Chapter Twenty-One
There is light everywhere. Bright, warm, piercing light, and I endeavor to keep it at bay for a few more precious minutes.
I want to hide, just a few more minutes.
But the glare is too strong, and I finally succumb to wakefulness.
A glorious Seattle morning greets me—sunshine pouring through the full-height windows and flooding the room with too-bright light.
Why didn’t we close the blinds last night?
I am in Christian Grey’s vast bed minus one Christian Grey.
I lie back for a moment, staring through the windows at the lofty vista of Seattle’s skyline.
Life in the clouds sure feels unreal. A fantasy—a castle in the air, adrift from the ground, safe from the realities of life—far away from neglect, hunger, and crack-whore mothers.
I shudder to think what he went through as a small child, and I understand why he lives here, isolated, surrounded by beautiful, precious works of art—so far removed from where he started…
mission statement indeed. I frown because it still doesn’t explain why I can’t touch him.
Ironically, I feel the same up here in his lofty tower.
I’m adrift from reality. I’m in this fantasy apartment, having fantasy sex with my fantasy boyfriend, when the grim reality is he wants a special arrangement, though he’s said he’ll try more.
What does that actually mean? This is what I need to clarify between us to see if we are still at opposite ends on the seesaw or if we are inching closer together.
I clamber out of bed feeling stiff and, for want of a better expression, well used.
Yes, that would be all the sex, then. My subconscious purses her lips in disapproval.
I roll my eyes at her, grateful that a certain twitchy-palmed control freak is not in the room, and resolve to ask him about the personal trainer.
That’s if I sign. My inner goddess glares at me in desperation.
Of course you’ll sign. I ignore them both, and after a quick trip to the bathroom, I go in search of Christian.
He’s not in the art gallery, but an elegant middle-aged woman is cleaning in the kitchen area. The sight of her stops me in my tracks. She has short blond hair and clear blue eyes; she wears a plain white tailored shirt and a navy-blue pencil skirt.
She smiles broadly when she sees me. “Good morning, Miss Steele. Would you like some breakfast?” Her tone is warm but businesslike, and I am stunned.
Who is this attractive blond in Christian’s kitchen?
I’m only wearing Christian’s T-shirt. I feel self-conscious and embarrassed by my lack of clothing.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” My voice is quiet, unable to hide the anxiety in my voice.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I’m Mrs. Jones, Mr. Grey’s housekeeper.”
Oh. “How do you do?” I manage.
“Would you like some breakfast, ma’am?”
Ma’am! “Just some tea would be lovely, thank you. Do you know where Mr. Grey is?”
“In his study.”
“Thank you.”
I scuttle off toward the study, mortified.
Why does Christian only have attractive blonds working for him?
And a nasty thought comes involuntarily into my mind: Are they all ex-subs?
I refuse to entertain that hideous idea.
I poke my head cautiously around the door.
He’s on the phone, facing the window, in black pants and a white shirt.
His hair is still wet from the shower, and I’m completely distracted from my negative thoughts.
“Unless that company’s P that will need at least half an hour…
Schedule Barney and his team in after Marco or maybe tomorrow, and find time for me to see Claude every day this week…
Tell him to wait… Oh?… No, I don’t want publicity for Darfur…
Tell Sam to deal with it… No… Which event? … That’s next Saturday?… Hold on.”
“When will you be back from Georgia?” he asks me.
“Friday.”
He resumes his phone conversation. “I’ll need an extra ticket, because I have a date… Yes, Andrea, that’s what I said. A date. Miss Anastasia Steele will accompany me… That’s all.” He hangs up. “Good morning, Miss Steele.”
“Mr. Grey.” I smile shyly.
He walks around his desk with his usual grace and stands in front of me. He gently strokes my cheek with the back of his fingers.
“I didn’t want to wake you; you looked so peaceful. Did you sleep well?”
“I am very well rested, thank you. I just came to say hi before I had a shower.”
I gaze at him, drinking him in. He leans down and gently kisses me, and I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around his neck and my fingers twist in his still-damp hair. Pushing my body flush against his, I kiss him back. I want him.
My attack takes him by surprise, but after a beat, he responds, a low groan in his throat. His hands slip into my hair and down my back to cup my naked behind, his tongue exploring my mouth. He pulls back, his eyes hooded.
“Well, sleep seems to agree with you,” he murmurs. “I suggest you go have your shower, or shall I lay you across my desk now?”
“I choose the desk,” I whisper recklessly as desire sweeps like adrenaline through my system, waking everything in its path.
He stares bewildered down at me for a millisecond. “You’ve really got a taste for this, haven’t you, Miss Steele? You’re becoming insatiable.”
“I’ve only got a taste for you,” I respond breathlessly.
His eyes widen and darken while his hands knead my naked backside.
“Damn right. Only me!” he growls, and suddenly, with one fluid movement, he clears all the plans and papers off his desk so they scatter on the floor, sweeps me up in his arms, and lays me down across the short end of his desk so my head is almost off the edge.
“You want it, you got it, baby,” he declares, producing a foil packet from his pants pocket while he unzips his pants.
Oh, Mr. Boy Scout. He rolls the condom over his erection and gazes down at me.
“I sure hope you’re ready.” A salacious smile spreads across his face.
And in a moment, he’s filling me, holding my wrists tightly by my side, and thrusting into me deeply.
I groan. Oh yes.
“Ah… Christ, Ana. You’re so ready,” he rasps in veneration.
Wrapping my legs around his waist, I hold him the only way I can as he stays standing, staring down at me, gray eyes glowing, passionate and possessive.
He starts to move, really move. This is not making love, this is fucking—and I love it.
I groan. It’s so raw and carnal, making me wanton.
I revel in his possession, his lust slaking mine.
He moves with ease, luxuriating in me, enjoying me, his lips slightly parted as his breathing increases.
He twists his hips from side to side, and the feeling is exquisite.
I close my eyes, feeling the buildup—that delicious, slow, step-climbing build.
Pushing me higher, higher to the castle in the air.
Oh yes… His stroke increases fractionally.
I moan loudly. I am all sensation…all him, enjoying every thrust, every push that fills me.
And he picks up the pace, thrusting faster…
harder…and my whole body is moving to his rhythm, and I feel my legs stiffening, and my insides quivering and quickening.
“Come on, baby, give it up for me,” he cajoles through gritted teeth, and the fervent need in his voice—the strain—sends me over the edge.
I cry out a wordless, passionate plea as I touch the sun and burn, falling around him, falling down, back to a breathless, bright summit on Earth. He slams into me and stops abruptly as he reaches his climax, pulling at my wrists and sinking gracefully and wordlessly onto me.
Wow…that was unexpected. I slowly materialize back on the planet.
“What the hell are you doing to me?” he breathes as he nuzzles my neck. “You completely beguile me, Ana. You weave some powerful magic.”
He releases my wrists, and I run my fingers through his hair, coming down from my high. I tighten my legs around him.
“I’m the one beguiled,” I whisper.
He gazes at me. His expression is disconcerted, alarmed even. Placing his hands on either side of my face, he holds my head in place. “You. Are. Mine.” Each word staccato. “Do you understand?”
He’s so earnest, so impassioned—a zealot. The force of his plea is so unexpected and disarming. I wonder why he’s feeling like this. “Yes, yours,” I whisper, derailed by his fervor.
“Are you sure you have to go to Georgia?”
I nod slowly. And in that brief moment, I watch his expression change and the shutters coming down. Abruptly he withdraws, making me wince.
“Are you sore?” he asks, leaning over me.
“A little,” I confess.