Desire

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 68 of 344 · 20 per page

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Aargh!” I cry out on the tenth slap—and I’m unaware that I have been mentally counting the blows. “I’m just getting warmed up.” He hits me again, then he strokes me softly. The combination of the hard stinging blow and his gentle caress is so mind-numbing. He hits me again. This is getting harder to take. My face hurts, it’s screwed up so tight. He strokes me gently and then the blow comes. I cry out again. “No one to hear you, baby, just me.” And he hits me again and again. From somewhere deep inside, I want to beg him to stop. But I don’t. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. He continues the unrelenting rhythm. I cry out six more times. Eighteen slaps in total. My body is singing, singing from his merciless assault. “Enough,” he breathes hoarsely. “Well done, Anastasia. Now I’m going to fuck you.” He caresses my behind gently, and it burns as he strokes me around and around and down. Suddenly, he inserts two fingers inside me, taking me completely by surprise. I gasp, this new assault breaking through the numbness around my brain. “Feel this. See how much your body likes this, Anastasia. You’re soaking, just for me.” There is awe in his voice. He moves his fingers in and out in quick succession. I groan. No, surely not. And then his fingers are gone…and I’m left wanting. “Next time, I will get you to count. Now, where’s that condom?” He reaches beside him for the condom and lifts me gently, pushing me facedown onto the bed. I hear the sound of his zipper and the rip of the foil. He pulls my sweatpants off completely and then guides me into a kneeling position, gently caressing my now very sore behind. “I’m going to take you now. You can come,” he murmurs. What? Like I have a choice. And he’s inside me, quickly filling me. I moan loudly. He moves, pounding into me, a fast, intense pace against my sore behind. The feeling is beyond exquisite, raw and debasing and mind-blowing. My senses are ravaged, disconnected, solely concentrating on what he’s doing to me. How he’s making me feel that familiar pull deep in my belly, tightening, quickening. No…and my traitorous body explodes in an intense, body-shattering orgasm. “Oh, Ana!” he cries out loudly as he finds his release, holding me in place as he pours himself into me. He collapses, panting hard beside me, and he pulls me on top of him and buries his face in my hair, holding me close. “Oh, baby,” he breathes. “Welcome to my world.” We lie there, panting together, waiting for our breathing to slow. He gently strokes my hair. I’m on his chest again. But this time, I don’t have the strength to lift my hand and feel him. Boy…I survived. That wasn’t so bad. I’m more stoic than I thought. My inner goddess is prostrate… Well, at least she’s quiet.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He releases my hand, leaving me to continue alone, and closes his eyes as I move up and down his length. He flexes his hips slightly into my hand and reflexively I grasp him tighter. A low groan escapes from deep within his throat. Fuck my mouth… Hmm. I remember him pushing his thumb in my mouth and asking me to suck, hard. His mouth drops open as his breathing increases. I lean forward, while he has his eyes closed, and place my lips around him and tentatively suck, running my tongue over the tip. “Whoa…Ana.” His eyes fly open, and I suck harder. He’s hard and soft at once, like steel encased in velvet, and surprisingly tasty—salty and smooth. “Christ,” he groans, and he closes his eyes again. Moving down, I push him into my mouth. He groans again. Ha! My inner goddess is thrilled. I can do this. I can fuck him with my mouth. I twirl my tongue around the tip again, and he flexes and raises his hips. His eyes are open now, blistering with heat. His teeth are clenched as he flexes again, and I push him deeper into my mouth, supporting myself on his thighs. I feel his legs tense beneath my hands. He reaches up and grabs my pigtails and starts to really move. “Oh. Baby. That. Feels. Good,” he growls. I suck harder, flicking my tongue across the head of his impressive erection. Wrapping my teeth behind my lips, I clamp my mouth around him. His breath hisses between his teeth. “Jesus. How far can you go?” Hmm… I pull him deeper into my mouth so I can feel him at the back of my throat and then to the front again. My tongue swirls around the end. He’s my very own Christian Grey–flavored popsicle. I suck harder and harder, pushing him deeper and deeper, swirling my tongue around and around. Hmm… I had no idea giving pleasure could be such a turn-on, watching him writhe subtly with carnal longing. My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves. “Anastasia, I’m going to come in your mouth.” His breathy tone is warning. “If you don’t want me to, stop now.” He thrusts his hips again. His eyes are wide, wary, and filled with salacious need—need for me. Need for my mouth… His hands are really gripping my hair. I can do this. I push even harder, and in a moment of extraordinary confidence, I bare my teeth. It tips him over the edge. He cries out and stills, and warm, salty liquid oozes down my throat. I swallow quickly. Ugh, I’m not sure about this. But one look at him and I don’t care—he’s come apart in the bath because of me. I sit back and watch him, a triumphant, gloating smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Reaching the elevators, he presses the “call” button. I peek up at him, and he’s wearing his enigmatic half smile. As the doors open, he releases my hand and ushers me in. The doors close and I risk a second peek. He glances down at me, and it’s there in the air between us, that electricity. It’s palpable. I can almost taste it, pulsing between us, drawing us together. “Oh my,” I breathe as I bask briefly in the intensity of this visceral, primal attraction. “I feel it, too,” he says, his eyes clouded and intense. Desire pools dark and deadly in my groin. He clasps my hand and grazes my knuckles with his thumb, and all my muscles, deep inside me, clench tightly…deliciously. How can he still do this to me? “Please don’t bite your lip, Anastasia,” he whispers. I gaze up at him, releasing my lip. I want him. Here, now, in the elevator. How could I not? “You know what it does to me,” he murmurs. Oh, I still affect him. My inner goddess stirs from her five-day sulk. Abruptly the doors open, breaking the spell, and we’re on the roof. It’s windy, and despite my jacket, I’m cold. Christian puts his arm around me, pulling me into his side, and we hurry across to where Charlie Tango stands in the center of the helipad, with its rotor blades slowly spinning. A tall, blond, square-jawed man in a dark suit leaps out and, ducking low, runs toward us. Shaking hands with Christian, he shouts above the noise of the rotors. “Ready to go, sir. She’s all yours!” “All checks done?” “Yes, sir.” “You’ll collect her around eight thirty?” “Yes, sir.” “Taylor’s waiting for you out front.” “Thank you, Mr. Grey. Safe flight to Portland. Ma’am.” He salutes me. Without releasing me, Christian nods, ducks down, and leads me to the helicopter door. Once inside he buckles me firmly into my harness, cinching the straps tight. He gives me a knowing look and his secret smile. “This should keep you in your place,” he mutters. “I must say I like this harness on you. Don’t touch anything.” I flush a deep crimson, and he runs his index finger down my cheek before handing me the headphones. I’d like to touch you, too, but you won’t let me. Besides, he’s pulled the straps so tight I can barely move. He sits in his seat and buckles himself in, then starts running through all his preflight checks. He’s just so competent. It’s very alluring. He puts on his headphones and flips a switch and the rotors speed up, deafening me. Turning, he gazes at me. “Ready, baby?” His voice echoes through the headphones. “Yes.” He grins his boyish grin. Wow—I’ve not seen it for so long. “Sea-Tac tower, this is Charlie Tango Golf—Golf Echo Hotel, cleared for takeoff to Portland via PDX. Please confirm, over.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  His thumbs hook over my white cotton panties, and abruptly he drops to his knees as he tugs them off. My skirt is now rucked up so that I’m naked from the waist down and panting, wanting. He grabs my hips, pushing me against the wall again, and kisses me at the apex of my thighs. Grabbing my upper thighs, he forces my legs apart. I groan loudly, feeling his tongue circling my clitoris. Oh my. Tipping my head back involuntarily, I moan as my fingers find their way into his hair. His tongue is relentless, strong and insistent, washing over me, swirling around and around, again and again—nonstop. It’s exquisite, the intensity of feeling—it’s almost painful. My body starts to quicken, and he releases me. What? No! My breathing is ragged as I pant, gazing at him with delicious anticipation. He grabs my face with both hands, holding me firmly, and he kisses me hard, thrusting his tongue into my mouth so I can taste my arousal. Unzipping his fly, he frees himself, grabs the backs of my thighs, and lifts me. “Wrap your legs around me, baby,” he commands, his voice urgent, strained. I do as I’m told and wrap my arms around his neck, and he moves quickly and sharply, filling me. Ah! He gasps, and I groan. Holding my behind, his fingers digging into my soft flesh, he begins to move, slowly at first, a steady even tempo…but as his control unravels, he speeds up, faster and faster. Ahhh! I tip my head back and concentrate on the invading, punishing, heavenly sensation, pushing me, pushing me…onward, higher, up…and when I can take no more, I explode around him, spiraling into an intense, all-consuming orgasm. He lets go with a deep growl, and he buries his head in my neck as he buries himself inside me, groaning loudly and incoherently as he finds his release. His breathing is erratic, but he kisses me tenderly, not moving, still inside me, and I blink, unseeing, into his eyes. As he comes into focus, he gently pulls out of me, holding me steady while I place my feet on the floor. The bathroom is now cloudy with steam…and hot. I feel overdressed. “You seem pleased to see me,” I murmur with a shy smile. His lips quirk up. “Yes, Miss Steele, I think my pleasure is pretty self-evident. Come—let me get you in the shower.” He undoes the next three buttons of his shirt, removes the cuff links, tugs it over his head, and discards it on the floor. Taking off his suit pants and boxer briefs, he kicks them to one side. He begins to undo the buttons on my blouse while I watch him, yearning to reach out and stroke his chest, but I contain myself. “How was your journey?” he asks mildly. He seems so much calmer now, his apprehension gone, dissolved by sexual congress.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I bite my lip and his expression changes instantly. He looks sternly at me. I reach across and pick up my first-ever oyster. Okay…here goes nothing. I squirt some lemon juice on it and tip it up. It slips down my throat, all sea water, salt, the sharp tang of citrus, and fleshiness… Ooh. I lick my lips, and he’s watching me intently, his eyes hooded. “Well?” “I’ll have another,” I say dryly. “Good girl,” he says proudly. “Did you choose these deliberately? Aren’t they known for their aphrodisiac qualities?” “No, they are the first item on the menu. I don’t need an aphrodisiac near you. I think you know that, and I think you react the same way near me,” he says simply. “So where were we?” He glances at my email as I reach for another oyster. He reacts the same way. I affect him… Wow. “Obey me in all things. Yes, I want you to do that. I need you to do that. Think of it as role play, Anastasia.” “But I’m worried you’ll hurt me.” “Hurt you how?” “Physically.” And emotionally. “Do you really think I would do that? Go beyond any limit you can’t take?” “You’ve said you’ve hurt someone before.” “Yes, I have. It was a long time ago.” “How did you hurt her?” “I suspended her from my playroom ceiling. In fact, that’s one of your questions. Suspension—that’s what the carabiners are for in the playroom. Rope play. One of the ropes was tied too tightly.” I hold my hand up, begging him to stop. “I don’t need to know any more. So you won’t suspend me, then?” “Not if you really don’t want to. You can make that a hard limit.” “Okay.” “So, obeying—do you think you can manage that?” He stares at me, his gaze intense. The seconds tick by. “I could try,” I whisper. “Good.” He smiles. “Now term. One month instead of three is no time at all, especially if you want a weekend away from me each month. I don’t think I’ll be able to stay away from you for that length of time. I can barely manage it now.” He pauses. He can’t stay away from me? What? “How about one day over one weekend per month you get to yourself—but I get a midweek night that week?” “Okay.” “And please, let’s try it for three months. If it’s not for you, then you can walk away anytime.” “Three months.” I’m feeling railroaded. I take another large sip of wine and treat myself to another oyster. I could learn to like these.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He gently bites and sucks me at my waist, tugging my nipples, and my hands tighten on the exquisitely carved post. His hands drop away, and I hear the now familiar tear of foil, and he kicks off his jeans. “You have such a captivating, sexy ass, Anastasia Steele. What I’d like to do to it.” His hands smooth and shape each of my buttocks, then his fingers glide down, and he slips two fingers inside me. “So wet. You never disappoint, Miss Steele.” I hear the wonder in his voice. “Hold tight. This is going to be quick, baby.” He grabs my hips and positions himself, and I brace myself for his intrusion. But he reaches over me and grabs my braid near the end and winds it around his wrist to my nape, holding my head in place. Very slowly he eases into me, pulling my hair at the same time… Oh, the fullness. He eases out of me slowly, and his other hand grabs my hip, holding tight, and then he slams into me, jolting me forward. “Hold on, Anastasia!” he shouts through clenched teeth. I grip the post harder and push back against him as he continues his merciless onslaught, again and again, his fingers digging into my hip. My arms are aching, my legs feel uncertain, my scalp is getting sore from his tugging my hair…and I can feel a gathering deep inside me. Oh no…and for the first time, I fear my orgasm…if I come…I’ll collapse. Christian continues to move roughly against me, in me, his breathing harsh, moaning, groaning. My body is responding…how? I feel a quickening. But suddenly, Christian stills, slamming really deep. “Come on, Ana, give it to me,” he groans, and my name on his lips sends me over the edge as I become all body and spiraling sensation and sweet, sweet release, and then completely and utterly mindless. When sense returns, I’m lying on him. He’s on the floor, and I’m lying on top of him, my back to his front, and I’m staring at the ceiling, all postcoital, glowing, shattered. Oh…the carabiners, I think absently—I’d forgotten about those. Christian nuzzles my ear. “Hold up your hands,” he says softly. My arms feel like they’re made of lead, but I hold them up. He wields the scissors and passes one blade under the plastic. “I declare this Ana open.” He cuts the plastic. I giggle and rub my wrists as they’re freed. I feel his grin. “That is such a lovely sound,” he says wistfully. He sits suddenly, taking me with him so that I’m once more sitting in his lap. “That’s my fault,” he says and shifts me so that he can rub my shoulders and arms. Gently he massages some life back into my limbs. What? I glance up at him behind me, trying to understand what he means. “That you don’t giggle more often.” “I’m not a great giggler,” I mumble sleepily.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He takes my chin in his hand and tilts my head up to reach his eyes. They are soft and warm, heated even. He’s so close. I could just reach up and touch him. “You can sit down now.” He halts my scattered thoughts, and I scoot down into the warm, welcoming water. Ooh…it stings and that takes me by surprise, but it smells heavenly, too. The initial smarting pain soon ebbs away. I lie back and briefly close my eyes, relaxing in the soothing warmth. When I open them, he is gazing down at me. “Why don’t you join me?” I ask, bravely I think—my voice husky. “I think I will. Move forward.” He strips out of his PJ pants and climbs in behind me. The water rises as he sits and pulls me against his chest. He places his long legs over mine, his knees bent and his ankles level with mine, and he pulls his feet apart, opening my legs. I gasp in surprise. His nose is in my hair and he inhales deeply. “You smell so good, Anastasia.” A tremor runs through my whole body. I am naked in a bath with Christian Grey. He’s naked. If someone had told me I’d be doing this when I woke up in his hotel suite yesterday, I would not have believed them. He reaches for a bottle of body wash from the built-in shelf beside the bath and squirts some into his hand. He rubs his hands together, creating a soft, foaming lather, then closes his hands around my neck and starts to rub the soap into my neck and shoulders, massaging firmly with his long, strong fingers. I groan. His hands on me feel good. “You like that?” I can almost hear his smile. “Hmm.” He moves down my arms, then beneath them to my underarms, washing gently. I’m so glad Kate insisted I shave. His hands glide across to my breasts, and I inhale sharply as his fingers encircle them and start kneading gently, taking no prisoners. My body bows instinctively, pushing my breasts into his hands. My nipples are tender. Very tender, no doubt, from his less-than-delicate treatment of them last night. He doesn’t linger long and glides his hands down to my stomach and belly. My breathing increases and my heart is racing. His growing erection presses against my behind. It’s such a turn-on knowing that it’s my body making him feel this way. Ha…not your mind, my subconscious sneers. I shake off the unwelcome thought.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  We step out onto a gray flagstone patio area lit by recessed lights in the rock. There are shrubs in gray stone tubs and a chic metal table and chairs set up in one corner. Christian walks past those, up some steps, and onto a vast lawn that leads down to the bay. Oh my—it’s beautiful. Seattle twinkles on the horizon and the cool, bright May moon etches a sparkling silver path across the water toward a jetty where two boats are moored. Beside the jetty stands a boathouse. It is so picturesque, so peaceful. I stand and gape. Christian pulls me behind him, and my heels sink into the soft grass. “Stop, please.” I am stumbling in his wake. He stops and gazes at me, his expression unfathomable. “My heels. I need to take my shoes off.” “Don’t bother,” he says, and he bends down and scoops me over his shoulder. I squeal loudly with shocked surprise, and he gives me a ringing slap on my behind. “Keep your voice down,” he growls. Oh no…this is not good. My subconscious is quaking at the knees. He’s mad about something—could be José, Georgia, no panties, biting my lip. Jeez, he’s easy to rile. “Where are we going?” I breathe. “Boathouse,” he snaps. I hang on to his hips as I’m tipped upside down, and he strides purposefully in the moonlight across the lawn. “Why?” I sound breathless, bouncing on this shoulder. “I need to be alone with you.” “What for?” “Because I’m going to spank and then fuck you.” “Why?” I whimper softly. “You know why,” he hisses. “I thought you were an in-the-moment guy?” I plead breathlessly. “Anastasia, I’m in the moment, trust me.” Holy fuck. Chapter TwentyChristian bursts through the wooden door of the boathouse and pauses to flick on some switches. Fluorescents ping and buzz in sequence as harsh white light floods the large wooden building. From my upside-down view, I can see an impressive cruiser in the dock floating gently on the dark water, but I only get a brief look before he’s carrying me up some wooden stairs to the room above. He pauses at the doorway and flips another switch—halogens, this time, that are softer, on a dimmer—and we’re in an attic room with sloping ceilings. It’s decorated with a nautical New England theme: navy blues and creams with dashes of red. The furnishings are sparse. Just a couple of couches are all I can see. Christian sets me on my feet on the wooden floor. I don’t have time to examine my surroundings—my eyes can’t leave him. I’m mesmerized…watching him like one would watch a rare and dangerous predator, waiting for him to strike. His breathing is harsh, but then he’s just carried me across the lawn and up a flight of stairs. Gray eyes blaze with anger, need, and pure unadulterated lust. Holy shit. I could spontaneously combust from his look alone. “Please don’t hit me,” I whisper, pleading.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  His brow furrows, his eyes widening. He blinks twice. “I don’t want you to spank me, not here, not now. Please don’t.” His mouth drops open in surprise, and beyond brave, I tentatively reach up and run my fingers down his cheek, along the edge of his sideburn, to the stubble on his chin. It’s a curious mixture of soft and prickly. Slowly closing his eyes, he leans his face into my touch, and his breath hitches in his throat. Reaching up with my other hand, I run my fingers into his hair. I love his hair. His soft moan is barely audible, and when he opens his eyes, his look is wary, like he doesn’t understand what I’m doing. Stepping forward so I am flush against him, I pull gently on his hair, bringing his mouth down to mine, and I kiss him, forcing my tongue between his lips and into his mouth. He groans, and his arms embrace me, pulling me to him. His hands find their way into my hair, and he kisses me back, hard and possessive. His tongue and mine twist and turn together, consuming each other. He tastes divine. He pulls back suddenly, our collective breathing ragged and mingling. My hands drop to his arms, and he glares down at me. “What are you doing to me?” he whispers, confused. “Kissing you.” “You said no.” “What?” No to what? “At the dinner table, with your legs.” Oh…that’s what this is all about. “But we were at your parents’ dining table.” I stare up at him, completely bewildered. “No one’s ever said no to me before. And it’s so…hot.” His eyes widen, filled with wonder and lust. It’s a heady mix. I swallow instinctively. His hand moves down to my behind. He pulls me sharply against him, against his erection. Oh my… “You’re mad and turned on because I said no?” I’m astonished. “I’m mad because you never mentioned Georgia to me. I’m mad because you went drinking with that guy who tried to seduce you when you were drunk, and who left you when you were ill with an almost complete stranger. What kind of friend does that? And I’m mad and aroused because you closed your legs on me.” His eyes glitter dangerously, and he’s slowly inching up the hem of my dress. “I want you, and I want you now. And if you’re not going to let me spank you, which you deserve, then I’m going to fuck you on the couch this minute, quickly, for my pleasure, not yours.” My dress is now barely covering my naked behind. He moves suddenly so that his hand is cupping my sex, and one of his fingers sinks slowly into me. His other arm holds me firmly in place around my waist. I suppress my moan.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He sighs heavily. “Okay. On loan. Indefinitely.” He looks warily at me. “No, not indefinitely, but for now. Thank you.” He frowns. I reach up and kiss him on his cheek. “Thank you for the car, Sir,” I say as sweetly as I can manage. He grabs me suddenly and yanks me up against him, one hand at my back holding me to him and the other fisting in my hair. “You are one challenging woman, Ana Steele.” He kisses me passionately, forcing my lips apart with his tongue, taking no prisoners. My blood heats immediately, and I’m returning his kiss with my own passion. I want him badly—in spite of the car, the books, the soft limits…the caning… I want him. “It’s taking all my self-control not to fuck you on the hood of this car right now, just to show you that you are mine, and if I want to buy you a fucking car, I’ll buy you a fucking car,” he growls. “Now let’s get you inside and naked.” He plants a swift rough kiss on me. Boy, he’s angry. He grabs my hand and leads me back into the apartment and straight into my bedroom…no passing Go. My subconscious is behind the sofa again, head hidden under her hands. He switches on the sidelight and halts, staring at me. “Please don’t be angry with me,” I whisper. His gaze is impassive, his eyes cold shards of smoky glass. “I’m sorry about the car and the books—” He remains silent and brooding. “You scare me when you’re angry.” I stare up at him. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. When he opens them, his expression has softened. He takes a deep breath and swallows. “Turn around,” he whispers. “I want to get you out of that dress.” Another mercurial mood swing; it’s so hard to keep up. Obediently, I turn, and my heart is thumping, desire instantly replacing unease, coursing through my blood and settling dark and yearning, low, low in my belly. He scoops my hair off my back so it hangs down my right side, curling at my breast. He places his index finger at the nape of my neck and achingly slowly drags it down my spine, his fingernail grazing my skin. “I like this dress,” he murmurs. “I like to see your flawless skin.” His finger reaches the back of my halter dress midway down my spine, and hooking his finger beneath the top, he pulls me closer so that I step back against him so he’s flush against my body. Leaning down, he inhales my hair. “You smell so good, Anastasia. So sweet.” His nose skims past my ear down my neck, and he trails soft, featherlight kisses along my shoulder.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He stares at me impassively, not answering, then glances at his watch. “I’m really full,” I add, taking a sip of the delicious wine. “We have to go shortly. Taylor’s here, and you have to be up for work in the morning.” “So do you.” “I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia. At least you’ve eaten something.” “Aren’t we going back via Charlie Tango?” “No, I thought I might have a drink. Taylor will pick us up. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?” Oh, that’s his plan. Christian summons the waiter to ask for the check, then picks up his BlackBerry and makes a call. “We’re at Le Picotin, Southwest Third Avenue.” He hangs up. He’s still curt over the phone. “You’re very brusque with Taylor, in fact, with most people.” “I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia.” “You haven’t gotten to the point this evening. Nothing’s changed, Christian.” “I have a proposition for you.” “This started with a proposition.” “A different proposition.” The waiter returns, and Christian hands over his credit card without checking the bill. He gazes at me speculatively while the waiter swipes his card. Christian’s phone buzzes once, and he peers at it. He has a proposition? What now? A couple of scenarios run through my mind: kidnapping, working for him. No, nothing makes sense. Christian finishes paying. “Come. Taylor’s outside.” We stand and he takes my hand. “I don’t want to lose you, Anastasia.” He kisses my knuckles tenderly, and the touch of his lips on my skin resonates through my body. Outside the Audi is waiting. Christian opens my door. Climbing in, I sink into the plush leather. He heads to the driver’s side; Taylor steps out of the car and they talk briefly. This isn’t their usual protocol. I’m curious. What are they talking about? Moments later, they are both back in the car, and I glance at Christian, who’s wearing his impassive face as he stares ahead. I allow myself a brief moment to examine his profile: straight nose, sculpted full lips, hair falling deliciously over his forehead. This divine man is surely not meant for me. Soft music fills the rear of the car, a grand orchestral piece that I don’t know, and Taylor pulls into the light traffic, heading for I-5 and Seattle. Christian shifts to face me. “As I was saying, Anastasia, I have a proposition for you.” I glance nervously at Taylor. “Taylor can’t hear you,” Christian reassures me. “How?” “Taylor,” Christian calls. Taylor doesn’t respond. He calls again, still no response. Christian leans over and taps his shoulder. Taylor removes an earbud I hadn’t noticed. “Yes, sir?” “Thank you, Taylor. It’s okay; resume your listening.” “Sir.” “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?”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I keep my head down, conscious that he’s staring at me while I am practically naked. I feel the flush as it slowly spreads over my face. He bends down and cups my chin, forcing my face up to meet his gaze. “You are one beautiful woman, Anastasia. And you’re all mine. Stand up.” His command is soft, full of sensual promise. Shakily, I get to my feet. “Look at me,” he breathes, and I stare up into his smoldering gaze. It is his Dom gaze—cold, hard, and sexy as hell, seven shades of sin in one enticing look. My mouth dries, and I know I will do anything he asks. An almost cruel smile plays across his lips. “We don’t have a signed contract, Anastasia. But we’ve discussed limits. And I want to reiterate we have safe words, okay?” Holy fuck…what has he got planned that I need safe words? “What are they?” he asks authoritatively. I frown slightly at his question, and his face hardens perceptibly. “What are the safe words, Anastasia?” he says slowly and deliberately. “Yellow,” I mumble. “And?” he prompts, his mouth setting in a hard line. “‘Red,” I breathe. “Remember those.” And I can’t help it…I raise my eyebrow at him and am about to remind him of my GPA, but the sudden frosty glint in his icy gray eyes stops me in my tracks. “Don’t start with your smart mouth in here, Miss Steele. Or I will fuck it with you on your knees. Do you understand?” I swallow instinctively. Okay. I blink rapidly, chastened. Actually, it’s his tone of voice, rather than the threat, that intimidates me. “Well?” “Yes, Sir,” I mumble hastily. “Good girl.” He pauses as he stares at me. “My intention is not that you should use the safe word because you’re in pain. What I intend to do to you will be intense. Very intense, and you have to guide me. Do you understand?” Not really. Intense? Wow. “This is about touch, Anastasia. You will not be able to see me or hear me. But you’ll be able to feel me.” I frown. Not hear him? How is that going to work? He turns, and I hadn’t noticed that above the chest is a sleek, flat, matte-black box. As he waves his hand in front, the box splits in half: two doors slide open revealing a CD player and a host of buttons. Christian presses several of these buttons in sequence. Nothing happens, but he seems satisfied. I am mystified. When he turns to face me again, he wears his small I-have-a-secret smile. “I am going to tie you to that bed, Anastasia. But I’m going to blindfold you first and”—he reveals his iPod in his hand—“you will not be able to hear me. All you will hear is the music I am going to play for you.” Okay. A musical interlude. Not what I was expecting. I hope it’s not rap.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  His breathing is ragged. Opening his eyes, he glares at me. “Don’t you have a gag reflex?” he asks, astonished. “Christ, Ana…that was…good, really good. Unexpected, though.” He frowns. “You know, you never cease to amaze me.” I smile and consciously bite my lip. He eyes me speculatively. “Have you done that before?” “No.” And I can’t help the small tinge of pride in my denial. “Good,” he says, relieved, I think. “Yet another first, Miss Steele.” He looks appraisingly at me. “Well, you get an A in oral skills. Come, let’s go to bed. I owe you an orgasm.” Orgasm! Another one! Quickly, he clambers out of the bath, giving me my first full glimpse of the Adonis, divinely formed, that is Christian Grey. My inner goddess has stopped dancing and is staring, too, openmouthed and drooling slightly. His erection is tamed but still substantial…wow. He wraps a small towel around his waist, covering the essentials, and holds out a larger fluffy white towel for me. Climbing out of the bath, I take his proffered hand. He wraps me in the towel, pulls me into his arms, and kisses me hard, pushing his tongue into my mouth. I long to reach around and embrace him…touch him…but he has my arms trapped in the towel. I’m soon lost in his kiss. He cradles my head, his tongue exploring my mouth, and I get a sense he’s expressing his gratitude—maybe—for my first blow job? He pulls away, his hands on either side of my face, staring intently into my eyes. He looks lost. “Say yes,” he whispers fervently. I frown, not understanding. “To what?” “Yes to our arrangement. To being mine. Please, Ana,” he pleads, emphasizing the last word and my name. He kisses me again, sweetly, passionately, before he stands back and stares at me. Then he takes my hand and leads me back to his bedroom, leaving me reeling, so I follow him meekly. Stunned. He really wants this. In his bedroom, he stares down at me as we stand by his bed. “Trust me?” I nod, wide-eyed with the sudden realization that I do trust him. What’s he going to do to me now? An electric thrill hums through me. “Good girl.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip. He steps away into his closet and comes back with a silver-gray woven silk tie. “Hold your hands together in front of you,” he orders as he peels the towel off me and throws it on the floor. I do as he asks, and he binds my wrists together with his tie, knotting it firmly. His eyes are bright with excitement. He tugs at the binding. It’s secure. Some Boy Scout he must have been to learn this knot. What now? My pulse has gone through the roof, my heart beating a frantic rhythm. He runs his fingers down my pigtails. “You look so young with these,” he says and moves forward.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Holy cow, is he offended? I stare down at my fingers. How am I going to dig myself out of this? If I tell him it was a joke, I don’t think he’ll be impressed. “I thought you’d reply by email.” My voice is small, pathetic. “Are you biting your lower lip deliberately?” he asks darkly. I inhale sharply, freeing my lip. “I wasn’t aware I was biting my lip.” My heart is pounding. I feel that pull, that delicious electricity between us charging, filling the space with static. He’s sitting so close to me, his eyes dark smoky gray, his elbows resting on his knees, his legs apart. Leaning forward, he slowly undoes one of my pigtails, his fingers freeing my hair. My breathing is shallow, and I can’t move. I watch hypnotized as his hand moves to my second pigtail, and pulling the hair tie, he loosens the braid with his long, skilled fingers. “So you decided on some exercise?” His voice is soft and melodious, and he gently tucks my hair behind my ear. “Why, Anastasia?” His fingers circle my ear, and very softly, rhythmically, he tugs my earlobe. It’s so sexual. “I needed time to think,” I whisper. I’m all deer/headlights, moth/flame, bird/snake…and he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “Think about what, Anastasia?” “You.” “And you decided that it was nice knowing me? Do you mean knowing me in the biblical sense?” Oh shit. “I didn’t think you were familiar with the Bible.” “I went to Sunday school, Anastasia. It taught me a great deal.” “I don’t remember reading about nipple clamps in the Bible. Perhaps you were taught from a modern translation.” His lips arch with a trace of a smile, and my eyes are drawn to his mouth. “Well, I thought I should come and remind you how nice it was knowing me.” Holy crap. I stare at him openmouthed, and his fingers move from my ear to my chin. “What do you say to that, Miss Steele?” His eyes blaze, his challenge intrinsic in his stare. His lips are parted; he’s waiting, coiled to strike. Desire—acute, liquid, and smoldering—combusts deep in my belly. I take preemptive action and launch myself at him. Somehow he moves, I have no idea how, and in the blink of an eye I’m on the bed, pinned beneath him, my arms stretched out and held above my head, his free hand clutching my face, and his mouth finding mine. His tongue is in my mouth, claiming and possessing me, and I revel in the force he uses. I feel him against the length of my body. He wants me, and this does strange, delicious things to my insides. Not Kate in her little bikinis, not one of the fifteen, not evil Mrs. Robinson. Me. This beautiful man wants me. My inner goddess glows so bright she could light up Portland.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  idle than working men with careers, and therefore more defenseless against moment he saw Yang an ingenious seductress. On the other hand, you should generally avoid Kuei-fei bathing in the lake near his palace in the people who are preoccupied with business or work—seduction demands Li mountains, he was attention, and busy people have too little space in their minds for you to destined to sit at her feet, occupy. learning from her the According to Freud, seduction begins early in life, in our relationship emotional mysteries of what the Chinese call Yin. with our parents. They seduce us physically, both with bodily contact and — E L O I S E TALCOTT H I B B E R T , by satisfying desires such as hunger, and we in turn try to seduce them into EMBROIDERED GAUZE: paying us attention. We are creatures by nature vulnerable to seduction PORTRAITS OF FAMOUS throughout our lives. We all want to be seduced; we yearn to be drawn out CHINESE LADIES of ourselves, out of our routines and into the drama of eros. And what draws us more than anything is the feeling that someone has something we don't, a quality we desire. Your perfect victims are often people who think you have something they don't, and who will be enchanted to have it provided for them. Such victims may have a temperament quite the opposite of yours, and this difference will create an exciting tension. When Jiang Qing, later known as Madame Mao, first met Mao Tse-tung in 1937 in his mountain retreat in western China, she could sense how desperate he was for a bit of color and spice in his life: all the camp's women dressed like the men, and abjured any feminine finery. Jiang had been an actress in Shanghai, and was anything but austere. She supplied what he lacked, and she also gave him the added thrill of being able to educate her in communism, appealing to his Pygmalion complex—the desire to dominate, control, and remake a person. In fact it was Jiang Qing who controlled her future husband. The greatest lack of all is excitement and adventure, which is precisely what seduction offers. In 1964, the Chinese actor Shi Pei Pu, a man who had gained fame as a female impersonator, met Bernard Bouriscout, a young diplomat assigned to the French embassy in China. Bouriscout had come to China looking for adventure, and was disappointed to have little contact with Chinese people. Pretending to be a woman who, when still a child, had been forced to live as a boy—supposedly the family already had too many daughters—Shi Pei Pu used the young Frenchman's boredom and 174 • The Art of Seduction

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Instinctively, I move back until I feel the bed against the back of my knees. He drops his towel, but I can’t take my eyes off his face. His expression is ardent, full of desire. “Oh, Anastasia, what shall I do to you?” he says as he lowers me onto the bed, lying beside me and raising my hands above my head. “Keep your hands up here. Don’t move them, understand?” His eyes burn into mine, and I’m breathless from their intensity. This is not a man I want to cross…ever. “Answer me,” he demands, his voice soft. “I won’t move my hands.” I’m breathless. “Good girl,” he murmurs and deliberately licks his lips slowly. I’m mesmerized by his tongue as it sweeps slowly over his upper lip. He’s staring into my eyes, watching me, appraising. He leans down and plants a chaste, swift kiss on my lips. “I’m going to kiss you all over, Miss Steele.” He cups my chin, pushing it up, giving him access to my throat. His lips glide down my throat, kissing, sucking, and nipping, to the small dip at the base of my neck. My body leaps to attention…everywhere. My recent bath experience has made my skin hypersensitive. My heated blood pools low in my belly, between my legs, right down there. I groan. I want to touch him. I move my hands and rather awkwardly, given I’m restrained, feel his hair. He stops kissing me and glares at me, shaking his head from side to side, tutting as he does. He reaches for my hands and places them above my head again. “Don’t move your hands, or we just have to start all over again,” he scolds me mildly. Oh, he’s such a tease. “I want to touch you.” My voice is all breathy and out of control. “I know. Keep your hands above your head,” he orders, his voice forceful. He cups my chin again and starts to kiss my throat as before. Oh…he’s so frustrating. His hands run down my body and over my breasts as he reaches the dip at the base of my neck with his lips. He swirls the tip of his nose around it then begins a very leisurely cruise with his mouth, heading south, following the path of his hands, down my sternum to my breasts. Each one is kissed and nipped gently and my nipples tenderly sucked. Holy crap. My hips start swaying and moving of their own accord, grinding to the rhythm of his mouth on me, and I’m desperately trying to remember to keep my hands above my head. “Keep still,” he warns, his breath warm against my skin. Reaching my navel, he dips his tongue inside, then gently grazes my belly with his teeth. My body bows off the bed.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I do hope you had a good day at work. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. I hit reply. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Working for Living Date: May 23 2011 17:48 To: Christian Grey Sir… I had a very good day at work. Thank you. Ana From: Christian Grey Subject: Do the Work! Date: May 23 2011 17:50 To: Anastasia Steele Miss Steele, Delighted you had a good day. While you are emailing, you are not researching. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Nuisance Date: May 23 2011 17:53 To: Christian Grey Mr. Grey, stop emailing me, and I can start my assignment. I’d like another A. Ana I hug myself. From: Christian Grey Subject: Impatient Date: May 23 2011 17:55 To: Anastasia Steele Miss Steele, Stop emailing me—and do your assignment. I’d like to award another A. The first one was so well deserved. ;) Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Christian Grey just sent me a winking smiley… Oh my. I fire up Google. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Internet Research Date: May 23 2011 17:59 To: Christian Grey Mr. Grey, What would you suggest I put into a search engine? Ana From: Christian Grey Subject: Internet Research Date: May 23 2011 18:02 To: Anastasia Steele Miss Steele, Always start with Wikipedia. No more emails unless you have questions. Understood? Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Bossy! Date: May 23 2011 18:04 To: Christian Grey Yes…Sir. You are so bossy. Ana From: Christian Grey Subject: In Control Date: May 23 2011 18:06 To: Anastasia Steele Anastasia, you have no idea. Well, maybe an inkling now. Do the work. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. I type Submissive into Wikipedia. Half an hour later, I feel slightly queasy and frankly shocked to my core. Do I really want this stuff in my head? Jeez, is this what he gets up to in the Red Room of Pain? I sit staring at the screen, and part of me, a very moist and integral part of me that I’ve only become acquainted with very recently, is seriously turned on. Some of this stuff is HOT. But is it for me? Holy shit…could I do this? I need space. I need to think.

• From The Lover (1984)

  He’s a man of habit—I suddenly think of him—he must come to this room quite often, he’s a man who must make love a lot, a man who’s afraid, he must make love a lot to fight against fear. I tell him I like the idea of his having many women, the idea of my being one of them, indistinguishable. We look at each other. He understands what I’ve just said. Our expressions are suddenly changed, false, caught in evil and death. I tell him to come over to me, tell him he must possess me again. He comes over. He smells pleasantly of English cigarettes, expensive perfume, honey, his skin has taken on the scent of silk, the fruity smell of silk tussore, the smell of gold, he’s desirable. I tell him of this desire. He tells me to wait awhile. Talks to me, says he knew right away, when we were crossing the river, that I’d be like this after my first lover, that I’d love love, he says he knows now I’ll deceive him and deceive all the men I’m ever with. He says as for him he’s been the cause of his own unhappiness. I’m pleased with all he’s foretold, and say so. He becomes rough, desperate, he throws himself on me, devours the childish breasts, shouts, insults. I close my eyes on the intense pleasure. I think, He’s used to it, this is his occupation in life, love, nothing else. His hands are expert, marvelous, perfect. I’m very lucky, obviously, it’s as if it were his profession, as if unwittingly he knew exactly what to do and what to say. He calls me a whore, a slut, he says I’m his only love, and that’s what he ought to say, and what you do say when you just let things say themselves, when you let the body alone, to seek and find and take what it likes, and then everything is right, and nothing’s wasted, the waste is covered over and all is swept away in the torrent, in the force of desire. The sound of the city is so near, so close, you can hear it brushing against the wood of the shutters. It sounds as if they’re all going through the room. I caress his body amid the sound, the passers-by. The sea, the immensity, gathering, receding, returning. I asked him to do it again and again. Do it to me. And he did, did it in the unctuousness of blood. And it really was unto death. It has been unto death. He lit a cigarette and gave it to me. And very quietly, close to my lips, he talked to me. And I talked to him too, very quietly. Because he doesn’t know for himself, I say it for him, in his stead. Because he doesn’t know he carries within him a supreme elegance, I say it for him.

• From The Lover (1984)

  For a long time I’ve had no dresses of my own. My dresses are all a sort of sack, made out of old dresses of my mother’s which themselves are all a sort of sack. Except for those my mother has made for me by Dô. She’s the housekeeper who will never leave my mother even when she goes back to France, even when my elder brother tries to rape her in the house that goes with my mother’s job in Sadec, even when her wages stop being paid. Dô was brought up by the nuns, she can embroider and do pleats, she can sew by hand as people haven’t sewed by hand for centuries, with hair-fine needles. As she can embroider, my mother has her embroider sheets. As she can do pleats, my mother has her make me dresses with pleats, dresses with flounces, I wear them as if they were sacks, they’re frumpish, childish, two sets of pleats in front and a Peter Pan collar, with a gored skirt or panels cut on the bias to make them look “professional.” I wear these dresses as if they were sacks, with belts that take away their shape and make them timeless. Fifteen and a half. The body is thin, undersized almost, childish breasts still, red and pale-pink make-up. And then the clothes, the clothes that might make people laugh, but don’t. I can see it’s all there. All there, but nothing yet done. I can see it in the eyes, all there already in the eyes. I want to write. I’ve already told my mother: That’s what I want to do—write. No answer the first time. Then she asks, Write what? I say, Books, novels. She says grimly, When you’ve got your math degree you can write if you like, it won’t be anything to do with me then. She’s against it, it’s not worthy, it’s not real work, it’s nonsense. Later she said, A childish idea.

• From The Lover (1984)

  I come back to Hélène Lagonelle. She’s lying on a bench, crying because she thinks I’m going to leave. I sit on the bench. I’m worn out by the beauty of Hélène Lagonelle’s body lying against mine. Her body is sublime, naked under the dress, within arm’s reach. Her breasts are such as I’ve never seen. I’ve never touched them. She’s immodest, Hélène Lagonelle, she doesn’t realize, she walks around the dormitories without any clothes on. The most beautiful of all the things given by God is this body of Hélène Lagonelle’s, peerless, the balance between her figure and the way the body bears the breasts, outside itself, as if they were separate. Nothing could be more extraordinary than the outer roundness of these breasts proffered to the hands, this outwardness held out toward them. Even the body of my younger brother, like that of a little coolie, is as nothing beside this splendor. The shapes of men’s bodies are miserly, internalized. Nor do they get spoiled like those of such girls as Hélène Lagonelle, which never last, a summer or so perhaps, that’s all. She comes from the high plateaus of Da Lat. Her father works for the post office. She came quite recently, right in the middle of the school year. She’s frightened, she comes up and sits beside you and stays there without speaking, crying sometimes. She has the pink-and-brown complexion of the mountains, you can always recognize it here where all the other children are pale green with anemia and the torrid heat. Hélène Lagonelle doesn’t go to high school. She’s not capable of it, Hélène L. She can’t learn, can’t remember things. She goes to the primary classes at the boarding school, but it’s no use. She weeps up against me, and I stroke her hair, her hands, tell her I’m going to stay here with her. She doesn’t know she’s very beautiful, Hélène Lagonelle. Her parents don’t know what to do with her, they want to marry her off as soon as possible. She could have all the fiancés she likes, Hélène Lagonelle, but she doesn’t like, she doesn’t want to get married, she wants to go back to her mother. She, Hélène L. Hélène Lagonelle. In the end she’ll do what her mother wants. She’s much more beautiful than I am, the girl in the clown’s hat and lamé shoes, infinitely more marriageable, she can be married off, set up in matrimony, you can frighten her, explain it to her, what frightens her and what she doesn’t understand, tell her to stay where she is, wait. Hélène Lagonelle is seventeen, seventeen, yet she still doesn’t know what I know. It’s as if I guessed she never will.