E James: Fifty Shades of Grey

He moves down to my belly – his tongue circling my navel – following the path of the flogger and the fur… I moan. He’s kissing and sucking and nibbling… moving south… and then his tongue is there. At the junction of my thighs. I throw my head back and cry out as I almost detonate into orgasm… I’m on the brink, and he stops.

No! The bed shifts, and he kneels between my legs. He leans toward the bedpost, and the cuff on my ankle is suddenly gone. I pull my leg to the middle of the bed… resting it against him. He leans over to the opposite post and frees my other leg. His hands travel quickly down both my legs, squeezing and kneading, bringing life back into them. Then, grasping my hips, he lifts me so that my back is no longer on the bed. I am arched, resting on my shoulders. What? He’s kneeling up between my legs… and in one swift, slamming move he’s inside me… oh fuck … and I cry out again. The quiver of my impending orgasm begins, and he stills. The quiver dies… oh no … he’s going to torture me further.

“Please!” I wail.

He grips me harder… in warning? I don’t know, his fingers digging into the flesh of my behind as I lay panting… so I purposefully still. Very slowly, he starts to move again… out and then in… agonizingly slowly. Holy fuck – please! I’m screaming inside… And as the number of voices in the choral piece increases, so does his pace, infinitesimally, he’s so controlled… so in time with the music. And I can no longer bear it.

“Please,” I beg, and in one swift move, he lowers me back onto the bed, and he’s lying on top of me, his hands on the bed beside my breasts as he supports his weight, and he thrusts into me. As the music reaches its climax, I fall… free fall… into the most intense, agonizing orgasm I have ever had, and Christian follows me… thrusting hard into me, three more times… finally stilling, then collapsing on top of me.

As my consciousness returns from wherever it’s been, Christian pulls out of me. The music has stopped, and I can feel him stretch across my body as he undoes the cuff on my right wrist. I groan as my hand is freed. He quickly frees my other hand, gently pulls the mask from my eyes, and removes the ear buds. I blink in the dim soft light and stare up into his intense gray gaze.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi, yourself,” I breathe shyly back at him. His lips quirk up into a smile, and he leans down and kisses me softly.

“Well done, you,” he whispers. “Turn over.”

Holy fuck – what’s he going to do now? His eyes soften.

“I’m just going to rub your shoulders.”

“Oh… okay.”

I roll stiffly onto my front. I am so tired. Christian sits astride me and starts to massage my shoulders. I groan loudly – he has such strong, knowing fingers. Leaning down, he kisses my head.

“What was that music?” I mumble almost inarticulately.

“It’s called Spem In Alium, or the Forty Part Motet, by Thomas Tallis.”

“It was… overwhelming.”

“I’ve always wanted to fuck to it.”

“Not another first, Mr. Grey?”

“Indeed, Miss Steele.”

I groan again as his fingers work their magic on my shoulders.

“Well, it’s the first time I’ve fucked to it, too,” I murmur sleepily.

“Hmm… you and I, we’re giving each other many firsts.” His voice is matter-of-fact.

“What did I say to you in my sleep, Ch – err, Sir?”

His hands pause their ministrations for a moment.

“You said lots of things, Anastasia. You talked about cages and strawberries… that you wanted more… and that you missed me.”

Oh, thank heavens for that.

“Is that all?” The relief in my voice is evident.

Christian stops his heavenly massage and shifts so that he’s lying beside me, his head propped up on his elbow. He’s frowning.

“What did you think you’d said?”

Oh crap.

“That I thought you were ugly, conceited, and that you were hopeless in bed.”

The crease on his brow deepens.

“Well, naturally I am all those things, and now you’ve got me really intrigued. What are you hiding from me, Miss Steele?”

I blink at him innocently.

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Anastasia, you are a hopeless liar.”

“I thought you were going to make me giggle after sex; this isn’t doing it for me.”

His lips quirk up.

“I can’t tell jokes.”

“Mr. Grey! Something you can’t do?” I grin at him, and he grins back.

“No, hopeless joke teller.” He looks so proud of himself that I start to giggle.

“I’m a hopeless joke teller, too.”

“That is such a lovely sound,” he murmurs, and he leans forward and kisses me.

“And you are hiding something, Anastasia. I may have to torture it out of you.”

I wake with a jolt. I think I’ve just fallen down some stairs in a dream, and I bolt upright, momentarily disorientated. It is dark, and I’m in Christian’s bed alone. Something has woken me, some nagging thought. I glance over at the alarm clock on his bedside. It is 5:00 in the morning, but I feel rested. Why is that? Oh – it’s the time difference – it would be 8:00 a.m. in Georgia. Holy crap… I need to take my pill. I clamber out of bed, grateful for whatever it is that has woken me. I can hear faint notes from the piano. Christian is playing. This I must see. I love watching him play. Naked, I grab my bathrobe from the chair and wander quietly down the corridor, slipping on my robe and listening to the magical sound of the melodic lament that’s coming from the great room.

Shrouded in darkness, Christian sits in a bubble of light as he plays, and his hair glints with burnished copper highlights. He looks naked, though I know he’s wearing his PJ bottoms. He’s concentrating, playing beautifully, lost in the melancholy of the music. I hesitate, watching from the shadows, not wanting to interrupt him. I want to hold him. He looks lost, sad even, and achingly lonely – or maybe it’s just the music that’s so full of poignant sorrow. He finishes the piece, pauses for a split second, then starts to play it again. I move cautiously toward him, drawn as the moth to the flame… the idea makes me smile. He glances up at me and frowns before his gaze returns to his hands.

Oh crap, is he pissed off that I am disturbing him?

“You should be asleep,” he scolds mildly.

I can tell he’s preoccupied with something.

“So should you,” I retort not quite as mildly.

He glances up again, his lips twitching with a trace of a smile.

“Are you scolding me, Miss Steele?”

“Yes, Mr. Grey, I am.”

“Well, I can’t sleep.” He frowns once more as a trace of irritation or anger flashes across his face. With me? Surely not.

I ignore his facial expression and very bravely sit down beside him on the piano stool, placing my head on his bare shoulder to watch his deft, agile fingers caress the keys. He pauses fractionally, and then continues to the end of the piece.

“What was that?” I ask softly.

“Chopin. Opus 28, number 4. In E minor, if you’re interested,” he murmurs.

“I’m always interested in what you do.”

He turns and softly presses his lips against my hair.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. Play the other one.”

“Other one?”

“The Bach piece that you played the first night I stayed.”

“Oh, the Marcello.”