“Happy now? He’s listening to his iPod. Puccini. Forget he’s here. I do.”
“Did you deliberately ask him to do that?”
“Yes.”
Oh. “Okay, your proposition?”
Christian looks suddenly determined and businesslike.
“Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?”
My mouth drops open. “Kinky fuckery?” I squeak.
“Kinky fuckery.”
“I can’t believe you said that.” I glance nervously at Taylor.
“Well, I did. Answer me,” he says calmly.
I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplication begging me.
“I like your kinky fuckery,” I whisper.
“That’s what I thought. So what don’t you like?”
“The threat of cruel and unusual punishment.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you have all those canes and whips and stuff in your playroom, and they frighten the living daylights out of me. I don’t want you to use them on me.”
“Okay, so no whips or canes-or belts, for that matter,” he says sardonically.
I gaze at him puzzled. “Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?”
“Not as such, I’m just trying to understand you, get a clearer picture of what you do and don’t like.”
“Fundamentally, Christian, it’s your joy in inflicting pain on me that’s difficult for me to handle. And the idea that you’ll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line.”
“But it’s not arbitrary; the rules are written down.”
“I don’t want a set of rules.”
“None at all?”
“No rules.” I shake my head, but my heart is in my mouth. Where is he going with this?
“But you don’t mind if I spank you?”
“Spank me with what?”
“This.” He holds up his hand.
I squirm uncomfortably. “No, not really. Especially with those silver balls…” Thank heavens it’s dark, my face is flaming and my voice trails off as I recall that night.
He smirks at me. “Yes, that was fun.”
“More than fun,” I mutter.
“So you can deal with some pain.”
I shrug. “Yes, I suppose.” Oh, where is he going with this? My anxiety level has shot up several magnitudes on the Richter scale.
He strokes his chin, deep in thought. “Anastasia, I want to start again. Do the vanilla thing and then maybe, once you trust me more and I trust you to be honest and to communicate with me, we could move on and do some of the things that I like to do.”
I stare at him, stunned, with no thoughts in my head at all-like a computer crash. He gazes at me anxiously, but I can’t see him clearly, as we’re shrouded in the Oregon darkness. It occurs to me, finally, this is it.
He wants the light, but can I ask him to do this for me? And don’t I like the dark? Some dark, sometimes. Memories of the Thomas Tallis night drift invitingly through my mind.
“But what about punishments?”
“No punishments.” He shakes his head. “None.”
“And the rules?”
“No rules.”
“None at all? But you have needs.”
“I need you more, Anastasia. These last few days have been purgatory. All my instincts tell me to let you go, tell me I don’t deserve you.
“Those photos the boy took… I can see how he sees you. You look so untroubled and beautiful, not that you’re not beautiful now, but here you sit. I see your pain. It’s hard knowing that I’m the one who has made you feel this way.
“But I’m a selfish man. I’ve wanted you since you fell into my office. You are exquisite, honest, warm, strong, witty, beguilingly innocent; the list is endless. I am in awe of you. I want you, and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twisting in my dark soul.”
My mouth goes dry.
“Christian, why do you think you have a dark soul? I would never say that. Sad maybe, but you’re a good man. I can see that… you’re generous, you’re kind, and you’ve never lied to me. And I haven’t tried very hard.
“Last Saturday was such a shock to my system. It was my wake-up call. I realized that you’d been easy on me and that I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be. Then, after I left, it dawned on me that the physical pain you inflicted was not as bad as the pain of losing you. I do want to please you, but it’s hard.”
“You please me all the time,” he whispers. “How often do I have to tell you that?”
“I never know what you’re thinking. Sometimes you’re so closed off… like an island state. You intimidate me. That’s why I keep quiet. I don’t know which way your mood is going to go. It swings from north to south and back again in a nanosecond. It’s confusing and you won’t let me touch you, and I want to so much to show you how much I love you.”
He blinks at me in the darkness, warily I think, and I can resist him no longer. I unbuckle my seatbelt and scramble into his lap, taking him by surprise, and take his head in my hands.
“I love you, Christian Grey. And you’re prepared to do all this for me. I’m the one who is undeserving, and I’m just sorry that I can’t do all those things for you. Maybe with time… I don’t know… but yes, I accept your proposition. Where do I sign?”
He snakes his arms around me and crushes me to him.
“Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he buries his nose in my hair.
We sit, our arms wrapped around each other, listening to the music-a soothing piano piece-mirroring the emotions in the car, the sweet tranquil calm after the storm. I snuggle into his arms, resting my head in the crook of his neck. He gently strokes my back.
“Touching is a hard limit for me, Anastasia,” he whispers.
“I know. I wish I understood why.”
After a while, he sighs, and in a soft voice he says, “I had a horrific childhood. One of the crack whore’s pimps…” His voice trails off, and his body tenses as he recalls some unimaginable horror. “I can remember that,” he whispers, shuddering.
Abruptly, my heart constricts as I remember the burn scars marring his skin.
“Was she abusive? Your mother?” My voice is low and soft with unshed tears.
“Not that I remember. She was neglectful. She didn’t protect me from her pimp.”
He snorts. “I think it was me who looked after her. When she finally killed herself, it took four days for someone to raise the alarm and find us… I remember that.”
I cannot contain my gasp of horror. Holy mother fuck. Bile rises in my throat.
“That’s pretty fucked-up,” I whisper.
“Fifty shades,” he murmurs.
I turn my head and press my lips against his neck, seeking and offering solace as I imagine a small, dirty, gray-eyed boy lost and lonely beside the body of his dead mother.
