This is a work or creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.
I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…
Chapter 36—More Reckoning
If you’ve had a well-rounded primary and secondary school education, you have at some point heard of the twelve labors of Hercules. If you have not, here’s a crash course.
According to Greek mythology, strong man Hercules killed his children in a fit madness and was sentenced to serve his arch enemy Eurystheus for ten years. During this time, Eurystheus set twelve unearthly tasks for Hercules to perform, the most difficult being to capture Cerberus and bring him to Eurystheus.
Who’s Cerberus? I’m glad you asked (stay with me now).
Cerberus is the ungodly huge beast that guards the gates to the Underworld to prevent souls from escaping that have managed to make it across the river Styx. It’s a hell-hound that belongs to Hades with red and black fur, glowing eyes that change color at will, and three heads—and if you’re really unlucky, one of those heads just might talk to you. Having found a way in and out of the Underworld without being condemned to stay there for eternity, Hercules asked Hades if he could take Cerberus to the surface as the completion of his twelfth task. Hades agreed on the condition that Hercules could defeat Cerberus in a fight… without using any weapons.
I would have gladly taken on this impossible task as well as Hercules’ other eleven tasks if I could have averted the special ass-ripping that Grace had saved for me. I would have endured 50 scorned women to avoid the wrath of my mother. I thought I had gotten away with it. I somehow thought the episode with Carrick yesterday had expunged me of the imminent reaming my mother had saved for me.
I should have known something was amiss when she asked me to meet her in her office at the hospital. She was sure to have lunch delivered so that I would not miss a meal in the midst of my chastisement. She made me bite and chew the delicious Italian submarine on French bread, reminding me with each bite that “This is how you eat!” Letting me know that all human beings require this particular activity to live and that most of them learn how to do it on their own when they’re toddlers. The fact that I have roamed this earth for nearly three decades insinuates that I should have mastered this particular skill by now. However, if I need Mommy to come and feed me daily, she will do so at lunchtime in the lobby of GEH, complete with a bottle and a bib!
She was merciless! Her sarcasm knew no bounds, and no amount of nodding and “Okay, Mom, ” was going to release me from this sermon. I ate every crumb of that sub, and a fruit salad, and a bottle of water while she continued to berate me for being the most inconsiderate son, brother, boyfriend, and employer ever for causing all these people to worry about me so badly. She told me about Butterfly’s conscious blackout, which I didn’t know. She informed me of Gail and Taylor’s concern and support as well as the fact that after she had gone home after her shift, she had to come back to the city to find her son emaciated and unconscious, his body feeding on itself.
Now, I really feel like shit.
I sat in my mom’s office for a whole hour while she fed me, cried, eviscerated me, hugged me, and then proceeded to make me sign a contract stating that if I ever did anything this stupid again that I would be required to volunteer at the soup kitchen for a minimum of twenty hours of community service per month for three months to be served for at least five hours per week spread over at least two days each week. She wouldn’t let me apologize. She said her piece and politely kicked me the hell out of her office. I would have done anything to avoid that conversation. To say that I was thoroughly chastised, berated, disciplined, and verbally skelped would be a massive understatement. I was only too happy to return to the brutal, vicious, cutthroat world of mergers and acquisitions when my mother had finished with me.
Taylor has sent Lawrence and Williams ahead to Green Valley to tail Cody Whitmore and Stephen Morton so that I don’t walk into any surprises. Welch is busy gathering information on the Pedophile so that I can hopefully get young Mr. Hemstead out of her clutches sooner rather than later. I have teams of people gathering information on possible members of the mob that attacked Butterfly. With all this in motion and having to run a multi-billion-dollar company, there’s still only one thing that keeps popping to the forefront of my mind…
How do I tell Butterfly that I’m going to Green Valley in three days?
I can’t tell her the true reason for my trip—after I already told her that I wouldn’t pursue this matter. I hate lying to her, but I have to. I have to get to the bottom of what happened to her. This thing keeps me up at night sometimes—knowing that, unlike my situation, the people that did this to her are within arm’s reach and no one has been brought to justice. The deeper I dig, the more I smell a conspiracy of mammoth proportions, and there’s no way in hell that I’m going to sit around and let Butterfly carry this alone with no hope of justice for her suffering. I just hope that when it’s all said and done, she’ll understand why I have to do this.
I’ve had my final session with Carlisle and now, hopefully, the city of Seattle and the State of Washington will leave me the hell alone for exacting revenge on the drunk driver who totalled my car. I’ve calmed down significantly since I met Butterfly, but now I’m going to have to tap into that angry motherfucker to deal with these Green Valley assholes, particularly with these arrogant ass Whitmores. I wonder if people see me the same way that I see this self-important prick? I don’t doubt it one bit—the only difference is that I’m about to knock a few pegs off this asshole and there’s no one in the world that can do that to me…
When I get back to Escala, she’s in the library looking over her schedule for the week. Apparently, she and my mother are working together to fit some of the clients from Helping Hands into her week for some counseling sessions. Butterfly is very excited to be working with the families there and has set up a makeshift office in the library to help organize her days when she’s here. I haven’t told her that I have ordered an oak desk and filing cabinet to be delivered for her on Thursday. I love having her here with me. I would love to have her move in, but I wouldn’t want her to have to give up her condo—not that she ever would. I don’t mind shuttling between both places for now. I was pleasantly surprised last night when she made the cutest little presentation to me:
“It’s not as dramatic or romantic as your presentation, but I would like for you to accept the key to my condo.” She had said sweetly as she handed me a key on a handcuff keyring. I know this was a big step for her since the last person besides Al to have that kind of access to her home was that fucker David.
“Butterfly—thank you! This means so much to me.” I replied, proudly accepting the key to her home and immediately attaching it to my keyring.
To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever had the key to anyone else’s home but my own. This is a big step for us. I truly hope that I don’t fuck it up—in light of what I’m about to do later this week. I know that one of the Whitmores is directly responsible for what happened to Butterfly. I don’t know what role they played but I’m pretty certain that one of the males may have been her rapist. I can’t just come out and ask her, but I have to know if I’m at least on the right track.
I launched an impromptu mini-attack on her in her “office” before dinner. I didn’t mean to—hence the “impromptu” part—but the tone of her voice indicated that she may have needed a little satisfaction. I only gave her a little taste of what I hoped the evening would hold… beyond the unfortunate dinner conversation…
“Well, I’m going on my first business trip during our relationship, Butterfly,” I tell her during dinner on Monday night. Her face falls when I make the announcement.
“When?” she asks, her voice sounding akin to an abandoned puppy. Oh, Baby, I wish I could tell you everything.
“Wednesday. I have to go to Vegas, but only for a few days.” I try to pretend not to see her stiffen.
“Why do you need to go to Vegas?” Her tone has changed. There is a tone of abhorrence present.
“Have you ever heard of K&R coverage?” I ask.
“No, I can’t say that I have,” she responds.
“It’s kidnap & ransom insurance.” Her eyes crinkle. “I have companies in volatile parts of the world. The executives of these companies are often in danger of being taken for ransom—myself included. K&R replaces losses incurred involving kidnapping.”
“So, if you’re kidnapped, and GEH has to pay a ransom for you, K&R pays it back,” she concludes.
“So, what does this have to do with Vegas?” she asks.
“There’s a company down there that wants to acquire our policy. I want to get a good look at them and see what they have to offer.” I can see the skepticism in her eyes.
“So why do you have to go for a few days? Surely it doesn’t take that long to decide if you want to change insurance companies or not,” she says.
“Baby, this is not like buying car insurance where you pick your coverage, get your rate, sign your policy, shake hands and walk off into the sunset. I’ve already started my background checks on the upper level executives. They are going to know a lot about me and my companies if I choose to use them—more than my attorneys. I have to check them out personally, see how legit they are. I need to meet with their officers, and we’re not just talking about shaking hands and taking a tour of the facility. There’s a lot involved in this kind of decision. I have to make sure that this is not some mom-and-pop operation that I’m dealing with.” I try to make the process sound as complicated as possible to justify being in her dreaded stomping grounds for three days. She’s dripping with apprehension as she picks at her food.
“It’s seems like a bit much that you have to go all the way to Vegas for this. Don’t they have a satellite office here that you could deal with?” she presses.
“Yes, they do. But this needs to be a face-to-face transaction. It is just that important,” I respond impassively. She frowns and drops her head, still picking at her food.
“What is it, Butterfly?” I know exactly what it is. I just can’t let on right now that I know. I’m very close to getting some information on who put her through that terrible trauma she had to endure, but there’s only so much that you can do by telephone. Some things have to be handled face-to-face.
“It’s nothing,” she lies. “I just hate you having to leave, much less having to go there.” She says the last word with pure disdain. “I won’t be a child about it, though. I know that who you are requires you to travel to handle your business sometimes, so I’ll put on my big girl panties and suck it up,” she says with a smile.
“Big girl panties?” I say seductively. “Do I get to take them off after you’ve worn them?”
“Christian!” she says, playfully scolding me. “I guess I walked into that one, huh?”
“Right in.” I laugh, taking another bite of my chicken. Well, we’ve gotten past the hard part—telling her that I was going and when. Now, I have to do something that I really don’t want to do, but I have to if I’m going to get any answers. “I’m meeting with the company’s executive manager on Wednesday. He comes highly recommended—some guy named Whitmore.”
And here it comes.
Butterfly’s fork freezes in midair as I can see the emotions fly across her face at warp speed—surprise, anger, fear, sadness, disgust, pain, confusion, angst, terror. For a moment, I thought she was going to swoon. I hate to do this to her, but I have to keep going.
“I’ve spoken to him over the phone once or twice. All the guy ever talks about are his kids. I understand pride, but this guy can really get on your nerves.” I watch her out of the corner of my eye while pretending to continue enjoying my meal. Watching her reactions is making this delicious chicken taste like pure sawdust. I’m so sorry, Butterfly, but you’ll see. It will be all for the best in the end.
“How old are his children?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“They’re all adults. Two boys and a girl, I think.” No use in wasting time. Go right in for the kill. “His oldest is a sportscaster somewhere… Texas, he said. I think his name is Brandon or Landon.” No reaction. Okay, here we go. “He’s priming his younger son to take over the business. The kid doesn’t seem too much to be proud of as far as I can tell, but Whitmore seems to think so. His name is… Cody! That’s his name!” I say like I’ve made some grand discovery.
That did it.
All of the color leaves Butterfly’s face and she starts to hyperventilate right in front of me. I jump from the stool and step over to her.
“Baby! Baby, what’s wrong? Tell me, what’s wrong?” She can’t speak. She is starting to sweat, and not in that good way to which I have become accustomed. I pick her up from the stool and carry her to our bed. I lay her down and retrieve a cool washcloth from the en suite.
“Breathe, Baby. Come on, breathe with me.” I mimic slow breathing while I gently wipe her face with the cool rag. It takes a few moments, but she starts to calm down and breathe more regularly. Just when I think she’s about to come back to normal, she dashes to the bathroom and I hear the familiar wrenching sounds of vomiting.
Nice going, Grey. Are you happy now? Could there possibly be a reason why she wants you to leave this shit alone? You know there is; that’s why you won’t tell her the truth about your trip.
I go to the bathroom and hold her hair back out of the way. She has vomited to the point of dry heaves. I give her a glass of water to rinse out her mouth. She has completely exhausted herself. She gladly succumbs to my arms as I carry her back to the bed.
“Baby what is it? Please tell me,” I plead. Tell me not to go, Butterfly and I won’t go.
“I’m sorry, Christian,” she says in a soft, strained voice. “I’m just not feeling very well. Just let me lie here for a moment. I’m sure it will pass.”
“Okay, Baby,” I say, kissing her forehead. “I’ll go get you some soda water and a few crackers to help settle your stomach.”
Damn straight, it’ll pass. It’ll pass when I make this motherfucker pay dearly for what he did to you.
“So, I’ll be at the center on Thursday afternoon to meet with the new families and we’ll go from there,” I say to Grace as we discuss the plans to handle the counseling schedule for Helping Hands. We say our goodbyes as I hear Christian walking through the penthouse. I’ve become comfortable in the short time I’ve been here—maybe too comfortable. I like that we are so close even in this large, luxurious space. I’m about to close my laptop in the commandeered office space I have made of his library when he peeks his head in the door.
“Hey,” he says in that deep, sexy honey-toned voice of his.
“Hey. How was your day?” I ask, closing my laptop.
“Long and tedious,” he says entering the library. “How about yours?”
“Not so tedious,” I say, rising from the seat. “I just hung up from Grace. I’ll be meeting some families on Thursday to evaluate their needs from the center.” He pulls me into his arms.
“Do you know that you are good for everyone that meets you?” he says, gently nibbling on my neck. Oh, Mr. Grey…
“Well, maybe not everyone,” I say breathy as a certain flaxen blonde pedophile briefly comes to mind.
“Then they don’t count,” he replies as his lips travel up my neck, around my jaw, and to my lips. He moans into my mouth as his lips mold to mine and his tongue caresses my tongue. His hands are splayed possessively across my back, pressing me firmly into him, my arms trapped between our bodies. I’m reminded of our first kiss, in his office at GEH, how he made my knees go weak and my body ready to combust—much like right now. As if he could feel me melting in his touch, he gently pulls away, breaking the kiss.
“You are incredible, baby,” he breathes in my ear.
“You know, the last time you kissed me like that, I masturbated for the rest of the day.” He looks at me with amused curiosity.
“And when was this?” he asks, not even attempting to hide his mirth.
“Our first kiss… at GEH…” I say, dreamily closing and reopening my eyes.
“Mmm…” he says, deliciously kissing me once more. “Well, I didn’t masturbate, but you certainly kept me awake that night.” He grabs my ass and pushes me against his semi-hard erection.
“Ah,” I gasp as his member tortures me through our clothes. “Christian…” He’s had release in the past couple of days. I’ve been pent up since way before my period started, and now thatthe bleeding has ended, I’m more than ready for action.
“What is it, baby?” he teases as he continues to dry-hump me, holding my ass tightly in both of his large hands so that my legs are slightly open and my feet are dangling just above the floor. “Were you saying something?” he taunts as the burning in my core increases with the delicious friction.
“Ah… ah…” I gasp again. “Christian… ah…” It only takes a few moments for me to detonate under his undulations. I bury my face in his chest to stifle my passionate moans. We are on the second floor, but the library door is open and Gail is finishing dinner in the kitchen.
“Look at me!” he growls as he rubs my orgasm out of me. I throw my head back and gaze into his eyes, his pupils dilated almost completely to black. “That’s it, baby. Give it all to me,” he commands. I breathe through the remaining waves of pleasure so as not to alert the whole apartment to what we are doing. When the final shockwaves have pulsed through me, I close my eyes and take a deep breath to compose myself. Christian lifts me higher, his arms now wrapped tightly around me, so that we’re face-to-face.
“You are so beautiful when you come,” he breathes, his lips brushing against mine.
“Oh, Christian, what you do to me,” I say, weakly.
“I know, baby,” he says, his lips on my cheek, my neck… “It’s the same thing you do to me…”
I’m basically walking on air as I tell Christian about Grace and my plans for Helping Hands during dinner. I’m thrilled that I’m finally going to be doing what I want to do with the ridiculously expensive degree that has me swamped in 10 years of student loan repayments. My victory is very short-lived as the conversation turns toward an impending business trip Christian has scheduled. I knew this day would come and I would just have to power through being without him for a few days. However, I had no idea that the worst was yet to come.
He has to go to Vegas! Fucking Vegas!
“Why do you need to go to Vegas?” The idea of him anywhere near that abysmal place makes me physically ill. He says something about having to investigate an insurance company for some special high level coverage that his company requires.
“Baby, this is not like buying car insurance where you pick your coverage, get your rate, sign your policy, shake hands and walk off into the sunset. I’ve already started my background checks on the upper level executives. They’re going to know a lot about me and my companies if I choose to use them—more than my attorneys. I have to check them out personally, see how legit they are…” I have to admit that I’m zoning out a bit. It’s not bad enough that he’s going to be gone for a few days, but he’s going to be in that fucking place—the real Death Valley as far as I’m concerned.
I can’t dictate what this man does with his company. He was doing fine before I got here. Hell, he’s a billionaire; he must know what he’s doing. Get a grip, Steele!
“I just hate you having to leave, much less having to go there.” I admit, distastefully. “I won’t be a child about it, though. I know that who you are requires you to travel to handle your business sometimes, so I’ll put on my big girl panties and suck it up.” I mean, seriously, what’s the likelihood that he will run into Carla or Stephen… or worse yet, Cody? Slim to none… right?
He begins talking about the man he has to meet, and whose name flies out of his mouth somewhere in the course of this conversation but none other than Cody fucking Whitmore?
Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuckeroo! Fuckity fuck! Fuckerific! Fuck it to all hell. Fuckity fuck! Fuck me and fuck my life!
I don’t know what happens next. All I know is that I’m in Christian’s bed now and I taste dinner in the back of my throat on its way out. I make it to the toilet just in time to pray to the porcelain god.
This cannot be happening. This fucking cannot be happening. I fucking thought I would fucking never have to fucking hear about this fucking guy in my fucking life ever a-fucking-gain!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck the world!
My stomach is wrenching violently at the mere mention of his name—the thought of his corruptness being in the same room… the same city… breathing the same fucking air as my precious Christian! He can’t do business with Cody Whitmore. He just can’t!
You have to tell him!
I can’t tell him! He’ll kill that man.
Since when do you care what happens to Cody fucking Whitmore?
I don’t! But if something happens to Christian, I’ll die.
My stomach was empty quite some time ago but has continued with the violent wrenching for a while trying to rid my body and mind of all remnants of the vile and wretched Cody Whitmore. Christian helps to clean me up, then carries me back to bed.
“Baby what is it? Please tell me.” His eyes are pleading with me. Suck it up, Steele. The man you love will surely end up in jail if you give him the slightest inkling that he’s walking right into the den of the fucker that almost cost you your life.
“I’m sorry, Christian, I’m just not feeling very well,” I lie. “Just let me lie here for a moment. I’m sure it’ll pass.” His face falls. An unknown emotion hides behind his eyes. If I didn’t know better, I would swear it was… disappointment. He kisses me on the forehead.
“Okay, baby. I’ll go get you some soda water and a few crackers to help settle your stomach.”
When I see him clear the bedroom door, I break down in tears. I can’t believe he’s going to Vegas. Fucking Vegas! And somewhere during that time, he’s going to be in the den of Whitmore! This is my worst nightmare come true—well, maybe not my worst nightmare. Underneath the rape, the beating, and being forced to return to Green Valley, my worst nightmare would have been having to raise that bastard’s child—again, no offense to the child. I have to pull myself together. I can’t let Christian see me like this. He’ll certainly know that it’s more than an upset stomach…
You really need to tell him! What if he goes into business with this man and later finds out that this is the man that raped you?
What if I tell him and he flies to Green Valley and kills this man on sight?
The battle continues in my head and I make the painful decision that I can tolerate Christian doing business with this snake if it means that I can keep him out of jail and in my arms. Hell, I never have to see him, and as long as he does what he needs to do for Christian, that’s fine by me.
Well, not fine by me… but I never have to see him…
She doesn’t think I can hear her, but Butterfly is weeping mournfully in our bedroom. It’s ripping my heart out of my chest to hear her crying like this and I’m truly reconsidering digging into this matter any further.
But with everything I have found out so far—I can’t turn back now. This goes so deep that people literally run when I talk about it. That’s more than just urban legend… Taylor comes out of his office and joins me in the kitchen.
“Is she alright?” he asks upon hearing Butterfly sobbing in the bedroom. I shake my head.
“I told her about the trip to Vegas,” I confess.
“You told her why we’re going?” He asks. I shake my head again. He sighs.
“Cody is the one that raped her,” I state. He straightens up.
“She told you that, sir?” he asks. I point towards the bedroom.
“That reaction? All I did was say his name!” I inform him. “She got a little nervous when I mentioned Whitmore. No reaction at all to Landon. As soon as I said Cody, she damn near passed out and she regurgitated her entire dinner. That’s the bastard that raped her, I’m sure of it, Taylor.” He folds his arms.
“Does this change our plan of action, sir?” he asks. “Do we still want to pursue this considering her reaction to the news?” I run my hand through my hair.
“I thought about that, but with everything we’ve discovered so far, I can’t turn back now. And that reaction… that just makes me want to get to the bottom of this even more.” I pour soda water into a glass and put a few crackers on a small plate. “I don’t ever want her to cry over this again. I don’t want some random background check that could be triggered by applying for a home loan to catapult her into nightmares and .44 Magnum-Land. I don’t want her to have to wonder if the fucker she dated in college was roommates with one of the bastards that tried to kill her when she was 15. And I don’t want her to worry about if her children may have to suffer anything close to what she did because these fuckers never paid for what they did to her. No, Taylor, we do not change our plan of action and we most certainly do still want to pursue this… now more than ever.”
I re-enter our bedroom and Butterfly has fallen into a fitful slumber. I gently remove her shoes and pull the duvet over her. I leave the soda water and crackers in case she wakes and I go to my study, leaving the door open so that I can hear her if she calls.
I open my laptop to the folder on my desktop labeled “Third Quarter Projections.” In that folder, I click on the folder labeled “Probabilities.” In that folder, I click on the folder labeled “Information.” And finally, in that folder, I click on the folder labeled “PFB” for “Project Free Butterfly.” Here are all of the background checks, pictures, police reports, statements, financial information—anything that I have gathered about the Green Valley situation such as it is. This folder has network access so that Welch can update it as needed and I can have up to the minute information about the situation from anywhere in the world. I have a similar folder with information on the network labeled “PDP” for “Project Destroy Pedophile” which is also accumulating impressive amounts of information. Right now, I have to focus on Butterfly.
Williams has provided information about Morton that suggests that he very well may be an alcoholic. He spends most of his time and any money he can get his hands on at local bars—side street dives and watering holes. His license has been suspended and he has had so many DUI’s, I’m surprised that he’s still a free man. Hell, he lives in Green Valley. The cops there clearly don’t know how to do their jobs.
Speaking of cops, I need to speak with the officer that responded to the scene—George Sullivan. I’m no crime scene investigator, but I’d just like to know who called it in and were the proper precautions taken when they were handling the evidence. It’s completely beyond me how a mob of people could do something like this and not one person is charged… not one. I don’t know what Sullivan’s shift is at the Henderson Police department, so I decide to give him a call.
“Henderson Police Department, Officer Chandler.”
“Hello, may I speak to George Sullivan please?”
“I’m sorry, Officer Sullivan’s not here. Is this an emergency or is this something I can help you with?” Chandler asks politely.
“No, Ma’am, thank you. I really need to speak to Officer Sullivan. It’s concerning a case that he worked a few years back.”
“Is it a pending investigation?” she presses.
“No, Ma’am. I think it’s a cold case. I may be able to provide some new evidence, but I would really like to talk to Officer Sullivan,” I lie. “When do you expect him back?”
“He’s actually gone for the day. He’ll be back at 10:00am tomorrow. May I ask which case it’s concerning.” Hmmm… hell, why not.
“Anastasia Steele,” I say and wait for a reaction. I can hear her talking to someone in the background and saying Ana’s name.
“What’s that case like 7, 8 years old?” she asks someone in the station.
“Eleven,” I correct her. She clears her throat.
“I’m sorry. I was hoping that I could maybe help you with it, but unfortunately it’s a bit before my time,” she admits. “Would you like to leave a message for Officer Sullivan or do you want to call him back in the morning?”
“I’ll call him back, Officer Chandler, no message. Thank you so much for the information.”
“You’re welcome, Sir. You have a good night,” Chandler says before ending the call. I’ll have to track Sullivan down in the morning.
Welch has also forwarded Lawrence’s reports on Cody Whitmore’s comings and goings. Twenty-seven-year-old philanderer doing absolutely nothing with his life. That has to make Daddy proud. He has women in different areas of southern Nevada and rarely finds himself at the desk that Daddy provides at the corporate offices. I will need up-to-the-minute intel on this guy to catch up with him since he has absolutely no regular schedule. I’m a little curious what that says about you that an alcoholic has a regular schedule and you don’t…
I fire off an email to Andrea which she’ll see first thing in the morning to set up a dinner with Cynthia Crestwood on Thursday. Crestwood’s information indicates that she’s passionate about children, which is probably why she chose to work for the school district. I’ll see if I can use Helping Hands as an edge to talk to her. I close my laptop and turn off the light in my study. I need to check on Butterfly now.
When I step into our bedroom, Butterfly is just waking up. She impatiently kicks the duvet off of her. “Hey, hey,” I say coming into the room. She raises her head to look at me sluggishly.
“Christian,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”
“About 8:00.” I say pushing her hair out of her face. “Are you feeling any better? How’s your stomach?” She puts her hand on her stomach.
“Better, I think,” she says softly. “I’m wound so tight and… I just hate that you’re leaving town so soon…” I can tell that she is getting upset again. “I just need to relax. I’ll be fine.”
“Do you want to try to eat something?” I ask, sitting on the bed next to her, “Or would you rather not?”
“I think I’d rather not,” she replies weakly. I stroke her hair. I know my intentions are pure. I know that once we can lay this thing to rest… or even partially to rest… Butterfly will feel much better. She’ll have some form of restitution… some form of justice for her suffering. I wish I could just kill that fucker! However, I know that’ll cause more problems than it would solve. Instead, I give her one more opportunity for relief… one more chance to confirm that I’m doing the right thing…
“I love you, Butterfly. If you prefer that I don’t go, I won’t go…”
He won’t go. If I tell him not to go, he won’t go.
He deferred to me and my judgment when it came to doing business with She-Thing… but his decision was an educated and informed decision. I gave him all the information, he weighed his options and made his decision. He doesn’t have all of the information this time. I have conveniently left out one crucial piece that could very easily—would very easily—affect his decision. I simply can’t put him in that position. I love him and I know he loves me, and if I tell him that Cody Whitmore is the man that raped me, the man that lied on me and orchestrated an attack on me with his bratty, bitchy, snobby-ass girlfriend Carly Madison and a group of brats, snobs, and bitches that nearly cost me my life and did cost the life of an innocent child, there will surely be body parts of one Cody Whitmore spread across the United States if not the world by sunrise. And he wouldn’t let Taylor do it… he’d do it himself.
I can’t. I can’t do that to Christian. I’ll bear this burden myself.
“You’re a sweet and wonderful man,” I say, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “I promise, I’ll be fine. You take care of your business, Christian. I’ll be okay,” I say with a sincere smile. He pulls me violently into his arms, snatching the air out of me as he crushes me to his body.
“I love you so much,” he says into my hair. “I would do anything for you…” Yes, Christian, I know. That’s why I can’t tell you about Cody.
“And I would do anything for you, baby,” I say, returning his embrace. He sits there holding me. I feel the possessiveness in his grasp. It’s powerful… frightening… almost weakening. My soul is whimpering… yes, Christian, I belong to you…
“Bath,” he says, his voice deep, nearly growling sensually in my ear.
“Yes,” I reply, just above a whisper. He slowly releases me, as if I would fall apart if he moved too quickly.
“Stay,” he commands as he moves to the en suite. I hear the water running as the smell of lemongrass fills the room. The aromatherapy is already doing wonders to soothe my soul. I hold my head back and close my eyes, deeply breathing the delicious scent and determined to rid my mind of all things Cody Whitmore. The smell of the lemongrass massages my senses as I raise my head and begin to remove the hairpins holding my chignon together.
“Don’t move a muscle.” His honey voice floats across the room towards me as he stands there in nothing but his trousers, having removed his shirt, T-shirt, shoes, and socks. His chest subtly rises and falls with his breathing and I can’t help but think how much I want to run my tongue through the light dusting of reddish-brown hair there.
My lips part involuntarily betraying my arousal. He responds only by moving slowly over to me and standing in front of me, looking down upon me like he’s the king and I’m one of his faithful servants… which is pretty much how I feel right now. I’m frozen to this spot, my hands pressed against the bed and my arms holding me up, lest I collapse on the floor into a useless, horny mound of flesh. He slowly removes the pins from hair and gently massages my scalp until the brown locks cascade in careless curls down my back. He gently removes my jewelry—earrings, necklace, and bracelet—and sets them on the nightstand. He’s moving slowly and meticulously, and I’m mesmerized—watching his eyes as they watch me, his hands as they touch me, his legs and arms as they move his body into different positions to perform his tasks.
He’s remarkably, deliciously exquisite in everything that he does. His body is a masterpiece and he has spent every conscious moment of his adult life perfecting every single thing he does. I’m helpless, defenseless against him… completely at his mercy… I would do anything to satisfy him, to make him happy…
But right now, he seems bent on my comfort.
He holds out his hands to me, beckoning for mine and I oblige, of course. He pulls me to my feet and reaches his arms around me to unzip my dress. He pulls the sleeves off my arms and the dress falls to the floor. He takes my hand to help me step out of the dress, which he picks up from the floor and lays it across the chair. He reaches around me again and unhooks my bra. His fingertips gently caress my shoulders as he slides the straps away and down my arms. My breath catches in my throat. A small whimper escapes and my nipples harden and protrude as his lips replace his fingertips on my shoulders.
I close my eyes, still unable to move unless he tells me or directs me where I should go. Oh, his lips are so soft, so skillful as his hands travel down my body. He very slowly descends to his knees in front of me, his hands on my hips… his gray eyes staring salaciously up at my blues through long, dark eyelashes… his shorter flopsy unkempt hair calling to my fingers…
Oh, doux Jésus aide moi, je vais mourir!
His fingers delicately move to my stockings and release each of the belts holding them up. I nearly expire as he slowly glides them down each of my legs and gently removes them from my feet, placing them in the chair with my dress and bra. Next, he grasps my panties and my suspender garter belt together and teasingly slides them down my legs to the floor. His nose starts at my ankles and moves slowly… slowly… up my calf… past my knee… up my thigh… and stops right at my sex, where he inhales deeply.
I nearly swoon.
He stands to his feet again and cups my face in his hands, again very possessively. He looks longingly into my eyes and then kisses me—deeply, passionately, gently, his tongue taking liberties into my mouth… not asking permission, but claiming what belongs to him. There is something so different about him tonight… so deliciously different… I like it! I like it a lot!
“Oh, Ana… baby…” He’s breathless between kisses. “I could take you… right here… right now…” He takes slow, deep breaths to compose himself. “But not now… not yet, baby.” He puts one arm under my legs and carries me into the en suite. He sets me gently on my feet in the warm tub full of luxurious bubbles. “Is that okay?” he asks, referring to the water temperature. I take his hand and he helps me descend into the tub.
“Mmmm. Yes. Perfect,” I purr as I lean back into the tub. He removes his pants, but not his boxer briefs, his erection beginning to show through the tightening gray material. Fuck, he looks scrumptious! Control yourself, Steele. This is his show, not yours.
“Do you like what you see, Butterfly?” he asks in that sexy, sultry, I’m-about-to-blow-your-fucking-mind voice of his. I’m a bit speechless from having been caught eyeballing the merchandise.
“Um… yeah…” I squeak, weakly.
“Patience, baby. Patience,” he says as he puts only his feet in the bath behind me, not removing his boxer briefs.
Oh, why must you tease me so?
Sitting on the outside of the tub, he wets the bath sponge and gently begins to caress my body with it. I lean my head on his thigh and allow him to wash me, caress me, care for me. He is a wonderful man… and he’s all mine.
His head leans over my shoulder as his hands gently caress my calves and legs with the sponge. I moan my approval at his closeness, his breath on my shoulder, his caress on my skin. My body calls to him, so in tune to his touch. I move my head from his thigh to his shoulder and lean into him, trying to control my breathing.
“Relax, baby,” he coos.
“I’m trying,” I say in some voice I swear that I don’t even recognize myself. His response is primal. He slides into the tub behind me—boxers and all—and captures my breasts roughly in his hands, his palms kneading them as my nipples are tortured between his index and middle fingers.
“Don’t do that!” he growls into my ear, obviously trying to control his arousal. I know what he’s talking about, but hell, even I don’t know how I did it! I push my aching, hungry breasts further into his hands.
“Ah! Don’t do that!” I beg as I feel I will climax in the water any second. He loosens his grip and his hands move to my stomach as I try to catch my breath. I’m relieved and disappointed at the same time. I don’t know what his plans are for this evening, but I am burning the hell up!
“Oh, baby,” he says into my neck “you are a fucking siren…” No shit! How about lights and sirens? “I can barely resist you…” Then don’t! You’re killing me here!
“Don’t you want to get rid of those?” I say referring to his boxers. He laughs in my ear.
“Relax, baby,” he teases. Okay, fine. This is his game. I’m only going to prolong the torture by trying to rush things along. I take a deep breath and relax back into his chest.
“Good girl,” he says as he continues to caress my skin with the bath sponge, exploring every inch of me until my body tingles. After several minutes, he says, “Slide forward, head back.” I do as I’m instructed and he uses the sponge to wet my hair. I moan softly as he applies the shampoo and gently massages my scalp. I have forgotten everything… and I do mean everything… that has happened this day. All I can concentrate on is this man’s magical hands and fingers that meticulously washes away all my fears and concerns. He uses the sponge again to carefully rinse my hair and then he squeezes the excess water out.
“Stay here.” He rises from the bath and takes a towel from the warmer, wrapping one around his body after removing his drenched boxer briefs. He disappears into the bedroom with the other towels and I squeeze more of the water out of my hair. It’s not dripping anymore by the time he comes back into the bathroom. He has removed his towel and is dry now—standing in front of me in all his glory.
I will not stare at his dick. I will not stare at his dick. I will not stare at his dick.
I look up at his eyes and smile at him. He returns the smile and opens a towel in front of him, reaching down to help me out of the tub. I walk willingly into the waiting towel and Christian gently dries me from head to toe, finishing by rubbing the towel through my hair to dry any wetness that may remain. It is still damp, but not dripping anymore as he leads me to the bedroom.
Various citrus candles are lit in the room, the only other light afforded is the soft light on the nightstand, its shade covered with an orange scarf to mute the glare. A familiar, sexy instrumental tune plays through the iPod and immediately makes me warm for what the evening might hold. I follow him to the bed. He sits me on the edge and gently combs the tangles out of my hair. I’m being perfectly pampered by a beautiful, naked sex god.
Breathe, Ana, breathe…
He has spread two towels over the bed in a T-shape—one lengthwise for my body and one across a pillow for my hair.
“Lie down, face up,” he instructs me. He holds my hair while I lay on the pillow. He has splayed my hair over the pillow completely away from my body, I assume so that it can dry undisturbed. I close my eyes and relax into the warm towels and a few moments later I feel warm oily hands roaming my shoulders. I smell the familiar smell of lemongrass and wonder how he got the oil so warm.
“Mmmmm,” I moan as his hands travel over my body—not teasing like the last time he did this, but massaging, with the express intent to relax… or arouse. It’s doing both. I take deep breaths and relax into his touch, focusing on not trying to anticipate where his hands are going next.
The music is affecting me strangely. He has the song on repeat and it starts with a delicate piano then falls to silence. It then goes into a soft, almost tribal bongo beat and a deep baseline behind it followed by slow, soft strings that pull you into the sensuality of the tune. Strangely, a xylophone comes into the mix playing only one key at a time—like each strike should be a word singing a song all by itself. After a four-beat pause of silence, a synthesizer takes over the melody with outer-worldly sounds enhancing the music. Shortly into the combination a woman occasionally speaks only two words…
My responses follow the music. You don’t know what’s going to happen next. The music swells, then stop, then comes back. Will there be fingers snapping, women’s voices, horns dragging melodically, strings, drums? I’ve heard all of these things at some point in the song and then none of them during others. It’s sexy and the anticipation grows with each new element introduced into the song. As I’m trying to relax and allow Christian to take me where he wants to go, he has chosen music that’s taking me on a ride all its own. I can feel his hands kneading my skin, but the music is kneading me, too.
In through my nose, out through my mouth. In through my nose, out through my mouth…
My man is possessive… jealous… nothing is allowed to have my attention when I should be concentrating on him. He knows he’s battling with another masseur. Just as the music begins to swell and combine again, his hand is at my core.
“Ah! Christian!” I gasp without opening my eyes. He knows he’s triumphant. His hands are unforgiving, his movements intentional between my folds, against my nub, inside my sex. No teasing, no taunting…deliberate, deep massaging and strokes fully intent on my release.
“Christian!” I whimper helplessly, clawing at the sheets. He wants results and he wants them now! He’s successful in nearly no time at all as I moan loudly, my nails digging into the mattress as I fist the sheet.
“Good. That’s good, baby,” he soothes. “Now relax,” he says softly, his hands traveling along my legs and thighs as I catch my breath. I release the sheets as I whimper, biting my lips to quell my trembling.
This man has touched me sexually twice today—for less than three minutes—and I damn near flew through the ceiling each time. What the hell? Good grief!
I guess once you let the genie out of the bottle, there’s no putting that bitch back in! Damn!
“Turn over, baby,” he says, softly. Hell, maybe I’ll be safe on my stomach… maybe…
His magic hands and the magic music begin to take me on a ride again. I have no idea what it is that is causing me to react this way. It’s like the combination of his touch and the melody is releasing something in me—a craving, an urge—that needs satisfaction. Although I try to calm it and control it, it calls to him and his responding touch sends fire through me in a way that I never thought possible. All the breathing and control techniques in the world can’t stop it because it’s not meant to be controlled. It’s that thing that calls a man to a woman on an instinctual level… and it’s calling him to me.
He straddles my thighs and the entire back of my body is coated with the wonderfully aromatic lemongrass oil. His hands now slide up my back and spine to my shoulders. I close my eyes again. I feel his erection on my thighs.
Oh, mon Dieu…
While heat rises in my core, I feel Christian freeze and slide up my body a bit. Now his erection is on my butt.
That didn’t help.
I can’t fucking take this anymore—I need him inside me! It’s been more than a week and I’m ready. He can take my ass or he can take my pussy, I don’t care, but take me, dammit! I raise my ass a bit, just enough to rub against his cock. His hands stop stroking my back and his breath hitches. I can feel him trying to control himself.
Fuck control! I need to fucking feel you now, Grey!
As if he heard my body scolding him, he slides his length between my ass cheeks, his head ruthlessly teasing the sensitive nerves of my hole. “Ooooohhh,” I moan, muffling my tortured cries with the towel and the pillow, clutching onto the sheets once more. My breathing is uneven and erratic as he continues to stroke his stiffness between my cheeks and against my bud. His breathing has changed and increased and I can tell his pleasure is rising as he tries to control his sensual grunts with each stroke. When he pulls back, I raise my hips so that his head collides with my hole, breaking through just enough to tell him what I want.
His hips freeze as he supports himself on his hands. He doesn’t move forward or backward, almost like he is unsure what to do next. I wiggle gently, then push back only a fraction… just enough for the head of him to slip inside.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, his member getting stiffer inside of me and his breath coming heavy from his chest. He’s hovering over me as he pushes himself into me further only a bit. I whimper and he groans loudly, “Aaw, fuck!” The feeling is excruciatingly exquisite and I need more… now… stop fucking teasing me!
I push back against him a little more, then pull forward—a very small stroke to massage and loosen things up a bit. Oh God, he feels wonderful inside me back there. Baby… baby…
“Yes… oh, yes…” he moans. That’s it, baby. I need you… I push gently against him again… I need this so badly. Oh, God, I need him deeper. I push again and he grabs my hips.
“Ana—stop… I can’t—I’m going to come…” he confesses between breaths as he tries to hold me still.
I have to feel him inside me. I have to have him all the way inside me… even if it’s only for a moment. I push back against him… slow and deep, just once… and he invades my anal orifice, filling me deliciously. My muscles involuntarily contract around him, welcoming him, pulling him deeper.
“Ana, baby, fuck, stop!” His tortured voice begs as I feel him start to tremble behind me. I drop my head as his fullness radiates from my anus and through my pelvis and hips.
“I’m not doing it,” I pant, helplessly. “It’s my body. It wants you… it needs you, Christian… it’s yours. Don’t deny me… please…” A guttural moan rips from his body and his fingertips dig viciously into my hips as he releases into my ass, his cock jerking powerful as it empties into me.
“Ana… God! Ana!” His voice bounces off the walls and the sound alone washes through me, filling my chest with the same satisfaction that an orgasm would give my core.
“Christian…” I whimper as I feel him filling me with more than just his seed. He is filling me with his soul and taking pieces of mine with him.
“Don’t move,” he whispers, still shaking behind me and clenching my hips tightly against him, his erection throbbing gently inside me. “Please don’t move.”
“Okay,” I promise, trying not to move a muscle as waves of pleasure radiate through me from the emotion that fills the room.
He starts to move his hips… slowly, methodically. Short strokes that fill me without emptying me. I feel it in my hips and pelvis again.
“Christian…” It’s barely audible. His hands move from my hips and slide up my back to my shoulders. He steadies himself there for a moment and thrusts gently into me again.
‘Oh…” I hear myself whimper as I feel the sensation start tickling my toes. He pushes my legs further apart and settles on the bed between them, gently withdrawing himself from me then stroking slowly back into me, tormentingly smoothly and sensuously, controlling my reaction to him—not allowing me to rise too quickly and never allowing me to fall. I whimper in my throat as I realize what he’s doing and lay my head sideways on the pillow. His hands now move slowly up the bed down my arms until he reaches my hands and his fingers tangle into mine.
“You are mine,” he declares in my ear. “This body… is mine. Mine and mine alone. You belong to me!” The words float off his breath and into my soul as he slowly and deliciously loves my anus.
“Yes… yes… yes, I am…” I surrender.
“Only mine…” He lays his head gently on mine and pulls our hands close to our bodies. His stroke deepens. He is burying himself in me… gently. No one has ever loved me this way. Fucked, yes. Loved, no. My body is supporting him… he’s not heavy—yet I’m holding him up as he sinks himself deeper and deeper into me. The tingling in my feet is moving up my legs and the radiation in my hips and chest is intensifying. I know what’s happening and I’m afraid that when it does, I may not be able to take it.
He has me cocooned by his body, and he’s merging with me—not just our sexual organs, but all of us… almost on the cellular level. I can see into him… feel into him… his love, his fear, his vulnerability…
“Baby…!” I croon as his feelings for me flood my essence and threaten to consume me completely.
“Butterfly…” he breathes, and I swear he feels the same thing.
“Ah!” I whimper as I clutch his hands tightly, the feelings from all extremities beginning to converge on my center. Our bodies are one… there’s no more Christian and Ana—there is only we. I don’t know where he begins and I end… only we. The pleasure finally converges on the center of me and my voice comes out in short, shrill spurts. The feeling is indescribable… my head, my hands, my arms, my stomach, my legs, my feet, my heart, my soul, my core… all of me, lost… lost… like I’m swimming in warm subconsciousness, completely taken away from this place as my body and soul collide in a mind-and-body-gasm of epically, previously unexplored proportions.
If my brain has been involuntarily sucked from my body, I will gladly be a happy, mindless ball of goo for the rest of my life.
Christian has pulled me onto his lap in the midst of my implosions, our hands still clasps together as he cradles my body with both our arms.
“Oh, my God, you are so beautiful… so beautiful…” he breathes as he continues to rock his hips into me, still stroking my rectum and causing the pleasure to begin anew.
“Oh, Christian, baby…” I coo as I turn my head so that my lips meet his face. He moans as he thrusts into me again…deeper, stronger, and a little faster.
“I love you, I love every single little part of you…” he says into my shoulder.
“Mine,” I breathe.
“Yes, Baby. Yours,” he says, releasing my hands and pulling me against him, his embrace unforgiving. “Touch me. Touch me, please…” he begs.
I reach up and thrust my fingers into his hair, my other hand grasping his thigh, anywhere that I can find skin. I kiss his ear and whisper, “mon amour.”
“Oh, God, Baby… damn!” he cries soulfully as he really starts to move inside me. Oh, this isn’t going to last much longer.
“Christian… oh, God… Christian…” I gasp as my release starts to hover dangerously close to the surface. He reaches down and begins to stroke my clitoris—long and deep strokes with his skilled fingers and his ever-hardening erection continues to pleasure my rectum. Holy. Cow. Batman!
“Say it again…” he growls. “Say my name!”
“Christian!” I whimper as he rubs that magic spot… the pleasure from the back and the front culminating in what promises to be a thrilling duet.
“Again!” he commands, thrusting into me viciously.
“Ah, fuck! Christian!” I squeal. Shit… it’s coming… I can’t stop it, not that I want to.
“Again!” he demands. Fuck, he is so hot!
“Christian! Christian! Christian! Christian…” Each time results in another thrust…deep and hard… and the accompanying ministration of my nub. When his fingers stroke down the length of my folds and into my center, his thumb still tormenting my clit and his hips simultaneously burying that steel rod in my ass—I lose the battle… Well, I really wasn’t fighting now, was I?
“Fuckshitdammittohellohgodfuckfuckfuckputainmerdef outremerdeputainenfer!” Stars and mountains and unicorns and clovers and fairies and, oh yeah, I grab a handful of copper hair and dig my nails into his thigh as I effectively attempt to levitate off the bed.
“Oh, fuck! Oh, yes, yes…” He thrusts into me violently as I’m still coming. “Yes! Yes! Pull, Baby, PULL!” I reach as far back as I can, grab a hold to soft copper and PULL… as requested.
“Fuuuck!” he growls, choking out the word as I feel him pulsing inside me. “Fuuuck! A…na, BABY!” He rises to his knees, holding me against him, jerking into my ass with his release and still stroking my core. It’s now that I realize that I had come anally… and not vaginally.
“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!” I scream loud enough to wake the dead. “Christiaaaaaaaaaaan! Stoooooooooooooooop! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!”
“Oh, no!” he grumbles, still jerking out his release and rubbing out mine. “Give it to me! Give it all to me!” he demands. Tears spring to my eyes as he mercilessly rings out every bit of pleasure from my body. He is breathing heavily into my neck, short thrusts into my ass, juicing his orgasm to the very last drop.
“My good God in heaven, Woman, where do you come from?” he exclaims in one breath, his face still buried in my shoulder, our bodies stuck together by our intermingling sweat. I’m fighting to catch my breath. Finally! Finally, I’m sated! Good grief. Each time he made me come, it just made me want him more and more! Without letting go, we fall onto the bed on our sides, completely out of breath, sex-funky and our hair sticking to our faces.
“Where did that come from?” He asked, his voice exhausted.
“I don’t know,” I say, equally gasping for air. “I think they call that make-up sex.”
“You think? You don’t know?” he questions. I shake my head. “You’ve never had make-up sex?”
“No. Have you?” I respond, matter-of-factly.
“Well, we know I haven’t…” he says, meekly, and I feel like a heel again. Of course, he hasn’t. I slide gently and slowly away from him as his softening cock was still inside me. We both groan a bit at the separation, then I turn around to face him.
“Of, course, you haven’t.” I say, softly. “And I don’t think Edward ever cared enough to even bother with make-up sex with me. So, I have another first with you.” I smile. I kiss him gently on his lips and he squeezes me close to him again. “And as wonderful as it is, let’s try not to have it too often, okay? I love the end result… but I hate getting there.” I say gazing into his eyes, pleading blue to longing gray.
“Agreed,” he says, kissing me gently on the lips. “I love you so much, Anastasia.” Oooh. Anastasia. He truly wants my full attention.
“And I love you, Christian Grey,” I say stroking his cheek. I jump back when traces of blood leave my fingertips and streak down his face. “Christian!?” I say nervously gazing at my hand.
He snatches my hand in his and examines my fingers. “Baby, where did it come from? Are you hurting anywhere?” he asks, checking over my body.
“No! Nowhere!” I say, my voice full of anxiety as I begin to check my own body for injury. We’re both on our knees and I’m holding the offending hand away from me like it’s contagious as I get a glimpse of Christian’s thigh. “Christian!” I say, pointing at the dark red bruises on his leg, “It’s you!”
Christian’s eyes follow my gaze and my point to his own leg. “Stay right here, baby,” he says as he goes to the en suite. I hear water running and then the opening of the medicine cabinet. When did this happen!? I think back to as much as I can remember of our animalistic coupling and I recall the last orgasm—when I grabbed his hair… and his thigh. I drew blood.
Fuck! I feel awful.
Christian comes into the bedroom with a cold washcloth. He has cleaned his leg and applied some antibiotic ointment to the scratches.
“Let me see your hands, Baby. Do they hurt? Did you break any skin?” He lovingly cleans my hand and checking them both for bruising or blood… besides his own.
“No,” I answer weakly. His eyes go immediately to mine and he cups my cheek with his hand.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice full of concern. What’s wrong? Is he serious?
“I hurt you,” I squeak. “I drew blood… I’m sorry.” He starts laughing heartily. Okay… is he hysterical?
“You’re sorry!?” he laughs. I stare at him confused. I’m waiting for the punchline. “Are you fucking kidding me? I love this! These are battle scars! Fucking battle scars, Baby!” He proclaims proudly, admiring the bloody welts on his legs. “I hope they’re permanent!”
I sit there stunned for a moment. I finally sit back on my feet and drop my arm, shaking my head. He is so damn strange, I think to myself.
“Oh, doux Jésus aide moi, je vais mourir” – “Oh sweet Jesus, help me, I’m going to die!
The familiar sexy instrumental tune that Ana hears on repeat from the iPod in the bedroom is Moments in Love (Quiet Storm Version) by The Art of Noise.
“Oh, mon Dieu” – “Oh, my God.”
“mon amour.” – “my love.”
“Fuckshitdammittohellohgodfuckfuckfuckputainmerdefo utremerdeputainenfer!” – Um… don’t try to translate that… just don’t… just know that Ana is coming and cursing, okay?
A couple of pictures are on my Pinterest to accompany the story at http://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/paging-dr-steele/
Guess what? Another big ole juicy lemony chapter is coming your way on Saturday!
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