Chapter 9

The bedside clock reads 10:03 a.m. I bolt upright—abruptly awake. I'm floating in a cocoon of luxurious sheets and fluffy pillows in the large bed. Christian Grey's bed. It takes a few seconds to orient myself but the night rushes back into my head and I instantly warm. Last night I let him all over and inside my body.

Where is he? I'm alone in the massive bed and I run my hands over the satiny caress of the duvet. I may not be wealthy but I do know how to recognize high-end when I see it, and this bedding is the best money could buy. Hand-stitched Italian high-thread sheets in snowy white Egyptian cotton, a soft brushed-cotton blanket from Portugal in a pearl gray, the silver and espresso brown duvet with matching shams—the only thing missing is the beautiful man himself.

Merely conjuring him up in my mind's eye makes me feel overheated. I fall back onto the pillows, luxuriating in the billowy comfort. I could get used to this, I think, and then the bitchy little voice inside my head tells me to do no such thing. I scowl. Not only am I talking to myself, but I also don't get along well with the company. After nearly a half hour passes with no sign of the man, I drag my body out of bed to take a shower.

Stepping through the adjoining door, I find myself in a humongous dressing room. On one side is a walk-in closet, complete with every possible built-in, the dark wood of the shelves and drawers furniture-grade and stunning. The lights are warm halogen and the main room is nearly wall-to-wall mirrors. In what looks like another closet is actually a connecting laundry room, and beyond that a small exercise studio with elliptical trainer, treadmill, bicycle and bench press. On the other side of the dressing room is the bathroom. Finally.

Again a huge mirror confronts me. I stare at myself, wanting to see a physical difference but there is none. I feel so different, however, on the inside. It's not just the sex, though I am sore there. It's that I feel like a woman—a full-fledged woman. Sounds stupid because I felt like a woman yesterday, too. But having known a man last night for the first time makes me feel more sensuous, more in tune with my body. I want to see the changes I feel. But I don't and that's a shame. I spin around and head into the steam shower. Christian does live well.

I'm in the middle of a very hot shower and singing a song by Adele—not nearly as well—when Christian comes into the room. He strips quickly and gets into the shower with me. Despite all that we did last night, I still feel very shy and I know I'm blushing. He doesn't notice, I'm sure, since my whole body is red from the hot water.

"Hello, my pretty. Did you sleep well?" He asks the question as he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, his hands reaching for my breasts.

I lean back into his chest and merely nod. Reaching for the shower gel, he squirts some in the palm of his hand and rubs his hands together in front of me, until they're foamy with suds. "You know what they say about women who shower with men, don't you?"

"No, what do they say?"

"They say," he pauses to begin soaping my breasts, "that they have the cleanest breasts in town. I do believe you will join their ranks today."

"Well, that's good." I remember to breathe finally and exhale. "Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all."

"Very true, Ms. Steele. But I fear you're standing a lot closer to Satan right about now. I hope you won't hold that against me?"

"I'll try not to." I take the shower gel and squeeze some into my hand, turning around and reaching for him. At first he flinches slightly but then he lets me close again. He's already as hard as he was last night and I want to touch him in the worst way. He lets me, closing his eyes as if he's enjoying my novice touch.

"Am I doing it right?" I whisper, embarrassed yet emboldened by the satisfied look on his face.

"There's no wrong way to do it. But here, I'll show you the best way." He puts his hand over mine and moves it up and down, squeezing my hand over himself and when I have the rhythm, he lets go.

I watch his face as I stroke him and his expression—both heat and elation share space there—offers me all the encouragement I need. What crosses my mind next is how he would taste… and what he would do if I just dropped to my knees and took him in my mouth. Too shy, I resist the impulse. He would like it, wouldn't he? Or would he think me slutty? I wonder.

Later we're having coffee and juice and he's grinning. "Do you know why I got up ahead of you this morning?"

"No, why?"

"My mother dropped by for a visit."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes, Ms. Steele. Would you like to know what prompted her visit?"

"I don't know. Would I?"

"She was so excited to finally meet one of my girlfriends. She said she and my father always see the publicity shots of me with a glamorous woman on my arm but for all she knows, they could just be paid escorts for appearances. At long last, she met a real girlfriend." His lips twitch and then give in to a full megawatt smile that lights up his whole face.

I grin, too, at the sheer irony. I'm probably the only paid escort of the bunch. And the thought immediately depresses me.

"Do I have to tell Irina we exceeded the bounds of my contract?"

"You don't have to tell Irina anything, Ana. As of yesterday evening when I picked you up, you fulfilled your end of the contract. Thus, you no longer work for the woman."

"What about Kent?"

"What about him? He's a big boy and can find many able and willing models for his designs. You're retiring."

The hard look that flashes in his eyes tells me he's not kidding. I decide to let it go… for now. I happen to really like Kent and despite that I fervently wish otherwise, Christian has no claim on me. To change the subject, I ask, "When will we have the discussion you said was necessary?"

"Eager, are you? I myself would rather defer it as long as possible."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer but his eyes cloud with some unreadable emotion. After a minute that stretches into eternity, he asks softly, "Are you finished with your coffee?"

I nod.

"We can approach it two ways: I can show you my du—er, let's call it my playroom and explain afterward, or I can do the reverse."

"Playroom," I repeat, smiling. "You seem a bit old to have a playroom." An image of this masculine creature before me surrounded by a roomful of toys flashes through my mind and a giggle escapes me before I can help it.

He raises a brow but the ends of his lips turn up. "I could get used to hearing you giggle, Ms. Steele." Then his face turns stern, all traces of humor gone. "This, however, is not the time or place for giggling."

I think he's kidding… think being the operative word… but I'm uncertain so I stop, my amusement shriveling up in the face of his possible annoyance. "Maybe explaining first would be better. I've seen the… um… equipment at Irina's so…"

"Well, you can guess the basics. I do think showing you the room might help explain what goes on without my having to spell it out. Afterward, any questions that arise in your mind can be asked and answered. Come now."

He rises to his feet, his hand reaching for mine, and he leads me upstairs to the third floor of his mammoth apartment.

At the double doors he removes a key from his pocket, unlocking it. My heartbeat is starting to throttle up, probably because of the way he's acting, like this is a big deal.

I think I have some idea of what to expect after happening upon Irina's leathersex room yet I'm not entirely prepared for what I see, and can't stop myself from gaping all around me, transfixed. A lot of creepy thought has gone into appointing this room: it has black walls and red velvet furnishings. The floors are the highly polished dark hardwoods found throughout the apartment. Wrought iron sconces punctuate the walls every few feet and are shaded by blood-red glass, lending the room an eerie ambiance. But for the movable, bright spotlights on the floors, like the ones they use when shooting films, it could pass for a medieval torture chamber. As the thought twists through my head, I look around for a torture rack.

Fortunately there isn't one but there is a giant x-shaped cross on one wall; it's larger than the one Minx was strapped to and I can see restraints built into each arm of the monstrosity. The lower limbs have blocks attached near the bottom, apparently for someone to stand on while chained. There is a waist-high bench made of dark, nearly black wood and ruby red leather. The huge bed is covered with black satin sheets and a red crushed-velvet coverlet, and its head-and footboards have iron links dangling from every corner. In the middle of the large room, there's a strange looking thing—it looks like gymnastic equipment. However, it's what covers the entire long wall of the room that seizes me and won't let me go: whips of every size and thickness, and other implements of pain hang ominously from a sturdy wooden rack that's mounted high on the wall. Since that wall has to be about twenty feet in length and implements cover the whole of it, there are an awful lot of pain-producing tools at his fingertips.

He's watching me: I can feel his eyes following my every move as I walk around in appalled wonder. Inhaling deeply, I look up at the ceiling to give my eyes a reprieve from the scary stuff. Unfortunately, no reprieve is forthcoming. Instead, I see chains attached to the ceiling that would be hanging if not looped around some kind of rigging system so they don't dangle. Something that looks like a pulley and another thing that looks like the chain on a bicycle crisscross the ceiling but over the bed and the waist-high bench are mirrors. In fact, mirrors surround the padded bench on three sides as well as above it. What happens there? Whatever it is, it's something he wants to watch—and wants the person on the bench to see, too. Or maybe it's designed for an audience? I recoil in horror at the thought. Does he do all the whipping and whatever… or does he have it done to him by someone else?

I'm mulling over these questions and their possible answers when his voice perforates my focus.

"Ana?"

My eyes dart to his but I cannot read him—at all. Total poker face. "Um…" My voice barely emerges, as if I've forgotten how to project it. I suppose I'm more affected by this room than I'd thought I would be. "I have a lot of questions but I'm not sure where to begin. I guess… the first one and probably the most important… well, maybe not the most important because the most important would be how it would im—"

"Ana!"

I pull up short at his commanding tone, trying to see him clearly in the dimness of the room. His eyes are hard and his lips tense. In fact, tension radiates off his body like heat waves. "What, Christian?"

"Ask me the question."

"Do you do these things to… others or do they do them to you? Or is it a combination?" I pause to allow him to answer but my nerves are getting the best of me so before he can formulate his response, I rattle on. "And is it private or is it like Irina's party where other people watch?"

He holds up his hand to preempt any further talk from me. "First, I do it… to women… no exceptions. Women who come here because they want or need it, I should clarify. I am a dominant. The women who join me in here are submissive. It's a symbiotic relationship.

"Second, no audience, never. I'm a private man and irrespective of my own tendencies, I would never subject an intimate partner to any public display out of respect for her." He takes a step closer to me. "Apart from my personal values, I have a reputation to uphold and protect. I haven't ever been able to reliably ascertain if the notoriety that public disclosure would surely bring would ruin or enhance that reputation… but I'm not of a mind to find out. Hence, every precaution is taken to ensure my privacy."

"Oh. So at Irina's…"

"At Irina's… she'd requested…" He stops and, after a weighty moment, sighs. "I suppose I need to explain it all. You've seen enough here." He looks at his watch. "It's well past noon. Why don't we go downstairs and enjoy a glass of wine while we have this conversation?" He holds out his hand confidently but his eyes reflect uncertainty. The duality is interesting but upsetting. Does he think I'm afraid of him now? Am I?

"Ana?"

I place my hand in his. I'm trying my best to be brave in the face of all of this… and try to think of him as he was last night—with his family and later, with me.

We're quiet as we walk downstairs. I distract myself by looking at the beautifully painted walls and the elegant lighting in the hallway. Every last detail in this apartment has been carefully considered so no matter where the eye falls, there's a visual reward.

"Have a seat," he gestures to the saddle-colored leather sofa when we reach the great room, and I comply. A large white oval platter of fruit, cheese, and breads is placed in front of me, reminding me we didn't eat breakfast and it's now well into lunchtime.

"White or red?"

"Whichever you prefer," I say.

He goes into the wine cabinet and returns with a bottle that he proceeds to expertly open. I think I could sit here and watch this man all day—everything about him is the definition of extreme beauty and competence. Extreme beauty in his competence. Economy of movement. Poetry in motion.

After letting the wine breathe for a few moments, he pours out two goblets of a crimson wine, instantly evoking in my mind the torture chamber upstairs. He hands me one with a knowing smile and I wonder if he can possibly read my mind.

"So, fire away, Ms. Steele."

"Well," I take a hearty sip and nearly choke. "You had mentioned explaining something about Irina?"

"Yes, I will explain." He sits down across from me, plucks a strawberry off the platter, and pops it into his mouth. I cannot peel my eyes away from that sensuous mouth, watching him chew it, the red juice glistening on his full lips. I squirm and squeeze my thighs together, a move that does not go unnoticed by him. He catches it and smiles. "Or not?" he says. "We can have some more fun in the bedroom first?"

"No," my voice is unequivocal. "You will not distract me with your body, Mr. Grey. Let's get this conversation over and done with, please."

He shrugs slightly. "Very well. Okay, Irina, right? We go way back, the madame and I. She had the estate two properties down from my family home while I was growing up."

At my expression of horror, he grins and holds up his hand. "Now, don't go jumping to conclusions, Ms. Steele. Nothing untoward happened…. at first. She and my mother were friends and Irina would hire me for odd jobs around her home to give me something to do, keep me out of trouble. Trouble was something I tended to get into, you see."

"Somehow I can believe it."

"I guess I was around seventeen, give or take a few weeks, when it happened. Irina and her husband were in the middle of a nasty divorce. She had asked me to help her pack some fragile items, get them ready for the moving company. One night she forgot she'd asked me to come over. No one answered my knock but I had a key to her garage and guesthouse so I let myself in when she didn't answer the door. I thought I heard her voice coming from within. I wandered into a rather intense BDSM party in full swing."

I gasp, utterly horrified for the teenaged Christian. "What happened?"

He smiles as if it's a heartwarming story. "Irina was horrified, much as you are now… but I was fascinated, utterly fascinated, by what I saw around me. Let's just say it fed a part of me that was starved and I never looked back. In all fairness, Irina tried to dissuade me from this course but I was adamant. Finally, she took me under her wing, so to speak, taught me how to submit first and then dominate."

"Her husband managed to impoverish her in the divorce. He had better lawyers and the BDSM to hold over her head. That's when she decided to begin the escort business." A sparkle gleams in his eyes. "I drew up the business plan for her."

"You did?"

"Yes. I also found financial backers for her… among my father's friends." He laughs spontaneously. "I knew exactly which ones to target. With my assistance, Irina turned an impressive profit her first year. She put it all back into the business and got it healthy before she took a dime out of it. She's proven to have a very good head for business."

"That was nice of you… gallant, even. So, are you or are you not a client of Irina's now?"

"Not a client, no. I was present at the recent party for two reasons. First, Elliot, who knows nothing of my private life, asked me to attend with him as a favor to a friend. The coincidence was massively uncomfortable initially. Once I got over the shock, I found it rather amusing though."

"And the second?" I prod.

"Irina asked me to do a demonstration as a favor. I'd been about to conduct it when you stumbled into the room. At the moment I was giving pointers to the man with the cat."

"Oh. So that's what you do? Whip women?"

"Not exactly, Ana. It's all about submission and dominance. Included in that relationship is a system of punishment and reward. The playroom is all about pain and pleasure, Ana."

"Pleasure is good but pain isn't."

"Pain can enhance erotic pleasure, you know. It's also used as a deterrent for unacceptable behavior. Some submissives crave pain in and of itself."

"That's horrible. They need therapy not a whipping."

His smile disappears and I think of Minx and realize I sound like a judgmental prig again. "I'm sorry, Christian. I just don't get the mindset. It seems abnormal."

"I understand, Ana. Have you ever studied statistics?"

I shake my head. "Liberal arts all the way."

"Okay, well, there's something called a normal distribution. That's the bell curve where most things fall. That's what normal means—not good or bad, but the majority. From that concept of normal, we then extrapolate that abnormal just means a deviation from the normal distribution curve. So if fewer people share your particular kink, does it mean it's wrong? Are blue eyes wrong? Is a rare talent wrong? To twist a common adage, one man's pain is another man's pleasure. So what?"

I have nothing to say to that. He's right. Who am I to judge? The problem, though, is that if he likes it and I don't, we're incompatible and never the twain shall meet. The thing is, my feelings for Christian are such that I may be be willing to try to like what he likes.

"I can appreciate that, Christian. Is that the whole thing?"

"It's as much of the whole thing as I'll share," he answers cryptically.

Picking my way through this minefield carefully, I think before I speak. "So what exactly does it mean to… um…" I gesture with my hand to myself and then to him.

"I'm interested in having you join me in that room, Ana. I've thought of nothing else since meeting you. I wouldn't force you, of course, but I suppose you can consider it an invitation."

"What would I have to do?"

"Everything I ask, anything I want."

"Whipping?"

"Yes. Not at first. We'd start slowly."

"If I say no?"

"Then you say no and it's no."

"Then… what?"

He shakes his head, sort of grim. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"So no you and me then?"

"No you and me, Ana." His voice is soft yet somehow menacing and my heart lurches, whether at his tone or his words, I'm not really sure.

"What's in it for me, Christian?"

"Besides me? An education. An exploration into your sensuality… and sexuality. Really great orgasms."

I redden on cue and he chuckles.

"Scars?"

"No! Of course not. I would never lay a permanent mark on your pretty little body. The worst you'll get is red… not even black and blue."

"Those whips look pretty deadly to me."

"I know how to use them, Ana. Trust me."

"When do I have to decide?"

"I'd prefer your answer as soon as possible. We can enter into a formal arrangement for a specified period of time, if that makes you feel better."

"It doesn't. I'm not interested in a formal arrangement, Christian."

"What are you interested in, Ana?"

"You."

"Boyfriend?"

"It's just a word. I don't need to use it. What I want is… more, Christian."

"More?"

I nod solemnly. "Yes, more. More affection, more time, more attention… maybe even love somewhere down the road. Is that possible?"

He shows no emotion whatsoever as he stares at me. He just stares and stares and it's unnerving. I begin to fidget, playing with my hair, eating a blueberry, arranging and rearranging my body on the sofa.

Finally, finally, he stands up, crosses to me, and, bending slightly, he grasps my waist with both his hands, lifting me up toward him. He wraps his arms around me in a tight embrace, kisses my hair, and with his lips next to my ear, he whispers. "I might be able to do more. Right now, I'd like to bury myself in your lovely heat, Ana. Can we start with that?"

I look up into his eyes. Today they are the color of nickel. "Yes, we can definitely start with that."