fifty shades darker (32 page)

Damn.

He stands, and his mouth twists in a triumphant I-so-own-you-Steele smile. Putting down his cue, he saunters casually toward me, all tousled hair, jeans, and white T-shirt. He doesn’t look like a CEO—he looks like a bad boy from the wrong side of town. Holy cow, he’s so fucking sexy.

“You’re not going to be a sore loser, are you?” he murmurs, barely containing his grin.

“Depends how hard you spank me,” I whisper, holding on to my cue for support. He takes my cue and puts it to one side, hooks his finger into the top of my shirt, and pulls me toward him.

“Well, let’s count your misdemeanors, Miss Steele.” He counts on his long fingers.

“One, making me jealous of my own staff. Two, arguing with me about working. And three, waving your delectable derriere at me for the last twenty minutes.”

His eyes glow a soft gray with excitement, and leaning down, he rubs his nose against mine. “I want you to take your jeans and this very fetching shirt off. Now.” He plants a feather-soft kiss on my lips, wanders nonchalantly over to the door, and locks it.

Oh my.

When he turns and gazes at me, his eyes are burning. I stand paralyzed like a complete zombie, my heart pounding, my blood pumping, not actually able to move a muscle. In my mind, all I can think is—
this is for him
—the thought repeating like a mantra over and over again.

“Clothes, Anastasia. You appear to still be wearing them. Take them off—or I will do it for you.”

“You do it.” I finally find my voice, and it sounds low and heated. Christian grins.

“Oh, Miss Steele. It’s a dirty job, but I think I can rise to the challenge.”

“You normally rise to most challenges, Mr. Grey.” I raise an eyebrow at him, and he smirks.

“Why, Miss Steele, whatever do you mean?” On his way over to me, he pauses at the small desk built into one of the bookshelves. Reaching over, he picks up a twelve-inch Perspex ruler. He holds each end and flexes it, his eyes not leaving mine.

Holy shit—his weapon of choice.
My mouth goes dry.

Suddenly, I’m hot and bothered and damp in all the right places. Only Christian could turn me on with just a look and the flex of a ruler. He slips it into the back pocket of his jeans and ambles toward me, eyes dark and full of promise. Without saying a word, he drops to his knees in front of me and starts to undo my laces, quickly and efficiently, dragging both my Converse and socks off. I lean on the side of the billiard table so I don’t fall.

Gazing down at him as he undoes my laces, I marvel at the depth of feeling that I have for this beautiful flawed man. I love him.

He grabs my hips, slips his fingers into the waistband of my jeans, and undoes the button and zipper. He peers up through his long lashes, grinning his most salacious grin as he slowly peels my jeans off. I step out of them, glad that I’m wearing these pretty, pretty panties, and he grasps the back of my legs and runs his nose along the apex of my thighs.

I practically melt.

“I want to be quite rough with you, Ana. You’ll have to tell me to stop if it’s too much,”

he breathes.

Oh my.
He kisses me . . . there. I moan softly.

“Safe word?” I murmur.

“No, no safe word, just tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. Understand?” He kisses me again, nuzzling me.
Oh, that feels good.
He stands, his stare intense. “Answer me,” he orders his voice velvet soft.

“Yes, yes, I understand.” I’m puzzled by his insistence.

“You’ve been dropping hints and giving me mixed signals all day, Anastasia,” he says.

“You said you were worried I’d lost my edge. I’m not sure what you meant by that, and I don’t know how serious you were, but we are going to find out. I don’t want to go back into the playroom yet, so we can try this now, but if you don’t like it, you must promise to tell me.” A burning intensity born of his anxiety replaces his earlier cockiness.

Whoa, please don’t be anxious, Christian.
“I’ll tell you. No safe word,” I reiterate to reassure him.

“We’re lovers, Anastasia. Lovers don’t need safe words.” He frowns. “Do they?”

“I guess not,” I murmur.
Jeez—how do I know?
“I promise.”

He searches my face for any clue that I might lack the courage of my convictions, and I’m nervous but excited, too. I’m much happier to do this, knowing that he loves me. It’s very simple to me, and right now, I don’t want to overthink it.

A slow smile stretches across his face, and he starts to unbutton my shirt, his deft fingers making short work of it, though he doesn’t take it off. He leans over and picks up the cue.
Oh fuck, what’s he going to do with that?
A frisson of fear runs through me.

“You play well, Miss Steele. I must say I’m surprised. Why don’t you sink the black?”

My fear forgotten, I pout, wondering why the hell he should be surprised—sexy, arrogant bastard. My inner goddess is limbering up in the background, doing her floor exercises—a great fat smile on her face.

I position the white ball. Christian strolls back around the table and stands right behind me as I lean over to take my shot. He places his hand on my right thigh and runs his fingers up and down my leg, up to my behind and back again, lightly stroking me.

“I am going to miss if you keep doing that,” I whisper, closing my eyes and relishing the feel of his hands on me.

“I don’t care if you hit or miss, baby. I just wanted to see you like this—partially dressed, stretched out on my billiard table. Do you have any idea how hot you look at the moment?”

I flush, and my inner goddess grabs a rose between her teeth and starts to tango. Taking a deep breath, I try to ignore him and line up my shot. It’s impossible. He caresses my behind, over and over again.

“Top left,” I murmur, then hit the white ball. He smacks me hard, squarely on my backside.

It’s so unexpected, I yelp. The white hits the black, which bounces off the cushion wide of the pocket. Christian caresses my behind again.

“Oh, I think you need to try that again,” he whispers. “You should concentrate, Anastasia.”

I am panting now, excited by this game. He strolls to the end of the table, sets up the black ball again, then runs the white ball back down to me. He looks so carnal, dark eyed with a lascivious smile. How could I ever resist this man? I catch the ball and line it up, ready to strike again.

“Uh-uh,” he admonishes. “Just wait.” Oh, he just loves prolonging the agony. He wanders back and stands behind me again. I close my eyes once more as he strokes my left thigh this time then fondles my backside again.

“Take aim,” he breathes.

I can’t help my moan as desire twists and turns inside me. And I try, really try, to think about where I should hit the black with the white. I shift slightly to my right, and he follows me. I bend over the table once more. Using every last vestige of inner strength—which has diminished considerably since I know what will happen once I strike the white ball—I take aim and hit the white again. Christian smacks me once more, hard.

Ow!
I miss again. “Oh no!
”
I groan.

“Once more, baby. And if you miss this time, I’m really going to let you have it.”

What? Have what?

He sets up the black ball once more and walks, achingly slow, back to me until he’s standing behind me, caressing my backside once more.

“You can do it,” he coaxes.

Oh—not when you’re distracting me like this.
I push my behind back against his hand, and he smacks me lightly.

“Eager, Miss Steele?” he murmurs.

Yes. I want you.

“Well, let’s get rid of these.” He gently slides my panties down my thighs and off. I can’t see what he does with them, but he leaves me feeling exposed as he plants a soft kiss on each cheek.

“Take the shot, baby.”

I want to whimper, this is so not going to happen. I know I am going to miss. I line up the white, hit it, and in my impatience, miss the black completely. I wait for the blow—but it doesn’t come. Instead he leans right over me, flattening me against the table, takes the cue out of my hand and rolls it to the side cushion. I can feel him, hard, against my backside.

“You missed,” he says softly in my ear. My cheek is pressed against the baize. “Put your hands flat on the table.”

I do as he says.

“Good. I’m going to spank you now and next time, maybe you won’t.” He shifts so he’s standing to my left side, his erection against my hip.

I groan and my heart leaps into my mouth. My breath comes in short pants and a hot, heavy excitement courses through my veins. Gently, he caresses my behind and curls his other hand around the nape of my neck, his fingers fisting in my hair, his elbow at my back, holding me down. I am completely helpless.

“Open your legs,” he murmurs and for a moment, I hesitate. And he smacks me hard—

with the ruler! The noise is harsher than the sting, and it takes me by surprise. I gasp, and he hits me again.

“Legs,” he orders. I open my legs, panting. The ruler strikes again. Ow—it stings, but its crack across my skin sounds worse than it feels.

I close my eyes and absorb the pain. It’s not too bad, and Christian’s breathing becomes harsher. He hits me again and again, and I moan. I am not sure how many more strokes I can bear—but hearing him, knowing how turned on he is, feeds my arousal and my willingness to continue. I am crossing to the dark side, a place in my psyche I don’t know well but have visited before in the playroom—with the Tallis. The ruler strikes once more, and I moan loudly, and Christian groans in response. He hits me again—and again . . . and once more . . . harder this time—and I wince.

“Stop.” The word is out of my mouth before I’m even aware that I’ve said it. Christian drops the ruler immediately and releases me.

“Enough?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“I want to fuck you now,” he says, his voice strained.

“Yes,” I murmur with longing. He undoes his fly, as I lie panting on the table, knowing that he’s going to be rough.

I marvel once more at how I have managed—and yes, enjoyed— what he’s done to me up to this point. It’s so dark but so him.

He eases two fingers inside me and moves them in a circular motion. The feeling is exquisite. Closing my eyes, I revel in the sensation. I hear the telltale rip of foil, then he’s standing behind me, between my legs, pushing them wider.

Slowly he sinks into me, filling me. I hear his groan of pure pleasure, and it stirs my soul. He grasps my hips firmly, eases out of me again, and this time slams back into me, causing me to cry out. He stills for a moment.

“Again?” he asks softly.

“Yes . . . I’m fine. Lose yourself . . . take me with you,” I murmur breathlessly.

He moans low in his throat, eases out of me once more, then slams into me, and repeats this over and over slowly, deliberately—a punishing, brutal, heavenly rhythm.

Oh fucking my . . .
My insides begin to quicken. He feels it, too, and increases the rhythm, pushing me, higher, harder, faster—and I surrender, exploding around him—a draining, soul-grabbing orgasm that leaves me spent and exhausted.

I’m vaguely aware that Christian, too, is letting go, calling my name, his fingers digging into my hips, and then he stills and collapses on me. We sink to the floor, and he cradles me in his arms.

“Thank you, baby,” he breathes, covering my upturned face in soft feather-light kisses.

I open my eyes and gaze up at him, and he wraps his arms tighter around me.

“Your cheek is pink from the baize,” he murmurs, rubbing my face tenderly. “How was that?” His eyes are wide and cautious.

“Teeth-clenchingly good,” I mutter. “I like it rough, Christian, and I like it gentle, too.

I like that it’s with you.”

He closes his eyes and hugs me even tighter.

Jeez, I’m tired.

“You never fail, Ana. You are beautiful, bright, challenging, fun, sexy, and I thank divine providence every day that it was you that came to interview me and not Katherine Kavanagh.” He kisses my hair. I smile and yawn against his chest. “I’m wearing you out,”

he continues. “Come. Bath, then bed.”

We are both in Christian’s bath, facing each other chin-deep in foam, the sweet scent of jasmine enveloping us. Christian is massaging my feet, one at a time. It feels so good it should be illegal.

“Can I ask you something?” I murmur.

“Of course. Anything, Ana, you know that.”

I take a deep breath and sit up, flinching only slightly.

“Tomorrow—when I go to work—can Sawyer just deliver me to the front door of the office then pick me up at the end of the day? Please, Christian. Please,” I plead.

His hands still as his brow creases. “I thought we agreed,” he grumbles.

“Please,” I beg.

“What about lunchtime?”

“I’ll make myself something to take from here so I don’t have to go out, please.”

He kisses my instep. “I find it very difficult to say no to you,” he mutters as if he senses this is a failing on his part. “You won’t go out?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

I beam at him. “Thank you.” I lean up onto my knees, sloshing water everywhere, and kiss him.

“You’re most welcome, Miss Steele. How’s your behind?”

“Sore. But not too bad. The water is soothing.”

“I’m glad you told me to stop,” he says, gazing at me.

“So is my behind.”

He grins.

I stretch out in bed, so tired. It’s only ten thirty, but it feels like three in the morning. This has to be one of the most exhausting weekends of my life.

“Didn’t Ms. Acton provide any nightwear?” Christian asks, his voice laced with disapproval as he stares down at me.

“I have no idea. I like wearing your T-shirts,” I mumble sleepily.

His face softens, and he leans over and kisses my forehead.

“I need to work. But I don’t want to leave you alone. Can I use your laptop to log in to the office? Will I disturb you if I work from here?”

“S’not my laptop.” I drift.

The alarm clicks on, startling me awake with the traffic news. Christian is still asleep beside me. Rubbing my eyes, I glance at the clock. Six thirty—too early.