fifty shades darker полностью

I press the button, the roar of the engines ceases, and The Grace soars toward the Olympic Peninsula, skimming across the water as if she’s flying. I want to yell and scream and cheer—this has to be one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life—except perhaps the glider, and maybe the Red Room of Pain.

Holy cow, this boat can move! I stand firm, grasping the wheel, fighting the rudder, and Christian is behind me once more, his hands on mine.

“What do you think?” he shouts above the sound of the wind and the sea.

“Christian! This is fantastic.”

He beams, grinning from ear to ear. “You wait until the spinney’s up.” He points with his chin toward Mac, who is unfurling the spinnaker—a sail that’s a dark, rich red. It reminds me of the walls in the playroom.

“Interesting color,” I shout.

He gives me a wolfish grin and winks. Oh, it’s deliberate.

The spinney balloons out—a large, odd elliptical shape—putting The Grace in overdrive. Finding her head, she speeds over the Sound.

“Asymmetrical sail. For speed.” Christian answers my unasked question.

“It’s amazing.” I can think of nothing better to say. I have the most ridiculous grin on my face as we whip through the water, heading for the majesty of the Olympic Mountains and Bainbridge Island. Glancing back, I see Seattle shrinking behind us, Mount Rainier in the far distance.

I had not really appreciated how beautiful and rugged Seattle’s surrounding landscape is—verdant, lush, and temperate, tall evergreens and cliff faces jutting out here and there.

It has a wild but serene beauty on this glorious sunny afternoon that takes my breath away.

The stillness is stunning compared to our speed as we whip across the water.

“How fast are we going?”

“She’s doing 15 knots.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It’s about 17 miles an hour.”

“Is that all? It feels much faster.”

He squeezes my hands, smiling. “You look lovely, Anastasia. It’s good to see some color in your cheeks . . . and not from blushing. You look like you do in José’s photos.” I turn and kiss him.

“You know how to show a girl a good time, Mr. Grey.”

“We aim to please, Miss Steele.” He scoops my hair out of the way and kisses the back of my neck, sending delicious tingles down my spine. “I like seeing you happy,” he murmurs and tightens his arms around me.

I gaze out over the wide blue water, wondering what I could possibly have done in the past to have fortune smile and deliver this beautiful man to me.

Yes, you’re a lucky bitch, my subconscious snaps. But you have your work cut out with him. He’s not going to want this vanilla crap forever . . . you’re going to have to compro-mise. I glare mentally at her snarky, insolent face and rest my head against Christian’s chest. But deep down I know my subconscious is right, but I banish the thoughts. I don’t want to spoil my day.

An hour later, we are anchored in a small, secluded cove off Bainbridge Island. Mac has gone ashore in the inflatable—for what, I don’t know—but I have my suspicions because as soon as Mac starts the outboard engine, Christian grabs my hand and practically drags me into his cabin, a man with a mission.

Now he stands before me, exuding his intoxicating sensuality as his deft fingers make quick work of the straps on my lifejacket. He tosses it to one side and gazes intently down at me, eyes dark, dilated.

I’m already lost and he’s barely touched me. He raises his hand to my face, and his fingers move down my chin, the column of my throat, my sternum, searing me with his touch, to the first button of my blue blouse.

“I want to see you,” he breathes and dexterously undoes the button. Bending, he plants a soft kiss on my parted lips. I am panting and eager, aroused by the potent combination of his captivating beauty, his raw sexuality in the confines of this cabin, and the gentle sway of the boat. He stands back.

“Strip for me,” he whispers, eyes burning.

Oh my. I’m only too happy to comply. Not taking my eyes off his, I slowly undo each button, savoring his scorching gaze. Oh, this is heady stuff. I can see his desire—it’s evident on his face . . . and elsewhere.

I let my shirt fall to the floor and reach for the button on my jeans.

“Stop,” he orders. “Sit.”

I sit down on the edge of the bed, and in one fluid movement he’s on his knees in front of me, undoing the laces of first one and then the other sneaker, pulling each off, followed by my socks. He picks up my left foot and raising it, plants a soft kiss on the pad of my big toe, then grazes his teeth against it.

“Ah!” I moan as I feel the effect in my groin. He stands in one smooth move, holds his hand out to me, and pulls me up off the bed.

“Continue,” he says and stands back to watch me.