Fifty Shades Darker(12)By: E L James
“What do you want, Anastasia?” he breathes.
“You,” I gasp.
He breaks free, scoops me into his arms, and carries me quickly and seemingly without any strain into my bedroom. Setting me on my feet beside my bed, he leans down and switches on my bedside lamp. He glances quickly around the room and hastily closes the pale cream curtains.
“Now what?” he says softly.
“Make love to me.”
“You have got to tell me, baby.”
Holy crap. “Undress me.” I am panting already.
He smiles and hooks his index finger into my open shirt, pulling me toward him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and without taking his blazing eyes off mine, slowly starts to unbutton my shirt.
Tentatively I put my hands on his arms to steady myself. He doesn’t complain. His arms are a safe area. When he’s finished with the buttons, he pulls my shirt over my shoulders, and I let go of him to let the shirt fall to the floor. He reaches down to the waistband of my jeans, pops the button, and pulls down the zipper.
“Tell me what you want, Anastasia.” His eyes smolder and his lips part as he takes quick shallow breaths.
“Kiss me from here to here,” I whisper trailing my finger from the base of my ear, down my throat. He smoothes my hair out of the line of fire and bends, leaving sweet soft kisses along the path my finger took and then back again.
“My jeans and panties,” I murmur, and he smiles against my throat before he drops to his knees in front of me. Oh, I feel so powerful. Hooking his thumbs into my jeans, he gently pulls them and my panties down my legs. I step out of my flats and my clothes so that I’m left wearing only my bra. He stops and looks up at me expectantly, but he doesn’t get up.
“What now, Anastasia?”
“Kiss me,” I whisper.
“You know where.”
Oh, he’s taking no prisoners. Embarrassed, I quickly point at the apex of my thighs, and he grins wickedly. I close my eyes, mortified, but at the same time beyond aroused.
“Oh, with pleasure,” he chuckles. He kisses me and unleashes his tongue, his joy-inspiring expert tongue. I groan and fist my hands into his hair. He doesn’t stop, his tongue circling my clitoris, driving me insane, on and on, around and around. Ahhh … it’s only been … how long …? Oh …
“Christian, please,” I beg. I don’t want to come standing up. I don’t have the strength.
“Please what, Anastasia?”
“Make love to me.”
“I am,” he murmurs, gently blowing against me.
“No. I want you inside me.”
“Are you sure?”
He doesn’t stop his sweet, exquisite torture. I moan loudly.
“Christian … please.”
He stands and gazes down at me, and his lips glisten with the evidence of my arousal.
It’s so hot …
“Well?” he asks.
“Well what?” I pant, staring up at him in frantic need.
“I’m still dressed.”
I gape at him in confusion.
Undress him? Yes, I can do this. I reach for his shirt and he steps back.
“Oh no,” he admonishes. Shit, he means his jeans.
Oh, and this gives me an idea. My inner goddess cheers loudly to the rafters, and I drop to my knees in front of him. Rather clumsily and with shaking fingers, I undo his waistband and fly, then yank down his jeans and boxers, and he springs free. Wow.
I peek up at him through my lashes, and he’s gazing at me with … what? Trepidation? Awe? Surprise?
He steps out of his jeans and pulls off his socks, and I take hold of him in my hand and squeeze tightly, pushing my hand back like he’s shown me before. He groans and tenses, and his breath hisses through clenched teeth. Very tentatively, I put him in my mouth and suck—hard. Mmm, he tastes good.
“Ahh. Ana … whoa, gently.”
He cups my head tenderly, and I push him deeper into my mouth, pressing my lips together as tightly as I can, sheathing my teeth, and sucking hard.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
Oh, that’s a good, inspiring, sexy sound, so I do it again, pulling his length deeper, swirling my tongue around the end. Hmm … I feel like Aphrodite.
“Ana, that’s enough. No more.”
I do it again—Beg, Grey, beg— and again.
“Ana, you’ve made your point,” he grunts through gritted teeth. “I do not want to come in your mouth.”
I do it once more, and he bends down, grasps me by my shoulders, hauls me to my feet, and tosses me on the bed. Dragging his shirt over his head, he then reaches down to his discarded jeans, and like a good Boy Scout, produces a foil packet. He’s panting, like me.
“Take your bra off,” he orders.
I sit up and do as I’m told.
“Lie down. I want to look at you.”
I lie down, gazing up at him as he slowly rolls the condom on. I want him so badly. He stares down at me and licks his lips.
“You are a fine sight, Anastasia Steele.” He bends over the bed and slowly crawls up and over me, kissing me as he goes. He kisses each of my breasts and teases my nipples in turn, while I groan and writhe beneath him, and he doesn’t stop.
No … Stop. I want you.
“Please what?” he murmurs between my breasts.
“I want you inside me.”
“Do you now?”
Gazing at me, he pushes my legs apart with his and moves so that he’s hovering above me. Without taking his eyes off mine, he sinks into me at a deliciously slow pace.
I close my eyes, relishing the fullness, the exquisite feeling of his possession, instinctively tilting my pelvis up to meet him, to join with him, groaning loudly. He eases back and very slowly fills me again. My fingers find their way into his silken unruly hair, and he oh-so-slowly moves in and out again.
“Faster, Christian, faster … please.”
He gazes down at me in triumph and kisses me hard, then really starts to move—a punishing, relentless … oh fuck— and I know it will not be long. He sets a pounding rhythm. I start to quicken, my legs tensing beneath him.
“Come on, baby,” he gasps. “Give it to me.”
His words are my undoing, and I explode, magnificently, mind-numbingly, into a million pieces around him, and he follows, calling out my name.
“Ana! Oh fuck, Ana!” He collapses on top of me, his head buried in my neck.
* * *
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 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 around 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 with his just-fucked hair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He’s wearing his jeans and his shirt, 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 your mother teach you?”
“Not really,” I scoff. “By the time I was interested in learning how to, my mom was living with Husband Number Three in Mansfield, Texas. And Ray, well, he would’ve lived on toast and takeout if it weren’t for me.”