lf to me, finally
touching him.
“I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need
you. Touch me. Please.”
Oh, I love him so. I will be nothing without him, nothing
but a shadow—all the light eclipsed. No, no, no . . . my
poor Christian.
poor Christian.
“This is me, Ana. All of me . . . and I’m all yours.
What do I ha一ve to do to make you realize that? To
make you see that I want you any way I can get you.
That I love you.”
And I you, my Fifty Shades.
I open my eyes and gaze unseeing into the fire once
more, memories of our time together flitting through my
mind: his boyish joy when we were sailing and gliding; his
sua一ve, sophisticated, hot-as-hell look at the masked ball;
dancing, oh yes, dancing here in the apartment to Sinatra,
whirling round the room; his quiet, anxious hope yesterday
at the house—that stunning view.
“I will lay my world at your feet, Anastasia. I want
you, body and soul, forever.”