Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

sitting. He still says nothing, his eyes never leaving mine. I stand in front of him, feeling fifty shades of foolish.
    “I’m back. Are you mad at me?”
    He sighs, reaches out for my hand, and pulls me into his lap, folding his arms around me. He buries his nose in my hair.
    “Yes,” he says.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” I curl up in his lap inhaling his heavenly Christian smell, feeling safe regardless of the fact that he’s mad.
    “Me neither. Wear what you like,” he murmurs. He runs his hand up my bare leg to my thigh. “Besides, this dress has its advantages.” He bends to kiss me, and as our lips touch, passion or lust or a deep-seated need to make amends lances through me and desire flares in my blood. I seize his head in my hands, fisting my fingers in his hair. He groans as his body responds, and he hungrily nips at my lower lip—my throat, my ear, his tongue invading my mouth, and before I’m even aware of it he’s unzipping his pants, pulling me astride his lap, and sinking into me. I grasp the back of the chair, my feet just touching the ground . . . and we start to move.

    “I like your version of sorry,” he breathes into my hair.
    “And I like yours,” I giggle, snuggling against his chest. “Have you finished?”
    “Christ, Ana, you want more?”
    “No! Your work.”
    “I’ll be done in about half an hour. I heard your message on my voicemail.”
    “From yesterday.”
    “You sounded worried.”
    I hug him tightly.
    “I was. It’s not like you not to respond.”
    He kisses my hair.
    “Your cake should be ready in half an hour.” I smile at him and climb off his lap.
    “Looking forward to it. It smelled delicious, evocative even, while it was baking.”
    I smile shyly down at him, feeling a little self-conscious, and he mirrors my expression. Jeez, are we really so different? Perhaps it’s his early memories of baking. Leaning down, I plant a swift kiss on the corner of his mouth and make my way back to the kitchen.

    I am all prepared when I hear him come out of his study, and I light the solitary gold candle on his cake. He gives me an ear-splitting grin as he saunters toward me, and I softly sing Happy Birthday to him. Then he leans over and blows it out, closing his eyes.
    “I’ve made my wish,” he says as he opens them again, and for some reason his look makes me flush.
    “The frosting is still soft. I hope you like it.”
    “I can’t wait to taste it, Anastasia,” he murmurs, and he makes that sound so rude. I cut us each a slice, and we dig in with small pastry forks.
    “Mmm,” he groans in appreciation. “This is why I want to marry you.”
    And I laugh with relief . . . he likes it.

    “Ready to face my family?” Christian switches the R8 ignition off. We’re parked in his parents’ driveway.
    “Yes. Are you going to tell them?”
    “Of course. I’m looking forward to seeing their reactions.” He smiles wickedly at me and climbs out of the car.
    It is seven thirty, and though it’s been a warm day, there’s a cool evening breeze blowing off the bay. I pull my wrap around me as I step out of the car. I’m wearing an emerald green cocktail dress I found this morning while I was rummaging through the closet. It has a wide matching belt. Christian takes my hand, and we head to the front door. Carrick opens it wide before he can knock.
    “Christian, hello. Happy birthday, son.” He takes Christian’s proffered hand but pulls him into a brief hug, surprising him.
    “Er . . . thanks, Dad.”
    “Ana, how lovely to see you again.” He hugs me, too, and we follow him into the house.
    Before we can set foot in the living room, Kate comes barreling down the hallway toward the two of us. She looks furious.
    Oh no !
    “You two! I want to talk to you.” She snarls in her you-better-not-fucking-mess-with-me voice. I glance nervously at Christian, who shrugs and decides to humor her as we follow her into the dining room, leaving Carrick bemused on the threshold of the living room. She shuts the door and turns on me.
    “What the fuck is this?” she hisses and waves a piece of paper at me. Completely at a loss, I take it from her and scan it quickly. My mouth dries. Holy shit . It’s my e-mail response to Christian, discussing the contract.

All the color drains from my face as my blood turns to ice and fear lances through my body. Instinctively I step between her and Christian.
    “What is it?” Christian murmurs,