Oh no -- if Taylor is worried…

"Please let me go in," I plead.

"Sorry, Miss Steele. This won't take long." Sawyer holds both hands up in a defensive gesture. "Taylor and the guys are just coming into the apartment now."

"Taylor, Mr. Grey has entered the apartment." He flinches and grabs the earpiece, pulling it out of his ear, presumably receiving some powerful invective from Taylor.

Sawyer talks into his sleeve again.

Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen avidly for the slightest sound, but all I hear is my aggravated breathing. It's loud and shallow, my scalp prickles, my mouth is dry, and I feel faint. Please, let Christian be okay, I pray silently.

I have no idea how much time passes, and still we hear nothing. Surely no sound is good -- there are no gunshots. I begin pacing around the table in the foyer and examine the paintings on the walls to distract myself.

I've never really looked at them before: all figurative paintings, all religious -- the Madonna and child, all sixteen of them. How odd.

Christian isn't religious, is he? All of the paintings in the great room are abstracts -- these are so different. They don't distract me for long. Where is Christian?

"What's happening?"

I stare at Sawyer and he watches me impassively.

Abruptly, the doorknob moves. Sawyer spins like a top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.

"All clear," he says, frowning at Sawyer, who puts his gun away immediately and steps back to let me in.

"Taylor is overreacting," Christian grumbles as he holds out his hand to me. I stand gaping at him, unable to move, drinking in every little detail: his unruly hair, the tightness around his eyes, the tense jaw, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. I think I must have aged ten years. Christian frowns at me in concern, his eyes dark.

"No news, Miss Steele."

I freeze. Christian appears at the door.

"I was so worried," I murmur, rejoicing in his embrace and inhaling his sweet, sweet scent with my head against his chest.

"It's all right, baby." He moves toward me, enveloping me in his arms, and kisses my hair. "Come on, you're tired. Bed."

I frown. Isn't he coming, too? Does he want to sleep alone?

"Why would she be here?" It makes no sense.

"Yes. They are."

"I don't see how. But Taylor is overcautious sometimes."

"Come. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted." Christian's expression softens.

"Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards. I don't think she's here."

"Exactly."

I take a deep, cleansing breath.

Christian glances quickly at me, his brow creasing. "Yes, it's locked -- but Taylor and I checked."

"Have you searched your playroom?" I whisper.

I'm relieved when he leads me into his bedroom. I place my clutch bag on the chest of drawers and open it to empty the contents. I spy Mrs. Robinson's note.

"Could she get in?"

"Do you want a drink or anything?" Christian asks.

"No." Fatigue sweeps through me -- I just want to go to bed.

Sawyer has disappeared, presumably into the apartment.

He releases me and, taking my hand, leads me across the hallway and into the great room.

"Honestly, your exes are proving to be very challenging, Mr. Grey," I mutter wryly. Christian relaxes.

"I know. We're all jumpy."

Christian scans it briefly and his jaw tenses.

"Are you going to call the police about the car?" I ask as I turn around.

He sweeps my hair out of the way, his fingers softly grazing my naked back, and tugs down my zipper.

"I'm not sure what blanks she can fill in," he says dismissively. "I need to talk to Taylor." He gazes down at me. "Let me unzip your dress."

"Go to bed," he orders, and then he's gone.

"No. I don't want the police involved. Leila needs help, not police intervention, and I don't want them here. We just have to double our efforts to find her." He leans down and plants a gentle kiss on my shoulder.

"Here." I pass it to Christian. "I don't know if you want to read this. I want to ignore it."

I wake with a jolt, disoriented. Have I been asleep? Blinking in the dim glow the hallway casts through the slightly open bedroom door, I notice that Christian is not with me. Where is he? I glance up. Standing at the end of the bed is a shadow. A woman, maybe? Dressed in black? It's difficult to tell.

I lie, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to return. So much has happened today, so much to process. Where to start?

In my befuddled state, I reach across and switch on the bedside light, then turn back to look but there's no one there. I shake my head. Did I imagine it? Dream it?

I sit up and look around the room, a vague, insidious unease gripping me -- but I am quite alone.

"I don't know why you're calling at this hour. I have nothing to say to you… well, you can tell me now. You don't have to leave a message."

I rub my face. What time is it? Where's Christian? The alarm clock shows that it's two fifteen in the morning.

Climbing groggily out of bed, I set off to hunt him down, disconcerted by my overactive imagination. I am seeing things now. It must be a reaction to the dramatic events of the evening.

The main room is empty, the only light emanating from the three pendulum lamps above the breakfast bar. But his study door is ajar, and I hear him on the phone.

"No, you listen. I asked you, and now I am telling you. Leave her alone. She has nothing to do with you. Do you understand?"

I stand motionless by the door, eavesdropping guiltily. Who is he talking to?

"What?" he snarls, and I almost want to run and hide.

He sounds belligerent and angry. I hesitate to knock.

"I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the fuck alone. Do I need to put it in triplicate for you? Are you hearing me?… Good. Good night." He slams the phone down on the desk.

Oh, shit. I knock tentatively on the door.

"You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia," he breathes. "But even in my T-shirt you look beautiful."

Oh, an unexpected compliment. "I missed you. Come to bed."

He sits at his desk with his head in his hands. He glances up, his expression ferocious, but his face softens immediately when he sees me. His eyes are wide and cautious. Suddenly, he looks so tired and my heart constricts.

He blinks, and his eyes sweep down my legs and back again. I am wearing one of his T-shirts.

He rises slowly out of the chair, still in his white shirt and black dress pants. But now his eyes are shining and full of promise… but there's a trace of sadness, too. He stands in front of me, staring intently but not touching me.

"Do you know what you mean to me?" he murmurs. "If something happened to you, because of me…" His voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes across his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable -- his fear very much apparent.

"Nothing's going to happen to me," I reassure him, my voice soothing. I reach up and stroke his face, running my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It's unexpectedly soft. "Your beard grows quickly," I whisper, unable to hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, fucked-up man who stands before me.

I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers down his throat, to the faint smudge of lipstick at the base of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his lips parted. I run my index finger along the line, and he closes his eyes. His soft breathing quickens. My fingers reach the edge of his shirt, and I run them down to the next fastened button.

"I'm not going to touch you. I just want to undo your shirt," I whisper.

His eyes open wide, regarding me with alarm. But he doesn't move, and he doesn't stop me. Very slowly I unfasten the button, holding the material away from his skin, and move tentatively down to the next button, repeating the process -- slowly, concentrating on what I am doing.

"Back on home territory." I trace the line with my fingers before undoing the final button. I pull his shirt open and move to his cuffs, removing his black polished stone cufflinks one at a time.

"I can't think why." I grab his hand, pull him from his study, and lead him to his bedroom. The room is chilly.

I don't want to touch him. Well, I do… but I won't. On the fourth button, the red line reappears, and I smile shyly up at him.

"Can I take your shirt off?" I ask, my voice low.

He nods, eyes still wide, as I reach up and pull his shirt over his shoulders. He frees his hands so he's standing in front of me naked from the waist up. With his shirt off, he seems to recover his equilibrium. He smirks down at me.

"Do you, now? Miss Steele, you are insatiable."

"What about my pants, Miss Steele?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"In the bedroom. I want you in your bed."

"No." I don't remember doing that. I recall scanning the room when I woke. The door was definitely closed.

"You opened the balcony door?" he asks, frowning down at me as we arrive in his room.

"My clothes are upstairs," I whimper.

"She's still fucking here," he hisses down the phone.

"What?" He looks horrified and dashes to the balcony door, peers out, then steps back into the room and locks the door behind him. "Are you sure? Who?" he asks his voice tight.

"A woman, I think. It was dark. I'd only just woken up."

He pulls open one of the drawers in his chest of drawers and fishes out a pair of sweatpants.

"Put these on." They are far too big, but he is not to be argued with.

Oh shit… All the blood rushes from my face, and I stare at Christian as my mouth falls open.

"Get dressed," he snarls at me on his way back in. "Now!"

He swipes a T-shirt, too, and quickly pulls it over his head. Grabbing the bedside phone, he presses two buttons.

"What?" he snaps, glaring at me.

Approximately three seconds later, Taylor and one of the other security guys burst into Christian's bedroom. Christian gives them a précis of what has happened.

"When I woke… there was someone in here," I whisper. "I thought it was my imagination."

"I'm not leading this problem to my parents. Book me somewhere."

"Tomorrow evening, sir."

"About ten minutes," I mutter, for some reason feeling guilty.

"Yes, sir. Will you be going to Bellevue?"

Christian disappears into his closet while the security guy watches me. I can't remember his name, Ryan maybe. He looks alternately down the hall and to the balcony windows. Christian emerges a couple of minutes later with a leather messenger bag, wearing jeans and his pinstriped blazer. He drapes a denim jacket around my shoulders.

"She's not to return until this place is secure. Understand?" Christian snaps.

"Yes. I'll call you."

"She knows the apartment like the back of her hand," says Christian. "I am taking Anastasia away now. She's hiding here somewhere. Find her. When is Gail back?"

Christian glowers at me. "She may have a gun," he growls.

"Christian, she was standing at the end of the bed. She could have shot me then if that's what she wanted to do."

"Aren't we all overreacting slightly?" I ask.

Christian pauses for a moment to rein in his temper, I think. In a menacingly soft voice he says, "I'm not prepared to take the risk. Taylor, Anastasia needs shoes."

"How long ago?" Taylor demands, staring at me all businesslike. He's still wearing his jacket. Does this man ever sleep?

"Yes." I am affronted. "I can shoot, Mr. Grey, so you'd better beware. It's not just crazy ex-subs you need to worry about."

"It's a big place. You haven't seen it all yet."

"Come." He clasps my hand tightly, and I have to practically run to keep up with his long strides into the great room.

"Why don't you just call her? tell her you want to talk to her?"

Christian raises his eyebrows and for a moment looks utterly bemused. "You, with a gun?" he says incredulously.

"I can't believe she could hide somewhere in here," I mutter, staring out the balcony doors.

"For now -- yes."

"Taylor knows and understands guns," he says with distaste. "He'll be quicker with a gun than she is."

"So we just run?"

"Ray was in the army. He taught me to shoot."

"Anastasia, she's unstable, and she may be armed," he says irritably.

"Supposing she tries to shoot Taylor?"

"I'll bear that in mind, Miss Steele," he answers dryly, amused, and it feels good to know that even in this ridiculously tense situation, I can make him smile.

Christian frowns at me and then looks questioningly at Taylor, who smiles very slightly and adjusts his tie.

Taylor reaches into his jacket, pulls out his wallet, and hands Christian a credit card.

"Yes, Miss Steele," he mutters, embarrassed.

"Let me know where I'm going." Christian says.

Ryan joins us. "Sawyer and Reynolds found nothing," he says to Taylor.

"Be careful," I murmur.

Christian nods. "Good thinking."

The garage is deserted. Well, it is nearly three in the morning. Christian ushers me into the passenger seat of the R8 and puts my case and his bag in the trunk at the front of the car. The Audi beside us is a complete mess -- every tire slashed, white paint splattered all over it. It's chilling and makes me grateful that Christian is taking me somewhere else.

"You might want to use this when you get there."

"Accompany Mr. Grey and Miss Steele to the garage," Taylor orders.

Taylor meets us in the foyer and hands me my small suitcase and my black Converse sneakers. I am stunned that he's packed me some clothes. I smile shyly at him with gratitude, and his returning smile is swift and reassuring. Before I can stop myself I hug him, hard. He's taken by surprise, and when I release him, he's pink in both cheeks.

Oh. "So, not so much a graduation present, then."

"A replacement will arrive on Monday," Christian says bleakly when he's seated beside me.

"Anastasia, despite what I hoped, you have never been my submissive, so technically it is a graduation present." He pulls out of the parking space and speeds to the exit.

He glances anxiously at me and sighs. "She had an Audi A3. I buy one for all my submissives -- it's one of the safest cars in its class."

Despite what he hoped. Oh no… My subconscious shakes her head sadly. This is what we come back to all the time.

Taylor pauses. "Yes, sir," he says quietly, and Christian hangs up.

"How could she have known it was my car?"

"Thank you, Taylor. And, Taylor, be careful."

The streets of Seattle are deserted, and Christian roars up Fifth Avenue toward I-5. Once on the interstate, he floors the gas pedal, heading north. He accelerates so quickly I'm momentarily thrown back in my seat.

"Are you still hoping?" I whisper.

The in-car phone buzzes. "Grey," Christian snaps.

"Fairmont Olympic. In my name."

I blink at him, pulling his denim jacket tighter around me, and I don't know if the chill is emanating from within me or from outside.

I gaze out of the window, trying to rationalize my exhausted, overactive mind. If she'd wanted to hurt me, she had ample opportunity in the bedroom.

I peek at him. He's deep in thought, radiating a deadly brooding silence. He hasn't answered my question. He glances frequently at the rearview mirror, and I realize he's checking that we're not being followed. Perhaps that's why we're on I-5. I thought the Fairmont was in Seattle.

"I worry that, you know… that I'm not enough."

"No. It's not what I hope for, not anymore. I thought that was obvious." Christian interrupts my introspection, his voice soft.

Tell me about yourself. Tell me you love me.

"You're more than enough. For the love of God, Anastasia, what do I have to do?"

He sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment, and for the longest time he doesn't answer. "You cannot begin to understand the depths of my depravity, Anastasia. And it's not something I want to share with you."

"Why did you think I'd leave when I told you Dr. Flynn had told me all there was to know about you?"

"You didn't go to see her when I left?"

"Christian… I think that's very unlikely. I can't imagine being without you." Ever…

"Elena said she saw you last Saturday," I whisper quietly.

"Contrary to what Elena thinks, I don't rush to her with all my problems, Anastasia. I don't rush to anybody. You may have noticed -- I'm not much of a talker." He tightens his hold on the steering wheel.

"Carrick told me you didn't talk for two years."

"I know you'll leave," he says sadly.

"No," he snaps, irritated. "I just told you I didn't -- and I don't like to be doubted," he scolds. "I didn't go anywhere last weekend. I sat and made the glider you gave me. Took me forever," he adds quietly.

My heart clenches again. Mrs. Robinson said she saw him. Did she or didn't she? She's lying. Why?

"Did he, now?" Christian's mouth presses into a hard line.

"You left me once -- I don't want to go there again."

"And you really think I'd leave if I knew?" My voice is high, incredulous. Doesn't he understand that I love him? "Do you think so little of me?"

"She didn't." He frowns.

His lips curl in a fond smile at the mention of her name. After a moment he says, "She was about six months old when she arrived. I was thrilled, Elliot less so. He'd already had to contend with my arrival. She was perfect." The sweet, sad awe in his voice is affecting. "Less so now, of course," he mutters, and I recall her successful attempts at the ball to thwart our lascivious intentions. It makes me giggle.

"He said your mom was the doctor who examined you when you were brought into the hospital. After you were discovered in your apartment."

"I kind of pumped him for information." Embarrassed, I stare at my fingers.

Christian's expression remains blank… careful.

"So what else did Daddy say?"

"He said learning the piano helped. And Mia."

"She seemed determined to keep us apart."

Christian gives me a sideways glance. "You find that amusing, Miss Steele?"

He laughs mirthlessly. "Yes, she's quite accomplished." He reaches across and squeezes my knee. "But we got there in the end." He smiles then glances in the rearview mirror once more. "I don't think we've been followed." He turns off I-5 and heads back to central Seattle.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asks.

He gazes at me warily. "If you must," he mutters sullenly, but I don't let his irritability deter me.

"Can I ask you something about Elena?" We are stopped at some traffic lights.

Oh. "Mia said you were a brawler."

"You told me ages ago that she loved you in a way you found acceptable. What did that mean?"

"I was out of control. I couldn't bear to be touched. I can't bear it now. For a fourteen, fifteen-year-old adolescent boy with hormones raging, it was a difficult time. She showed me a way to let off steam."

"Christ, what is it with my loquacious family? Actually -- it's you." We've stopped at more lights, and he narrows his eyes at me. "You inveigle information out of people." He shakes his head in mock disgust.

"Not to me."

"Mia volunteered that information. In fact, she was very forthcoming. She was worried you'd start a brawl in the tent if you didn't win me at the auction," I mutter indignantly.

"Oh, baby, there was no danger of that. There was no way I would let anyone else dance with you."

"Come." He climbs out of the car and retrieves our luggage. A valet rushes toward us, looking surprised -- no doubt at our late arrival. Christian tosses him the car keys.

"Name of Taylor," he says. The valet nods and can't contain his glee as he leaps into the R8 and drives off. Christian takes my hand and strides into the lobby.

"He's always the exception to the rule."

"You let Dr. Flynn."

As I stand beside him at the reception desk, I feel utterly ridiculous. Here I am, in Seattle's most prestigious hotel, dressed in an oversized denim jacket, oversized sweatpants, and an old T-shirt next to this elegant Greek god. No wonder the receptionist is looking from one to the other as if the equation doesn't add up. Of course, she's overawed by Christian. I roll my eyes as she flushes crimson and stutters. Even her hands are shaking.

"Do… you need a hand… with your bags, Mr. Taylor?" she asks, going scarlet again.

Christian pulls into the impressive, leafy driveway of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel and parks near the front door, beside a quaint stone fountain.

"No, Mrs. Taylor and I can manage."

Mrs. Taylor! But I'm not wearing a ring. I put my hands behind my back.

"You're in the Cascade Suite, Mr. Taylor, eleventh floor. Our bellboy will help with your bags."

The suite has two bedrooms, a formal dining room, and comes complete with grand piano. A log fire blazes in the massive main room. This suite is bigger than my apartment.

"We're fine," Christian says curtly. "Where are the elevators?"

Miss Flushing Crimson explains, and Christian grasps my hand once more. I glance briefly around the impressive, sumptuous lobby full of overstuffed chairs, deserted save for a dark-haired woman sitting on a cozy sofa, feeding tidbits to her Westie. She glances up and smiles at us as we make our way to the elevators. So, the hotel allows pets? Odd for a place so grand!

"Well, Mrs. Taylor, I don't know about you, but I'd really like a drink," Christian mutters, locking the front door securely.

In the bedroom, he puts my case and his satchel on the ottoman at the foot of the king-sized four-poster bed and leads me into the main room where the fire is burning brightly. It's a welcome sight. I stand and warm my hands while Christian fixes us both a drink.

"It's been quite a day, huh?"

"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."

"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."

"I'm okay," I whisper reassuringly. "How about you?"

"Please."

"Armagnac?"

I nod and his gaze is searching, concerned.

After a moment, he joins me by the fire and hands me a crystal brandy glass.

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.

"Mrs. Taylor, stop biting your lip," he whispers.

"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.

"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 cock my head to one side and narrow my eyes.

He raises an eyebrow. "Really, Anastasia, I don't think you should make promises you can't fulfill."

"That depends." His lips twitch. This is obviously a much more palatable topic of conversation for him.

"Where are you going to hang José's portraits of me?" I try to lighten the mood.

"On what?"

"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.

"You can look as sternly as you like, Mrs. Taylor. I'm saying nothing," he teases.

"Circumstances," he says mysteriously. "His show's not over yet, so I don't have to decide straightaway."

Let him beat you, my subconscious sneers. I scowl inwardly at her.

"I may torture the truth from 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?

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.

"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 over his head. 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 that you have me in here, Anastasia, what are you going to do with me?" he teases, his voice low.

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.

"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.

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 I am naked before him. His eyes don't leave mine, but he swallows and his lips part.

His lips part as he inhales sharply. "I'm not stopping you," he breathes.

"I want to kiss you here." I run my finger from hipbone to hipbone across his belly.

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.

"Now what?" he whispers, eyes blazing.

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.

"You are Aphrodite, Anastasia," he murmurs.

I clasp his face in my hands, tip his head up, and bend to kiss him. He groans low in his throat.

As I place my mouth on his, he grabs my hips, and before I know it, I am pinned beneath him, his legs forcing mine apart so that he's cradled against my body between my legs. He's kissing me, ravaging my mouth, our tongues entwined. His hand trails from my thigh, over my hip, along my belly to my breast, squeezing, kneading, and pulling enticingly on my nipple.

I close my eyes and moan, and he does it again, but this time I push back, relishing his answering moan as he kisses me again. He continues the slow delicious torture -- rubbing me, rubbing him. And he's right -- getting lost in him -- it's intoxicating to the exclusion of everything else. All my worries are obliterated. I am here in this moment with him -- my blood singing in my veins, thrumming loudly through my ears, mixed with the sound of our panting breaths. I bury my hands in his hair, holding him to my mouth, consuming him, my tongue as avaricious as his. I trail my fingers down his arms, down his lower back to the waistband of his jeans, and push my intrepid, greedy hands inside, urging him on and on -- forgetting everything, except us.

I groan and tilt my pelvis involuntarily against him, finding a delicious friction against the seam of his fly and his growing erection. He stops kissing me and gazes down at me bemused and breathless. He flexes his hips so his erection pushes against me.… Yes. Right there.

"You want me, baby, and I sure as hell want you. You know what to do."

"You're going to unman me, Ana," he whispers suddenly, breaking away from me and kneeling up. He briskly pulls down his jeans and hands me a foil packet.

With anxious, dexterous fingers, I rip open the foil and unroll the condom over him. He grins down at me, his mouth open, eyes misty gray and full of carnal promise. Leaning over me, he rubs his nose against mine, his eyes closed, and deliciously, slowly, he enters me.

"You make me forget everything. You are the best therapy," he breathes, moving at an achingly leisurely pace, savoring every inch of me.

I grasp his arms and tilt my chin up, reveling in the exquisitely full feeling of his possession. He runs his teeth along my chin, eases back, and then slides into me again -- so slow, so sweet, so tender -- his body pressing down on me, his elbows and his hands on either side of my face.

"Oh no, baby. I need this slow." He kisses me sweetly, gently biting my lower lip and absorbing my soft moans.

"Please, Christian -- faster," I murmur, wanting more, now.

"I'm not going anywhere, Christian, and I seem to remember that I wanted to kiss your belly," I grumble sleepily.

I move my hands into his hair and surrender myself to his rhythm as slowly and surely my body climbs higher and higher and plateaus, then falls hard and fast as I come around him.

He grins against my skin. "Nothing stopping you now baby."

He's come a long way, as have I, in such a short time. It's almost too much to absorb. With all the fucked-up stuff, I am losing sight of his simple, honest journey with me.

His head rests on my belly, his arms wrapped around me. My fingers forage in his unruly hair, and we lie like this for I don't know how long. It's so late and I am so tired, but I just want to enjoy the quiet serene afterglow of making love with Christian Grey, because that's what we've done: gentle, sweet lovemaking.

"Oh, Ana," he breathes as he lets go, my name a benediction on his lips as he finds his release.

"I will never get enough of you. Don't leave me," he murmurs and kisses my belly.

"Hi," Christian murmurs, smiling fondly. He's lying beside me, fully dressed, on top of the bed. How long has he been here? Has he been studying me? Suddenly, I feel incredibly shy as my face heats under his steady gaze.

"I don't think I can move… I'm so tired."

Christian sighs and shifts reluctantly, coming to lie beside me with his head on his elbow and dragging the covers over us. He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing, warm, loving.

When I open my eyes, light is filling the room, making me blink. My head is fuzzy from lack of sleep. Where am I? Oh -- the hotel…

"Sleep now, baby." He kisses my hair and wraps his arm around me and I drift.

"I could watch you sleep for hours, Anastasia. But I've only been here about five minutes." He leans over and kisses me gently. "Dr. Greene will be here shortly."

"Oh." I'd forgotten about Christian's inappropriate intervention.

"Did you sleep well?" he inquires mildly. "Certainly seemed like it to me, with all that snoring."

"Hi," I murmur, grateful that I am lying on my front. "How long have you been watching me?"

"What time is it?"

"Did you shower?"

"No. You don't." He grins at me. The faint line of red lipstick is still visible around his neck.

"You told me you didn't have a heart at all."

"I do not snore!" I pout petulantly.

As I stretch, I'm aware I ache all over… no doubt a result of all the sex, dancing, and teetering in expensive high-heeled shoes. I stagger out of bed and make my way into the sumptuously appointed bathroom while going over the events of the previous day in my mind. When I come out, I don one of the overly fluffy bathrobes that hang on a brass peg in the bathroom.

Leila -- the girl who looks like me -- that's the most startling image my brain conjures for conjecture, that and her eerie presence in Christian's bedroom. What did she want? Me? Christian? To do what? And why the fuck has she wrecked my car?

"No. Waiting for you."

He smiles sadly, but doesn't answer. "Breakfast is here -- pancakes and bacon for you. Come, get up, I'm getting lonely out here." He swats me sharply on my behind, making me jump, and rises from the bed.

"Ten fifteen. I didn't have the heart to wake you earlier."

Hmm… Christian's version of warm affection.

Oh, playful teasing Fifty.

"Oh… okay."

Christian said I would have another Audi, like all his submissives. The thought is unwelcome. Since I was so generous with the money he gave me, there's not a lot I can do.

"And why is that? You going to lock me in the bedroom?" My inner goddess jerks awake suddenly, all disheveled with a just-fucked look.

I wander into the main room of the suite -- no sign of Christian. I finally locate him in the dining room. I take a seat, grateful for the impressive breakfast laid before me. Christian is reading the Sunday papers and drinking coffee, his breakfast finished. He smiles at me.

"Eat up. You're going to need your strength today," he teases.

Christian's face falls, and his mouth presses in a line. "Where we're going, it is. And it's not a joking matter," he adds sternly, narrowing his eyes.

"Appealing as that idea is, I thought we'd go out today. Get some fresh air."

"Is it safe?" I ask innocently, trying and failing to keep the irony from my voice.

I flush and stare down at my breakfast. I don't feel like being scolded after all the drama and such a late night. I eat my breakfast in silence, feeling petulant.

There's a knock at the door.

We're in the bedroom, and Dr. Greene is staring at me openmouthed. She's dressed more casually than last time, in a pale pink cashmere twin set and black pants, and her fine blonde hair is loose.

Okay, I'm tired and testy. I had a long day yesterday and not enough sleep. Why, oh why does he get to look as fresh as a daisy? Life is not fair.

Can't we just have a calm, normal morning? I sigh heavily, leaving half my breakfast, and get up to greet Dr. Depo-Provera.

"And you just stopped taking it? Just like that?"

What! The world falls away at my feet. My subconscious collapses on the floor retching, and I think I'm going to be sick, too. No!

"You could be pregnant," she says matter-of-factly.

I flush, feeling beyond foolish.

"Yes." Could my voice be any smaller?

My subconscious is shaking her head at me. Fifty doesn't joke about my safety -- I should know this by now. I want to roll my eyes at him, but I refrain.

"That'll be the good doctor," Christian grumbles, obviously still smarting from my irony. He stalks from the table.

I hand Dr. Greene my sample, and she carefully places a small white stick in it.

"You should be okay," she says sharply. "I can tell by your expression that an unplanned pregnancy would not be welcome news. So medroxyprogesterone is a good idea if you can't remember to take the pill every day." She gives me a stern look, and I quail under her authoritative glare. Picking up the white stick, she peers at it.

How am I supposed to think about such minutiae when all I can do is stare anxiously at the white stick?

She purses her lips.

"When did your period start?"

"You're in the clear. You've not ovulated yet, so provided you've been taking proper precautions, you shouldn't be pregnant. Now, let me counsel you about this shot. We discounted it last time because of the side effects, but quite frankly, the side effects of a child are far-reaching and go on for years." She smiles, pleased with herself and her little joke, but I can't begin to respond -- I'm too stunned.

"Er… Wednesday? Not the one just gone, the one before that. June first."

Meekly I accept the small plastic container she's offered and wander in a daze into the bathroom. No. No. No. No way… No way… Please no. No.

No, please! I whisper a silent prayer.

"And when did you stop taking the pill?"

What will Fifty do? I go pale. He'll freak.

"Sunday. Last Sunday."

"Here, go pee in this." She's all business today -- taking no prisoners.

"Yes."

Christian closes the door behind her and gazes at me warily. "Everything okay?" he asks.

"Seven days?"

"Ana, what's wrong?"

"Anastasia, what is it? What did Dr. Greene say?"

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frowning at me. "Let's shower," he says eventually.

I shake my head. "You're good to go in seven days," I mutter.

I nod mutely, and he tilts his head to one side, his face tense with concern.

I swallow. "It's nothing to worry about. Please, Christian, just leave it."

"Ana!" Dr. Greene snaps. "Let's do this thing." She pulls me out of my reverie, and I willingly roll up my sleeve.

Christian looms in front of me. He grasps my chin, tipping my head back, and stares into my eyes, trying to decipher my panic.

"There's nothing to tell. I'd like to get dressed." I pull my chin out of his reach.

"Tell me," he snaps.

Dr. Greene launches into full disclosure mode about side effects, and I sit paralyzed with relief, not listening to a word. I think I'd tolerate any number of strange women standing at the end of my bed rather than confess to Christian that I might be pregnant.

"Come," he says sulkily, clasping my hand firmly. He stalks toward the bathroom as I trail behind him. I am not the only one in a bad mood, it seems. Firing up the shower, Christian quickly strips before turning to me.

He blows out a deep breath. "Good. Yes, I can see that news like that would be very upsetting."

"Of course," I mutter, distracted, and his mouth twists.

He visibly relaxes. "You're sure you're not?"

"Yes."

"I don't know what's upset you, or if you're just bad-tempered through lack of sleep," he says while unfastening my robe. "But I want you to tell me. My imagination is running away with me, and I don't like it."

I frown.… upsetting? "I was more worried about your reaction."

I roll my eyes at him, and he glares at me, narrowing his eyes. Shit! Okay… here goes.

"But I'm not. She did a test. It was a shock, that's all. I can't believe I was that stupid."

"Dr. Greene scolded me about missing the pill. She said I could be pregnant."

"What?" He pales, and his hands freeze as he gazes at me, suddenly ashen.

"Then maybe we should abstain," I hiss.

He furrows his brow at me, puzzled. "My reaction? Well, naturally I'm relieved… it would be the height of carelessness and bad manners to knock you up."

He gazes at me for a moment, bewildered, as if I'm some kind of science experiment. "You are in a bad temper this morning."

Clasping the lapels of my robe, he pulls me into a warm embrace, kisses my hair, and presses my head against his chest. I'm distracted by his chest hair as it tickles my cheek. Oh, if I could just nuzzle him!

"It was just a shock, that's all," I repeat petulantly.

"Ana, I'm not used to this," he murmurs. "My natural inclination is to beat it out of you, but I seriously doubt you want that."

Holy shit. "No, I don't. This helps." I hug Christian tighter, and we stand for an age in a strange embrace, Christian naked and I wrapped in a robe. I am once again floored by his honesty. He knows nothing about relationships, and neither do I, except what I've learned from him. Well, he's asked for faith and patience; maybe I should do the same.

Stepping back, he peels me out of my robe, and I follow him into the cascading water, holding my face up to the torrent. There's room for both of us under the gargantuan showerhead. Christian reaches for the shampoo and starts washing his hair. He hands it to me and I follow suit.

"Come, let's shower," Christian says eventually, releasing me.

Oh, this feels good. Closing my eyes, I succumb to the cleansing, warming water. As I rinse off the shampoo, I feel his hands on me, soaping my body: my shoulders, my arms, under my arms, my breasts, my back. Gently he turns me around and pulls me against him as he continues down my body: my stomach, my belly, his skilled fingers between my legs -- hmm -- my behind. Oh, that feels good and so intimate. He turns me around to face him again.

"Here," he says quietly, handing me the body wash. "I want you to wash off the remains of the lipstick."

My eyes open in a flurry and dart quickly to his. He's staring at me intently, soaking wet and beautiful, his glorious, bright gray eyes giving nothing away.

"Don't stray far from the line, please," he mutters tightly.

"Okay," I murmur, trying to absorb the enormity of what he's just asked me to do -- to touch him on the edge of the forbidden zone.

I squeeze a small amount of soap on my hand, rub my hands together to create lather, then place them on his shoulders and gently wash away the line of lipstick on each side. He stills and closes his eyes, his face impassive, but he's breathing rapidly, and I know it's not lust but fear. It cuts me to the quick.

"Ready?" I murmur and the tension is loud and clear in my voice.

With trembling fingers, I carefully follow the line down the side of his chest, soaping and rubbing softly; he swallows, with his jaw tense as if his teeth are clenched. Oh! My heart constricts and my throat tightens. Oh no, I'm going to cry.

I stop to add more soap to my hand and feel him relax in front of me. I can't look up at him. I can't bear to see his pain -- it's too much. It's my turn to swallow.

"Yes," he whispers, his voice husky, laced with fear.

Tears pool in my eyes and spill down my face, lost in the water from the shower. Oh, Christian! Who did this to you?

It's too much. I am overwhelmed by his trust in me -- overwhelmed by his fear, by the damage done to this beautiful, fallen, flawed man.

Gently, I place my hands on either side of his chest, and he freezes again.

His diaphragm moves rapidly with each shallow breath, his body is rigid, tension radiating off him in waves as my hands move along the line, erasing it. Oh, if I could just erase his pain, I would -- I'd do anything -- and I want nothing more than to kiss every single scar I see, to kiss away those hideous years of neglect. But I know I can't, and my tears fall unbidden down my cheeks.

"No. Please, don't cry," he murmurs, his voice anguished as he wraps me tightly in his arms. "Please don't cry for me." And I burst into full-blown sobs, burying my face against his neck, as I think of a little boy lost in a sea of fear and pain, frightened, neglected, abused -- hurt beyond all endurance.

"Don't cry, Ana, please," he murmurs against my mouth. "It was long ago. I am aching for you to touch me, but I just can't bear it. It's too much. Please, please don't cry."

Pulling away, he clasps my head with both hands, tilts it backward, and leans down to kiss me.

"I want to touch you, too. More than you'll ever know. To see you like this… so hurt and afraid, Christian… it wounds me deeply. I love you so much."

"You're very easy to love. Don't you see that?"

"Stop." He puts his finger over my lips and shakes his head, an agonized expression on his face. "I can't hear this. I'm nothing, Anastasia. I'm a husk of a man. I don't have a heart."

"No, baby, I don't."

He runs his thumb across my bottom lip. "I know. I know," he whispers.

"You are. And I do and so does your family. So do Elena and Leila -- they have a strange way of showing it -- but they do. You are worthy."

"Yes, you do. And I want it, all of it. You're a good man, Christian, a really good man. Don't ever doubt that. Look at what you've done… what you've achieved," I sob. "Look what you've done for me… what you've turned your back on, for me," I whisper. "I know. I know how you feel about me."

His eyes widen further and his mouth opens. He takes a huge breath, as if winded. He looks tortured -- vulnerable.

"You love me," I whisper.

"Yes," he whispers. "I do."

He gazes down at me, his eyes wide and panicked, and all we can hear is the steady stream of water as it flows over us in the shower.