Fifty Shades Darker

Oh, this feels good. Closing my eyes, I succumb to the cleansing, warming water. As I rinse off the shampoo, I feel his hands on me, soaping my body: my shoulders, my arms, under my arms, my breasts, my back. Gently he turns me around and pulls me against him as he continues down my body: my stomach, my belly, his skilled fingers between my legs-hmm-my behind. Oh, that feels good and so intimate. He turns me around to face him again.

“Here,” he says quietly, handing me the body wash. “I want you to wash off the remains of the lipstick.”

My eyes open in a flurry and dart quickly to his. He’s staring at me intently, soaking wet and beautiful, his glorious, bright gray eyes giving nothing away.

“Don’t stray far from the line, please,” he mutters tightly.

“Okay,” I murmur, trying to absorb the enormity of what he’s just asked me to do-to touch him on the edge of the forbidden zone.

I squeeze a small amount of soap on my hand, rub my hands together to create a lather, then place them on his shoulders and gently wash away the line of lipstick on each side. He stills and closes his eyes, his face impassive, but he’s breathing rapidly, and I know it’s not lust but fear. It cuts me to the quick.

With trembling fingers, I carefully follow the line down the side of his chest, soaping and rubbing softly, and he swallows, his jaw tense as if his teeth are clenched. Oh! My heart constricts and my throat tightens. Oh no, I’m going to cry.

I stop to add more soap to my hand and feel him relax in front of me. I can’t look up at him. I can’t bear to see his pain-it’s too much. I swallow.

“Ready?” I murmur and the tension is loud and clear in my voice.

“Yes,” he whispers, his voice husky, laced with fear.

Gently, I place my hands on either side of his chest, and he freezes again.

It’s too much. I am overwhelmed by his trust in me-overwhelmed by his fear, by the damage done to this beautiful, fallen, flawed man.

Tears pool in my eyes and spill down my face, lost in the water from the shower. Oh, Christian! Who did this to you?

His diaphragm moves rapidly with each shallow breath, his body is rigid, tension radiating off him in waves as my hands move along the line, erasing it. Oh, if I could just erase your pain, I would-I’d do anything-and I want nothing more than to kiss every single scar I see, to kiss away those hideous years of neglect. But I know I can’t, and my tears fall unbidden down my cheeks.

“No. Please, don’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice anguished as he wraps me tightly in his arms. “Please don’t cry for me.” And I burst into full-blown sobs, burying my face against his neck, as I think of a little boy lost in a sea of fear and pain, frightened, neglected, abused-hurt beyond all endurance.

Pulling away, he clasps my head with both hands, tilts it backward, and leans down to kiss me.

“Don’t cry, Ana, please,” he murmurs against my mouth. “It was long ago. I am aching for you to touch me, but I just can’t bear it. It’s too much. Please, please don’t cry.”

“I want to touch you, too. More than you’ll ever know. To see you like this… so hurt and afraid, Christian… it wounds me deeply. I love you so much.”

He runs his thumb across my bottom lip. “I know. I know,” he whispers.

“You’re very easy to love. Don’t you see that?”

“No, baby, I don’t.”

“You are. And I do and so does your family. So do Elena and Leila-they have a strange way of showing it-but they do. You are worthy.”

“Stop.” He puts his finger over my lips and shakes his head, an agonized expression on his face. “I can’t hear this. I’m nothing, Anastasia. I’m a husk of a man. I don’t have a heart.”

“Yes, you do. And I want it, all of it. You’re a good man, Christian, a really good man. Don’t ever doubt that. Look at what you’ve done… what you’ve achieved,” I sob. “Look what you’ve done for me… what you’ve turned your back on, for me,” I whisper. “I know. I know how you feel about me.”

He gazes down at me, his eyes wide and panicked, and all we can hear is the steady stream of water as it flows over us in the shower.

“You love me,” I whisper.

His eyes widen further and his mouth opens. He takes a huge breath as if winded. He looks tortured- vulnerable.

“Yes,” he whispers. “I do.”

9

I cannot contain my jubilation. My subconscious gapes at me open-mouthed-in stunned silence-and I wear a face-splitting grin as I gaze longingly up into Christian’s wide, tortured eyes.

His soft sweet confession calls to me on some deep elemental level as if he’s seeking absolution; his three small words are my manna from heaven. Tears prick my eyes once more. Yes, you do. I know you do.

It’s such a liberating realization as if a crushing millstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, fucked-up man, whom I once thought of as my romantic hero-strong, solitary, mysterious-possesses all these traits, but he’s also fragile and alienated and full of self-loathing. My heart swells with joy but also pain for his suffering. And I know in this moment that my heart is big enough for both of us. I hope it’s big enough for both of us.

I reach up to clasp his dear, dear, handsome face and kiss him gently, pouring all the love I feel into this one sweet connection. I want to devour him beneath the hot cascading water. Christian groans and encircles me in his arms, holding me as if I am the air he needs to breathe.

“Oh, Ana,” he whispers hoarsely, “I want you, but not here.”

“Yes,” I murmur fervently into his mouth.

He switches off the shower and takes my hand, leading me out and enfolding me in my bathrobe. Grabbing a towel, he wraps it around his waist, then takes a smaller one and begins to gently dry my hair. When he’s satisfied, he swathes the towel around my head so that in the large mirror over the sink I look like I’m wearing a veil. He’s standing behind me and our eyes meet in the mirror, smoldering gray to bright blue, and it gives me an idea.

“Can I reciprocate?” I ask.

He nods, though his brow creases. I reach for another towel from the plethora of fluffy towels stacked beside the vanity, and standing before him on tiptoe, I start to dry his hair. He bends forward, making the process easier, and as I catch the occasional glimpse of his face beneath the towel, I see he’s grinning at me like a small boy.

“It’s a long time since anyone did this to me. A very long time,” he murmurs, but then frowns. “In fact I don’t think anyone’s ever dried my hair.”

“Surely Grace did? Dried your hair when you were young?”

He shakes his head, hampering my progress.

“No. She respected my boundaries from day one, even though it was painful for her. I was very self-sufficient as a child,” he says quietly.

I feel a swift kick in the ribs as I think of a small copper-haired child looking after himself because no one else cares. The thought is sickeningly sad. But I don’t want my melancholy to hijack this blossoming intimacy.

“Well, I’m honored,” I gently tease him.

“That you are, Miss Steele. Or maybe it is I who am honored.”

“That goes without saying, Mr. Grey,” I respond tartly.

I finish with his hair, reach for another small towel, and move round to stand behind him. Our eyes meet again in the mirror, and his watchful, questioning look prompts me to speak.

“Can I try something?”

After a moment, he nods. Warily, and very gently, I run the soft cloth down his left arm, soaking up the water that has beaded on his skin. Glancing up, I check his expression in the mirror. He blinks at me, his eyes burning into mine.