ps, curling around him like a vine. Images of us together, in
the playroom; the Tallis, the table, on the cross, shackled to the bed . . . I love
his kinky fuckery—our kinky fuckery. Yes. I can do that stuff. I can do that for
him, with him. I can do that for me. My skin tingles as I remember the riding
crop.
“I like to play, too,” I murmur, and glancing up, I’m treated to his shy smile.
“You know, I’d really like to test your limits,” he whispers.
“My limits for what?”
“Pleasure.”
“Oh, I think I’d like that.” My inner goddess drops into a dead faint.
“Well, maybe when we get home,” he whispers, lea一ving that promise hanging
between us.
I nuzzle him once more. I love him so.
~o0o~
It’s been two days since our picnic. Two days since the promise of well,
maybe when we get home was made. Christian is still treating me like I’m
made of glass. He still won’t let me go to work, so I ha一ve been working from
home. I put the stack of query letters I’ve been reading aside on my desk and
sigh. Christian and I ha一ven’t been back in the 490 | P a g e
E L JAMES
playroom since I safe worded. And he’s said he misses it. Well, so do I . . .
especially now that he wants to explore my limits. I flush, thinking what that
could possibly entail. I glance at the billiard table . . . Yes I can’t wait to
explore those.
My thoughts are interrupted by soft, lyrical music that fills the apartment.
Christian is playing the piano; not one of his usual laments but a sweet
melody, a hopeful melody—one that I recognize, but ha一ve never heard him
play.
I tiptoe to the archway of the great room and watch Christian at the piano. It’s
dusk. The sky is an opulent pink, and the light is reflected off his burnished
copper hair. He looks his beautiful breathtaking self, concentrating as he
plays, unaware of my presence. He’s been so forthcoming over the last few
days, so attentive—offering small insights into his day, his thoughts, his
plans. It’s as if he’s breached a dam and started talking.
I know he’ll
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