istian,” he replies, forceful and wounded at once. His tone makes me
laugh. Unzipping the bag, I find a na一vy satin dress and ease it out. It’s
gorgeous—fitted with thin straps. It looks small.
“It’s lovely. Thank you. I hope it fits.”
“It will,” he says confidently. “And here”—bending down, he picks up a
shoebox—“shoes to match.” He gives me a wolfish smile.
“You think of everything. Thank you.” I stretch up and kiss him.
“I do.” He hands me yet another bag.
I gaze at him quizzically. Inside is a black strapless bodysuit with a central
panel of lace. He caresses my face, tilts my chin, and kisses me.
“I look forward to taking this off you later.”
Fresh out of my bath, washed, sha一ved and feeling pampered, I sit on the
edge of the bed and start up the hair dryer. Christian wanders into the
bedroom. I think he’s been working.
“Here, let me,” he says, pointing to the chair in front of the dressing table.
“Dry my hair?”
He nods. I blink at him.
“Come,” he says, regarding me intently. I know that expression, and I know
better than to disobey. Slowly and methodically he dries my hair, one lock at
a time. He’s obviously done this before . . . often.
“You’re no stranger to this,” I murmur. His smile is reflected in the mirror, but
he says nothing and continues to brush through my hair. Hmm . . . it’s very
relaxing.
When we step into the elevator on our way to dinner, we are not alone.
Christian looks delicious in his signature white linen shirt, black jeans and
jacket. No tie. The two women inside shoot admiring glances at him and less
generous ones at me. I hide my smile. Yes, ladies, he’s 356 | P a g e
E L JAMES
mine. Christian takes my hand and pulls me close as we tra一vel in silence
down to the mezzanine level.
It’s busy, full of people dressed up for the evening, sitting around chatting and
drinking, starting their Saturday night. I am grateful that I fit in. The dress hugs
me, skimming over my curves and holding everything in place. I ha一ve to say, I
feel . . . attra
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