Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

a sad, sweet lament. Bach, I think, but I’m not sure.
    I wrap the duvet round me and quietly pad down the corridor toward the big room. Christian is at the piano, completely lost in the music he’s playing. His expression is sad and forlorn, like the music. His playing is stunning. Leaning against the wall at the entrance, I listen enraptured. He’s such an accomplished musician. He sits naked, his body bathed in the warm light cast by a solitary freestanding lamp beside the piano. With the rest of the large room in darkness, it’s like he’s in his own isolated little pool of light, untouchable… lonely, in a bubble.
    I pad quietly toward him, enticed by the sublime, melancholy music. I’m mesmerized watching his long skilled fingers as they find and gently press the keys, thinking how those same fingers have expertly handled and caressed my body. I flush and gasp at the memory and press my thighs together. He glances up, his unfathomable gray eyes bright, his expression unreadable.
    “Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
    A frown flits across his face.
    “Surely, I should be saying that to you,” he murmurs. He finishes playing and puts his hands on his legs.
    I notice now that he’s wearing PJ pants. He runs his fingers through his hair and stands. His pants hang from his hips, in that way… oh my. My mouth goes dry as he casually strolls around the piano toward me. He has broad shoulders, narrow hips, and his abdominal muscles ripple as he walks. He really is stunning.
    “You should be in bed,” he admonishes.
    “That was a beautiful piece. Bach?”
    “Transcription by Bach, but it’s originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello.”
    “It was exquisite, but very sad, such a melancholy melody.”
    His lips quirk up in a half smile.
    “Bed,” he orders. “You’ll be exhausted in the morning.”
    “I woke and you weren’t there.”
    “I find it difficult to sleep, and I’m not used to sleeping with anyone,” he murmurs. I can’t fathom his mood. He seems a little despondent, but it’s difficult to tell in the darkness. Perhaps it was the tone of the piece he was playing. He puts his arm around me and gently walks me back to the bedroom.
    “How long have you been playing? You play beautifully.”
    “Since I was six.”
    “Oh.” Christian as a six-year-old boy… my mind conjures an image of a beautiful, copper-haired little boy with gray eyes and my heart melts – a moppet-haired kid who likes impossibly sad music.
    “How are you feeling?” he asks when we are back in the room. He switches on a sidelight.
    “I’m good.”
    We both glance down at the bed at the same time. There’s blood on the sheets – evidence of my lost virginity. I flush, embarrassed, pulling the duvet tighter around me.
    “Well, that’s going to give Mrs. Jones something to think about,” Christian mutters as he stands in front of me. He puts his hand under my chin and tips my head back, staring down at me. His eyes are intense as he examines my face. I realize that I’ve not seen his naked chest before. Instinctively, I reach out to run my fingers through the smattering of dark hair on his chest to see how it feels. Immediately, he steps back out of my reach.
    “Get into bed,” he says sharply. “I’ll come and lie down with you.” His voice softens. I drop my hand and frown. I don’t think I’ve ever touched his torso. He opens a chest of drawers and pulls out a t-shirt and quickly slips it on.
    “Bed,” he orders again. I climb back onto the bed, trying not to think about the blood. He clambers in beside me and pulls me into his embrace, wrapping his arms around me so that I’m facing away from him. He kisses my hair gently, and he inhales deeply.
    “Sleep, sweet Anastasia,” he murmurs, and I close my eyes, but I can’t help feel a residual melancholy either from the music or his demeanor. Christian Grey has a sad side.

Light fills the room, coaxing me from deep sleep to wakefulness. I stretch out and open my eyes. It’s a beautiful May morning, Seattle at my feet. Wow, what a view. Beside me, Christian Grey is fast asleep. Wow, what a view. I’m surprised he’s still in bed. He’s facing me, and I have an unprecedented opportunity to study him. His lovely face looks younger, relaxed in sleep. His sculptured, pouty lips are parted slightly, and his shiny, clean hair is a glorious mess. How could anyone look this good and still be legal? I remember his