Fifty shades of grey - 44 CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The radio crackles into life, and Mark mentions three thousand feet. Jeez, that sounds high. I check the ground, and I can no longer clearly distinguish anything down there.

“Release,” Christian says into the radio, and suddenly the Piper disappears and the pulling sensation provided by the small plane ceases. We’re floating, floating over Georgia.

Holy fuck—it’s exciting. The plane banks and turns as the wing dips, and we spiral toward the sun. Icarus. This is it. I am flying close to the sun, but he’s with me, leading me. I gasp at the realization. We spiral and spiral, and the view in this morning light is spectacular.

“Hold on tight!” he shouts, and we dip again—only this time he doesn’t stop. Suddenly, I am upside down, looking at the ground through the top of the cockpit canopy.

I squeal loudly, my arms automatically lashing out, my hands splayed on the Perspex to stop me from falling. I can hear him laughing. Bastard! But his joy is infectious, and I am laughing, too, as he rights the plane.

“I’m glad I didn’t have breakfast!” I shout at him.

“Yes, in hindsight, it’s good you didn’t, because I’m going to do that again.”

He dips the plane once more until we are upside down. This time, because I’m prepared, I hang on to the harness, but it makes me grin and giggle like a fool. He levels the plane once more.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he calls.

“Yes.”

We fly, swooping majestically through the air, listening to the wind and the silence, in the early morning light. Who could ask for more?

“See the joystick in front of you?” he shouts again.

I look at the stick that is jerking between my legs. Oh no, where’s he going with this?

“Grab hold.”

Oh, shit. He’s going to make me fly the plane. No!

“Go on, Anastasia. Grab it,” he urges more vehemently.

Tentatively, I grasp it and feel the pitch and yaw of what I assume are rudders and paddles or whatever keeps this thing in the air.

“Hold tight … keep it steady. See the middle dial in front? Keep the needle dead center.”

My heart is in my mouth. Holy shit. I am flying a glider … I’m soaring.

“Good girl.” Christian sounds delighted.

“I am amazed you let me take control,” I shout.

“You’d be amazed what I’d let you do, Miss Steele. Back to me now.”

I feel the joystick move suddenly, and I let go as we spiral down several feet, my ears starting to pop again. The ground is getting closer, and it feels like we could be hitting it shortly. Jeez, that’s scary.

“BMA, this is BG N Papa Three Alpha, entering left downwind runway seven to the grass, BMA.” Christian sounds his usual authoritative self. The tower squawks back at him over the radio, but I don’t understand what they say. We sail around again in a wide circle, sinking slowly to the ground. I can see the airport, the landing strips, and we’re flying back over Interstate 95.

“Hang on, baby. This can get bumpy.”

After another circle we dip, and suddenly we are on the ground with a brief thump, racing along the grass—holy shit. My teeth chatter as we bump at an alarming speed along the ground, until we finally come to a stop. The plane sways then dips to the right. I take a deep lungful of air while Christian leans over and opens the cockpit lid, clambering out and stretching.

“How was that?” he asks, and his eyes are a shining, dazzling silver gray. He leans down to unbuckle me.

“That was extraordinary. Thank you,” I whisper.

“Was it more?” he asks, his voice tinged with hope.

“Much more,” I breathe, and he grins.

“Come.” He holds out his hand for me, and I clamber out of the cockpit.

As soon as I’m out, he grabs me and holds me flush against his body. Suddenly his hand is in my hair, tugging it so my head tips back, and his other hand travels down to the base of my spine. He kisses me, long, hard, and passionately, his tongue in my mouth. His breathing is mounting, his ardor …  Holy cow—his erection … we’re in a field. But I don’t care. My hands twist in his hair, anchoring him to me. I want him, here, now, on the ground. He breaks away and gazes down at me, his eyes now dark and luminous in the early morning light, full of raw, arrogant sensuality. Wow. He takes my breath away.

“Breakfast,” he whispers, making it sound deliciously erotic.

How can he make bacon and eggs sound like forbidden fruit? It’s an extraordinary skill. He turns, clasping my hand, and we head back toward the car.

“What about the glider?”

“Someone will take care of that,” he says dismissively. “We’ll eat now.” His tone is unequivocal.

Food! He’s talking food, when really all I want is him.

“Come.” He smiles.

I have never seen him like this, and it’s a joy to behold. I find myself walking beside him, hand in hand, with a stupid, goofy grin plastered on my face. It reminds me of when I was ten and spent the day at Disneyland with Ray. It was a perfect day, and this is sure shaping out to be the same.

BACK IN THE CAR, as we head back along Interstate 95 toward Savannah, my phone alarm goes off. Oh yes … my pill.

“What’s that?” Christian asks, curious, glancing at me.

I fumble in my purse for the packet.

“Alarm for my pill,” I mutter as my cheeks flush.

His lips quirk up.

“Good, well done. I hate condoms.”

I flush some more. He’s as patronizing as ever.

“I like that you introduced me to Mark as your girlfriend,” I murmur.

“Isn’t that what you are?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Am I? I thought you wanted a submissive.”

“So did I, Anastasia, and I do. But I’ve told you, I want more, too.”

Oh my. He’s coming around, and hope surges through me, leaving me breathless.

“I’m very happy that you want more,” I whisper.

“We aim to please, Miss Steele.” He smirks as we pull into the International House of Pancakes.

“IHOP.” I grin back at him. I don’t believe it. Who would have thought …? Christian Grey at IHOP.

IT’S 8:30 A.M. BUT quiet in the restaurant. It smells of sweet batter, fried food, and disinfectant. Hmm … not such an enticing aroma. Christian leads me to a booth.

“I would never have pictured you here,” I say as we slide into a booth.

“My dad used to bring us to one of these whenever my mom went away to a medical conference. It was our secret.” He smiles at me, eyes dancing, then picks up a menu, running a hand through his wayward hair.

Oh, I want to run my hands through that hair. I pick up a menu and examine it. I realize I’m starving.

“I know what I want,” he breathes, his voice low and husky.

I glance up at him, and he’s staring at me in that way that tightens all the muscles in my belly and takes my breath away, his eyes dark and smoldering. Holy shit. I gaze at him, my blood singing in my veins, answering his call.

“I want what you want,” I whisper.

He inhales sharply.

“Here?” he asks suggestively, raising an eyebrow at me, smiling wickedly, his teeth trapping the tip of his tongue.

Oh my … sex in IHOP. His expression changes, growing darker.

“Don’t bite your lip,” he orders. “Not here, not now.” His eyes harden momentarily, and for a moment, he looks so deliciously dangerous. “If I can’t have you here, don’t tempt me.”

“Hi, my name’s Leandra. What can I get for you … er … folks … er … today, this mornin’ …?” Her voice trails off, stumbling over her words as she gets an eyeful of Mr. Beautiful opposite me. She flushes scarlet, and a small ounce of sympathy for her bubbles unwelcome into my consciousness because he still does that to me. Her presence allows me to escape briefly from his sensual glare.

“Anastasia?” he prompts me, ignoring her, and I don’t think anyone could squeeze as much carnality into my name as he does at that moment.

I swallow, praying that I don’t turn the same color as poor Leandra.

“I told you, I want what you want.” I keep my voice soft, low, and he looks at me hungrily. Jeez, my inner goddess swoons. Am I up to this game?

Leandra looks from me to him and back again. She’s practically the same color as her shiny red hair.

“Shall I give you folks another minute to decide?”

“No. We know what we want.” Christian’s mouth twitches with a small, sexy smile.

“We’ll have two portions of the original buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup and bacon on the side, two glasses of orange juice, one black coffee with skim milk, and one English breakfast tea, if you have it,” says Christian, not taking his eyes off me.

“Thank you, sir. Will that be all?” Leandra whispers, looking anywhere but at the two of us. We both turn to stare at her, and she flushes crimson again and scuttles away.

“You know, it’s really not fair.” I glance down at the Formica tabletop, tracing a pattern on it with my index finger, trying to sound nonchalant.

“What’s not fair?”

“How you disarm people. Women. Me.”

“Do I disarm you?”

I snort. “All the time.”

“It’s just looks, Anastasia,” he says mildly.

“No, Christian, it’s much more than that.”

His brow creases. “You disarm me totally, Miss Steele. Your innocence. It cuts through all the crap.”

“Is that why you’ve changed your mind?”

“Changed my mind?”

“Yes—about … er … us?”

He strokes his chin thoughtfully with his long, skilled fingers. “I don’t think I’ve changed my mind per se. We just need to redefine our parameters, redraw our battle lines, if you will. We can make this work, I’m sure. I want you submissive in my playroom. I will punish you if you digress from the rules. Other than that … well, I think it’s all up for discussion. Those are my requirements, Miss Steele. What say you to that?”

“So I get to sleep with you? In your bed?”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

“I agree then. Besides, I sleep very well when you’re in my bed. I had no idea.” His brow creases as his voice fades.

“I was frightened you’d leave me if I didn’t agree to all of it,” I whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere, Anastasia. Besides …” He trails off, and after some thought, he adds, “We’re following your advice, your definition: compromise. You e-mailed it to me. And so far, it’s working for me.”

“I love that you want more,” I murmur shyly.

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me. I just do.” He smirks at me. He’s hiding something. What?

At that moment, Leandra arrives with breakfast and our conversation ceases. My stomach rumbles, reminding me how ravenous I am. Christian watches with annoying approval as I devour everything on my plate.

“Can I treat you?” I ask Christian.

“Treat me how?”

“Pay for this meal.”

Christian snorts.

“I don’t think so,” he scoffs.

“Please. I want to.”

He frowns at me.

“Are you trying to completely emasculate me?”

“This is probably the only place that I’ll be able to afford to pay.”

“Anastasia, I appreciate the thought. I do. But no.”

I purse my lips.

“Don’t scowl,” he threatens, his eyes glinting ominously.

OF COURSE HE DOESN’T ask me for my mother’s address. He knows it already, stalker that he is. When he pulls up outside the house, I don’t comment. What’s the point?

“Do you want to come in?” I ask shyly.

“I need to work, Anastasia, but I’ll be back this evening. What time?”

I ignore the unwelcome stab of disappointment. Why do I want to spend every single minute with this controlling sex god? Oh yes, I’ve fallen in love with him, and he can fly.

“Thank you … for the more.”

“My pleasure, Anastasia.” He kisses me, and I inhale his sexy Christian smell.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Try to stop me,” he whispers.

I wave good-bye as he drives off into the Georgia sunshine. I’m still wearing his sweatshirt and his underwear, and I’m too warm.

In the kitchen, my mom is in a complete flap. It’s not every day she has to entertain a multi-zillionaire, and it’s stressing her out.

“How are you, darling?” she asks, and I flush because she must know what I was doing last night.

“I’m good. Christian took me gliding this morning.” I hope the new information will distract her.

“Gliding? As in a small plane with no engine? That sort of gliding?”

I nod.

“Wow.”

She’s speechless—a novel concept for my mother. She gapes at me, but eventually recovers herself and resumes her original line of questioning.

“How was last night? Did you talk?”

Jeez. I flush bright scarlet.

“We talked—last night and today. It’s getting better.”

“Good.” She turns her attention back to the four cookbooks she has open on the kitchen table.

“Mom … if you like, I’ll cook this evening.”

“Oh, honey, that’s kind of you, but I want to do it.”

“Okay.” I grimace, knowing full well that my mother’s cooking is pretty hit or miss. Perhaps she’s improved since she moved to Savannah with Bob. There was a time I wouldn’t subject anyone to her cooking … even—who do I hate? Oh yes—Mrs. Robinson—Elena. Well, maybe her. Will I ever meet this damned woman?