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“Oh, Ana,” he cries and he joins my climax, driving into me, then stilling and collapsing onto me. He rolls over so that I’m sprawled on top of him, and he’s still inside me. As I surface from my orgasm and my body steadies and calms, I want to make some quip about being objectified and oppressed, but hold my tongue, uncertain of his mood. I glance up from Christian’s chest to examine his 76/551

face. His eyes are closed and his arms are wrapped around me, clinging tight. I kiss his chest through the thin fabric of his linen shirt.

“Tell me, Christian, what’s wrong?” I ask softly and wait anxiously to see if even now, sated by sex, he’ll tell me. I feel his arms tighten around me further, but it’s his only response. He’s not going to talk. Inspiration hits me.

“I give you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health, to stand by your side in good times and in bad, to share your joy as well as your sorrow,” I murmur.

He freezes. His only movement is to open wide his fathomless eyes and gaze at me as I continue my wedding vows.

“I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals and dreams, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, to share my hopes and dreams with you, and bring you solace in times of need.” I pause, willing him to talk to me. He watches me, his lips parted, but says nothing.

“And to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.” I sigh.

“Oh, Ana,” he whispers and moves again, breaking our precious contact so that we’re lying side by side. He strokes my face with the back of his knuckles.

“I solemnly vow that I will safeguard and hold dear and deep in my heart our union and you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse . “I promise to love you faithfully, forsaking all others, through the good times and the bad, in sickness or in health, regardless of where life takes us. I will protect you, trust you, and respect you. I will share your joys and sorrows and comfort you in times of need. I promise to cherish you and uphold your hopes and dreams and keep you safe at my side. All that is mine is now yours. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love from this moment on for as long as we both shall live.” Tears spring to my eyes. His face softens as he gazes at me.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs, his thumb catching and dispatching a stray tear.

“Why won’t you talk to me? Please, Christian.” He closes his eyes as if in pain.

“I vowed I would bring you solace in times of need. Please don’t make me break my vows.”

He sighs and opens his eyes, his expression bleak. “It’s arson,” he says simply, and he looks suddenly so young and vulnerable.

Oh fuck.

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“And my biggest worry is that they are after me. And if they are after me—” He stops, unable to continue.

“. . . They might get me,” I whisper. He blanches, and I know that I have finally uncovered the root of his anxiety. I caress his face.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

He frowns. “What for?”

“For telling me.”

He shakes his head and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You can be very persuasive, Mrs. Grey.”

“And you can brood and internalize all your feelings and worry yourself to death. You’ll probably die of a heart attack before you’re forty, and I want you around far longer than that.”

“Mrs. Grey, you’ll be the death of me. The sight of you on the Jet Ski—I nearly had a coronary.” He flops back on the bed and puts his hand over his eyes, and I feel him shudder.

“Christian, it’s a Jet Ski. Even kids ride Jet Skis. Can you imagine what you’ll be like when we visit your place in Aspen and I go skiing for the first time?”

He gasps and turns to face me, and I want to laugh at the horror on his face.

“Our place,” he says eventually.

I ignore him. “I’m a grown-up, Christian, and much tougher than I look.

When are you going to learn this?”

He shrugs and his mouth thins. I decide to change the subject.

“So, the fire. Do the police know about the arson?”

“Yes.” His expression is serious.

“Good.”

“Security is going to get tighter,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I understand.” I glance down his body. He’s still wearing his shorts and his shirt, and I still have my T-shirt on. Jeez—talk about wham, bam, thank you ma’am. The thought makes me giggle.

“What?” Christian asks, bemused.

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You. Still dressed.”

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“Oh.” He glances down at himself, then back at me, and his face erupts into an enormous smile.

“Well, you know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you, Mrs.

Grey—especially when you’re giggling like a schoolgirl.” Oh yes—the tickling. Gah! The tickling. I move quickly so that I’m straddling him, but immediately understanding my evil intent, he grabs both of my wrists.

“No,” he says and he means it.

I pout at him but decide that he’s not ready for this.

“Please don’t,” he whispers. “I couldn’t bear it. I was never tickled as a child.” He pauses and I relax my hands so he doesn’t have to restrain me.