This is a work of 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…
Even though we left Seattle in the morning, it’s well into the evening when we get to Michigan, and after dark when we get to Stanley’s house. My husband held his breath almost the entire ride here from the airport, looking out of the window like he was examining exotic animals…
More like he was watching the apocalypse pass by before his very eyes.
We make our way to a suburb of Detroit called Farmington where Stanley lives. It’s a small town—I wouldn’t even consider it a city. The entire place is less than three square miles and again, I feel like I’m in Anguilla. Not to be confused with its neighboring—and much larger—city of Farmington Hills, Farmington is a tiny little municipality that looks as if it were cut right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Downtown Farmington is not more than three blocks total. The buildings all look like libraries and the restaurants like general stores.
About a minute and a half from downtown, we turn down a quiet street and arrive at Stanley’s house. Unlike the sprawling estates of neighboring Farmington Hills, this small town of about 10,000 people boasts quaint, comfortable family homes. It reminds me a lot of Montesano, only I have no idea how they fit so many people in such a small place. Montesano is about four times the size with only one-third the population.
We drive up the driveway of this small house and park in front of the two-car garage. I swear I expect for Florence Henderson to greet us at the door complete with Jan in the background whining, “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!” Well, only if Carol Brady was married to James Bond. I’ve never told anyone, but Carrick and his brothers look a lot like James Bond!
Sure enough, the James Bond from Goldeneye opens the door and ushers us inside, and I stand firmly by my conclusion.
“God, am I glad to see you guys… I hadn’t heard anything, so I thought you just decided not to come.”
Stanley and his brothers—including Freeman—are all carbon copies of Burt at various stages of his life. They couldn’t be more different though. Carrick screams power while Herman has this contemplative reservation about him. Stanley, on the other hand, makes you want to just hug him and bake him cookies.
Freeman can eat shit and die.
“What smells so good?” I ask as Stanley welcomes us into his home and closes the door behind us.
“That would be the lovely Lana whipping up some of her magic in the kitchen. Let me take your coats.”
We each hand Stan our coats and take seats in the living room. Christian and I sit on the loveseat while Carrick and Herman take a seat on the sofa.
“The rest of the ladies decided not to come?” Stan says. Carrick shakes his head.
“Grace had to work and Luma needed to get the children off to school. It was too short notice. Christian only informed me of this on Tuesday.” Stan’s brow furrows.
“Tuesday?” he says, bemused. “I’ve known about this for weeks!”
“Have you spoken to our dear brother?” Herman asks. Stan shakes his head.
“Not since he attacked Burtie,” Stan says.
“Well, we can’t prove it just yet, but we have reason to believe that Freeman intercepted our notices for the reading,” Carrick says.
“Come on, guys,” Stan says, smacking his lips. “Don’t you think you might be a bit paranoid? That’s a bit of a stretch.”
“Well, under normal circumstances, I would agree with you,” Carrick retorts, “but we learned about a month or so ago that Freeman was having me followed.”
“Followed?!” Stan exclaims. “What the heck for?”
“I have no idea…”
Carrick and Stan talk for a moment about the agency in Detroit that had been following Carrick, which doesn’t ring any bells with Stan. I listen to the brothers chat for a while with Christian interjecting about Lanie and Burt and their progress in California. He’s vague about details, not knowing how much Lanie and Burt would want to disclose. Stan knew nothing about the divorce, the IRS audit, or the piece of ass that Freeman has had on tap for God only knows how long throughout his marriage. His distaste for the whole situation is written all over his face, and you can easily tell that he would do well not to be involved in any of Freeman’s sordid lifestyle—such as it were.
“Jesus, Lana would have my neck if I even looked at another woman… not that I would want to,” Stanley acknowledges.
Looked at another woman…
Suddenly, thoughts of Liam and the disaster that he… I caused over the last several weeks spring unwelcome to my mind and I need to move around, be useful, or simply leave the space.
“I’m… going to go see if Lana needs any help in the kitchen,” I say, rising from the loveseat. Christian squeezes my hand with a bit of urgency. You don’t need me here, baby. You’re safe here.
“We didn’t mean to exclude you, Ana,” Stan protests. I wave him off with my free hand.
“Nonsense,” I say, still trying to free myself from my husband’s near-death grip. “You gentlemen have a lot of things to talk about. I’ll go help dinner along. She’s cooking for four more people, after all. I’m sure she could use some help.” I turn my most comforting smile to Christian.
You’ll be fine. I, on the other hand, may just spontaneously combust. Let me go on out to the kitchen with the womenfolk.
He wants me as a security blanket, but he doesn’t need me in this room. His lips form a thin line and an unreadable expression flashes over his face before he brings my hand to his lips and kisses it gently.
“Don’t be long,” he says softly.
“I’ll just see if I can help. We can get dinner started faster.” I smile and escape to the kitchen, the Bitch breathing a huge sigh of relief as my feet start moving. I follow the heavenly smell to a double-swinging door. I push it gently and stick my head in. Stan’s wife is donning an apron and standing over the stove.
Again, Norman Rockwell.
She looks over her shoulder and makes eye-contact with me.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” I begin. “I just came to see if you could use any help.”
“Are you kidding?” she exclaims. “Yes! Please!” She puts the top on whatever pot she’s stirring and wipes her hands on her apron, then proceeds towards me with open arms.
“Ana, right?” she says before we embrace. “I remember you from Burt’s funeral. You’re kind of unforgettable… you look so much like Shannon.” She smiles at me. “I bet you’re tired of hearing that.”
“No,” I admit, “only because I’ve only heard nice things about her.”
“All true,” she says, releasing me and fetching another apron from a drawer in the island. “Are you sure you want to help in that lovely dress?” she asks. “It might get ruined with sauce or something.” I wave her off. If she only knew.
“It’s fine,” I assure her as I take the apron and tie it around my waist. “Not a family heirloom or anything.” We both laugh as she goes back to stirring the pot.
“I was just about to start chopping vegetables for the salad, but you know sauce. When it’s time to stir, it’s time to stir,” she laughs.
“Allow me,” I say, and I move to the chopping board and begin to quickly chop the vegetables for the salad. The kitchen is silent for about three minutes as Lana concentrates on her sauce and I concentrate on not losing a finger. It’s not that I can’t chop vegetables; I just chop really fast.
“Wow,” Lana says, turning around after she has turned off the fire under her sauce, “are you a cook?” I smile. Most of the vegetables are chopped and I’ve tossed a few of them in the salad while arranging a few others on top to make a gourmet-looking creation.
“No,” I chuckle, “I just have a litany of tiny skills that I’m barely ever able to utilize. There’s a lot going on in my life with my work and my twins…”
“Twins! Seriously? With that body!? God, I’m jealous.” I laugh at her envy.
“Well, thank you,” I say, arranging the last of the vegetables.
“What’s your secret?” she asks, taking fresh garlic bread from the oven and brushing butter on top.
“I try to eat right as often as I can, and I exercise—weights, yoga, dancing, sparring…”
“See, that’s too much for me,” she admits. “I can do the eating right part, if forced, but the exercising—I’m just too damn lazy.” We share a giggle again. “So, what are the boys doing? Scratching themselves and talking about sports or cars?” I chuckle again.
“No, actually they’re powwowing about how much of an asshole Freeman is,” I say. She examines me for a moment, then turns back to whatever else is warming on the stove—asparagus, I think.
“Well, that’s old news,” she says. “I didn’t like him the day I met him, and nothing’s changed. “You know how some people just have a bad spirit and you can spot it a mile away? That’s Freeman. He’s a monstrous type of man, so much so that I can just see it in his face. At the risk of sounding spacey, I’m very in-tune with inner auras and chis. His is very dark and disturbed. It’s like a demon entered the womb just as he was being born. I don’t doubt that his mother had a very hard labor with him, and the he did some questionable things as a child—not necessarily evil, just questionable…”
“Such as?” I ask, finishing the salad and wiping my hands.
“I don’t know, little things, like kicking puppies,” she says. It would be funny if I didn’t think it were true. I could see young, spoiled Freeman doing just that.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t put that past him, I say. She’s putting pasta in a bowl while I put meat on a platter just as I hear a disturbance in the corner.
“Smells good, Mom. Need some he…” A handsome teenager enters a door from the rear of the kitchen that I can only assume is the basement. “Aunt Shannon?” he asks with uncertainty. Lana and I laugh simultaneously.
“No, Deon, this is cousin Ana,” she says, walking over to me.
“Cousin?” he says. “None of my cousins look like her. She’s hot!” I blush and scoff a laugh.
“Deon!” his mother scolds. Deon shrugs.
“Sorry, Mom. It’s true.” He extends his hand to me. “Nice to meet you Ana. You’re my cousin how?”
“I’m Christian’s wife,” I say, shaking his hand. He shakes his head to tell me he doesn’t know Christian.
“She’s Rick’s daughter-in-law,” Lana clarifies. Deon’s eyes light up.
“Uncle Rick’s here?” he says. “I’ve never met him.”
“He’s in the living room with your father and Uncle Herman.”
“Cool. Can I…?” He points to the door leading to the living room.
“Go on but take this with you and put it on the dining table.” She hands him the platter of meat that I just loaded, and he heads out of the kitchen to the dining room.
“Showtime,” she says with a smile. And we each grab a dish to head to the dining room, I ask, “Lana, you make your own bread and your own sauce?” She smiles.
“No, I make Ruby’s bread and Ruby’s sauce,” she corrects me with a smile. “I found her recipes at the old house after Burt and Herman moved to Seattle. Burt was having the house packed up and we were trying to preserve some of the things since the house was vacant. We had no idea how dilapidated the place had become.” We place the dishes on the set table in the dining room and go back for more. “I thought the brothers might like having their mom’s sauce and bread during this… time.” I nod.
“It’s a beautiful gesture,” I say, taking another dish and heading to the dining room. “Question… If the house is in such bad shape, why is there such a big fight over it?” I ask.
“Nobody’s fighting over the house but Freeman,” she clarifies, placing the last dishes on the table. “Stan just wanted to get his parents’ things out of there and get them safely in storage. That’s where I found the recipes. I copied them and put them back, of course, but I’ve made some of the things for Stan a few times. All their valuables—they’re still in storage. They’ve been there for over a year. Herman and Stanley had planned to divide everything amongst the brothers, but things just got crazy and they never got to it.” We go back to the kitchen and wipe our hands once more on the aprons before taking them off and placing them on the counter.
“Ready?” she asks. I shrug.
“Ready,” I reply. We go into the living room and announce to the gentlemen that dinner is ready. They all pile into the dining room and sit down. Everyone serves themselves and conversation flows freely at the table, everyone laughing and enjoying themselves like a good old family reunion. The spirit in the room is jovial, despite the solemn reason for the visit, but the funniest part of the evening was yet to come.
In Stanley Grey’s household, Lana may do the cooking, because she’s good at it. However, in the spirit of fairness and teamwork, that’s where her evening’s duties end. The gentlemen are required to put the leftovers away and do all the cleanup.
My favorite Dom was none too pleased to hear that.
I tried to get him out of it by telling them that I only lifted two fingers to help with the meal and would be happy to assist with cleanup, but I think Herman and Carrick wanted to see my husband suffer and shooed me out of the kitchen when I tried to assist.
It was hilarious.
I heard one crash, several loud voices, and not ten minutes after they entered the kitchen, Christian was kicked out. Wearing an irritated, puppy-dog expression, he walks over to Lana and explains that he broke one of her plates and would be happy to replace it. Lana chokes back a laugh and tells him to have a seat and relax, thanking him for his effort and scolding the other men for being so intolerant. I think that makes him feel better.
Once dinner is over, Christian and I say goodbye to everyone as Herman and Carrick will be staying at Stanley’s and Christian and I will be going to the hotel. Not only did Stanley’s house not have enough room for everyone, but Christian didn’t know what kind of night he would have sleeping in Michigan for the first time since his childhood, and didn’t want to have to explain violent, audible nightmares to his extended family.
The Townsend Hotel is not what I expected from the outside—a large, rather imposing brick building that looks like it could be historic, but not very impressive. I’m extremely surprised when I get inside and the accommodations are anything but historic. Posh décor, sleek designs, marble everywhere. That’ll teach me to judge a book by its cover.
It’s extremely cold this time of year in Michigan—frigid even. The cold is different here than it is in Washington. I don’t know what it is, but this cold goes into your soul and takes up residence there. I need a fireplace, but there’s nothing in this room but a thermostat and what looks like a furnace that’s built into the wall.
That doesn’t look very cozy.
The room is cold—posh, but cold! There’s no climate control in this place? I realize that people may want their areas to be at custom levels, but the room should at least be room temperature! Christian’s face immediately says that he has drawn the same conclusion that I have.
This place is cold as fuck, what the hell?
I run my hand over the monogrammed blanket on the bed. Blanket… if you can call it that. It’s pretty, and thin. I pull the “covers” back and it’s nothing but this thin bedspread and top sheet to sleep under. Good Lord, I’m going to freeze to death!
I begin to rummage through the closets in the suite to see if there are extra blankets. There’s one… flimsy like the one on the bed. I look around in dismay, realizing that the only thing I brought to sleep in was a comfy little nightie. Christian is tinkering with the settings on the “furnace” in the corner, and I hear it come to life.
“You gotta be kidding,” he murmurs. I join him near the heat source to discover that there’s a very small vent on the thing and even at its highest setting, it’s not blowing out much heat. I walk around the suite to see if there are any other furnaces…
None. Just the one.
For this giant ass suite? One furnace?
I see the terrycloth robe at the end of the bed. It’s thicker than the goddamn blanket.
No fireplace, one furnace, and it’s cold as fuck. That’s it—bath to get the cold out of my bones, then I’ll sleep in my yoga pants, whatever warm shirt I have, and that terrycloth robe.
I go to the bathroom and turn on the water in the tub. There’s a lot of marble in here. It takes the hot water several minutes to get hot, but when it does, it’s scalding. At least something is hot in this joint. I get the water to the right temperature and plug the tub. The bathroom fills with steam and that makes me happy.
When I come back to the bedroom, Christian is typing into his phone. I can’t help but wonder who he’s trying to contact at this hour.
I go back to the bathroom, terrycloth robe in hand, and decide to strip in there. It’s warmer with the hot water running. When I take off my boots and socks…
“Shit!” I hiss.
“What?” Christian says, his voice full of alarm.
“Nothing. I’m sorry. The floor is like ice!”
Wrong thing to say.
“Goddammit!” I hear him pacing around or something while I finish stripping and climb into the tub.
A few minutes into my bath, I hear my husband’s agitated voice.
“This suite is freezing,” he says. “There’s only one temperature control and it’s in the bedroom. I can’t even use the rest of the rooms at this temperature.”
There’s silence for a long time and then I hear…
“My wife is in a steaming bath trying to boil the cold out of her bones. When she gets out, her pores are going to be open and she’s going to be walking on a subzero marble floor, after which she’s going to enter an arctic bedroom to wrap herself in this bed sheet that’s passing off as a blanket and try to get a good night’s sleep in a room that’s about as cozy as the North Pole and hope she doesn’t wake with pneumonia.”
Another long silence.
“Why yes, I am from the west coast—Seattle, in fact. You know, snow advisories? Winter storms? Freezing rain?”
Uh oh… whoever is on the line with my husband just pissed him off. I don’t have to hear the other side of that conversation to know that they’re basically telling him that he doesn’t know how to handle Michigan weather.
“Never mind. This was a mistake,” and just like that, the call ends. Quiet resolution? Oh, shit. That’s worse than angry ranting.
“Jason, can you see if you can find me a duvet or a real comforter for my wife? This room is -17 degrees and she’s in the bathtub trying to warm up. Whether she decides to stay in tomorrow or go out, she’s going to be sick by the time we get on the plane.”
There’s a long pause, and then he says some other things that I can’t hear because he goes off into the living room. I add more hot water to my bath and sink into the comfort. If this is going to be the only warmth that I get, I’m going to enjoy it for as long as I can.
I stay in the tub until my skin starts to shrivel. The room is bone quiet and I actually fell asleep for a while. I finally decide to brave the arctic floor and dry off quickly, struggle into my yoga pants and t-shirt and wrap myself in the terrycloth robe. I gather my clothes and exit the bathroom to find Christian sitting on the edge of the bed still in his street clothes.
“Here, baby,” he says, dropping a pair of house slippers at my feet. “Put these on.” I slide into the slippers as he takes my clothes from my arms. He takes my hand and leads me out of the room and down the hall.
Where are we going?
We turn the corner and Jason is standing outside of another room like a good tin soldier.
“Thanks, Jason,” Christian says as Jason opens the door. “Get some rest.”
“Goodnight, sir, Your Highness.” He turns and walks down the hall. I’m glad nobody heard that. Paparazzi would be at our door just to find out who the fuck I am not knowing that’s just a private joke between Jason and me.
I walk into another suite and I’m immediately enveloped by warmth. More marble, including a beautiful black marble fireplace that’s already lit—very cozy surroundings, and a real comforter on the bed.
“Thank God,” I exclaim, pulling off the now too-hot terrycloth robe. “What happened? What was the deal with the arctic bedroom?” Christian shrugs.
“I don’t really know,” he says. “I asked Jason to go see if he could find us a real comforter. When he came back, we were here with apologies from the staff that we were booked in the wrong room.”
“Wrong room?” I ask. “Nobody should have to sleep in that icebox. What is this… three, four-hundred a night?” He nods.
“Four,” he confirms. “It was short notice, but it comes highly recommended, so…” He shrugs. My husband is a bit too reserved for my taste. I’m used to take no prisoners, get me what I want or this place will be closed by Friday Christian Grey, and right now, he seems… resolved. I don’t like it.
I go to the bathroom—heated floor bathroom this time—to finish my nighttime routine. I just want to go to bed now, since the room is all comfy and toasty. Intent on wearing my nighty now, I strip naked and put the robe back on. Once I’m done, I go back to the bedroom to find Christian sitting on the edge of the bed again, now in his boxers and T-shirt, gazing at nothing.
He’s looking rudderless like he has no idea what he should be doing right now. It’s bad enough that we’ve been going through our own turmoil for the past several weeks. Now, he’s here in this place—maybe not right in Detroit at the moment but being this close—he probably can’t even find himself right now.
Maybe we should meditate? Try to help him find his center? No, I have a feeling he needs much more than that.
I walk over to him and stand in his line of sight. His eyes slowly rise to mine, and he looks like a lost child—really, like a lost child trying to find his mother. It’s more than my heart can handle. I gently caress his hair, begging him with my eyes to tell me what he needs. He says nothing. He just keeps gazing into my eyes, his gray orbs glassy and almost clear.
I’m lost. I usually know what to do to help him, but right now, I don’t. We’ve been struggling to connect over this last week after our most recent realization. We’ve been tender, attentive, but not sexual, and to be honest, that’s usually how we decompress. I sigh heavily and reach into myself to try to find the me… the us… or some piece of it, before all this shit happened.
I climb onto the bed and straddle him, thrusting my hands into his hair and caressing his scalp. He closes his eyes and sinks into the comfort for about a minute or two. When he opens them again, his eyes are gray fire and I feel him thicken and his body harden underneath me.
He kisses me… more like he launches a sneak attack on my mouth and devours my lips, his hands roaming all over me. It’s like a goddamn stick of dynamite. His body ignites, as does mine and I can feel the inner struggle, the fight to satiate ourselves without ripping each other to shreds.
I forcefully pull his hair, trying to get as much of his mouth as I can, hungrily lapping his kisses. He groans and rises slightly off the bed with me still in his lap. When he sits again, we’re further up the bed, but he’s without his boxer briefs now. I struggle with his groping arms to get his T-shirt off and once I’m successful, he quickly undoes my belt and rids me of the terrycloth robe. My legs are now wrapped around him, my core open wide, and his thick erection rubs against my cleft, again and again.
We haven’t been intimate in what seems like forever and I’m rising quickly… very quickly! He’s grabbing at my naked body, taking as much from me as I’m taking from him. Good God, I feel like I’m going to combust!
He gasps and actually whimpers once he enters me. My body releases an involuntary tremor. My response to feeling him—thick and hard inside of me—is swift and sure, and almost immediately, I come. I rest my forehead on his and ride out a shivering orgasm, fighting the tears behind my eyelids because I don’t want him to stop, especially since he just got started. He groans in his throat and holds me incredibly close to him as he grinds sensually into me. My body is craving him, aching for him, weeping for him. I need him so much…
Oh, God, love me… love me, please…
He leans back and opens his legs further, causing my ass to drop between his thighs. I use my feet to steady myself on the bed which only causes my legs to fall open farther… and him to slide in deeper.
Oh, good God…
He grunts as he slips deeper into me, leaning back a bit to get a deeper grind. I don’t know how he’s balancing himself without putting his hands on the bed and quite frankly, I don’t fucking care. With my legs open like this, I’m getting the most delicious stimulation of my clit while he’s drilling me.
His left hand moves to my nape to hold me in place and his right hand cups my hip and ass cheek to guide me, and he’s grinding—stroking and drilling and driving me quickly to a second orgasm.
My God, what’s going on with me?
I feel the sweat building quickly on my body… our bodies. I wrap my arms around his neck—my forehead still pressed against his—and hold on, thrusting my fingers into his hair. I’m looking into his slate gray eyes and he’s watching me, closely, pushing me… pushing me…
My mouth is open and my uncontrolled breathing is almost embarrassing. He’s rocking into me with purpose, stimulating my clit each time and minutes after my first orgasm…
I whimper through my second release, unable to stop the tears from falling down my cheeks this time. I see the ends of my wet hair shaking through my tremors, and my husband never breaks our gaze. He’s still intense, still rocking and drilling into me, holding me down onto his insistent cock. God, he’s so hard and he feels so good. How long has it been? Shit… only a week, I think. It feels like forever.
He groans deep in his chest and his stroke becomes more intense. He’s kissing me with those hungry sex kisses, slowly and intently chasing his orgasm. My body is mush—trembling, shivering mush, and he holds me tight and pushes his hard, hot cock up into me over and over and over…
“Sweet Jesus,” I whimper, and I only realize that I’ve said it out loud when his mouth latches onto my neck and sucks very hard, his stroke going deeper and deeper.
“Oh mon Dieu!” I cry out, resting my elbows on his shoulders and pulling hard on his hair. He growls again and grabs my ass cheek roughly, his long fingers slipping in to caress my rosette.
I’m so tired and weak that I’m a little loopy. I can only hold on as he guides me roughly, intently, and sensually over his thickening dick, repeatedly. His fingers are sinking into my skin to the point of pain, his left hand still holding me firmly at the nape of my neck. I almost can’t breathe when a finger the hand that’s violently grabbing and guiding my ass and hip slides between my cheeks and into my rosette.
And I’m rising again—swiftly.
I start to tremble almost immediately, his grunting sex sounds urging me on along with his rhythmic upward strokes into my core. His mouth covers mine just as his finger thrusts into my ass and before I can control it….
I’m screaming into his mouth, shaking more violently than I did with the first two orgasms. He’s a fucking machine and I can’t fucking take much fucking more of this! As if his dick heard me…
“God! Fuck! God! Shit! Shit! Shit!” He’s cursing out a violent diatribe against my mouth as his cock throbs so viciously that the thickness of it is a bit uncomfortable. Thank God! I’m going to pass out here on his lap! My orgasm subsides long before his does, but he’s still pumping up into me and pushing me down on his cock, his fingers still inside my clinching ass. I close my eyes tight and wait until he resorts to the breathless, post-orgasmic gasps, not wanting to interrupt his release. Once I hear the panting begin…
“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!” I sound like a cat. My ass tightening around his finger is very uncomfortable. He quickly removes his finger from my ass with no warning, causing me to yowl. That was the best way to do it, but it was still not pleasant. He peppers soft kisses on my lips and it feels like an apology. I melt into his lap and his arms, unable to protest in any way. As my body falls heavily on him, I can feel his erection still standing strong inside of me.
That’s impossible! He came! I felt him come! I know he did, but his cock is still as hard as steel.
At first, his kisses are tender, like he’s thanking me, worshipping me. A few minutes of that, and they become more intense, more demanding and hungry. I have no energy left and my legs fall to the sides of him. Noting my surrender, he lifts me from his lap and lays me on the bed on my side. God, I’m exhausted. I think he’s finally going to let me rest.
I think wrong.
Standing next to the bed, he leans over and sinks into me from behind. Fuck, I’m so sensitive from three orgasms that I hiss when he enters me. He leans on my right hip which pushes my left hip into the bed and presses my legs together, and he is thrusting, fucking me with long, deep, intense strokes intentionally massaging his entire dick with my tender pussy. With my legs pushed together, his dick is hitting every inner wall of my core. He wants to come again, and he’s fucking with just that specific intent.
And it’s hot.
As tired as I am, I feel myself rising again. I didn’t think that shit was possible, but here it is. My pussy lips feel hot as he’s using my body to get off, and his dick sliding into me sideways is hitting the most delicious sweet spot each time he sinks in balls deep. All I can do is lay here and enjoy the process, because if he doesn’t come first, I’m surely going to come again.
He drills and drills and thrusts and thrusts, never changing his stroke, and from the way he’s standing over me, I know that he’s watching his cock disappear into my pussy and reappear before he buries himself inside of me again. I grab the sheets as I feel his hips roll, chasing his release. My body responds involuntarily to his heightened, pre-orgasmic arousal and as his thrust quickens and his grind intensified, I grab a pillow and scream out my fourth orgasm.
Fourth! Dear God, man, arrête s’il-te-plaît!
Several punishing strokes later, Christian clenches my hip tightly with both hands and explodes violently inside of me. I’m too tired to even react. I’m exhausted and sore and I can’t keep my eyes open anymore…
Sunlight breeches my slumber and I open my eyes. I slept straight through the night without turning over once, as did my husband… I think. He’s still asleep. He’s spooning me, and I can feel his breath on my neck… and his morning wood right at my anus. Shit, I’m instantly hot, even after all that fucking last night. He’s hard as a rock and breathing that rhythmic, content breathing that indicates a deep sleep. We have about another hour before we even have to stir for breakfast and I am wet and on fire.
Should I wake him?
He had such a rough time yesterday that I just want to let him rest. He did his best not to complain, but he was definitely not a happy camper.
The Midwest morning sun seems a whole lot different to me. It’s not as comforting as the sunrise back home, although I’m biased. This place holds terrible vibes for my wing of the Grey family, and those vibes are rubbing off on me.
But right now, there’s something else rubbing off on me. It’s poking me in my ass, extremely close to a dripping wet and hot opening and try though I might, I can’t ignore it. If I just…
With my legs still together, I adjust my hips just a bit. I’m so wet that the head of his cock slips right into me. I gasp, then bury my mouth in my arm to muffle the sound.
He doesn’t move. His breathing remains even, but his cock twitches just a bit… too much for me.
I close my eyes and push back on him—slow and steady and taking him all the way to the balls. He groans deeply, then grunts, and when I pull back and push down on him again, he grabs my hip and moans, his fingers digging into my meat. I stroke him deep, riding him sideways hard and sweet, my eyes rolling back in my head as I cling to the sheets and savor each sensual, deep thrust. His hips remain still, but his cock gets harder… and harder… each breath releasing a lustful moan as I push my ass against his pelvis, taking his full shaft with each stroke. It’s fucking divine—and primal… unplanned and feral and sweet.
I’m getting wetter and hotter, and his cock is so hard that I feel him on every wall of me, his shaft rubbing perfectly against every hot spot with each entry and exit, just like last night. I roll my hips for massive stimulation and I get it, but he gets it, too. He forcibly grabs my shoulder and bends me slightly forward in the bed, causing my ass to stick out further. I oblige and use my hands to steady myself as I ride harder and faster against him. The friction is delicious and he’s filling me and filling me with every backwards thrust, bringing me higher and higher until…
I hear a primal, chesty, throaty growl behind me and a fearfully strong grip holds my hips in place. He’s pulsing and throbbing and coming inside me… a lot! Shit! I wasn’t done yet!
I can hear his teeth grinding as he holds me still and continues to squirt inside of me. I didn’t know he had that in him after last night! I try not to be frustrated with my interrupted and shortened ecstasy and allow him to ride out what is apparently a stiffening and crippling orgasm.
After several moments of grunting, pulsing, and coming, he grabs a handful of my hair with one hand—shocking the shit out of me, by the way—and pulls my head back. His lips and teeth lock down on the tender meat between my neck and shoulder and I gasp. With his dick still pulsing inside of me, he releases my hip and brings his hand to my breast, squeezing the mound and pinching my nipple… hard!
He pushes himself further into me and pulls out, then in again, and out—our intermingled juices coating his cock as he thrusts. He hisses through his nose with each stroke, his cock still tender no doubt as he squeezes out the last few moments of his orgasm. Thankfully, the onslaught is too much for me.
My chest releases its own sensual growl as the orgasm that I had been chasing crashes down on me. Christian releases something that sounds like a whimper and immobilizes me against his body, his mouth still locked on the same spot on my neck.
That’s going to leave a mark.
I quake through my orgasm, feeling my milk squirt involuntarily onto the sheets as it often does when I’m extremely stimulated… or coming violently. When the orgasm wanes, finally, we both lay there in breathless splendor, weak and completely spent—useless.
That moment lasts for about fifteen seconds before Christian wrenches his now-flaccid dick from my very tender vagina, the motion and the friction causing my body to twitch and protest madly. He leaps from the bed and darts to the en suite without even closing the door. I hear him relieve himself with a loud groan and a hiss and a whimper or three. It’s not really funny, but I still have to stifle a giggle.
I hear the water running—a little longer than usual—but assume that he’s washing his hands. I hear the water stop and a few moments later, the bed dips behind me. I’m shocked out of my post coital bliss by a bitterly cold cloth on my genitals.
“I figure if I needed it, you probably needed it more,” he says, coolly.
“A little warning next time?” I complain. He nods.
“Sorry,” he apologizes as he gently cleans my crotch with the cold cloth. It actually feels good—once you know it’s coming, that is.
“My muscles were so weak after that session,” he explains as he cleans. “I was afraid that I was going to piss us both.” I chuckle, noting to myself that I’ll have to use the facilities soon, too. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you laughing at me.”
“Is that why you assaulted me with a cold washcloth with no warning?” I ask. There’s momentary silence behind me.
“I hadn’t thought of it, but it serves you right,” he says. He completes his cleanup and slaps my ass. I jump.
“Ow!” I protest as I leap out of bed. He sits there looking at me impishly and I roll my eyes at him as I go to the en suite.
About an hour after our morning tryst, I’m sitting at the dining table wild-haired and wearing the white terrycloth robe, chomping on pancakes, bacon, and croissants just like Julia Roberts while talking to my billionaire.
“So, what are you going to do today?” Christian asks, as he sips his coffee. We decided that he would go to the reading with his father and uncles without me. Giving him a task will keep him focused and he won’t be in Detroit. I think just having me here gives him strength… and our animal sex over the past several hours certainly didn’t hurt the situation.
“I’m in Michigan,” I say. “I hadn’t considered any social activities while I was here.” He nods.
“Jason and the Navigator will stay here with you,” he says. “Dad, Uncle Stan, and Uncle Herman are coming to pick me up before we head to the attorney’s office. Wu, I think his name is. After that, we’ll head to that investigator and see what we can find out. With the four of us together, I think we’ll be alright. I would prefer it if you didn’t go to the city, though,” he says without raising his eyes from his breakfast. There are a lot of cities in the area, but I know which one he’s referring to.
“I know there’s good shopping around, but I don’t know details, so you may want to ask Lana if she’s available. I’ll touch bases with you after we’ve talked to Best Shields Family Investigations.” Shit… didn’t he tell me that Best Shields is in Detroit? I reach across and take his hand.
“I can go with you if you want,” I remind him. “It’ll only take me a minute to get dressed.” He smiles.
“It’ll take you more than a minute, and I’ll be fine. I’ll be concentrating on Dad and my two uncles and the business at hand. I won’t have time to feel sorry for myself.”
“And Freeman,” I add. He twists his lips.
“Yes, and Freeman,” he admits. His cell phone rings and I can tell by his end of the conversation that his father and uncles have arrived. He finishes his coffee and gives me a deep, searing kiss before retrieving his coat and leaving the room.
Now, I’m alone.
I have no desire to explore Michigan. The place holds no splendor for me. So, once I’ve showered and dressed, my day will consist of working virtually with Helping Hands, ordering bonsai trees and Zen gardens for my office, and skyping with Ace.
“Have either of you met this guy before?” Uncle Stan asks as we head to the attorney’s office.
“I have,” Uncle Herman replies. “He’s been Dad’s lawyer for years. We didn’t have much cause to talk to him—or so I thought—but when we did, he seemed like a real stand-up guy.”
“So, why didn’t you get your letters about the reading?” I ask.
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Dad says. I get the feeling that he’s ready to rip his brother apart and I only hope that he doesn’t do anything that will get him arrested.
We arrive at this beautiful, tall building in Troy about fifteen minutes later. Uncle Herman seems friendly with the receptionist and asks her to summon “Nathan,” but not to tell him who’s here. The eyelash-fluttering receptionist makes a call and we wait for the attorney.
“Who’s that handsome hunk of youngness?” she asks, gesturing towards me. Oh, dear God.
“That’s my nephew, Christian,” Uncle Herman say. I want to murder him. Why the hell did he tell this woman my name?
“Mm,” she says, examining me like a piece of meat. “He single?” Uncle Herman laughs.
“No,” I reply. “Very happily married with nine-month-old twins.”
“Mm,” she says again, twisting her lips. “Too bad. Denise is still single, you know.”
I wonder if Denise knows that you’re pimping her out to strangers.
“Herman…” A dark-haired Asian gentleman greets my uncle. “It’s good to see you again.” Uncle Herman takes his extended hand.
“It’s good to see you, too, Nathan,” he says, shaking his hand. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Yes, I know,” Nathan agrees, “but his last conversation with me was pretty strained. It must be better than he’s not suffering anymore.”
“Hear, hear,” my father says softly, garnering the attorney’s attention.
“Nathan, this is my brother, Rick. Rick, this is Nathan Wu, Dad’s attorney.”
“Rick,” Wu says as if testing his name. “Carrick, yes.” He proffers his hand to Dad. “Burt spoke very fondly of you.” Dad raises his eyebrows.
“He did?” he asks.
“Yes, he did,” Wu says. “You made him a happy man.” Dad twists his lips. I don’t know if it’s disbelief or if he’s trying to keep from crying.
“This is my son, Christian Grey,” Dad says, turning the attention away from himself. I extend my hand.
“It a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wu,” I say. He accepts my hand and shakes firmly.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Grey,” he says with a smile.
“This is Stan,” Uncle Herman continues. “I don’t think you’ve met him.”
“No, I haven’t. Stanley?” Wu extends his hand to Uncle Stan. “A pleasure, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wu. Likewise,” Uncle Stan says.
“So, gentlemen, if you’ll follow me, we’ll get to the business at hand.” We fall in line behind Wu and just as we’re stepping off the elevator on the floor were the conference room is, I remember one crucial piece of information.
“Dad,” I say, catching his arm. “Restraining order.”
“Shit!” Dad hisses, and all three men stop and look at us. “Christian has a restraining order against Freeman.
“Shit, that’s right. I forgot,” Uncle Herman says.
“Christian has a restraining order against Freeman?” Uncle Stan asks incredulously.
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it later,” Dad says. “Should he go back downstairs and wait?” he asks Uncle Herman.
“You’re here on official business,” Wu says. “He can stay on the floor,
but I wouldn’t recommend that he come in the room.” Dad nods.
“Is there a waiting room up here or something?” he asks. Yes, please don’t send me back down there with the matchmaking receptionist with the 50’s hairdo and way too much blue eye shadow.
“Do you want to watch the reading?” Wu asks.
“If I could,” I respond, “without violating my own restraining order.” Wu nods.
“You have no idea how many times this happens. Follow me.” We all follow Wu down the same hallway and through a door into a small room.
“This is our deposition room, but it doubles for family members who can’t stand being in the room with one another. I think this is one of those times.”
It’s a utilitarian room, with a table and comfortable chairs, and what looks like a large screen on one wall. In the screen, I see Freeman sitting at a table with his fingers entwined, almost looking like he’s the king of the world. God, I hate that jerk.
“You can see and hear what’s going on in the room next door. We can’t see or hear you unless you push that button over there to speak through the intercom… or bang on the wall.”
I nod, then must reassure my father that I’m fine.
“Dad, go,” I tell him. “I came out here for you, not for you to worry about me.” I shoo my father and uncles away and settle in to watch the show.
Moments after they leave the room, I watch Wu walk back into the conference room. The first in the room behind him is Uncle Stan, which doesn’t seem to affect Freeman too much. However, when my father and Uncle Herman walk into the room behind him, Freeman’s ears turn red and his face turns stark white.
“What’s the matter, Freem?” Uncle Stan says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yeah, Freem, what’s the matter?” Dad asks. “Surprised to see us?”
“Yeah, darndest thing happened,” Uncle Herman chimes. “We almost didn’t make it.”
All three brothers stand there waiting for a response from Freeman. He just tightens his lips and turns to a slightly confused Wu.
“Let’s get this done,” he barks, like he’s the only one in the room.
“Yes, let’s,” Dad says. “I’m anxious to see what Dad has to say.” Uncle Stan, Uncle Herman, and Dad all take seats next to each other and on the opposite side of the table from Freeman. My vantage point is right at the head of the table where Wu is sitting.
“Gentlemen, I must inform you that these proceedings are being recorded for legal purposes. If any of you object to being recorded, you may leave at this time.”
No one moves to leave, so Wu continues.
“No matter what you’ve seen on television and in the movies, there is normally no open and dramatic reading of the will,” Wu begins. “It is often determined by the executor that the will is valid with its authenticity and any question thereof established by a solicitor, attorney, or other legal expert. As I was present at the creation of this document, I can and do hereby attest to its validity. In addition, any beneficiaries are normally separately notified of their entitlements so that they can raise any questions or challenges early in the process. Burton’s final wishes were that you all be present for a formal reading of his last will and testament so that each person knows what the other is getting and hopefully eliminate the need for any challenges. Before we begin, are there any questions?”
“Yes. Can you tell me how I and my brother Herman were notified of the scheduled reading of my father’s will?” Dad asks. Wu’s brow furrows.
“By… certified mail,” he says, thumbing through the file. “I have a signed return card to indicate that you received it.” He hands my father a green card and Dad examines it.
“That’s not my signature,” he says. “What about my brother, Herman?” Wu rifles through the file again and hands a card to Uncle Herman.
“Nope, not me,” Uncle Herman says. “That’s not even how I sign my name.” He hands the card back to Wu. Wu examines the card and then looks through the file in front of him.
“You’re right,” he says, comparing the signature to something in the file. “That’s not the same signature.” Wu probably has at least a dozen documents signed by Uncle Herman.
“You’re going to want to hold on to those,” Dad says, handing his card back to Wu. “They’ll most likely become part of a criminal investigation.”
“A criminal investigation,” Freeman scoffs as Wu puts the cards away. “Why, because you threw back one too many and don’t remember signing for the letters? You probably signed for Herm’s, too, and now you’re too ashamed to admit that you don’t know what you did with them. What’s the matter, Rick? You paranoid?” he taunts.
“No, but you should be, Freem,” Dad retorts. “The criminal investigation is because somebody tampered with the US mail, and I intend to do everything in my power to find out who. Does Brad Westcott ring a bell?”
Freeman turns as pale as he did when Dad and Uncle Herman walked into the room with Uncle Stan.
“Yeah, we knew about you long before Nollie’s trust stopped paying for your dick!” Dad shoots.
Good one, Dad.
“I knew you had something to do with this,” Freeman hisses.
“No, who had something to do with it was your daughter,” Dad corrects him. “From what I hear, you never gave her enough credit and now, she’s languishing in your slow demise.”
“Nollie’s not smart enough to do this on her own,” Freeman shoots. “There must have been some help from your meddling ass bastard son.” God, he’s such a Grade-A asshole.
“That’s why you’re losing your family, Freeman,” Dad says, shaking his head. “You’re a walking, talking piece of shit. You’ve underestimated Nollie for years, and when she finally shows you what she’s made of, you take it out on your son. You’ve treated your wife like garbage for as far back as she can remember, and when she stands up to you, you destroy her most precious memories. And you have the nerve to talk badly about my son. I hope that little piece of ass that you’ve got stashed away keeps you warm at night, because that’s all you’ve got left!” Dad nearly growls the last words at his brother before turning to face the attorney.
“Mr. Wu let’s get this done,” he says. “I don’t want to be in the room with this man any longer than I have to.”
For the first time since I’ve known him, Freeman is stunned into silence. I don’t know if it’s because everything that Dad said about his family was right, or if he realized that his little twat isn’t going to keep him warm at night once she discovers that her sugar daddy well has run dry. He better hurry up and sell Pops’ house and hopes he gets some money from it. Then again, the IRS is probably going to suck that money from him and when they’re done, Nell will get a nice share of anything that’s left… I think.
Wu just opens his file and starts reading, completely unfazed. I’m sure he’s probably seen a whole lot more than this during his career as an estate attorney.
“I, Burton Jefferson Grey, with a place of residence of 1452 SE Shoreland Drive, Bellevue, Washington, 98004, being of sound mind and not acting under any duress or undue influence while fully understanding the nature and extent of all my property and of this disposition thereby, do hereby make, publish, and declare this document to be my last will and testament, and hereby revoke any and all other wills and codicils heretofore made by me, hereinafter known as the ‘Testator.’”
I watch Uncle Herman’s brow furrow.
“What’s wrong, Herm?” Dad asks.
“Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Wu,” Uncle Herman says, “but the address on that will is Bellevue? Not Detroit?” Wu nods.
“Yes, that’s correct.” Uncle Herman falls back in his seat.
“What?” Uncle Stanley says.
“Dad did this within the last year,” he says.
“So?” Freeman nearly barks. “He was dying. It’s common for a man to get his affairs in order when he knows he’s dying.”
No one turns any attention to Freeman. They all know what Uncle Herman is saying. Yes, Pops was dying, but he had something to say and he knew that his will would be the last time that he would be heard. You can see each of the brothers steel themselves for whatever is about to be revealed while Freeman still sits haughtily on his side of the table… alone.
“I am not married,” Wu continues. “I have four children: Herman Grey, Freeman Grey, Carrick Grey, Stanley Grey. My children will be included as heirs in this last will and testament.”
“Hmph!” Freeman grunts. When no one reacts, Wu continues the reading with the usual legal inclusions—Uncle Herman as his executor and Wu as his second giving them all power to dispose of and execute his estate; that all of Pops’ estate expenses, medical bills, final arrangements and such should be covered from his estate; and that all beneficiaries must survive him by 30 days. Freeman perks up when he gets to the section of special bequests.
“To my eldest son, Herman: you have been my diligent caretaker and constant companion since I fell ill after your mother passed. There is no monetary sum or physical value that I can place on the love and never-ending devotion that you have shown to me all these years, never asking for anything in return and often putting my needs before your own. My biggest comfort besides the fact that my suffering is now over, and I can finally rest is that you will be able to live a full life in your golden years and love Luma and the girls freely and without reservation.”
Uncle Herman audibly chokes back tears, his body physically jerking. Stanley puts his hand on his brother’s back in obvious concern, but Uncle Herman slightly raises his own hand to indicate that he’s okay and signals Wu to continue.
“To you, Herman, I bequeath the contents of the safe deposit box at Chase Bank to retain or distribute as you see fit.”
Uncle Herman simply nods quickly, never raising his head, and I see a tear fall on the wood of the large oak table.
“To my third son, Carrick…”
“Third son?” Freeman interrupts angrily. Wu raises his eyes impatiently to Freeman.
“To my third son, Carrick…” he repeats, his eyes piercing. He appears to have had enough of Freeman’s attitude. “You welcomed me into your home even after we abandoned you for twenty-five years…”
“We didn’t abandon him! He left!” Freeman barks.
“No matter how your older brother, Freeman, feels about it,” Wu continues, “we let you down. We followed blindly and didn’t take action when we should have and because of that, I nearly missed meeting my grandchildren and their families.”
“He should…” Freeman starts.
“Shut up!” All three brothers bark at Freeman in one voice, and the shock causes him to shrink in his seat.
“Nonetheless, you and Gracie opened your arms, your home, and your heart to me as if no time had passed and your beautiful children and their families showed me more love than my heart could hold, no questions asked. I know it hurt you and Christian not being able to use your resources to extend my life, but my time had come, and you made my last days some of the best of my life, besides my time with my Ruby. You all gave me one of the most precious and treasured gifts I could ever imagine, and know that as I take my rest, I take that love and gratitude with me to share with Ruby when I see her again. Please give my Mia the biggest hug and kiss you can when you see her again and tell her that Grandad loved every second he spent with her, even those horrible vitamin drinks, because I knew she was doing it because she loved me.”
“Oh, Dad,” my father breathes heavily, barely able to sit up in his seat. Nobody says anything. Even Freeman’s smart mouth is sealed shut.
“To you, Carrick, I bequeath my model car collection. Nobody appreciated it like you and I hope you have as many fond memories of it as I do with you.”
Dad smiles widely as Wu reads that he’s receiving the collection. A look of warm nostalgia falls over his face as he gazes off in front of him. When the brothers look at him questioning, he turns to Uncle Stanley and Uncle Herman and coos, “You had to be there.” I’m dying to know the story behind these cars.
“To my youngest son, Stanley…”
“What the fuck?” Freeman hisses, and all three brothers throw a simultaneous death glare at him. He doesn’t respond, but his ire still shows on his face.
“My dear, sweet, gentle Stanley, I know I haven’t seen you much in the recent months, but I must tell you, son. It’s time to stand up and be who you need to be. You have a heart of gold and a flame of love and creativity that has the ability to burn brighter than the brightest wildfire, but you’re hiding it under a bushel. Lana adores you and you have proven time and again that you are a kind, loving, caring and doting father. Stop allowing people to turn your kindness into weakness. You deserve better and I know that you can achieve it. No matter what, my gentle prince, I’m proud of you. Know that I was proud of you them moment I breathed my last breath, and Ruby and I will be looking down on you waiting for that greatness that I know is inside you to be released. You know what I mean, son.”
“Yeah, Dad,” Stanley whispers, “I know what you mean.” After a brief moment of silence, Wu continues to read.
“To you, Stanley, I bequeath your mother’s pearl jewelry collection and her antique ring. I’ve seen the way Lana admired them when Ruby was alive, but I was unable to part with them while I was living. Now, I’m sure Ruby will be proud to see her precious pieces gracing the neck of your beautiful wife. I also bequeath you your mother’s collection of her original paintings. I’ve kept them in preserved storage all this time, also unable to part with them before I shed my earthly coil. Now that I’m with my Ruby, I know in my heart that you’ll appreciate your mom’s work. As always, hang loose, son.”
“Mom’s paintings,” Stanley says, wistfully awestruck. “Oh, dear God… he kept Mom’s paintings… for me!”
He says nothing about the antique and probably priceless jewelry that will be gifted to his wife—only the work of his mother’s hands that lived on as her legacy after she has passed away.
“To my second son, Freeman…”
A/N: “Oh mon Dieu”—”Oh, my God “
“Arrête s’il-te-plaît!”—”Stop, please!”
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