Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

hand, and we head out of the building to where the valet stands by my Saab.

    “So you want sex in a car,” Christian murmurs as he switches on the ignition.
    “Quite frankly, I would have been happy with the lobby floor.”
    “Trust me, Ana, so would I. But I don’t fancy being arrested at this time of night, and I didn’t want to fuck you in a restroom. Well, not today.”
    What! “You mean there was a possibility?”
    “Oh yes.”
    “Let’s go back.”
    He turns to gaze at me and laughs. His laughter is infectious; soon we’re both laughing—wonderful, cathartic, head-held-back laughter. Reaching over, he places his hand on my knee, caressing it gently with long skilled fingers. I stop laughing.
    “Patience, Anastasia,” he murmurs and pulls into the Seattle traffic.

    He parks the Saab in the Escala garage and turns off the engine. Suddenly, in the confines of the car, the atmosphere between us changes. With wanton anticipation, I glance at him, trying to contain my palpitating heart. He’s turned toward me, leaning against the door, his elbow propped on the steering wheel.  
    He pulls his lower lip with his thumb and index finger. His mouth is so distracting. I want it on me. He’s watching me intently, his eyes dark gray. My mouth goes dry. He smiles a slow sexy smile.
    “We will fuck in the car at a time and place of my choosing. Right now, I want to take you on every available surface of my apartment.”
    It’s like he’s addressing me below the waist . . . my inner goddess performs four arabesques and a pas de Basque .
    “Yes.” Jeez, I sound so breathy, desperate.  
    He leans forward a fraction. I close my eyes, waiting for his kiss, thinking—finally. But nothing happens. After a moment, I open my eyes to find him gazing at me. I can’t figure out what he’s thinking, but before I can say anything, he distracts me once more.
    “If I kiss you now we won’t make it into the apartment. Come.”
    Gah! Could this man be any more frustrating? He climbs out of the car.

    Once again, we wait for the elevator, my body thrumming with anticipation. Christian holds my hand, running his thumb rhythmically across my knuckles, each stroke echoing through me. Oh, I want his hands on all of me. He’s tortured me long enough.
    “So, what happened to instant gratification?” I murmur while we wait.
    Christian smirks down at me.
    “It’s not appropriate in every situation, Anastasia.”
    “Since when?”
    “Since this evening.”
    “Why are you torturing me so?”
    “Tit for tat, Miss Steele.”
    “How am I torturing you?”
    “I think you know.”
    I gaze up at him and his expression is difficult to read. He wants my answer . . . that’s it.
    “I’m into delayed gratification, too,” I whisper, smiling shyly.  
    He tugs my hand unexpectedly, and suddenly I am in his arms. He grabs the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling gently so my head tips back.
    “What can I do to make you say yes?” he asks fervently, throwing me off balance once more. I blink at him—at his lovely, serious, desperate expression.
    “Give me some time? Please,” I murmur. He groans and finally he kisses me, long and hard. Then we’re in the elevator, and we’re all hands and mouths and tongues and lips and fingers and hair. Desire, thick and strong, lances through my blood, clouding all my reason. He pushes me against the wall, pinning me with his hips, one hand in my hair, the other at my chin, holding me in place.
    “You own me,” he whispers. “My fate is in your hands, Ana.”
    His words are intoxicating, and in my overheated state, I want to rip off his clothes. I push off his jacket, and as the elevator arrives at the apartment, we tumble out into the foyer.  
    Christian pins me to the wall by the elevator, his jacket falling to the floor, and his hand travels up my leg, his lips never leaving mine. He hoists up my dress.
    “First surface here,” he breathes and abruptly he lifts me. “Wrap your legs around me.”
    I do as I’m told, and he turns and lays me down on the foyer table, so he’s standing between my legs. I’m aware that the usual vase of flowers is missing. Huh ? Reaching into his jeans pocket, he fishes out a foil packet and hands it to me, undoing his fly.
    “Do you know how much you turn me on?”
    “What?” I pant. “No . . . I . . .”
    “Well, you do,” he mutters, “all the time.” He grabs the foil packet from my hands. Oh, this is so quick, but