Thanks to Winter Storm Nemo, I wasn't able to post this full chapter last night. So, this is Part II of Ch. 32.

Chapters 33 and 34 will be released tomorrow, but my writing pace is definitely slowing. I can't keep up the daily updates and for that I am immensely sorry. Also, I'm a touch typist (around 80wpm) and outright refuse to write this on my iPhone, the only thing that gets internet in my apartment. Making the trek out with my laptop to a place with wifi is a big old pain in the ass, so once or twice a week will have to do for a while.

Anyways, I thought I'd tell you a funny little secret — I am, for all intents and purposes, a lesbian. I've slept with men before (and don't mind making out with them that much or whatever), but the whole penis thing is just not all that enjoyable for me. And yet... this chapter. HILARIOUS.

Enjoy, read, follow, favorite, review. PM me anytime and let me know what you think — tell me it sucks or that you think I got these characters completely wrong. Tell me that I missed some super-important thing. Maybe I can work it into the story and you'll be able to say, "Ooh, I thought of that!" Tell me you love it and that you can't wait to read more. WHATEVS.

Thanks for reading, guys, and stay warm.

Ch. 32 - Part II

It may not be Charlie Tango, but I do so love helicopter rides with Christian.

"Hm, this is not doing a good job of keeping my mind distracted from sex," I muse. Christian finishes strapping me into my bucket seat, letting his hands linger around my breasts for a moment.

"I'm starting to think you like me tying you up, Mrs. Grey." His smirk sends a warm feeling shooting down the middle of my body and I exhale quickly.

He climbs over me, letting his pelvis pass within an inch of my nose. I struggle against my harness to no avail. He's playing with me.

Our tour of Manhattan takes us up the East River and the Harlem River, down the Hudson, around the Battery, then back up to the helipad. It's spectacular and I spend most of the trip with my mouth hanging wide open. By the time we reach Chelsea, night threatens and the city lights up before our eyes.

"I couldn't have asked for a better way to see New York," I say as Christian releases me, my arms flying around his neck in a giant bear hug.

He's kneeling between my knees and leans into me, letting his lips glide up my neck, over my chin, and finally landing on my lips. He pulls back when I feel I can barely stand it. "I'm glad you liked it."

The next day, I feel so rejuvenated. After the Hyde incident, I've been getting tons of sleep, but it wasn't until Christian's "therapy" session that I started really feeling rested. Amazing what a little "O" in your life can do.

I was so tired when we got home last night, I all but fell asleep fully clothed. Christian helped me get undressed and though I'm sure he wasn't trying to make it super-sexy-undress-Ana-time, that's sort of what it turned into. Thankfully for us both, I was too tired to respond much so we didn't get into another fight about how we shouldn't have sex but really want to.

Christian is already up — and cooking! — when I stumble into the kitchen. Our townhouse has an elevator for no apparent reason, though I am not complaining. If it didn't, Lord knows I'd have a lot more trouble getting around in my condition. As it is, I find the narrow doorways troublesome and the unfamiliar surroundings don't help my poor navigation skills.

The kitchen, oddly on the fourth floor, has a huge half-circle window almost the width of the entire building that overlooks the river, the 59th Street Bridge, and Queens. It's sort of spectacular and since it faces East, the morning light streams in, making every glossy surface shine and throw reflections to all the otherwise shadowy corners.

Now, what Christian is cooking, I'm not quite sure. It involves eggs, burnt toast, and shredded cheese. It smells awful, but I sidle up behind him, kissing his naked back between his shoulder blades, run my hands around his waist, and say, "Smells good, baby."

He chuckles. What a simply intoxicating sound. "No, it doesn't, but you're kind to say so."

One of the many great advantages of being in New York is the incredibly decreased level of security. Under the assumption that Hyde is in Seattle and doesn't necessarily know where we are, we've got Taylor staying in the house in the first floor guest room, the housekeeper who comes by in the afternoon, and several contracted suits who don't ever come in the house. Because there's a plethora of delis, bodegas, pizza joints, and, his favorite, bagel shops within three blocks, Taylor doesn't bother coming upstairs. Ever.

This gave me the opportunity to do something I'd wanted to for quite some time.

Christian turns around to give me a kiss and stops. He's not breathing, he's not moving, he doesn't make a sound. I smile and turn to sit at the kitchen table, grabbing the newspaper and pouring myself a glass of orange juice.

Casually, I tuck into my OJ and start reading about the weather.

"What... What do you think you're doing?" he finally stammers.

I look up from the paper, smiling. "Reading the paper, baby."

I can't quite tell yet if he's angry, aroused, affronted... His jaw flaps a few times and I turn back to the paper.

"No, Anastasia," he says, as calmly as he can clearly muster. "I mean, what are you wearing?"

I don't look up. That's right, play it cool, my inner goddess coaches. "Nothing." I take a sip of my juice.

"I can see that. And why are you completely butt-ass naked, Anastasia?" So far, he's not moved an inch. I'm wondering if I maybe pushed him too far.

"Because I can," he smiles as I hurl his own words back at him. If this is what victory feels like, it's really turning me on.

"Mrs. Grey," he turns off the burner. "Just because you can doesn't mean you should." He takes a step towards me and I return to the paper.

"But, Mr. Grey, it's just so damn fun."

He takes one more step. "You know, this would be a whole lot more fun if I was allowed to touch you, Mrs. Grey."

"You are allowed to touch me, Mr. Grey," I say. "You're just not allowed to fuck me."

He inhales sharply but takes another step in my direction.

"The way I see it, Mr. Grey," I turn the page. "You've helped me come, which was highly enjoyable but unfortunately had the side-effect of some pain afterwards." I refold the paper noisily. "But I haven't made you come since we were in Portland last," I lower the paper and think, eyes to the ceiling for a moment. "And that was the day after my birthday, so that would be... Six and a half weeks ago." I pick the paper back up and pretend to read about Kim Kardashian. "I believe you're due for a reward of some sort."

Christian is standing about two feet from me. I look up innocently from my paper. "Won't you join me, Mr. Grey?"

"Anastasia, you know I don't like to keep track of these sorts of things — tit for tat is not my style."

"Oh, but I thought you liked my tits, Mr. Grey." I set the paper back down on the table and stand up. We're within inches of each other and Christian can't help but look down at my body hungrily. I can tell he has it bad — his usual calm control in all things sexual has seemingly evaporated. He has almost completely lost his impassivity.

"That is, unless you've been cheating?"

His eyes shoot up to mine. He's hurt, angry, shocked, but most of all, he's defensive. "Ana, you can't think I... I would never!"

I smile, "No, I don't think you cheated on me. I think you might have, uh... Cheated though." I wink suggestively.

He blanches. He really has lost his poker face. "You mean," he starts.

I start to circle him, running my finger tips around his torso. "Have you been touching yourself without my permission, Mr. Grey?"

He swallows hard.

I come around to his front again, mock horror plastered across my face. "Mr. Grey, you'll go blind." I giggle at myself.

He croaks, "I haven't."

What? What full-grown man with a libido like Christian Grey's can avoid jerking off for this long? Jesus, his balls must be bright blue and ready to fall off.

"Really?" All my playfulness is gone.

He shakes his head and I feel this terrible sense of guilt.

I decide to keep going with my little game I'd planned. It's all the more important now that I know he doesn't just want this, he needs this.

I take his hand from his side and lightly run my fingers along his palm.

"Would you like to touch me with this, Mr. Grey? Would you like me to touch you while you touch me, Mr. Grey?"

He's completely motionless, but I take this as a good sign.

"Would you like me to make you come with my mouth, Sir?"

He nods slowly, mouth slightly open. And that's it. I've got him.

I lift his hands up to my breasts, my hands over his, kneading my pert flesh harshly.

With my leg in a cast, I knew this was going to be a bit of a logistical challenge, but I had worked this out in my head and I knew how it would work.

I place my hands on his hips and push him gently backwards until his lower back is pressed against the kitchen island. His hands are exploring now, running over my chest, around my back, down my spine, cupping and squeezing my behind. It's distracting as all hell, but I know it's helping him. I untie the string on his pajama pants and let them fall to the floor. He's not wearing any underwear, so he springs forth into my hands.

"Up." I say and he gets the idea. He removes his hands from my skin to help himself get onto the high counter, placing his crotch at a far better height for me. "Handicap accessible," I mutter and look up at him.

I push my hands against his chest, and he sits back, propping himself up on his elbows. This will do nicely.

Keeping my eyes locked on his, I support myself with my hands against the edge of the counter and touch my lips softly to the head of his penis. His head falls back and he groans.

"Shit, Ana."

Encouraged, I take his whole head in my mouth, circling my touch around it, sucking gently and letting out a little sound of my own. The vibration from my moan through my lips and tongue makes him shudder. My mouth is watering and I take his full length slowly. I can feel myself getting very wet and move my legs a little to alleviate some of my own need.

As I start my smooth, slow pace up and down his shaft, circling his sensitive tip each time, I shift my weight to one arm and let my other hand cup his balls gently. He's so close already, I can feel him pulsing against my tongue. My speed increases as does his breathing, his heart rate, his need. All this, but he won't let go. I can't speak to him without stopping, I can't tell him to release.

So I hum, the only way I can communicate right now. He throws his head back once more, thrusting into me as I taste his climax. I squeeze my hand slightly and he just keeps going. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he screams, over and over, each "fuck" matching a convulsion.

After what seems like minutes, he stills. I stand up straight and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. He's completely collapsed, butt-ass nakedon the kitchen counter.

"Jesus, Ana, you're gonna kill me one of these days."

Do you think they're having too much sexy time? Let me know! I'm kind of self-conscious about writing it to begin with, but now I'm worried that it's becoming all about the non-sex sexy time...