fifty shades darker (26 page)

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.

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.

There’s a knock at the door.

“That’ll be the good doctor,” Christian grumbles, obviously still smarting from my irony. He stalks from the table.

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

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

“And you just stopped taking it? Just like that?”

I flush, feeling beyond foolish.

“Yes.” Could my voice be any smaller?

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

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!

“Here, go pee in this.” She’s all business today—taking no prisoners.

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.

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

No, please!
I whisper a silent prayer.

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

“When did your period start?”

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

“Er . . . Wednesday? Not the one just gone, the one before that. June first.”

“And when did you stop taking the pill?”

“Sunday. Last Sunday.”

She purses her lips.

“You should be okay,” she says sharply. “I can tell by your expression that an un-planned 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.

“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 dis-counted 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.

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.

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

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

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

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

I shake my head. “You’re good to go in seven days,” I mutter.

“Seven days?”

“Yes.”

“Ana, what’s wrong?”

I swallow. “It’s nothing to worry about. Please, Christian, just leave it.”

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

“Tell me,” he snaps insistently.

“There’s nothing to tell. I’d like to get dressed.” I pull my chin out of his reach.

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

“Of course,” I mutter, distracted, and his mouth twists.

“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.

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

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

He visibly relaxes. “You’re sure you’re not?”

“Yes.”

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

I frown.
. . . upsetting?
“I was more worried about your reaction.”

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.”

“Then maybe we should abstain,” I snap.

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.”

“It was just a shock, that’s all,” I repeat petulantly.

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!

“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 me 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.

“Come, let’s shower,” Christian says eventually, releasing me.

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 show-erhead. Christian reaches for the shampoo and starts washing his hair. He hands it to me and I follow suit.

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 a 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.

With trembling fingers, I carefully follow the line down the side of his chest, soaping and rubbing softly, and he swallows, 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. I swallow.

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

“Yes,” he whispers, his voice husky, laced with fear.

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

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.

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

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 your 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.

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

“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.”

“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.”

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

“You’re very easy to love. Don’t you see that?”

“No, baby, I don’t.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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.

“You love me,” I whisper.

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

“Yes,” he whispers. “I do.”

I cannot contain my jubilation. My subconscious gapes at me open-mouthed—in stunned silence—and I wear a face-splitting grin as I gaze longingly up into Christian’s wide, tortured eyes.

His soft sweet confession calls to me on some deep elemental level as if he’s seeking absolution; his three small words are my manna from heaven. Tears prick my eyes once more.
Yes, you do. I know you do.

It’s such a liberating realization as if a crushing millstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, fucked-up man, whom I once thought of as my romantic hero—strong, solitary, mysterious—possesses all these traits, but he’s also fragile and alienated and full of self-loathing. My heart swells with joy but also pain for his suffering. And I know in this moment that my heart is big enough for both of us. I hope it’s big enough for both of us.

I reach up to clasp his dear, dear, handsome face and kiss him gently, pouring all the love I feel into this one sweet connection. I want to devour him beneath the hot cascading water. Christian groans and encircles me in his arms, holding me as if I am the air he needs to breathe.

“Oh, Ana,” he whispers hoarsely, “I want you, but not here.”

“Yes,” I murmur fervently into his mouth.

He switches off the shower and takes my hand, leading me out and enfolding me in my bathrobe. Grabbing a towel, he wraps it around his waist, then takes a smaller one and begins to gently dry my hair. When he’s satisfied, he swathes the towel around my head so that in the large mirror over the sink I look like I’m wearing a veil. He’s standing behind me and our eyes meet in the mirror, smoldering gray to bright blue, and it gives me an idea.

“Can I reciprocate?” I ask.

He nods, though his brow creases. I reach for another towel from the plethora of fluffy towels stacked beside the vanity, and standing before him on tiptoe, I start to dry his hair.

He bends forward, making the process easier, and as I catch the occasional glimpse of his face beneath the towel, I see he’s grinning at me like a small boy.

“It’s a long time since anyone did this to me. A very long time,” he murmurs, but then frowns. “In fact I don’t think anyone’s ever dried my hair.”

“Surely Grace did? Dried your hair when you were young?”

He shakes his head, hampering my progress.

“No. She respected my boundaries from day one, even though it was painful for her. I was very self-sufficient as a child,” he says quietly.

I feel a swift kick in the ribs as I think of a small copper-haired child looking after himself because no one else cares. The thought is sickeningly sad. But I don’t want my melancholy to hijack this blossoming intimacy.

“Well, I’m honored,” I gently tease him.

“That you are, Miss Steele. Or maybe it is I who am honored.”

“That goes without saying, Mr. Grey,” I respond tartly.

I finish with his hair, reach for another small towel, and move round to stand behind him. Our eyes meet again in the mirror, and his watchful, questioning look prompts me to speak.

“Can I try something?”

After a moment, he nods. Warily, and very gently, I run the soft cloth down his left arm, soaking up the water that has beaded on his skin. Glancing up, I check his expression in the mirror. He blinks at me, his eyes burning into mine.

I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips part infinitesimally. I dry his other arm in a similar fashion, trailing kisses around his bicep, and a small smile plays on his lips.

Carefully, I wipe his back beneath the faint lipstick line, which is still visible. I hadn’t gotten round to washing his back.

“Whole back,” he says quietly, “with the towel.” He takes a sharp breath and screws his eyes closed as I briskly dry him, careful to touch him only with the towel.

He has such an attractive back—broad, sculptured shoulders, all the small muscles clearly defined. He really looks after himself. The beautiful sight is marred only by his scars.

With difficulty, I ignore them and suppress my overwhelming urge to kiss each and every one. When I finish he exhales, and I lean forward and reward him with a kiss on his shoulder. Putting my arms around him, I dry his stomach. Our eyes meet once more in the mirror, his expression amused but wary, too.

“Hold this.” I hand him a smaller face towel, and he gives me a bemused frown. “Remember in Georgia? You made me touch myself using your hands,” I add.

His face darkens, but I ignore his reaction and put my arms around him. Gazing at us both in the mirror—his beauty, his nakedness, and me with my covered hair—we look almost Biblical, as if from an Old Testament baroque painting.

I reach for his hand, which he willingly entrusts to me, and guide it up to his chest to dry it, sweeping the towel slowly, awkwardly across his body. Once, twice—then again.

He’s completely immobilized, rigid with tension, except for his eyes, which follow my hand clasped around his.

My subconscious looks on with approval, her normally pursed mouth smiling, and I am the supreme puppet master. His anxiety ripples off his back in waves, but he maintains eye contact, though his eyes are darker, more deadly. Showing their secrets maybe.

Is this a place I want to go? Do I want to confront his demons?

“I think you’re dry now,” I whisper as I drop my hand, gazing into the gray depths of his eyes in the mirror. His breathing is accelerated, lips parted.

“I need you, Anastasia,” he whispers.

“I need you, too.” And as I say the words, I am struck how true they are. I cannot imagine being without Christian, ever.

“Let me love you,” he says hoarsely.

“Yes,” I answer, and turning, he hauls me into his arms, his lips seeking mine, beseeching me, worshipping me, cherishing me . . . loving me.

He trails his fingers up and down my spine as we gaze at each other, basking in our postcoital bliss, replete. We lie together, me on my front hugging my pillow, he on his side, and I am treasuring his tender touch. I know that right now he needs to touch me. I am a balm for him, a source of solace, and how could I deny him that? I feel exactly the same about him.

“So you can be gentle,” I murmur.

“Hmm . . . so it would seem, Miss Steele.”

I grin. “You weren’t particularly the first time we . . . um, did this.”

“No?” He smirks. “When, I robbed you of your virtue.”

“I don’t think you robbed me,” I mutter haughtily—
Jeez, I’m not a helpless maiden.

“I think my virtue was offered up pretty freely and willingly. I wanted you, too, and if I remember correctly, I rather enjoyed myself.” I smile shyly at him, biting my lip.

“So did I if I recall, Miss Steele. We aim to please,” he drawls and his face softens, serious. “And it means you’re mine, completely.” All trace of humor has vanished as he gazes at me.

“Yes, I am,” I murmur back at him. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Your biological father . . . do you know who he was?” This thought has been bugging me. His brow creases, and then he shakes his head. “I have no idea. Wasn’t the savage who was her pimp, which is good.”

“How do you know?”

“Something my dad . . . something Carrick said to me.”

I gaze at my Fifty expectantly, waiting. He smirks at me.

“So hungry for information, Anastasia,” he sighs, shaking his head. “The pimp discovered the crack whore’s body and phoned it in to the authorities. Took him four days to make the discovery though. He shut the door when he left . . . left me with her . . . her body.” His eyes cloud at the memory.

I inhale sharply. Poor baby boy—the horror is too grim to contemplate.

“Police interviewed him later. He denied flat out I was anything to do with him, and Carrick said he looked nothing like me.”

“Do you remember what he did look like?”

“Anastasia, this isn’t a part of my life I revisit very often. Yes, I remember what he looked like. I’ll never forget him.” Christian’s face darkens and hardens, becoming more angular, his eyes frosting with anger. “Can we talk about something else?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He shakes his head. “It’s old news, Ana. Not something I want to think about.”

“So what’s this surprise, then?” I need to change the subject before he goes all Fifty on me. His expression lightens immediately.

“Can you face going out for some fresh air? I want to show you something.”

“Of 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,”