Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

his hands just above my knees as his tongue tortures me, giving no quarter, no respite . . . no reprieve. Tilting my hips up, meeting and matching his rhythm, I am consumed.
    “Oh, Christian, please.” I moan.
    “Oh no, baby, not yet,” he teases, but I feel myself quicken as does he, and he stops.
    “No,” I whimper.
    “This is my revenge, Ana,” he growls softly. “Argue with me, and I am going to take it out on your body somehow.” He trails kisses along my belly, his hands traveling up my thighs, stroking, kneading, tantalizing. His tongue circles my navel as his hands— and his thumbs . . . oh his thumbs —reach the summit of my thighs.
    “Ah!” I cry out as he pushes one inside me. The other persecutes me, slowly, agonizingly, circling round and round. My back arches off the piano as I writhe beneath his touch. It’s almost unbearable.
    “Christian!” I cry, spiraling out of control with need.
    He takes pity on me and stops. Lifting my feet off the keys, he pushes me; and suddenly, I’m sliding effortlessly up the piano, gliding on satin, and he’s following me up there, briefly kneeling between my legs to roll on a condom. He hovers over me and I’m panting, gazing up at him with raging need, and I realize he’s naked. When did he take off his clothes?
    He stares down at me, and there’s wonder in his eyes, wonder and love and passion, and it’s breathtaking.
    “I want you so badly,” he says and very slowly, exquisitely, he sinks into me.

    I am sprawled on top of him, wrung out, my limbs heavy and languid, as we lie on top of his grand piano. Oh my. He’s much more comfortable to lie on than the piano. Careful not to touch his chest, I rest my cheek against him and keep perfectly still. He doesn’t object, and I listen to his breathing as it slows like mine. Gently he strokes my hair.
    “Do you drink tea or coffee in the evening?” I ask sleepily.
    “What a strange question,” he says dreamily.
    “I thought I could bring you tea in your study, and then I realized I didn’t know what you would like.”
    “Oh, I see. Water or wine in the evening, Ana. Though maybe I should try tea.”
    His hand moves rhythmically down my back, stroking me tenderly.
    “We really know very little about each other,” I murmur.
    “I know,” he says, and his voice is mournful. I sit up to gaze at him.
    “What is it?” I ask. He shakes his head as if to rid himself of some unpleasant thought, and raising his hand, he caresses my cheek, his eyes bright and earnest.
    “I love you, Ana Steele,” he says.

    The alarm blasts on with the six am traffic news, and I am rudely awakened from my disturbing dream of over-blond and dark-haired women. I can’t grasp what it’s about, and I’m immediately distracted because Christian Grey is wrapped around me like silk, his unruly-haired head on my chest, his hand on my breast, his leg over me, holding me down. He’s still asleep, and I am too warm. But I ignore my discomfort, tentatively reaching up to run my fingers gently through his hair, and he stirs. Raising bright gray eyes, he grins sleepily. Holy cow . . . he’s adorable .
    “Good morning, beautiful,” he says.
    “Good morning, beautiful yourself.” I smile back at him. He kisses me, disentangles himself, and leans up on his elbow, staring down at me.
    “Sleep okay?” he asks.
    “Yes, despite the interruption to my sleep last night.”
    His grin broadens. “Hmm. You can interrupt me like that anytime.” He kisses me again.
    “How about you? Did you sleep well?”
    “I always sleep well with you, Anastasia.”
    “No more nightmares?”
    “No.”
    I frown and chance a question. “What are your nightmares about?”
    His brow creases and his grin fades. Shit—my stupid curiosity .
    “They’re flashbacks of my early childhood, or so Dr. Flynn says. Some vivid, some less so.” His voice drops and a distant, harrowed look crosses his face. Absentmindedly, he begins to trace my collarbone with his finger, distracting me.
    “Do you wake up crying and screaming?” I try in vain to joke.
    He looks at me, puzzled. “No, Anastasia. I’ve never cried. As far as I can remember.” He frowns, as if reaching into the depths of his memories. Oh no—that’s too dark a place to go at this hour, surely.
    “Do you have any happy memories of your childhood?” I ask quickly, mainly to distract him. He looks pensive for a moment, still running his finger along my skin.
    “I recall