Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

he hisses as he comes, and the tortured sound sets me off again, spiraling into a healing orgasm that goes on and on and wrings me out and leaves me spent and breathless.
    Christian bends and kisses my shoulder then pulls out of me. Placing his arms around me, he rests his head in the middle of my back, and we lie like this, both kneeling at the bedside, for what? Seconds? Minutes even as our breathing calms. My bellyache has disappeared, and all I feel is a soothing, satisfying serenity.
    Christian stirs and kisses my back. “I believe you owe me a dance, Miss Steele,” he murmurs.
    “Hmm,” I respond, savoring the absence of achiness and basking in the afterglow.
    He sits back on his heels and pulls me off the bed onto his lap. “We don’t have long. Come on.” He kisses my hair and forces me to stand.
    I grumble but sit back down on the bed and collect my panties from the floor and scoop them on. Lazily I walk to the chair to retrieve my dress. I note with dispassionate interest that I did not remove my shoes during our illicit tryst. Christian is tying his bow tie, having finished straightening himself and the bed.
    As I slip my dress back on, I check out the photographs on the pin board. Christian as a sullen teen was gorgeous even then: with Elliot and Mia on the ski slopes; on his own in Paris, the Arc de Triomphe serving as a giveaway background; in London; New York; the Grand Canyon; Sydney Opera House; even the Great Wall of China. Master Grey was well traveled at a young age.  
    There are ticket stubs to various concerts: U2, Metallica, The Verve, Sheryl Crow, the New York Philharmonic performing Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet —what an eclectic mix! And in the corner, there’s a passport-size photograph of a young woman. It’s in black and white. She looks familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t place her. Not Mrs. Robinson, thank heavens.
    “Who’s this?” I ask.
    “No one of consequence,” he mutters as he slips on his jacket and straightens his bow tie. “Shall I zip you up?”
    “Please. Then why is she on your pin board?”
    “An oversight on my part. How’s my tie?” He raises his chin like a small boy, and I grin and straighten it for him.
    “Now it’s perfect.”
    “Like you,” he murmurs and grabs me, kissing me passionately. “Feeling better?”
    “Much, thank you, Mr. Grey.”
    “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Steele.”

    The guests are assembling on the dance floor. Christian grins at me—we’ve made it just in time—and he leads me onto the checkered floor.
    “And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the first dance. Mr. and Dr. Grey, are you ready?” Carrick nods in agreement, his arms around Grace.
    “Ladies and gentlemen of the First Dance Auction, are you ready?” We all nod in agreement. Mia is with someone I don’t recognize. I wonder what happened to Sean?
    “Then we shall begin. Take it away, Sam!”
    A young man strolls onto the stage amid warm applause, turns to the band behind him and snaps his fingers. The familiar strains of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” fill the air.
    Christian smiles down at me, takes me in his arms, and starts to move. Oh, he dances so well, making it easy to follow. We grin at each other like idiots as he whirls me around the dance floor.
    “I love this song,” Christian murmurs, gazing down at me. “Seems very fitting.” He’s no longer grinning, but serious.
    “You’re under my skin, too,” I respond. “Or you were in your bedroom.”
    He purses his lips but he’s unable to hide his amusement.
    “Miss Steele,” he admonishes me teasingly, “I had no idea you could be so crude.”
    “Mr. Grey, neither did I. I think it’s all my recent experiences. They’ve been an education.”
    “For both of us.” Christian is serious again, and it could just be the two of us and the band. We are in our own private bubble.
    As the song finishes we both applaud. Sam the singer bows graciously and introduces his band.
    “May I cut in?”
    I recognize the man who bid on me at the auction. Christian grudgingly lets me go, but he’s amused, too.
    “Be my guest. Anastasia, this is John Flynn. John, Anastasia.”
    Shit !
    Christian smirks at me and wanders off to one side of the dance floor.
    “How do you do, Anastasia?” Dr. Flynn says smoothly, and I realize he’s British.
    “Hello,” I stutter.
    The band strikes up another song, and Dr. Flynn pulls me into his arms. He’s much younger than I