Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

matching mine.
    “When did you start your period, Anastasia?” he asks out of the blue, gazing down at me.
    “Err... yesterday,” I mumble in my highly aroused state.
    “Good.” He releases me and turns me around.
    “Hold on to the sink,” he orders and pulls my hips back again, like he did in the playroom, so I’m bending down.
    He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string – what?! – and gently pulls my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet. Holy fuck. Sweet mother of all… Jeez. And then he’s inside me… ah! Skin against skin… moving slowly at first… easily, testing me, pushing me… oh my. I grip on to the sink, panting, forcing myself back on him, feeling him inside me. Oh the sweet agony… his hands clasp my hips. He sets a punishing rhythm – in, out, and he reaches around and finds my clitoris, massaging me… oh jeez. I can feel myself quicken.
    “That’s right, baby,” he rasps as he grinds into me, angling his hips, and it’s enough to send me flying, flying high.
    Whoa … and I come, loudly, gripping for dear life onto the sink as I spiral down through my orgasm, everything spinning and clenching at once. He follows, clasping me tightly, his front on my back as he climaxes and calls my name like it’s a litany or a prayer.
    “Oh, Ana!” His breathing is ragged in my ear, in perfect synergy with mine. “Oh, baby, will I ever get enough of you?” he whispers.
    Will it always be like this? So overwhelming, so all-consuming, so bewildering and beguiling. I wanted to talk, but now I’m spent and dazed from his lovemaking and wondering if I will ever get enough of him ?
    We sink slowly to the floor, and he wraps his arms around me, imprisoning me. I am curled on his lap, my head against his chest, as we both calm. Very subtly, I inhale his sweet, intoxicating Christian scent. I must not nuzzle. I must not nuzzle. I repeat the mantra in my head – though I am so tempted to do so. I want to lift my hand and draw patterns in his chest hair with my fingertips… but I resist, knowing that he’ll hate it if I do. We are both quiet, lost in our thoughts. I am lost in him… lost to him.
    I remember that I have my period.
    “I’m bleeding,” I murmur.
    “Doesn’t bother me,” he breathes.
    “I noticed.” I can’t keep the dryness out of my voice.
    He tenses slightly.
    “Does it bother you?” he asks softly.
    Does it bother me? Maybe it should… should it? No, it doesn’t. I lean back and look up at him, and he gazes down at me, his eyes a soft cloudy gray.
    “No, not at all.”
    He smirks.
    “Good. Let’s have a bath.”
    He uncurls from around me, placing me on the floor as he makes to stand. As he does, I notice again the small, round, white scars on his chest. They are not chicken pox, I muse absentmindedly. Grace said he was hardly affected. Holy shit … they must be burns. Burns from what? I blanch at the realization, shock and revulsion coursing through me. From cigarettes? Mrs. Robinson, his birth mother, who? Who did this to him? Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation, and I’m overreacting – wild hope blossoms in my chest, hope that I am wrong.
    “What is it?” Christian’s face is wide-eyed with alarm.
    “Your scars,” I whisper. “They’re not from chicken pox.”
    I watch as in a split second he closes down, his stance changing from relaxed, calm, and at ease to defensive – angry, even. He frowns, his face darkening, and his mouth presses into a thin, hard line.
    “No, they’re not,” he snaps, but he does not elaborate further. He stands, holds his hand out for me, and hauls me to my feet.
    “Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is colder and scolding as he lets go of my hand.
    I flush, chastened, and stare down at my fingers, and I know, I know that someone stubbed cigarettes out on Christian. I feel sick.
    “Did she do that?” I whisper before I can stop myself.
    He says nothing, so I’m forced to look at him. He’s glaring at me.
    “She? Mrs. Robinson? She’s not an animal, Anastasia. Of course she didn’t. I don’t understand why you feel you have to demonize her.”
    He’s standing there, naked, gloriously naked, with my blood on him… and we’re finally having this conversation. And I’m naked, too – neither of us has anywhere to hide, except perhaps the bath. I take a deep breath, move past him, and step down into the water. It is deliciously warm, soothing, and deep. I melt into the