinot Grigio. Christian leans against the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He's wearing his jeans and his shirt with his just-****ed hair, and that's all. The Buena Vista Social Club croons softly in the background from Christian's iPod.

"This is good," he says appreciatively as he digs into his food.

I sit cross-legged beside him, eating greedily, beyond hungry, and admire his naked feet."I usually do all the cooking. Kate isn't a great cook."

"Did you your mother teach you?"

"Not really," I scoff. "By the time I was interested in learning, my mom was living with Husband Number Three in Mansfield, Texas. And Ray, well, he would've lived on toast and takeout if it wasn't for me."

Christian gazes down at me. "You didn't stay in Texas with your mom?"

"No. Steve, her husband and I, we didn't get along. And I missed Ray. Her marriage to Steve didn't last long. She came to her senses, I think. She never talks about him," I add quietly. I think that's a dark part of her life, which we've never discussed.

"So you came back to Washington to live with your stepfather."

"Yes."

"Sounds like you looked after him," he says softly.

"I suppose." I shrug.

"You're used to taking care of people."

The edge in his voice attracts my attention, and I glance up at him.

"What is it?" I ask, startled by his wary expression.

"I want to take care of you." His luminous eyes glow with some unnamed emotion.

My heart rate spikes.

"I've noticed," I whisper. "You just go about it in a strange way."

His brow creases. "It's the only way I know how," he says quietly.

"I'm still mad at you for buying SIP."

He smiles. "I know but you being mad, baby, wouldn't stop me."

"What am I going to say to my work colleagues, to Jack?"

He narrows his eyes. "That ****er better watch himself."

"Christian!" I admonish. "He's my boss."

Christian's mouth presses into a hard line. He looks like a recalcitrant schoolboy.

"Don't tell them," he says.

"Don't tell them what?"

"That I own it. The heads of agreement was signed yesterday. The news is embargoed for four weeks while the management at SIP makes some changes."

"Oh... will I be out of a job?" I ask, alarmed.

"I sincerely doubt it," Christian says wryly, trying to stifle his smile.

I scowl. "If I leave and find another job, will you buy that company, too?"

"You're not thinking of leaving, are you?" His expression alters, wary once more.

"Possibly. I'm not sure you've given me a great deal of choice."

"Yes, I will buy that company, too." He is adamant.

I scowl at him again. I am in a no-win situation here.

"Don't you think you're being a tad overprotective?"

"Yes. I am fully aware of how this looks."

"Paging Dr. Flynn," I murmur.

He puts down his empty bowl and gazes at me impassively. I sigh. I don't want to fight.

Standing up, I reach for his bowl.

"Would you like dessert?"

"Now you're talking!" he says, giving me a lascivious grin.

"Not me." Why not me? My inner goddess wakes from her doze and sits upright, all ears. "We have ice cream. Vanilla." I snicker.

"Really?" Christian's grin gets bigger. "I think we could do something with that."

What? I stare at him dumbfounded as he gracefully gets to his feet.

"Can I stay?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"The night."

"I assumed that you were." I flush.

"Good. Where's the ice cream?"

"In the oven." I smile sweetly at him.

He ****s his head to one side, sighs, and shakes his head at me. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Miss Steele." His eyes glitter.

Oh ****. What's he planning?

"I could still take you across my knee."

I place the bowls in the sink. "Do you have those silver ball things?"

He pats his hands down his chest, belly, and the pockets of his jeans. "Funnily enough, I don't carry a spare set around with me. Not much call for them in the office."

"I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Grey, and I thought you said that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit."

"Well, Anastasia, my new motto is if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

I gape at him - I can't believe he's just said that - and he looks sickeningly pleased with himself as he grins at me. Turning, he opens the freezer and takes out the carton of Ben Jerry's finest vanilla.

"This will do just fine." He looks up at me, eyes dark. "Ben Jerry's Ana." He says each word slowly, enunciating every syllable clearly.

Oh ****ing my. I think my lower jaw is on the floor. He opens the cutlery drawer and grabs a spoon. When he looks up, his are eyes hooded, and his tongue skims his top teeth.

Oh, that tongue.

I feel winded. Desire, dark, sleek, and wanton runs hot through my veins. We're going to have fun, with food.

"I hope you're warm," he whispers. "I'm going to cool you down with this. Come." He holds out his hand, and I place mine in his.

In my bedroom he places the ice cream on my bedside table, pulls the duvet off the bed, and removes both the pillows, placing them all in a pile on the floor.

"You have a change of sheets, don't you?"

I nod, watching him, fascinated. He holds up Charlie Tango.

"Don't mess with my balloon," I warn.

His lips quirk upward in half a smile. "Wouldn't dream of it, baby, but I do want to mess with you and these sheets."

My body practically convulses.

"I want to tie you up."

Oh. "Okay," I whisper.

"Just your hands. To the bed. I need you still."

"Okay," I whisper again, incapable of anything more.

He strolls over to me, not taking his eyes off mine.

"We'll use this." He takes hold of my robe sash and with delicious, teasing slowness, releases the bow, and gently pulls it free of the garment.

My robe falls open while I stand paralyzed under his heated gaze. After a moment, he pushes the robe off my shoulders. It falls and pools at my feet so that I'm standing naked before him. He strokes my face with the backs of his knuckles, and his touch resonates in the depths of my groin. Bending, he kisses my lips briefly.

"Lie on the bed, face up," he murmurs, his eyes darkening, burning into mine.

I do as I'm told. My room is shrouded in darkness except for the soft, insipid light from my lamp.

Normally, I hate energy-saving bulbs - they are so dim - but being naked here, with Christian, I'm grateful for the muted light. He stands by the bed gazing down at me.

"I could look at you all day, Anastasia," he says, and with that crawls on to the bed, up my body, and straddles me.

"Arms above your head," he...

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Five



"Greta, who is Mr. Grey talking to?" My scalp is trying to leave the building. It's prickling with apprehension, and my subconscious is screaming at me to follow it. But I sound nonchalant enough.

"Oh, that's Mrs. Lincoln. She owns the place with Mr. Grey." Greta seems more than happy to share.

"Mrs. Lincoln?" I thought Mrs. Robinson was divorced. Perhaps she's remarried to some poor sap.

"Yes. She's not usually here, but one of our technicians is sick today so she's filling in."

"Do you know Mrs. Lincoln's first name?"

Greta looks up at me, frowning, and purses her bright pink lips, questioning my curiosity. ****, perhaps this is a step too far.

"Elena," she says, almost reluctantly.

I'm swamped by a strange sense of relief that my spidey sense has not let me down.

Spidey sense? My subconscious snorts, Paedo sense.

They are still deep in discussion. Christian is talking rapidly to Elena, and she looks worried, nodding, grimacing, and shaking her head. Reaching out, she rubs his arm soothingly while biting her lip. Another nod, and she glances at me and offers me a small reassuring smile.

I can only stare at her stony-faced. I think I'm in shock. How could he bring me here?

She murmurs something to Christian, and he looks my way briefly then turns back to her and replies. She nods, and I think she's wishing him luck, but my lip-reading skills aren't highly developed.

Fifty strides back to me, anxiety etched on his face. Damn right. Mrs. Robinson returns to the back room, closing the door behind her.

Christian frowns. "Are you okay?" he asks, but his voice is strained, cautious.

"Not really. You didn't want to introduce me?" My voice sounds cold, hard.

His mouth drops open, he looks as if I've pulled the rug from under his feet.

"But I thought - "

"For a bright man, sometimes..." Words fail me. "I'd like to go, please."

"Why?"

"You know why." I roll my eyes.

He gazes down at me, his eyes burning.

"I'm sorry, Ana. I didn't know she'd be here. She's never here. She's opened a new branch at the Bravern Center, and that's where she's normally based. Someone was sick today."

I turn on my heel and head for the door.

"We won't need Franco, Greta," Christian snaps as we head out of the door. I have *****ppress the impulse to run. I want to run fast and far away. I have an overwhelming urge to cry. I just need to get away from all this ****edupness.

Christian walks wordlessly beside me as I try to mull all this over in my head. Wrapping my arms protectively around myself, I keep my head down, avoiding the trees on Second Avenue. Wisely, he makes no move to touch me. My mind is boiling with unanswered questions. Will Mr. Evasive fess up?

"You used to take your subs there?" I snap.

"Some of them, yes," he says quietly, his tone clipped.

"Leila?"

"Yes."

"The place looks very new."

"It's been refurbished recently."

"I see. So Mrs. Robinson met all your subs."

"Yes."

"Did they know about her?"

"No. None of them did. Only you."

"But I'm not your sub."

"No, you most definitely are not."

I stop and face him. His eyes are wide, fearful. His lips are pressed into a hard, uncompromising line.

"Can you see how ****ed-up this is?" I glare up at him, my voice low.

"Yes. I'm sorry." And he has the grace to look contrite.

"I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere where you haven't ****ed either the staff or the clientele."

He flinches.

"Now, if you'll excuse me."

"You're not running. Are you?" he asks.

"No, I just want a damn haircut. Somewhere I can close my eyes, have someone wash my hair, and forget about all this baggage that accompanies you."

He runs his hand through his hair. "I can have Franco come to the apartment, or your place," he says quietly.

"She's very attractive."

He blinks. "Yes, she is."

"Is she still married?"

"No. She divorced about five years ago."

"Why aren't you with her?"

"Because that's over between us. I've told you this." His brow creases suddenly. Holding his finger up, he fishes his Blackberry out of his jacket pocket. It must be vibrating because I don't hear it ring.

"Welch," he snaps, then listens. We are standing on Second Avenue, and I gaze in the direction of the larch sapling in front of me, its leaves the newest green.

People bustle past us, lost in their Saturday morning chores. No doubt contemplating their own personal dramas. I wonder if they include stalker ex-submissives, stunning ex-Dommes, and a man who has no concept of privacy under United States law.

"Killed in a car crash? When?" Christian interrupts my reverie.

Oh no. Who? I listen more closely.

"That's twice that bastard's not been forthcoming. He must know. Does he have no feelings for her whatsoever?" Christian shakes his head in disgust. "This is beginning to make sense... no... explains why, but not where." Christian glances around us as if searching for something, and I find myself mirroring his actions. Nothing catches my eye.

There are just the shoppers, the traffic, and the trees.

"She's here," Christian continues. "She's watching us... Yes... No. Two or four, twenty-four seven... I haven't broached that yet." Christian looks at me directly.

Broached what? I frown, at him and he regards me warily.

"What... ," he whispers and pales, his eyes widening. "I see. When?... That recently? But how?... No background checks?... I see. E-mail the name, address, and photos if you have them... twenty-four seven, from this afternoon. Liaise with Taylor." Christian hangs up.

"Well?" I ask, exasperated. Is he going to tell me?

"That was Welch."

"Who's Welch?"

"My security advisor."

"Okay. So what's happened?"

"Leila left her husband about three months ago and ran off with a guy who was killed in a car accident four weeks ago."

"Oh."

"The asshole shrink should have found that out," he says angrily. "Grief, that's what this is. Come." He holds out his hand, and I automatically place mine in his before I snatch it away again.

"Wait a minute. We were in the middle of a discussion, about us. About her, your Mrs.

Robinson."

Christian's face hardens. "She's not my Mrs. Robinson. We can talk about it at my place."

"I don't want to go to your place. I want to get my hair cut!" I shout. If I can just focus on this one thing...

He grabs his Blackberry from his pocket again and dials a number. "Greta, Christian Grey. I want Franco at my place in an hour. Ask Mrs. Lincoln... Good." He puts his phone away. "He's coming at one."

"Christian... !" I splutter, exasperated.

"Anastasia, Leila is obviously suffering a psychotic break. I don't know if it's you or me she's after, or what lengths she's prepared to go to. We'll go to your place, pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we've tracked her down."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"So I can keep you safe."

"But - "

He glares at me. "You are coming back to my apartment if I have to drag you there by your hair."

I gape at him... this is beyond belief. Fifty Shades in Glorious Technicolor.

"I think you're overreacting."

"I don't. We can continue our discussion back at my place. Come."

I fold my arms and glare at him. This has gone too far.

"No," I state stubbornly. I have to make a stand.

"You can walk or I can carry you. I don't mind either way, Anastasia."

"You wouldn't dare." I scowl at him. Surely he wouldn't make a scene on Second Avenue?

He half smiles at me, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Oh, baby, we both know that if you throw down the gauntlet I'll be only too happy to pick it up."

We glare at each other - and abruptly he sweeps down, clasps me round my thighs, and lifts me. Before I know it, I am over his shoulder.

"Put me down!" I scream. Oh, it feels good to scream.

He starts striding along Second Avenue, ignoring me. Clasping his arm firmly around my thighs, he swats my behind with his free hand.

"Christian!" I shout. People are staring. Could this be any more humiliating? "I'll walk! I'll walk."

He puts me down, and before he's even stood upright, I stomp off in the direction of my apartment, seething, ignoring him. Of course, he's by my side in moments, but I continue to ignore him. What am I going to do? I am so angry, but I'm not even sure what I am angry about - there's so much.

As I stalk back home, I make a mental list:

1. Shoulder carrying - unacceptable for anyone over the age of six.

2. Taking me to the salon that he owns with...

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Six



My hands fist in his hair while my mouth is feverish against Christian's, consuming him, relishing the feel of his tongue against mine. And he's the same, devouring me. It's heavenly. Suddenly he drags me up and grasps the hem of my T-shirt, whipping it over my head and throwing it on the floor.

"I want to feel you," he says greedily against my mouth as his hands move behind me to undo my bra. In one smooth move, it's off and he pitches it aside.

He pushes me back down onto the bed, pressing me into the mattress, and his mouth and hand move to my breasts. My fingers curl into his hair as he takes one of my nipples between his lips and tugs hard.

I cry out as the sensation sweeps through my body, spikes, and tightens all the muscles around my groin.

"Yes, baby, let me hear you," he murmurs against my overheated skin.

Boy, I want him inside me, now. With his mouth, he toys with my nipple, pulling at it, making me squirm and writhe and yearn for him. I sense his longing mixed with - what?

Veneration. It's as if he's worshipping me.

He teases me with his fingers, my nipple growing hard and elongating under his skillful touch. His hand moves to my jeans, and he deftly undoes the button, tugs the zipper down, and slips his hand inside my panties, sliding his fingers against my ***.

His breath hisses out as his finger glides into me. I push my pelvis up into the heel of his hand, and he responds, rubbing against me.

"Oh, baby," he breathes as he hovers over me, staring intently into my eyes. "You're so wet." His voice is filled with wonder.

"I want you," I murmur.

His mouth joins with mine again, and I feel his hungry desperation, his need for me.

This is new - it's never been like this except perhaps when I came back from Georgia - and his words from earlier drift back to me... I need to know we're okay. This is the only way I know how.

The thought unravels me. To know that I have such an effect on him, that I can offer him so much solace, doing this - my inner goddess purrs with pure pleasure. He sits up, grasps the hem of my jeans, and tugs them off, followed by my panties.

Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he stands, takes a foil packet out of his pocket, and tosses it at me, then removes his jeans and boxers in one swift motion.

I rip the packet open greedily, and when he lies beside me again, I slowly roll the condom on to him. He grabs both my hands and rolls on to his back.

"You. On top," he orders, pulling me astride him. "I want to see you."

Oh.

He guides me, and hesitantly I ease myself down onto him. He closes his eyes and flexes his hips to meet me, filling me, stretching me, his mouth forming a perfect O as he exhales.

Oh, that feels so good - possessing him, possessing me.

He holds my hands, and I don't know if it's to steady me or keep me from touching him, even though I have my road map.

"You feel so good," he murmurs.

I rise again, heady with the power I have over him, watching Christian Grey slowly coming apart beneath me. He lets go of my hands and grabs my hips, and I place my hands on his arms. He thrusts into me sharply, causing me to cry out.

"That's right, baby, feel me," he says, his voice strained.

I tip my head back and do exactly that. This is what he does so well.

I move - countering his rhythm in perfect symmetry - numbing all thought and reason.

I am just sensation lost in this void of pleasure. Up and down... again and again... Oh yes... Opening my eyes, I stare down at him, my breathing ragged, and he's staring back at me, eyes blazing.

"My Ana," he mouths.

"Yes," I rasp. "Always."

He groans loudly, closing his eyes again, tipping his head back. Oh my... Seeing Christian undone is enough to seal my fate, and I come audibly, exhaustingly, spinning down and around, collapsing on top of him.

"Oh, baby," he groans as he finds his release, holding me still and letting go.

My head is on his chest in the no-go area, my cheek nestled against the springy hair on his sternum. I am panting, glowing, and I resist the urge to pucker my lips and kiss him.

I just lie on top of him, catching my breath. He smoothes my hair, and his hand runs down my back, caressing me as his breathing calms.

"You are so beautiful."

I lift my head to gaze at him, my expression skeptical. He frowns in response and sits up quickly, taking me by surprise, his arm sweeping round to hold me in place. I clutch his biceps as we are nose to nose.

"You. Are. Beautiful," he says again, his tone emphatic.

"And you're amazingly sweet sometimes." I kiss him gently.

He lifts me and eases out of me. I wince as he does. Leaning forward, he kisses me softly.

"You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?"

I flush. Why's he going on about this?

"All those boys pursuing you - that isn't enough of a clue?"

"Boys? What boys?"

"You want the list?" Christian frowns. "The photographer, he's crazy about you, that boy in the hardware store, your roommate's older brother. Your boss," he adds bitterly.

"Oh, Christian, that's just not true."

"Trust me. They want you. They want what's mine." He pulls me against him, and I lift my arms to his shoulders, my hands in his hair, regarding him with amusement.

"Mine," he repeats, his eyes glowing possessively.

"Yes, yours." I reassure him, smiling. He looks mollified, and I feel perfectly comfortable naked in his lap on a bed in the full light of a Saturday afternoon. Who would have thought? The lipstick marks remain on his exquisite body. I note some smears on the duvet cover though, and wonder briefly what Mrs. Jones will make of them.

"The line is still intact," I murmur and bravely trace the mark on his shoulder with my index finger. He stiffens, blinking suddenly. "I want to go exploring."

He regards me skeptically.

"The apartment?"

"No. I was thinking of the treasure map that we've drawn on you." My fingers itch to touch him.

His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he blinks with uncertainty. I rub my nose against his.

"And what would that entail exactly, Miss Steele?"

I lift my hand from his shoulder and run my fingertips down this face.

"I just want to touch you everywhere I'm allowed."

Christian catches my index finger in his teeth, biting down gently.

"Ow," I protest and he grins, a low growl coming from his throat.

"Okay," he says, releasing my finger, but his voice is laced with apprehension. "Wait."

He leans behind me, lifting me again, and removes his condom, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor beside the bed.

"I hate those things. I've a good mind to call Dr. Greene around to give you a shot."

"You think the top ob-gyn in Seattle is going to come running?"

"I can be very persuasive," he murmurs, hooking my hair behind my ear. "Franco's done a great job on your hair. I like these layers."

What?

"Stop changing the subject."

He shifts me back so I'm straddling him, leaning on his propped-up knees, my feet on either side of his hips. He leans back on his arms.

"Touch away," he says without humor. He looks nervous, but he's trying to hide it.

Keeping my eyes on his, I reach down and trace my finger underneath the lipstick line, across his finely sculptured abdominal muscles. He flinches and I stop.

"I don't have to," I whisper.

"No, it's fine. Just takes some... readjustment on my part. No one's touched me for a long time," he murmurs.

"Mrs. Robinson?" The words pop unbidden out of my mouth, and amazingly, I manage to keep all bitterness and rancor out of my voice.

He nods, his discomfort obvious. "I don't want to talk about her. It will sour your good mood."

"I can handle it."

"No, you can't, Ana. You see red whenever I mention her. My past is my past. It's a fact. I can't change it. I'm lucky that you don't have one, because it would drive me crazy if you did."

I frown at him, but I don't want to fight. "Drive you crazy? More than you are already?" I smile, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between us.

His lips twitch. "Crazy for you," he whispers.

My heart swells with joy.

"Shall I call Dr. Flynn?"

"I don't think that will be necessary," he says dryly.

Shifting back so he drops his legs, I place my fingers back on his stomach and let them drift across his skin. He stills once more.

"I like touching you." My fingers skate down to his navel then southward along his happy, happy trail. His lips part as his breathing changes, his eyes darken and his erection stirs and twitches beneath me. Holy cow. Round two.

"Again?" I murmur.

He smiles. "Oh yes, Miss Steele, again."

What a delicious way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I stand beneath the shower, absentmindedly washing myself, careful not to wet my tied-back hair, contemplating the last couple of hours. Christian and vanilla seem to be going well.

He's revealed so much today. It's staggering, trying to assimilate all the information and...

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Seven



Holy ****, did I really just do that? It must be the alcohol. I've had champagne plus four glasses of four different wines. I glance up at Christian who's busy applauding.

Crap, he's going to be so angry, and we've been getting on so well. My subconscious has finally decided to make an appearance, and she's wearing her Edvard Munch Scream face.Christian leans over to me, a large fake smile plastered across his face. He kisses my cheek and then moves closer to whisper in my ear in a very cold, controlled voice.

"I don't know whether to worship at your feet or spank the living **** out of you."

Oh, I know what I want right now. I gaze up at him, blinking through my mask. I just wish I could read what's in his eyes.

"I'll take option two, please," I whisper frantically as the applause dies down. His lips part as he inhales sharply. Oh that chiseled mouth - I want it on me, now. I ache for him. He gives me a radiant sincere smile that leaves me breathless.

"Suffering, are you? We'll have to see what we can do about that," he murmurs as he runs his fingers along my jaw.

His touch resonates deep, deep inside where that ache has spawned and grown. I want to jump him right here, right now, but we sit back to watch the auction of the next lot.

I can barely sit still. Christian drapes an arm around my shoulders, his thumb rhythmically stroking my back, sending delicious tingles down my spine. His free hand clasps mine, bringing it to his lips, then letting it rest on his lap.

Slowly and surreptitiously, so I don't realize his game until it's too late, he eases my hand up his leg and against his erection. I gasp, and my eyes dart in panic around the table, but all eyes are fixed on the stage. Thank heavens for my mask.

Taking full advantage, I slowly caress him, letting my fingers explore. Christian keeps his hand over mine, hiding my bold fingers, while his thumb skates softly over the nape of my neck. His mouth opens as he gasps softly, and it's the only reaction I can see to my inexperienced touch. But it means so much. He wants me. Everything south of my navel contracts. This is becoming unbearable.

A week by Lake Adriana in Montana is the final lot for auction. Of course Mr. and Dr.

Grey have a house in Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am barely aware of it. I feel him growing beneath my fingers, and it makes me feel so powerful.

"Sold, for one hundred ten thousand dollars!" the MC declares victoriously. The whole room bursts into applause, and reluctantly I follow as does Christian, ruining our fun.

He turns to me and his lips twitch. "Ready?" he mouths over the rapturous cheering.

"Yes," I mouth back

"Ana!" Mia calls. "It's time!"

What? No. Not again! "Time for what?"

"The First Dance Auction. Come on!" She stands and holds out her hand.

I glance at Christian who is, I think, scowling at Mia, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry, but it's laughter that wins. I succumb to a cathartic bubble of schoolgirl giggles, as we are thwarted once more by the tall, pink powerhouse that is Mia Grey. Christian peers at me, and after a beat, there's a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"The first dance will be with me, okay? And it won't be on the dance floor," he murmurs lasciviously into my ear. My giggles subside as anticipation fans the flames of my need. Oh, yes! My inner goddess performs a perfect triple Salchow in her ice skates.

"I look forward to it." I lean over and plant a soft, chaste kiss on his mouth. Glancing around, I realize that our fellow guests at the table are astonished. Of course, they've never seen Christian with a date before.

He smiles broadly at me. And he looks... happy. Wow.

"Come on, Ana," Mia nags. Taking her outstretched hand, I follow her onto the stage where ten more young women have assembled, and I note with vague unease that Lily is one of them.

"Gentlemen, the highlight of the evening!" the MC booms over the babble of voices.

"The moment you've all been waiting for! These twelve lovely ladies have all agreed to auction their first dance to the highest bidder!"

Oh no. I blush from head to toe. I hadn't realized what this meant. How humiliating!

"It's for a good cause," Mia hisses at me, sensing my discomfort. "Besides, Christian will win." She rolls her eyes. "I can't imagine him letting anyone outbid him. He hasn't taken his eyes off you all evening."

Yes, focus on the good cause, and Christian is bound to win. Let's face it, he's not short of a dime or two.

But it means spending more money on you! my subconscious snarls at me. But I don't want to dance with anyone else - I can't dance with anyone else - and it's not spending money on me, he's donating it to the charity. Like the twenty-four thousand dollars he's already spent? My subconscious narrows her eyes.

****. I seem to have gotten away with my impulsive bid. Why am I arguing with myself?"Now, gentlemen, pray gather round, and take a good look at what could be yours for the first dance. Twelve comely and compliant wenches."

Jeez! I feel like I'm in a meat market. I watch, horrified, as at least twenty men make their way to the stage area, Christian included, moving with easy grace between the tables and pausing to say a few hellos on the way. Once the bidders are assembled, the MC begins.

"Ladies and gentlemen, in the tra***ion of the masquerade we shall maintain the mystery behind the masks and stick to first names only. First up we have the lovely Jada."

Jada is giggling like a schoolgirl, too. Maybe I won't be so out of place. She's dressed head to foot in navy taffeta with a matching mask. Two young men step forward expectantly. Lucky Jada.

"Jada speaks fluent Japanese, is a qualified fighter pilot, and an Olympic gymnast...

hmm." The MC winks. "Gentleman, what am I bid?"

Jada gapes, astounded at the MC; obviously, he's talking complete garbage. She grins shyly back at the two contenders.

"A thousand bucks!" one calls.

Very quickly the bidding escalates to five thousand dollars.

"Going once... going twice... sold!" the MC declares loudly, "to the gentleman in the mask!" And of course all the men are wearing masks so there are hoots of laughter, applause, and cheering. Jada beams at her purchaser and quickly exits the stage.

"See? This is fun!" whispers Mia. "I hope Christian wins you, though... We don't want a brawl," she adds.

"Brawl?" I answer horrified.

"Oh yes. He was very hot-headed when he was younger." She shudders.

Christian brawling? Refined, sophisticated, likes-Tudor-choral-music Christian? I can't see it. The MC distracts me with his next introduction - a young woman in red, with long jet-black hair.

"Gentlemen, may I present the wonderful Mariah. What are we going to do about Mariah? She's an experienced matador, plays the cello to concert standard, and she's a champion pole-vaulter... how about that, gentlemen? What am I bid, please, for a dance with the delightful Mariah?"

Mariah glares at the MC and someone yells, very loudly, "Three thousand dollars!" It's a masked man with blond hair and beard.

There is one counter-bid, but Mariah sells for four thousand dollars.

Christian is watching me like a hawk. Brawler Trevelyan-Grey - who would have known?

"How long ago?" I ask Mia.

She glances at me, nonplussed.

"How long ago was Christian brawling?"

"Early teens. Drove my parents crazy, coming home with cut lips and black eyes. He was expelled from two schools. He inflicted some serious damage on his opponents."

I gape at her.

"Hasn't he told you?" She sighs. "He got quite a bad rep among my friends. He was really persona non grata for a few years. But it stopped when he was about fifteen or sixteen." She shrugs.

Holy ****. Another piece of the jigsaw falls into place.

"So, what am I bid for the gorgeous Jill?"

"Four thousand dollars," a deep voice calls from the left side. Jill squeals in delight.

I stop paying attention to the auction. So Christian was in that kind of trouble at school, fighting. I wonder why. I stare at him. Lily is watching us closely.

"And now, allow me to introduce the beautiful Ana."

Oh ****, that's me. I glance nervously at Mia, and she shoos me center stage. Fortunately, I don't fall over, but stand embarrassed as hell on display for everyone. When I look at Christian, he's smirking at me. The bastard.

"Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks fluent Mandarin, and is keen on yoga... well, gentlemen - " Before he can even finish his sentence Christian interrupts him, glaring at the MC through his mask.

"Ten thousand dollars." I hear Lily's gasp of disbelief behind me.

Oh ****.

"Fifteen."

What? We all turn as one to a tall, impeccably dressed man standing to the left of the stage. I blink at Fifty. ****, what will he make of this? But he's scratching his chin and giving the stranger an ironic smile. It's obvious Christian knows him. The stranger nods politely at Christian.

"Well, gentlemen! We have high rollers in the house this evening."...

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Eight



Sawyer talks into his sleeve again.

"Taylor, Mr. Grey has entered the apartment." He flinches and grabs the earpiece, pulling it out of his ear, presumably receiving some powerful invective from Taylor.

Oh no - if Taylor is worried...

"Please let me go in," I plead.

"Sorry, Miss Steele. This won't take long." Sawyer holds both hands up in a defensive gesture. "Taylor and the guys are just coming into the apartment now."

Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen avidly for the slightest sound, but all I hear is my aggravated breathing. It's loud and shallow, my scalp prickles, my mouth is dry, and I feel faint. Please, let Christian be okay, I pray silently.

I have no idea how much time passes, and still we hear nothing. Surely no sound is good - there are no gunshots. I begin pacing around the table in the foyer and examine the paintings on the walls to distract myself.

I've never really looked at them before: all figurative paintings, all religious - the Madonna and child, all sixteen of them. How odd?

Christian isn't religious, is he? All of the paintings in the great room are abstracts -

these are so different. They don't distract me for long - Where is Christian?

I stare at Sawyer and he watches me impassively.

"What's happening?"

"No news, Miss Steele."

Abruptly, the doorknob moves. Sawyer spins like a top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.

I freeze. Christian appears at the door.

"All clear," he says, frowning at Sawyer, who puts his gun away immediately and steps back to let me in.

"Taylor is overreacting," Christian grumbles as he holds out his hand to me. I stand gaping at him, unable to move, drinking in every little detail: his unruly hair, the tightness round his eyes, the tense jaw, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. I think I must have aged ten years. Christian frowns at me in concern, his eyes dark.

"It's alright, baby." He moves toward me, enveloping me in his arms, and kisses my hair. "Come on, you're tired. Bed."

"I was so worried," I murmur, rejoicing in his embrace and inhaling his sweet, sweet scent with my head against his chest.

"I know. We're all jumpy."

Sawyer has disappeared, presumably into the apartment.

"Honestly, your exes are proving to be very challenging, Mr. Grey," I mutter wryly.

Christian relaxes.

"Yes. They are."

He releases me and taking my hand, leads me across the hallway and into the great room.

"Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards. I don't think she's here."

"Why would she be here?" It makes no sense.

"Exactly."

"Could she get in?"

"I don't see how. But Taylor is overcautious sometimes."

"Have you searched your playroom?" I whisper.

Christian glances quickly at me, his brow creasing. "Yes, it's locked - but Taylor and I checked."

I take a deep, cleansing breath.

"Do you want a drink or anything?" Christian asks.

"No." Fatigue sweeps through me - I just want to go to bed.

"Come. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted." Christian's expression softens.

I frown. Isn't he coming, too? Does he want to sleep alone?

I'm relieved when he leads me into his bedroom. I place my clutch bag on the chest of drawers and open it to empty the contents. I spy Mrs. Robinson's note.

"Here." I pass it to Christian. "I don't know if you want to read this. I want to ignore it." Christian scans it briefly and his jaw tenses.

"I'm not sure what blanks she can fill in," he says dismissively. "I need to talk to Taylor." He gazes down at me. "Let me unzip your dress."

"Are you going to call the police about the car?" I ask as I turn around.

He sweeps my hair out of the way, his fingers softly grazing my naked back, and tugs down my zipper.

"No. I don't want the police involved. Leila needs help, not police intervention, and I don't want them here. We just have to double our efforts to find her." He leans down and plants a gentle kiss on my shoulder.

"Go to bed," he orders and then he's gone.

I lie, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to return. So much has happened today, so much to process. Where to start?

I wake with a jolt - disorientated. Have I been asleep? Blinking in the dim glow the hallway casts through the slightly open bedroom door, I notice that Christian is not with me. Where is he? I glance up. Standing at the end of the bed is a shadow. A woman, maybe?

Dressed in black? It's difficult to tell.

In my befuddled state, I reach across and switch on the bedside light, then turn back to look but there's no one there. I shake my head. Did I imagine it? Dream it?

I sit up and look around the room, a vague, insidious unease gripping me - but I am quite alone.

I rub my face. What time is it? Where's Christian? The alarm says it's two fifteen in the morning.

Climbing groggily out of bed, I set off to hunt him down, disconcerted by my overactive imagination. I am seeing things now. It must be a reaction to the dramatic events of the evening.

The main room is empty, the only light emanating from the three pendulum lamps above the breakfast bar. But his study door is ajar, and I hear him on the phone.

"I don't know why you're calling at this hour. I have nothing to say to you... well, you can tell me now. You don't have to leave a message."

I stand motionless by the door, eavesdropping guiltily. Who is he talking to?

"No, you listen. I asked you, and now I am telling you. Leave her alone. She's nothing to do with you. Do you understand?"

He sounds belligerent and angry. I hesitate to knock.

"I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the **** alone. Do I need to put it in triplicate for you? Are you hearing me?... Good. Good night." He slams the phone down on the desk.

Oh ****. I knock tentatively on the door.

"What?" he snarls, and I almost want to run and hide.

He sits at his desk with his head in his hands. He glances up, his expression ferocious, but his face softens immediately when he sees me. His eyes are wide and cautious. Suddenly, he looks so tired and my heart constricts.

He blinks, and his eyes sweep down my legs and back again. I am wearing one of his T-shirts.

"You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia," he breathes. "But even in my T-shirt you look beautiful."

Oh, an unexpected compliment. "I missed you. Come to bed."

He rises slowly out of the chair still in his white shirt and black dress pants. But now his eyes are shining and full of promise... but there's a trace of sadness, too. He stands in front of me, staring intently but not touching me.

"Do you know what you mean to me?" he murmurs. "If something happened to you, because of me..." His voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes across his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable - his fear very much apparent.

"Nothing's going to happen to me," I reassure him, my voice soothing. I reach up and stroke his face, running my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It's unexpectedly soft. "Your beard grows quickly," I whisper, unable to hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, ****ed-up man who stands before me.

I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers down his throat, to the faint smudge of lipstick at the base of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his lips parted. I run my index finger along the line, and he closes his eyes. His soft breathing quickens. My fingers reach the edge of his shirt, and I run them down to the next fastened button.

"I'm not going to touch you. I just want to undo your shirt," I whisper.

His eyes open wide, regarding me with alarm. But he doesn't move, and he doesn't stop me. Very slowly I unfasten the button, holding the material away from his skin, and move tentatively down to the next button, repeating the process - slowly, concentrating on what I am doing.

I don't want to touch him. Well, I do... but I won't. On the fourth button, the red line reappears, and I smile shyly up at him.

"Back on home territory." I trace the line with my fingers before undoing the final button. I pull his shirt open and move to his cuffs, removing his black polished stone cufflinks one at a time.

"Can I take your shirt off?" I ask, my voice low.

He nods, eyes still wide, as I reach up and pull his shirt over his shoulders. He frees his hands so he's standing in front of me naked from the waist up. With his shirt off, he seems to recover his equilibrium. He smirks down at me.

"What about my pants, Miss Steele?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"In the bedroom. I want you in your bed."

"Do you now? Miss Steele, you are insatiable."

"I can't think why." I grab his hand, pull him from his study, and lead him to his bedroom. The room is chilly.

"You opened the balcony door?" he asks, frowning down at me as we arrive in his room.

"No." I don't remember doing that. I recall scanning the room when I woke. The...

Fifty Shades Darker
Chapter Nine



I cannot contain my jubilation. My subconscious gapes at me open-mouthed - in stunned silence - and I wear a face-splitting grin as I gaze longingly up into Christian's wide, tortured eyes.

His soft sweet confession calls to me on some deep elemental level as if he's seeking absolution; his three small words are my manna from heaven. Tears prick my eyes once more. Yes, you do. I know you do.

It's such a liberating realization as if a crushing millstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, ****ed-up man, whom I once thought of as my romantic hero - strong, solitary, mysterious - possesses all these traits, but he's also fragile and alienated and full of self-loathing. My heart swells with joy but also pain for his suffering. And I know in this moment that my heart is big enough for both of us. I hope it's big enough for both of us.

I reach up to clasp his dear, dear, handsome face and kiss him gently, pouring all the love I feel into this one sweet connection. I want to devour him beneath the hot cascading water. Christian groans and encircles me in his arms, holding me as if I am the air he needs to breathe.

"Oh, Ana," he whispers hoarsely, "I want you, but not here."

"Yes," I murmur fervently into his mouth.

He switches off the shower and takes my hand, leading me out and enfolding me in my bathrobe. Grabbing a towel, he wraps it around his waist, then takes a smaller one and begins to gently dry my hair. When he's satisfied, he swathes the towel around my head so that in the large mirror over the sink I look like I'm wearing a veil. He's standing behind me and our eyes meet in the mirror, smoldering gray to bright blue, and it gives me an idea.

"Can I reciprocate?" I ask.

He nods, though his brow creases. I reach for another towel from the plethora of fluffy towels stacked beside the vanity, and standing before him on tiptoe, I start to dry his hair.

He bends forward, making the process easier, and as I catch the occasional glimpse of his face beneath the towel, I see he's grinning at me like a small boy.

"It's a long time since anyone did this to me. A very long time," he murmurs, but then frowns. "In fact I don't think anyone's ever dried my hair."

"Surely Grace did? Dried your hair when you were young?"

He shakes his head, hampering my progress.

"No. She respected my boundaries from day one, even though it was painful for her. I was very self-sufficient as a child," he says quietly.

I feel a swift kick in the ribs as I think of a small copper-haired child looking after himself because no one else cares. The thought is sickeningly sad. But I don't want my melancholy to hijack this blossoming intimacy.

"Well, I'm honored," I gently tease him.

"That you are, Miss Steele. Or maybe it is I who am honored."

"That goes without saying, Mr. Grey," I respond tartly.

I finish with his hair, reach for another small towel, and move round to stand behind him. Our eyes meet again in the mirror, and his watchful, questioning look prompts me to speak.

"Can I try something?"

After a moment, he nods. Warily, and very gently, I run the soft cloth down his left arm, soaking up the water that has beaded on his skin. Glancing up, I check his expression in the mirror. He blinks at me, his eyes burning into mine.

I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips part infinitesimally. I dry his other arm in a similar fashion, trailing kisses around his bicep, and a small smile plays on his lips.

Carefully, I wipe his back beneath the faint lipstick line, which is still visible. I hadn't gotten round to washing his back.

"Whole back," he says quietly, "with the towel." He takes a sharp breath and screws his eyes closed as I briskly dry him, careful to touch him only with the towel.

He has such an attractive back - broad, sculptured shoulders, all the small muscles clearly defined. He really looks after himself. The beautiful sight is marred only by his scars.

With difficulty, I ignore them and suppress my overwhelming urge to kiss each and every one. When I finish he exhales, and I lean forward and reward him with a kiss on his shoulder. Putting my arms around him, I dry his stomach. Our eyes meet once more in the mirror, his expression amused but wary, too.

"Hold this." I hand him a smaller face towel, and he gives me a bemused frown. "Remember in Georgia? You made me touch myself using your hands," I add.

His face darkens, but I ignore his reaction and put my arms around him. Gazing at us both in the mirror - his beauty, his nakedness, and me with my covered hair - we look almost Biblical, as if from an Old Testament baroque painting.

I reach for his hand, which he willingly entrusts to me, and guide it up to his chest to dry it, sweeping the towel slowly, awkwardly across his body. Once, twice - then again.

He's completely immobilized, rigid with tension, except for his eyes, which follow my hand clasped around his.

My subconscious looks on with approval, her normally pursed mouth smiling, and I am the supreme puppet master. His anxiety ripples off his back in waves, but he maintains eye contact, though his eyes are darker, more deadly. Showing their secrets maybe.

Is this a place I want to go? Do I want to confront his demons?

"I think you're dry now," I whisper as I drop my hand, gazing into the gray depths of his eyes in the mirror. His breathing is accelerated, lips parted.

"I need you, Anastasia," he whispers.

"I need you, too." And as I say the words, I am struck how true they are. I cannot imagine being without Christian, ever.

"Let me love you," he says hoarsely.

"Yes," I answer, and turning, he hauls me into his arms, his lips seeking mine, beseeching me, worshipping me, cherishing me... loving me.

He trails his fingers up and down my spine as we gaze at each other, basking in our postcoital bliss, replete. We lie together, me on my front hugging my pillow, he on his side, and I am treasuring his tender touch. I know that right now he needs to touch me. I am a balm for him, a source of solace, and how could I deny him that? I feel exactly the same about him.

"So you can be gentle," I murmur.

"Hmm... so it would seem, Miss Steele."

I grin. "You weren't particularly the first time we... um, did this."

"No?" He smirks. "When, I robbed you of your virtue."

"I don't think you robbed me," I mutter haughtily - Jeez, I'm not a helpless maiden.

"I think my virtue was offered up pretty freely and willingly. I wanted you, too, and if I remember correctly, I rather enjoyed myself." I smile shyly at him, biting my lip.

"So did I if I recall, Miss Steele. We aim to please," he drawls and his face softens, serious. "And it means you're mine, completely." All trace of humor has vanished as he gazes at me.

"Yes, I am," I murmur back at him. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Go ahead."

"Your biological father... do you know who he was?" This thought has been bugging me. His brow creases, and then he shakes his head. "I have no idea. Wasn't the savage who was her pimp, which is good."

"How do you know?"

"Something my dad... something Carrick said to me."

I gaze at my Fifty expectantly, waiting. He smirks at me.

"So hungry for information, Anastasia," he sighs, shaking his head. "The pimp discovered the crack whore's body and phoned it in to the authorities. Took him four days to make the discovery though. He shut the door when he left... left me with her... her body." His eyes cloud at the memory.

I inhale sharply. Poor baby boy - the horror is too grim to contemplate.

"Police interviewed him later. He denied flat out I was anything to do with him, and Carrick said he looked nothing like me."

"Do you remember what he did look like?"

"Anastasia, this isn't a part of my life I revisit very often. Yes, I remember what he looked like. I'll never forget him." Christian's face darkens and hardens, becoming more angular, his eyes frosting with anger. "Can we talk about something else?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

He shakes his head. "It's old news, Ana. Not something I want to think about."

"So what's this surprise, then?" I need to change the subject before he goes all Fifty on me. His expression lightens immediately.

"Can you face going out for some fresh air? I want to show you something."

"Of course."

I marvel how quickly he turns - mercurial as ever. He grins at me with his boyish, carefree, I'm-only-twenty-seven smile, and my heart lurches into my mouth. So it's something close to his heart, I can tell. He swats me playfully on my behind.

"Get dressed. Jeans will be good. I hope Taylor's packed some for you."

He rises and pulls on his boxer briefs. Oh... I could sit here all day, watching him wander around the room. My inner goddess agrees, swooning as she ogles from her chaise longue.

"Up," he scolds, bossy as ever. I gaze at him, grinning.

"Just admiring the view."

He rolls his eyes at me.

As we dress, I notice that we move with the synchronization...