Mending Dr. Steele: Chapter 68—It’s All Greek To Me

The Acropolis – Athens, Greece

I apologize for skipping last week, but I was simply too busy to post. It would take too long to explain. I will also admit that my muse took a beating over the last two weeks, but I think she’s back in action now. The honeymoon is taking a lot out of me. Too much detail is overkill and not enough detail is boring. I’m having a hard time finding a balance, but I’m working on it. I mean seriously–you can’t honeymoon in Greece and just say “We visited the Parthenon and Parliament, then we went home” now can you?

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 68—It’s All Greek To Me

ANASTASIA

“Olive oil,” I say as we sit in that luxurious marble bath after magnificent sex and astronomical orgasms. “That’s new. Why that particular choice?”

“Because it’s thick and it coats smoothly. Baby oil has a mineral oil base and tends to be a bit abrasive after too much friction. Olive oil absorbs into the skin and makes a fabulous lubricant. Oh… and it’s edible.” I look over my shoulder at him.

“How did you learn this, Mr. Grey?”

“Well, like you,” he cups both of my breasts and squeezes firmly, “I like to stay abreast of things.” I giggle and he chuckles a bit at his tiny joke. “I was actually looking for the perfect massage oil that was versatile enough for our… playtime when the clerk at my favorite little discreet toy shop recommended an oil with an olive oil base. As she started explaining the benefits of the oil, I thought, hey, why not just use pure olive oil? None of the additives of the massage oil, it serves the same purpose, it’s good for your skin, and no perfumed aftertaste.”

“Yes,” I coo, remembering the taste of his skin coated in olive oil, “the taste is divine.”

“Behave, Mrs. Grey, or we’ll never leave this suite,” he warns.

“Well,” I begin, turning around and straddling him in the bath, “as much as I am anxious to see historic Athens and all the Greece has to offer, I can’t say that I mind spending quality time with my hot husband.”

“Is that so?” he says, wrapping his arms around my body and pulling me close to him.

“Yes, Mr. Grey,” I slide my arms around his neck and nestle in his lap. “That is very so.” I kiss him deeply, tasting his flavor and essence, remembering how his mouth feels and how he responds to me. He groans just before our lips part and he is slow to open his eyes.

“I like that,” he says in a low sexy tone. “You’re exploring…”

“Is that what I’m doing?” I ask in my own sexy tone. He nods.

“It’s exciting,” he confesses. “It adds another dimension to our intimate time… and it’s hot!”

“Mmmm,” I moan, moving my lips down his jaw brushing only slightly, remembering how his skin feels and committing his shiver to memory, “that’s good, because you drive me wild.” I continue down his jaw, over his neck, and back to where his neck meets his shoulder, then sink my teeth into the tender meat there. He hisses and sits up straight, both his hands instinctively traveling to my ass.

“You want to come again, don’t you?” he whispers harshly.

“Mm-hmm,” I answer, not releasing my mouth or my teeth from their target. He wraps one arm around me and lifts me with ease. When he sets me back down again, I’m in Nirvana…

We’re eating breakfast nearly at the crack of dawn to be able to tour the Acropolis before it gets too hot. We want to see as much as we can before the sun beats down on us, then we will have lunch at the New Acropolis Museum Café and stroll around the ancient artifacts for the afternoon. I was smarter in my dress this time a chose some comfortable shorts and a sheer cotton blouse with a pair of wedges that tied up around my ankle and leg and I put my sneakers in my backpack with my digital camera. There was no way that I was going to be caught unprepared while we are visiting the Acropolis. Christian admits to not being as learned about Athens as he was about Paris and confesses that we will be learning the history together. I won’t tell him that I know a lot about Greece already, but I am soon to discover that even my knowledge doesn’t even scratch the surface.

Jason and Norbert join us in the taxi while Chuck and Meathead stay behind at the hotel. This is probably quite the boring trip to Chuck so far, but he doesn’t seem to be complaining. Norbert speaks to the taxi driver and a few minutes later, we are in the Plaka district. Athens is really a very beautiful city—picturesque and historic. I remember seeing the Acropolis lit up from our table at dinner last night and it literally gave me chills. Then again, it could have been Christian, but I think it was the upper city.

A beautiful pedestrian road in the Plaka district takes us to the marble paths that lead to the Acropolis. Once I discover that I won’t be allowed to take my backpack to the Acropolis, I change into my sneakers and we begin our tour of the famous historic location. We grab a guide at the Propylaea—the entrance—to help fill in the blanks for us on our tour.

I’ve seen many photos, but nothing prepares you for seeing the Parthenon up close. It’s glorious and beautiful, majestic and tragic—strength in its endurance and weakness in its collapse. It’s being rebuilt, has been and will be for several years, but the emotions elicited from being here are very profound. You feel kind of small in its presence—not because of the size, although it is quite massive, but because of everything that it represents, everything the city has endured, the fact that you can see history playing out before you when you stand here.

Going from structure to structure, the guide tells us the difference between the three types of architecture on the Greek columns—Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. That’s information that I may never use again, but it’s interesting to see the columns graduate from the old Doric style to the newer and more flamboyant Corinthian.

Christian is shocked to discover that, contrary to popular belief, the Parthenon was not the religious temple of the Acropolis. That particular honor belongs to the Erechtheion. This temple is dedicated to the Greek goddess of war, Athena and the Greek god of the sea, Poseidon. Athena and Poseidon competed to see who would become the patron of the city. Athena won the competition by causing an olive tree to grow by touching the ground with her spear. Hence, the city of Athens was named after her. Poseidon’s feat of causing a spring to burst from a rock by striking it with his trident only earned him a small village in Syros—further example providing ample opportunity to rib Sir Christian that “girls rule and boys drool.”

Our guide tells us that the Erechtheion marks the end of what is known as the Panathenaic Way. This is the ceremonial path from the town below that leads up to the Acropolis where a procession took place as part of a huge religious festival that involves sporting events as well as cultural competitions.

The Erechtheion has two porches, but the south porch is most well-known. Overlooking a beautiful green carpet with several stone ruins almost laid out like a historic graveyard is the porch of the Caryatids. I take several pictures of this structure said to contain the grave of Kekrops, the half-man-half-dragon king. Unlike the north porch supported by six Ionic columns, the south porch is supported by six Korai or maidens in lieu of columns. The famous Caryatids have been removed and we will see four of them when we go to the new Acropolis Museum this afternoon. These ladies are replicas of the originals, as evidenced by the change in the color of the stone between the maidens and the porch. It’s nonetheless very beautiful in its ruin.

Standing at the northeast corner of the Acropolis, you will find the location of the Greek flag. Our guide tells us one of many stories that he has told us today concerning the history of war on this site, but this one seemed to affect me the most. As the story goes, an Evzone guarded the flag that flies over the Acropolis. Evzones are mountain units and infantry of the Greek Army and they still guard the tomb of The Unknown Soldier at Parliament in Syntcegma Square today, and they raise and lower the flag here at the Acropolis every Sunday. During World War II, German soldiers ordered an Evzone to take the flag down, which he did. Instead of handing the flag over to the Germans, he wrapped the flag around him, then jumped off the Acropolis and killed himself.

Hearing this story and the many stories about the buildings and temples of this city gave me a whole new respect for the ground on which I am standing and the people who stood here before me and who inhabit the area today. It seems like whoever was at war at whatever time in history made their way to the religious center of Greece and declared “We’re going to destroy your culture!” Many of them are probably rolling over in their graves knowing that their actions only added to Greece’s already unbelievably rich history and makes it even more amazing that these temples still stand—even in ruin…

…A small Athenian temple at the Propylaea was dismantled by the Turks in 1686 to be used as a platform for a large cannon. It’s been rebuilt, dismantled again, and rebuilt again, and here I am in 2013 on my honeymoon—able to stand on it and see all the way out to the ports where ships are waiting and across the water to the islands and the mountains.

..The Turks used the Parthenon to store gunpowder and the Venetians attacked it in 1687. A Venetian cannon ball struck the gunpowder and blew it up.

…The current Erechtheion temple sits on the northeast corner of what used to be the original temple. The original was burned and destroyed by the Persians in 480 BC.

…After the Greek flag was removed, the Nazi flag flew over the Acropolis during the occupation in World War II. A plaque by the flag today includes the names of two heroes who removed the German flag in 1941.

Any wise strategist knows that the best way to destroy a culture is to attack its religion. These failed attempts to conquer the capital of Greece remind me of a movie I saw called “The Book Of Eli.” In the movie, the main villain was desperate to get his hands on a copy of the Bible after the Apocalypse. He knew that not only would weak minds be easily swayed, but that people hungered for real leadership and for something and someone to put their faith in. He knew that he could rule with that Bible and he went to all ends to get a copy of it from “Eli.” When he finally obtained the Bible after thinking he had killed Eli, he couldn’t read it. It was written in Braille.

Athens is very proud of its history and the fact that you can walk the same trek as many of the great thinkers, sit in the theaters where the original Greek tragedies played out, and walk down many village streets and run right into historic ruins.

Below the Acropolis the Rock of Areopagos. If you dare climb the rock, which from my vantage point I can see that many people have done just that, you will get a spectacular view of Athens and the surrounding villages. This is the site of St. Paul’s speech to the people of the city of Athens depicted in chapter 17 of the book of Acts in the Bible. Although we didn’t go to the rock, we were told by the guide that there is a bronze tablet at the top of the stairs that contains the words to St. Paul’s speech to the men of Athens.

We travel down the south slope of the Acropolis and I get pictures of the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, or Theater of Herod, and the Theater of Dionysus Eleuthereus. Though the Theater of Herod is more well-preserved, the Theater of Dionysus is said to be more significant. The Theater of Herod was mostly used—and still is—for cultural performances. The Theater of Dionysus is the first stone theater and the site of the great Greek tragedies. This location was also later rebuilt to house the gladiator fights.

Our history lesson is set to continue as we reach the New Acropolis Museum and the fantastic view of the ongoing underground excavation in the Atrium before you enter. As fascinating as all of this is, I need to eat! Though I had no intention of hiding this fact from Christian, my growling stomach gave me away and alerted him that although we could make our way through the Gallery of the Slopes and the glass floor that further boasts the ongoing excavation under the Acropolis, most of the Museum would have to wait until after lunch.

We decide to go straight to the Museum Café and Restaurant, where our table is decked out with fresh shrimp with ouzo, cherry tomatoes, orzo and red saffron, veal scaloppini with oregano, sautéed vegetables with lime, trachanas with mushrooms and crunchy Greek prosciutto, and fresh pasta with minced meat and kefalotiri cheese. The pasta and minced meat reminded me of the spaghetti and meatballs, but didn’t seem to torture me like red meat has been since the murder burger incident. I should really sue that place. They may have ruined a good steak for me forever! The fresh shrimp was so tasty that Christian had to request a second order as I finished it off before he had gotten any.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I scold him. “We’ve been traipsing around ancient ruins all morning. I’ve worked up an appetite and at least my feet don’t hurt!” He gazes at me with laughter in his eyes before taking a bite of the pasta and minced meat while waiting for the shrimp.

We finish our lunch and visit the exhibits in the museum starting with the Parthenon Gallery since we are somewhat working our way backwards at this point. This exhibit is the home of the Parthenon Frieze—a relief that once adorned the cella of the Parthenon. It was made up of 115 relief sculpture blocks and depicted the Panathenaic procession. It was once in rich color on a deep blue background. Its restoration and preservation here in the museum means that parts of it had to be reconstructed or cleaned with lasers and pieces of the puzzle are still missing. Those that remain show men, women, and children, gods, goddesses, horses and chariots, and various other animals marching around the perimeter of the center wall of the gallery—constructed to match the dimensions of the original cella—and meeting up like they did on the east end of the Parthenon cella to hand over the peplos to the goddess Athena. The outer walls of the Parthenon Gallery are glass. So while you take in the pictures on the frieze as well as the relief sculptures on wall blocks supported by beams and displayed outside and above the Parthenon Frieze, you have a beautiful view of the Parthenon itself, standing majestically in the background and watching over its former treasures.

Working our way down, I see the actual Caryatids that were removed from the Temple of Erechtheion. There are only five of them here… well, four and a half I should say. Four of the maidens have been rescued from the elements to be displayed safely here in their original positions from the South Porch. A fifth stands here in pieces in the back far right position of the porch. It appears to be her torso, pieces of her dress and a piece of her head or maybe a representation of her head, but the rest of her is gone. The maiden in front and second to the left is missing, her position obviously empty—like the “missing man formation”—and as some Athenians have told me, waiting for her return. She is referred to as “The Stolen Caryatid” and she stands now in the British Museum along with pieces of the original Parthenon Frieze and other artifacts and treasures from the Acropolis and ancient Greece. There is an ongoing battle to return these treasures, called the Elgin Marbles, to their homeland to be properly displayed in their place of origin.

From the second floor balcony, you can see the Archaic Gallery display, various busts and statues, sculptures and reliefs, all situated in various locations on podiums around the room. When you walk into the Museum, you almost feel like you’re interacting with the art, like you’re in the marketplace and some random conversation is going on and it’s just another day in Athens. I don’t know if everyone in ancient Greece was as pretty as these statues, but I find myself gazing into the blank eyes of a beautiful Greek kore wondering if she posed for this sculpture or if she was etched so well in someone’s mind that they sculpted her from memory. Where did the artist see her? Was she his lover? A model? Someone that he admired from afar? What was her life like in ancient Greece? Was she one of the inhabitants of the nearby villages? Was she the daughter of an aristocrat? Was she…

“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”

I turn to investigate the voice with the Greek accent that I don’t recognize. A tall, attractive gentleman with black hair is standing behind me and to my right. He’s casually well-dressed like Christian, and carries himself like he comes from money. Oh, shit.

“Yes, she is.” Please leave me alone.

“American,” he observes.

“She’s American?” I ask, confused. He laughs that same controlled laugh that Christian has.

“No. I meant you,” he says in a low, soft voice.

“Oh,” I say, cautiously, “Yes, I am.” I turn back to the kore, a bit put off by the fact that he’s interrupting me.

“Are you here on vacation?” he asks, his voice a bit closer to me than it was before. I look over my shoulder at him in my peripheral. He’s about 5′ 11″, well-built. He smells good, but he’s not my Christian.

“Honeymoon,” I clarify, without making eye contact and look back at the kore. Hey, you, say something to this guy and make him go away.

“Ah, honeymoon. When were you married?” Why do you want to know?

“Saturday,” I say, trying to hide my ire.

“Well, well, very newly married. Congratulations.” Isn’t that what honeymoon generally means?

“Thank you.” End of discussion, right?

“Are you and your husband enjoying Greece so far?” Wrong.

“Yes, we are, very much.” I say. I would think that my short answers would signal that I’m not interested in conversation or whatever he has to offer, but apparently it doesn’t.

“We have many beautiful attractions here… very beautiful indeed,” he says suggestively, and here we go.

“I’m aware of that,” I say, turning around to face him. “My husband and I plan on seeing as much as we can while we’re here.” I walk away from him go over to another display, this one a frieze of a man’s profile.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” He’s behind me again. I turn around to face him and fold my arms.

“No, you don’t, but my husband could make you uncomfortable. Why are you talking to me? I told you that I was married.”

“I just like the company of extraordinarily beautiful women,” he says, his voice honey smooth and seductive. Do they teach this shit somewhere?

“How often has that worked for you?” I ask.

“What?”

“That line.” He smirks at me.

“You do not think you are beautiful?” Oh, no, diversion is not going to work.

“Okay, let’s try this. Please go look for the company of another extraordinarily beautiful woman. I am only interested in being in the company of my husband.”

“Hmm,” he says, rubbing his chin. “Your husband… he’s keeping you happy?” He asks, reaching for my hand. Before it gets there, another hand is on his wrist holding firmly. It’s not Christian.

“I wouldn’t do that,” the voice says. It’s Jason.

“Ah, you must be the husband,” the unknown guy says, snatching his arm away from Jason.

“No, the bodyguard, luckily for you,” Jason says calmly. Unknown Guy looks at me.

“Bodyguard,” he says impressed. “Hmm, extraordinary indeed.” I roll my eyes.

“You don’t give up, do you?” I ask appalled.

“Not usually,” he answers with a smile.

“Please, just leave me alone,” I tell him. “I don’t want a scene and I am not interested in your company—at all. I told you that I’m married and you are being very disrespectful.” His piercing black eyes gaze at me before he bows slightly.

“I do not wish to cause you disrespect. I will go. Should you change your mind, I am Owen.”

“I won’t, Owen. Please leave,” I insist. He nods again, throws a look at Jason, who is ready to strike like a serpent, then walks out of the gallery. I drop my head into my hands and rub my face. “Where is he?” I ask, my face still covered.

“About 20 feet to your seven o’clock,” he says. I don’t even want to turn around. I didn’t want to turn around for the entire conversation for fear that the Neanderthal was going to pop up and destroy all of the Greek artifacts in a 500-foot radius. I don’t want to move.

“Are you okay?” Jason asks. I sigh heavily and nod, just waiting for the Wrath of Grey to fall down on me. Why didn’t he come over when he saw Owen getting fresh with me? Could he hear me saying that I was married from that far away? Oh, I wish one of those famous Greek gods would just swoop down and take me anywhere but here right now. Did he touch me? No, he didn’t. Jason stopped him before that happened. I just stand here for a moment, trying to figure out what I should do next. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I didn’t do anything wrong at the hen party either and look how that turned out. I don’t know if I stand there for a few more moments or minutes, but I get my answer.

“Stop doing that,” he says in a low firm voice. I feel him reach around my body and grab my wrists, stilling my hands that were rubbing my face moments before. I freeze. I don’t know what to say or what to expect right now. Still standing behind me, he brings my hands down to my chest and asks, “Are you okay?”

I’m still frozen, a little shocked, but I manage to nod stiffly. He knows me well. He turns me around and forces me to look up into his eyes. I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me, and I can’t interpret the emotions that flash through his stare in the few seconds that we gaze at each other, but he cups my face and says “I’m sorry.”

Huh? Sorry? For what?

“For what I did,” he says softly, “at your bachelorette party.” Oh my God, we’re having this conversation here?

“Not here…” I begin.

“Yes, here!” he says firmly but quietly. “I was an ass—a barbaric, unfeeling ass—and I’m sorry. I don’t know how to react when a man touches you. I’m trying, that’s why I stayed by the beam. I love you so much. You’ve made be feel things I’ve never felt before and the thought of losing them or sharing them…” He stops abruptly and drops his head, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that… or like this.”

He knows me too well. He totally nailed it. I had no idea what he was going to do while this guy was putting the moves on me. I was frozen with panic and uncertainty and I just wanted him to go away. It took an intervention from Jason—who has now conveniently disappeared in that way that he does—to make that guy stop. I’m feeling kind of numb now—not sad, not scared, not relieved, just… numb.

“Butterfly?” I look up in his eyes, large and questioning. “Please forgive me.” I’m still having a problem finding my words, so I just nod. He brings his lips to mine and kisses me, pulling my body closer to him. I melt instantly, momentarily forgetting that we’re standing in the middle of a busy museum. I cup his face in my hands and just let him kiss away my uncertainty.


CHRISTIAN

She’s so beautiful. I’m leaning against one of the large, gray beams in the center of the Archaic Gallery and I just watch her as she goes from display to display, marveling at the history laid out before her. She stops at a statue of a peplos kore and I can almost imagine her standing there having a conversation with the woman about fashion or the latest gossip. She’s lost in thought as she stares at the statue and I’m wondering what heavenly ideas are going through her mind. She looks utterly adorable standing there still as a statue herself gazing at the maiden like it holds the secrets to the universe. I don’t know how long I stand there gazing at the light of my life before I see some slick-haired Greek slither up to her and start conversation.

…And the light just got dark.

I can tell that she’s paying him no attention, but it seems the more she tries to shun him, the more determined he becomes. He’s one of those, wear you down until you say ‘yes,’ and then…

“Do you want me to take care of it, Boss?” Jason’s voice breaks my chain of thought and I realize that although my arms are crossed and I am still leaning on the beam, my fists are clenched to the point where my knuckles are white. I want to kill this fucker. Get away from my Butterfly! She folds her arms and takes a stance that says that she clearly wants him to leave her alone. Do I go charging in again? Will I embarrass her?

“Yes, Jason, please,” I say. I don’t think I can handle this situation diplomatically. In an official capacity, Jason may be able to defuse the situation and get rid of this loser without making a scene. He gets over to them not a moment too soon. This asshole was about to touch my Butterfly. Easy, Grey, easy. Nothing has happened. Don’t lose your cool. I’m no longer leaning on the beam. In fact, I’m ready to leap over these statues in a minute.

Cool, Grey. Be cool. Let Jason handle it.

The greasy Greek snake has slithered away and I can tell by the glance Jason just threw at me that she just asked about me. She doesn’t turn around though. She just stands there rubbing her face in that way that she rubs her forehead like she’s going to start a fire. What is she doing? Turn around, Butterfly. Let me see your face. She won’t move. She nods at Jason, but she won’t drop her hands and she won’t move.

Come to me, Butterfly.

Nothing. It’s not like she can hear me, though. Jason looks over at me after a few more moments of watching her trying to start a fire on her face. It only takes a moment to realize what must be going through her head. I walk over to them, reach around her and clasp her wrists, forcing her to stop rubbing her face. When I turn her around to face me, it’s written in her eyes.

I’m such an asshole.

I don’t know what I say to her, but all I know is that I am begging her to forgive me in my heart. I’m so sorry I made you feel this way. I’m so, so sorry. I know it wasn’t your fault. I’m so sorry.

Before I know it, we are kissing deeply in the middle of the museum and I just want to get her out of here.

“Do you want to see more of the exhibits?” I ask her.

“No. I’ve seen enough. I’m ready to go,” she says softly. I have to stop myself from carrying her out of the museum. She seems vulnerable and I’m her protector; that’s my first instinct. We stroll the rest of the way through the museum, slowing down to view the glass floor and the exhibits of the Gallery of the Slopes since we basically ran through it on our way in. Once we get out into the fresh air, Butterfly seems to loosen up a bit, thank God. We decide to take the five-minute walk over to the Plaka district to do some tourist shopping and have dinner.

The Plaka district is characterized by very narrow roads, most of which do not allow cars. The area is very small, only 6 blocks wide and 10 blocks long. However, this is the area of the old village buildings, wrought iron balconies, and picturesque cobblestone streets. Every space is being used and the shops are nearly one on top of the other. You can find just about anything in the Plaka district. The shops have their wares all hanging or displayed on the outside of the stores and both locals and tourist buzz around looking for a deal.

We have gone to many of the shops so far, purchasing Greek pottery, fresh sponges from the Mediterranean, hats and souvenirs, and now we find ourselves in a small shop of unique handmade jewelry… and I’m watching her again. She is carefree as she talks to the shopkeeper about her choices. Norbert has taken most of the items we have purchased back to the hotel and Adrien and Charles will return and relieve Jason for the evening. I must admit that she is choosing some stunning original pieces, but I would have to say that my favorite pastime is Ana-watching.

I love the way her body moves. She’s curvier lately and her ass fits perfectly in these little shorts she’s wearing. I remember seeing her in a similar pair in Anguilla and just thinking that I wanted to cup her ass all night, not necessarily fuck her, just cup her ass. Now, it’s rounder than it was then and I could just wrap my hands around those cheeks and never let go. She glides to another display of some black and silver necklaces and I move to where I can get a better view of her. She is so beautiful with her chocolate locks cascading down her back. She moves her shirt in an effort to cool herself and it only brushes against her luscious body and makes me want her. I’ll make you hot, Baby. I’ll make you so hot, you can’t see straight.

“Sir?”

I’m a little embarrassed that Charles caught me eye-fucking my wife, but hey, we’re married and if he sticks around, he may accidentally see more than that.

“Yes?” I respond.

“Just letting you know that we’re here, sir,” he says. I nod and turn back to my Butterfly gazing. Her body is changing. She’s more sensitive and sensual. She can go as long as I can if not longer sometimes, and that’s new. I don’t remember ever having a woman who wasn’t worn out before I was and didn’t need a little coaxing. Now this new exploration thing that she’s doing, that’s fucking hot! The looks on her face when she realizes her full orgasm. The way that her insides vibrate, tighten, then release when she is concentrating on the sensation… shit, I better stop thinking about this before I give Charles a view he’ll never forget.

Down, Greystone.

Butterfly buys her wares and I swear she turns around and looks right at my dick. She looks up at me and smiles, walking the short distance across the shop over to me. She leans her body against mine and gives me a soft kiss.

“Do you need a moment?” she whispers in my ear. My eyebrows furrow when I look at her. She gestures her head down to the area that she is craftily covering with her body. Charles, like Jason, knows when to get lost and has retreated out of the shop and is standing just outside the door with Adrien. “What were you thinking about?” she asks.

“You,” I answer honestly, “and you hot ass and your firm breasts and how you make me so hard and want you so much that I can’t fucking see straight.” Her eyebrows shoot up and I can tell that she is a bit taken aback by my confession.

“You do the same thing to me, Mr. Grey, but…” She looks down at my dick again. “My arousal is not so visible.” Shit, I’m coaxing Greystone down and he’s rising higher to the challenge. The little jewelry shop is so tiny and there’s nowhere to hide. I’m going to have to go into the street like this.

“I’ll get it to calm down,” I say, not so sure of myself.

“I’m just a little worried about you,” she says with mirth. “It can’t be very comfortable in those jeans.”

“No,” I tell her, “but the tightness against…” I trail off and she raises her eyebrows again. Yes, Butterfly, I like it.

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

“I’ll talk it down,” I tell her as we leave the jewelry store.

Yeah… that didn’t work.

I’m walking down the streets of the Plaka district, examining more things to buy and every female eye walking in my direction goes straight to my dick. It doesn’t matter if they are 25 or 75, they are looking at the package, and Greystone is looking right back at them. It’s not because he wants any of them; it’s because he refuses to settle down. He is pumping hard and to the left and I’m trying to ignore him, but it’s doing no good. Butterfly is becoming aggravated with the additional attention to my unwelcome erection and begins to somewhat separate herself from me. That doesn’t make me happy. If she was trying to have the effect of making it deflate, that worked.

She’s looking at some colorful scarves on a display and I am standing behind her, watching her ass and thinking about what I could do with those scarves. Oh, for Christ’s sake! I cross the tiny street and look at some boring postcards of the Parthenon and the surrounding ruins. Charles and Adrien will make sure no harm comes to Butterfly.

My mind must have wandered to parts unknown and my thoughts are interrupted by the voice of a young Greek woman.

“See anything you like?” she asks in a mild Greek accent. I look at the postcards in my hands.

“Just looking for now.” I reply.

“Are you in Greece on business?” she asks. I raise my eyes to her. Young and beautiful and making the moves on me. Oh, shit.

“On second thought, I’m not interested in anything.” I put the postcards back on the rack and do an “about-face” back to my wife and the scarves. That’s the last thing I need is for her to see some young Greek girl on the prowl, chatting me up while I’m standing there with a boner. Well, the boner is gone now, but the last she saw, I had a boner. She finishes her transaction and turns around to face me. She seems surprised to see me standing there.

“She’s pretty,” she says, putting her wallet into her backpack. Fuck. She saw me.

“Who?” I ask with an obtuse frown. She twists her lips at me and her eyes are screaming, “Seriously, Grey?”

“The girl that you were talking to,” she says with a little spice. I look back over at the woman who is now examining me and Butterfly.

“Oh,” I say non-committal. “Yeah, I guess she’s kind of pretty.” I turn back to Butterfly. “I hadn’t noticed. I was looking at the postcards. I heard a voice ask me if I was interested and I said, ‘no.’ I think postcards are kind of cheesy. Everybody knows that we’re here, so why send a postcard?” Keep talking, Grey.

“The same reason you buy souvenirs,” she says, her voice tainted with skepticism.

“Yes, but a souvenir is different,” I say, keeping the conversation going and willing her to move away from the shop with the staring Greek girl. “A souvenir is a tangible reminder of where you’ve been or gift from your trip that you give to someone else. A postcard… it’s just a picture. You’ve taken a million pictures. Why do you need postcards?”

“Then why were you looking at them?” she accuses. I know what she’s doing. She’s feeling a bit of the same thing that I felt in the museum and I can’t blame her for it.

“Because they are boring and they kept my mind off your ass and my dick at a manageable size,” I tell her honestly. Her eyes go immediately to my pants and although Greystone thumps at the thought of her eyes on him, my erection has considerably subsided.

“Oh,” she says somewhat dismissively. “Well, let’s go find something else boring to look at besides the beautiful Greek girl,” she says almost in a pout. I smile and put my arm around her waist.

“Like I said, I hadn’t noticed,” I respond, reaching down to squeeze her ass and leading her away from the offending shop.

The sun has set and we have covered the Plaka district, sending Adrien back to the hotel with Butterfly’s acquisitions twice during the trip. We are now in a lovely Greek restaurant with wooden and wicker chairs and red and white tablecloths about to enjoy some delicious food. A mention that we are newlyweds got us a quiet table inside of what looks like a discreet little cave inside the wall.

“You moved away from me while we were shopping,” I observe. She looks up from her menu and examines me. “You didn’t think I noticed?”

“You didn’t notice the pretty Greek girl,” she says with no malice looking back at her menu.

“She’s not you,” I reply immediately without taking my eyes off her. She looks back up at me just as the waiter comes to take our order. There aren’t many choices, so we ask for beer and wine and literally, whatever’s cooking and send him away. I look back up at Butterfly. “You didn’t answer my question,” I press.

“You didn’t ask one,” she says softly.

“I did, but I’ll ask again. You moved away from me while we were shopping. You didn’t think I noticed?” She looks down at her hands. I reach across the table and put my finger under her chin, lifting her eyes back to me. I know what it was, but I want her to tell me. She tries to lower her head again, but I won’t let her. Talk to me.

We stare at each other for quite some time, I don’t really know how long, until the waiter comes back with our drinks and salad. I know that we will have some time now before the food comes. I entwine my fingers in hers across the table.

Talk to me, Butterfly.

“I don’t know what to say,” she says shyly. “I just wanted it to stop.” Now we’re getting somewhere.

“I was trying, Baby, but you know what you do to me.”

“I know,” she says, still unable to make eye-contact with me. “It’s just… there was nothing that I could do about it.”

“Well, maybe not at that moment, but…”

“Not that,” she interrupts me. “The staring. I wanted it to stop. It… I didn’t like it.” I know you didn’t, Baby.

“While they were looking at me, I was only looking at you,” I try to comfort her.

“I know, but…” It doesn’t seem to be working. She finally raises her eyes to mine. “Think about it, Christian. I’ve likened you to a Greek god many times before. Now here you are walking down the streets of Greece—a beautiful man with a beautiful body, strikingly beautiful gray eyes and beautiful wavy red hair… in perfectly fitting jeans with an erection the size of the Parthenon. I can’t make women not look at you on a normal day. What the hell am I supposed to do when you’re waving Athena’s spear at them?”

She’s not angry, but she is perturbed by the situation, and I am doing my very best not to laugh at that description.

I fail miserably.

“Athena’s spear?” I say through my laughter. “Greece has really gotten to you, hasn’t it?”

“It’s not funny, Christian!” she says swatting me on my wrist. I point at her face, still unable to control my glee.

“Then why are you laughing?” I ask. She tries to hide her chuckle and I take this moment to move next to her in the cove-booth. I put one arm around her and shield her from the view of the restaurant. She gasps quietly as I gently stroke the tender meat inside of her thigh. She spreads her legs a bit for me and I move further up her thigh.

“This spear only sharpens for you, Baby,” I whisper in her ear, still making light of the situation.

“I still don’t like them looking,” she breathes, arousal thick in her voice. These tables are nothing like the tables at the restaurant last night. Not only are we hidden away in the corner of a quiet little cove with few patrons in the restaurant, but the table cloths are much longer and shield my actions from prying eyes. I could make her come right now, but I won’t. This excites me immensely, but concentrating on driving her crazy keeps the woody at bay.

“I feel the same way,” I say, brushing my lips against her cheek. I wrap my ankle around hers, locking her foot with mine and pulling her legs apart. “The thought of another man looking at you… admiring you… touching you… It’s more than I can bear.” I move my hands further up and inside the leg of her shorts to the crease in her thigh and caress her there. She takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes as I close my lips over that space on her neck right under her earlobe. I am able to travel under her underwear and tease her just over her lips. “Then, I remember that you will only allow me here. No one else… that I am the only one who can touch you here, taste you here, feel you here…” I slip my fingers between her lips and into her hole, massaging just enough to get her wet and lubricate my fingers.

Two quick breaths escape her throat as she settles into the feeling. She’s doing it again. She’s absorbing the pleasure and concentrating on the sensation. This is a whole new dimension for us and I love watching her. I love every minute of it. The fact that we are doing this in a public restaurant makes it just that much hotter.

“Only me,” I whisper in her ear as my wet fingers now massage her clit. She stifles her groan and sinks back onto the seat and into my arm.

“Yes,” she breathes, her eyes closed, one hand clenching the seat and the other grasping my shirt and she exercises control over her breathing.

“You do this to me,” I breathe, stroking her clit slowly just for sensation, not for orgasm. “This is what you make me feel. Only you, Lady Anastasia.” She whimpers a bit at my declaration. “Kiss me.”

Her free hand moves from the seat to my cheek and she kisses me deeply, almost making me forget where I am. I taste her hunger and her yearning in her kiss. She moves me in every way.

“Christian,” she breathes, “stop… stop…” I know that she no more wants to come right now than I want her to come. So I move my fingers from her clit to just inside the lips, minimal stimulation so that she doesn’t come crashing to the ground. Her breathing regulates a bit as I move my fingers to the outside of her lips. She still feels so good and my fingers are still drenched in her wetness. She releases a deep breath when my hand emerges from her shorts. Before I have a chance to do anything, she grabs my hand with both of hers and brings it to her mouth. She wraps her lips around my fingers and sucks them firmly, cleaning all of her juices from my hand. She raises her eyes to mine as she licks between the fingers and kisses each fingertip seductively, even the ones that didn’t pleasure her. I lick my lips and my dick is getting hard again.

“That’s what makes me want to fuck you every night,” I confess.

“It’s our honeymoon. Nothing’s stopping you.”

“Make sure you eat all of your dinner,” I warn. “You’re going to need your strength.” She gasps again. Oh yes, Butterfly. I plan on making you scream to the Acropolis.

Her appetite is as healthy as ever and that pleases me. I feel the need to carry her when we leave the Plaka district, so she tells me to squat and she climbs onto my back. People stare and point, smiling at us while Butterfly giggles and whispers in my ear during her piggyback ride from the Plaka district all the way back to Syntagma Square. Even after a full meal, she is as light as a feather.

When we get back to the hotel, I quickly get her out of her clothes and into bed. That crazy erection comes back with a vengeance and I sink into her over and over again, unable to control my aching and burning need for her. I try to control myself, but the beast inside me needs her to calm it and Greystone is completely helpless. Dom Dick is brick hard and saluting with no sign of surrender. Butterfly comes more times than I can remember and I blow several times before he is willing to submit. By the time I am sated, Butterfly has screamed herself voiceless and is begging me to stop and let her rest. She collapses in my arms and we both fall into a deep sleep.

I awake on Thursday morning, content and still sated from the night before, but the bed is empty.

Where’s Butterfly?

I get out of bed and go to the bathroom, intending to search for her once I relieve myself, and I find her there at the vanity in one of the Grande Bretagne robes.

“Well, good morning,” I say to her, before coming behind her and kissing her neck. “You’re up early.”

She spits and rinses her mouth. “Good morning,” she says, wiping her mouth. “I haven’t worked out in forever. I just wanted to get one in. I really need to burn all these calories I’m taking in.” Damn. I guess I had better enjoy the round ass while I can.

“You did a lot of walking yesterday,” I tell her. “You had to have burned off enough for a few people with that trek.” I look at the toilet and realize that I don’t think we’ve ever used the bathroom in front of one another, except last year when she was stunned. I shake that thought and point to the toilet. “Do you mind?” She looks at me through the mirror.

“Do I mind what?” she asks.

“If I piss in front of you.” She looks at me bemused.

“You’re kidding, right?” Okay, what does that mean? She doesn’t care if I piss in front of her or she would be utterly appalled and I should have not even ask?

“We’ve… never done that in front of each other,” I say with a shrug. She turns around slowly and faces me with one hand on her hip.

“Christian, I’ve had your dick in my throat and you’re seriously asking me if I care if you take a leak in front of me?” Well, when you put it that way…

“You never know. Some people are squeamish about that kind of thing,” I say, whipping out my dick and handling my business.

“I think you should know me better than that. Would you care if I pissed in front of you?” she asks. I turn around after putting myself away and look at her as if to say “seriously?”

“Exactly,” she says as she begins flossing her teeth. I walk behind her and grab her ass.

“I’m going to miss this,” I say giving it a squeeze. She leans on the vanity.

“Are you saying that you like my ass flabby?” she says.

“Your ass is far from flabby, Ana, but it is curvy and round and yes, I liked it before just fine before you ask, but I do like the curvy and round.” I kiss her neck and grab her ass again before she gets me into one of those “what was so wrong with my ass before” conversations. Seeing that she has already showered and washed her hair, I get in the shower and decide to take advantage of the rainwater and wall jets. I so need to get one of these built. Those jets feel fantastic on my balls.

When I come out of the shower, Butterfly is already gone. I dry my hair and brush my teeth, then go in search of Butterfly again. She is enjoying her breakfast at the dining table and looking at her phone.

“You couldn’t wait for me?” I ask. She looks up at me.

“It just got here and I was hungry. I heard the shower go off, so I knew you wouldn’t be long.” She says, eating a piece of a croissant. I have nothing to worry about. That ass isn’t going anywhere. “Do you have the day planned yet?”

“No,” I say, uncovering a tray and digging in to some eggs and pancakes. Butterfly is gobbling down some fresh fruit. “I figured we would just play it by ear.”

“Good, because I want to see the Parliament Building and the changing of the guards. Then, I’d like to see the National Gardens. I’ve heard that they’re very lovely. Did you have anything that you wanted to do today?” she asks.

“I want to go to the National Archeological Museum,” I tell her. She presses something on her phone.

“That’s a bit north, but not too far. So we can go to the museum after the National Gardens then swing back to the Olympic Stadium and the Temple of Zeus.” She is typing away. What is she doing?

“Butterfly, what are you doing?” I ask her before taking a sip of my coffee.

“I’m planning our day,” she says, looking up from her phone momentarily. “There are so many things to see in Athens and while I don’t think we can possibly see everything, I want to see as much of the ‘must-see’ places as possible.” I nod.

“Okay, so what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” I ask.

“Well, we still haven’t seen Socrates Prison in Philopappos Hill, although I don’t think that was the prison that held Socrates at all, but that’s neither here nor there…”

“Oh, really?” I interrupt her. “And why, oh great scholar, would you dispute the great people of Greece?” She looks up at me.

“Lots of reasons,” she says, folding her arms. “First of all, there were no prisons at the time. Detention was not the preferred punishment for offenders. You were either exiled, fined, set free, or killed—well, forced to kill yourself.”

“Whoa! Good God!” I almost choke on my coffee. “How the fuck do you force someone to kill themselves?”

“You force them to drink poison, in this case, hemlock,” she says nonchalantly.

“In this case? There were other ways to kill someone? I mean poison seems pretty effective.”

“Well, yes, there’s always another way to kill someone, Christian…”

“I know that,” I interrupt her, “but I mean, forcing someone to drink their own poison knowing that they are going to die soon, that’s psychological warfare.” She twists her lips in thought.

“I guess you’re right about that, but the hemlock death was very humane and only reserved for those who could afford it,” she said, as if she were talking about buying shoes or something. “The other method of death at the time was a type of bloodless crucifixion. You were bound to a board with irons by your wrists, ankles, and neck and strangled slowly. It took days to die.” I instinctively reach for my neck.

“So what you’re telling me is that if you had money, you could buy your own hemlock, take it yourself, and…” I trail off.

“Your body would just go numb from your feet to your head. When the numbness got to your heart, you died quietly.” Oh, joy, how neat… not!

“Okay, you could buy your own poison or you could be strangled for days.”

“Yep.”

“And one of these happened to Socrates in his prison cell?” I ask and she nods.

“He took the hemlock,” she says, finishing her fruit.

“Okay, so you said that you don’t think that the prison at Philiphophis Hill is actually Socrates prison. What is it then and where is Socrates Prison?” She giggles.

“It’s Philopappos Hill and no, I don’t think that was the prison. It’s too modern and looks more like someone created it. Many scholars and… other important people,” she says with a wave of her hand, “agree that this was most likely not the death cell of Socrates. This was built much later and is now used as a tourist trap. I mean, do you really want to tell a tourist that the place of Socrates’ death no longer stands when you have these perfectly intact cells inside of a cave at the bottom of an ancient hill in the city where Socrates lived?” How the fuck did we get on this conversation? It’s absolutely morbid!

“Okay, so, where was his cell?”

“Well…” she punches something into her phone and shows it to me. “It most likely was here.” She’s pointing to a map with yellow squares and arrows on it and I have no idea what I’m looking at. “This would have been the site of the ‘Agora State Prison,'” she says, “just southwest of the boundaries of Agora. It was illegal to execute anyone inside the borders, so this area was most likely where it happened. There were eight cells here and four rooms for the guards. The building is gone now and only the foundation is still there, but it will be easy to see where the death cell was. That’s one of the places I want to go tomorrow, too.”

“Oh, Butterfly, that is so macabre. You want to go stand in the place where Socrates drank hemlock and died?” I ask. She looks at me.

“It’s no different from visiting the Lorraine Motel and Civil Rights Museum in Memphis where Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot and killed, or the Ford’s Theater in Washington, D.C. where Abraham Lincoln was shot and the Petersen House where he later died. It’s a part of history, Christian, nothing more.” I think she’s a little sensitive about my statement. I certainly didn’t mean to offend her.

“Can I ask you one more thing?” Her gaze doesn’t turn from me and I think she may be expecting me to say something else offensive. “Well, you didn’t seem to know a lot about the Parthenon and the Acropolis and I was sure that you would. How do you know so much about Socrates?” She settles a bit, almost relieved I think that I didn’t say something stupid.

“I’ve told you many times that Al and I are split-aparts,” she says. I nod.

“Yes.” How can I forget?

“That theory was introduced by Plato.” I nod. “Who do you think Plato’s teacher was?” And it all makes sense now.

“Socrates.” She nods. I look down at my food, which has gone cold. Something inside of me suddenly goes cold. “I try not to take it personally. Allen has said that you two were soul mates. He has even said it about James, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that about me.” Did I just say that out loud? I said I would never say that to her! I would never tell her those feelings. I look up at her and she is horrified, I mean utterly horrified. Shit, shit, shit!

“How…” I think she is at a complete loss for words. She’s kind of suspended in time. “Why… how…” I’m only getting one word. I don’t dare say a thing. There’s nothing that I can say after that declaration. I can only wait for her response. “How could you not know?” she finally says. Not know what? That Allen is your soul mate and I’m not? That I’m really your soul mate? I’ve never had the kind of relationship with anyone outside of my family that she has with Allen. I watched him kiss her tenderly on the dance floor at my wedding reception and had anyone else kissed her like that, I would have ripped out his throat.

What do I say? I feel ashamed, but not. I want to be in that place, to be her split-apart, but I can’t. That spot is taken by another man, and I’m not allowed to be angry about it. It’s completely foolish to be angry about it, but part of me is. Part of me feels like there’s a part of her that I will never have, that will always belong to someone else, and he’s stomping and kicking and throwing a temper tantrum like a three-year-old because of it—but I can’t tell her that.

I look in her eyes right now and I can’t even describe what I see—confusion and hurt and anger, but not, just a mishmash of “I don’t know” and “Why” and “What the fuck.”

Shit, I fucked up.

“Butterfly…” I reach for her and she pulls away from me. That shit hurt.

“After everything we’ve been through… you still don’t know?” she asks, her voice small. It’s such an all-encompassing question and I don’t know what she’s asking me. Please tell me what you mean.

“Butterfly, I don’t doubt for one moment what you feel for me; what I mean to you. I don’t want you to think that I don’t know, that I don’t understand. It’s that selfish bit in my that wants to be your everything and knows that’s not possible.”

“But you are my everything, Christian,” she says, her imminent tears evident in her voice.

“No, I’m not, but that’s okay. There are supposed to be other people in your life that fill other needs for you. I can’t help wanting to fill every need that you have, to be everything that you need. I can’t help wanting you to need only me because you mean so much to me, but that’s not realistic and I know it. Please hear what I’m saying, please.” I fall on my knees in front of her and take her hands while the tears fall from her eyes onto her robe.

“I love you so totally and completely that I have a hard time accepting that I can’t fill every single void in your life. Everyone needs more than one someone in their life, and it wasn’t until I met you that I needed anyone in mine. I mean, I needed people, but I didn’t understand that I needed people until I met you. You came with your own cheering section and people flocked to you and there were these two remarkable men in your life that gave you just about everything that you needed… except that romantic love. That’s where I came in. You became everything for me and I became everything for you. But you can’t love me like Mia does, or Grace… and I can’t love you like Allen or Ray. It makes me a little jealous, that I can’t fill every need, but that’s the unreasonable, selfish part of me that I’m still working on. Please, please just know that I love you with everything that I am and I know that you love me just as much. Please know that.”

She closes her eyes tight and takes a deep, shuddering breath. She nods wildly while she takes in another sobbing breath.

“I know,” she chokes quickly. “I know.” I crush her in my arms while she cries. I’m sorry, Butterfly. I’m such a fucking idiot. I fucking hate Socrates… fuck, Plato. Shit, I hate them both, but they’re already dead. “I… need to… clean up… pull my… self toget… together.” She’s trying to escape. I know she is, but this time, I think she needs to. I cup her face in my hands and kiss her gently but she’s unable to return the kiss through her sobs.

“I’m sorry,” I try to tell her. “I’m an idiot and my mouth runs before my brain sometimes. Please forgive me.”

“I… under… stand,” she says, still sobbing. “Let me… go and… fix myself… o-okay?” she needs to get away. I nod and release her, sitting back on my feet and letting her walk hurriedly back to our bathroom. I run my hands through my hair. I feel like a fool. It’s hard to explain what I’m feeling. I don’t doubt her feelings for me. I know that they are genuine and I trust her with my life. I’m just so… consumed with her and that fact that there could be somewhere, sometime that she doesn’t need me scares the shit out of me. I just don’t know how verbalize it without diminishing the relationship that she has with her best friend, or her father… or fuck, even with me. I’m such and idiot. I know that she’s going to be thinking about this for a long time and I don’t know how to fix it.

Shit, I’m such and idiot.


A/N: I took Greek and Roman studies a loooooooooooooooooooooooong time ago. Even with those classes and the hours and hours and hours of research that I did, I know that I could not scratch the surface of the rich history of Athens and of Greece as a whole. To that end, if my Greek readers see that any of my facts, points, or spellings are flawed, would you please shoot me an email and let me know. I would also appreciate it if in that email, you would include a link of some kind if you could so that I can double-check those facts. You all know that I am a research fanatic and a stickler for details and accuracy and I would hate to offend anyone by getting the history wrong.

I didn’t intend for their honeymoon to become a history lesson for my readers, but it was unavoidable. You can’t visit Greece without going through the history—there is absolutely no way. It also adds dimension to the physical beauty of the location.

The missing man formation is an aerial salute performed as part of a flypast of aircraft at a funeral or memorial event, typically in memory of a fallen pilot. Several variants of the formation are seen that display either an aircraft splitting off of the formation and flying away or an aircraft missing from the display. In all cases, the aircraft performing the split off or missing from the formation is honoring the person (or persons) who have died, and it represents their departure to the heavens.

Don’t forget to check out the Pinterest boards to follow Christian and Ana on the honeymoon. https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/mending-dr-steele-off-to-greece/

Love and Handcuffs!
Lynn X

Mending Dr. Steele: Chapter 67—Opa!

As we go into the second chapter of the honeymoon, I would like to send out special thanks to my friend Vanessa for always coming through in a pinch and helping me with story points and accurate translations. I would also like to send a HUGE and EXTREMELY sincere note of gratitude to Gia, without whom I would not have even been able to approach this chapter and the chapters to come at all. She gave me fantastic pointers and information about Greece from a Greek point of view and I appreciate it more than you will ever know.

Certain inconsistencies have been brought to my attention. I will address them as I change them. Thanks to my Eagle-Eyed readers who have brought these things to my attention. It is very important to me to get these things right!

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 67—Opa!

CHRISTIAN

My petite little flower is eating enough for three linebackers once more. Apparently, the concerns about her ass are out the window and she has absolutely no problem with French cuisine except for red meat. She scarfed down a lunch of escargot, soupe à l’oignon, coquilles Saint-Jacques, and Sole Meunière. Yet, the moment my Hachis Parmentier was brought to the table, she nearly passed out on the spot. They took it away and brought me Blanquette de Veau instead and she was fine until the end of our meal when someone at the next table ordered boudin noir aux pommes—blood sausage over baked apples. She was out of that restaurant before I even had a chance to pay the bill.

“What is it with you and beef lately?” I ask when we get into the Audi and head for the Arc de Triomphe. “You never used to react this violently to it.”

“I know,” she says. “It’s flashbacks of the murder burger. I was sick for days after that thing. It’s hard to get past the mental trauma of that.” She’s rubbing her ankles inside of her boots.

“Come here.” I reach down and grab her feet, bringing them to my lap. It’s a little harder than it should be to get her boots off and she actually sighs with relief when I have them removed.

“Butterfly,” I say after removing her ankle socks. “Your feet are all red.”

“Hours walking down the Avenue,” she says, her voice tortured. I start to rub her feet and ankles and she jumps in pain.

“I told you not to wear those boots,” I scold, massaging more gently while she closes her eyes and moans in pleasure. “Didn’t you buy some flats?” She raises her head at me.

“You mean those Ralph Lauren loafers? I’m not wearing those to the Arc de Triomphe!” she announces.

“Well, you better think of something, because your feet aren’t going back in those.” I point to her boots.

“It’s just my ankles, I’m sure,” she protests. “I can wear the shoes I got from Armani.”

“No, you can’t,” I retort. “Your feet are red and I know they are sore. You will only go to the Arc de Triomphe if you wear flats. Butterfly, you had to be walking around for about six hours or so before you even sat down. You were so hungry that you almost passed out. Did you really expect to run around in stilettos all day and not pay the price?” She looks at me with sad eyes. “If you don’t like the flats, why did you buy them?”

“The marble gets cold in the winter,” she says. “I bought them as slippers.”

“Well, you’re going to wear them as shoes today,” I tell her. She pouts.

“It’s not that they’re ugly. I’m going to have a problem walking in them since I’m so accustomed to stilettos. I have high arches, not to mention I’m going to look about three feet tall walking next to you.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re my wife and it doesn’t matter what other people think. Besides, you may be short, but you’re hot. So what’s it going to be… Ralph Lauren or the GEH jet?”

*-*

A few minutes later, I am walking towards the Arc de Triomphe with my mini-wife, who has completely forgotten about her Ralph Lauren flats as she examines the sculptures bursting out of the Arc.

“Now, I get to dazzle you with my knowledge again, Mrs. Grey,” I say coming up behind her and slipping my arms around her waist while she admires the architecture.

“Proceed, Mr. Grey,” she smiles.

“This particular Arch of Triumph is the second largest in the world. The largest is in North Korea. Napoleon commissioned this one to mark his victories in battle, which is ironic since he never got to see the finished product.”

“Hmm, Shangri-la and now the Arc de Triomphe—I see a theme developing here,” she says. “I happen to know that Napoleon was exiled after he lost at Waterloo, which is why he never saw it finished.”

“He wouldn’t have seen it anyway,” I inform her. “They stopped building it after he was exiled and didn’t start building it again until 20 years later, well after he died.” She nods.

“How did I not know they stopped building it?” she asks, mostly to herself, I think.

“No worries, Mrs. Grey. That’s why you have me.” I wink at her before taking her hand and leading her closer to the magnificent edifice. “Now, I saw you admiring the statues. This one,” I point to the one on our right, “is La Marseillaise. Those are French soldiers and citizens and that is the Roman goddess of war…”

“Bellona,” she finishes my sentence.

“Very good, Mrs. Grey. Now what’s that one?” I ask, pointing to the statue on the left.

“That, Mr. Grey, is The Triumph. It depicts Napoleon being crowned by Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory, after one of his many triumphs while the defeated bow at his feet. Now, on the opposite side of this one is The Resistance.”

“Ah, you’re getting ahead of me, Mrs. Grey,” I scold. “We’re not done with this side yet.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Grey. Do continue.”

“Thank you. Now, the reliefs at the top are depictions of Napoleon’s many battles and victories, and way up there,” I bring her back a bit to see the top of the Arc, “you will see 30 shields with the names of battles he won.” I lead her underneath the Arc. “Now these are lists of the names of French generals. The underlined ones died in battle.” We walk around under the Arc for a bit, admiring the architecture and examining the many indications that Napoleon was very proud of his victories. Butterfly also stops in silent contemplation at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but she seems miles away.

“I wish Alexandria hadn’t been such a bitch,” she says softly. “I would have liked to know more about Harry—my… father.” I put my hands on her shoulders. She seems so small right now, but I dare not tell her that for fear that she’ll march back to the car in search of stilettos.

“I know it must be hard to have that door opened and not be able to walk in, but a wise woman once told me that everything happens for a reason. I have to believe this is one of those situations,” I tell her, trying to ease the sting of maybe never being able to learn about a father that she never knew.

After several minutes we get to the other side of the Arc to Resistance, where Butterfly tells of the soldier defending his family under Antevorte, the Roman goddess of future. On the opposite side, things get back to normal and the French citizens go back to their daily lives as a French soldier sheaths his sword under the watchful eye of the Roman warrior goddess Minerva, and the statue is appropriately called Peace. There’s no doubt that Napoleon had nothing to do with this particular statue.

“How are your feet?” I ask, noting that she’s moving around easily with no pain.

“They’re fine. Shall we go inside?” she says, quickly dismissing my question. We go inside and there is a large spiral staircase that takes you all the way to the museum at the top. Did I mention that the Arc de Triomphe is over 160 feet high?

Yeah, not doing that.

We locate the elevator which is normally just for the infirm and with a little insistence, we take a ride up to the museum. The museum was okay, but not much to look at, but the view! Good fuck, the view! It’s really spectacular. Living in Escala, I’m accustomed to seeing marvelous views of a fantastic city, but the view from the top of the Arc de Triomphe is unbelievable. The Arc sits right in the center of a large circle where the 12 Grand Avenues converge and branch out like a starburst. Butterfly is mesmerized by the view and I silently enjoy watching her while she watches the view. After several minutes of quiet contemplation, she yawns, and I know that she has had enough excitement for one day.

“That’s Paris, Lady Anastasia… well, a small part of it anyway. What do you think?”

“I think it’s fantastic and dreamy and I can’t believe you were able to squeeze so much into 24 hours. You are amazing, Christian.” She throws her arms around my neck and kisses me sweetly. “Thank you so much. I do have one question though. Why do you keep calling me ‘Lady Anastasia?'”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “It seems to fit.”

“Hmmm. Well, I like it. Don’t stop, Sir Christian.”

“That definitely fits,” I tell her, holding her close to me as she yawns again. “We should get to the jet. Athens awaits and you look like you can use a nap.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says. “It’s nowhere near bedtime.”

“It’s only been one day, Love. I’m certain that it’s jetlag.” She nods and leans on me. We stand and wait for the elevator for so long that she finally convinces me that she can take the stairs as going down is not as taxing as going up. She was wrong. She nearly collapses when she gets to the bottom floor.

“Butterfly!” I catch her just as her knees begin to buckle. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know… as soon as the fresh air hit me, I just got light-headed.” I scoop her up in my arms and start walking towards the car. My heart is beating so fast that I can barely control it. What if she had collapsed on the stairs? I was walking behind her. I wouldn’t have been able to catch her.

“Christian, really, I can walk,” she protests softly. I don’t respond. I just want to get her to the car. Adrien jumps in response as we approach and opens the back door. I place her on the seat and close the door.

“Get us to the airport,” I say before walking around the car and sliding into the backseat. I turn to Butterfly and fasten her securely in her seatbelt before releasing a breath that I was holding. I sink back into the seat.

She’s secure. She’s safe now.

“Christian?” her soft voice startles me. I look over into her questioning face. I sigh again and shake my head.

“I’m sorry,” I say, thrusting my hands through my hair. “For a fleeting moment, I saw you tumbling down an insanely long spiral staircase—all 284 stairs.” I look back up at her. “Another piece of useless information,” I add with a strained smile. She looks at me sympathetically and strokes my hair.

“I’m fine,” she says. “It’s been a pretty big day—Love Lock Bridge, at least $1,000,000 on Avenue Montaigne, enough food to feed an army, then I foolishly decide to take the stairs down the Arc de Triomphe. I’m going to need some rest from my honeymoon and it’s only been one day.”

“I planned too much,” I lament.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” she scolds. “This day was outstanding! The shopping, the sites, the sex…” she whispers the last part. “I wouldn’t change a thing, except maybe I’d wear sneakers instead of stilettos.” She laughs and my mood is immediately lightened. I kiss her hand firmly.

“I don’t know why I freaked out so badly. I’m just… I’m happier than I have ever been and I’m afraid something is going to happen to ruin it.”

“Nothing is going to ruin it,” she says caressing my cheek. “I love you and I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, Mr. Grey, so you might as well get used to it. So stop worrying… that’s an order.”

“Yes, Dr. Grey… Dr. Steele-Grey,” I stumble and smile.

“You can call me Dr. Grey. I’ll save Steele-Grey for the office,” she purrs. I hear a little grunt from the front seat and turn to see Adrien glaring at Norbert. Was he clearing his throat? I’m not accustomed to my bodyguards reacting to my conversations unless I include them. I’ll have a word with Norbert in case that’s what just happened.

*-*

Butterfly was asleep before the plane took off. I didn’t want to wake her when we landed in Greece four hours later. Carrying her down the stairs of the Jet was a tricky maneuver, but now, here we lay in the royal suite at the Hotel Grande Bretagne. Norbert and Adrien are in a nearby suite while Jason and Charles are in a separate suite. I decided to dispense with the formalities of Davenport as if I can call two French strangers by their first names, surely I can refer to Charles as such. He’s been working for me for quite some time.

I look over at Butterfly’s sleeping body. She’s lying on her stomach in this soft blue chemise. She’s been sleeping for several hours and she’s right, her butt is bigger. It’s rounder—still fit and firm, but rounder. I like it. The light is bursting into the room from the windows on both sides of the large bed and she shows no signs of stirring. I watch her body rise and fall with her breathing, her long mahogany hair still sporting some of the curls from our wedding day. She is so beautiful. I could watch her all day.

She must have been exhausted from yesterday’s excursions. Counting the hours of sleep on the plane and that fact that she shed her clothes the moment we got to the suite and was asleep the second her head hit the pillow, I would say that she has easily been asleep for a combined 12 or 13 hours. If it was that rough on her, she’s likely to be sore when she wakes.

I outline her body like I did that day at the McElvoy when she was dancing to that Enigma song. I’m careful not to touch her so that I don’t wake her, but I’m taking from her energy. She’s my wife now… Mrs. Anastasia Grey. She is my dream come true and she’s all mine now, even though I risked fucking it up royally the night before our wedding. Damn, I’ve got to put that paranoid, possessive, out-of-control fucker on a goddamn leash.

I don’t know how long I watch her before she finally stirs. I wait to see if she is actually coming out of her slumber or just switching positions before I touch her. She tucks her head under her arm and does this ball stretch before slowly extending each limb. I hear her shoulder pop on one of the stretches and several other joints during the rest of the stretch and I know that I’m right; she did overdo it yesterday. She rolls over on her back and continues to stretch her aching joints without opening her eyes, groaning with a few of the movements. No, there will be no strenuous outings for the Butterfly today.

She stretches her arms out to the side and jumps when I catch her hand from swatting me in the face. She lazily opens one eye and I can clearly tell that she didn’t expect for me to still be in bed. She groans something indecipherable and closes her eye again. I slide my hand under her against her back and the other arm around her waist. Pulling her to me, I kiss her deeply until her body melts into mine. She can’t take much of anything right now, I know. So even though I could fuck her all day, every day, several times a day, she’s getting a reprieve on this particular day.

“Hello, my love,” I breathe against her lips.

“Hi,” she says, barely able to find her voice. “What time is it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I respond. “You need rest.”

“I don’t want to stay in bed,” she protests. “We’re in Greece.”

“And we have three weeks to see it.” I kiss her again. “No outings today. You need to relax.” She pouts at me.

“You’re going to make me stay in the room?” she whines.

“No, I didn’t say that. First, I’m going to wash your tired body. After that, we’re going to have a lovely breakfast delivered and we’re going to eat at that massive dining table that seats way too many people.” She giggles and the sound is music to my ears. “Then, you’re going downstairs to the spa and have some relaxing massages, treatments, aroma therapy… whatever you need to rejuvenate you. If you’re feeling up to it later, we may do a little sightseeing or just have dinner on the rooftop with a view of the Acropolis. Don’t lie to me, Butterfly. If you’re tired, we can do all those things tomorrow or the next day or the next—we have three weeks.” She nods.

“Yes, Sir,” she concedes. “I’m very achy.”

“I know. I’ll order room service and I’ll call you when your bath is ready.”

The bathroom is a statement in total Grecian opulence. Two Grecian columns greet you as you enter the bathroom. There is floor-to-ceiling marble—white marble walls with blue marble trim, a blue and gold marble vanity and an insanely large blue and gold marble tub sitting in the middle of the room. On the other end of the bathroom to the right of a small foyer that is framed by four more Grecian columns is a huge shower with floor-to-ceiling frosted windows allowing in the bright morning light. There’s even a blue and white marble chaise inside the shower so that you can sit back and allow the water to run over your body.

There are two luxurious ottomans between the vanity and the tub. On the other side of the tub in front of a large floor-to-ceiling window covered with white sheers and heavy drapes is a cream chaise. The vintage light fixtures on the walls match the chandelier that hangs over the tub and gold fixtures, towel rings, wall hangings, and accessories complete the décor. This is extraordinary even by my taste.

Double doors on the other side of the small foyer lead to a workout room with a treadmill, a flat screen television, and a massage table. I turn on the water to fill the tub and come back to the bedroom to retrieve the toiletries bag.

“Oh, you are going to love this,” I say to Butterfly as I grab the case with the soaps, lotions, and conditioners.

“Tell me,” she says, sitting up in bed.

“I’ll do better than that,” I say, reaching for her hand. “Come and see for yourself.” I lead her into the bathroom and the steam from the massive tub rises to make the marble feel warmer.

“Oh my God,” she says, walking slowly into the bathroom and taking in the décor. “This is amazing.” She takes a seat on one of the ottomans. “Queen Anne legs.”

“Queen Who What?” I ask and she giggles.

“The ottoman—those are Queen Anne legs, and the chaise… those are close, but not quite.” I’ll take her word for it. “Is that a marble chaise in the shower?”

“That certainly is,” I tell her while adding bath salts to the water.

“Wow!” she says, stunned. “I’ve never seen that before.”

“Do you want one?” She looks up at me wide-eyed, then smiles.

“No, the showers at Escala are just fine. No need in cluttering them with a chaise.”

“I don’t mean Escala. I mean our home—when we find what we like or build what we like.” She’s staring at me wide-eyed again.

“You would really do that, wouldn’t you?” she asks.

“Why not? You can have whatever you like in your home, so if you want a marble chaise like the one at the luxury hotel in Greece, then you can have one.”

“Oh Christian, that thing probably costs a small fortune.”

“Yes, and I’ve amassed a large one,” I say turning off the water. “You said it yourself—we spent somewhere in the million-dollar range on clothes, shoes, and jewelry yesterday. You think I can’t afford a marble chaise? Now come on over here and get into this wildly expensive bathtub so I can wash that beautiful body.” She smiles that million-dollar smile at me and stands. I drop my boxer briefs and step into the water first. It’s high off the floor, so I have to sit on the edge and swing my legs into the tub. Butterfly’s little feet are dangling slightly over the edge when she sits on the side to swing her legs over.

“Careful. The water is really hot,” I say as I take her hand and help her into the tub. She looks like one of these Greek goddesses I keep seeing as she sinks into the steaming water. God, she is so beautiful.

There’s plenty of room for both of us in this mini swimming pool, but I just want to hold her for a while. Also, I know this hot water and bath salts will do wonders for her aching muscles.

“How this?” I ask as I caress her skin anywhere that I can reach.

“Mmmm… it’s heavenly, Christian,” she says, leaning back into my chest and onto my shoulder.

“Maybe we should get one of these, too,” I say softly. She chuckles.

“I’ll never be able to get into it alone. I’d feel like a toddler.”

“Well, yes, there is that,” I chuckle and she elbows me gently in the ribs. “Hey, you said it.” I reach around her and cup her breasts. Are they bigger, too? “Your breasts are magnificent, Butterfly,” I say massaging them gently.

“And very sensitive,” she breathes.

“Are you about to have your period?” We’ll have to adjust because I’m fucking you senseless over the next three weeks.

“No. I had one before the wedding. It was short, but I had one. I said sensitive, not sore. It’s the hot water…”

“Mmmm,” I say, caressing the right one while pinching the left.

“Ah! Christian, stop,” she whines. “I’m too weak.”

“Too weak for what, Baby?” I ask, now pinching both nipples.

“An orgasm,” she breathes. “I’ll fall asleep in this water.”

“I’ll wake you for breakfast,” I croon as my hand slips down to her clit.

“Ah! Oooooo.” She stiffens almost immediately.

“Oh, you are so ready. Don’t hold out on me, Baby. It’ll relax those tired muscles.” I stroke her clit up and down, up and down, allowing only my fingertips to enter her core while I massage her. She grabs my thighs and in a matter of a few minutes, she is trembling between my legs.

“That’s my girl,” I say, continuing to massage her until she is panting and the trembling stops.

“What… about you?” she asks wearily.

“Later,” I tell her. “Let me wash and feed you.”

After a bath that lasted forever and a thorough washing and drying of Butterfly’s hair, we enter the dining room in the soft-as-baby-bottoms terrycloth hotel robes. Butterfly is taken aback to see the hotel butler standing there waiting to serve us breakfast. I take her hand and lead her to the chair at the head of the table. She sits on her feet and wraps her robe comfortably around her, smiling at me the whole time.

The butler serves us a pretty large breakfast which should make Butterfly happy. First, there’s an omelet with graviera cheese and Greek pancakes called tignatites with honey and walnut. There’s also a pasta dish called trahanas, which looks a little like round rice or porridge, sprinkled with small chunks of fresh feta cheese. There’s some fresh fruit thrown in for good measure and a sweet milk pie called galatopita. There are also chunks of siglino, which is smoked pork, and I’m thinking she’ll send it away with her violent reaction to meat lately, but she digs right into it declaring how tasty it is.

She doesn’t eat as much as she has been, but she still eats more than normal. What happened to the petite little girl who only ate bagels and cream cheese or fruit for breakfast? Nowadays, she’s likely to gnaw your arm off if you come anywhere near her plate.

After breakfast, I dress casually and kiss Butterfly before heading off to the cigar bar to meet Jason. I don’t know if she plans to go to the spa or stay in the room and sleep, but either will be fine with me.

“Her Highness let you up for air?” Jason says when I enter the bar. I laugh.

“She is exhausted,” I inform him. He raises his eyebrow.

“I stand corrected… and you look as fresh as a shiny new penny. How do you do that?”

“It’s not what you think,” I correct him.

“Sure, it’s not,” he teases.

“Oh, shut up. I didn’t wear her out. I just got her off… and why am I telling you this?”

“Because I’m a bundle of joy and laughter and you can’t help spilling your guts to me, besides the fact that I’m your best friend and took a bullet for you.”

“You’re going to milk that for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”

“As often as I can,” he says shamelessly with a big smile. I roll my eyes.

“We did some serious shopping on the Montaigne yesterday. I mean serious shopping. She’s just really tired.”

“Tired after shopping? That doesn’t sound right.”

“Well, we covered the length of the Avenue and back, from D&C down to Valentino.”

“Sorry, Boss, you lost me there,” he says. The cigar expert brings the tray over and I allow Jason to pick a light-bodied cigar for me. I only smoke them maybe twice a year or so.

“Well, it was a short walk for what it was, but all day in stiletto boots…”

“She wears stilettos everywhere. I don’t know who she is when she’s not wearing them. She’s so small…”

“She took them off yesterday and don’t say that in front of her,” I tell him. The cigar expert clips my cigar and lights it for me. As she is lighting Jason’s, I request a cognac.

“She took ’em off, huh? Well, that ended that trip, no doubt.”

“Nope. She begrudgingly wore a pair of Ralph Lauren flats that she bought on the Avenue and we went to the Arc de Triomphe. Then she almost passed out when we came down the stairs as we were leaving.” His hand pauses as he’s bringing his cigar to his lips.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks. I twist my lips at him.

“Nothing,” I say. “The Arc de Triomphe has 284 steps on a spiral staircase.”

“Yeah, and until a couple of months ago, she worked out in Krav Magna with a sixth dan black belt. She doesn’t strike me as the type to tire easily.”

“Well, this was more than a workout after a day of teetering around in those damn boots and spending enough money to feed a small country for a year. Now stop saying shit that’ll make me worry. I carried her from the Arc to the car yesterday because I freaked out.” My cognac finally arrives and I take a welcome sip. It’s very good with the cigar.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to scare you. Could she be pregnant?” I shake my head.

“I wish, but she says she had her period about a week or so ago, so that’s not likely.”

“You thought so, too?”

“Well, it hadn’t crossed my mind, but the topic came up in an unrelated conversation, so I know she’s had her period.”

“Unrelated, huh?” He raises his eyebrow at me. “You ready to start a family already?”

“I was ready to start a family before we got married. She came home one day and announced that Maxine is pregnant, and I could tell that she was a little sour that it wasn’t her. I felt bad for her, but a little happy at the same time that she’s open to starting a family.”

“You guys never talked about it?” He takes another draw from his cigar.

“Yeah, we talked about it, but she was on birth control and she had to stop. Then we heard that it could happen immediately or it could take several months. We haven’t been necessarily trying per se, but it’s kind of like when it happens, it happens. I’ll be one happy fucker when it does.” I take a draw on my cigar.

“Christian Grey… husband and father. Wow. I never thought I’d live to see the day. I mean, I fully expected for one of those crazy broads to come back with a baby…”

“It could still happen,” I lament.

“Yeah, it could, but I never thought I’d see the day when you would get married, not ever.”

“Me either. I walked into that community center full of disdain and resentment and she hit me like a steamroller. I didn’t think for one second that she would affect me the way that she did, but lo and behold…” I trail off and sip my cognac.

“She brought you down, Man,” he says. “I remember that first day—I could see it in your eyes and I was sure that I was mistaken. Christian Grey? Stricken? Impossible! She played you like a violin and neither of you knew it. It took you, what, a month to get her in bed?”

“Eighteen days,” I correct him.

“Eighteen days. He who waves his magic wand and has a woman naked in hours. I thought for sure that last bimbot was signing on for the long haul.”

“Yeah, so did she. So did the Pedophile. Hell, so did I.” We both fall silent for a few moments

“It seems surreal, doesn’t it?” he asks. I look up at him. “I never thought I’d marry again, but then Gail just…” He trails off like he can’t find his words. “She’s all the good things the world has to offer all rolled into one person. When the opportunity came to marry her, I grabbed it with both hands.” His melancholy stare drops to his cigar.

“I couldn’t bring her on this trip, Jason, I’m sorry. I need you to work.” I can tell that he’s missing her even though it’s only been two days and we still have 19 more to go.

“I know,” he says, his voice solemn. “It’s the nature of the beast, right? We’re lucky to work in the same place for the same guy, but I know that she can’t tag along with me everywhere. It’s just not practical.” He puts his cigar in the ashtray.

“What do you think about Adrien and Norbert?” I ask. I never got his professional opinion.

“They’re good men,” he responds. “Alex set them up, so I trust his judgment of course. Norbert is intense—straight-laced, starched collar. He’d be the one to jump in front of the bullet.”

“There you go again.”

“I’m just saying, he’s that guy. Adrien is a bit cocky. He’s good at what he does and he knows it, so he’s a little elitist.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask.

“It depends. He’s not the one to jump in front of the bullet because he will make sure that you are not in the place where the gun will be. By the same token, he strikes me as the kind of guy who feels like you should earn his services, not purchase them.” I nod.

“So he has probably not been a bodyguard to the stars. He has more been a bodyguard to dignitaries and royals,” I observe and Jason nods.

“That’s what I would say. He’s accustomed to a very particular caliber of people. You wouldn’t see him at a Rolling Stones concert backstage beating off groupies, no matter what the price. You would most likely see him guarding a count, or a duchess, or a billionaire,” he gestures to me, “because he knows that these people will behave differently.” I twist my lips.

“Should we swap him out? I’m not one to be concerned about how I behave around my staff. What’s more, he and Norbert need to learn a bit more about discretion.” He frowns.

“Why? What’s up?”

“You know how I am. I expect staff to be seen and not heard unless utterly necessary. If I want to fuck that woman in the back seat of the car going down the I-5 at 60 miles per hour, I expect the people in the front seat to pay attention to the road and shut the fuck up. What I don’t expect is for them to turn around trying to get a glimpse of Ana’s ass or to react to my conversations when I’m talking to my wife.”

“Please tell me we’re talking about the latter…”

“We are. I put it together later. Butterfly’s first impression of Adrien was not a good one. Stepping out of the airport, he made a comment about the ‘little lady’ being mesmerized by the ‘pretty lights’ and falling victim to a pickpocket, not knowing that Butterfly speaks fluent French.”

“Oh, I bet that went over well,” he interjects.

“Like an undertaker in a convalescent home,” I point out. “Needless to say, he pissed her off and she’s been calling him ‘Meathead’ ever since.”

“Meathead!” he barks with laughter. “That’s classic.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, on our way back to the airport, we had a brief conversation about Dr. Grey vs. Dr. Steele-Grey. I was stumbling over the name and she said that I could just call her Dr. Grey. She would save Dr. Steele-Grey for the office. Norbert grunted or laughed or cleared his throat, I don’t know which, and I didn’t put it together until later that they most likely had a conversation about Adrien’s encounter with Butterfly. Now that you’ve told me about his elitist attitude, I’m pretty certain that the conversation involved Meathead thinking Ana is a trophy wife. Norbert reacted when he discovered that Ana was a doctor and Adrien flashed a glare at him. I’m certain that’s what was going on.”

“Oooohh, that’s what that was about,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

“Last night when we all met up to discuss protocol and such, I mentioned that her call-name is Her Highness, that she likes to be called Ana, but if she doesn’t like you, she will probably make you call her Dr. Grey. Norbert openly laughed, but Adrien just frowned and nodded. I assumed she told him to call her Dr. Grey.”

“She hasn’t told him to call her anything,” I say. “She doesn’t speak to him and I can guarantee that she will only speak to you or Charles if she needs something. That’s why I was asking if we should swap him out. We don’t need a bodyguard who speaks English, French, and Greek anymore—just English and Greek.” He shakes his head.

“I don’t think it’s necessary, Boss. The guy is a cocky asshole, but he seems like he’s good at his job. I’ll keep an eye on him and give Alex a call to find a backup just in case.” I nod.

“Good enough. So, what is Gail doing while we’re gone? Have you talked to her yet?”

“Every day…”

We talk a little while about his wife while we puff on cigars and I sip on cognac. Then the conversation shifts to anything and everything. I very rarely spend a lazy afternoon just doing nothing. There’s always a fire to be put out or a crisis to be averted. This afternoon, I simply sit here enjoying a quality cognac, a smooth cigar, and the company of a good friend.

Our conversation has gone on for quite some time when I see Jason looking over my shoulder. I turn around and there’s this woman walking into the cigar bar. Her head is turned and she’s talking to someone at the door. She’s wearing a white crochet mini-dress with a flowy skirt and a zigzag hemline that stops mid-thigh with just a tease of what’s underneath. It has wide shoulder straps that hold her ample breasts up quite nicely. Her hair is full and she is wearing strappy nude stiletto sandals. I try to remind myself that I am now a married man and I am desperately talking my dick down when the woman turns around to look at me…

It’s my wife… and she looks fucking hot! What the hell did they do at that spa?

Her hair is straight, but shiny and full of body, bent slightly at the ends. It’s been cut, but it’s still quite long, cascading down her shoulders and caressing her breasts. Her makeup is understated, like she always wears it, with slightly heavier mascara than usual and soft pink lipstick. My dick gets harder and harder as she strolls over to us, the skirt gently brushing her thighs and taunting me the entire time.

“Boss! Boss!” I turn back to Jason. Was he saying something?

“Huh?” I say a bit dazed. He laughs at me.

“Yeah, you’re gone. Give me a call if you two plan on going somewhere.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say flippantly, quickly turning my gaze back to Butterfly.


ANASTASIA

Good grief, that spa was amazing! I spent hours in that place getting body wraps, oil massages, hot stone treatments and facials. They even had this treatment called a Flight Reviver to help your body reset from jet lag. It must have worked because I feel like a million bucks!

After the hours of rejuvenating my body from the exhaustion of traveling and teetering in those damn boots for hours yesterday, I spent some more time in the salon getting the most luxurious wash and conditioning treatment I think I have every had. My hair is full, fluffy, light, and shiny. I had them take about six inches off the ends after all of the curling and spritzing for the wedding and it still hangs well down my back. After making a stop back at the suite to change into something pretty, I go in search of my husband. It’s nearly dinner time and although I had delicious hors d’oeuvres and champagne in the spa, I haven’t had lunch and I’m ready for a real meal.

I don’t know exactly where to find him, but he said that he would be around. Since he’s not in the suite sneaking in some work, he must be in one of the bars or restaurants, in the workout room or at the pool. It occurs to me that I could just call him, but I left my phone in the room. So I’ll just see if I can find him and if I can’t, I’ll go back to the room and call him. I start with the Winter Garden and the Cellar and he’s not in either place. When I go to Alexander’s, the bartender tells me to check the cigar lounge. Christian doesn’t smoke. Then again, cigar smokers aren’t typical smokers. They just smoke every now and again to unwind. That sounds like Christian.

The décor is very elegant and sophisticated, but not stuffy—cozy, yet classy. I am greeted by a woman in a three-piece suit with a gray tie. When I describe my husband, she points me in the direction of two gentlemen who have been here all afternoon. I follow her gaze to a smiling Jason and a spellbound Christian. Jason says something to him and stands from the table, walking towards me.

“You look great, Your Highness. Go easy on him,” he says with a chuckle as he walks past me and out of the lounge.

Huh?

I walk over to Christian who still can’t seem to find his words and pause for a moment.

“Christian?” He’s eying me from head to toe. He’s checking me out! “Christian!” I say, nearly stomping my feet. He quickly makes eye contact with me and stands from his seat.

“Baby,” he says almost dreamily while taking my hand. “You look stunning.” The Bitch inside of me is giggling. Okay… you’re forgiven for clocking out on me.

“Thank you,” I say like a bashful schoolgirl. He slides his arm around my waist and pulls me toward him. He places a long, sensual kiss on my cheek and my neck.

“Now that’s Chanel,” he says seductively.

“Yes, it is,” I respond, enjoying his breath on my neck.

“Where would you like to eat? Here at the hotel on the roof or do you want to go out?” His lips move to my temple. Shit! I want to go to bed and fuck, but I know that we need sustenance.

“I think I’d like to stay here,” I say softly. “The idea of having dinner on the roof sounds very pleasant.”

“To the roof we go, then,” he says, his voice full of promise.

He looks so good standing across from me in the elevator, examining me thoroughly but saying nothing. I take advantage of the time that we have alone in this small space and close the distance between us. I undo one button of his linen shirt and place my hand on the exposed part of his chest. I feel his breath quicken just a bit against my cheek, causing me to raise my eyes to his lips. His hands never leave the rail as I stand on my toes a bit and gently bring my lips to his. I taste the flavor of the cigar on his lips and the slight hint of cognac. It turns me on. I gently and slowly caress his lips and tongue with my own, delicately stroking the soft hairs on his chest until the elevator signals that we have reached the roof. I reluctantly pull myself away from him and walk out of the elevator, waiting for him to follow me.

I feel him move behind me and slide his hand to the small of my back. I take a deep breath to subdue the shiver that threatens to bring me to my knees. I love this silent game of seduction that we’re playing. I can only hope that it will end with some delicious kinky fuckery later on. We are led to a table with a beautiful view of the Acropolis, although if I’m honest, every table in the restaurant has a beautiful view of the Acropolis. I’m hoping that we will get to go there tomorrow as the Acropolis and the new museum are on the top of my list of things to see while I’m here.

I instruct the waiter on how to prepare my cranberry spritzer as I have already had champagne this afternoon. Christian opts for a soft drink. We examine the menu in silence, the sexual tension between us rising like a thick fog. When we order our food, the waiter takes the menu away and we are in our silence again. I place my hand flat on the table next to his and caress it with my thumb. We don’t take our eyes off of each other as he covers my other hand with his, gently caressing the back and suggestively fingering my palm. I bite my lip suggestively, but only momentarily, allowing it to slide from between my tongue wet and plump. He takes his eyes from mine to move them to my breast, his tongue playing with his lips as he examines them—and he’s making me hot again. Piercing, gray orbs rise back to mine again and we are back to the game of silent visual seduction.

I want to fuck you, I think to myself. I want to ride you until I’m drenched in sweat and completely wrung out from coming so many times that I can’t move anymore. I want to scream your name and hear you call mine in agonized passion. I’m so hot for you right now that I can barely stand it.

I’m so lost in my desire and need for him that I don’t even realize our drinks have come until he puts his to his mouth and takes a drink. Drink. Yes. I need one. I should have ordered something stronger.

Dinner is sweet torment, with an intentional brush here and a soft, gentle hiss there. At one point, I worked my way out of one of my stilettos and caressed his calf with my toes. He shamelessly reached under the table and grabbed my leg, placing it in his lap so that he could fondle my leg. I didn’t dare touch his package, though heaven knows I wanted to, not to mention that I was sitting across from him and there wasn’t much to cover us in terms of the tablecloth. The food was divine, but the real meal didn’t start until we were back in the elevator again.

He’s gazing at me again from across the car and this time, I’m plastered to the wall. While we went from ground to roof to get to the restaurant, we only have a couple of floors to get back to our suite. He’s looking at me with those hungry eyes that he’s had all night, and I feel like the walls are closing in on us. When the elevator rings to announce our floor, he grabs me and lifts me by my thighs hoisting my up to him. Instinctively, I thrust my hands into his hair and kiss him viciously, devouring his mouth and causing him to groan deep in his throat. Fuck if I know how we made it to the door or if anybody saw us, but I’m so ready to take him that I can barely breathe.

Somehow, he gets the door open and scrambles inside with me still attached to his lips. He slides my feet to the floor and grabs my hands from around his neck, pinning them against the wall as he now controls the kiss, causing my head to spin, bruising my lips and deliciously teasing my tongue. His body is rock hard against me, restraining me—he feels so good.

His hands slide down my arms and one lands at my waist while the other keeps going, down my hips and to the hem of my dress, up my thigh and inside my silky mesh panties. I groan in his mouth when he meets his mark.

Relax. Breathe. You are always so quick to come. Enjoy. Breathe.

He pulls his lips away from mine and looks into my eyes. I can’t control my breathing and control my orgasm, so my breathing is erratic and I attempt to rein my body’s slavish reaction to his ministrations. He’s a master at when he does and my body is his instrument. He knows how to make it sing every note on the scale.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says as he massages my clit. “Tell me what you feel.”

“Burning,” I breathe. “The friction… it feels… good… intense.” I close my eyes and try to breathe through the sensation. “The pleasure starts… from the outside… and moves in…”

“What about now?” He thrusts two fingers deep into me and curls them forward almost sending me over the edge while his palm presses into my clit.

“Ah!” I cry, fighting the urge to come, breathing through it to prolong the pleasure.

“You are so sexy,” he says before he kisses me. I feel his erection on my hip. “Tell me, what are you feeling now?”

“Inside… and out… b-both!” My chest is heaving.

“Touch me!” he commands. My hands fly immediately to his dick. He grunts when I grab him and grants my pussy a reprieve. He knows I was about to come, so he moves both hands to my ass and squeezes firmly as I press my hand hard against his erection. He groans as he strokes into my hand. He’s getting harder and harder and he begins to shiver with each stroke. He stops abruptly and plunges his tongue into my mouth. I don’t think he came… he’s still hard against my hand. He’s breathing heavily when he pulls his mouth away from mine.

“Stay here,” he says, nearly growling. “Don’t move.” I nod. He disappears around the corner, giving me a few moments to compose myself while he’s gone. He makes me so hot and it looks like tonight, I did the same thing to him. I don’t dare move from this wall before he gets back.

He’s not gone long and when he returns, he’s wearing only the white shirt—all buttons open—and his black boxer briefs. I get hot all over again at the sight of him. He takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom, but not to the bed. He stops at the wall that separates the sleeping area from the parlor and takes me to the oversized chair there. On the table, I can see the cord tieback from one of the drapes from somewhere in the suite, olive oil, and something else that I can’t quite make out. He turns me around and slowly removes my dress. He then cups my ass under the sheer panties and pushes my underwear off and down my legs. I lift each leg so that he can remove them and he licks my clit only once on his way back up, causing me to moan.

I’m standing there in the sheer demi-bra and the nude strappy stilettos. He runs his thumbs over the outside of the bra, the material right over my nipples. He’s working them to a pebble with just his thumbs.

“They’re so full and beautiful. I thought it was a push-up… it’s all you.” He kisses me deeply. “I want to fuck them.”

“Okay,” I breathe. The idea of his dick between my tits is making my clit throb again because I love the way that he looks when he’s very aroused. I love when his dick gets pink and purple and he’s about to come. It’s a beautiful sight. He kisses me again and instructs me to clasp my hands behind my back. When I do, he binds my arms at the elbows with the cord and pulls them together a bit.

“Okay?” he asks. I nod. “Good. Sit.” He directs me to sit in the chair with the mirror on the wall above it, which I do. My breasts protrude out because of the way that I am bound and I’m still in my bra. He goes over to the table and now I recognize that contraption. It’s the vibrating nipple and clit suction cups from Anguilla. Oh shit.

“I love that you are practicing absorbing your pleasure,” he says as he manipulates my nipples again. I shiver at his touch, but focus on his eyes so as not to rise too quickly. “I want to see you do it again. I want you to absorb the pleasure for a while.” He attaches both suction cups to my breast. I hear the pump and they squeeze only a little.

“When you do come, pull it inside,” he instructs as he moves his hand to my clit. I swallow my whimper. “You will control your orgasm. You will determine its intensity.” Fuck, he’s turning me on so much, then telling me that I will control my orgasm! Okay… focus… focus… I bite my lip to keep from crying out when he attaches the cup to my clit. “Are you ready, Baby?” I nod.

“Yes,” I breathe.

“Open your legs, Baby.” I spread my legs wide. “Wider. Put your feet up on the seat of the chair.” I flatten my hands behind me and lift my legs, bending my knees so that my core is fully exposed.

“Yes,” he hisses. “Just like that.” I hear the pump again and feel the cups tighten. Fuck, they feel so good. “Here we go,” he warns. When he turns on the vibrator, I do cry out. The sensation almost drives me insane. He stands and backs away from me, observing his creation.

“Baby, you look so good. I wish you could see it, but it would only make you come too soon,” he says as he pushes and ottoman up against the chair where I’m sitting. He removes his shirt and then his boxers. His impressive erection springs forth and he takes it in his hand. Now, he uses a bit of the olive oil, pouring a bit on his dick, and even more on my breasts and right over the sheer material of my bra. He’s careful not to let it reach the suction cups. He lets it drip across and between my breasts as he takes a seat on the ottoman. He increases the suction on the cups just a bit, causing my eyes to roll back in my head.

“Is it good, Baby?” he asks while working his hand up and down his erection. Fuck, yes, it’s good, and you look fucking delicious, Mr. Grey.

“Yes,” I breathe, “very good… so good…”

“Mmmm, you look good, too,” he says, stroking himself harder. “Breathe through it, Baby. Feel it. Do you like it?”

“So much,” I say, as I absorb the pleasure, intent on riding it through and enjoying it. He’s getting harder and pinker and now, he’s shiny, too. “You look so good,” I tell him, watching his dick begin to throb.

“Do I?” he asks, his voice thick with pleasure. I nod, never taking my eyes off his dick. “Good, because I’m about to fuck your tits now.” He stands from the ottoman and kneels on the seat in front of me, placing his legs between mine so that I can’t close them. “Tell me if the restraints become too uncomfortable.”

What restraints?

He slips his dick under my bra and between my breasts and throws his head back as he groans loudly. His stroke is immediate. He steadies himself with his hands on the back of the chair and he is stroking madly, fucking my tits like he fucks my pussy.

“Damn it! Goddamnit! Fuck, it feels so good…” He thrusts repeatedly between my breasts and I know that he’ll be blowing soon. I look up at him and he is alternating between watching his dick between my breasts and watching himself in the mirror. His face is determined, focused, concentrating on the task until he throws his head back. “Fuck! It’s so good!” he groans. I look down at his dick between my tits, throbbing and purple and oily, and my pussy burns to release. I suddenly remember the cups on my tits and clit and the suction is suddenly very intense. I was so busy watching him that my mind wandered away from what was going on down there.

He is no longer looking in the mirror. His head is back and he is concentrating on what he’s feeling… and so am I. The suction and vibration are pulling me deeper and deeper, the feeling becoming so intense that I can feel myself shaking. I drop my head and wait for my opportunity and at just the right moment, he thrusts up and I open my mouth and clamp down.

“Fuuuuuuuuuck! Oh, fuuuuuck!” he cries out as he instinctively grabs my hair and presses me down onto his head as he continues to stroke between my breasts. The moment I get the taste of his skin in my mouth, I detonate! I pull the sensation in like he instructed and the orgasm is huge and causes me to growl deep in my throat. This halts Mr. Grey’s motion, causing him to groan mournfully and empty hotly into my mouth. I clamp and suck hard, sucking every bit of juice out of him that I can as I ride out this universally cosmic orgasm.

“Baby! Oooowwwww!” he cries as he pushes me down onto his dick, not allowing me to let go, and I don’t intend to either. That puppy is going to be as limp as my pussy is tender when this ride is over.

My orgasm has waned and my clit is actually pretty tender under the suction cup. I try to ignore it as Christian trembles and breathes out his orgasm, but it’s starting to hurt a bit. He catches his breath quickly and, knowing my body the way that he does, he quickly removes the suction cups much to my relief. He reaches around me and unties the cord and, looking down, he cups my breasts again.

“God, they are so beautiful,” he says. “Stand up and turn around.”

I rise gracefully from the chair and turn around, my back to his front, and come face to face with myself in the antique mirror above the chair. His hands travel under my arms and up around my breasts again, his index fingers teasing me like his thumbs did earlier.

The party’s not over yet.

He unhooks my bra and pushes it off my shoulders, exposing my hungry breasts… hungry for him to touch me again.

“On your knees on the chair.” I get on my knees and I fully expect him to take me from behind, but he doesn’t.

“Look how beautiful you look,” he says as he scans my reflection in the mirror. He takes my hands and clamps them on the back of the seat. I am now leaning into the mirror, my breasts round and reaching for my reflection, my nipples pink and protruding.

“Watch,” he commands. “Don’t let go. See how beautiful you are.” He disappears from behind me and I feel him slide underneath me, his breath now on my clit and his tongue very gently teasing me. To say that I can’t breathe is an understatement. My clit is still sore, but he is gentle and tender with his caress. As he slowly and meticulously works me back into a sexual frenzy, I have this gasping, whimpering, Chihuahua-barking thing going on as I hold firmly to the back of the chair.

“Watch,” he says into my core. I look at the wanton creature in the mirror as he caresses and teases my clit. She looks… vulnerable. As he continues to lick and suck my clit, she transforms. Her blue eyes are piercing; her lips are parted; she looks primal, sexy… and hot.

His hands slowly rise to my breasts and I watch as he gently pinches my now-oily nipples, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger before his hands cover both breasts and massage gently. His palms sliding over my nipples are driving me wild and the vision of his hands covering my breasts and kneading as I push forward into them is one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. Although I can’t see his head between my legs, I can see the top of my hips grinding sensually and I know what’s going on down there. The visual assault coupled with his open-mouthed attack on my core and his tongue licking and circling my clit…

“Aaaahhhh!” I groan loudly, throwing my head back at the incredible pleasure.

“Hold on,” he coaxes, still talking into my pussy.

“Yes!” I declare, still grasping the back of the oversized chair while absorbing the sensations he’s unleashing on me. I raise my head again to examine the girl in the mirror. Her once straight hair is now wild and flowing over her shoulders and breasts, partially covering his hands. Her eyes are hungry, her pupils dilated. She’s panting, feverish in her passion. She watches his hands tighten on her breasts, holding them firmly. I drop my head and see him watching me intently. I can only see his eyes and part of his hair and he’s gazing unblinking at me as he loves me deeply and hotly with his mouth and tongue. A small tortured cry escapes my mouth as I see the pleasure evident in his eyes. He’s enjoying this immensely—not as much as I am, no doubt, but immensely nonetheless. He groans into me and I close my eyes to concentrate on the burn. My God, it’s so good… I can’t stand it…

“Open your eyes. Look at yourself,” he says, his face buried in my pussy. I open my eyes again and the poor creature in the mirror has lost control. Her breath is erratic and her chest is rising and falling madly. She’s covered in a sheen of sweat and the ends of her once-fluffy hair are sticking to her breasts. She is tortured, her face contorted into a helpless and mournful expression of ecstasy, agony, and surrender.

“Uuuuugggghhhh!” I cry as the burning intensifies. Oh, God, please….

“Don’t close your eyes! Watch yourself come.”

Seconds after he says the words, I watch her face stretch and transform as beads of sweat form instantly on her forehead and temples. Her cries are helpless and agonizing and her nails threaten to pierce the fabric of the chair as the inferno that’s bellowing through her threatens to devour her very soul. I watch in helpless amazement and wonder as my expressions and gyrations interpret the eruption that is happening in my body and core, literally tearing me limb from limb as I fight to hold myself together and get lost in the liberating release all at the same time. I now know why he likes to watch me come. It’s magnificent! Seeing it and feeling it at the same time is almost unbearable!

The release has waned a bit, but the pleasure and burning have not stopped when he stealthily slides his body up the chair, positions himself at my core, and slides me down onto his massive shaft. I moan loudly as he begins this grinding, rocking motion into me. He is slouched down into the chair so that I can still see my reflection. He wraps his arms around me so that he can control my movement and begins to thrust into me—harder and faster. At the same time, he takes one of my nipples into his mouth and sucks hard! I cry out—loud and high—wrapping my arms around his head and thrusting my fingers into his hair.

Unable to match his relentless stroke, I stay there on my knees with him pounding mercilessly into me, over and over again. He moves to the other breast and I hear him grunting and feel him growing inside of me. I love this part. This is the part where he begins to lose himself, begins to rise to his release. He will either try to fight it or make it more intense. His next words tell me that he’s going for option two.

“Tell me,” he growls. “Tell me what you feel.” Everything! Like my fucking head is going to pop off any second!

“Hard… stiff…” I choke, rising again with him. Fuck, he’s getting bigger! “Filling me… pushing me… friction… ugh… oh, God!” I can see his magnificent dick in my head—pink and purple and fat and wet and drilling into me. “Oh God!”

“What?” he grunts, still thrusting into me. “Tell me!” Fuck, he is hitting the spot, over and over and I’m having the hardest time forming any words whatsoever. I open my eyes again and watch this helpless creature being driven to her third orgasm.

“Uugghh!”

“Tell me!” he commands me again, thrusting and grinding as one arm holds me possessively and motionless against him while the other hand wanders roughly over my ass. He grabs one cheek, holding it open and using it to guide my hips and his fingers are so long that one of them only slightly breaches my rosette, sending a shock of pleasure through me that goes straight to my head and is visible in my eyes.

“Uuuugggghhhh! Christian!”

“Tell me!” he demands, now slamming my hips down onto his and looking up at me, though I can’t see his eyes—only the reflection of his upturned head as I admiringly watch this beautiful vixen in the mirror coming apart all over again.

“Heat!” she breathes at me. “Fire! Fire! Friction… tingling, then… burning! Don’t stop! Please! Don’t stop!” she begs.

“Take it, Baby!” he grunts. “Feel it! I feel… everything you do… Make me feel it, Baby…! Make me feel it!”

“Aaahhh! Christiaaann!” Fuck that mirror. I throw my head back and feel it, just like he said. I’m clamping on to his shoulders and pulling that orgasm all the way in. I think I’m drawing blood with my fingernails as my pelvis is concentrating on grinding into that magnificent dick and pulling every bit of pleasure out of it that I can harvest.

“Yes, Baby! Fuck!” He yells a few moments later as he pounds up into me, then stills, then pounds again, then stills again, then repeats this rhythm three or four more times before he collapses back into the chair with me in his arms, completely out of breath.


A/N: escargot, soupe à l’oignon, coquilles Saint-Jacques, and Sole Meunière. – Snails, onion soup, scallops, and sole.

Hachis Parmentier—shepherd’s pie

Blanquette de Veau—Veal ragout or stew

Don’t forget to check out the Pinterest boards to follow Christian and Ana on the honeymoon.
The day trip to Paris is here: http://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/mending-dr-steele-a-day-in-paris/
The adventure in Greece is here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/mending-dr-steele-off-to-greece/

AFTERNOTE–AFTERNOTE–AFTERNOTE–AFTERNOTE: I HAD TO READDRESS THIS ISSUE because there were so many people that were UTTERLY APPALLED that Christian had a NATURAL MALE REACTION to seeing an attractive woman. Let me point three things out for you:

1) He did not have this reaction to some random woman… IT WAS HIS WIFE! True, he may not have known that it was her, but it was still her!

2) He didn’t get up and go over to the woman like, “Hey Baby, what’s yo’ sign?” He just admired her from afar!

3) I don’t care how long you have been together with your significant other, how long you have been married, or how faithful he or she is. If you think for one moment that–during the course of your relationship–they have NEVER seen someone that they found attractive and took a moment to appreciate it, or never had a little fire in the nether regions over some fine specimen of woman or man that may have crossed their path, you’re living in a fantasy world. Allow me to invite you to the real world with the rest of us! The only way a man or a woman will not have an inner reaction to someone that they find attractive is if they are dead or castrated! Finding someone attractive and acting on it are two different things–give the man a fucking break!!

Love and Handcuffs!
Lynn X