Grey: Fifty Shades of Grey as Told by Christian(85)
Author: E.L. James

“Have you been to Paris, Ana?” Mia asks.

“No, but I’d love to go.”

“We honeymooned in Paris,” Mom says. She and Dad exchange a look across the table, which frankly I’d prefer not to see. They obviously had a good time.

“It’s a beautiful city, in spite of the Parisians. Christian, you should take Ana to Paris!” Mia exclaims.

“I think Anastasia would prefer London,” I respond to my sister’s ridiculous suggestion. Placing my hand on Ana’s knee, I explore her thigh at a leisurely pace, her dress riding up as my fingers follow. I want to touch her; stroke her where her panties should be. As my cock rouses in anticipation I suppress a groan and shuffle in my seat.

She jerks away from me as if to cross her legs, and I close my hand around her thigh.

Don’t you dare!

Ana takes a sip of wine, not taking her eyes off my mother’s housekeeper, who is serving our entrées.

“So what was wrong with the Parisians? Didn’t they take to your winsome ways?” Elliot teases Mia.

“Ugh, no, they didn’t. And Monsieur Floubert, the ogre I was working for, he was such a domineering tyrant.”

Ana chokes on her wine.

“Anastasia, are you okay?” I ask, and release her thigh.

She nods, her cheeks red, and I pat her back and gently caress her neck. Domineering tyrant? Am I? The thought amuses me. Mia shoots me a look of approval at my public display of affection.

Mom has cooked her signature dish, Beef Wellington, a recipe she picked up in London. I have to say it ranks close to yesterday’s buttermilk fried chicken. In spite of her choking episode, Ana tucks into her meal and it’s so good to see her eat. She’s probably hungry after our energetic afternoon. I take a sip of my wine as I contemplate other ways to make her hungry.

Mia and Kavanagh are discussing the relative merits of St. Bart’s vs. Barbados, where the Kavanagh family will be staying.

“Remember Elliot and the jellyfish?” Mia’s eyes shine with mirth as she looks from Elliot to me.

I chuckle. “Screaming like a girl? Yeah.”

“Hey, that could have been a Portuguese man-of-war! I hate jellyfish. They ruin everything.” Elliot is emphatic. Mia and Kate burst into giggles, nodding in agreement.

Ana is eating heartily and listening to the banter. Everyone else has calmed down, and my family is being less weird. Why am I so tense? This happens every day all across the country, families gathering to enjoy good food and each other’s company. Am I tense because I have Ana here? Am I worried they won’t like her, or that she won’t like them? Or is it because she’s fucking off to Georgia tomorrow, and I knew nothing about that?

It’s confusing.

Mia takes center stage as usual. Her tales of French life and French cooking are entertaining. “Oh, Mom, les pâtisseries sont tout simplement fabuleuses. La tarte aux pommes de M. Floubert est incroyable,” she says.

“Mia, chérie, tu parles français,” I interrupt her. “Nous parlons anglais ici. Eh bien, à l’exception bien sûr d’Elliot. Il parle idiote, couramment.”

Mia throws her head back with a bellowing laugh, and it’s impossible not to join her.

But by the end of dinner the tension is really wearing me down. I want to be alone with my girl. I’ve only so much tolerance for inane chatter, even if it’s with my family, and I’ve reached my limit. I peer down at Ana, then reach over and tug her chin. “Don’t bite your lip. I want to do that.”

I also have to establish a few ground rules. We need to discuss her impromptu trip to Georgia and going out for drinks with men who are infatuated with her. I put my hand on Ana’s knee again; I need to touch her. Besides, she should accept my touch, whenever I want to touch her. I gauge her reaction as my fingers travel up her thigh toward her panty-free zone, teasing her skin. Her breath catches and she squeezes her thighs together, blocking my fingers, stopping me.

That’s it.

I have to excuse us from the dinner table. “Shall I give you a tour of the grounds?” I ask Ana, and I don’t give her a chance to answer. Her eyes are luminous and serious as she places her hand in mine.

“Excuse me,” she says to Carrick, and I lead her out of the dining room.

In the kitchen Mia and Mom are clearing up. “I’m going to show Anastasia the backyard,” I announce to my mother, pretending to be cheerful.

Outside, my mood plunges south as my anger surfaces.

Panties. The photographer. Georgia.

We cross the terrace and climb the steps to the lawn. Ana pauses for a moment to admire the view.

Yeah, yeah. Seattle. Lights. Moon. Water.

I continue across the vast lawn toward my parents’ boathouse.

“Stop, please,” Ana pleads.

I do, and glare at her.

“My heels. I need to take my shoes off.”

“Don’t bother,” I growl, and lift her quickly over my shoulder. She squeals in surprise.

Hell. I smack her ass, hard. “Keep your voice down!” I snap, and stride across the lawn.

“Where are we going?” she wails as she bounces on my shoulder.

“Boathouse.”

“Why?”

“I need to be alone with you.”

“What for?”

“Because I’m going to spank and then fuck you.”

“Why?” she whines.

“You know why,” I snap.

“I thought you were an in-the-moment guy?”

“Anastasia, I’m in the moment, trust me.”

Throwing open the boathouse door, I step inside and switch on the light. As the fluorescents ping to life I head upstairs to the snug. There I flip another switch, and halogens illuminate the room.

I slide Ana down my body, glorying in the feel of her, and I set her on her feet. Her hair is dark and untamed, her eyes shining in the glow of the lights, and I know she’s not wearing her panties. I want her. Now.

“Please don’t hit me,” she whispers.

I don’t understand. I stare down at her blankly.

“I don’t want you to spank me, not here, not now. Please don’t.”

But…I gape at her, paralyzed. That’s why we’re here. She lifts her hand, and for a moment I don’t know what she’s going to do. The darkness stirs and twists around my throat, threatening to choke me if she touches me. But she places her fingers on my cheek and gently skims them down to my chin. The darkness melts into oblivion and I close my eyes, feeling her gentle fingertips on me. With her other hand she ruffles my hair, running her fingers through it.