Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

my hands while Christian fixes us both a drink.
    “Armagnac?”
    “Please.”
    After a moment, he joins me by the fire and hands me a crystal brandy glass.
    “It’s been quite a day, huh?”
    I nod and his gray eyes gaze at me searchingly, concerned.
    “I’m okay,” I whisper reassuringly. “How about you?”
    “Well, right now I’d like to drink this and then, if you’re not too tired, take you to bed and lose myself in you.”
    “I think that can be arranged, Mr. Taylor.” I smile shyly at him as he shuffles out of his shoes and peels off his socks.
    “Mrs. Taylor, stop biting your lip,” he whispers.  
    I blush into my glass. The Armagnac is delicious, leaving a burning warmth in its wake as it glides silkily down my throat. When I glance up at Christian, he’s sipping his brandy, watching me, his eyes dark—hungry.
    “You never cease to amaze me, Anastasia. After a day like today—or yesterday, rather—you’re not whining or running off into the hills screaming. I am in awe of you. You’re very strong.”
    “You’re a very good reason to stay,” I murmur. “I told you, Christian, I’m not going anywhere, no matter what you’ve done. You know how I feel about you.”
    His mouth twists as if he doubts my words, and his brow creases as if what I’m saying is painful for him to hear. Oh, Christian, what do I have to do to make you realize how I feel?  
    Let him beat you, my subconscious sneers at me. I scowl inwardly at her.
    “Where are you going to hang José’s portraits of me?” I try to lighten the mood.
    “That depends.” His lips twitch. This is obviously a much more palatable topic of conversation for him.
    “On what?”
    “Circumstances,” he says mysteriously. “His show’s not over yet, so I don’t have to decide straight away.”
    I cock my head to one side and narrow my eyes.
    “You can look as sternly as you like, Mrs. Taylor. I’m saying nothing,” he teases.
    “I may torture the truth from you.”
    He raises an eyebrow. “Really, Anastasia, I don’t think you should make promises you can’t fulfill.”
    Oh my, is that what he thinks? I place my glass on the mantelpiece, reach over, and much to Christian’s surprise, take his glass and place it beside mine.
    “We’ll just have to see about that,” I murmur. Very bravely—emboldened by the brandy, no doubt—I take Christian’s hand and pull him toward the bedroom. At the foot of the bed I stop. Christian is trying to hide his amusement.
    “Now you have me in here, Anastasia, what are you going to do with me?” he teases, his voice low.
    “I’m going to start by undressing you. I want to finish what I started earlier.” I reach for the lapels on his jacket, careful not to touch him, and he doesn’t flinch but he’s holding his breath.  
    Gently, I push his jacket over his shoulders, and his eyes stay on mine, all traces of humor gone, as they grow larger, burning into me, wary and needful? There are so many interpretations of his look. What is he thinking? I place his jacket on the ottoman.
    “Now your T-shirt,” I whisper and lift it by the hem. He cooperates, raising his arms and backing away, making it easier for me to pull it off. Once off, he gazes down at me, intently, wearing just his jeans that hang so provocatively from his hips. The band of his boxer briefs is visible.  
    My eyes move hungrily up across his taut stomach to the remains of the lipstick line, faded and smudged, then up to his chest. I want nothing more than to run my tongue through his chest hair to savor his taste.
    “Now what?” he whispers, eyes blazing.
    “I want to kiss you here.” I run my finger from hipbone to hipbone across his belly.
    His lips part as he inhales sharply. “I’m not stopping you,” he breathes.
    I take his hand. “You’d better lie down then,” I murmur and lead him to the side of the four-poster bed. He seems bewildered, and it occurs to me that perhaps no one has taken the lead with him since . . . her. No, don’t go there.  
    Lifting the covers, he sits on the edge of the bed, gazing up at me, waiting, his expression wary and serious. I stand before him and slip off his denim jacket and let it drop to the floor, then I shuffle out of his sweatpants.  
    He rubs his thumb over the tips of his fingers. He’s itching to touch me, I can tell, but he suppresses the urge. Taking a deep breath and beyond courageous, I reach for the hem of my T-shirt and lift it over my head so