Christian is nuzzling my neck as I slowly wake.
“Morning, baby,” he whispers and nips at my earlobe. My eyes flutter open and close again quickly. Bright early morning light floods the room, and his hand is softly caressing my breast, gently teasing me. Moving down he grasps my hip as he lies behind me, holding me close.
I stretch out beside him, relishing his touch, and feel his erection against my behind .
Oh my. A Christian Grey wake-up call.
“You’re pleased to see me,” I mumble sleepily, squirming suggestively against him. I feel his grin against my jaw.
“I’m very pleased to see you,” he says as he skates his hand over my stomach and down to cup my sex and explore with his fingers. “There are definite advantages to waking up beside you, Miss Steele,” he teases and gently pulls me round so that I’m lying on my back.
“Sleep well?” he asks as his fingers continue their sensual torture. He’s smiling down at me—his dazzling, all-American-drop-dead-male-model-perfect-teeth smile. He takes my breath away.
My hips begin to sway to the rhythm of the dance his fingers have begun. He kisses me chastely on the lips and then moves down my neck, nipping slowly, kissing, and sucking as he goes. I moan. He’s gentle and his touch is light and heavenly. His intrepid fingers move down, and slowly he eases one inside me, hissing quietly in awe.
“Oh, Ana,” he murmurs reverentially against my throat. “You’re always ready.” He moves his finger in time with his kisses as his lips journey leisurely across my clavicle and then down to my breast. He torments first one, then the other nipple with teeth and lips, but oh-so-gently, and they tighten and lengthen in sweet response.
“Hmm,” he growls softly and raises his head to give me a blazing gray-eyed look. “I want you now.” He reaches over to the bedside table. He shifts on top of me, taking his weight on his elbows, and rubs his nose along mine while easing my legs apart with his. He kneels up and rips open the foil packet.
“I can’t wait until Saturday,” he says, his eyes glowing with salacious delight.
“Your party?” I pant.
“No. I can stop using these fuckers.”
“Aptly named.” I giggle.
He smirks at me as he rolls on the condom. “Are you giggling, Miss Steele?”
“No.” I try and fail to straighten my face.
“Now is not the time for giggling.” He shakes his head in admonishment and his voice is low, stern, but his expression— holy cow—is glacial and volcanic at once.
My breath catches in my throat. “I thought you liked it when I giggle,” I whisper hoarsely, gazing into the dark depths of his stormy eyes.
“Not now. There’s a time and a place for giggling. This is neither. I need to stop you, and I think I know how,” he says ominously, and his body covers mine.
“What would you like for breakfast, Ana?”
“I’ll just have some granola. Thank you, Mrs. Jones.” I flush as I take my place at the breakfast bar beside Christian. The last time I set eyes on the very prim and proper Mrs. Jones, I was being unceremoniously dragged into the bedroom over Christian’s shoulder.
“You look lovely,” Christian says softly. I’m wearing my gray pencil skirt and gray silk blouse again.
“So do you.” I smile shyly at him. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt and jeans, and he looks cool and fresh and perfect, as always.
“We should buy you some more skirts,” he says matter-of-factly. “In fact—I’d love to take you shopping.”
Hmm—shopping. I hate shopping. But with Christian, maybe it won’t be so bad. I decide on distraction as the best form of defense.
“I wonder what will happen at work today?”
“They’ll have to replace the sleazeball.” Christian frowns, scowling as if he’s just stepped in something extraordinarily unpleasant.
“I hope they take on a woman as my new boss.”
“Well, you’re less likely to object to me going away with her,” I tease him.
His lips twitch and he starts on his omelet.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You are. Eat your granola, all of it, if that’s all you’re having.” Bossy as ever. I purse my lips at him, but dig in.
“So, the key goes here.” Christian points out the ignition beneath the gearshift.
“Strange place,” I mutter. But I’m delighted with every little detail, practically bouncing like a small child in the comfortable leather seat. Christian has finally let me drive my car. He regards me coolly, though his eyes are alight with humor. “You’re quite excited about this, aren’t you?” he murmurs, amused.
I nod, grinning like a fool. “Just smell that new car smell. This is even better than the Submissive Speciall. . . um, the A3,” I add quickly, blushing.
Christian’s mouth twists. “Submissive Special, eh? You have such a way with words, Miss Steele.” He leans back with a faux look of disapproval, but he can’t fool me. I know he’s enjoying himself.
“Well, let’s go.” He waves his long-fingered hand toward the entrance of the garage.
I clap my hands, start the car, and the engine purrs to life. Putting the gearshift into drive, I ease my foot off the brake and the Saab moves smoothly forward. Taylor starts up the Audi behind us and once the garage barrier lifts, follows us out of Escala onto the street.
“Can we have the radio on?” I ask as we wait at the first stop sign.
“I want you to concentrate,” he says sharply.
“Christian, please, I can drive with music on.” I roll my eyes. He scowls for a moment and then reaches for the radio.
“You can play your iPod and mp3 discs as well as CDs on this,” he murmurs.
The too-loud dulcet tones of The Police suddenly fill the car. Christian turns the music down. Hmm . . . “King of Pain.”