Lifting my right leg, he repeats the process so I have a pair of handcuffs attached to each ankle. I still have no idea where he's going to attach them.
"Sit up," he orders and I comply immediately.
"Now hug your knees."
I blink at him then draw my legs up so they are bent in front of me and wrap my arms around them. He reaches down, lifts my chin, and plants a soft wet kiss on my lips before slipping the blindfold over my eyes. I can see nothing, all I can hear is my rapid breathing and the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the yacht as she bobs gently on the sea.
Oh my. I am so aroused . . . already.
"What's the safe word, Anastasia?"
"Popsicle."
"Good." Taking my left hand, he snaps a cuff around my wrist then repeats the process with my right. My left hand is tied to my left ankle, my right hand to the right leg. I cannot straighten my legs. Holy f*ck.
"Now," Christian breathes, "I'm going to f*ck you till you scream."
What? And all the air leaves my body.
He grasps both of my heels and tips me back so that I fall backward on to the bed. I have no choice but to keep my legs bent. The cuffs tighten as I pull against them. He's right . . . they cut into me almost to the point of pain . . . This feels weird—being trussed up and helpless—on a boat. He pulls my ankles apart, and I groan.
He kisses my inner thigh, and I want to squirm beneath him, but I can't. I have no purchase to move my hips. My feet are suspended. I cannot move. Holy shit.
"You're going to have to absorb all the pleasure, Anastasia. No moving," he murmurs as he crawls up my body, kissing me along the edge of my bikini bottoms. He pulls the strings on each side, and the scraps of material fall away. I am now naked and at his mercy. He kisses my belly, nipping my navel with his teeth.
"Ah," I sigh. This is going to be tough . . . I had no idea. He traces soft kisses and little bites up to my breasts.
"Shhh . . . ," he soothes. "You are so beautiful, Ana."
I groan, frustrated. Normally I'd be grinding my hips, responding to his touch with a rhythm of my own, but I cannot move. I moan, pulling on my restraints.
The metal bites into my skin.
"Argh!" I cry. But I really don't care.
"You drive me crazy," he whispers. "So I am going to drive you crazy." He's resting on me now, his weight on his elbows, and he turns his attention to my breasts. Biting, sucking, rolling my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, driving me wild. He doesn't stop. It's maddening. Oh. Please. His erection pushes against me.
"Christian," I beg and feel his triumphant smile against my skin.
"Shall I make you come this way?" He murmurs against my nipple, causing it to harden some more. "You know I can." He suckles me hard and I cry out, pleasure lancing from my chest directly to my groin. I pull helplessly on the cuffs, swamped by the sensation.
"Yes," I whimper.
"Oh, baby, that would be too easy."
"Oh . . . please."
"Shh." His teeth scrape my chin as he trails his lips to my mouth, and I gasp.
He kisses me. His skilled tongue invades my mouth, tasting, exploring, dominating, but my tongue meets his challenge, writhing against his. He tastes of cool gin and Christian Grey, and he smells of the sea. He grasps my chin, holding my head in place.
"Still, baby. I want you still," he whispers against my mouth.
"I want to see you."
"Oh no, Ana. You'll feel more this way." And agonizingly slowly he flexes his hips and pushes partway into me. I would normally tilt my pelvis up to meet him but I can't move. He withdraws.
"Ah! Christian, please!"
"Again?" he teases, his voice hoarse.
"Christian!"
He pushes fractionally into me again then withdraws while kissing me, his fingers tugging at my nipple. It's pleasure overload.
"No!"
"Do you want me, Anastasia?"
"Yes," I beg.
"Tell me," he murmurs, his breathing harsh, and he teases me once more—in . . . and out.
"I want you," I whimper. "Please."
I hear his soft sigh against my ear.
"And have me you will, Anastasia."
He rears up and slams into me. I scream, tilting my head back, pulling on the restraints as he hits my sweet spot, and I am all sensation, everywhere—a sweet, sweet agony, and I cannot move. He stills then circles his hips, and the motion radiates deep inside me.
"Why do you defy me, Ana?"
"Christian, stop . . ."
He circles deep inside me again, ignoring my plea, easing out slowly and then slamming into me again.
"Tell me. Why?" he hisses, and I'm vaguely aware that it's through gritted teeth.
I cry out in an incoherent wail . . . this is too much.
"Tell me."
"Christian . . ."
"Ana, I need to know."
He slams into me again, thrusting so deep, and I'm building . . . the feeling is so intense—it swamps me, spiraling out from deep within my belly, to each limb, to each biting metal restraint.
"I don't know!" I cry out. "Because I can! Because I love you! Please, Christian."
He groans loudly and thrusts deep, again and again, over and over, and I am lost, trying to absorb the pleasure. It's mind-blowing . . . body blowing . . . I long to straighten my legs, to control my imminent orgasm, but I can't . . . I'm helpless. I'm his, just his, to do with as he wills . . . Tears spring to my eyes. This is too intense. I can't stop him. I don't want to stop him . . . I want . . . I want . . . oh no, oh no . . . this is too . . .
"That's it," Christian growls. "Feel it, baby!"
I detonate around him, again and again, round and round, screaming loudly as my orgasm rips me apart, scorching through me like a wildfire, consuming everything. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face—my body left pulsing and shaking.
And I'm aware that Christian kneels, still inside me, pulling me upright onto his lap. He clutches my head with one hand and my back with another, and he comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with aftershocks.
It's draining, it's exhausting, it's hell . . . it's heaven. It's hedonism gone wild.
Christian tears off the blindfold and kisses me. He kisses my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. He kisses away the tears, clutching my face in between his hands.
"I love you, Mrs. Grey," he breathes. "Even though you make me so mad—I feel so alive with you." I don't have the energy to open either my eyes or my mouth to respond. Very gently, he lays me back on the bed and eases out of me.
I mouth some wordless protest. He climbs off the bed and undoes the handcuffs. When I'm free, he gently rubs my wrists and ankles, then lies down beside me again, pulling me into his arms. I stretch out my legs. Oh my, that feels good. I feel good. That was, without doubt, the most intense climax I have ever endured.
Hmm . . . a Christian Grey Fifty Shades punishment f*ck.
I really must misbehave more often.
A pressing need from my bladder wakes me. When I open my eyes, I'm disorientated. It's dark outside. Where am I? London? Paris? Oh—the boat. I feel her pitch and roll, and hear the quiet hum of the engines. We're on the move. How odd.
Christian is beside me, working on his laptop, casually dressed in a white linen shirt and chino trousers, his feet bare. His hair is still wet, and I can smell his body wash fresh from the shower and his Christian smell . . . Hmm.
"Hi," he murmurs, gazing down at me, his eyes warm.
"Hi." I smile, feeling suddenly shy. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Just an hour or so."
"We're moving?"
"I figured since we ate out last night and went to the ballet and the Casino that we'd dine on board tonight. A quiet night à deux."
I grin at him. "Where are we going?"
"Cannes."
"Okay." I stretch, feeling stiff. No amount of training with Claude could have prepared me for this afternoon.
I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it on. Why am I so shy? I feel Christian's eyes on me. When I glance at him, he returns to his laptop, his brow furrowed.
As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at the Casino, my robe falls open. I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked.
Holy f*ck! What has he done to me?
I gaze in horror at the red marks all over my breasts. Hickeys! I have hickeys! I am married to one of the most respected businessmen in the United States, and he's given me goddamn hickeys. How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush.
The fact is I know exactly why—Mr. Orgasmic was using his fine-motor sexing skills on me.
My subconscious peers over her half-moon specs and tuts disapprovingly, while my inner goddess slumbers on her chaise longue, out for the count. I gape at my reflection. My wrists have a red welt around them from the handcuffs. No doubt they'll bruise. I examine my ankles—more welts. Holy hell, I look like I've been in some sort of accident. I gaze at myself, trying to absorb how I look. My body is so different these days. It's changed subtly since I've known him . . . I've become leaner and fitter, and my hair is glossy and well cut. My nails are manicured, my feet pedicured, my eyebrows threaded and beautifully shaped. For the first time in my life, I'm well groomed—except for these hideous love bites.
I don't want to think about grooming at the moment. I'm too mad. How dare he mark me like this, like some teenager. In the short time we've been together, he's never given me hickeys. I look like hell. I know why he's done this. Damn control freak. Right! My subconscious folds her arms beneath her small bosom—he's gone too far this time. I stalk out of the en suite bathroom and into the walk-in closet, carefully avoiding even a glance in his direction. Slipping out of my robe, I pull on my sweatpants and a camisole. I undo the braid, pick up a hairbrush from the small vanity unit, and brush out my tangles.
"Anastasia," Christian calls and I hear his anxiety. "Are you okay?"
I ignore him. Am I okay? No, I am not okay. After what he's done to me, I doubt I'll be able to wear a swimsuit, let alone one of my ridiculously expensive bikinis, for the rest of our honeymoon. The thought is suddenly so infuriating.
How dare he? I'll give him are you okay. I seethe as fury spikes through me. I can behave like an adolescent, too! Stepping back into the bedroom, I hurl the hairbrush at him, turn, and leave—though not before I see his shocked expression and his lightning reaction as he raises his arm to protect his head so that the brush bounces ineffectively off his forearm and onto the bed.
I storm out of our cabin, bolt upstairs and out on deck, fleeing toward the bow. I need some space to calm down. It's dark and the air is balmy. The warm breeze carries the smell of the Mediterranean and the scent of jasmine and bou-gainvillea from the shore. The Fair Lady glides effortlessly through the calm co-balt sea as I rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the distant shore where tiny lights wink and twinkle. I take a deep, healing breath and slowly begin to calm. I'm aware of him behind me before I hear him.
"You're mad at me," he whispers.
"No shit, Sherlock!"
"How mad?"
"Scale of one to ten, I think I'm at fifty. Apt, huh?"
"That mad." He sounds surprised and impressed at once.
"Yes. Pushed to violence mad," I say through gritted teeth.
He stays silent as I turn and scowl at him, watching me with wide and wary eyes. I know from his expression and because he's made no move to touch me that he's out of his depth.
"Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall."
He shrugs minutely. "Well, you won't take your top off again," he murmurs petulantly.
And this justifies what he's done to me? I glare at him. "I don't like you leaving marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It's a hard limit!" I hiss at him.
"I don't like you taking your clothes off in public. That's a hard limit for me," he growls.
"I think we've established that," I hiss through my teeth. "Look at me!" I pull down my camisole to reveal the top of my breasts. Christian gazes at me, his eyes not leaving my face his expression wary and uncertain. He's not used to seeing me this mad. Can't he see what he's done? Can't he see how ridiculous he is? I want to shout at him, but I refrain—I don't want to push him too far. Heaven knows what he'd do. Eventually, he sighs and holds his palms up in a resigned, conciliatory gesture.
"Okay," he says his voice placating. "I get it."
Hallelujah!
"Good!"
He runs his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at me."
Finally, he looks contrite—using my own words back at me.
"You are such an adolescent sometimes," I scold him, mulishly, but the fight has gone out of my voice, and he knows it. He steps closer and tentatively raises his hand to tuck my hair behind my ear.
"I know," he acknowledges softly. "I have a lot to learn."
Dr. Flynn's words come back to me . . . Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He bypassed that phase in his life totally. He's channeled all his energies into succeeding in the business world, and he has beyond all expectations.
His emotional world has to play catch-up.
My heart thaws a little.
"We both do." I sigh and cautiously raise my hand, placing it over his heart.
He doesn't flinch like he used to, but he stiffens. He rests his hand over mine and smiles his shy smile.
"I've just learned that you've a good arm and a good aim, Mrs. Grey. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me."
I arch my eyebrow at him. "Target practice with Ray. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. Grey, and you'd do well to remember that."
"I will endeavor to do that, Mrs. Grey, or ensure that all potential projectile objects are nailed down and that you don't have access to a gun." He smirks.
I smirk back, narrowing my eyes. "I'm resourceful."
"That you are," he whispers and releases my hand to circle his arms around me. Pulling me into an embrace, he buries his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, and feel the tension leave his body as he nuzzles me.
"Am I forgiven?"
"Am I?"
I feel his smile. "Yes," he answers.
"Ditto."
We stand holding each other, my pique forgotten. He does smell good, adolescent or not. How can I resist him?
"Hungry?" he says after a while. I have my eyes closed and my head against his chest.
"Yes. Famished. All the . . . er . . . activity has given me an appetite. But I'm not dressed for dinner." I'm sure my sweatpants and camisole would be frowned upon in the dining room.
"You look good to me, Anastasia. Besides, it's our boat for the week. We can dress how we like. Think of it as dress down Tuesday on the Cote D'Azur. Anyway, I thought we'd eat on deck."
"Yes, I'd like that."
He kisses me—an earnest forgive-me kiss—then we wander hand in hand toward the bow where our gazpacho soup awaits.
The steward serves our crème brulée and discreetly retires.
"Why do you always braid my hair?" I ask Christian out of curiosity. We're sitting adjacent to each other at the table, my lower leg curled around his. He pauses as he's about to pick up his dessertspoon and frowns.
"I don't want your hair catching in anything," he says quietly and for a moment, he's lost in thought. "Habit, I think," he muses. Suddenly he frowns and his eyes widen, his pupils dilating with alarm.
Holy shit! What's he remembered? It's something painful, some early childhood memory, I guess. I don't want to remind him of that. Leaning over, I put my index finger over his lips.
"No, it doesn't matter. I don't need to know. I was just curious." I give him a warm, reassuring smile. His look is wary, but after a moment he visibly relaxes, his relief evident. I lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth.
"I love you," I murmur, and he smiles his heart-achingly shy smile, and I melt. "I will always love you, Christian."
"And I you," he says softly.
"In spite of my disobedience?" I raise my eyebrow.
"Because of your disobedience, Anastasia." He grins.
I crack my spoon through the burnt sugar crust of my dessert and shake my head. Will I ever understand this man? Hmm—this crème brulée is delicious.
Once the steward has cleared our dessert plates, Christian reaches for the bottle of rosé and refills my glass. I check that we're alone and ask, "What's with the no going to the bathroom thing?"
"You really want to know?" He half smiles, his eyes alight with a salacious gleam.
"Do I?" I gaze at him through my lashes as I take a sip of my wine.
"The fuller your bladder, the more intense your orgasm, Ana."
I blush. "Oh. I see." Holy cow, that explains a lot.
He grins, looking far too knowing. Will I always be on the back foot with Mr.
Sexpertise?
"Yes. Well . . ." I desperately hunt around for a change of subject. He takes pity on me.
"What do you want to do for the rest of the evening?" He cocks his head to one side and gives me his lopsided grin.
Whatever you want, Christian. Put your theory to the test again? I shrug.
"I know what I want to do," he murmurs. Grabbing his glass of wine, he rises and holds his hand out to me. "Come."
I take his hand and he leads me into the main salon.
His iPod is in the speaker dock on the dresser. He switches it on and selects a song.
"Dance with me." He pulls me into his arms.
"If you insist."
"I insist, Mrs. Grey."
A slinky, cheesy melody starts. Is this a Latin rhythm? Christian grins down at me and starts to move, sweeping me off my feet and taking me with him round the salon.
A man with a voice like warm melted caramel croons. It's a song I know but can't place. Christian dips me low, and I yelp in surprise and giggle. He smiles, his eyes filled with humor. Then he scoops me up and spins me under his arm.
"You dance so well," I say. "It's like I can dance."
He gives me a sphinxlike smile but says nothing, and I wonder if it's because he's thinking of her . . . Mrs. Robinson, the woman who taught him how to dance—and how to f*ck. She hasn't crossed my mind for a while. Christian has not mentioned her since his birthday, and as far as I'm aware, their business relationship is over. Reluctantly though, I have to admit—she was some teacher.
He dips me low again and plants a swift kiss on my lips.
"I'd miss your love," I murmur, echoing the lyrics.
"I'd more than miss your love," he says and spins me once more. Then he sings the words softly in my ear making me swoon.
The track ends and Christian gazes down at me, his eyes dark and luminous, all humor gone, and I'm suddenly breathless.
"Come to bed with me?" he whispers and it's a heartfelt plea that tugs at my heart.
Christian, you had me at I do —two and half weeks ago. But I know this is his way of apologizing and making sure all is well between us after our spat.
When I wake, the sun is shining through the portholes and the water reflects shimmering patterns onto the cabin ceiling. Christian is nowhere to be seen. I stretch out and smile. Hmm . . . I'll take a punishment f*ck followed by makeup sex any day. I marvel what it is to go to bed with two different men—angry Christian and sweet let-me-make-it-up-to-you-in-any-way-I-can Christian. It's tricky to decide which of them I like the best.
I rise and head for the bathroom. Opening the door, I find Christian inside shaving, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist. He turns and beams, not fazed that I am interrupting him. I have discovered that Christian will never lock the door if he is the only person in the room—the reason why is sobering, and not one I want to dwell on.
"Good morning, Mrs. Grey," he says, radiating his good mood.
"Good morning yourself." I grin back as I watch him shave. I love watching him shave. He pulls up his chin and shaves beneath it, taking long deliberate strokes, and I find myself unconsciously mirroring his actions. Pulling my upper lip down just as he does, to shave his philtrum. He turns and smirks at me, one half of his face still covered in shaving soap.
"Enjoying the show?" he asks.