Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

course.”
    I marvel how quickly he turns—mercurial as ever. He grins at me with his boyish, carefree, I’m-only-twenty-seven smile, and my heart lurches into my mouth. So it’s something close to his heart, I can tell. He swats me playfully on my behind.
    “Get dressed. Jeans will be good. I hope Taylor’s packed some for you.”
    He rises and pulls on his boxer briefs. Oh . . . I could sit here all day, watching him wander around the room. My inner goddess agrees, swooning as she ogles from her chaise longue.
    “Up,” he scolds, bossy as ever. I gaze at him, grinning.
    “Just admiring the view.”
    He rolls his eyes at me.
    As we dress, I notice that we move with the synchronization of two people who know each other well, each watchful and acutely aware of the other, exchanging the occasional shy smile and sweet touch. And it dawns on me that this is just as new for him as it is for me.
    “Dry your hair,” Christian orders once we’re dressed.
    “Domineering as ever.” I smirk at him, and he leans down to kiss my hair.
    “That’s never going to change, baby. I don’t want you sick.”
    I roll my eyes at him, and his mouth twists in amusement.
    “My palms still twitch, you know, Miss Steele.”
    “I am glad to hear it, Mr. Grey. I was beginning to think you were losing your edge,” I retort.
    “I could easily demonstrate that is not the case, should you so wish.” Christian drags a large, cream, cable-knit sweater out of his bag and drapes it artfully over his shoulders. With his white T-shirt and jeans, his artfully rumpled hair, and now this, he looks as if he’s stepped out of the pages of a high-end glossy magazine.  
    No one should look this good. And I don’t know if it’s the momentary distraction of his sheer perfect looks or the knowledge that he loves me, but his threat no longer fills me with dread. This is my Fifty Shades; this is the way he is.  
    As I reach for the hairdryer, a tangible ray of hope blossoms. We will find a middle way. We just have to recognize each other’s needs and accommodate them. I can do that, surely?
    I gaze at myself in the dresser mirror. I’m wearing the pale blue shirt that Taylor bought and had packed for me. My hair is a mess, my face flushed, my lips swollen—I touch them, remembering Christian’s searing kisses, and I can’t help a small smile as I stare. Yes, I do , he said.

    “Where are we going exactly?” I ask as we wait in the lobby for the parking valet.  
    Christian taps the side of his nose and winks at me conspiratorially, looking like he’s desperately trying to contain his glee. Frankly, it’s very un-Fifty.  
    He was like this when we went gliding—perhaps that’s what we’re doing. I beam back at him. He stares down his nose at me in that superior way he has with his lopsided grin. Leaning down, he kisses me gently.
    “Do you have any idea how happy you make me feel?” he murmurs.
    “Yes . . . I know exactly. Because you do the same for me.”
    The valet zooms up in Christian’s car, wearing a face-splitting grin. Jeez, everyone is so happy today.
    “Great car, sir,” he mumbles as he hands over the keys. Christian winks and gives him an obscenely large tip.  
    I frown at him. Honestly.

    As we cruise through the traffic, Christian is deep in thought. A young woman’s voice comes over the loudspeakers; it has a beautiful, rich, mellow timbre, and I lose myself in her sad, soulful voice.
    “I need to make a detour. It shouldn’t take long,” he says absentmindedly, distracting me from the song.  
    Oh, why ? I’m intrigued to know the surprise. My inner goddess is bouncing about like a five-year-old.
    “Sure,” I murmur. Something is amiss. Suddenly, he looks grimly determined.
    He pulls into the parking lot of large car dealership, stops the car, and turns to face me, his expression wary.
    “We need to get you a new car,” he says. I gape at him.  
    Now? On a Sunday? What the hell? And this is a Saab dealership.
    “Not an Audi?” is, stupidly, the only thing I can think of to say, and bless him, he actually flushes.  
    Holy cow—Christian, embarrassed. This is a first.
    “I thought you might like something else,” he mutters. He’s almost squirming.
    Oh, please . . . This is too valuable an opportunity not to tease him. I smirk. “A Saab?”
    “Yeah. A 9-3. Come.”
    “What is it with you and foreign cars?”
    “The Germans and the Swedes make the safest cars in the world,