Chapter Eight #3
He stills. After a beat, he shuffles out of his shirt, and he lies back down on me. I feel his warm skin against mine. Hmm… It feels heavenly. He has a light dusting of hair across his chest, which tickles my back.
“So you want me to fuck you again?” he whispers in my ear, and he begins to trace soft kisses around my ear and down my neck.
His hand moves down, skimming my waist, over my hip, and down my thigh to the back of my knee.
He pushes my knee up higher, and my breath hitches…
What’s he doing now? He shifts so he’s between my legs, pressed against my back, and his hand travels up my thigh to my behind.
He caresses my cheek slowly, then glides his fingers down between my legs.
“I’m going to take you from behind, Anastasia.” And with his other hand, he grasps my hair at the nape in a fist and pulls gently, holding me in place. I cannot move my head. I am pinioned beneath him, helpless.
“You are mine,” he whispers. “Only mine. Don’t forget it.” His voice is intoxicating, his words heady, seductive as his erection presses against my thigh.
His long fingers reach around to gently massage my clitoris, circling slowly. His breath is soft against my face as he slowly nips me along my jaw.
“You smell divine.” He nuzzles behind my ear while his hand rubs against me, around and around. Reflexively, my hips start to circle, mirroring his hand, as excruciating pleasure spikes through my blood like adrenaline.
“Keep still.” His voice is soft but urgent, and slowly he inserts his thumb inside me, rotating it around and around, stroking the front wall of my vagina. The effect is mind-blowing—all my energy concentrating on this one small space inside my body. I moan.
“You like this?” he asks, his teeth grazing my outer ear, and he starts to flex his thumb slowly, in, out, in, out…his fingers still circling.
I close my eyes, trying to keep my breathing under control, trying to absorb the disordered, chaotic sensations that his fingers are unleashing on me, fire coursing through my body. I moan again.
“You’re so wet, so quickly. So responsive. Oh, Anastasia, I like that. I like that a lot.”
I want to stiffen my legs, but I can’t move. He’s pinning me down, keeping up a constant, slow, tortuous rhythm. It’s absolutely exquisite. I moan again, and he moves suddenly.
“Open your mouth,” he commands and thrusts his thumb in my mouth. My eyes fly open, blinking wildly.
“See how you taste,” he breathes against my ear. “Suck me, baby.” His thumb presses on my tongue, and my mouth closes around him, sucking wildly. I taste the saltiness on his thumb and the faint metallic tang of blood. Holy fuck. This is wrong, but holy hell is it erotic.
“I want to fuck your mouth, Anastasia, and I will soon.” His voice is hoarse, raw, his breathing more disjointed.
Fuck my mouth! I moan, and I bite down on him. He gasps, and he pulls my hair tighter, painfully, so I release him.
“Naughty, sweet girl,” he whispers, then reaches over to the bedside table for a foil packet. “Stay still, don’t move,” he murmurs as he releases my hair.
He rips the foil while I’m breathing hard, my blood singing in my veins. The anticipation is exhilarating. He leans down, his weight on me again, and he grabs my hair, holding my head immobile. I cannot move. I’m enticingly ensnared by him, and he’s poised and ready to take me once more.
“We’re going to go real slow this time, Anastasia.”
And slowly he eases into me, slowly, slowly, until he’s buried in me.
Stretching, filling, relentless. I groan loudly.
It feels deeper this time, delectable. I groan again, and he deliberately circles his hips and pulls back, pauses a beat, and then eases his way back in.
He repeats this motion again and again. It’s driving me insane—his teasing, deliberately slow thrusts, and the intermittent feeling of fullness is overwhelming.
“You feel so good,” he groans, and my insides start to quiver. He pulls back and waits. “Oh no, baby, not yet,” he murmurs, and as the quivering ceases, he starts the whole delicious process again.
“Oh, please,” I beg. I’m not sure I can take much more. My body is wound so tight, craving release.
“I want you sore, baby,” he murmurs, and he continues his sweet, leisurely torment, backward, forward. “Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here. Only me. You are mine.”
I groan. “Please, Christian.”
“What do you want, Anastasia? Tell me.”
I groan again. He pulls out and moves slowly back into me, circling his hips once more.
“Tell me.”
“You, please.”
He increases the rhythm infinitesimally, and his breathing becomes more erratic. My insides start quickening, and Christian picks up the rhythm.
“You. Are. So. Sweet,” he growls between each thrust. “I. Want. You. So. Much.”
I moan.
“You. Are. Mine. Come for me, baby.”
His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice.
My body convulses around him, and I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress.
Christian follows with two sharp thrusts, and he freezes, pouring himself into me as he finds his release.
He collapses on top of me, his face in my hair.
“Fuck. Ana,” he breathes. He pulls out of me immediately and rolls onto his side of the bed. I pull my knees up to my chest, utterly spent, and immediately drift off or pass out into an exhausted sleep.
When I wake, it’s still dark. I have no idea how long I’ve slept.
I stretch out beneath the duvet, and I feel sore, deliciously sore.
Christian is nowhere to be seen. I sit up, staring out at the cityscape in front of me.
There are fewer lights on among the skyscrapers, and there’s a whisper of dawn in the east. I hear music.
The lilting notes of the piano, a sad, sweet lament. Bach, I think, but I’m not sure.
I wrap the duvet around me and quietly pad down the corridor toward the big room.
Christian is at the piano, completely lost in the melody he’s playing.
His expression is sad and forlorn, like the music.
His playing is stunning. Leaning against the wall at the entrance, I listen, enraptured.
He’s such an accomplished musician. He sits naked, his body bathed in the warm light cast by a solitary freestanding lamp beside the piano.
With the rest of the large room in darkness, it’s like he’s in his own isolated little pool of light, untouchable… lonely, in a bubble.
I pad quietly toward him, enticed by the sublime, melancholy music. I’m mesmerized, watching his long, skilled fingers as they find and gently press the keys, thinking how those same fingers have expertly handled and caressed my body. I flush and gasp at the memory and press my thighs together.
He glances up, his unfathomable gray eyes bright, his expression unreadable.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
A frown flits across his face.
“Surely I should be saying that to you.” He finishes playing and puts his hands on his legs.
I notice now that he’s wearing PJ pants.
He runs his fingers through his hair and stands.
His pants hang from his hips, in that way…
My mouth goes dry as he casually strolls around the piano toward me.
He has broad shoulders, narrow hips, and his abdominal muscles ripple as he walks. He really is stunning.
“You should be in bed,” he admonishes.
“That was a beautiful piece. Bach?”
“Transcription by Bach, but it’s originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello.”
“It was exquisite, but very sad, such a melancholy melody.”
His lips quirk up in a half smile.
“Bed,” he orders. “You’ll be exhausted in the morning.”
“I woke and you weren’t there.”
“I find it difficult to sleep, and I’m not used to sleeping with anyone,” he mutters.
I can’t fathom his mood. He seems a little despondent, but it’s difficult to tell in the darkness. Perhaps it was the tone of the piece he was playing. He puts his arm around me and gently walks me back to the bedroom.
“How long have you been playing? You play beautifully.”
“Since I was six.”
“Oh.” Christian as a six-year-old boy…my mind conjures an image of a beautiful, copper-haired little boy with gray eyes and my heart melts—a moppet-haired kid who likes impossibly sad music.
“How are you feeling?” he asks when we are back in the room. He switches on a sidelight.
“I’m good.”
We both glance down at the bed at the same time. There’s blood on the sheets—evidence of my lost virginity. I blush, embarrassed, pulling the duvet tighter around me.
“Well, that’s going to give Mrs. Jones something to think about,” Christian says as he stands in front of me.
He puts his hand under my chin and tips my head back, staring down at me.
His eyes are intense as he examines my face.
I realize that I’ve not seen his naked chest before.
Instinctively, I reach out to run my fingers through the smattering of dark hair on his chest to see how it feels.
Immediately, he steps back out of my reach.
“Get into bed,” he says sharply. His voice softens. “I’ll come and lie down with you.”
I drop my hand and frown. I don’t think I’ve ever touched his torso. He opens a chest of drawers, pulls out a T-shirt, and quickly slips it on.
“Bed,” he orders again.
I climb back onto the bed, trying not to think about the blood. He clambers in beside me and pulls me into his embrace, wrapping his arms around me so I’m facing away from him. He kisses my hair gently, and he inhales deeply.
“Sleep, sweet Anastasia,” he murmurs, and I close my eyes. But I can’t help feeling a residual melancholy either from the music or his demeanor. Christian Grey has a sad side.