I feel the joystick move suddenly, and I let go as we spiral down several feet, my ears starting to pop again. The ground is getting closer, and it feels like we could be hitting it shortly. Jeez, that's scary.
"BMA, this is BG N Papa 3 Alpha, entering left downwind runway seven to the grass, BMA." Christian sounds his usual authoritative self. The tower squawks back at him over the radio, but I don't understand what they say. We sail round again in a wide circle, sinking slowly to the ground. I can see the airport, the landing strips, and we're flying back over I-95.
"Hang on, baby. This can get bumpy."
After another circle we dip, and suddenly we are on the ground with a brief thump, racing along the grass - holy shit. My teeth chatter as we bump at an alarming speed along the ground, until we finally come to a stop. The plane sways slightly then dips to the right.
I take a deep lungful of air while Christian leans over and opens the cockpit lid, clambering out and stretching.
"How was that?" he asks, and his eyes are a shining, dazzling silver gray. He leans down to unbuckle me.
"That was extraordinary. Thank you," I whisper.
"Was it more?" he asks, his voice tinged with hope.
"Much more," I breathe, and he grins.
"Come." He holds out his hand for me, and I clamber out of the cockpit.
As soon as I'm out, he grabs me and holds me flush against his body. Suddenly his hand is in my hair, tugging it so my head tips back, and his other hand travels down to the base of my spine. He kisses me, long, hard, and passionately, his tongue in my mouth.
His breathing is mounting, his ardor ... Holy cow - his erection... we're in a field. But I don't care. My hands twist in his hair, anchoring him to me. I want him, here, now, on the ground. He breaks away and gazes down at me, his eyes now dark and luminous in the early morning light, full of raw, arrogant sensuality. Wow. He takes my breath away.
"Breakfast," he whispers, making it sound deliciously erotic.
How can he make bacon and eggs sound like forbidden fruitIt's an extraordinary skill. He turns, clasping my hand, and we head back toward the car.
"What about the glider?"
"Someone will take care of that?", he says dismissively. "We'll eat now." His tone is unequivocal.
Food! He's talking food, when really all I want is him.
"Come." He smiles.
I have never seen him like this, and it's a joy to behold. I find myself walking beside him, hand in hand, with a stupid, goofy grin plastered on my face. It reminds me of when I was ten and spending the day in Disneyland with Ray. It was a perfect day, and this is sure shaping out to be the same.
Back in the car, as we head back along I-95 towards Savannah, my phone alarm goes off. Oh yes... my pill.
"What's that?" Christian asks, curious, glancing at me.
I fumble in my purse for the packet.
"Alarm for my pill," I mutter as my cheeks flush.
His lips quirk up.
"Good, well done. I hate condoms."
I flush some more. He's as patronizing as ever.
"I like that you introduced me to Mark as your girlfriend," I murmur.
"Isn't that what you are?" He raises an eyebrow.
"Am II thought you wanted a submissive."
"So did I, Anastasia, and I do. But I've told you, I want more, too."
Oh my. He's coming round, and hope surges through me, leaving me breathless.
"I'm very happy that you want more," I whisper.
"We aim to please, Miss Steele." He smirks as we pull into the International House of Pancakes.
"IHOP." I grin back at him. I don't believe it. Who would have thought... Christian Grey at IHOP.
It's 8:30 a.m. but quiet in the restaurant. It smells of sweet batter, fried food, and disinfec-tant. Hmm... not such an enticing aroma. Christian leads me to a booth.
"I would never have pictured you here," I say as we slide into a booth.
"My dad used to bring us to one of these whenever my mom went away at a medical conference. It was our secret." He smiles at me, gray eyes dancing, then picks up a menu, running a hand through his wayward hair as he stares down at it.
Oh, I want to run my hands through that hair. I pick up a menu and examine it. I realize I'm starving.