Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

shoulders and his back, enjoying the flex and ripple of his finely honed muscles, his skin still damp from his nightmare. His lips close over my nipple, pulling and tugging, so that it rises to greet his glorious skilled mouth.
    I groan and run my fingernails across his back. And he gasps, a strangled moan.
    “Oh, fuck, Ana,” he chokes, and it’s half cry, half groan. It tears at my heart, but also deep inside me, tightening all the muscles below my waist. Oh, what I can do to him! My inner goddess is writhing with want and I’m panting now, matching his tortured breaths with my own.
    His hand travels south, over my belly, down to my sex—and his fingers are on me, then in me. I groan as he moves his fingers around inside me, in that way, and I push my pelvis up to welcome his touch.
    “Ana,” he breathes. He suddenly releases me and sits up; he removes his boxer briefs and leans over to the bedside table to grab a foil packet. His eyes are a blazing gray as he passes me the condom. “You want to do this? You can still say no. You can always say no,” he murmurs.
    “Don’t give me a chance to think, Christian. I want you, too.” I rip the packet open with my teeth as he kneels between my legs, and with trembling fingers I slide it on to him.
    “Steady,” he says. “You are going to unman me, Ana.”
    I marvel at what I can do to this man with my touch. He stretches out over me, and for now my doubts are pushed down and locked away in the dark, scary depths at the back of my mind. I’m intoxicated with this man, my man, my Fifty Shades. He shifts suddenly, completely taking me by surprise, so I am on top. Whoa .
    “You—take me,” he murmurs, his eyes glowing with a feral intensity.
    Oh my, and slowly, oh-so-slowly, I sink down on to him. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes as he groans. I grab his hands and start to move, reveling in the fullness of my possession, reveling in his reaction, watching him unravel beneath me. I feel like a goddess. I lean down and kiss his chin, running my teeth along his stubbled jaw. He tastes delicious. He clasps my hips and steadies my rhythm, slow and easy.
    “Ana, touch me . . . please.”
    Oh . I lean forward and steady myself with my hands on his chest. And he calls out, his cry almost a sob, and he thrusts deep inside me.
    “Ahh,” I whimper and run my fingernails gently over his chest, through the hair there, and he groans loudly and twists abruptly so I am once more beneath him.
    “Enough.” He moans. “No more, please.” And it’s a heartfelt plea.  
    Reaching up, I clasp his face in my hands, feeling the dampness on his cheeks, and pull him down to my lips so that I can kiss him. I curl my hands around his back.
    He groans deep and low in his throat as he moves inside me, pushing me onward and upward, but I can’t find my release. My head is too cloudy, cloudy with issues. I am too wrapped up in him.
    “Let go, Ana,” he urges me.
    “No.”
    “Yes,” he snarls. He shifts slightly and gyrates his hips, again and again.
    Jeez . . . argh !
    “Come on baby, I need this. Give it to me.”
    And I explode, my body a slave to his, and wrap myself around him, clinging to him like a vine as he cries out my name, and climaxes with me, then collapses, his full weight pressing me into the mattress.

    I cradle Christian in my arms, his head on my chest, as we lie in the afterglow of our lovemaking. I run my fingers through his hair as I listen to his breathing return to normal.
    “Don’t ever leave me,” he whispers, and I roll my eyes in the full knowledge that he can’t see me.
    “I know you’re rolling your eyes at me,” he murmurs, and I hear the trace of humor in his voice.
    “You know me well,” I murmur.
    “I’d like to know you better.”
    “Back at you, Grey. What was your nightmare about?”
    “The usual.”
    “Tell me.”
    He swallows and tenses before he sighs, a long drawn-out sigh. “I must be about three, and the crack whore’s pimp is mad as hell again. He smokes and smokes, one cigarette after another, and he can’t find an ashtray.” He stops, and I freeze as a creeping chill grips my heart.
    “It hurt,” he says, “It’s the pain I remember. That’s what gives me nightmares. That and the fact that she did nothing to stop him.”
    Oh no. This is unbearable. I tighten my grip around him, my legs and arms holding him to me, and I try not to let my despair choke me. How could anyone treat a child like