Chapter 8

When we get downstairs, we are enthusiastically intercepted by a grinning Elliot.

"There you are. Been looking for you two. Come on, Christian. Let's shoot a game of pool. Kate tells me that she and Ana are a couple of pool sharks."

"Ana's tired, Elliot. I was just about to take her home."

"Aw, c'mon. One quick game."

Carrick's voice resonates from behind us. "Go ahead, Christian. It will be nice having you two duke it out over the green felt again. Your mom and I miss our family tournaments."

Christian looks down at me. "One game okay?"

"Of course," I say immediately. I've waited twenty-two years. What's another hour or so?

We end up staying almost two more hours and Kate and I get to display our skill with a cue stick. I got my education over all those nights at our local bar when Kate left Jose and I flat after meeting a new guy—as she always did. The two of us would drown our sorrows in cheap beer, and bond over the pool table. Jose taught me well so I know my way around an eight ball.

After Kate and I giggle ourselves dizzy at the constant bickering and one-upmanship between the Grey brothers, our evening finally draws to a close. We're saying goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. Grey when Elliot comes up behind us.

"Kate, I'll take you home."

Christian pipes in, "I'll be happy to drive Kate home, Elliot. No need for you to go out of your way."

Elliot's fair face turns flushed. "Oh, it's not out of my way at all. Come on, Kate. Let's go."

Christian stops him by grabbing his arm. "Elliot, do you even know where Kate lives?"

Now I know Christian is trying to piss off his brother. At first I wasn't sure.

Elliot answers him through gritted teeth. "Yes, I do. Thanks for your generosity, Christian, but I'll be only too happy to take Kate. Would you like me to see Ana home as well? Since they do live together and I'm going there already?"

Christian smiles. "Thank you, but I've got that covered. After all, she arrived with me and she'll leave with me."

I chance a quick glance at their parents. Carrick and Grace merely look amused at the two of them. Apparently, this constant back and forth is a hallmark of their relationship. What I find amazing is that they still talk to and spend time with each other, given the constant friction. I suppose it's all in good fun.

Anyway, Kate would have stepped in sooner or later, if I know her… and I do. She's not going to let an opportunity to get to know Elliot better—much better—go by. I can see already how she's acting toward him, laughing at all his jokes, speaking in her flirty way, keeping her voice low and sexy and hanging on his every word. It all equals a Kate crush. Big time.

By Elliot driving Kate home, it saves me from admitting that I'm not going back to our condo. Obviously they'll know when I never arrive home, but at least Mr. and Mrs. Grey won't have proof positive of my wanton behavior. The four of us leave the Grey home together, saying goodnight when Taylor brings the car around.

Again, Christian Grey and I sit in the Mercedes CL600, close together but yawning miles apart. The silence hangs between us as dense as Mississippi mud cake. This time, though, it's heavy with our thoughts rather than bristling with sexual tension. Am I really going to do this… with him… tonight?

Yes. I am.

My mind is rewinding, reviewing, and remembering. At sixteen, I almost went all the way with my boyfriend, Jake. He was a hot senior. We'd been dating for almost two years and he'd been begging for the last year. It's not that I didn't want to do it: I was as horny as any other teenager. Fear was my deterrent: I was afraid on so many levels. First and foremost, I didn't want to get pregnant and condoms are not always so reliable. Second, I didn't want to make a mistake and then regret it for years, maybe forever. I had girlfriends even then who had terrible first-time experiences and I wanted mine to be memorable for a different reason.

When I finally capitulated, Jake was psyched. He invited me over the night his parents left for a ski weekend. He and his brother were alone in the house under strict orders not to have any visitors. I got there an hour after his parents left. Though Jake was anxious to do it, I know, he tried to be gentlemanly about the whole thing, offering me a drink and playing some music. We slow-danced for a long time and he began to kiss me. From there it was only a matter of time. We were halfway through the third song—Muse was playing—and making out heavily while barely dancing, when his parents walked through the front door. Apparently their SUV broke down soon after they got on the highway so they turned around and came home.

They were not pleased that Jake had ignored their wishes and so quickly at that. I think that Mr. Wilton, Jake's dad, scoped out the situation in short order, realizing what they'd interrupted. He drove me home and asked to speak to my parents. I begged him not to but he was adamant. I guess he didn't want his son to get into any trouble with an underage girl. Jake was nearly eighteen at that point.

My parents had a long talk with me afterward. My stepfather stepped out of the room at one point, leaving me at my mother's mercy. She proceeded to explain things to me, in excruciating detail, things like STDs, statutory rape, teen pregnancy, abortion, child abuse by young parents, and responsibility. By the time she finally released me, I'd concluded that my legs were going to stay closed, maybe even permanently.

The follow-up to that whole debacle was what cemented my decision. A friend of mine who lived a few towns over called me three weeks later to tell me a story. Seems she'd seen Jake with another girl at a party she attended. She recognized Jake immediately as my boyfriend and called to ask if we were broken up. I remember my exact response.

"We are now."

First, I had to confirm his cheating but that wasn't too difficult—he freely admitted it. He told me he'd seen the girl twice before she agreed to sleep with him, and here we were going on two years together and I'd given him nothing. God, I was so happy then that it had never happened and I made myself a solemn promise: it wouldn't happen… ever… until I was the one who initiated it, until I was the one who wanted a man with every molecule of my being.

I never met that man. In college, I dated but… meh. There was always something wrong: he talked too much about himself, he was cranky, he skipped showers, or he had bad breath, he liked awful music, had no fashion sense. Something always left me ice cold. Then again, college doesn't tend to offer up real men very often so I hadn't met any yet.

Until one warm evening in April a few weeks ago when I met Christian Grey.

I shoot a quick glance at him. In the dark of the car, I can only see his face in shadows but each time we pass a street lamp, I'm able to see more. His expression seems gloomy and I wonder why. Shouldn't he be excited, as I am? What's going on in that quicksilver mind? He must feel my gaze for his eyes swivel toward me and he returns the stare. It's as if there's a direct conduit from his eyes to my lower region—that's how instant my physical response flares up.

His lips twitch up in a slight smile and my cheeks flame. Does he know what I'm thinking? I follow his eyes to my legs and realize I'm squeezing my thighs together. Swiftly I relax them and his smile grows bigger. Damn it, he's way too observant.

Lifting his hand, he runs a long finger down my cheek. "Hi," he says so softly, sweetly, "how do you feel?"

I decide to be honest. "Nervous… excited." I only hope Taylor can't hear my whispered words.

His finger wanders from my cheek, running down my throat, across the collarbone and then back along the top of my breasts. I can feel my nips tightening in response and there's not too much I can do to hide it—they're standing at full alert. My eyes dart longingly to my pink sweater resting on the seat next to me where I tossed it as we got in. As his finger begins to descend, I risk a glance toward Taylor and the finger stops. Realizing I'm holding my breath, I slowly release it.

In an effort to get my mind off the elephant in the car with us, I pay more attention to my surroundings and begin to notice how smooth the ride is.

"Powerful car. And smooth…you can barely feel the motion, even from the backseat."

Eyes yet unfocused, he answers distractedly, "Yes, it is. Though my tiny sportscar has even more horses under the hood so I tend to have a warped perspective."

"A sportscar? Why didn't we take it today?" I love small, fast cars—especially when they have gorgeous male drivers.

"It's a two-seater and I wanted to have a few drinks."'

"Oh. Good thinking. How many cars do you own?"

"Four." He shifts his gaze back to the window and beyond, and I fall quiet again.

Four cars? Seems a tiny bit excessive, but, then again, I'm a simple girl. I like this car, though, I think, as my hand caresses the soft, buttery leather of the seat. My anticipation of the night makes the car ride feel interminable, but it probably only takes a half hour or so before we pull up in front of a huge apartment building. Peeking out the window, I look up and up… and up, barely able to see the top of the building from our vantage point right in front.

"So this is where you live?"

He nods.

Taylor clears his throat. "Mr. Grey, I'll bring the car around to the garage, sir."

"Thank you. Stay put," he says as Taylor begins to get out of the car. Christian climbs out on the street side of the circular drive and comes around to open my door… like the gentleman he is. I'm having a hard time connecting this Christian to the man in that sweaty room, watching Minx get whipped. I banish the thought from my mind. Tonight belongs to this Christian and to me. I won't allow anything to mar it.

"Oh my God, this is amazing," I say, as he shows me into the entrance hall of his penthouse suite. The ceiling soars twenty feet into the air and there's some kind of marble or limestone—travertine—whatever lining the expanse of floor. The lower walls are covered in a rich wallpaper, the upper walls done in Venetian plaster so subtle it looks like paint, and the furniture is heavy dark wood and almost certainly antique. Exquisite paintings line the upper part of the wall—I count twelve in all.

He laughs. "We haven't even left the foyer and you're impressed?"

"This," I wave my arm, "is impressive, Mr. Grey. Very much so."

He places his hand on the small of my back and gently ushers me inside. The great room is aptly named. It is palatial and one whole wall is covered with glass. I head straight there, as if magnetically drawn by the view. When it's before me, I slowly turn around.

"Christian, this is magnificent."

I catch him eyeing me intently. "I'm glad you like it. May I show you the bedrooms?"

Flushing, I nod and sidle over to where he stands, grasping his outstretched hand. He leads me up an impressive flight of stairs, darkly gleaming hardwood with a Persian runner and an iron banister. When we get upstairs, we walk to a pair of double doors. "The master suite," he says by way of introduction and gestures me inside.

On the same side as the wall of windows downstairs, his bedroom also has one wall of glass with the same fantastic view of the city. My God, but he truly looks down on the rest of the world. Cloistered in his palace in the clouds, he doesn't have to mingle with the dirty masses. Is it intentional? His voice breaks through my musings.

"Ana?"

"Yes?"

"May I get you anything? A drink, perhaps?"

"Water would be good."

He nods and disappears into an adjoining room, returning a few moments later with a frosted glass filled with water and chipped ice

"Do you have a refrigerator in there," I say half jokingly.

"Yes, I do actually."

"Oh."

He's just standing there, still watching me. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you're nervous, Christian."

"Nervous? No, Ana. It's just that I've never brought anyone into my bedroom. It's a new experience."

"Never?"

His brows arch. "You're the first."

"Why haven't you brought anyone home? I'm assuming you've had many girlfriends."

"I didn't say I never brought anyone home, Ana. I never brought anyone into my bedroom."

"Ah." I look at my shoes, decide I really like them. "You didn't address the second question."

"You didn't pose it as one."

"Do you have lots of girlfriends?"

"No… not girlfriends."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. I know you're not going to tell me you're an innocent… so…" I feel a gasp begin and choke it back. "You're not gay?"

In my mind I'm praying, please say no, please say no. I'd be crushed.

"No, Ana, I'm not gay—far from it. I suppose I do need to explain myself but I just don't think now's the right time. Suffice it to say, I'm not a romantic. For now, that will do."

"Oh." He's not a romantic… but he likes women… enough to bring them home… but not into his bedroom. I'm totally confused. I gape at him as he toes off his shoes and begins to divest himself of wallet, keys, wristwatch, socks, and shirt. The routine is strangely soothing, reminding me of my father when he came home from work and would get comfortable. I'd follow him into my parents' bedroom and watch him unwind.

Not entirely soothing, however, since this man is not my father and he's getting ready to… well. When he turns around my mouth goes dry. Dry as the Sahara. The man is simply beautiful, perfectly beautiful, just as I knew he'd be. He should be in a museum for all the world to enjoy.

"You must work out a lot," my voice sounds as if I've swallowed a frog.

He smiles and saunters over to me. His gait is casual—his prey a sure thing.

"I do my fair share. Now it's your turn to show and tell."

Leaning in, he kisses me gently, just brushing his lips across mine. When he lifts his head, his eyes are troubled.

Why, I wonder?

He says softly, "Before we go any further, I need to know if this night is conditional?"

I just look at him, baffled. "Conditional?"

"As I said before, at some point soon, a conversation needs to occur between us, Ana, and questions need to be posed and answered. I'm not particularly of a mind to do that right now but I do need to know if spending the night with me is contingent on the answers to those questions."

"You mean the whole leathersex thing?" I sound as if I've been running.

He looks uncomfortable. "Well… yes, that… and others. I have… issues, Ana. Serious ones… so I'm not good boyfriend material. If that's what you're looking for…?"

He leaves the sentence dangling but I can read the writing on the wall. If a boyfriend is what I want, he's not the man for the job. He wants to sleep with me, no strings attached, and he probably thinks because I'm a virgin that I expect a diamond ring in exchange for the night.

I stare into his eyes and in the swirling depths I see troubled waters. What issues, I wonder? His life seems pretty damn good to me… but then I remember the photos of him as a little boy, unsmiling in every one and I wonder if these so-called issues go that far back.

"It's not conditional," I say finally. I don't want to stop. I want him to make love to me here, now, tonight. I believe he wants the same.

Light filters back into his silvery blue irises. "Well, then, Ms. Steele, let's get you out of these clothes, shall we?

His hands grip my waist and he backs me toward the huge bed. It's a beautiful, masculine four-poster made of polished pewter-colored iron and barn wood, and draped in the most sumptuous bedding I've ever seen in person. If there weren't a hot man in front of me who I was desperate to touch, my hands would head straight for the silver and espresso duvet.

Once he has me seated on the edge of the bed, he drops to his knees and pulls my face to his. As he begins to kiss me, his hands begin to wander, starting with my throat. With both of his large hands wrapped around my throat, and his mouth on and inside mine, I feel marked by his possession and it makes my body temperature rocket.

Then his hands slide to my shoulders and he massages them, his fingers sure and strong. Down to my waist, hips, thighs… God, I want him to touch me everywhere. He's taking his time, though, driving me a little bit crazy.

"I can kiss you all day, Ana," he whispers after finally breaking away. "I've never enjoyed kissing a woman as much as I do you."

I smile and watch as his fingers move to the tiny pearl buttons of my blouse. One by one, he slips them out of their slots until the shirt flares open. I thank the sartorial gods that I consistently splurge on underthings, wearing my white, lacy lingerie today. The bra is satin on the bottom half and lace on the top and it fits me to perfection. I think Christian agrees for he's staring at it… well, maybe not at the bra. He leans in, slides the shirt off my shoulders, leaving my arms imprisoned by the sleeves, and lightly licks and bites my breasts through the fabric, running his tongue over my nips. A throaty moan escapes me, embarrassing me, but all he says is "Shhh" and keeps going.

His hands slip around my back and unhook the bra with arrogant ease, spilling out my breasts as he slides the shirt off the rest of the way and then the bra… and then looks at me.

And then sharply gasps. "I doubt you have the smallest clue how much I want you, Ana. I've thought of you every night since I saw you at Madame Irina's, looking spectacular in that lucky blue gown. I've imagined how beautiful these are," his hands wrap around my breasts and gently squeeze, "and I must say they exceed my imagination. A perfect handful, too."

I can think of nothing else but his mouth on me and as he leans in, I think he'll lick me again but he doesn't; instead his mouth descends over the whole nipple and he sucks. Desire—burning, thick, unstoppable—uncoils in the pit of my belly. I'm overwhelmed by the sensations already and I know there's so much more.

Still on his knees, he undoes the button on my trousers, leisurely pulling down the zipper as if he has all the time in the world. He keeps his eyes on mine, never taking them away. Mine are glued to him, too, to everything he does—I couldn't tear my gaze away if there was a fire. His places his palm between my breasts and gently but insistently pushes me down onto the bed. As soon as I'm flat on my back, he gets to his feet and yanks off my pants. I have nothing left on but my panties. Never taking his burning eyes off me, he unbuttons his jeans, then tugs them down, leaving only his boxers on. I try not to look but I can't help but notice the tenting and it looks huge. Fear now enters the equation—it's so big, it has to hurt me. He catches me looking, and flashes me a wicked grin, his white teeth contrasting against his darker skin.

Massaging my legs, he hovers over me and begins to kiss me everywhere, moving up and down my body, up and down my legs and right on top of my skimpy panties. When his hand slides between my legs, I suck in a gasp. Feeling him touch me there is both terrifying and electrifying. Every nerve in my body is humming and my fear of his considerable size is all but forgotten. I need him so desperately it actually hurts. I'm embarrassingly wet down there but I'm almost beyond worrying. I feel as if I might come before he even gets near me.

"Ana, you're so beautiful, do you know that? Your skin is flawless and softer than any silk or velvet. If you were mine, I'd never stop touching you."

I am yours. Or want to be. What's it going to take for you to realize it?

He stands up suddenly, steps over to the bedside table, and grabs a foil packet from the drawer. Returning to me, he swiftly tears off my panties and divests himself of his trunks. As soon as they come off, his erection springs out, and he is fucking huge. The word sword comes to mind.

"Are all men that big?" I hear myself whisper.

His voice husky, he says, "Now's not the time to bring up other men, Ana," he pauses and grins devilishly, "but I doubt it. Don't worry, we'll fit fine. It might be a bit tight at first… but that's a good thing." He winks.

Oh, that wink does things to me.

His hands go under my knees to pull my legs apart and he crawls up between them toward my face. "Are you absolutely sure? This is the last exit before the toll."

In answer I pull his face down and kiss him. When we break away, he looks at me. "It might hurt for a few moments but I'll do it fast so we don't prolong the unpleasant part. Okay?"

"Am I your first virgin, Christian?"

"Yes, but I know what I'm doing, baby. Trust me."

For whatever reason, I find I do trust him. So very much. Maybe insanely much.

Clutching my face in his hands, he begins to kiss me with abandon and I respond to it instantly. One hand goes back between my legs and I feel his fingers exploring me everywhere. It feels so illicit to be touched there… but taboo or not, it stokes me higher. I know he can feel how wet I am for him but thankfully he doesn't comment on it. On the heels of that thought, he whispers in my ear. "You're so wet, baby, all for me. I'm already covered in you and I'm not inside yet. I like that, Ana, very much. Will you always get wet for me, baby?"

I jerk my head in answer, embarrassed beyond belief but also readier than I've ever been before. I can feel him positioning himself—he's so hot and hard and pulsing—and then he grasps my wrists and pins them over my head, kisses me again, and thrusts his hips forward, breaking in, tearing through the barrier of my virginity—not violently but unstoppably, a force that won't be resisted.

I'm unable to contain my cry: the pain is intense—burning and awful. I can't retreat for the bed is at my back and his weight is pinning me down. I try to inch up, away from the thing causing me so much pain but before I get too far, the agony magically disappears, as if it never existed. Opening my eyes in a dazed shock, I look directly into his warm ones and he gives me a sweet smile and releases my wrists.

"I'm in now. Are you okay, baby?"

His thumbs are caressing my face and his eyes hold concern and I think in this minute that I might already love him.

"I'm fine," I whisper and he remains still. "What are you doing?"

"Just letting you acclimate to me. It's nice how your body is conforming to mine. Feel it?"

I nod. He takes my face in both his hands and kisses me hard, rocking his hips back and swinging into me again. This time I can appreciate the whole thing: his heat, his hardness, the friction—everything. His rhythm is flawless as he speeds up and his thrusts become harder, then he slows again, before gradually picking up the pace again. I see him grimacing and wonder why. "Are you okay?" I finally whisper.

His voice is strained. "Oh, baby, you're so tight. You feel so good it's hard to keep my control." He peers down at me, eyes shining with renewed resolve. "Time to let go, Ana," and with those soft words, he becomes more aggressive and I feel pressure building within me but I don't think I can give him what he wants. He's not going to be denied, though; he wants me to give it all to him. His hand slides between us and his fingers begin to circle my clit every time he pulls out and that is something that cannot be resisted, especially when he lightly pinches it and I scream out, blasting into the pinnacle, and after a few more quick thrusts, he jerks, coming too, and saying my name in such a beautiful, breathless way that I wonder if he might love me, too.