er know what you’re thinking. Sometimes you’re
so closed off . . . like an island state. You intimidate me.
That’s why I keep quiet. I don’t know which way your
mood is going to go. It swings from north to south and
back again in a nanosecond. It’s confusing and you won’t
let me touch you, and I want to so much to show you how
much I love you.”
He blinks at me in the darkness, warily I think, and I
can resist him no longer. I unbuckle my seatbelt and
scramble into his lap, taking him by surprise, and take his
head in my hands.
“I love you, Christian Grey. And you’re prepared to
do all this for me. I’m the one who is undeserving, and I’m
just sorry that I can’t do all those things for you. Maybe
with time . . . I don’t know . . . but yes, I accept your
proposition. Where do I sign?”
He snakes his arms around me and crushes me to him.
“Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he buries his nose in my
hair.
We sit, our arms wrapped around each other, listening
to the music—a soothing piano piece—mirroring the
emotions in the car, the sweet tranquil calm after the storm.
I snuggle into his arms, resting my head in the crook of his
neck. He gently strokes my back.
“Touching is a hard limit for me, Anastasia,” he
whispers.
“I know. I wish I understood why.”
After a while, he sighs, and in a soft voice he says, “I
had a horrific childhood. One of the crack whore’s
had a horrific childhood. One of the crack whore’s
pimps . . .” His voice trails off, and his body tenses as he
recalls some unimaginable horror. “I can remember that,”
he whispers, shuddering.
Abruptly, my heart constricts as I remember the burn
scars marring his skin. Oh, Christian. I tighten my arms
around his neck.
“Was she abusive? Your mother?” My voice is low
and soft with unshed tears.
“Not that I remember. She was neglectful. She didn’t
protect me from her pimp.”
He snorts. “I think it was me who looked after her.
When she finally killed herself, it took four days for
someone to raise the alarm and find us . . . I remem
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