fifty-shades-of-grey

“Ana, baby!” he cries, and it’s a wild invocation, stirring and touching the depths ofmy soul.We lie staring at each other, gray eyes into blue, face to face, in the super king bed, bothhugging our pillows on our fronts. Naked. Not touching. Just looking and admiring, coveredby the sheet.“Do you want to sleep?” Christian asks, his voice soft. He is beautiful; the mix of colorsin his hair vivid against the white Egyptian cotton pillowcase, gray eyes, smoldering,expressive. He looks concerned.“No. I’m not tired.” I feel strangely energized. It’s been so good to talk – I don’t wantto stop.“What do you want to do?” he asks.“Talk.”He smiles.“About what?”“Stuff.”“What stuff?”“You.”“What about me?”“What’s your favorite film?”He grins.“Today, it’s ‘The Piano’.”His grin is infectious.“Of course. Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt you can play? Somany accomplishments, Mr. Grey.”“And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele.”“So I am number seventeen.”He frowns at me not comprehending.“Seventeen?”“Number of women you’ve um… had sex with.”His lips quirk up, his eyes shining with incredulity.“Not exactly.”“You said fifteen,” My confusion is obvious.“I was referring to the number of women in my playroom. I thought that’s what youmeant. You didn’t ask me how many women I’d had sex with.”“Oh.” Holy shit… there’s more… How? I gape at him. “Vanilla?”“No. You are my one vanilla conquest,” he shakes his head, still grinning at me.Why does he find this funny? And why am I grinning back at him like an idiot?“I can’t give you a number. I didn’t put notches in the bedpost or anything.”“What are we talking – tens, hundreds… thousands?” My eyes grow wilder as thenumbers get larger.“Tens. We’re in the tens, for pity’s sake.”