I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas. I didn’t get a chance to thank or respond to everyone personally, but I read each and every one of your messages and I responded to a few. I’m glad that you all loved the wedding so much and I appreciate your patience and understanding while waiting for the next chapters. I see a lot of people are concerned about “Creepy Uncle Herman.” Without giving the story away, I will only say don’t worry. I’m not that cruel to have a predator show up in the form of family. He has a story and I haven’t yet decided when to reveal it, but he’s not a creeper. He’s going to give you that impression, though…
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 fanfic in MY interpretation as a fan. I hope you—as a fellow fan—enjoy it, too.
Chapter 66—The Day After
Christian is leaning over me kissing me deeply, his left arm around my neck and holding my shoulder and his right hand rubbing the thigh that is thrown over his hip. My left arm is pressed between us and my right hand travels from his deliciously, mussed hair to his cheek. He moans into my mouth, his kisses taste of satisfaction and contentment. I have no idea what time it is, but both our bodies have been wrung to the breaking point, reaching climax after climax over the last several hours flying over the Atlantic.
He made love to me forever, but we never fucked. It was slow and deep and meticulous and intense all night long and left me in such a stupor that I have no idea how many times I came. He gave it all to me last night and loved every cell of me, down to my very soul. I awoke to find him kissing my neck and my cheek, caressing me softly and declaring his love to me. A few moments later, he was buried inside me again, bringing me to yet another dizzying orgasm.
“No one has ever kissed my feet before,” he says between kisses. That’s not true. Surely I have… haven’t I?
“No one?” I breathe.
“No, Baby, not even you,” he says, answering my silent question. How is that possible? I thought I had kissed him everywhere. He has kissed my feet dozens of times.
“Why is that?” I ask, as his lips travel from mine to my neck and back.
“I always take off my own socks,” he says while showering me in more sweet kisses. “You did it only once before that I can remember.”
“Why?” I pant, remembering that he wanted to take off his own socks last night and shivered when I kissed his feet.
“I don’t know. Just a hang-up of mine I guess.” He runs his tongue deliciously through my mouth, causing me to moan.
“Mmmm,” I purr as our lips part. “I’m your wife now. I reserve the right to remove your socks and kiss your feet whenever I want.” I lean my head back giving him more access to my neck.
“Duly noted,” he responds as he tastes the skin on my throat, eliciting yet another shiver from me. “We need to eat.”
“What time is it?” I ask.
“I have no idea.” His lips move down to my nipple. Good God, does this man ever tire?
“Christian, no,” I whine. I’ve been stretched beyond my limits. “I can’t…”
“I can’t help it,” he says around my nipple before moving to the valley between my breasts. “You body calls to me. You’re so damn irresistible.”
“Well, resist, please,” I say closing my eyes. “I can’t take anymore.” I instinctively thrust my hands into his hair. Fuck, don’t encourage him, Steele! I mean, Grey! Ooooo, that sends a delicious tingle down my spine.
“Mmmm, your mouth is saying no, but your body is saying yes. Which is it, Mrs. Grey?” he asks as he sucks the other nipple into his mouth.
“Ah! I always love it when you touch me, Christian. I just can’t have sex anymore right now.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says before popping my nipple out of his mouth. “Then no sex, just let me touch you…”
“Mr. and Mrs. Grey, welcome to Paris, France. We will be touching down at Charles De Gaulle in approximately 20 minutes. It’s about 6pm here in France and we will be departing tomorrow at 8pm for Athens. Please buckle your seatbelts and prepare for landing.”
France. Of course, I want to see France. I heard him mention it to Jason, but I didn’t think we would be staying. I thought we’d be moving on right to Athens after a refuel or something. I’ve never been here and I’m so stricken with the language that I think I may have been French in a past life. Well, I don’t really believe in that sort of thing, but if I did, I would have been French.
We’ve had a fairly large breakfast of croissants, scrambled eggs, sausage, crepes, orange juice and coffee. I feel like I’m going to burst as we are trying to get through this huge city this place calls the airport. Suddenly, my stilettos don’t feel as comfy and I’m wondering if all of that sausage and shit are going right to my feet.
After we make our way through the airport, Christian is approached by two official looking men in black suits. I’m nervous at first, but Christian appears to be expecting them. They quickly dispense with formalities and begin to discuss protocol as we walk towards the parking area. They are carrying on the entire conversation in French, but of course, I speak French. They discuss where we may be going for the evening, where we will be spending the night, tourist attractions that we should see during our day trip—that sort of thing. Christian informs them that he has been to France before, but this is my first time. One of them immediately says something that gets on my bad side, something along the lines of keeping an eye on the little lady or she might get hypnotized by the “pretty lights” and wander off somewhere. Seriously? Christian throws a look over at me, but he’s too late…
“Excusez-moi” I say to the bald, Bruce Willis-wanna-be, “elle parle Français.”
His face goes pale and his friend laughs at him a bit. That’s right, you pompous asshole. I’m more than just a pretty fucking face. Is that all that they see when they see us, a rich handsome man and his bracelet? I mean, it really doesn’t matter what they think of me in the long run, but seriously—will everyone just see me as a dimwitted boob?
Christian put his hand on my arm and tries to soothe me, telling me not to let it bother me and that the idiot wouldn’t be speaking of me that way again. I’m already heated and can’t be consoled. My attitude has gone from zero to 60 in about three seconds, and I let Christian know exactly what I think of this chauvinistic asshole, careful to insert that I am not some scattered-brained bimbo, so he should be more careful what addlepated nonsense he allows to fly out of his mouth in my presence—all in French, of course. I top the conversation off with a good stiff insult in English—something about meat-headed Neanderthals and being able to take him down with a chop to his throat.
“Madame, I do speak English,” he says in a heavy French accent, trying to use my own tactic against me, no doubt.
“Good!” I snap at him. “That way, I don’t have to worry about anything being lost in translation!” I stand with my hands on my hips waiting for a snappy comeback. I’m left waiting when he looks at Christian then back at me.
“Pardonnez-moi, Madame. It won’t happy again.” I just bet it won’t. I shake my head knowing that Christian is glaring at him behind my back and turn my attention to the City of Love… or is it the City of Lights? Who cares? I’m here and I don’t have time for this asshole. I’m in Paris!
“We’re only here for 24 hours?” I say to Christian, effectively ignoring “Bruce.”
“Yes, but I promise that we will make the most of it,” he says.
“Well, let me start by saying that I don’t want to spend a moment inside of a stuffy old museum. If I know you, we’ll be back here with more time to spare. Right now, I want to see the sights and be a tourist.” Christian pulls me close to him.
“Meathead was right about one thing, Baby. You do need to be careful. Paris is full of scam artists, con men, and pickpockets—and they target tourists. So stay close.”
“Now, see? There’s a way to say that so that I don’t feel like a mindless trophy wife. That was it.” I sigh heavily. “I just hate having to prove myself everywhere I go. I have to prove that I really love you; that I’m not out for your money; that I have more sense than a watermelon. It’s gets so tiring.” He kisses me on the forehead.
“You don’t have to prove anything, Butterfly. Who are these people and why should we care?”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I mumble. Nobody is ever questioning his motives when it comes down to me, only mine when it comes to him. Will I be under this type of scrutiny forever?
“Yeah, I can understand that.” He kisses me gently on my neck. “I promise to make the ride worth your while,” he says, smiling a full 32-teeth smile at me.
“Oh, cut it out,” I say, hitting him playfully. “I’m not mad at you. It’s the ‘meatheads’ of the world that are getting me down.” Shit, I miss Chuck and Jason already. “Can we go now?”
“Yes, Baby,” he says, taking my hand and leading me to… what? Of course, a black Audi.
“Of course you can find an Audi in France,” I say stepping into the car while Christian holds the door. I look around for the Eiffel Tower, but I can’t see it. We’re in France… Paris! How can I not see the Eiffel Tower?
“You’ll see it later, Butterfly,” Christian whispers as he climbs into the car behind me. “It’s on the other side, about an hour southwest of here.”
“An hour?” I ask. “We’re pretty far away.”
“Far enough, but once we get into central Paris, everything is right there.” That’s good enough for me. Stay close, he says. That won’t be hard. I snuggle right up to him and get ready to enjoy the ride. From what I could tell, the hotel is approximately 20 to 25 miles away from the airport, but it was still an hour-long ride. I couldn’t figure out why that was the case until we got off the highway. Then I figured out why. The speed limit in Paris averages 30 to 50 kilometers per hour. That’s about 18 to 30 miles per hour if you’re lucky. We were driving at a crawl.
A little over an hour later, we drive into central Paris. The energy changes immediately—beautiful architecture and hordes of people and cars around like it’s the middle of the day. I hate to admit that Meathead was right, but the lights are truly beautiful. I look out of the window like a kid in a candy store.
“Christian! Look!” I exclaim as I spot the Eiffel Tower. Finally! I remember looking at pictures of the Eiffel Tower when I was a kid and talking about how badly I wanted to go there one day. And now, here it is! Right in my line of vision! It looks to still be a few miles away, but I can see it!
“It is pretty remarkable, isn’t it?” Christian says as I beam at him, looking from his smile to the tower—two of the world’s wonders, as far as I’m concerned. “Wait until you see it up close.” Now I feel like a tourist—a full-on, giddy, stars in my eyes, wandering-off-with-the-twinkly-lights tourist, and I don’t give a damn what Meathead thinks! Maybe this is why the speed limit is so slow. They don’t want you to miss anything.
People are walking everywhere on the streets of Paris. There are probably more people walking than there are cars. It’s still daylight and the architecture is phenomenal. The Eiffel Tower is coming closer and closer into view and I’m getting more and more restless. To my dismay, we don’t continue on to the Eiffel Tower. However, we do turn into one of these Parisian architectural masterpieces—a five-story, white mansion with pillars and wrought-iron gates complete with a doorman in a full-length green velvet coat. He opens the door to the Audi with a flourish.
“Madame, Monsieur, bienvenue à l’hôtel Shangri-la,” he says, waving his hands like they do in the movies, beckoning us to exit the car and enter the hotel. Christian steps out first, thanking the doorman, then reaches in for me. In true, starry-eyed fashion, I take his hand and step out of the Audi.
Christian tucks my hand into his elbow and leads me up the stairs and through a set of tall, white, paned-glass double doors into the hotel. We walk through the foyer and another set of tall double doors—black this time—into the lobby, which is a grand hallway with brown and white marble flooring with beautiful designs. Doors on my right and left boast luxurious lounges reminiscent of the late 18th century, as are the tables, chandeliers, vases, and artwork that deck the main lobby.
“Now, I know how much of an intellectual you are, so I thought you might appreciate that in addition to being Paris’ premier hotel—the only one with such an exquisite view of the Eiffel Tower—the Shangri-La was once the home of Roland Boneparte, Napoleon’s great-nephew,” Christian tells me. I must admit, I am impressed. “It’s only been a hotel for the last few years. It’s said that although Prince Roland could appreciate this tasteful little corner of Paris and the importance of the location, he loathed the fact that it was in the shadow of the Eiffel tower. For that reason, he had his bedroom placed near the front on the mansion since the rooms in the rear had a view of the river and the tower.”
“Really?” I say, seductively, enjoying the sound of my stilettos landing on the polished marble floor. “You’re very learned on the history of this hotel, Mr. Grey. I’m quite impressed.”
“We aim to please, Mrs. Grey,” he says, leaning down to place a soft kiss on my lips. It sends heat right through me. I don’t know what’s going on with me lately. I can’t seem to get enough of this man. I control myself as he leads me to the front desk that’s hidden off in one of the wings that branch off the main hallway.
“Bonjour Madame. J’ai une réservation sous le nom de Christian Grey.”
“Oui, monsieur,” the clerk says, looking down at her computer and typing away. “Vous êtes dans la suite Shangri-La…”
She gestures to a bellhop and gives him instructions to take us and our luggage to the Shangri-La suite. Meathead and his sidekick wait for us in the main lobby. We are taken down hallways and up marble staircases and elevators to this lovely room with extremely tall doors. The doors take a real key! We are escorted into a suite decorated in beautiful fall colors—comfy couches and chairs, a dining area that seats eight, and a kitchen–all in the large main room. It is decorated in brown, tan, and ecru with touches of gold. I haven’t seen the bedroom yet as it is behind closed doors down some hallways and I am mesmerized by what I see before me…
There are glass walls that stretch the length of the room and wrap around the corner to meet the kitchen. There is a beautiful wooden terrace with a glass rail that wraps around the suite all that way back until I can’t see where it goes. There is a sitting area and a dining area out there and I think I can see a lounging area around on the side. Standing there in all its glory staring back at me is the Eiffel Tower. I can see it standing right here in my suite and it’s close—very close. Christian comes behind me and puts his arms around my waist.
“You like?” he says softly in my ear.
“Yes,” I breathe, mesmerized by the structure in front of me against the slightly dusk sky. “I like… very much.”
“Mmm,” he says, sniffing my neck and pulling me closer to him. “You sound so sexy. Too bad we’re only here for one night or I’d fuck you all night staring at that thing.” Fuck, that sounds hot! I take a deep breath and lean back on his shoulder.
“Christian,” I whisper, putting my hands over his around my waist. My voice must have set something off in him, because I feel his body stiffen and he quickly spins me around to face him. I gasp as he pulls my body against his—hard! He’s gazing down at me and his look is feral, hungry. He grabs a healthy handful of my hair and pulls hard, causing me to gasp again, and pant this time. While I’m looking at the ceiling with my head pulled back as far as it can go, his tongue is traveling over my neck, up my throat, and across my jaw. I swallow hard when his lips get to mine but he doesn’t kiss me.
“Your hair is so goddamn long,” he hisses.
“Yes,” I reply. It’s longer than it has ever been.
“Don’t cut it,” he commands me.
“Okay,” I breathe almost immediately, before he closes his mouth over mine, devouring me in succulent kisses.
Although I wanted to fuck her right there in the hotel, we didn’t have time. I have plans for tonight and I don’t want them to be ruined. Certain things have to be saved for nightfall in Paris, and if you miss your chance, its gone.
We leave the Shangri-La on foot to get the full effect of the Paris experience with our French security in tow, Norbert and Adrien—or as Butterfly refers to him, Meathead. I keep her close to me as I am only too familiar with the thieves and pickpockets in Paris. I pay particular attention to her as we stroll down Rue Boissière, keeping her on the inside of the sidewalk away from the curb. Anyone who tries to walk by on her side is met with a menacing glare and the wall of Meathead behind and to the right of her. Everyone that passes us has to go by me and Norbert, a concept that I think dissuades hopeful pickpockets.
Butterfly seems blissfully unaware as we stroll the half mile to our destination. The street is very narrow and there isn’t a lot of pedestrian traffic until we get closer to Avenue Klèber, where I tuck Butterfly under my arm and she snuggles in for the last hundred or so feet of our stroll. A left turn on Klèber and a right on Saint-Didier brings us to Le Dokhan’s Hotel, which houses Le Dokhan’s bar—an exceptional champagne bar with expert sommeliers to aid in your wine-tasting experience.
“A little more history for my beautiful intellectual,” I say to Butterfly as I pull out a chair for her. “La Dokhan’s is Paris’ first champagne bar. As you can see, it’s elegant yet cozy,” I gesture around us at the paneled walls and comfortable chairs. “It’s decorated in Baroque style I think…” I pause for confirmation.
“Yes,” she says in a sultry voice with a sultrier smile, “this is Baroque… late 18th century, evidenced by the gold-framed paneling and the chandeliers. It’s stunning, Christian.” I have to admit that I pleased that she’s pleased. I take my seat next to her and a sommelier is by our side in no time. I request bottles of three high-quality champagnes and caviar along with bread and cheese, cashews, and sweet cakes. I chose bottles instead of a degustation in case Butterfly tasted something that she liked and wanted more.
“Have you ever done a proper champagne tasting, Butterfly?” I ask as I tilt her glass and pour an ample sampling of our first selection, a Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame 2004.
“I’ve been to a wine tasting or two, if you recall,” she purrs, no doubt referring to our weekend in Napa. I have to admit that my dick twitches a bit at the recollection. I turn a seductive gaze to her and her squirm and lip biting tells me that she immediately gets my meaning. No use in sitting here hot and bothered all alone.
“Don’t bite your lip,” I warn softly, and her tongue momentarily replaces her tongue. Oh hell, that’s not much different. I turn my attention back to our flutes. “It’s not much different than wine tasting, but there are slight nuances to appreciating a good French champagne.” I hand her the flute and begin to demonstrate in a low, mellow voice. “First, you tilt the flute like this, and examine the bubbles. You’re examining their persistence… regularity… and finesse.” I look over at her and she’s watching me with hungry eyes. “You’re not looking at your champagne, Butterfly.”
“Huh?” she says, a little dazed.
“The champagne. You should be examining it,” I croon.
“Oh. Oh! Yes… right. Like this, right? You said persistence… and finesse?” She’s attempting to recover and trying to focus on the wine. I slide my free arm around her, eliciting a shiver and a gasp. She would fuck me right here on the floor if I let her.
“Yess,” I whisper, extending the “s” just a little, “finesse. Now, you want to examine the dress of the champagne.” I say suggestively, bringing my lips a little closer to her ear on the word dress. “The dress is the color of the champagne. What would you say is the dress of this champagne, Butterfly?” She sighs softly and examines her glass.
“Gold,” she says, softly. “Almost amber.”
“Very good,” I commend her. “The darker the color, the longer it has been aged. Seeing that this is a 2004 bottle, I’d say that you’ve gotten the dress precisely. Now, I want you to swirl your glass like this,” I swirl the glass gently, allowing the wine to lubricate the glass then fall. “You’re looking at the tears now, the drops that fall down the inside of the flute. What do you see?” She swirls her glass and examines it carefully.
“They look… heavy,” she says.
“Yes,” I whisper again. “That’s right. This means this promises a smooth flavor and flow. Now, you are going to smell it. Now, watch me. This is not for wimps.” I smile and wink at her. I cover my entire nose with the glass, leaning my head forward so that all parts of the rim are touching some part of my face on the right side. I inhale deeply into the right nostril then repeat the move on my left side. Closing my eyes, I try to identify as many aromas as I can. “You are looking for familiar aromas. Anything that can tell you what flavors you might taste in the wine. Try it.”
More diligent in her task, Butterfly sniffs the wine like an experienced taster and closes her eyes. “I smell peaches,” she says, “and something citrus…”
“Excellent,” I say. “Bergamot.” She turns to me with an accomplished smile. I reward her with one of my own. “Now, you’re going to swirl it a little harder to release the molecules of the Pinot. Then, you’re going to sniff it again.” She swirls again, mimicking my move, and smells it again. “What do you smell now?”
“Wow!” she exclaims softly. The Bouquet has been released and the champagne in more voluptuous and full-bodied. The flavor promises to tantalize the tongue. “I can detect vanilla and… apricot, I think… and… bread?” she asks at the end. I was wondering if she would pick that up.
“Brioche, to be exact,” I tell her. “Your nose is impeccable, Mrs. Grey,” I say softly, eliciting a blush from her. “Now comes the fun part—the tasting. This should bring the final flavors and aromas out of the champagne if you do it properly.”
“I didn’t get them all?” she asks, disappointed.
“You got more than most, Baby,” I tell her, kissing her suggestively on the cheek to maintain our playful atmosphere, “but yes, there’s a few more. Now, you want to take a small amount in your mouth and grumer the wine. You tilt your head forward just a bit and allow small amounts of air into your mouth before you swallow or spit the champagne. It allows you to exhale the aromas while they stimulate the nasal path of the mouth and the receptors of the nose. It’s called retro-olfaction.” She smiles.
“I understand that part,” she says.
“Good. In our case, we swallow.” I say seductively.
“We certainly do,” she suggests. Oh, fuck, she’s killing me!
“Do you understand about the attack, mid-palate, and final palate?”
“I do a bit, but why don’t you explain it again?” she mewls, leaning closer to me… she smells of heat and it’s starting to get to me, but I love our game, so I just keep going.
“The attack is the taste of the champagne the first moments you taste it. Is it pure, ample, elegant, or disappointing? The mid-palate will help you identify if the acidity balances with the softness. It will also help you with the Bouquet—to identify new aromas that you couldn’t determine with just smell.” I look into her ocean-blue eyes and I see nothing but intense desire that matches mine. Has she heard anything that I said? She is so hot, I’m having a hard time not slamming her on my lap and thrusting into her right here and now. Her lips are parted and she’s panting a bit, so I know that she’s thinking the same thing.
“You… um… finished with the mid-palate. Is there more?” she asks, breathy. I return my focus to what I was saying though I know that Greystone is a little angry and a tad bit hard to control.
“Yes,” I nearly groan, “the final palate—the lingering of the flavor. Is it brief… or is it long and intense?” I pause and let my words sink in, watching her shiver a bit at the innuendo. “Is it acidic, or is it elegant? Harmonious…? Mellow…?” Each word elicits a wanton stare from her. I take a drink of my champagne and grumer it three times before I allow it to slide down my throat. “Taste your champagne, Baby.”
Without taking her eyes off of me, she takes a drink of her champagne, grumers it perfectly, and swallows. I instinctively swallow with her, attempting to taste her wine in my throat as well as mine. When she does, a small drop escapes out of the corner of her mouth. I don’t know if she did that on purpose and I don’t care. I lean forward and clean the drop of champagne that has slid down her jaw before closing my lips over hers and kissing her deeply.
“Delicious,” I whisper. “What do you taste?” Her eyes are still closed.
“It’s crisp… full and silky… almond and… jasmine…” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “It lingers.”
“You like it?” I croon.
“Yes, very much,” she breathes.
“There’s two more.”
“I know.” She gets the words out before I close my lips over hers again. For a few precious moments, we are the only ones in the room. I disappear in her kiss and sate myself the only way that I can at the moment. Her lips and tongue taste divine, of vanilla and peaches… and Ana. I taste her until I’m satisfied to release, but only for right now. Public displays of affection aren’t as taboo in Paris as they are in the States, as evidence by the fact that our cheeses and treats are on the table when we snap out of kissing stupor.
“Let’s try the next one, shall we?” I say, softly.
We snack on various cheeses and French breads with the caviar and blini. Our other two champagnes are an Alfred Gratien Cuvee Paradis Brut and a Nicolas Feuillatte Brut Chardonnay. The Chardonnay has hints of pear and honeysuckle—clearly not aged as long as La Grande Dame, but pleasant nonetheless. The Alfred Gratien is a pleasant surprise for both of us with a Bouquet of honey and nuts and the lingering palate of gingerbread! It goes well with the sweet cakes, which were very sweet, but we both admit that we prefer the La Grande Dame overall as it is the only glass that we both finished.
Nightfall has finally come to Paris, which is perfect timing for my second surprise. When we leave Le Dokhan’s, a beautiful lighted carriage awaits us. It looks like Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage and it’s being pulled by a white race shire. The company normally does its last tour at 9 and doesn’t go where I want it to go. However, the adage holds true—money goes a long way. Seeing Butterfly bounce up and down like a little girl makes it worth every penny.
I help her into the lighted ball carriage and off we go down Raymond Poincaré Avenue and onto Victor Hugo Avenue. The night air is brisk and Butterfly is loving it, evidenced by one of the biggest smiles I have ever seen on her face. Paris lights are fascinating and I have my wife snuggled contentedly under my arms, kissing me gratefully and smiling like a kid at Christmas. Our ride is peaceful except for the occasional car that wants us to get out of the way, and Butterfly comments how she expected the traffic flow to be on the left side of the street instead of the right like she sees on television. I told her that not all countries outside of the United States drive on the left side instead of the right, and remind her about when we were in Anguilla last year. She snuggles in again and we enjoy our ride.
While we are riding down the streets of Paris in our “ball of light” Norbert and Adrien have gone back to the hotel to get the Audi and the meet us at our next destination. We travel up the Boulevard de Clichy and make a U-turn.
“No!” Butterfly gasps when she sees the unmistakable lighted windmill come into view. “You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not,” I tell her as the carriage travels down the road.
“Oh, my God! I’ve always wanted to come here!” She exclaims. The carriage stops and Norbert and Adrien approach.
“Madame, Monsieur,” Adrien greets with a nod. I nod in greeting as well, but Butterfly is having none of it. I guess I better tell her that they will be coming with us to Greece as well. I get out of the carriage and help Butterfly down. She smiles at the driver who returns her smile, tipping his hat. Butterfly takes my arm and we proceed to the incredibly long line to get into the Moulin Rouge.
“Monsieur Grey!” I look around to see who is calling my name. Adrien is tipping the carriage driver who is having a hard time leaving as patrons leaving the last show are trying to hire him. “Monsieur Grey!” I follow my name and find Norbert coming toward me. “Vous ne avez pas à attendre, monsieur. Votre table est prête. Suivez-moi se il vous plaît.” We follow Norbert into the cabaret to the disapproving eyes of many of the patrons in line. A hostess guides us through the dinner theater and shows us to our seats. I asked for a table that was close to the stage but not too close so that we could look forward at the show instead of looking up. He assists Butterfly with her chair and announces that he will return with our champagne.
“More champagne,” Butterfly says. “I don’t think I should. I won’t be able to walk by the time this night is over.”
“Don’t worry, Baby. It’s only a half bottle.” She frowns.
“What do they do with the other half?” she asks. I frown back.
“That’s a good question.”
It turns out to be a moot question as we are so engrossed in the show that neither of us even touch the champagne. The title of the show is Féerie and it’s been playing at the Moulin Rouge since 1999. It’s a fantastic show with elaborate costumes, wonderful singers, fabulous dancers, and skin… lots and lots of skin! The introduction is composed of all of the performers in the show. They are wearing white sequined tuxedos and singing and dancing. Not far into the song, while the men show their fancy dance steps, the women remove tear-away pants and dance around in thongs boasting buns of steel. Now, I know what’s coming next, just not to what degree.
I mean these women are gorgeous, and there are men up there too, but I don’t notice them much. As the introduction finds the dancers filtering off the stage, the next scene displays these beautiful women with angelic voices that are parading around in what looks like red balls of feathers. Their asses are displaying flimsy thongs and are connected to mile-long legs and shiny stilettos. They are singing—in French of course—about dancing and about the amazing Féerie when their lovely red feather ball costumes plume out become red feather skirts… and here come the tits—tits as far as the eye can see. There are at least twenty women walking around on the stage, singing and dancing, in draping body jewelry, dramatic headdresses, lots of red feathers, sexy stilettos, and tits—beautiful pink tits that look like they’ve been sitting on ice for the last three days.
I look over at Butterfly and she looks stunned and starry-eyed… yes, starry-eyed. Her gaze is locked on the stage at the beautiful topless women parading around singing and dancing and shaking their asses in the most famous cabaret in the world. When the song is over, she claps wildly and smiles at me before quickly turning her eyes back to the stage to avoid missing any of the show.
Now… I’m a happily newly-married man. My wife is sitting across from me at a burlesque show immensely enjoying the performance. What’s the performance—beautiful hard-bodied, scantily-clad women with endless legs shaking their bare asses on stage with nipples that are a mile long. I have no desire to take any of these women home, but I am a man, and dammit, I’m going to watch!
The show goes on and the Doriss Girls and the Doriss Dancers perform amazing dances and beautiful interpretations of the splendor of Moulin Rouge from yesteryear through today. From the description and the precision of the dance, I would say that the Doriss Dancers are as famous in Paris as the Radio City Rockettes are in New York—maybe even more so. They interpret an Indonesian pirate show, a circus, and dances throughout the decades for an hour and a half, still in beautiful costumes and perky tits. The last half-hour or so was acrobats, ventriloquists, and a spectacular Roller Pilar performance. Butterfly is on her feet applauding energetically at the end of the show. Good God, what more could a man ask for?
“I take it you liked the show,” I say as we walk out of the theater with Norbert in tow. Adrien has gone to get the car.
“Oh, Christian, it was fantastic! I’ve never seen anything like it!” she raves.
“You know they have these types of shows in Vegas all the time,” I tell her.
“Nothing like this, I’m sure,” she says. I’m not sure what she means.
“You know that movie Showgirls with Elizabeth Berkley?” I ask and she nods. “That’s real.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is, but that’s nothing like this,” she protests. “This is real entertainment! Precision! Detail! Plot and Performance! Not just some naked woman gyrating on stage for a bunch of horny men.” I raise my eyebrow at her.
“Butterfly, the Vegas showgirls aren’t much different than this. As a matter of fact, they aim to be very much like this,” I tell her.
“I still think it’s different,” she says flippantly, dropping her eyes to the floor. I examine her for a moment.
“Have you ever seen a Las Vegas show?” I ask her and she shakes her head without raising her eyes. Of course she hasn’t. The only time she has spent in Vegas is with the Mortons and with you, you moron. “Well, I’ll tell you this,” I say putting my arm around her and pulling her to me. “Like most burlesque shows, they do endeavor to be as fabulous as the Moulin Rouge, and like most burlesque shows, they don’t quite make the mark.” She looks up at me.
“Are you saying that just to be agreeable?” she asks, a smirk threatening her lips.
“Yes and no,” I tell her. “I’ve been to a Las Vegas show before. They are good, don’t get me wrong, but not as good as Moulin Rouge,” I concede. She raises her eyebrows at me now.
“Had nothing to do with the fantastic tits?” she asks, skeptically.
“Had everything to do with the tits,” I say shamelessly. She gasps. “Hey! I’m a man. Would you even believe me if I had said anything else?” She eyes me for a moment then playfully elbows me in the side.
“Asshole,” she says as Adrien brings the car around and we climb inside. A few minutes into the ride, Butterfly snuggles in close to me.
“You’re tired, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Mmm, just a little. I didn’t get much sleep last night… this afternoon… you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” I kiss her forehead. “Do you think you have the energy for one more stop?” She looks up at me.
“We have one night in Paris. I’ll go wherever you take me.”
“That’s my girl. We’ll be there in just a few minutes…”
As promised, a few minutes later, Butterfly is staring straight up at a golden lighted Eiffel Tower. She is speechless, and I can’t help but recall Adrien’s words about the little lady and the bright lights. She’s just staring at it and I can’t help but wonder what is going through her mind right now. A few minutes after we get there, it begins—the late night light show. Butterfly squeals like a school girl, clapping her hands and bouncing around on her stilettos. She looks glorious. The lights are twinkling in her gorgeous blue eyes and joy is emanating from her every pore. She is happy and carefree and beautiful. The breeze catches one of her super-long locks and whips it behind her every now and again. I can see her in my mind’s eye, running around like a carefree child, skipping and happy and laughing, until she comes upon a cage. There’s a heart inside. It’s whole and intact, but it’s dead. She hugs it to her chest and cheek—like a favorite stuffed toy—and it comes to life, beating feverishly and hard, pumping loud and red and powerful. She tucks it under her arm and continues to skip and laugh, carrying this once dead heart around with her.
I watch the dead heart, pumping and pumping, harder and harder, until I can hardly breathe. Of course, it’s my heart. She gave me life and love and happiness and asked for nothing in return, but her spirit beckons me, calls to me and alerts me that nothing less than all of me is acceptable. I will give her that. I will give her all of me, because I know that she will take care of me and my once dead heart.
“It’s beautiful, Christian,” she breathes. “It’s everything I dreamed it would be.”
“Yes, it is,” I say, never taking my eyes off her. She turns to me and catches me staring. I don’t know how long I watched her, but the light show is over and the Eiffel Tower is now back to its nighttime shade of gold.
“Je t’aimais avant d‘être créé,” I say to her. “Tu es mon début et ma fin. Sans toi, je ne suis rien. Je vais t’aimer jusqu’à mon dernier souffle et même mon âme continuera à t’aimer au-delà pour l’éternité. Tu me complète. Tu m’as apporté la vie et l’amour. Tu es tout mon être, Lady Anastasia. Embrasse-moi, mon amour.”
She gasps twice and quickly releases her breath. She looks as though she might lose her balance for a moment and I am set to catch her. A single tear falls out of each eye and down each cheek. Longing blue eyes stare at me as I brush away the tears from her face. She grabs the lapels of my jacket and pulls me down to her. We share a kiss, deep and soulful—one of those cliché, once-in-a-lifetime kisses under the Eiffel Tower.
I open my eyes and I’m in bed alone. It’s about 3:30 in the morning. Butterfly was unusually tired when we got back to the hotel room and since we need to adjust our inner clocks anyway, we went straight to bed. Now in the wee hours of the morning, she’s not here. I get out of bed dressed only in what God gave me and go in search of her.
I find her easily enough. It’s not like she could really go anywhere, but she’s standing at the glass wall, looking out that the still-golden Eiffel Tower. The room is completely dark and something from outside is shining inside—the moon? We’re up too high for streetlights. I don’t know. I do know that I can see her silhouette through her long-sleeved, full-length nightgown. I had wondered why she brought that thing on our honeymoon. It covers every part of her and at first glance, doesn’t look sexy at all. Now, I can see just how thin it is with the light from the night shining through it, and Greystone instantly goes from interested to quite attentive. Like a compass pointing the direction, he guides me right to her. She is aware of my presence and starts to move to face me.
“Don’t turn around.” Her breath catches slightly. “Tell me what you see.”
“I see a beautiful city with people still walking down the Avenue d’Iéna way too late but enjoying to the night air and each other’s company.”
“What else?” I slowly approach her, closing the distance and aching to touch her.
“I see a most beautiful edifice… lit up against the night sky… something I’ve wanted to see my whole life and never thought I would.”
“Never?” I ask as I finally close the space between us, my erection pressing against her butt and back. She inhales sharply.
“I thought I’d be much older before I ever got the chance to see it. I thought I would be alone when I got here… not unhappy, but alone, enjoying the splendor of it all.” Her breathing increases.
“What are you thinking now?” I ask, sliding my hands under her arms and around to her beautiful breasts, teasing them mercilessly through her nightgown.
“Ah!” she gasps. “That I’m glad I’m not here alone. I’m glad that I’m here with you.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Grey, you’re not getting off that easily. Tell me what you’re thinking.” She’s panting and I pinch and tease her nipple.
“Mmmm!” she whines. “Mmmm…that I wanted you to fuck me under the Eiffel Tower… in the Eiffel Tower… on top of the Eiffel Tower.”
“Now we’re talking. Hands on the glass.” She puts her hand flat on the window. “Higher.” She raises her hands and spreads them further apart on the glass. “I can’t fuck you on top of the Tower, so we have to do the next best thing. Open your eyes.” As she opens her eyes, I lift her gown so that she can feel my skin against her, how hard I am, how deep I plan to fuck her against this glass. I lift her leg and place her foot on the wooden ledge that lines the glass wall. I position myself at her opening, bend my knees and slide into her. She whines loud and hard and the quivering begins almost immediately. This is going to be quick.
“Look at the people,” I tell her, still tormenting her breasts through her nightgown. “Do you think they can see us?”
“I…” She’s panting again. “No! No! They can’t see us!” She’s rising higher and higher and losing control of herself.
“Do you want them to see us?” I taunt, sliding deeply into her from behind as I hold her against me by her breasts, careful not to put too much weight on the glass.
“I don’t know…” she pants. “I don’t care…” She reaches back to grab my hair.
“On the glass!” I tell her, and she plants her hands flat on the glass again. I’m still cupping her breasts, still torturing her nipples, still driving into her pussy wrapping around me, grabbing me, and threatening to empty me at any moment.
“Fuck, your breasts are so goddamn perfect,” I growl as I feel her nipples pebble in my hand. Fuck, I’m going to blow. She feels so damn good and she’s whining and panting like crazy.
“Talk to me,” I hiss. “Tell me where we are.”
“The Tower!” she breathes. “The top of the Tower!” She’s shaking.
“Open your eyes!” I tell her, knowing that she has closed them again. “Do you see it?”
“There’s a couple watching us… in the corner,” I breathe in her ear. “He’s touching her breasts, like I’m doing yours.” I pinch harder and she cries out, trembling against me. “She groans as I fuck you. She wants him to fuck her the same way.” I stroke into her knowing that neither of us will last much longer.
“Ah! Oh God!” she squeaks. She is grabbing my dick so tight that I know it’s time, and I’m right behind her.
“Do you see the grate, Baby?” I ask, referring to the grate at the top of the Tower to keep idiots from jumping. “Do you see it, Baby?”
“Yes,” she says.
“No you don’t, not yet.” I say, sliding in and out of her. I grab her breast hard and pull her against me and onto me, her nipples unforgiving through her nightgown. She cries out again, her orgasm moments away.
“Close you eyes. Do you see them? Do you see him playing with her breasts?” In response, her breasts pebble harder against my hands as if they could.
“Yes! Yes! God, yes!” Yes, I know, Baby. You are so fucking hot and tight and getting wetter by the stroke.
“Do you see the grate?” I growl slowly, now thrusting into her.
“Yes! Fuck! Yes!” she screams.
“Grab the grate! Come for me, Baby! Come on, give it to me!” A few moments and strokes later, her fingers curl behind the glass as she groans loudly and her body stiffens with her orgasm.
“Oh, fuck, yes, Baby, come all over my dick,” I growl as I push into her chasing my hovering orgasm. Right when it’s about to strike, I reach under her gown and pinch her clit. She literally screams my name and grabs my hair as she is jolted into another orgasm or wild and crazy aftershocks—I don’t know which—and I am emptying hard inside of her.
“Fuuuuuuuck! Anastasia, fuuuuck!” I call out, my face buried between her neck and shoulder with her gown muffling my cries. Shit, that was intense. I am literally holding her up against me and I have no idea how I held this position, because my legs hurt like fuck now! I grab her by the waist and, still inside her, walk to the sofa and sit down with her on my lap. That was so damn intense, I could fucking fall asleep right here.
“It looks like… you liked… the visuals,” I pant, trying to catch my breath.
“Yes,” she breathes, chasing her own.
“You like… for people to… watch?” I ask, curious.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “I just know… that it was… hot as fuck… when you said it.” I half-chuckle.
“No one… can see my wife come,” I say, wrapping my arms around her and kissing her neck.
“That’s comforting,” she says, groggily, “although I’m sure someone… saw me come at the BDSM club last year… and She-Thing followed us to every room.” She yawns. Yeah, she saw us in the park on the hood of the car, too, but I don’t tell her that.
“That was different,” I say softly. “That was discreet and in the dark. Everyone was playing with someone. I can guarantee that no one saw us. No one was even paying attention… except for maybe She-Thing.” She giggles.
“Okay, enough about She-Thing, Mr. Grey. Take me to bed. I’m sleepy,” she says. I scoop her up bridal-style. “And thanks for Eiffel Tower sex.” I smile at her.
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Grey.”
I awake in Paris with my husband’s naked body wrapped around mine. Did we fuck in the Eiffel Tower last night? Was I dreaming? I could swear…
“Grab the grate…”
Shit! My nipples respond immediately. I see a young couple. He’s standing behind her. His hands are under her shirt pinching her breasts.
“Do you see them…?”
We were at the Tower…
“I can smell you.” His voice only partially brings me back to the here and now. The sun is up. It’s no longer dark and I’m not at the Eiffel Tower… but I am burning up—completely naked, and I am burning up. He looks up at me from his position on my chest and I know that it’s evident.
He can smell me.
He can smell my arousal.
Without a word, he slides down the bed and buries his head between my legs, opening my lips with his and deliciously tonguing my clitoris.
I’ve learned a lesson about breakfast in France. It’s usually a light affair—croissants and coffee, maybe. Normally, I’m okay with that, but I had one meal yesterday and that was breakfast on the plane. We nibbled on some treats at the wine tasting, but that was nothing substantial. Although my “day” consisted of about seven or eight hours with the time zone change, I am freaking starving! Bread and coffee simply will not do! So croissants and coffee quickly became bacon and eggs, baguettes, crepes, French muffins, lots and fresh fruit and cream cheese, orange juice… and blood sausage. The moment I see the black, greasy creation, my stomach began to turn and I had flashbacks of the murder burger. Christian has to remove it completely from the suite as the smell of it just makes me want to hurl. Once it’s gone, we hungrily dig in to our not-so-French breakfast before getting dressed for our last day in Paris.
At Christian’s urging to wear something comfortable, I wear a flowy white blouse with a pair of jeggings and my high-healed boots. I only brought two outfits to the hotel with me, so this is the winner, but it’s a bit of a struggle to bring the jeggings over my butt. Dammit! I hope today’s activities involve some walking since I just ate half of the kitchen and my ass looks like it covers two damn area codes! Thank God these things are stretchy!
“Is there music playing and I just can’t hear it?” Christian asks when he walks in and I am doing the jeans-stretch dance. I throw an impatient glare at him.
“I’ve been eating like a cow, Christian,” I lament, thinking of all the emotional eating I’ve been doing in the weeks prior to the wedding. “My clothes are tighter and my butt’s going to explode out of my pants any second.”
“You got that right,” he says in a low voice, and I don’t think I was meant to hear it. Son of a bitch!
“I mean that in the best way, Baby,” he says noting my sharpened glare. “Your ass is rounder… and fucking delicious!” He’s gazing at my ass in the jeggings and I don’t know if he’s serious or kidding.
“I don’t know how I should take that,” I say, not sure if I believe him or not.
“Take it however you want, but I want some of that.” He walks behind me and cups my ass roughly. “And you’re wearing stiletto boots. That ass is going to be rocking all day and I have to control my dick,” he laments. He groans as he presses his already hardening dick against my ass. Okay, I believe him.
“Are you going to be comfortable walking around in those all day?” he asks. I look at my boots then over my shoulder at him.
“Have you met me?” I ask him incredulously. He chuckles and releases me and we head for the door.
The architecture in Paris is indescribable—pillars and statues and fountains everywhere. I’ve seen pictures and read about Paris plenty, but seeing it live and in color is extraordinary! It’s like the entire city was built specifically for you to look at it in awe. From a port just behind the Shangri-la, we take a short cruise down the River Seine past such sights as the Museum of Modern Art, the Palais de la Découverte, and the Musée d’Orsay. As soon as I see the beautiful Louvre on our left side, the boat pulls into a port to let us off. Now I know quite a bit about Paris. One thing I know is that there are oodles and oodles of famous museums here, but the Louvre is the crown jewel. We can’t possibly go to the Louvre today. There’s not nearly enough time. I haven’t done my research and I have no idea where in the Louvre the Mona Lisa is and I’ll never find Venus de Milo! I can’t go to the Louvre without seeing Venus de Milo! It’s sacrilege!
No doubt noting my anxiety and reading my mind like he always does, Christian says, “You can’t enjoy the Louvre in a day. You need at least three. We’ll get to it next time.” I sigh heavily, relieved that I won’t be clicking around the marvelous museum like a mad tourist looking for once-in-a-lifetime masterpieces and crying because I can’t find them. Once we disembark and find our way out of the port and up to the street, I finally see why we are here at this particular location that connects Institute de France to the famous Musée de Louvre.
We are on Pont des Arts… Love Lock Bridge.
I turn to face Christian in awe and there is a solid gold Louis Vuitton lock hanging from his finger. I never would have pegged him for a romantic. He shows me the back of the lock and it is engraved with our names—Anastasia and Christian Grey—and our wedding date of June 29, 2013.
I will not cry. I will not cry.
Silently, we unlock the lock and Christian finds a place for it on the bridge with the other locks of lovers who have come before us. I take a picture of it there on the bridge—the Love Lock Bridge in Paris. My heart is nearly jumping out of my chest.
“Shall we?” He holds the key up and I nod. He palms the key and holds it out to me. I kiss it then he kisses it, too, before launching it far out into the River Seine.
I stand there looking at our lock. To the passerby, it’s one of many locks on Love Lock Bridge. To me, it’s as bright as the sun, as large as a dinosaur and surely more beautiful than the Louvre itself. The Louis Vuitton insignia is on the underside of the lock so that you can only see the side with our names and wedding date. I’m gazing at the lock thinking that I once thought I would never be here, and if I did, I would be alone—looking at the declarations of others. Yet here I stand, having placed my own lock on the bridge with my husband the day after our wedding. Those tears that threatened to fall are burning my eyes, but I smile and shoo them away. This is an incredibly happy time, and Lord knows I’ve cried enough.
The Audi is waiting for us at the Institute de France to take us back across the river. We stop at the Place de la Concorde. I turn into a total tourist taking pictures of the Ferris Wheel and making Meathead take pictures of us at the Luxor Obelisk. I guess I should stop calling him Meathead since he’s going to be with us for the entire trip, but that’s not likely to happen. In his first encounter with me, he insulted me. He did attempt to make amends—he apologized. I guess I just feel a little slighted by the “just a pretty face” syndrome. It’s something that I rarely encountered before I met Christian—except at the shooting range, with the court ordered attendees in group therapy, and only once at the gym. I’m not looking forward to getting used to that treatment.
The last thing I want to do is piss off security. The last time that happened, I ended up handcuffed to a bed for several days.
We start our slow drive down the beautiful Avenue des Champs-Élysées. The first part of the Avenue is extraordinary landscaping, museums, and theaters. The ride is slow as is most of the automobile travel in Paris compared to the United States, but it’s quite enjoyable looking at the beautiful green trees and lovely architecture hiding behind them. Once you pass Franklin D Roosevelt circle, there’s another kind of landscape…
Shopping in Paris… on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées… I think I’m going to explode. I can hardly wait for the car to pull over. There’s an Amex Black burning a hole in my pocket!
I discover that although there are lots of places to shop on the Champs-Élysées, most of the places that I would expect to find on this famous road are actually lining streets that branch off of this famous road. It’s like this huge “Village Square of Shopping” of sorts, and the main vein is the Champs-Élysées. Instead of going down this road from Franklin D Roosevelt, we go down Avenue Montaigne. Christian informs me that since we are limited on time, this would probably be where I would get the most of the Paris shopping experience.
Dear Lord, I think I have died and gone to heaven! Dior, Armani, Valentino, Louis Vuitton and good God, the Chanel of it all! I think I’m going to faint.
Our first stop is Dolce & Gabbana. Oh my God, the clothes are dreamy. I decide to only purchase one dress because I would have to be going to the Prince’s Ball every night in order to be able to wear most of the clothes. Even their more casual clothing look more like something that “ladies who lunch” or someone straight off the Paris runway would wear. I know that’s the whole idea, but even as a billionaire’s wife, I think they were a bit too eccentric high-end for my taste—at least this particular location. The clothes are stunning, but they are the kind of clothes that would make you stand out in a group like a sore thumb unless everyone in the group was wearing the same thing that you’re wearing.
Ralph Lauren was a fun trip. I love their cashmere sweaters, so I bought four of those. I bought three pairs of the catskin stilettos sandals and two pair of the famous velvet Matalyn loafers with the embroidered crest that I plan to wear as slippers. I couldn’t leave without a couple of pairs of the ultra-soft over-the-knee socks. Not only are they fabulous for winter, but I know I could get into a lot of trouble with those puppies! Surprisingly, none of the jewelry or bags caught my eye. I did see a pair of boots that I liked, but I have a pair of Louboutins that look just like them. Christian tried to convince me to buy them anyway—he’s the king of excess—but I decide against them since the shopping day is young and there’s plenty more to see.
Fendi is about to open a new store on the Avenue Montaigne, but it’s not opening until the next day and we’ll be in Greece by then. Note to self, see if there is a Fendi somewhere in Greece.
I bought a really cute black and tan clutch from Chloé. However, this was the year of PVC, spikes, and mid-calf boots for Versace. Not quite my taste, I must admit, although there was one floor-length PVC dress with clear panels snaked throughout that I couldn’t help but see a fabulous domme night in my future… oo la la!
Deciding to save Chanel for last, we travel down the Avenue past Nina Ricci and Valentino to Armani, where I buy lots and lots of dreamy things including a pair of seriously sky-high stilettos and a sheer dress that Christian swears will never make it out of the penthouse. Norbert and Meathead had to bring the car to this stop because there was no way we were going to get these wares down the street.
“We were in Armani. Why didn’t you buy anything?” I ask Christian.
“None of the accessories caught my eye and I very rarely buy clothes off the rack,” he states matter-of-factly. I frown at him. I know he has the money to do whatever he wants, but isn’t that a bit elitist? Reading my thoughts, he answers, “My shoulders are quite broad, my chest is very wide and my waist is narrow. They don’t fit right if they fit at all. If I buy something, it has to be tailor-made or I have to get it tailored. Hence, I rarely buy off the rack unless it’s something that I really want.” I make a face, then rub his chest through his shirt.
“Very wide,” I say softly. He pulls me against him and I feel his dick twitch slightly in his jeans.
“You are a vixen, Mrs. Grey,” he growls in my ear before biting my earlobe and grabbing my ass right out in the open on the Avenue Montaigne.
“Behave, Mr. Grey,” I scold. “I can’t fuck you right here on the street.” He chuckles at me and kisses my nose.
“Come, Mrs. Grey. The Avenue awaits.”
Christian drags me over to Prada only to promptly leave me in the hands of Meathead when he sees Cesare Paciotti in Bottega Veneta. I can’t complain because he hasn’t purchased anything for himself. So off I go into Prada to buy more delicious dresses and to search for a pair of glasses that look more Jackie-O and less like Elton John. I found the cutest high-heeled fur-lined kidskin leather booties. They’ve got rugged soles like they are made for the snow. I can wear the in Seattle and not slip on the ice. Meathead is carrying my bags to the car just as Christian is exiting with several boxes. I swear I’ve never seen that man wear the same shoes twice.
“How often do you wear a single pair of shoes?” I ask him. He shrugs.
“Whenever the mood hits me,” he says. “I don’t really keep track.” I shake my head. “What?”
“You have shoes in your closet that I’ve never seen you wear. I can only assume that you’ve already worn them and don’t want to wear them again.” He shrugs again.
“If it becomes a problem for me, I’ll get rid of them,” he says.
“And do what with them?”
“I don’t know, donate them to charity, I guess.” I chuckle at his answer. I can see it now, a homeless man pushing a cart and wearing a pair of Cesare Paciotti leather shoes. Maybe that’s not what he meant, but that’s the picture that came to my head.
I thought I was going into Louis Vuitton just to buy a backpack and messenger bag. I was wrong. The styles in this store are utterly divine. These are the fashionista things that I would wear to work, to lunch with friends, to dinner with my husband. The jackets, the bags, the dresses, the sweaters, the boots, the pants and skirts—I am in love and have to stop myself from buying one of everything, but I certainly give that Amex a workout and begin to wonder if all of this stuff with fit on the damn plane! Christian put my out of my misery by arranging to have all but a few choice pieces shipped to Seattle. We had a similar experience at Dior, so we didn’t bother to bag anything. Everything is going to be shipped back to the States.
I have to say that I’m a bit tuckered out by the time we reach the House of Chanel. The exhaustion flies right out the window once I step inside. Holy Cow Batman! I am completely blown away by the splendor, opulence, and sheer richness of this place. The clothes are still a bit “one of a kind” for me, but the perfume and the jewelry… yes, yes, a thousand times, yes. May I please have a vat of Chanel No5 delivered to Escala on 4th in Seattle? Thank you ever so.
The diamonds… good Lord, the diamonds. I am drooling when Christian tells me to pick what I want.
“I can’t pick, Christian,” I whine. “It’s all too beautiful!” He chuckles at me.
“Wait here, Baby,” he says before going off with the woman who is helping us. I don’t want to call her a salesgirl. More like a diamond hostess, I should say. A few moments later while she is inconspicuously drooling over my husband, the three of us go to a separate room where Christian and I are greeted by a gentleman in a black suit. He smiles at me and guides me to a luxurious tan loveseat in front of a very large flat screen television. He says something to the man and after reaching into his wallet, hands the guy his Amex Black. Hmmm… I guess this particular purchase will be for his eyes only.
“Okay, Butterfly. I understand that there are lots of beautiful pieces to choose from and it’s going to be difficult if not impossible to choose what you like. So let’s take a look at the entire current collection and see what grabs you.”
What grabs me? Is he serious?
I sit in front of the flat screen and try not to drool over every single piece in the collection, particularly the Midnight and Charleston collection, but the Tuxedo and Cruise collections were stunning as well. Then there’s a Sunrise and a Sunset collection, a Muse collection, a Morning in Vendôme collection, Bubbles, Broadway, Symphony… I’m going to die trying to choose one.
“The time has come, My Love,” Christian says when the exquisite display is over. “Pick a collection.” A collection! Well, that makes me feel a little better. The Love Collection cost him $100,000. I know Chanel definitely won’t be any cheaper.
“Um…” I’m trying. I’m really trying to pick one. I can eliminate the Morning in Vendôme collection. I didn’t really like the yellow. The blue in the Muse and Cruise collections took away from the diamonds, but the pop of black in three of the collections really set off the sparkle. The other all-diamond collections were stunning as well which is making it hard to narrow it down. I think I’ll eliminate the Sunrise and Sunset collections, too. While they were very pretty, the color combinations seemed…
Suddenly all thoughts are wiped from my brain as my husband’s lips meet mine. Oh wow! His kiss is deep and makes me forget everything that I was thinking. He pulls his lips from mine, gently tugging at my bottom lip as we separate. “The first one that comes to mind,” he whispers looking in my eyes.
“Charleston,” I breathe.
“Good,” he says, kissing me gently again before turning to our host. “Send the Charleston collection and the Cométe necklace to my hotel in Greece—the Hotel Grande Bretagne. I will let them know that I am expecting an armored car delivery. Send the rest of the pieces to my address in Seattle.” Armored car? The rest of the pieces?
“Christian?” I can’t even form the question. Exactly how much did we spend? How many pieces did we buy?
“Every time we have a special occasion, you’re either wearing costume jewelry—very nice pieces, I might add—or the Love Collection. You really, really should have more to choose from.”
“But… armored car?” He leans in close to me.
“Baby, this is Chanel. There are a lot of diamonds going back to Seattle, and the amount of jewelry going to Greece is nothing to sneeze at. Yes, armored car.” I think it would probably be better for me not to know how much I’m going to be wearing.
“Cométe? The one that opens?” I ask. He nods. “Wow,” I say like a small child.
“We’re quite wealthy, Ana. It’s okay to live like it,” he says softly and I nod. I’m rich. I won’t let it go to my head, but God, do I love it!
“Okay,” I say with a smile.
“Good. Now it’s late and I want to get you fed,” he says, standing and reaching for my hand.
“It’s late? How late? I wanted to see the Arc de Triomphe.” He looks at his watch.
“So much later than I thought, but we can eat and we should still have time to see the Arc before we have to get back to the plane.” I take his hand and stand and not only do I get a little dizzy, but my feet hurt like hell!
“Shit! How long have we been walking?” I ask as Christian catches me in his arms.
“Several hours,” he answers. “It’s well past lunchtime—almost dinner. I know you wanted to see all of the shops and I didn’t want to interrupt you, but we won’t do this again.”
“Yes, Sir,” I say with a salute.
“Careful,” he warns, looking down at me. I stick my tongue out at him and after he has retrieved his credit card, we leave Chanel in search of sustenance.
“Excusez-moi, elle parle français.”—”Excuse me, she speaks French.”
“”Pardonnez-moi, Madame.”—”Pardon me, Madam.” (He was apologizing.)
“Madame, Monsieur, Bienvenue à l’hôtel Shangri-la.”—”Madam, Sir, welcome to the Shangri-la hotel.”
”Bonjour Madame. J’ai une réservation sous le nom de Christian Grey.”—”Hello, ma’am. I have a reservation under the name of Christian Grey.”
“Oui, monsieur. Vous êtes dans la suite Shangri-La.”—”Yes sir, you are in the Shangri-La suite.”
“Monsieur Grey! Vous ne avez pas à attendre, monsieur. Votre table est prête. Suivez-moi se il vous plait.”—”Mister Grey! You don’t have to wait, sir. Your table is ready. Follow me please.”
“Je t’aimais avant d‘être créé,” I say to her. “Tu es mon début et ma fin. Sans toi, je ne suis rien. Je vais t’aimer jusqu’à mon dernier souffle et même mon âme continuera à t’aimer au-delà pour l’éternité. Tu me complète. Tu m’as apporté la vie et l’amour. Tu es tout mon être, Lady Anastasia. Embrasse-moi, mon amour.”—”I loved you before I was created. You are my beginning and my end. Without you, I am nothing. I will love you through my last breath and even my soul will continue to love you for eternity. You made me whole. You brought me life and love. You are my whole being, Lady Anastasia. Kiss me, my love.”
There is a new board just for Paris. I find that too many pictures on one board gets to be overwhelming and the wedding had A LOT! The honeymoon will, too. The day trip to Paris is here: http://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/mending-dr-steele-a-day-in-paris/
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Love and handcuffs!