BOOK III - Chapter XIII - Christian and Anastasia Fanfiction

ARSON

CHAPTER XIII

I open my eyes with the first lights of the day and find myself wrapped around Anastasia like a victory flag. I enjoy watching my wife sleep, the way her body seeks mine even in sleep, snuggling up to me even if she gets hot. I'm not any different. My body seeks hers day and night, asleep or awake. I held her like this for I don’t know how long, then get up and go to take a shower and shave for the day.

After taking my shower, and drying myself I wrap a towel around my waist and spray the shaving cream into my palm and lather it over my face. As I start shaving, Anastasia walks into the bathroom. Seeing her in here with me brightens me up immediately.

“Good morning, Mrs. Grey,” I say playfully.

“Good morning yourself,” she grins back at me watching me shave. I lift my chin up and start shaving beneath it in long strokes, I see my wife's reflection in the mirror and note that she's mimicking my movements. As I pull my upper lip down and shave my philtrum, I see her mirroring me. I turn around and smirk at my wife with only half my face shaved.

“Are you enjoying the show Mrs. Grey?” I ask.

“One of my all-time favorite,” she murmurs with bright eyes as if I am the most exciting sight she’s ever seen. I lean down and kiss her swiftly, and smear shaving soap all over her face.

“Shall I do this to you again?” I whisper lasciviously and holding up the razor reminding her, the very enjoyable shaving experience of her sex leading up to very satisfying results.

She purses her lips at me, “No,” she mutters, trying to sulk, failing miserably. “I’ll wax next time,” she says.

“But that was fun,” I say wickedly. It really was. I get hot just thinking about it.

“For you maybe,” she replies pouting, but she can’t fool me. She loved every second of the aftermath.

“I seem to recall the aftermath was very satisfying,” I say turning back to finish shaving. She looks down at her hands, blushing. This is our honeymoon. I don't want her to feel shy; least of all with me.  

"Hey, I'm just teasing. Isn't that what husbands who are hopelessly in love with their wives do?" I say turning to her, I tip her chin up and gaze into my wife’s eyes. What is she thinking? Was she upset about it? I try to decipher her expression, the ever present fear in the back of my head cocks its ugly head, telling me that she may be unhappy about something. But, her expression changes to one of playful.

“Sit,” she murmurs.

What? What is she trying to do? She softly pushes me towards the stool in the bathroom. Confused, I sit down, trying to understand what she wants to do, or why she wants me to sit down half shaven. She grabs the razor from my raised hand. Oh shit! She wants to shave me! Is this payback?

“Ana,” I say in a warning tone. She leans down and kisses me in response.

“Head back, Mr. Grey,” she whispers.

Can I trust her with a razor in her hand? She couldn't even shave herself properly. Can she possibly shave my face so close to my jugular?

“Tit for tat, Mr. Grey,” she says confirming my thoughts. Oh really Mrs. Grey? I stare at my wife in disbelief but still amused.

“You know what you’re doing?” I ask in a low voice. She shakes her head slowly, purposefully, but endeavoring to look serious. Well, Mrs. Grey, if I’m going to die, it might as well be in your hands. Do your worst! I close my eyes, shake my head and tilt my head back in complete surrender to her.

Her left hand crawls into my damp hair at my forehead, holding it tight, Anastasia holds me still in my place. I firmly keep my eyes closed, and part my lips to inhale deeply. I feel the gentle touch of the razor, then she strokes it from my neck to my chin smoothly. I feel the absence of lather leaving a smooth trail behind. I exhale the breath I didn't know I was holding.

“Did you think I was going to hurt you?” she asks softly.

“I never know what you’re going to do, Ana, but no, not intentionally,” I respond truthfully.

I feel the razor running up my neck again, and feel another smooth trail running on my neck.

“I would never intentionally hurt you, Christian,” she murmurs. Feeling the truth in her words, I open my eyes, and embrace her while she gently runs the razor down on my cheek from the bottom of my side-burn.

“I know,” I reply and angle my face to give her a smooth, stretched out surface to shave. Two more strokes of the razor, and she’s finished shaving me.

“All done, and not a drop of blood spilled,” she grins proudly.

When I look up at my wife, I feel her legs encasing mine. And our bodies touching, her legs wrapping mine while she's looking down at me, I get hot, and run my hand upward on her leg pushing her nightdress up. I pull her to me, and make her sit astride my legs. Her hands hold unto my upper arms to steady herself.

She is so close to me, our faces are merely two inches away.

“Can I take you someplace today?” I ask.

“No sunbathing?” she asks arching her brow. I find myself licking my lips nervously, because she won’t be able to sunbathe for the rest of our honeymoon.

“No. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer something else.”

“Well, since you covered me in hickies and effectively put the kibosh on that, sure, why not?” she says acerbically which I ignore.

“It’s a drive, but it’s worth a visit from what I’ve read. My dad recommended we visit. It’s a hilltop village called Saint Paul de Vence. There are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like.”

She immediately leans back gazes at me questioningly. Apprehensive even.

“What?” I ask confused.

“I know nothing about art, Christian,” she replies softly.

I shrug and smile at her fondly. “We’ll only buy what we like. This isn't about investment,” I reply. Her eyes get wider.

“What?” I find myself asking again unable to decipher her facial expression. She shakes her head in response unwilling to answer.

“Look, I know that we only got the architect’s drawings the other day, but there’s no harm in looking and the town is an ancient medieval place,” I say. The worst case of scenario, we’ll do some sightseeing. She frowns and looks upset even. Ah, it’s so hard to comprehend her sometimes. I wish she was more explicit.

“What now?” I find myself exclaiming. She shakes her head unwilling to say what’s going through her beautiful head. I’ve never experienced this before. I got everything I wanted, including answers in the past. Oh, shit! Maybe she’s still mad about the punishment fuck.

“You’re not still mad about what I did yesterday?” I sigh, nuzzling my head on one of my most favorite spots in the world; between her breasts.

“No. I’m hungry,” she mutters. Oh, she gets cranky when she doesn’t eat.  Of course!

“Why didn't you say?” I say holding her up, I stand, and taking her hand I lead her into the bedroom.

 ****❦ ♡ ❧*****

When we get to Saint Paul de Vence, I feel relief to see my wife completely amazed with the village. The village is one of the oldest medieval towns on the French Riviera situated on a hilltop. It’s full of history, boasts an exquisite scenery, and there are abundant numbers of modern art galleries. Anastasia is completely ecstatic. We walk arm in arm, as her hand is in the back pocket of my shorts. Taylor and Philippe are walking behind us at a casual distance. Anastasia eyes linger on three old men playing boules in a tree-covered square.  She looks at the game interested in it. It’s called Jeu De Boules or Pétanque played between two players or teams. One of the players in this game here is wearing a beret even though the weather is hot and stifling. 

The square is full of spectators, both the locals and the tourists alike. I don’t like the crowds, and neither does Taylor. So, I gently lead her out of the square into little alleys lined with stone properties standing since the medieval times. We reach to a courtyard with beautiful stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and little boutiques and shops. 

A photo gallery grabs my attention at the first glare. It's exhibiting and selling erotic photos. I am distracted for a minute. Taking my aviator sunglasses off, I start chewing it on the arm, examining the pictures. The work belongs to an artist named Florence D’elle. The pictures are of female subjects in various erotic poses. Some are close to what I have taken before of the submissives.

(The pictures above are by Florence D'elle)

“Not quite what I had in mind,” Anastasia mumbles after she observes me examining the pictures.

“Me neither,” I reply, grinning at my wife after noticing her jealousy. I take her hand in mind and stroll to the next artist's gallery. This artist has painted figurative art, such as fruits and vegetables in super close up and the colors are extremely vivid.

“I like those,” Anastasia mutters, and I can hear the relief in her voice. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment,” she says in her giggly girlish voice. I remember that time very well indeed. In fact I shall remember it till the day I die. It’s the day I reclaimed my girl back into my life. I try and fail miserably in hiding my amusement.

“I thought I managed that quite competently,” I mutter. “I was just a bit slow, and anyway,” I say as I pull her into a tight embrace, “you were distracting me. Where would you put them?” I ask deciding to buy the painting.

“What?” she asks stunned.

I nuzzle her ear and whisper. “The paintings, where would you put them?” I ask biting her earlobe to get a rise out of her and I do. I see her pressing her legs together to suppress her urge.

“Kitchen,” she murmurs in a breathy voice.

“Hmm... Nice idea, Mrs. Grey,” I respond. When Anastasia notices the price, she gasps.

“Five thousand euros each,” she whispers. “They’re really expensive!”

“So?” I nuzzle my wife again. I want to put the world at her feet. “Get used to it, Ana.”  I don’t want her to lack anything; it makes me happy that I can provide for her well, and give every one of her heart’s desires.  I walk to the sales desk where a young woman dressed all in white is standing and gaping. Knowing Anastasia is watching the clerk's reaction, I can almost feel her rolling her eyes in response to this woman ogling me. Somehow knowing that she gets jealous of me, makes me happy. I pay for the paintings, and we leave the store for some sight-seeing. 

Saint Paul de Vence is on French Riviera. The village was created around the old church of Saint Michel du Puy and the chateau at the top of the hill.  That’s how the castrum of Saint Paul, a military defensive position was evolved.

I take Anastasia to Hotel Le Saint Paul for lunch. The hotel’s restaurant patio sits atop the hill with the view of the surrounding countryside which is completely stunning. Tables places strategically around the stone patio and covered with crisp white table cloth decorated with fresh cut flowers. The ancient stone walls are covered with lush green ivy, pink and red bougainvillea overlooking the vineyards, hills dotted with sunflowers forming a fascinating patchwork, and the French farmhouses are interspersed in this beautiful scenery. The weather is beautiful, and the Mediterranean Sea in the distance glints its turquoise color invitingly. Anastasia is looking, but not seeing; she’s lost in thought. I want to bring her out of her reveries.

“You asked me why I braid your hair,” I say softly, feeling guilty. Something in my tone alarms her and she looks up immediately.

“Yes,” she replies with wide eyes.

“The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream,” I say. I look into her eyes, deep, but my emotions are churning and mixed. I don’t want them to be resurfaced; not here anyway.

“I like you playing with my hair,” she says in a hesitant voice. I’m not sure if she does.

“Do you?” I probe voicing my uncertainty.

“Yes,” she says truthfully. She leans in scraping her chair on the stone patio, she grasps my hands. “I think you loved your birth mother, Christian,” she says looking at me. I feel my eyes widening. I don’t want to think of the crack whore in this context. She didn't love me. Why would I love a woman who didn't love or protect me? I’m so confused. What if there is truth in what she says? What if I really do love the crack whore? I don’t want it to be true. She didn't protect me...at all! She found me unworthy of love. How can I love that?

I look down at our connected hands. Fear rises in me. I’m back being four years old again.

“Say something,” Anastasia whispers, because in the silence she hears the storms brewing inside me. I don’t want to do this now. Not on my honeymoon. I don’t want to go to that territory. It’s too dark, too deep. It’s inescapable! I’ll drag Anastasia down with me, and she doesn’t need to be there. It’s done, it’s over.

I release Anastasia’s hand, and stand up, “Let’s go,” I say.

Once we’re on the street, I slowly exhale, and look around the surrounding narrow streets lined with stone buildings. I pull myself into the now, into my honeymoon. I finally manage to take Anastasia’s hand into mine.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask.

I hear Anastasia exhaling; she looks relieved. She shrugs in response.

“I’m just glad you’re speaking to me,” she says.

“You know I don’t like talking about all that shit. It’s done. Finished,” I say to her quietly.

Bringing it to the surface doesn’t do me any good. It drags me down to places I don’t want to be in. It’s been a long time. It needs to be tucked away, never to be resurfaced again. Now, she’s silent, contemplative. She isn't the kind of woman who gives up easily. What is she thinking?

I look down at her, amused and wary of her expression, because I know something is always brewing under that beautiful head of hers. I just don’t know what it is. But knowing that it gives me life and excitement as well as a near coronary, I shake my head, and pull my wife under my arm, as close to me as possible. We make our way through the tourists towards the spot where Philippe parked the large Mercedes. Anastasia tucks her hand into the back pocket of my shorts, holding onto my ass. Her intimate gesture makes me happy.

Before we make our way into the Mercedes, I notice a small boutique selling fine jewelry. I look into the window and notice some of the lovely pieces they’re selling. I want my wife to have one of them. I look down at Anastasia. Grasping her free hand, I gaze down and examine her wrist where the handcuffs left a faded red line. My thumb runs across it. Seeing it like this makes me feel like shit. I marked her. I don’t want to hurt my wife. I need to make up for this.

“It’s not sore,” Anastasia says in a reassuring tone.

I twist around and free her other hand as well. The cuff marks are obscured by the Omega watch I gifted her in London. I examine both the wrists, and feel worse by the sight of the marks. I’m a shitty husband! Does she think I’m bad for her? I release her hands and lift her chin up to scrutinize her expression. Does she feel resentment towards me? Does she hate me? The thought of it is torturing my soul. I’m hurting inside for hurting my wife.

“They don’t hurt,” she repeats. I hold her hands up to my lips and kiss the insides of her wrists apologetically.

“Come,” I say tugging her into the store.

I choose a beautiful platinum bracelet for her. When I pay thirty thousand Euros immediately for the bracelet, the bone thin sales clerk’s eyes widen, darken with some sort of jealousy. What is her problem? My wife is worth every cent of it! Tugging my wife close to me, “Here,” I say. The bracelet is an exquisite piece with delicately crafted filigree in the shape of small flowers with diamonds at their heart. It’s discriminatingly beautiful; very fitting for my wife. I fasten it around her wrist.  Because it’s wide and cuff like, the red marks disappear under it.

“There, that’s better,” I murmur, somewhat relieved.

“Better?” she whispers, gazing into my eyes.

“You know why,” I reply with uncertainty. I feel horrible having marked her. It’s eating me up.

“I don’t need this,” she says shaking her wrist and the cuff moves. It shimmers in the afternoon light, sparkling all over the walls of the store.

“I do,” I say with all my honesty. I want her to have it. I need to rectify my ways.

“No, Christian, you don’t. You've given me so much already. A magical honeymoon, London, Paris, Cote D’Azur... and you. I’m a very lucky girl,” she whispers, melting my insides.

“No, Anastasia, I’m a very lucky man,” I reply. I never imagined I would find someone I can have this sort of intimacy, with touching, and sharing myself to the fullest extent, sharing my past and my personal demons; I never thought I would love this deeply, this passionately, this indelibly! I never thought any of it was possible. And here she is before me. I sometimes think that I’ll blink and she’ll be gone, or disappear, and it’d be just a dream.

“Thank you,” she says stretching on her tiptoes, putting her arms around my neck and kisses me, taking my breath away.

“What’s that for?” I ask smiling once we break free of our kiss. She shrugs with a glint in her eyes.

“For being mine,” she replies smiling.

 ****❦ ♡ ❧*****

We finally make our way back to the Mercedes. It’s the afternoon in the French Riviera.  I look outside the window, watching the sunflowers on the fields, their heads following the afternoon sun. I can’t get rid of this shitty feeling. I have marked Anastasia. I hurt her. I have marked my subs before; in fact I enjoyed doing that. It showed my domination over them: That I was the master, and they were to submit to me. Their misbehavior was not tolerated and dealt with swiftly. I punished them with various methods. But Anastasia isn't my sub. She’s my wife! I love her, and the thought of marking her like this is abhorrent to me, especially knowing that it displeases her. I’m pulled out of my reveries by Anastasia’s hands clasping mine. I blink with her reassuring squeeze. I glance at her before releasing her hand, and caress her knee. Anastasia is wearing a short and full blue and white skirt, and a mouthwatering blue fitted sleeveless shirt.

My hand travels on her knee, and all of a sudden I want to check her ankles. With my lingering touch, I feel Anastasia’s breath catching. Grasping her ankle, I pull her foot on top of my lap forcing Anastasia to swivel on her backside, facing me.

“I want the other one, too,” I say softly.

Anastasia’s eyes travel to the front of the car to Philippe and Taylor who keep their eyes on the road like the professionals they are. Then she places her other foot on my lap. I press the button on the door and lift the tinted privacy screen up. Once it’s fully raised, we’re on our own little bubble and in relative privacy.

“I want to look at your ankles,” I explain quietly. Seeing the marks under the sandal straps grieves me. I gently stroke my thumb up on her right instep, and she wriggles. She’s very ticklish; her response makes me smile. I undo the sandal strap, then drop it to the floor. I caress her ankles, and seeing the marks evident there makes me feel shitty again. I look out the window without seeing. Her defiance of me, makes me lose control, and I want to punish her, but then I feel like fucking crap!

“Hey. What did you expect?” Anastasia asks softly. I glance back at her and shrug.

“I didn't expect to feel like I do looking at these marks,” I confess.

Collide - Howie

“How do you feel?” she asks.

With desolate eyes I gaze at her. “Uncomfortable,” I summarize my feelings in a murmur.

Anastasia immediately unbuckles her seat-belt and scoots closer to me; her feet are still on my lap. She comes as close to me as possible without climbing on my lap. I suspect that she’s shy of the driver. She holds my hands and I finally find my center.

“It’s the hickeys I don’t like,” she says in a whisper. “Everything else... what yo did,” she says lowering her voice conspiratorially, “with the handcuffs, I enjoyed that. Well, more than enjoyed. It was mind blowing. You can do that to me again anytime,” she says. And her declaration immediately lifts my spirits up like a shot of adrenaline.

I shift in my seat to directly look at her, see her facial expression, and feel the truth in her statement.

“Mind-blowing?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies grinning. She flexes her bare toes on my growing erection. Fuck! We’re in the back seat of the Mercedes with a French driver and Taylor in the front seat, my hot wife is sitting next to me, her toes are caressing my dick and I’ve got a hard on! A sharp intake of breath fills my lungs, and I part my lips.

“You should really be wearing your seat belt, Mrs. Grey,” I say in a low voice, but her proximity is something I don’t want to let go. I feel my Blackberry vibrating in my pocket, and I check my watch. It could only be work at this time calling with an emergency at this time. It’s not business hours yet in the States. It should about five or six a.m. in the morning in Seattle. I fish my phone out and look at the caller.

“Barney,” I snap.

Anastasia tries to remove her feet from my lap, but my fingers tighten on her ankles firmly.

“Mr. Grey. My apologies sir, however I have to inform you that there was a fire in the server room very early this morning,” he says in one breath.

“In the server room?” I ask in complete disbelief. “Did it activate the fire suppression system?” I ask. The very expensive system he asked me to put in place only recently.

“Yes, sir, and it worked beautifully. Immediately suppressed the fire.”

Hearing the word fire, Anastasia pulls her feet down while she’s nervously fiddling with her new bracelet and this time I let her lower her feet to the car floor. I press the privacy screen button lowering it. I need Taylor to hear this news as well.

“Anyone injured? Damage?” I ask.

“No injuries sir, and no damages to speak of.”

“When?”

“About an hour ago. The emergency line was immediately activated, and it called my phone. I made it to the Grey House as fast as I could put my shorts and t-shirt on and I called you immediately after I made sure that no one was injured and the fire was out,” he replies. I look at my watch again, running my hand through my hair exasperated. It’s not a busy time of the day in the office at that hour. Hell, there’s hardly anyone in the building, except maybe the security and the cleaning crew. 

“Do you want me or Welch to inform the fire department or the police? Just to emphasize again, the fire has been suppressed immediately by the new system.”

“No. Not the fire department or the police. Not yet anyway.” I say. I see Taylor shifting around to hear the conversation.

“Welch and his team have been here since the second the alarm went to his phone. They’re taking care of everything; checking the logs, security video feed, employees, and anyone who has been in the building, who has access to the building, everyone, and everything. He isn't letting anyone leave the building until he questions them himself. He’s treating it like a murder scene, and his forensic team is here collecting evidence, dusting and fingerprinting,” he says.

“Has he? Good...”

“Other than what I have informed you, sir, there’s not much to tell yet. It’s too new, and the evidence has not been evaluated. As soon as Welch gives me a go ahead, I’ll be able to go and see the server room. We will create a damage report for you, sir,” He concludes.

“Okay. I want a detailed damage report. And a complete rundown of everyone who had access of the last five days, including the cleaning staff... Get a hold of Andrea and get her to call me...”

“Will do sir. The new system containing argon minimized the damage as I told you it would. We have made a large initial investment, but with it in place, we have saved millions upon millions of Dollars of untold potential damage. It was a very sound investment, sir. I’m quite happy that you've agreed to have it installed. We’ll get those reports compiled for you and send it to you as soon as they become available.”

“Yeah, sounds like the argon are just as effective, worth its weight in gold.”

“We don’t have any reports yet, sir. As you know it’s too early...” he says, but I cut him off.

“I realize it’s too early...”

“Could you give me four hours then, sir?”

“No. E-mail me in two hours...” I reply firmly.

“It won’t be as detailed sir, four hours would allow me to gather more information...” he says but I cut him off again.

“No, I need to know.”

“Very well sir. I’ll do my best to provide the most comprehensive information I can gather and e-mail you within two hours. I better get to it right now,” he says.

Thank you for calling me,” I say and hang up.

I feel Anastasia’s anxious eyes, and Taylor’s resolute gaze on me. I dial Welch’s number.

“Welch...” he answers on the second ring. 

“Mr. Grey, I’m at the Grey House, sir. Everything is under control,” he says reassuringly.

“Good...”

“Let me gather a little more information, and I can brief you on the data we have so far collected. When would you like to be briefed?” he asks.

“An hour then...”

“We are going to route the data and servers to the offsite data storage until my team completes the investigation.  I would recommend tight security at the new site sir.”

“Yes, agreed...”

“How long?”

“Twenty-four-seven at the off-site data storage...”

“Already on it sir.  I’ll speak to you in an hour then,” he says.

“Good,” I reply and hang up.

“Philippe, I need to be onboard with the hour,” I order.

“Monsieur,” he replies, and speeds up ahead.

I look at Anastasia and she looks worried. I slip my mask of impassive expression to erase her worry.

“Anyone hurt?” she asks quietly.

I shake my head in the negative. “Very little damage,” I reply. Her eyes are wide, her fear is clear. I reach over to her and clasp her hand, and squeeze it reassuringly. “Don’t worry about this. My team is on it,” I reply. I’m the boss, the CEO, the commander of my ship. Anastasia doesn’t need to worry about this at all.

“Where was the fire?”

“Server room.”

“Grey House?”

“Yes,” I respond giving her as little information as possible to prevent her from worrying.

“Why so little damage?” she probes.

“The server room is fitted with a state-of-the-art fire suppression system.”

She nods imperceptibly, silent, worried, and upset.

“Ana, please...don’t worry,” I say in a soothing tone.

“I’m not worried,” she says fibbing. She’s not a very good liar. She’s too worried, too upset about it. I know what she’s upset about. I’m worried about the same thing. First Charlie Tango, and now this. I have to get to the bottom of this, and soon.

“We don’t know for sure if it was arson,” I say voicing her worry, and anxiety. Her hand immediately flies to her throat in fear. She is terrified. What worries me is that whoever is doing this, whoever is trying to harm me, might try to harm her, and she’s my world. If they ever get to her, I’d simply die. I have to find out and do it soon.

 ****❦ ♡ ❧*****

As soon as we get on board of the Fair Lady, I nod at Taylor to come along with me and inform him of the fire at the Grey House server room.

“Anything I can do right now sir?”

“No, I’m going to speak with to Welch in a few minutes. It’s best that you keep an eye on Mrs. Grey should she desire to go to town. I'll have him coordinate with you,” I say dismissing him.

I lock myself in the study conferencing with Welch.

“What have you found so far?”

“The preliminary findings are very rudimentary, sir. The details are sketchy. I have viewed the security videos. And the footage shows an unidentified individual in coveralls with a baseball cap inside the server room. The fucking man isn't supposed to be in there. Although the he could be a she. I’m not ruling anything out yet.”

“I want to get this perfectly clear. You think this wasn’t an accident? A power surge, a malfunction in one of the server bays, or overload of data, or some other technical issue?”

“Mr. Grey, we are currently gathering the data, sir. And we've scrubbed Barney up, because he wants to check the servers to overrule any technical problems. He indicated that no alarm was raised with a technical issue. If it was something technical related to the servers, an error log would have been created. Barney already logged in and checked and in fact verified that no such error log was created. He is in there along with one of my team members and examining the server bays one by one. We are quite sure that it’s not our equipment, sir,” he says, and with the confirmation, my heart sinks.

“Fuck!”

“I will have a clearer picture in a few hours, sir.”

“Has there been a match with the partial print from Charlie Tango?”

“No matches so far, sir. We're still in the process of collecting evidence. It's too early to tell without doing a comparison. That’s one of the things we’re looking for: Another print. But, it is very plausible that the perp might be wearing gloves, and may not have left a print this time. Currently, we’re in the process of collecting all the prints, identify the employees, question them, check their whereabouts at the time of the incident and eliminate the suspects. But I’ll add a second step and compare the backgrounds of those employees who have prints in the server room, see if they belong there and whether they ought to have access to, check their ties to some people you may know who may have a grudge against you.”

“Has Barney generated any reports yet?”

“He’s still working on it sir, and I believe he’s going to send them to you after he's done in the server room which should be momentarily. No error reports have been generated up until the fire. With the fire, there is an automatic shutdown process to protect the data, and isolate problem in one location. The data and the report should be within your hands shortly.”

“Has Andrea arrived at work?”

“Yes sir. I’ll inform her when I hang up and have her call you immediately.”

“Welch, I don’t want any police involvement until we confirm arson beyond the shadow of any doubt. I want my own investigator on site.”

“He was in Seattle recently with Charlie Tango, and was leaving the country. I don’t know if I can reach him, sir, but I’ll try.”

“You’ll do better than that. I want you to find him immediately. I want the perp caught, yesterday!”

“Yes, sir!”

“I want security increased for my parents, my brother and sister, 24/7. And I want additional security arranged for my wife. Find a top notch female security. I want somebody to be able to follow her into the bathroom stall if she has to! Coordinate with Taylor, keep him on the loop!”

“Is that all sir?”

“No! I want the servers at the SIP Publishing to be overhauled, security tightened, have a checkpoint put in. No one saunters their way into the SIP anymore without my knowledge.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to check the whereabouts of Mrs. Lincoln, and Leila Williams at the time of the incident, or those who close to them.”

“ I've already taken the liberty to initiate that investigation, sir.”

“Good,” I say pausing. “Have Andrea call me, now!”

“As you wish, sir,” he say and I hang up, still boiling mad, anxious, and utterly scared... not for myself, but mostly for Anastasia.

As I scroll through my e-mails from Welch, Ros and Barney, Andrea calls.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Grey,” she greets in her usual professional demeanor.

“Andrea, I need your account about the fire...”

“I wasn't here when it occurred, sir. Barney called me and I came to work as soon as was ready. GEH currently looks like an orderly chaos. Mr. Welch’s team is scrubbed up and investigating the entrances, the server room, dusting and printing, another group is interviewing employees, while some of them examining the surveillance videos.”

“Where’s Ros?”

“Her assistant informed me that she’s on the floor, helping Mr. Welch oversee the investigation. An alarm also went to her phone, and she got here as soon as she received the alarm on her phone and was here right out of bed in her shorts and fuzzy slippers. Her partner just brought a change of clothes for her.”

There is a knock on my study door. I lift my head up, and Anastasia enters into the office.

“Andrea, hold please,” I mutter into my Blackberry in a serious expression. I look up at Anastasia politely expectant. She stands in the doorway, and squares her shoulders, looking shy at first. Then giving me a broad smile, she says, “I’m going shopping. I’ll take security with me.”

“Sure, take one of the twins and Taylor, too,” I reply. She nods, and stands there waiting for something.

“Anything else?” I ask. I need to get these calls completed, so I can get back to being with her. I want this problem resolved.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks softly. I smile at her in response, my heart melting. My baby is always thinking of me.

“No, baby, I’m good. The crew will look after me,” I reply.

“Okay,” she says in a breathy voice. Then she saunters towards me, and walking behind the desk, she leans down and plants a kiss on my lips, both surprising and arousing me.

“Andrea, I’ll call you back,” I mutter into the Blackberry, and hang up. Putting the phone down on the desk behind me, I pull Anastasia into an embrace, and give her a kiss she deserves: a passionate, hot and desirous one, pouring all my love, my concern, my craving for her into the kiss. When I release her, I’m fully aroused, and ready to fuck. If I didn't have an emergency back in Seattle, and if I didn't know that it wasn’t going to affect Anastasia at all, I’d abandon the phone calls, and take Anastasia into our suite and have my way with her. But, this problem has to be resolved.

“You’re distracting me. I need to sort this, so I can get back to my honeymoon,” I say running my finger down her face and her chin, and finally tilting her chin up to look at me.

“Okay. I’m sorry,” she replies chagrined.

“Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Grey. I love your distractions,” I say kissing the corner of her mouth. I want my wife to be happy, and this is honeymoon. Once I find the fucker who is interrupting our lives, I will make him regret that he ever tried to harm us.

“Go spend some money,” I say releasing her.

“Will do,” she replies, smirking, and leaves my study.

I call Andrea back, anxious to resolve this problem so I can get back to my wife, and our honeymoon. Not ten minutes into my conversation with Andrea, I hear the sound of the Jet Ski circling the Fair Lady. Clearly Taylor isn't going to take the Jet Ski, and neither would any of the crew members. This could only mean that Anastasia is riding it!

“Andrea, I have to call you back!” I say hand hang up immediately, rushing outside, up the stairs and onto the deck with my Blackberry in my hand. When I reach the deck, I find my wife circling the yacht on the Jet Ski! At least she wore a life jacket! My mouth agape, my heart at my throat I look at her. She spots me on the deck and letting go of one of the handlebars, she waves at me enthusiastically!

“Put your hand back on!” I shout. But she won’t hear me and keeps waving at me, so I finally manage a stiff wave back at her. She even makes the security look like idiots who are stuck in the middle of the sea waiting for her to finish her fun ride.

I dial Taylor’s Blackberry.

“Yes Mr. Grey,” he replies.

“Taylor! What the hell is Mrs. Grey doing on the Jet Ski?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Uhm...” he stutters. “Mrs. Grey indicated that she’s cleared it with you,” he replies in an embarrassed tone.

“Well, she hasn't. She isn't supposed to be on the Jet Ski if I’m not on it with her! Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, sir,” he says.

“Did you show her how to use it? How to apply the break?”

“Yes, sir I did.”

“I’m holding you solely responsible of bringing her back in one healthy piece if you value your job!” I shout and hang up. I run into the control room, and find the captain.

“I need a pair of binoculars,” I say extending my hand.

“Of course sir,” he says, and gives me the pair he’s been using. I rush out to the deck again, and watch the Jet Ski reach the dock, and watch Taylor help her off the Jet Ski and talk with her. Once she’s fully on land, I dial her Blackberry.

With the binoculars nearly glued to my eyes, I watch her fish the Blackberry out of her purse Taylor handed back to her, and answers the phone.

“Hi,” comes through her voice, and just with that one simple greeting, relief floods me.

“Hi,” I reply.

“I’ll come back on the boat. Don’t be mad,” she says immediately completely surprising me. I was expecting her to argue with me, and her tone takes me aback. I gasp completely flabbergasted.

Unable to string a coherent sentence, I find myself saying, “Um...”

“It was fun, though,” she whispers, completely elated. Do I want to stop her fun? It’s our honeymoon, and I’m stuck here trying to resolve a problem at work. I sigh.

“Well, far be it for me to curtail your fun, Mrs. Grey. Just be careful. Please,” I reply with relief.

“I will! Anything you want from town?” she asks in a cheerful voice.

“Just you, back in one piece.”

“I’ll do my best to comply, Mr. Grey,” she says.

“I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Grey.”

“We aim to please,” she responds with a giggle making me smile in response. One of the best sounds in the world for me is her giggle. I hear another incoming call, and this time it’s Ros.

“I have another call. Laters, baby,” I say, hating the fact I have to hang up.

“Laters, Christian,” she replies and I change the lines.

“Mr. Grey?”

“Ros...”

“I called to update you on the developments, sir. But, I know you’re on your honeymoon, so I’ll recap what is new, and the rest shall be e-mailed to you. That way you can evaluate hard copy of the reports, and see everything in black and white...” she starts, and states what’s new, and basically, not much.

When I hang up with her, I walk back to the on board study, and my phone buzzes with a new e-mail.

____________________________________________________________________

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Thank you

Date: August 17, 2011 16: 54

To: Christian Grey

For not being too grouchy.

Your loving wife.

Xxx

____________________________________________________________________

I think it was Taylor who had to handle the brunt of my grouchiness. Another e-mail comes through from Barney this time with preliminary reports. I glance over everything quickly and then get back to Anastasia’s message and type a response for her.

____________________________________________________________________

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Trying to stay calm

Date: August 17, 2011 16:58

To: Anastasia Grey

You’re welcome.

Come back in one piece.

This is not a request.

X

Christian Grey

CEO & Overprotective Husband, Grey

Enterprises Holdings Inc.
____________________________________________________________________

I spend most of the afternoon on the phone and e-mail. It’s been several hours since Anastasia is gone, and since I haven’t seen her. I think I hear the motorboat arrive. I go over the reports, and initial interviews of the employees who were questioned. My Blackberry rings.

“Grey,” I answer, without even checking the caller.

“Welch here, sir. I now have confirmation that the attack was in fact, arson.” Even though I suspected it, I feel my world collapsing around me. I feel like I’ve been punched.

“Sir?” he asks upon my silence.

"I'm listening," I say curtly. 

“All the interviews are completed, every one of the employees who had the access to the server room are accounted for. There’s only one person without the access on the video, and that person was never supposed to be there.”

“What else?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“That's all I have for now; I’ll update you as the information becomes available sir. This is however is all the information we've been able to confirm.”

“I’ll get back to you,” I say and hang up. All of a sudden I miss my wife. I need to find her, and hold her, and love her. I’m fucking going out of my mind. What if... I can’t bring the rest of the thought... What if they get her to get to me? I would rip that person apart, limb by limb.

 I have to find my wife! I make my way to our cabin. I find her taping a gift package. I gaze at her for a long moment. Remind myself that she’s here, in our cabin; close enough for me to touch her. She’s here... She’s here... She’s here... Breathe...

“You were gone some time,” I say in a soft voice. Anastasia is startled upon hearing my voice. When she looks at me, I can see that she’s excited about something. Her demeanor takes my mind off the day’s events’ momentarily. My eyes are on her with full intensity.

“Everything in control at your office?” she asks tentatively.

“More or less,” I reply, frowning with annoyance that this is happening right on our honeymoon.

“I did a little bit of shopping,” she murmurs.

“What did you buy?” I ask.

“This,” she says putting her foot on the bed, showing off her new anklet.

“Very nice,” I say, walking over to her, and stroke the little bells dangling down from the anklet. I notice the light red mark on her ankle, and run my fingers along it. A shiver runs through her body.

“And this,” she says holding out a box to me.

“For me?” I ask surprised. She bought me a gift. She nods shyly. I take the box out of her hands and shake it. I grin as wide as possible. My baby thought of me. It makes me feel cherished. I sit beside her on the bed, grasp Anastasia’s chin and kiss her.

“Thank you,” I say, delighted.

“You haven’t opened it yet.”

“I’ll love it, whatever it is,” I tell her gazing down at her, with eyes glowing in adoration. “I don’t get many presents.”

“It’s hard to buy you things. You have everything, Mr. Grey.”

“I have you,” I say. She’s my most valued, cherished, loved and adored present.

I immediately rip the paper wrapping, and reveal the box. It’s a camera.

“A Nikon?” I ask with a puzzled expression. Why would she want me to have a professional grade camera?

“I know you have your compact digital camera but this is for ... umh... portraits and the like. It comes with two lenses,” she gushes in one breath.

Why a camera though? I blink, completely confused. I don’t understand the meaning of this particular gift.

“Today in the gallery you liked the Florence D’elle photographs. And I remember what you said in the Louvre. And of course, there were those other pictures,” she says swallowing, clearly referring to the images of the subs I've taken. Fuck! I stop breathing. My eyes widen. She wants me to take pictures of her. Erotic pictures! I can’t do that to her! She’s my wife. That would be objectifying her, and I can’t... I won’t... I can’t do it.

“I thought you might, umh... like to take pictures of ... me.”

Shit!

“Pictures. Of you?” I ask gaping at her. Camera box forgotten on my lap. I don’t know what to say. I can’t ever put my wife in that position. Those images were not for pleasure.

She nods in response; she’s anxious and nervous. She gazes at me with her pupils dilated. I don’t know what to say. This is the woman I love. This is my wife. I can’t take such pictures of her without having it remind me of why I have taken such images before. She’s better than that... I swallow and look down at the camera, completely bewildered. Absently I find my fingers tracing the lines of the camera picture on the box. I need to know why she wants me to do this. Is it because she thinks I might prefer the subs? Is it because she thinks I want her to be that way?

“Why do you think I want this?” I ask, my mind preoccupied.

“Don’t you?” she asks, worried.

I take a deep shaky breath.

“For me, pictures like those have usually been an insurance policy, Ana. I know I've objectified women for so long,” I say. I don’t want my wife to ever think I would objectify her.

“And you think taking pictures of me is...uhm, objectifying me?” she asks, her face going white as a ghost.

I’m torn. I don’t know exactly why she wants me to have this, but the meaning of those pictures hold for me isn't something I would associate my wife, the love of my life with. I scrunch up my eyes.

“I’m so confused,” I say in a whisper. I close my eyes. If I take such images of Ana, where would it take us? What would it say about me as her husband? I know the submissive position isn’t something Anastasia wants to be in, and that’s what those images represented. When I open my eyes again, I’m wary, and raw emotions torment me inside.

“Why do you say that?” she whispers with panic in her voice.

Why? Because she will hate it! She may just want to do it, because in her mind she isn’t good enough for me, or that she thinks I want that life from her. But in reality what she doesn’t like, I don’t want. I don’t want her to do something for me if it’s not what she wants. Those things might make her run away from me, and I will never, ever take that chance. Not with her! Even the punishment fuck I delivered losing control left her marked all over her body.

I shrug in response to her question, and can’t help but gaze down at the cuff marks on her wrist underneath the bracelet I bought for her.

“Christian, these don’t matter!” she says holding up her wrist. The bracelet slides down revealing the now fading red welt, and the sight of it stabs me once more inside.

“You gave me a safe word. Shit! Yesterday was fun!” she emphasizes. “I enjoyed it. Stop brooding about it. I like rough sex, I’ve told you that before,” she says blushing scarlet.

I gaze at her face, her expression, her eyes, scrutinizing her meaning. Does she mean it? Or is she just trying to soothe my ego. I don’t give any of my emotions away.

“Is this about the fire? Do  you think it’s connected somehow to Charlie Tango? Is this why you’re worried? Talk to me, Christian! Please!” she begs.

Tornadoes are brewing inside me. Emotional storms battering my shores, my sanity. Yes! I’m fucking afraid that someone might get to my wife, hurt her, because they want to hurt me... I’m scared that I would be the one to hurt her. I did hurt her, only yesterday! And I have objectified women. I don’t want my wife to be one of them. I’m fucking scared! I’m a man used to having control in everything, and not having any control over these events is scaring the hell out of me. I’m worried to my bones about her! I love her so much, I don’t know what I would do if anyone were to hurt her!

“Don’t over-think this Christian,” she scolds me in a quiet tone. She reaches over my lap, and taking the box, she opens it. I watch her with passive eyes. She holds it in her hands, and I’m mesmerized by her simple motions. She removes the lens cap, and points the camera at me. She presses the button, and keeps it pressed. I can hear the shutter capture my image in rapid succession. She takes at least ten pictures of my alarmed expression.

“I’ll objectify you then,” she murmurs, pressing the shutter again. She keeps taking my pictures until a twitch of a smile crawls up on my lips. I try to hold the smile back, but she continues to take my pictures. I finally decide to pose for her, and I think a pout would be appropriate for a playful mood. She takes my picture, and giggles. Her giggle lifts up my mood.

“I thought it was my present, Mrs. Grey,” I mutter in a sulky tone, teasing her.

“Well, as it happens Mr. Grey, this gift was supposed to be fun. But apparently it’s a symbol of women’s oppression for you,” she says snapping her pictures away. She moves closer, and tries to capture an image of my face in extreme close up.

“You want to be oppressed?” I murmur, teasing her.

“No. Not oppressed,” she murmurs back at me, continuing to snap pictures.

“I could oppress you big time, Mrs. Grey,” I threaten her like a predator in a husky voice.

“I know you can, Mr. Grey. And you do, frequently.”

Oh, shit! I do! My face falls. What am I doing wrong with my wife? Am I a shitty husband? Anastasia lowers the camera, and just stares at me, exasperated.

“What’s wrong, Christian?” She says sounding exacerbated. I shake my head, indicating nothing. She hold the camera, aligning the view finder with her eye, and starts snapping pictures away again.

“Tell me,” she says insistently.

“Nothing,” I reply, but this time, I sweep off the camera box off the bed onto the floor with one move. I grab my wife and push her down onto the bed. I sit astride her, in my favorite riding position.

“Hey!” she exclaims, and continues to take more pictures of me. I grab the camera by the lens, taking it away from Anastasia, and then turning it around, I start taking her pictures. I press the shutter down, and take successive countless number of pictures of her.

“So, you want me to take pictures of you, Mrs. Grey?” I ask in an amused tone.

“Well, for a start, baby, I think you should be laughing,” I say and tickle my wife under her ribs ruthlessly. She squeals and giggles under me. She tries to grasp my wrist in a fruitless effort to stop me. I love it when she fights with me. It’s one of my fantasies. When she squirms under me, when she fights back, it completely turns me on! My grin gets wider, and I renew my efforts in tickling her while snapping away her pictures.

“No! Stop!” she screams.

“Are you kidding?” I growl. I put the camera next to us on the bed, so I can utilize both my hands in tickling her.

“Christian!” she splutters and gasps her laughing protest. I’ve never tickled my wife before, and it  is so much fun to have her under me like this, giggling, laughing, fighting back, just happy. She’s trying to push both my hands away, but I’m unyielding. I grin down at my wife, and completely enjoy her joyous torment.

“Christian, stop!” she pleads, and I suddenly stop. I grab both her hands, and hold them down on either side of her head and just loom over her. She’s panting hard, breathless, and the way she looks right now, all flushed, and mussed up and happy does something to me. I’m aroused beyond belief. My breathing is mirroring hers. I love this woman! I absolutely adore her! Hell, I want to worship her with my body!

“You. Are. So. Beautiful,” enunciate in a breathless tone.

She stares up at me. I am unable to help but, feel drawn to her. I want to lose myself in my wife. I want to make love to her. I lean down and closing my eyes, I kiss her, completely beguiled. I release her hands, and my fingers curl around her head and my fingers are woven into her hair. As I hold her gently in place, I start kissing her sweetly, and tenderly. I kiss long and devoutly and cherishing her.  But she moves her body to demand more of me; her lips, and mouth responds to my kiss, completely undoing me. Our kiss turns into a carnal, deep and devouring one. My tongue dips into her mouth, taking, seeking, capturing, invading, and completely possessing her.

I inhale sharply and groan. She is my undoing. She alters me in such a way that I’m completely hers. 

“Oh, what you do to me,” I groan, my feeling are raw, and carnal. I want to affirm that she’s mine, that I’m hers. I quickly move, lie on top of her, pressing her into the mattress, and feeling her all the way, and making her feel me, feel my cock pressing into her sex. Letting her know how much I desire her. As I cup her chin with one hand, my other hand brushes over her breast, her waist, her hip, her body, and her buttocks. I kiss her again carnally, wanton, and push my leg between hers, and I raise her knee. The full length of my erection is pushing to get out, straining against my pants, and onto her sex. The way she gasps and moans into my mouth, I swallow her voice, drinking it in, feeding my own hunger for her. The craving I feel for her is overwhelming. I need her more than my next breath right now. It’s not just a want. It’s a need for her. I can’t live without her, without being inside her. This is how I communicate with her. This is how I express my love, my worries, my desires, my fears, my anger, my passion, and all my emotions to her. This is me, Christian Grey, in the raw.

Anastasia kisses me with renewed abandon. Her hands fist into my hair, pulling, holding onto my hair tightly.

In an instant, I stop, stand up, and pull her off the bed, making her stand before me, completely dazed. I undo the button of her shorts, and kneel quickly, yanking them down along with her panties. And before she can inhale her next breath, I toss her back onto the bed, and unbuttoning my fly, I sink my cock into her sex without any preamble. If I don’t, I will lose myself. She cries out with the full feeling, but I can’t stop. My breath hisses out of my clenched teeth.

I plunge my cock in and out of her repeatedly, and a “yesss!” hisses out of my lips close to her ears. I hold still, my cock buried deep inside her, marking her as mine, feeling her, connecting with her in the most elemental way. I savor the feeling for a moment, then swivel my hips once, and plunge into her deeper, making my woman groan.

“I need you,” I growl; my voice is husky, and low. But it’s also my plea to her; I simply can’t live without her. I graze my teeth over her jaw, nipping and sucking along the way. Then I start kissing her again, harder this time. Anastasia wraps her legs around my ass, cradling me, and pulling me toward her, holding me hard, grinding into me, wanting me to give all I can, and take whatever I can. The feeling of her submission to my body is heady. It takes over my mind, and body and I start moving in a primal, carnal, desperate, insane, possessive, and a maddening rhythm.

I push deeper, and farther into her, but what I seek is more than a release for our bodies, but also our fears, emotions, love, desires, and connecting our souls in an inseparable way. I feel Anastasia’s muscles clenching inside, wrapping around my cock, milking and pulling, driving further into her. Our breathing is harsh, and forced, and deep and labored.

Anastasia groans loudly, panting, she’s reaching higher, further, overwhelmingly carnal moaning escapes her lips, and she is about to come.

“Come with me, Ana,” I gas, and rear up on her, pushing her over the precipice, and she closes her eyes, ready to orgasm.

“Open your eyes,” I order. “I need to see you,” I plea in an implacable, urgent voice. Her eyes open, connect with mine. My eyes, darken, and dilate. Seeing me desiring her from the depths of my soul, driving her with my cock pushes her over her peak, and she screams her release as her orgasm rolls in big, long waves.

“Oh, Ana,” I cry out, and climax, driving into her again and again, and pouring everything I have in thick spurts into my woman; then still and collapse onto her. My eyes are closed, and my arms wrapped around her, I cling tightly to my wife. She kisses my chest through my shirt. I can feel her gaze on me, even though my eyes are closed.

I love her, and I am scared out of my wits that someone is out there who might be able to harm her.

“Tell me, Christian, what’s wrong?” she asks in a soft, anxious voice. I say nothing. How can I voice my fears? How can I word how deep my love for her is, and how great the abyss that holds my fears? I can’t voice them. I’m afraid that if I say them out loud, they might come true. I can’t ever take that risk. Torture and agony washes over me anew. I just hold her in my arms tightly, and inhale her scent, keeping my cock in her, trying to feel her every way I can. She’s my safe place. She’s home. She’s everything. She’s my sun. She’s my life. 

Christina Perri - Arms

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