Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

pelvis as I come down, bouncing me back up. We pick up the rhythm… up, down, up, down… over and over… and it feels so… good. Between my panting breaths, the deep down, brimming fullness… the vehement sensation pulsing through me that’s building quickly, I watch him, our eyes locked… and I see wonder there, wonder at me.
    I am fucking him. I am in charge. He’s mine, and I’m his. The thought pushes me, weighted with concrete, over the edge, and I climax around him… shouting incoherently. He grabs my hips, and closing his eyes, tipping his head back, his jaw strained, he comes quietly. I collapse on to his chest, overwhelmed, somewhere between fantasy and reality, a place where there are no hard or soft limits.

Slowly the outside world invades my senses, and oh my, what an invasion. I am floating, my limbs soft and languid, utterly spent. I’m lying on top of him, my head on his chest, and he smells divine: fresh, laundered linen and some expensive body wash, and the best, most seductive scent on the planet… Christian. I don’t want to move, I want to breathe this elixir for eternity. I nuzzle him, wishing I didn’t have the barrier of his t-shirt. And as rhyme and reason return to the rest of my body, I stretch my hand out on his chest. This is the first time I’ve touched him here. He’s firm… strong. His hand swoops up and grabs mine, but he softens the blow by pulling it to his mouth and sweetly kissing my knuckles. He rolls over so he’s gazing down at me.
    “Don’t,” he murmurs, then kisses me lightly.
    “Why don’t you like to be touched?” I whisper, staring up into soft gray eyes.
    “Because I’m fifty shades of fucked up, Anastasia.”
    Oh… his honesty is completely disarming. I blink up at him.
    “I had a very tough introduction to life. I don’t want to burden you with the details. Just don’t.” He strokes his nose against mine, and then he pulls out of me and sits up.
    “I think that’s all the very basics covered. How was that?”
    He looks thoroughly pleased with himself and sounds very matter-of-fact at the same time, like he’s just marked another tick box in a checklist. I’m still reeling from the ‘tough introduction to life’ comment. It’s so frustrating – I am desperate to know more. But he won’t tell me. I cock my head to one side, like he does, and make an enormous effort to smile at him.
    “If you imagine for one minute that I think you ceded control to me, well you haven’t taken into account my GPA.” I smile shyly at him. “But thank you for the illusion.”
    “Miss Steele, you are not just a pretty face. You’ve had six orgasms so far and all of them belong to me,” he boasts, playful again.
    I flush and blink at the same time, as he stares down at me. He’s keeping count! His brow furrows.
    “Do you have something to tell me?” his voice is suddenly stern.
    I frown. Crap.
    “I had a dream this morning.”
    “Oh?” He glares at me.
    Double crap. Am I in trouble?
    “I came in my sleep.” I throw my arm over my eyes. He says nothing. I peek up at him from under my arm, and he looks amused.
    “In your sleep?”
    “Woke me up.”
    “I’m sure it did. What were you dreaming about?”
    Crap.
    “You.”
    “What was I doing?”
    I throw my arm over my eyes again. And like a small child, I briefly entertain the thought that if I can’t see him, then he can’t see me.
    “Anastasia, what was I doing? I won’t ask you again.”
    “You had a riding crop.”
    He moves my arm.
    “Really?”
    “Yes.” I am crimson.
    “There’s hope for you yet,” he murmurs. “I have several riding crops.”
    “Brown plaited leather?”
    He laughs.
    “No, but I’m sure I could get one.” His gray eyes blaze with excitement.
    Leaning down, he gives me a brief kiss then stands and grabs his boxers, oh no… he’s going. I glance quickly at the time – it’s only nine forty. I scoot out of bed, too, and grab my sweat pants and a cami top, then sit back on the bed, cross-legged, watching him. I don’t want him to go. What can I do?
    “When is your period due?” He interrupts my thoughts.
    What?!
    “I hate wearing these things,” he grumbles. He holds up the condom, then puts it on the floor, and slips on his jeans.
    “Well?” he prompts when I don’t reply, and he looks at me expectantly as if he’s waiting for my opinion on the weather. Holy crap… this is personal stuff.
    “Next week.” I stare down at my