Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

quietly.
    He smirks at me and points toward the front. “Taylor,” he mouths.
    I burst out laughing. “Oh.” And stop quickly—the balls.  
    I bite my lip. Christian smiles at me, his eyes gleaming wickedly. He knows exactly what he’s doing, sexy beast that he is.
    “Relax,” he breathes. “If it’s too much . . .” His voice trails off, and he gently kisses each knuckle in turn, then gently sucks the tip of my little finger.  
    Now I know he’s doing this on purpose. I close my eyes as dark desire unfolds throughout my body. I surrender briefly to the sensation, my muscles clenching deep inside me. Oh my .  
    When I open my eyes again, Christian is regarding me closely, a dark prince. It must be the dinner jacket and bow tie, but he looks older, sophisticated, a devastatingly handsome roué with licentious intent.  
    He simply takes my breath away. I’m in his sexual thrall, and if I’m to believe him, he’s in mine. The thought brings a smile to my face, and his answering grin is blinding.
    “So what can we expect at this event?”
    “Oh, the usual stuff,” Christian says breezily.
    “Not usual for me,” I remind him.
    Christian smiles fondly and kisses my hand again. “Lots of people flashing their cash. Auction, raffle, dinner, dancing—my mother knows how to throw a party.” He smiles and for the first time all day, I allow myself to feel a little excited about this party.
    There is a line of expensive cars heading up the driveway of the Grey mansion. Long, pale pink paper lanterns hang over the drive, and as we inch closer in the Audi, I can see they are everywhere. In the early evening light, they look magical, as if we’re entering an enchanted kingdom. I glance at Christian. How suitable for my prince—and my childish excitement blooms, eclipsing all other feelings.
    “Masks on,” Christian grins, and as he dons his simple black mask, my prince becomes something darker, more sensual.
    All I can see of his face is his beautiful chiseled mouth and strong jaw.  
    Holy fuck . . . My heartbeat lurches at the sight of him. I fasten my mask and grin at him, ignoring the hunger deep in my body.
    Taylor pulls into the driveway, and a valet opens Christian’s door. Sawyer leaps out to open mine.
    “Ready?” Christian asks.
    “As I’ll ever be.”
    “You look beautiful, Anastasia.” He kisses my hand and exits the car.
    A dark green carpet runs along the lawn to one side of the house, leading to the impressive grounds at the rear. Christian has a protective arm around me, resting his hand on my waist, as we follow the green carpet with a steady stream of Seattle’s elite dressed in their finery and wearing all manner of masks the lanterns lighting the way. Two photographers marshal guests to pose for pictures against the backdrop of an ivy-strewn arbor.
    “Mr. Grey!” one of the photographers calls. Christian nods in acknowledgement and pulls me close as we pose quickly for a photo. How do they know it’s him? His trademark, unruly copper hair no doubt.
    “Two photographers?” I ask Christian.
    “One is from the Seattle Times; the other is for a souvenir. We’ll be able to buy a copy later.”
    Oh, my picture in the press again. Leila briefly enters my mind. This is how she found me, posing with Christian. The thought is unsettling, though it’s comforting that I am unrecognizable beneath my mask.  
    At the end of the line, white-suited servers hold trays of glasses brimming with champagne, and I’m grateful when Christian passes me a glass—effectively distracting me from my dark thoughts.
    We approach a large white pergola hung with smaller versions of the paper lanterns. Beneath it, shines a black and white checkered dance floor surrounded by a low fence with entrances on three sides. At each entrance stand two elaborate ice sculptures of swans. The fourth side of the pergola is occupied by a stage where a string quartet is playing softly, a haunting, ethereal piece I don’t recognize. The stage looks set for a big band but as there’s no sign of the musicians yet. I figure this must be for later. Taking my hand, Christian leads me between swans onto the dance floor where the other guests are congregating, chatting over glasses of champagne.
    Toward the shoreline stands an enormous marquee, open on the side nearest to us so I can glimpse the formally arranged tables and chairs. There are so many !
    “How many people are coming?” I ask Christian, thrown