Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

over his head. Oh my . “I like your road map idea.”
    I stare at him blankly. Road map?
    “The no-go areas,” he says by way of explanation.
    “Oh. I was kidding.”
    “I’m not.”
    “You want me to draw on you, with lipstick?”
    “It washes off. Eventually.”
    This means I could touch him freely. A small smile of wonder plays on my lips, and I smirk at him.
    “What about something more permanent like a Sharpie?”
    “I could get a tattoo.” His eyes are alight with humor.
    Christian Grey with a tatt? Marring his lovely body, when it’s marked in so many ways already? No way!
    “No to the tattoo!” I laugh to hide my horror.
    “Lipstick, then.” He grins.
    Shutting the Mac, I push it to the side. This could be fun.
    “Come.” He holds his hands out to me. “Sit on me.”
    I push my flats off my feet, scramble into a sitting position, and crawl over to him. He lies down on the bed but keeps his knees flexed.
    “Lean against my legs.”
    I clamber over him and sit astride as instructed. His eyes are wide and cautious. But he’s amused, too.
    “You seem—enthusiastic for this,” he comments wryly.
    “I’m always eager for information, Mr. Grey, and it means you’ll relax, because I’ll know where the boundaries lie.”
    He shakes his head, as if he can’t quite believe that he’s about to let me draw all over his body.
    “Open the lipstick,” he orders.
    Oh, he’s in über-bossy mode, but I don’t care.
    “Give me your hand.”
    I give him my other hand.
    “The one with the lipstick.” He rolls his eyes at me.
    “Are you rolling your eyes at me?”
    “Yep.”
    “That’s very rude, Mr. Grey. I know some people who get positively violent at eye-rolling.”
    “Do you now?” His tone is ironic.
    I give him my hand with the lipstick, and suddenly he sits up so we are nose to nose.
    “Ready?” he asks in a low, soft murmur that makes everything tighten and tense inside me. Oh wow .
    “Yes,” I whisper. His proximity is alluring, his toned flesh close, his Christian-smell mixed with my bodywash. He guides my hand up to the curve of his shoulder.
    “Press down,” he breathes, and my mouth goes dry as he directs my hand down, from the top of his shoulder, around his arm socket then down the side of his chest. The lipstick leaves a broad, livid red streak it in its wake. He stops at the bottom of this ribcage then directs me across his stomach. He tenses and stares, seemingly impassive, into my eyes, but beneath his careful blank look, I see his restraint.  
    His aversion is held in strict check, the line of his jaw is strained, and there’s tension around his eyes. Midway across his stomach he murmurs, “And up the other side.” He releases my hand.
    I mirror the line I’ve drawn on his left side. The trust he’s giving me is heady but tempered by the fact that I can I count his pain. Seven small, round white scars dot his chest, and it’s deep, dark purgatory to see this hideous, evil desecration of his beautiful body. Who would do this to a child?
    “There, done,” I whisper, containing my emotion.
    “No, you’re not,” he replies and traces a line with his long index finger around the base of his neck. I follow the line of his finger with a scarlet streak. Finishing, I gaze into the gray depths of his eyes.
    “Now my back,” he murmurs. He shifts so I have to climb off him, then he turns around on the bed and sits cross-legged with his back to me.
    “Follow the line from my chest, all the way round to the other side.” His voice is low and husky.
    I do as he says until a crimson line runs across the middle of his back, and as I do, I count more scars marring his beautiful body. Nine in all.  
    Holy fuck. I have to fight the overwhelming need to kiss each one and stop the tears pooling in my eyes. What kind of animal would do this? His head is down, and his body tense as I complete the circuit round his back.
    “Around your neck, too?” I whisper.
    He nods, and I draw another line joining the first around the base of his neck beneath his hair.
    “Finished,” I murmur, and it looks like he’s wearing a bizarre skin-colored vest with a harlot-red trim.
    His shoulders slump as he relaxes, and he turns slowly to face me once again.
    “Those are the boundaries,” he says quietly, his eyes dark and pupils dilated . . . from fear? From lust? I want to hurl myself at him, but I restrain myself and gaze at him in wonder.
    “I can live with those. Right