Fifty Shades of Grey

“You’ll see.” He grins as he slips the car into drive, and we head out on Savannah Parkway. He programs the GPS and presses a switch on the steering wheel and a classical orchestral piece fills the car.

“What’s this?” I ask as the sweet, sweet sound of a hundred violin strings assails us.

“It’s from La Traviata. An opera by Verdi.”

Oh, my… it’s lovely.

“La Traviata? I’ve headr of that. I can’t think where. What does it mean?”

Christian glances at me and smirks.

“Well, literally, the woman led astray. It’s based on Alexander Dumas’s book, La Dame aux Camelias.”

“Ah. I’ve read it.”

“I thought you might.”

“The doomed courtesan.” I squirm uncomfortably in the plush leather seat. Is he trying to tell me something? “Hmm, it’s a depressing story,” I mutter.

“Too depressing? Do you want to choose some music? This is on my iPod.” Christian has that secret smile again.

I can’t see his iPod anywhere. He taps the screen on the console between us, and behold - there is a play list.

“You choose.” His lips twitch up into a smile, and I know it’s a challenge.

Christian Grey’s iPod, this should be interesting. I scroll through the touch screen, and find the perfect song. I press play. I wouldn’t have figured him for a Britney fan. The club-mix, techno beat assaults us both, and Christian turns the volume down. Maybe it’s too early for this: Britney’s at her most sultry.

“Toxic, eh?” Christian grins.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I feign innocence.

He turns the music down a little more, and inside I am hugging myself. My inner goddess is standing on the podium awaiting her gold medal. He turned the music down.

Victory!

“I didn’t put that song on my iPod,” he says casually, and puts his foot down so that I am thrown back into my seat as the car accelerates along the freeway.

What? He knows what he’s doing, the bastard. Who did? And I have to listen to Britney going on and on. Who… who?

The song ends and the iPod shuffles to Damien Rice being mournful. Who? Who? I stare out of the window, my stomach churning. Who?

“It was Leila,” he answers my unspoken thoughts. How does he do that?

“Leila?”

“An ex, who put the song on my iPod.”

Damien warbles away in the background as I sit stunned. An ex… ex-submissive? An ex– “One of the fifteen?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“What happened to her?”

“We finished.”

“Why?”

Oh jeez. It’s too early for this kind of conversation. But he looks relaxed, happy even, and what’s more, talkative.

“She wanted more.” His voice is low, introspective even, and he leaves the sentence hanging between us, ending it with that powerful little word again.

“And you didn’t?” I ask before I can employ my brain to mouth filter. Shit, do I want to know?

He shakes his head.

“I’ve never wanted more, until I met you.”

I gasp, reeling. Oh my. Isn’t this what I want? He wants more. He wants it, too! My inner goddess has back flipped off the podium and is doing cartwheels around the stadium.

It’s not just me.

“What happened to the other fourteen?” I ask.

Jeez he’s talking – take advantage.

“You want a list? Divorced, beheaded, died?”

“You’re not Henry VIII.”

“Okay. In no particular order, I’ve only had long term relationships with four women, apart from Elena.”

“Elena?”