Book 3 - Page 159 (1/2)

”My limits for what?”

”Pleasure.”

”Oh, I think I'd like that.” My inner G.o.ddess drops into a dead faint.

”Well, maybe when we get home,” he whispers, leaving that promise hanging between us.

I nuzzle him once more. I love him so.

It's been two days since our picnic. Two days since the promise of well, maybe when we get home was made. Christian is still treating me like I'm made of gla.s.s. He still won't let me go to work, so I have been working from home. I put the stack of query letters I've been reading aside on my desk and sigh. Christian and I haven't been back in the playroom since I safe worded. And he's said he misses it. Well, so do I . . . especially now that he wants to explore my limits. I flush, thinking what that could possibly entail. I glance at the billiard table . . . Yes I can't wait to explore those.

My thoughts are interrupted by soft, lyrical music that fills the apartment. Christian is playing the piano; not one of his usual laments but a sweet melody, a hopeful melody - one that I recognize, but have never heard him play.

I tiptoe to the archway of the great room and watch Christian at the piano. It's dusk. The sky is an opulent pink, and the light is reflected off his burnished copper hair. He looks his beautiful breathtaking self, concentrating as he plays, unaware of my presence. He's been so forthcoming over the last few days, so attentive - offering small insights into his day, his thoughts, his plans. It's as if he's breached a dam and started talking.

I know he'll come to check on me in a few minutes, and it gives me an idea. Excited, I steal away, hoping that he still hasn't noticed me, and race to our room, stripping off my clothes as I go, until I'm wearing nothing but pale blue lace panties. I find a pale blue camisole and slip into it quickly. It will hide my bruise. Diving into the closet, I pull out Christian's faded jeans - his playroom jeans, my favorite jeans - from the drawer. From my bedside table I pick up my BlackBerry, fold the jeans neatly, and kneel by the bedroom door. The door is ajar, and I can hear the strains of another piece, one I don't know. But it's another hopeful tune; it's lovely. Quickly I type an email.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: My Husband's Pleasure

Date: September 21, 2011 20:45

To: Christian Grey

Sir

I await your instructions.

Yours always

Mrs. G x

I press send.

A few moments later the music stops abruptly. My heart lurches and starts pounding. I wait and wait and eventually my BlackBerry buzzes.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: My Husband's Pleasure <---love this=”” t.i.tle=”” baby=”” date:=”” september=”” 21,=”” 2011=””>

To: Anastasia Grey

Mrs. G

I'm intrigued. I'l come find you.

Be ready.

Christian Grey