"Good girl, Anastasia," he groans, and his breathing is ragged.
He spanks me twice more, and then he pulls at the small threads attached to the balls and jerks them out of me suddenly. I almost climax - the feeling is out of this world. Moving swiftly, he gently turns me over. I hear rather see the rip of the foil packet, and then he's lying beside me. He seizes my hands, hoists them over my head, and eases himself onto me, into me, sliding slowly, filling me where the silver globes have been. I groan loudly.
"Oh, baby," he whispers as he moves back, forward, a slow sensual tempo, savoring me, feeling me.
It is the most gentle he has ever been, and it takes no time at all for me to fall over the edge, spiraling into a delicious, violent, exhausting, orgasm. As I clench around him, it ignites his release, and he slides into me, stilling, gasping out my name in desperate wonder.
"Ana!"
He's silent and panting on top of me, his hands still entwined in mine above my head.
Finally, he leans back and stares down at me.
"I enjoyed that," he whispers, and then kisses me sweetly.
He doesn't linger for more sweet kisses, but rises, covers me with the duvet, and disappears into the bathroom. On his return he's carrying a bottle of white lotion. He sits beside me on the bed.
"Roll over," he orders, and begrudgingly I move on to my front.
Honestly, all this fuss. I feel very sleepy.
"Your ass is a glorious color," he says approvingly, and he tenderly massages the cooling lotion into my pink behind.
"Spill the beans, Grey," I yawn.
"Miss Steele, you know how to ruin a moment."
"We had a deal."
"How do you feel?"
"Short changed."
He sighs, slides in beside me, and pulls me into his arms. Careful not to touch my stinging behind, we are spooning again. He kisses me very softly beside my ear.
"The woman who brought me into this world was a crack-whore, Anastasia. Go to sleep."
Holy f**k... what does that mean?
"Was?"
"She's dead."
"How long?"
He sighs.
"She died when I was four. I don't really remember her. Carrick has given me some details. I only remember certain things. Please go to sleep."
"Goodnight, Christian."
"Goodnight, Ana."
And I slip into a dazed and exhausted sleep, dreaming of a four-year-old, gray-eyed boy in a dark, scary, miserable place.
Chapter Twenty-One
There is light everywhere. Bright, warm, piercing light, and I endeavor to keep it at bay for a few more precious minutes. I want to hide, just a few more minutes. But the glare is too strong, and I finally succumb to wakefulness. A glorious Seattle morning greets me -
sunshine pouring through the full-height windows and flooding the room with too-bright light. Why didn't we close the blinds last nightI am in Christian Grey's vast bed minus one Christian Grey.
I lie back for a moment staring through the windows at the lofty vista of Seattle's skyline. Life in the clouds sure feels unreal. A fantasy - a castle in the air, adrift from the ground, safe from the realities of life - far away from neglect, hunger, and crack-whore mothers. I shudder to think what he went through as a small child, and I understand why he lives here, isolated, surrounded by beautiful, precious works of art - so far removed from where he started... mission statement indeed. I frown because it still doesn't explain why I can't touch him.
Ironically, I feel the same up here in his lofty tower. I'm adrift from reality. I'm in this fantasy apartment, having fantasy sex with my fantasy boyfriend. When the grim reality is he wants a special arrangement, though he's said he'll try more. What does that actually meanThis is what I need to clarify between us to see if we are still at opposite ends on the see-saw or if we are inching closer together.
I clamber out of bed feeling stiff, and for want of a better expression, well-used. Yes, that would be all the sex then. My subconscious purses her lips in disapproval. I roll my eyes at her, grateful that a certain twitchy-palmed control freak is not in the room, and resolve to ask him about the personal trainer. That's if I sign. My inner goddess glares at me in desperation. Of course you'll sign. I ignore them both, and after a quick trip to the bathroom, I go in search of Christian.
He's not in the art gallery, but an elegant middle-aged woman is cleaning in the kitchen area. The sight of her stops me in my tracks. She has short blonde hair and clear blue eyes; she wears a plain white tailored shirt and a navy blue pencil skirt. She smiles broadly when she sees me.
"Good morning, Miss Steele. Would you like some breakfast?" Her tone is warm but business like, and I am stunned. Who is this attractive blonde in Christian's kitchen?
I'm only wearing Christian's t-shirt. I feel self-conscious and embarrassed by my lack of clothing.
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage." My voice is quiet, unable to hide the anxiety in my voice.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry - I'm Mrs. Jones, Mr. Grey's housekeeper."
Oh.
"How do you do?" I manage.
"Would you like some breakfast, ma'am?"
Ma'am!
"Just some tea would be lovely, thank you. Do you know where Mr. Grey is?"
"In his study."
"Thank you."
I scuttle off toward the study, mortified. Why does Christian only have attractive blondes working for himAnd a nasty thought comes involuntarily into my mind - Are they all ex-subs I refuse to entertain that hideous idea. I poke my head shyly round the door. He's on the phone, facing the window, in black pants and a white shirt. His hair is still wet from the shower, and I'm completely distracted from my negative thoughts.