Oh Christian... my possessive, jealous, control freak Christian.

I hate fighting with you,” he whispers.
“Well, stop being such an arse.”
He chuckles and the captivating sound reverberates through his chest. He tightens his hold on me. “Arse?”
“Ass.”
“I prefer arse.”
“You should. It suits you.

No. No!” he says.
“I . . .” He looks wildly around the room. For inspiration? For divine intervention? I don’t know.

“You can’t go. Ana, I love you!”
“I love you, too, Christian, it’s just—”
“No . . . no!” he says in desperation and puts both hands on his head. “Christian . . .”
“No,” he breathes, his eyes wide with panic, and suddenly he drops to his knees in front of me, head bowed, long-fingered hands spread out on his thighs. He takes a deep breath and doesn’t move. What?
“Christian, what are you doing?”
He continues to stare down, not looking at me.
“Christian! What are you doing?”
My voice is high-pitched. He doesn’t move.
“Christian, look at me!” I command in panic. His head sweeps up without hesitation, and he regards me passively with his cool gray gaze—he’s almost serene . . . expectant.
Holy Fuck . . . Christian. The submissive.

grow up and smell the fucking coffee!

Life is never going to be boring with Christian, and I’m in this for the long haul. I love this man: my husband, my lover, father of my child, my sometimes Dominant……my Fifty Shades.

You are one brave woman," he whispers, "I am in awe of you.