hips and pulls me 104 | P a g e
E L JAMES
forward, burying his nose in the apex of my thighs. “And you smell of you and
me and sex,” he says inhaling sharply. “It’s intoxicating.” He kisses me
through my lace panties, while I gasp at his words—my insides liquefying.
He’s just so . . . naughty. Gathering up my clothes and sandals, he stands in
one swift, graceful move, like an athlete.
“Go and stand beside the table,” he says calmly, pointing with his chin.
Turning, he strides over to the museum chest of wonder. What is he going to
do to me?
He glances back and smirks at me. “Face the wall,” he commands.
“That way you won’t know what I’m planning. We aim to please, Mrs. Grey,
and you wanted a surprise.”
I turn away from him listening acutely—my ears suddenly sensitive to the
slightest sound. He’s good at this—building my expectations, stoking my
desire . . . making me wait. I hear him put my shoes down and, I think, my
clothes on the chest, followed by the telltale clatter of his shoes as they drop
to the floor, one at a time. Hmmm . . . love barefoot Christian. A moment
later, I hear him pull open a drawer. Toys! What the hell is he going to do?
Oh, I love, love, love this anticipation. The drawer closes and my breathing
spikes. How can the sound of a drawer render me a quivering mess? It
makes no sense. The sub一tle hiss of the sound system coming to life tells me
it’s going to be a musical interlude. A lone piano starts, muted and soft, and
mournful chords fill the room. It’s not a tune I know. The piano is joined by an
electric guitar. What is this? A man’s voice speaks and I can just make out
the words, something about not being frightened of dying. What is this?
Christian pads leisurely toward me, his bare feet slapping on the wooden
floor. I sense him behind me as a woman starts to sing . . . wail . . . sing?
“Rough, you say, Mrs. Grey?” he breathes in my left ear.
“Hmm.”
“You must tell me to stop if it’s too much. If you say stop, I will stop
immediately. Do
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