Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

at him.
    He looks amused, and slightly exasperated. “You were talking forever, Anastasia. What else did he say?”
    I swallow. “He doesn’t think you’re a sadist,” I whisper.
    “Really?” Christian says quietly and frowns. The atmosphere in the car takes a nosedive.
    “He says that term’s not recognized in psychiatry. Not since the nineties,” I mutter, quickly trying to rescue the mood between us.
    Christian’s face darkens, and he exhales slowly.
    “Flynn and I have differing opinions on this,” he says quietly.
    “He said you always think the worst of yourself. I know that’s true,” I murmur. “He also mentioned sexual sadism—but he said that was a lifestyle choice, not a psychiatric condition. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking about.”
    His gray eyes flash toward me again, and his mouth sets in a grim line.
    “So—one talk with the good doctor and you’re an expert,” he says acidly and turns his eyes front.
    Oh dear . . . I sigh.
    “Look—if you don’t want to hear what he said, don’t ask me,” I mutter softly.  
    I don’t want to argue. Anyway he’s right—what the hell do I know about all his shit? Do I even want to know? I can list the salient points—his control freakery, his possessiveness, his jealousy, his overprotectiveness—and I completely understand where he’s coming from. I can even understand why he doesn’t like to be touched—I’ve seen the physical scars. I can only imagine the mental ones, and I’ve only glimpsed his nightmares once. And Dr. Flynn said—
    “I want to know what you discussed.” Christian interrupts my thoughts as he heads off I-5 on exit 172, heading west toward the slowly sinking sun.
    “He called me your lover.”
    “Did he now?” His tone is conciliatory. “Well, he’s nothing if not fastidious about his terms. I think that’s an accurate description. Don’t you?”
    “Did you think of your subs as lovers?”
    Christian’s brow creases once more, but this time he’s thinking. He turns the Saab smoothly north once again. Where are we going?
    “No. They were sexual partners,” he murmurs, his voice cautious again. “You’re my only lover. And I want you to be more.”
    Oh . . . there’s that magical word again, brimming with possibility. It makes me smile, and inside I hug myself, my inner goddess radiating joy.
    “I know,” I whisper, trying hard to hide my excitement. “I just need some time, Christian. To get my head around these last few days.” He glances at me oddly, perplexed, his head inclined to one side.
    After a beat, the stoplight we’re stationed at turns green. He nods and turns the music up, and our discussion is over.
    Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now—about it being a marvelous night for moondancing. I gaze out the windows at the pines and spruce dusted gold by the fading light of the sun, their long shadows stretching across the road. Christian has turned into a more residential street, and we’re heading west toward the Sound.
    “Where are we going?” I ask again as we turn into a road. I catch a road sign—9 TH A VE NW. I am baffled.
    “Surprise,” he says and smiles mysteriously.

Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept, clapboard houses where kids play either clustered around their basketball hoops in their yards or cycling and running around in the street. It all looks affluent and wholesome with the houses nestling among the trees. Perhaps we’re going to visit someone? Who?
    A few minutes later, Christian turns sharply left, and we’re confronted by two ornate white metal gates set in a six-foot-high, sandstone wall. Christian presses a button on his door handle and the electric window hums quietly down into the doorframe. He punches a number into the keypad and the gates swing open in welcome.
    He glances at me, and his expression has changed. He looks uncertain, nervous even.
    “What is it?” I ask, and I can’t mask the concern in my voice.
    “An idea,” he says quietly and eases the Saab through the gates.
    We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two cars. On one side, the trees ring a densely wooded area, and on the other there’s a vast area of grassland where a once-cultivated field has been left fallow. Grasses and wildflowers have reclaimed it, creating a rural idyll—a meadow, where the late evening breeze softly ripples through the grass and the evening sun gilds the wildflowers. It’s