Trout Nation Posts

NOTE: The formatting of excerpts in this post is 50 Shades of Blogger, so just keep that in mind and don’t blame E.L. James.

There is light everywhere. Bright, warm, piercing light, and I endeavor to keep it at bay for a few more precious minutes.

No, don’t get your hopes up. This is not the chapter where Ana dies. She’s waking up to a “glorious Seattle morning,” or,

– sunshine pouring through the full-height windows and flooding the room with too-bright light.

If there is one weather feature Seattle is known for, friends, it is the amount of sun they get.

Ana gets why Christian likes to live “in the clouds”. I really hate to point out that the Escala building is not tall enough to reach the clouds, and besides, I thought it was sunny, Ana?

Ironically, I feel the same up here in his lofty tower. I’m adrift from reality.

I have been saying that for pretty much the entire book so far. It has nothing to do with the building.

I’m in this fantasy apartment, having fantasy sex with my fantasy boyfriend. When the grim reality is he wants a special arrangement, though he’s said he’ll try more. What does that actually mean? This is what I need to clarify between us to see if we are still at opposite ends on the see-saw or if we are inching closer together.

He’s not in the art gallery, but an elegant middle-aged woman is cleaning in the kitchen area. The sight of her stops me in my tracks. She has short blonde hair and clear blue eyes; she wears a plain white tailored shirt and a navy blue pencil skirt. She smiles broadly when she sees me.

 Ana is embarrassed because she’s only wearing a t-shirt, but this is Christian Grey’s housekeeper here. I’m sure she sees all manner of undressed women. She probably cleans the jizz off the waterproof mattress in the red room when they’re all done. The housekeeper offers to get Ana some breakfast, but Ana is too busy figuring out just when and how Christian has fucked this evil blonde:

I scuttle of toward the study, mortified. Why does Christian only have attractive blondes working for him? And a nasty thought comes involuntarily into my mind – Are they all ex-subs? I refuse to entertain that hideous idea.

You entertain that idea any time you see a woman with lighter hair than yours, Ana. Seriously, from the way she describes all the blondes in this book, I think they must all be the hot Nazi from Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade.

“Unless that company’s P&L improves, I’m not interested, Ros. We’re not carrying dead weight… I don’t need any more lame excuses… Have Marco call me, it’s shit or bust time…

 I think when it’s actually “shit or bust time,” someone’s going to end up shitting, either way. And I’m super impressed that he can speak an ampersand. The good new is, Christian is working. He hardly ever works in this book, I’m wondering how he made his enormous fortune.

He waits, staring out of the window, master of his universe, staring down at the little people below from his castle in the sky.

How very Ayn Rand of you, E.L. But you know how I love it when the title of something is in the something. If you were unaware, Master of The Universe was the original title of 50 Shades, back before it was 50 Shades and when it was full of names like Bella and Edward.

 Glancing up, he notices me at the door. A slow, sexy smile spreads across is beautiful face, and I’m rendered speechless as my insides melt. He is without a doubt the most beautiful man on the planet, too beautiful for the little people below, too beautiful for me.

Oh my gosh, we GET IT, ANA. You’re fucking hideous in the way that only slender, attractive brunettes can be fucking hideous, and that is, NOT AT ALL. Seriously, is this a case of an author trying to foster good will  for an intolerable character by inserting imagined flaws, or is this just straight up Mary Sueism? I can’t even tell anymore.

Despite the fact that Ana is officially the Hunchback of The Escala, Chedward clears his morning schedule, and asks his assistant (who is probably evil and blond and also blonde, did we mention blonde?) to get him an extra ticket for an event on Saturday. But the conversation goes like this:

“When will you be back from Georgia?” he asks. 

“Friday.” 

He resumes his phone conversation. 

Wait, wait. Since when is Ana going to Georgia? She hadn’t even made up her mind in the last chapter. She told her mom she wasn’t sure about visiting. Does she have plane tickets? Has she packed? Seriously, since when has this plan been cemented to such a point that she can say with confidence when she’s leaving and when she’s returning? I guess since this is a detail that doesn’t involve things going into or coming out of Ana’s vagina, the reader isn’t supposed to care.

When he gets off the phone, Ana fully tongue kisses him, and she hasn’t even used his toothbrush yet. So, of course they’re going to have sex. Christian flings everything off his desk, because billionaires don’t have to work or anything, and then, with no foreplay what so ever, this happens:

“You want it, you got it, baby,” he mutters, producing a foil packet from his pants pocket while he unzips his pants. Oh Mr. Boy Scout. He rolls the condom over his erection and gazes down at me. “I sure hope you’re ready,” he breathes, a salacious smile across his face.

Okay, of course she’s ready. Ana is Action Vagina Woman, able to hump tall erections in a single bound. But what I like about that paragraph is that Chedward was in his home office, working, and he had a condom on him. Just in case someone wandered in and fucked him. And Ana, having seen Hot Hilda Housefrau out there, she doesn’t go, “Maybe he had that condom on him because of her.” No, obviously that condom was meant for Ana. It’s stuff like cleaning the kitchen and offering to make breakfast that creates suspicion.


Anyway, back at Christian’s desk:

Wrapping my legs around his waist, I hold him the only way I can as he stays standing, staring down at me, gray eyes glowing, passionate and possessive. He starts to move, really move. This is not making love, this is fucking – and I love it.

Until I read this book, I didn’t realize that I was making love wrong. Thank god for this sexual intervention, because when my husband and I make love, we move. Like, we really move. All this time, I thought we were physically expressing our romantic feelings for each other, and we were just fucking. Next time, we’ll stay as still as possible.

“Come on, baby, give it up for me,” he cajoles through gritted teeth – and the fervent need in his voice – the strain – sends me over the edge.

Look at those em dashes. That sentence is like a fucking Russian doll, something inside of something inside of something.

I cry out a wordless, passionate plea as I touch the sun and burn, falling around him, falling down, back to a breathless, bright summit on Earth. He slams into me and stops abruptly as he reaches his climax, pulling at my wrists, and sinking gracefully and wordlessly onto me.Wow… that was unexpected. I slowly materialize back on Earth.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” he breathes as he nuzzles my neck. “You completely beguile me, Ana. You weave some powerful magic.” He releases my wrists, and I run my fingers through his hair, coming down from my high. I tighten my legs around him.“I’m the one beguiled,” I whisper.

I’m the one nauseated, in case anyone is keeping score at home. How is Ana “beguiling”? Everything Christian has seemed to like about Ana so far has been that he thinks she’s easy to control and she’ll be a good sub. There is no connection between these characters. There is no reason for them to like each other, or be attracted to each other. All through the entire story, they’re like a Barbie and Ken doll being smashed together by a sexually precocious child. Sorry, no, I guess Ana would be Theresa, Barbie’s hideous brunette friend.

“Are you sore?” he asks, leaning over me.“A little,” I confess.“I like you sore.” His eyes smolder. “Reminds you where I’ve been, and only me.”

Hey, Christian? Zebra Historical Romance circa 1987 called. They need you back there, ASAP.

Ana realizes that Christian has probably had sex on his desk before, and that makes her… not real thrilled. She goes to have a shower, but first, she has to agonize over inane details:

“I’ve got a couple more calls to make. I’ll join you for breakfast once you’re out of the shower. I think Mrs. Jones has laundered your clothes from yesterday. They’re in the closet.”What? When the hell did she do that? Jeez, could she hear us? I flush.

I like how Ana finds it totally absurd that a housekeeper would do the laundry. Yes, Ana. She did it because she could hear you. Or, here’s a thought, she did it because Christian was up before you and asked her to when she came in to do her job which specifically includes menial chores like laundry.


Because nary a scene can go by without angst, Ana decides Christian is acting “weirder than usual.” How can she tell? The guy is fully time weirdo. I never saw Master of The Universe on fanfiction.net, because I’m not into Twilight fandom, but I can guarantee the summary had the words “angst” and “hurt/comfort” in it. I would bet money. Actual money.

Ana is stunned to find that the housekeeper is still there (that bitch), and she’s super embarrassed, so she hauls ass into the shower, where she thinks about… really, the only thing Ana ever thinks about:

In the shower, I try to figure out what’s up with Christian. He is the most complicated person I know, and I cannot understand his ever-changing moods. He seemed fine when I went into his study. We had sex… and then he wasn’t. No, I don’t get it. I look to my subconscious. She’s whistling with her hands behind her back and looking anywhere but at me. She hasn’t got a clue, and my inner goddess is still basking in  remnant of post-coital glow. No – we’re all clueless.

I towel-dry my hair, comb it through with Christian’s one and only hair implement, and put my hair up in a bun. Kate’s plum dress hangs laundered and ironed in the closet along with my clean bra and panties. Mrs. Jones is a marvel.

Oh, so when she’s just hanging around Christian’s house, being all slutty and MILFy, doing shit like offering to cook you breakfast, she’s a blonde devil, but when she’s done your laundry, she’s all good. I’ll add that to my running tally of ways to be a good friend to Ana Steele.

So, overdressed in Kate’s outfit, Ana goes out to the kitchen to fight with Christian over whether or not she’ll eat breakfast. He tells Mrs. Jones to make her pancakes and bacon and eggs, and he’s just going to have an omelet with some fruit. Maybe Christian likes his ladies on the hefty side, then?

While Mrs. Jones cooks (hey, wait, Mrs. Jones… wait a minute… did Elsa not die in that crevasse, as we were led to believe by Mr. Spielberg?), Chedward and Ana discuss whether or not she has a plane ticket for Georgia (he actually says “air ticket” but I’m bored of pointing out how British these all-American kids sound), and she doesn’t. She’s just going to buy it on the internet. Because unemployed, fresh-out-of-college kids have enough money to buy a last minute flight cross-country. Happens all the time. It’s cool, though, because Christian, the billionaire who never actually does anything to earn his money, has a jet he’d like to offer her. She turns him down (no one has ever said no to him, remember?) and then he wants to know where she’s interviewing for jobs. She won’t tell him (no one ever says no). They eat and discuss her trip a bit more, and he threatens to track her phone, and then they talk about whether or not they’ll miss each other while she’s away:

How could he mean so much to me in such a short time? He’s got right under my skin… literally.

Figuratively, I believe, is the word you’re trying to use. Unless he gave you scabies. And the reason he means so much to you is because he forced intimacy between the two of you. Oh, and because the author desperately wants the reader to believe there is some sort of blistering connection between the two of them despite them having nothing in common besides physical intimacy. Then, it’s on to a job interview.

It is late afternoon, and I sit nervous and fidgeting in the lobby waiting for Mr. J. Hyde of Seattle Independent Publishing. This is my second interview today, and the one I’m most anxious about. My first interview went well, but it was for a larger conglomerate with offices based throughout the US, and I would be on of the many editorial assistants there. I can imagine being swallowed up and spat out pretty quickly in such a corporate machine.

Gosh, I hope you conveyed that to them during the interview.

The receptionist is a young African-American woman with large silver earrings and long straightened hair. She has a bohemian look about her, the sort of woman I could be friendly with. The thought is comforting. Every few moments, she glances up at me, away from computer and smiles reassuringly. I tentatively return her smile.

Ana, your white guilt is showing. “See, I’m not racist! I imagine that I could be friends with a black person! Look at me! I love black people!” And all the whole time, that poor receptionist is looking up, smiling, thinking, “Why is that girl staring at me? Is she still… she is. She’s still staring at me. God, I hope they don’t hire her, she is creeping me out.”

My flight is booked; my mother is in seventh heaven that I am visiting; I am packed, and Kate has agreed to drive me to the airport. Christian has ordered me to take my BlackBerry and the Mac. I roll my eyes at the memory of his overbearing bossiness, but I realize now that’s just the way he is. He likes control over everything, including me.

Well, if that’s just the way he is, that’s okay then, I suppose?  “It’s okay, he just likes controlling every aspect of my life and totally negating any sense of personal agency I might have. It’s cool.” This fucking guy.

Another lady with unblonde hair comes out to get Ana, and she can’t tell her age, because she might be in her late thirties, or possibly her forties, and “It’s so difficult to tell with older women.” Shut the fuck up, Ana. Older women my ass. You’re twenty-two, you shut your mouth before I smack it shut. “older women.” “Forties.” Indeed.

She gives me a polite smile, her cool hazel eyes assessing me. I am wearing one of Kate’s dresses, a black pinafore over a white blouse, and my black pumps. Very interview, I think.

Really? Because the second you say “pinafore” I think “Gothic Lolita.”

I launch into details of my librarianship at the campus central library, and my one experience of interviewing an obscenely rich despot for the student magazine. I gloss over the part that I didn’t actually write the article. I mention the two literary societies that I belonged to and conclude with working at Clayton’s and all the useless knowledge I now possess about hardware and DIY.

I know that when I interview for a job, the first thing I do is blindly tell my prospective employers that I find knowledge gained via life experience totally fucking useless. But somehow, Ana kind of aces the interview. She doesn’t like Jack Hyde, the guy who interviews her, because he’s not down with classic literature. I think she’s going to be disappointed by the publishing industry as a whole. I’m not saying that people who work in publishing don’t read or enjoy classic literature, but it’s not like they’re going to make any money off it, so why would they sit around talking about it all the time? Of course they’re going to want to discuss contemporary writers. I sit here, thinking meanly that I would not hire her because she’s a snob.

Ana’s flight doesn’t leave until night time, so she comes home to find Kate looking gorgeous again, unpacking boxes because Ana has been way too busy having sex with her boyfriend to get their new apartment taken care of. They talk about Ana’s interview, but not for long, because they have to move on to the really important stuff, which is now and forever shall be Christian Grey without end, amen:

“I really like the second place. I think I could fit in there. The guy who interviewed me was unnerving though,” I trail off – shit I’m talking to foghorn Kavanagh here. Shut up Ana!
“Oh?” The Katherine Kavanagh radar for an interesting tidbit of information swoops into action – a tidbit that will only resurface at some inopportune and embarrassing moment, which reminds me.“Incidentally – will you please stop winding Christian up? Your comment about Jose at dinner yesterday was out of line. He’s a jealous guy. It doesn’t do any good, you know.”

You know what, Ana? Say what you fucking mean. Say, “If you make him jealous, he will beat me. Not have consensual BDSM fun times with me, he will beat me out of anger, as he has done in the past.” But that can’t happen. Because even though Kate asks if she’s going to Georgia to escape Christian, even though she offers to be non-judgmental if Ana opens up and tells her what is going on, this is what Ana chooses to share, and how Kate responds:

“Oh, Kate.” I hug her. “I think I’ve really fallen for him.”“Ana, anyone can see that. And he’s fallen for you. He’s mad about you. Won’t take his eyes off you.”I laugh uncertainly.“Do you think so?”“Hasn’t he told you?”“Not in so many words.”“Have you told him?”“Not in so many words.” I shrug apologetically.“Ana! Someone has to make the first move, otherwise you’ll never get anywhere.” What… tell him how I feel?
“I’m just afraid I’ll frighten him away.”“And how do you know he’s not feeling the same?”

Hey, friend. I feel like you might be in an abusive relationship. I’m trying really hard to point that out to you that he’s controlling and scary. You know what I think you should do? TELL HIM THAT YOU LOVE HIM, SO HE CAN TELL YOU THAT HE LOVES YOU AND THEN EVERYTHING WILL BE ALL BETTER.
I’m starting to hate Kate as much as Ana does.
Ana tells Kate that she and Christian don’t talk much, and Kate tells her this:

“That’ll be the sexing! If that’s going well, then that’s half the battle Ana.

What? Sex isn’t half the battle here at all. It’s not even part of the battle. The battle is the part where Ana isn’t allowed to visit her family or speak to her friends without first enduring emotional manipulation and finally acquiescing to some demand from her boyfriend. That is the battle. All of it. Not the sex.

Is Christian afraid of his feelings for me? Does he even have feelings for me? He seems very keen, says I’m his – but that’s just part of his I-must-own-and-have-everything-now – control-freak dominant self, surely. I realize that while I’m away, I will have to run through all our conversations again and see if I can pick out telltale signs.

Oh, gosh, I hope we get to read all about that. I’m certainly not tired at all of the constant loop of Christian Grey playing in Ana’s otherwise empty head.

Because he hasn’t emailed her all day, she sends him an email, sparking an exchange that covers whether or not Mrs. Jones the housekeeper is an ex-sub (she isn’t) and whether or not Ana would consider working for Christian’s company (she won’t). There’s also a lot of talk about tea, because they’re super American, and everyone knows that if there is one beverage associated with America and no other country at all, it’s tea.

Ana goes to the airport, where she finds out that she’s been upgraded to first class, which infuriates her, and the chapter ends.

First of all, yes. The rumors are true. I am one of the 50 Writers on 50 Shades. The book is the brainchild of Lori Perkins and will be out in November, 2012, from BenBella Books. There will be more news to come, I’ll keep you all updated.

So, here we are, near the end of the book, and I’ve got a lot of you leaving comments about how I should read the next two books and blog those, as well.  While I rarely say “never,” things aren’t looking so good on the “read the next two and recap them” front. Not because I don’t love you enough. Because I love myself too much. Writing these recaps is a hell of a lot of work. I had to read the book in the first place. One of the reasons I failed so spectacularly in my short editing career was that I was rubbish at forcing myself to read something I had no interest in, and while there was a certain car-wreck-in-slow-motion quality to reading 50 Shades of Grey the first time, rereading a chapter every few days sometimes requires an elaborate self-bribe. Then, there’s the whole “write things that are kind of snarky, but not as mean as what you really want to say” thing where I’m reining myself in the entire time. I have the willpower of a two-year-old, so every recap is an exercise like unto Hercules cleaning out that stable.

So, as it stands right now, I won’t be recapping books two and three. But who the hell knows. Maybe recapping is like childbirth, and I’ll forget how much it sucked a few weeks later. Maybe my involvement in the 50 Writers on 50 Shades book will force my hand. Right now, though, it looks like the summer is going to be dedicated to my own writing. And possibly reading a book that I want to read. Which excites me more than you could possibly know at this moment.

Oh, and before I get into the recap, I want to say thanks to everyone who has posted a link to my blog anywhere, be it at reddit or Jezebel or on tumblr. The traffic is immense, so people are clicking those links. Your work has not been in vain, and I thank you for your support.

Apparently, E.L. James is considering rewriting 50 Shades from Christian’s POV. This is such a great idea! So original! Never before has an author of a hot bestseller considered such a bold move!

Onto the recap!

We last left Ana and Christian on a journey to a boathouse spanking.

Christian bursts through the wooden door of the boathouse and pauses to flick on some lights.

Christian sets me on my feet on the wooden floor.

The floor is wooden, the door is wooden, everything is wooden. At least it matches the prose.

I don’t have time to examine my surroundings-

Remember the earlier chapters, where I complained about logical disconnect? This one is such a disconnect, it’s a POV skew. Ana doesn’t have time to examine her surroundings, but in the paragraph just above the one containing this line, we get the following, detailed description:

He pauses at the doorway and touches another switch – halogens this time, they are softer, on a dimmer – and we’re in an attic room with sloping ceilings. It’s decorated with a nautical New England theme: navy blues and creams with a dash of red. The furnishings are sparse, just a couple of couches are all I can see.

I don’t even blame E.L. James for this, because it’s something an editor should have caught. There should have been a note in the margin, “If she doesn’t have time to examine her surroundings, how is she describing them in first-person present tense?” It doesn’t make any sense. It’s so brutally infuriating, because stuff like this is happening over and over and over. And this is coming from someone who once edited a book where a minor character’s name changed halfway through the book and I didn’t notice. I’m not even a good editor, and I can catch the problems in this, so what gives? Seriously, WHAT FUCKING GIVES?

I am mesmerized… watching him like one would watch a rare and dangerous predator, waiting for him to strike. His breathing is harsh but then he’s just carried me across the lawn and up a flight of stairs. Gray eyes blaze with anger, need, and pure unadulterated lust.Holy shit. I could spontaneously combust from his look alone. 

“Please don’t hit me,” I whisper, pleading.

Back in the day, I had this friend, we’ll call him Davis (because that is his name). He used to hate when I’d tell a story, because everything would be going along just fine, and I’d get to a natural stopping point, like, “And it was the biggest fish I’d ever caught,” but I’d barrel on past that and add something like, “And then six months later, Jimmy died of a ruptured bowel.” I would ruin the anecdote with some grim detail that added nothing but discomfort and horror to the listener. That is what just happened with that excerpt. The first two paragraphs? Fine. A little trite, and little under-punctuated for my tastes, but all in all, fine, and they get you invested in Ana’s sexual excitement. And then she’s pleading with him to not hit her. I don’t think there is anything less sexy in the world.

His brow furrows, his eyes widening.

How is that even possible? I can only imagine it looks something like this:

He pulls back suddenly, our collective breathing ragged and mingling. My hands drop to his arms and he glares down at me.“What are you doing to me?” he whispers confused.“Kissing you.”“You said no.”“What?” No to what?
“At the dinner table, with your legs.”Oh… that’s what this is all about.

“No one’s ever said no to me before. And it’s so – hot.” His eyes widen slightly, filled with wonder and lust.

Okay, but… Ana has said no to you a lot, Chedward. She said no to the books, to the car, she put up massive resistance about signing the contract… Ana says no to you a lot, but you usually just steamroll over her objections with alcohol or threats. Clearly, the characters and the author did not pay attention to the entire first part of this book. But he’s not just lust-angry (langry?) because she said no to digital penetration five feet from his mother, but because of other stuff, too. Stuff that makes me angry, and not in a “I want to hump you in a boathouse” way:

“I’m mad because you never mentioned Georgia to me. I’m mad because you went drinking with that guy who tried to seduce you when you were drunk and who left you when you were ill with an almost complete stranger. What kind of friend does that?

Excuse me, sir, but aren’t you the complete stranger who took an unconscious woman back to your hotel room? The first time I read this, I thought he was blaming Kate, but on second read I went, “whoa, hold the phone.” Because it was undeniably shitty of Kate to have let Ana get spirited away by a stranger while unconscious. But we can’t put the onus for Ana’s safety in that situation on Jose. Jose wasn’t there when Ana was unconscious, he was there when she was puking and both Chedward and Ana were telling him to leave. We absolutely can hold Jose responsible for assaulting Ana and not taking “no” for an answer. But it takes some incredible balls for Christian to be saying, “Well, that guy is terrible, because he didn’t stop me from taking you out of that club unconscious even though he wasn’t there when it happened. Never mind that I shouldn’t have been doing that in the first goddamned place.“

But Ana doesn’t really object to this twisted logic, because Christian wants to fuck her, and as we all know, Ana is nothing but an open vagina with a bachelor’s in English.

“We don’t have long. This will be quick, and it’s for me, not you. Do you understand? Don’t come, or I will spank you,” he says through clenched teeth.

Holy crap… how do I stop?

Yeah, that’s a good question, when we’re talking about Ana. Am I the only person who finds it a little… I don’t want to say “totally unbelievable”, because I’m sure there is some woman out there who orgasms at the drop of a hat without any prior sexual experience. But I’d go so far as to say that the majority of women did not have the experience that Ana has had in this book, where, without any prior sexual exploration of her own body, orgasm after copious, gushing orgasm, happens from the tiniest touch or a whisper of her name. Seriously, just saying Ana’s name causes her to orgasm in this book. I’m not saying such a state of arousal isn’t possible, I’m just saying that it’s not plausible every single time. And yes, this is fantasy, but the fantasy becomes less enjoyable once the boundaries of incredulity are stretched as thin as a hymen.

This time, though, Ana doesn’t come like an automated orgasm machine. He leaves her unfulfilled, to punish her:

“Don’t touch yourself. I want you frustrated. That’s what you do to me by not talking to me, by denying me what’s mine.” His eyes blaze anew, angry again.

Let’s examine what Christian believes is his:

• The right to sexually humiliate his girlfriend by fingering her in the presence of his entire family and her best friend.
• The right to control who Ana spends time with.
• The right to control whether or not Ana can leave the state.

This guy. This fucking guy.

 Mia comes to the boathouse, and the someone calls her irritating. I’m not sure who, because this is how it’s written:

He turns and raises his eyebrows at me.“Just in time. Christ, she can be really irritating.” I scowl back at him, hastily restoring my panties to their rightful place, and stand with as much dignity as I can muster in my just-fucked state. Quickly, I attempt to smooth my just-fucked hair.

She was just-fucked, in case you missed it. But seriously, who is speaking that dialogue? It seems like something a big brother would say about a little sister, but it’s attached, for some reason, to Ana’s action.

Lots of commenters have pointed out how skeevy it is that there are characters named Ana and Mia in this. If you’re unaware, Ana and Mia are the “friendly” names that very, very sick individuals use to refer to their “friendly” eating disorders. You’ll find these names peppered liberally on Pro-Ana and Pro-Mia websites, where people (usually young girls in their tweens, teens, and twenties) who view their eating disorders as beautiful and positive gather to share tips on how to starve themselves to death. The presence of the names become even more disturbing when you realize that Ana never wants to eat, and Christian constantly pushes her to do so, and all the stuff about Christian having suffered hunger and now his company is feeding starving people in Africa. But I think the names have to be just a horrible coincidence. I don’t think E.L. James actually used them to hurt anyone, or to support the tragedy of Pro-Ana subculture.

And it’s time for a Pride and Prejudice reference:

“But it was tolerable?” he asks softly.I flush.“Barely,” I whisper, but I can’t help my smirk.

Mia tells Ana that Kate and Elliot are going to leave, and comments that they’re just awful for not being able to keep their hands off each other. This is the exact moment Ana becomes a true Mary Sue. Other characters are taking an instant liking to her and complaining about the awful behavior of a character who is behaving exactly as the Mary Sue does. If there were any remaining doubts that this was a fanfic, they have just been blown to smithereens. This is like every Lord of The Rings fanfic where Galadriel’s long lost daughter whines and bitches and has to be saved constantly, and then mid-rescue, Legolas is all, “I love you, because you’re not like other girls, who whine and bitch and have to be saved constantly.”

Sorry, I read a lot of fanfic over the weekend.

Mia thinks something is definitely up, and that makes Ana “blush scarlet”. I’ve actually had people ask if Ana really flushes or blushes as much as she appears to in the excerpts I post. With the exception of the occasional formatting issue (which, btw, totally plagues this post, so sorry for that, blame Blogger), the excerpts I’m posting are straight from the book. I don’t add anything to them. If I was going to add anything, it would be correct punctuation. Ana flushes/blushes that much, and more.

Back at the house, Ana says a tender goodbye to her friend Kate:

“I need to speak to you about antagonizing Christian,” I hiss quietly in her ear as she embraces me.“He needs antagonizing, then you can see what he’s really like. Be careful, Ana – he’s so controlling.” she whispers. “See you later.”I KNOW WHAT HE’S REALLY LIKE – YOU DON’T! – I scream at her in my head. I’m fully aware that her actions come from a good place, but sometimes she just oversteps the mark, and right now so far that she’s into the neighboring state.

Said every woman in every abusive relationship EVER.

I flush, and Christian rolls his eyes again. I purse my lips. Why can he do that when I can’t? I want to roll my eyes back at him, but I do not dare, not after his threat in the boathouse.

I’m not even going to point out why it’s wrong for someone to hit you if you roll your eyes. I’m just going to stop commenting on the abuse at all, really. Because if it isn’t fucking obvious, well…

Ana watches Christian say goodbye to his parents, and then they join Taylor in the car, and Ana brings up how she got invited to the dinner.

“I think that you felt trapped into bringing me to meet your parents.” My voice is soft and hesitant. “If Elliot hadn’t asked Kate, you’d never have asked me.” I can’t see his face in the dark, but he tilts his head, gaping at me.“Anastasia, I’m delighted that you’ve met my parents. Why are you so filled with self-doubt? It never ceases to amaze me. You’re such a strong, self-contained young woman, but you have such negative thoughts about yourself. If I hadn’t wanted you to meet them, you wouldn’t be here. Is that how you were feeling the whole time you were there?” Oh! He wanted me there – and it’s a revelation. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable answering me as he would if he were hiding the truth.

 Yeah, Ana. That’s how things work in real life. People have boundaries. They don’t do things just to even the score between roommates. This is another part that screams Mary Sue to me. We’re constantly told, by Christian, by Kate, by Ana’s dad, by the doctor who sees her just long enough for a pap smear, that Ana is strong, self-contained, bright, smart, mature, etc., but we never actually see her being those things. Ana hasn’t done one smart thing yet. Self-contained? She curled up in the fetal position and cried on the floor of a parking garage. It’s almost like E.L. James thought, “Ah, characterization. That’s when other characters tell the reader what I want them to know about Ana. I’ve solved it!”

“Yes, I thought that. And another thing, I only mentioned Georgia because Kate was talking about Barbados – I haven’t made up my mind.”“Do you want to go and see your mother?”“Yes.”He looks oddly at me, like he’s having some internal struggle.“Can I come with you?” he asks eventually.What!?

If there is one thing, just ONE THING that publishing takes away from the phenomenal success of 50 Shades of Grey, I hope it is that interobangs become acceptable punctuation again.

Ana and Christian have a flirty little conversation about how funny he is (spoiler alert: he’s not) and then things get serious when he asks why she wants to go to Georgia. She wants to think about their relationship. He doesn’t understand why she needs to think about it, because on his end, shit is hunky-dory:

Holy crap. How did this suddenly become such and intense and meaningful conversation? It’s been sprung on me, like an exam that I’m not prepared for. What do I say? Because I think I love you, and you just see me as a toy. Because I can’t touch you, because I’m too frightened to show you any affection in case you flinch or tell me off or worse – beat me?

That’s right. She’s still not viewing this as consensual BDSM. She’s still thinking that if she does something bad, he beats her.

I shrug, trapped. I don’t want to lose him. In spite of all his demands, his need to control, his scary vices. I have never felt as alive as I do now. It’s a thrill to be sitting here beside him. He’s so unpredictable, sexy, smart, and funny. But his moods… oh – and he wants to hurt me. He says he’ll think about my reservations, but it still scares me.

Why does Ana love this guy? I can’t figure it out. All he has done, from the very beginning of this book, is stalk and intimidate her. She can’t just be in love with him because the author says so. That’s not how books work, E.L.

We’re coming near to the end of the bridge, and the road is once more bathed in the neon light of the street lamps so his face is intermittently in the light and the dark.

Oh. Oh please. Please, Ana, it’s all I’ve ever wanted –

 And it’s such a fitting metaphor.

Yes, yes, OH GOD YES.

This man, whom I once thought of as a romantic hero – a brave, shining white knight, or the dark knight as he said.

 YES! YES! A MILLION TIMES YES!

And then she ruins it, because like Britta, Ana is the opposite of Batman:

He’s not a hero, he’s a man with serious, deep emotional flaws, and he’s dragging me into the dark. Can I not guide him into the light?

Remember those universal red flags? “You have the urge to ‘love him into emotional wellness,’ if that were possible.” Just saying.

But of course, her love for him wins out, and she ends up in his lap, making out with him and vowing that she’s going to sign the contract. He tells her to wait until after she gets back from Georgia, and he’s willing to try to be a normal boyfriend for her. He wants her to stay the night with him, and it’s all romance and hearts until they get out of the car and Christian realizes that she’s not wearing a jacket. She’s afraid she’s going to get spanked, and then she’s relieved when she doesn’t.

I gaze up at him in the elevator. I have assumed he’d like me to sleep with him, and then I remember that he doesn’t sleep with anyone, although he has with me a few times.

He has with you a lot of times. I can only think of one time he didn’t sleep with you, and that was when he didn’t take a nap before going to his parent’s house. There is some elevator hanky-panky, and it makes me realize… this is a real building. In a real city. And they’re selling condos there right now to capitalize on the success of the book… and since some crazy woman not only had a replica Twilight wedding, but forced her husband to legally change his last name to Cullen… some deranged 50 Shades fan is going to buy a condo there and fuck in the elevator, making the Escala building #1 on my top ten biohazard sites in the fucking universe.

Ana points out that having sex in bed is “vanilla”, and Chedward tells her that he’s fine with vanilla.

“Since when?”“Since last Saturday. Why? Were you hoping for something more exotic?” My inner goddess pops her head above the parapet.

 Back that shit right up? That bitch has a castle now? Ana, you better get your inner goddess under control before she starts building siege engines.

There’s some dialogue while they go into the bedroom and get Ana naked, and then it’s all:

“Don’t you want to fuck?” he asks.“No,” I breathe.“Oh.” He frowns.Okay, here goes… deep breath.
“I want you to make love to me.”

This makes Mr. Grey furious. He tells her that touching is a hard limit, and then he’s all, “Just put on this t-shirt and go to bed.” Ana goes to the bathroom and checks herself out in the mirror.

 After all that I’ve done today, it’s still the same ordinary girl gaping back at me. What did you expect – that you’d grow horns and a little pointy tail? My subconscious snaps at me. And what the hell are you doing? Touching is his hard limit. Too soon, you idiot, he needs to walk before he can run. My subconscious is furious, medusa-like in her anger, hair flying, her hands clenched around her face like Edvard Munch’s Scream.

What do Medusa and the guy in The Scream have in common? THEY DON’T HAVE FUCKING HAIR, ANA. That’s like, Medusa 101, okay?

 Ana realizes that she’s rushing him, because you know, that’s too much intimacy to expect from a guy who thinks it’s acceptable to stick his fingers in your hooey at dinner with his parents. Too much intimacy to touch him, but she does use his toothbrush again. And Christian catches her this time.

Christian stands in the doorway, his PJs hanging off his hips – in that way that makes every little cell in my body stand up and take notice. He’s bare-chested, and I drink him in like I’m crazed with thirst and he’s clear cool mountain spring water.

This book brought to you by Evian.

He gazes at me impassively, then smirks and comes to stand beside me. Our eyes lock in the mirror, gray to blue. I finish with his toothbrush, rinse it off, and hand it to him, my look never leaving his. Wordlessly, he takes the toothbrush from me and puts it in his mouth. I smirk back at him, and his eyes are suddenly dancing with humor.“Do feel free to borrow my toothbrush.” His tone is gently mocking. 

Of all the things that I consider “okay” to hit another person for, and he doesn’t use the opportunity. Let this be a warning to anyone thinking about spending the night at my house: if I walk in on you using my toothbrush, I will punch you in the face.

Again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again…

Ana asks Christian how he would feel if she told him he couldn’t touch her, and he tells her that he had a fucked up childhood, but he doesn’t want to talk about it because basically he doesn’t want to burden her with how terrible it was. Ana argues that she wants to know him better, and he’s all, “‘You know me well enough.'” So then Ana realizes she has some bargaining power. If he tells her what she wants to know, he can spank her. He tells her it doesn’t work that way. And really, how could she not expect that answer. It’s Grey’s way, or the highway. But he goes for it, and brings out the Ben Wa balls. He puts them in her mouth first, then in his, because double spit lubrication all the way:

Fuck, this is sexier than the toothbrush.

Anything, Ana, literally ANYTHING is sexier than using another person’s toothbrush.

 So, he puts the Ben Wa balls in her and asks her to get him a glass of water, and then he makes her ask him to spank her, and she does. And then he spanks her, and of course it’s mind-blowing and erotic, and then he takes the balls out and they have sex. I would excerpt some of it here, but it’s all the same words as she used in the rest of the sex scenes. Then he rubs lotion on her butt and we get the weirdest fucking pillow talk I have ever read in my entire life:

Careful not to touch my stinging behind, we are spooning again. He kisses me very softly beside my ear.“The woman who brought me into this world was a crack-whore, Anastasia. Go to sleep.”

Right, because it’s super easy to sleep after your boyfriend calls his biological mother a crack-whore. He tells Ana that his mom died when he was four, and he doesn’t really remember much.

And I slip into a dazed and exhausted sleep, dreaming of a four-year-old, gray-eyed boy in a dark, scary, miserable place.

Sweet dreams, Ana! 

He didn’t know her, and it didn’t make sense. And he was petrified.What would happen, when they were alone? How would he talk to her, calm her? What if he was being had, and she didn’t want this at all? How could he trust that anything that man downstairs had said?What if she was simple?

So, there you have it. The very first look at Silent Surrender. 


However, I always hate trying to tag people for these things. I don’t mind when people tag me, but I’m convinced that everyone hates me when I tag them, and I’m destroying the lives of everyone around me. Remember what I said about being socially awkward? Rather than tag people, I just encourage all of you to do this. Published, prepublished, fanfic writer, I don’t care. Do this on your blog and post a link in the comments. Let’s make this interactive.

Due to my daughter’s illness, I totally forgot to draw the winner of Bride of The Wolf last Saturday! Now, my daughter isn’t better yet, but she is sleeping, and that’s nearly as good. I pray no one you love ever gets this horrible illness. Not because it’s serious or anything, because it’s not. It’s just made this kid insanely bitchy.

Hey guys! I may have mentioned before that I have, like, smaller humans who live with me, and they’re kind of needy at times. Well, one of them got sick over the weekend, and it took a while to figure out what’s going on with her, but long story short, she’s got a wicked case of Fifth’s Disease, and thrush, which is just a fancy way of saying “yeast infection,” and yes, it’s down there, too, so the bottom line is, everyone in this house is suffering her wrath. Hence the lack of blog updates.

So, to recap, I haven’t abandoned you, I’m caring for my sick child. Please be patient (at least, more patient than a three-year-old with her first yeast infection) and recaps will resume as soon as humanly possible.

I remember the exact moment I realized that I knew how to read.

According to my grandmother, I could read when I was four years old. I don’t know if that’s necessarily right. I don’t remember doing a lot of reading. Maybe I could read a few words here and there, and memorize the books she read me. There was one in particular that I wanted every single night. It was one of those Disney book club books that you got through the mail, and it was about Scrooge McDuck. I don’t remember the story or anything, but I do remember that Scrooge McDuck was my fucking idol. The guy lived like he was tied to a shoestring budget, but he had a vault so full of money that he could swim in it. I loved that book. Another one I loved was about Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby, which my sweet and well-meaning grandmother unfortunately read to me in what may go down in history as the most offensive accent the world has ever known.

Anyway, according to my grandmother, I could read at age four. I call baloney, because I remember the exact age when I learned to read, and it was six. I know, it’s cool to say you were reading Shakespeare at age three, but I was six, and I wasn’t even in the top reading group in my class. But I remember we got our reading book, and it was a skinny paperback book that was perfectly square. The cover was green, with lighter green printing, and a picture of what I believe was a dog house. Maybe I’m just confusing this with the fact that the first story in the book was about a dog, but whatever. I had such anxiety about being handed that book, because I didn’t know how to read. I knew how to recognize a few words, like “gas” and “food” when we were in the car, but I didn’t know how to read. Only grownups knew how to read.

Try and think back to when you didn’t know how to read, and what reading seemed like to you. I remember that written words looked a certain way. Now, I can’t imagine what they looked like before I knew how to read them. But reading was definitely an intimidating thing back then. Grown ups were like gods, because they knew how to read and reading was the key to so much stuff. You had to read the directions on the pudding box. You had to read the TV Guide. You had to read the mail. Reading is involved in so many activities.

So, I sat there with my little book, and I opened the cover and hesitantly started looking on the first page for words I knew. A. I knew A, it wasn’t really a word, just a letter. Dog. Well, obviously I knew Dog, but only because I memorized it. I wasn’t actually reading. In. Yup, I knew In. Wait a minute…

By the end of my second page, I stopped reading and just stared at the page. And my little six year old head held just one, profanity laden thought:

Holy shit. I can read!


I will never forget how awesome that feeling was. I could read. It was all going to be downhill from there, because I could read. In the end, maybe that’s what we’re all looking for when we pick up a book. Reading is like a drug addiction, we’re always chasing that greater high, trying to find a book that makes us feel as awesome as our favorites did. And I think that feeling is probably inspired by how we felt the very first time we realized that we had become readers.

Today is the last day of school, and my daughter’s preschool class is celebrating this by having a pancake breakfast. I know that other parents have no problem showing up and interacting with the children and families, but I always feel like I’m wearing a big neon sign that flashes “CRIPPLINGLY AWKWARD.”

A lot of this is my fault. I like to think I’m really good at aping normal human behavior. I am not. For example, if there three people standing in a social area, and one of those people is me, inevitably I will become confident enough to go a step beyond nodding and smiling, at which point I will interject something into the conversation. This remark will be totally innocuous and completely on topic, something like, “This dip is really good,” or, “Cameron Diaz was so funny in that movie!” but the other two people will stare at me, looking horrified and offended, like I just shouted, “I love Hitler! Let’s dress up like Hitler! Let’s find Hitler’s bones and we can all clone Hitler!”

I don’t know what it is I do wrong, therefore I have no way to correct it, so I end up generally avoiding other people entirely, unless they are known and trusted. But sometimes, you have to go out and consume, generally goods for your daily living needs, or services from people who know how to fix stuff that is broken on you or things that you own. This happened to me yesterday.

AT THE FAST FOOD DRIVE THRU:


Speaker: Welcome to [fast food place], would you like to try a cherry berry chiller today? Order when ready.

Me: I would emphatically not like to try a cherry berry chiller today. I will have… uh… I’m gonna… listen, I am just completely unprepared for this whole thing right now.

EMAILING MY CAR’S MANUFACTURER


Me, via email form: I have a 2006 [car model], the kind where the seat belts come out of the top of the seats. They cut into your neck if you have to make a hard stop. I’m afraid I’m going to get decapitated in the event of an accident. Is there any way to fix this short of wearing a metal collar or never driving again?

Ten minutes later…

Me: They haven’t emailed me back yet.

Husband: It’s only been ten minutes.

Me: This is about my head not coming off. You’d think they would make it a priority!

Ten more minutes later…

Me: They are being awfully cavalier about my head re: its attachment to my body.

The good news is, they’re going to apparently call me today with a solution re: my seat belt, but I’ll probably just mess that up, too, as I am utterly hopeless at human interaction.

Here are some links you may find amusing, as recommended by commenters/emailers/twitterers/that creepy guy at the gas station who always hangs out around the air compressor but never seems to have anything in need of inflating:

11 Things About 50 Shades
50 Shades of Blue with Selena Gomez (I may have linked to this before)
The 50 Worst Synonyms in 50 Shades of Grey

Let’s do this thing. We’re nearly at the finish line.

Ana wakes up to Christian kissing her on the head.

“We have to leave in half an hour for dinner at my parents.” He’s amused.

Well, Mr. Grey, it is not amusing to be woken up from a long nap only to find that you don’t have enough time to pull yourself together. We already know she’s got major problems with her hair, and you allotted only thirty minutes for her to talk to us about it while frowning in the mirror and hating all the pretty girls? You don’t know Ana at all, do you, Mr. Grey?

I’m refreshed but suddenly nervous. Holy cow, I am meeting his folks! He’s just worked me over with a riding crop and tied me up using a cable tie which I sold him, for heaven’s sake – and I’m going to meet his parents. It will be Kate’s first time meeting them too – at least she’l be there for support.

Ah, shittyfriend!Ana. How good it is to see you again. Kate will be there to support Ana. Of course she will! It’s not like she might be nervous and in need of some support, herself. No, she won’t be, because the relationship between Kate and Elliot isn’t important, just the relationship between Ana and Christian. She’ll have to be supportive, because Ana is the heroine. I also really enjoy the part where Ana is ruminating on how she sold Christian the cable ties. How are the Greys going to know this? I’m kind of imagining Mrs. Grey asking, with a martini glass paused half-way to her lips, “Ana, I understand you worked in a hardware store. Tell me, did my son buy any hardware for deviant sex purposes?”

Where are my panties? I check beneath the chair. Nothing. Then I remember – he squirreled them away in the pocket of his jeans. I flush at the memory, after he, I can’t even bring myself to think about it, he was so – barbarous. I frown. Why hasn’t he given me back my panties?

 Is “barbarous” the word choice we’re going for here? Because slowly sliding off your panties and then sniffing them doesn’t seem barbaric at all. I mean, when I think barbaric, I think…

I don’t really think…

I steal into the bathroom, bewildered by my lack of underwear. While drying myself after my enjoyable but far too brief shower, I realize he’s done this on purpose. He wants me to be embarrassed and ask for my panties back, and he’l either say yes or no. My inner goddess grins at me. Hell… two can play at that particular game. Resolving there and then not to ask him for them and not give him that satisfaction, I shall go meet his parents sans culottes. Anastasia Steele! My subconscious chides me, but I don’t want to listen to her – I almost hug myself with glee because I know this will drive him crazy.

First of all, who is bewildered by not wearing underwear? Did she forget how to walk without panties on? Second, no, two cannot play at this particular game, Ana, unless you’ve got a pair of his underwear stashed away somewhere. Are you really going to go into a high-stress situation like meeting your boyfriend’s parents without any underwear on? Come on, lady, this is a time when you’re supposed to feel secure and confident, at least about your appearance, because you’re not going to feel that way about literally anything else all night long. No one wants to walk into the lion’s den without panties on.

Oh, it will impress your boyfriend, you say? Well, carry on, obviously.

Back in the bedroom, I put on my bra, slip into my dress, and climb into my shoes. I remove the braid and hastily brush out my hair, I then glance down at the drink he’s left.
It’s pale pink. What’s this? Cranberry and sparkling water. Hmm… it tastes delicious and quenches my thirst.

This book brought to you by the cranberry growers of New England.

You know, I bet after all this time, you’re wondering to yourself, “Jen, you haven’t mentioned anything about Chedward’s pants hanging off his hips in that way in quite some time. Surely, this is an error.” No, seriously, it didn’t come up again… until right now:

Christian is standing by the panoramic window, wearing the grey flannel pants that I love, the ones that hang in that unbelievably sexy way off his hips, and of course, a white linen shirt. Doesn’t he have any other colors? Frank Sinatra sings softly over the surround sound speakers.

So, there you go, dear reader. His pants are finally hanging off his hips in that way again. And do you like the music? We once again hear about a piece of music Christian listens to, and have a conversation about how eclectic his tastes run, because the narrative would surely suffer without such a discussion.

Frank starts crooning… an old song, one of Ray’s favorites. ‘Witchcraft.’ Christian leisurely traces his fingertips down my cheek, and I feel it all the way down there.

She just had an orgasm from being smacked in the clit with a riding crop over and over while her hands were shackled to the ceiling, but it’s still her “down there.” Plus, let me just point out, in case you missed it because you have boundary issues: gross, it’s not okay to think, “Oh, this is my dad’s favorite song I am so horny.” Or maybe it is. Maybe I just don’t have a good relationship with my father.

Ana and Christian dance for a few paragraphs, and of course his effortless grace means she moves like a pro, too, but before the number pops up so I can vote for them, Christian is all, “Shall we go and meet my parents?” and then tries to prompt Ana into asking for her panties back. Ana doesn’t bite:

“Okay. If that’s the way you want to play it, Miss Steele.” He grabs my hand, collects his jacket which is hanging on one of the barstools, and leads me through the foyer to the elevator. Oh, the many faces of Christian Grey. Will I ever be able to understand this mercurial man?

You seem to have him figured out pretty well, if you managed to suss out the underwear thing. Or have you?

I peek up at him in the elevator. He’s enjoying a private joke, a trace of a smile flirting with his beautiful mouth. I fear that it may be at my expense. What was I thinking? I’m going to see his parents and I’m not wearing any underwear. My subconscious gives me an unhelpful I told you so expression. In the relative safety of his apartment, it seemed like a fun, teasing idea. Now, I’m almost outside with No Panties! He peers down at me, and it’s there, the charge building between us. The amused look disappears from his face and his expression clouds, his eyes dark… oh my.

You fear that his private joke may be at your expense? I thought you were all smug about having figured it out. And duh, what did you think was going to happen when you left for dinner? That panties would materialize over your bits through sheer force of winning the game? Now, here is an interesting thing that comes up in the next paragraph. She gets into the car without exposing herself, and she’s thankful that Kate’s dress is so clingy and comes to the tops of her knees. If you are not a woman or you just don’t give a shit about getting dressed, you might not be hip to this awesome trick that we have. If a dress is clingy, you’ll probably have a panty line. So, in a lot of cases, women in clingy dresses will opt for no panties at all. What Ana is doing isn’t really that scandalous. It only becomes scandalous when Britney Spears or Paris Hilton or La Lohan are too coked out to keep their knees together getting out of the damned car. Something tells me you’ll be fine, Ana.

On the drive to his parents’ house, Ana notices that Christian has become withdrawn. She tries to pry some conversation out of him by asking how he learned to dance, and he tells her that it was “Mrs. Robinson,” the woman who raped him for six years beginning at age fifteen. Ana wonders if Christian was a different person before Mrs. Rapistson, and if so, was he a better person? Would he have gotten into BDSM without her influence?

I realize, in that moment, that I hate her. I hope that I never meet her because I will not be responsible for my actions if I do. I can’t remember ever feeling this passionately about anyone, especially someone I’ve never met. Gazing unseeing out of the window, I nurse my irrational anger and jealousy.

If your anger was directed at the fact that this woman straight up raped him, then it would be totally rational, Ana. But Ana isn’t mad that someone raped Christian, just that someone turned him on to BDSM, ruining him in her eyes. Because the most important person in this story is Ana.

Ana thinks about the afternoon and the fact that Christian was obviously going easy on her. She decides that she would do that all again, if it’s the only way to be with him. “That’s the bottom line. I want to be with him.” Good, then we won’t have to listen to any more rumination on that particular point, thank God.

His world indeed, and I want to belong in it, but on his terms? I just don’t know.

Ugh, Ana, you just told us on the last page that you totally would do anything to be with him. One of the things that drives me crazy in this book is the way the heroine will come to a final decision on something, then immediately turn it around and go, “No, just kidding, let’s have long thoughts about this again.” I realize that coming from me, the writer who pushed a heroine’s indecision out for four fucking novels, this is a laughable complaint. But it’s not like she’s deciding in one chapter that she’s okay with the situation, then changing her mind in the next chapter. Her flips and flops come paragraphs apart, and all they seem to do is take up space to indicate some long, tedious period of travel time. This book could have been a hundred pages shorter if every car or helicopter ride were just written as transitions, not their own scenes full of Ana’s conflicted feelings.

They arrive at the Cullen house, which is not all glass and white, because that’s Edward’s Christian’s apartment in this book. Instead, it’s a colonial-style mansion with roses around the door.

“Are you ready for this?” Christian asks as Taylor pulls up outside the impressive front door.
I nod, and he gives my hand another reassuring squeeze.
“First for me too,” he whispers, then smiles wickedly. “Bet you wish you were wearing your underwear right now,” he teases.
I flush. I’d forgotten my missing panties.

What do you mean, “you forgot?” You were obsessing about them for almost the entire ride. Then you started thinking about your relationship. Is that how all-consuming your love for Chedward is, that you can ignore a cool breeze on your cooch?

The Chevalier Trevelyan-Grey and her husband, Mr. Grey, are on the doorstep waiting, looking blond, which in most cases in this book is code for “evil” but we know that Christian’s parents are totally not evil, even if they did let one of their friends sexually abuse their son for six years when he was a teenager. Christian’s dad’s name is Carrick, a nice, unwieldy stand-in for Carlisle. They exchange a few pleasantries, then Alice shows up. Read this, and tell me if you find this exchange a totally-not-plagiarized-piece-of-original-work:

“Is she here?” I hear a screech from within the house. I glance nervously at Christian.
“That would be Mia, my little sister,” he says almost irritably, but not quite.
There’s an undercurrent of affection in his words, the way his voice grows softer and his eyes crinkle as he mentions her name. Christian obviously adores her. It’s a revelation.
And she comes barreling down the hall, raven haired, tall, and curvaceous. She’s about my age.
“Anastasia! I’ve heard so much about you.” She hugs me hard.
Holy cow. I can’t help but smile at her boundless enthusiasm.

My god, what a staggering work of fiction, to introduce such a sharply defined character as Mia! I bet you could see her in your head instantly. I bet she looked a lot like either Ashley Green, or the way you imagined Alice to look when you read Twilight, am I right? Truly, E.L. James is a master crafter of original, not at all stolen, characters.

No, seriously, if you haven’t notice by now, there is barely any description of any character (besides Edward Cullen) in this book that doesn’t rely entirely on the reader’s familiarity with Twilight. I can predict at least two comments to this entry will be some variation of, “You’re wrong, because I didn’t read Twilight and I read 50 Shades and I totally saw the characters in my mind,” and I’m going to stop you right there and point directly in your face and shout, “WRONG! WRONG WRONG WRONG!” and possibly do a little dance, because I’m a poor winner, at best. Whether or not you read Twilight or have watched the movies doesn’t matter. If you live in the Western world, you know what the cast of Twilight looks like. You know this, because the commercials are everywhere. Their pictures are in magazines. They’re on the side of your Burger King cup. Whether or not you are consciously aware of them, you know what the characters of Twilight look like, just like anyone who hasn’t read or seen Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone knows that Harry has a scarf, an owl, and eyeglasses. The fact that James does little in 50 Shades to describe any character (who is not Chedward the Adonis) beyond “They had blonde hair and looked mean/nice” is because she knew that Twilight and your knowledge of Twilight, willing or unwilling that it might be, would mean that you both knew exactly who she was talking about. Because these aren’t characters of her own invention. They belong to another writer.

Christian has never brought a girl home before, so Mia is really excited (sound familiar?). There is a lot of hugging and kisses on the cheek, and Mia keeps holding Ana’s hand, so it all starts to remind me of that skit on SNL where the family is overly-kissy and it freaks out the girlfriend who is meeting them for the first time. I would put a video here for comedic effect, but I can’t find one, and it’s the little side trips through internetlandia that make these recaps three-hour ordeals for me, so we’ll just keep going. At least Ana notices that it’s a little excessive:

Elliot grasps me in an all-embracing hug. What is this, hug Ana week? This dazzling display of affection – I’m just not used to it.

You and me both, sister. Mr. Grey offers everyone Prosecco, because if a scene passes where Ana doesn’t ingest some kind of alcohol, she might stop functioning.

I flush scarlet, and seeing Kate sitting with Elliot, it occurs to me suddenly that the only reason Christian invited me is because Kate is here. Elliot probably freely and happily asked Kate to meet his parents. Christian was trapped – knowing that I would have found out via Kate. I frown at the thought. He’s been forced into the invitation. The realization is bleak and depressing. My subconscious nods sagely, a you’ve-finally-worked-it-out-stupid look on her face.

I kind of wish I could be Ana’s conscious mind for a minute, to explain to her that no, Christian did not have to invite her. Their relationship is not Kate and Elliot’s relationship, and they don’t have to play keep up with them. Christian and Ana have just started seeing each other. He could have easily said, “I’m not ready to introduce you to my parents,” even though she’s already met his mother. That would have been a perfectly acceptable boundary, from a man who sets all sorts of unreasonable boundaries as effortlessly as sneezing. You know who was trapped into letting someone meet their parent, Ana? You were, at your graduation.

They chit-chat with the parents, and it is revealed that Elliot is going to Barbados with Kate and her family on vacation.

I glance at Kate, and she grins, her eyes bright and wide. She’s delighted. Katherine Kavanagh, show some dignity!

What a strange idea of dignity Ana has, if she believes it’s undignified to be happy that your boyfriend is comfortable and secure enough in your relationship to go on vacation with your family. This falls into the whole “Kate is a dirty, dirty slut for having sex with Elliot and liking it, while I am a paragon of virtue for dreading my orgasms” thing that Ana has going on. But at least we don’t spend a lot of time slut-shaming Kate. We move right on to the next thing that’s going to get Ana spanked and fucked:

“Are you taking a break now you’ve finished your degree?” Mr. Grey asks.
“I’m thinking about going to Georgia for a few days,” I reply.
Christian gapes at me, blinking a couple of times, his expression unreadable. Oh shit.
I haven’t mentioned this to him.
“Georgia?” he murmurs.
“My mother lives there, and I haven’t seen her for a while.”
“When were you thinking of going?” His voice is low.
“Tomorrow, late evening.”

Remember, Ana hasn’t signed that contract yet. There is no reason Christian should assume she’s going to check in with him before going anywhere. And wait, even if she had signed that contract, there’s no reason to assume that, because it’s not legally binding and only a psychopath would assume they should have complete and total control over every facet of another person’s life, unless it’s been granted to them by court order for the individual’s own well-being. Christian’s dad tries to move things along with a toast, but Christian  asks her how long she’s going to be gone for, and when she responds that it’s all up in the air, Kate gets involved:

His jaw clenches, and Kate gets that interfering look on her face. She smiles over-sweetly.
“Ana deserves a break,” she says pointedly at Christian. Why is she so antagonistic towards him? What is her problem?

Well, Ana, let’s look at your relationship from Kate’s pov, shall we?


What Kate has seen of Ana and Christian’s relationship:

• Ana is afraid to call Christian.
• Ana goes to coffee with Christian and comes home crying.
• Christian uses Kate as his errand girl to retrieve Ana for him at graduation.
• Christian sends Ana excessively expensive gifts which make Ana uncomfortable.
• Christian comes over for sex with Ana and leaves her crying.
• Ana expresses only doubts about her relationship with Christian to Kate, shares nothing positive.

Kate and Elliot follow Mr. Grey and Mia out of the room. I go to follow, but Christian clutches my elbow, bringing me to an abrupt halt.
“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?” he asks urgently. His tone is soft, but he’s masking his anger.
“I’m not leaving, I’m going to see my mother, and I was only thinking about it.”
“What about our arrangement?”
“We don’t have an arrangement yet.”
He narrows his eyes, and then seems to remember himself. Releasing my hand, he takes my elbow and leads me out of the room.
“This conversation is not over,” he whispers threateningly as we enter the dining room.

Nitpick! He didn’t have her hand. He was clutching her elbow. With that out of the way, is anyone else now picturing Chedward as the husband from Sleeping With The Enemy?

They go into the fancy dining room and all sit around the table, and despite everyone just having a drink in the living room, Mr. Grey starts passing the red wine around. Mia asks where Ana and Christian met, which leads Mia and Kate into a discussion about the student newspaper, which Ana ignores in favor of wine and begging Christian to not be mad at her. Of course he’s mad at her, and things are about to get a lot worse:

“What are you two whispering about?” Kate interjects.
I flush, and Christian glares at her in a butt-out-of-this-Kavanagh kind of way – even Kate wilts under his stare.
“Just about my trip to Georgia,” I say sweetly, hoping to diffuse their mutual hostility.
Kate smiles, a wicked gleam in her eye.
“How was Jose when you went to the bar with him on Friday?” Holy fuck, Kate. I widen my eyes at her. What is she doing? She widens her eyes back at me, and I realize she’s trying to make Christian jealous. How little she knows. I thought I’d got away with this.
“He was fine,” I murmur.
Christian leans over.
“Palm-twitchingly mad,” he whispers. “Especially now.” His tone is quiet and deadly.

Hey, Kate, if you were really concerned about Christian being a dangerous guy, WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU DO THAT? I’ve gotten some complaints recently that these recaps aren’t funny anymore because I concentrate on the domestic violence aspect too much, but I can’t, in good conscience, ignore this. As Ana Steele might say, my subconscious is very consciously glaring at me over some kind of unattractive eye wear about this one. If you have a friend who is in what you suspect might be an abusive relationship, do not goad the motherfucker she’s dating into giving you visible proof in the form of, say, a black eye. Or a corpse. If Kate really thought Christian was dangerous, why would she try to get Ana “in trouble” with him? This is not sound reason and logic, please, do not apply this in real life.

Enter the Chevalier Grey and another evil!blonde:

Grace reappears carrying two plates, followed by a pretty young woman with blonde pigtails, dressed smartly in pale blue, carrying a tray of plates. Her eyes immediately find Christian in the room. She blushes and gazes at him from under long mascara’d lashes.
What!

Yeah, What! indeed. Listen, you tramp (and I know you’re a tramp, because you’re wearing mascara, and Ana has pointed it out to me), blushing/flushing/going scarlet/going crimson and gazing at Christian from under lashes is Ana’s thing. Stop trying to steal Ana’s thing!

The phone rings, and it’s the hospital for Dr. Grey. The mom, you remember. Because this isn’t Twilight, it’s nothing at all like Twilight and it never had any connection to Twilight. In Twilight, the father was a doctor, not the mother. Totally different.

They tuck into their food (which Ana eats, so we don’t have to read another argument about how she doesn’t eat enough), Chevalier Grey comes back to talk about how kids are getting the measles because people aren’t vaccinating their children, and then the men start talking baseball.

BECAUSE THIS BOOK HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH TWILIGHT.


This gives Ana a chance to think totally normal, healthy relationship thoughts about Christian:

My mind is working furiously. Damn Kate, what game is she playing? Will he punish me? I quail at the thought. I haven’t signed that contract yet. Perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll stay in Georgia where he can’t reach me.

Except for the part where he already told you he’d track you down if you went to Alaska. Ah, romance, and the perfectly acceptable personal boundaries therein.

As dinner goes on, Gretchen, the evil!blond servant, becomes more and more threatening to Ana:

As we finish our starters, Gretchen appears, and not for the first time, I wish I felt able to put my hands freely on Christian just to let her know – he may be fifty shades of fucked-up, but he’s mine. She proceeds to clear the table, brushing rather too closely to Christian for my liking. Fortunately, he seems oblivious to her, but my inner goddess is smoldering and not in a good way.

 Yeah, that’s right! He may be some unwieldy nonsense measurement of abusive pseudo-boyfriend, but he’s Ana’s unwieldy nonsense measurement of abusive pseudo-boyfriend. The dinner conversation turns to talk about Paris, and Christian remembers that Ana would would rather go to London than Paris. This charms her, for about a second, before he skeevily tries to fingerbang her at his parent’s dinner table:

He places his hand on my knee – his fingers traveling up my thigh. My whole body tightens in response. No… not here, not now. I flush and shift, trying to pull away from him. His hand clamps down on my thigh, stilling me. I reach for my wine, in desperation.
Little Miss European Pigtails returns, all coy glances and swaying hips, with our entree, a Beef Wellington, I think. Fortunately, she gives us our plates and then leaves, although she lingers handing Christian his. He looks quizzically at me as I watch her close the dining room door.

I’m not sure where in the scene it was established that Gretchen is European, or that she’s wearing a style of pigtails that could be deemed distinctly European, but let’s just go with it. Ana is already feeling out of place because she’s not well-traveled, so let’s make this evil!blonde a shady foreigner, as well. And if this chick is so obviously coming on to Christian, why hasn’t anyone at the table noticed? Wouldn’t Kate comment on it? Or Mia? They both seem pretty outspoken and observant.

Mia calls her old boss a “domineering tyrant,” which makes Ana choke on her wine, because she can connect literally anything to her sex life with Christian, but at least it makes Christian take his hand off her thigh. They all eat their delicious food, and at one point Mia and Christian converse in fluent French, so you know they’re some fucking classy ass people up in this joint. Christian offers to give Ana a tour of the grounds, and it’s an offer she literally can’t refuse, so they go out into the splendorous backyard, where Christian picks her up over his shoulder and smacks her behind.

Oh no… this is not good, my subconscious is quaking at the knees. He’s mad about something – could be Jose, Georgia, no panties, biting my lip. Jeez, he’s easy to rile.

Which is something you really want to look for in a responsible dominant, am I right? Someone who is going to get irrationally and seriously angry about everything? That’s super safe. Christian tells Ana he’s taking her to the boathouse.

“Why?” I sound breathless, bouncing on his shoulder.
“I need to be alone with you.”
“What for?”
“Because I’m going to spank and then fuck you.”

Ah, the perfect end to the perfect evening, then. And the perfect place to end this chapter recap.

You know what would be awesome? If Victoria and Laurent and that other fucking guy showed up and killed Ana and Chedward in the boathouse. That would be a satisfying read.

Last night, I went out for what should have been a “fun” night. We were going to see a band I liked, the tickets were gifted to us by someone else, the show was at one of the “hot” night spots in Kalamazoo, by all accounts, I should have had a freaking blast. Several factors conspired against me, though, to make me realize that I am impossibly old.

1. The band was so much older than I remember them being. We went to see The Verve Pipe last night. If you don’t remember who they are, they had some hits in the 90’s, like “Hero” and “The Freshmen” and “Photograph”:
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5NHywDctzZI]

They’re what we in the Kalamazoo/Grand Rapids area consider a “local” band who made good and got to the top. I saw them several times when I was in high school, usually alongside acts like “Mustard Plug” and “Bowling For Soup”. Last night, The Verve Pipe sounded just as amazing as I remembered. Maybe even better. But I realized that everyone in the group, literally every fucking one of them, probably had totally normal families at home, probably drove minivans full of beautiful suburban children around, probably played golf. What the fuck had happened to their youth? Worse, what had happened to mine?

2. Comfort is more important to me than it used to be. We got there shortly before the opening act and snagged our seats. By that, of course, I mean that we rushed to the front of the stage to stake out our spots, right? Nope. The venue was at the back of a bar, and while the area in front of the stage was cleared out for people to stand, the perimeter was set up all classy with stone-topped patio tables and thickly cushioned chairs. Guess which seats we took? But only after trying out all the other chairs like the three fucking bears. When a light drizzle started and thickly muscled young men (one of them looked, I shit you not, exactly like Thor) started carrying out the patio umbrellas, we flagged them down immediately. I remember concerts where I stood in the rain for hours, shouting my head off and dancing in the mud. I realized, as we shrilly demanded that the outdoor propane heater beside our table be turned on, that those days are over for me.

3. Wherein lactose intolerance is prematurely diagnosed as alcohol poisoning. There’s a line in a Verve Pipe song that goes, “I’m just a jerk/but a hero’s what I wanna be.” I missed half that song, because I was busy making Wild Bull’s bathroom as unpleasant as possible for anyone who dislikes the sound of violent retching. To amuse myself during the opening act, I slammed back a Long Island. Like, I emptied that thing like a small Coke at McDonald’s. I even used a straw and said, “Whoo hoo!” when I was done. Because I’m young, like the teenager that I used to be. In fairness to myself, I was riding the high of being carded by the bitchy eighteen-year-old who worked the hostess station. Until I pondered the biological feasibility that I could have given birth to her. Then it was time for the serious drinking, hence the Long Island.
When I was in my young and tender twenties, I once walked into a hotel bar during a writing conference. There was an old man there, a sailor attending a reunion with some WWII buddies. I took a seat beside him and ordered two Long Islands, and as the old sailor watched the drink being mixed, he turned to me and said, “Say, you’re not really going to drink that, are you? Did you see what he’s putting in there?” I said, with my liver of iron, “Yes, sir, I am.” And then proceeded to drink the first one while the guy mixed the second one, which I also drank down straight away. As I slammed the second glass on the bar, the old sailor looked at me and said, with no small amount of admiration, “You drink like no woman I’ve ever seen.”
So, why was I on my knees in the the Wild Bull bathroom, yakking my guts out while a bachelorette party tried to politely ignore me, after just one (tiny, overpriced) drink?
“Dude, you’ve got alcohol poisoning,” my cousin, D-Rock, said, with that same admiration. Of course I had alcohol poisoning! I wasn’t about to explore the whys and the wherefores, of course, because I only had one  (tiny, overpriced) drink. I had alcohol poisoning, because I’m a youthful, amazing party animal!
Or not. Because usually, when you throw up whatever you drank, you feel better soon. I did not. In fact, as the night went on, I felt worse and worse. I made the bathroom unpleasant again. I suffered through the rest of the concert with cold chills and roiling stomach, then I came home and made my own bathroom unpleasant. And it was then that my husband began listing off all the dairy products I’d had in the last three days: cheese and crackers, cottage cheese, quinoa mac and cheese, pizza, not to mention my daily dietary shakes, made with fat-free milk, twice a day. I wasn’t puking from my wild night out. I was puking because I’m lactose intolerant.

Nothing in my life has ever made me feel more old than last night made me feel. Last night, I realized that I’m no longer a young, twenty-something party animal. I’m almost thirty-two. I’m still “young” in some respects, but I’m officially an adult. Everything and everyone I love is growing older. It’s no longer fun to barf in bar bathrooms. I get called ma’am sometimes. I think of 8am as “sleeping in” and most of the time, I go to bed at nine. I’m sore, all the time.

But the best part of last night? Literally everyone in the audience was old, too.

Howdy y’all! It’s another glorious Sex Scene Saturday! Today, I’m bringing you BRIDE OF THE WOLF, my paranormal historical romance!

But first, let’s find out who won LONG RELIEF from last Saturday! Chosen by Random.org number generator, the winner is…

She took a breath. Her hands trembled and she clasped them together beneath her cloak. “Then what is next?”

He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressing her fingertips against his lips. “You know,” he said, an echo of the words he’d spoken before, when he’d been unable to say what he truly wished to.

And in response, again, she replied, “I do.”

He kissed her, one arm around her back to support her, and a good thing, too, for she did swoon under his mouth. The taste of spice and ale on his mouth and the sweep of his tongue against hers weakened her knees. She clutched at his shoulders, and he broke apart from her long enough to say, “The bed.”

He advanced on her with kisses and she, giggling, backed away until the low bed hit her ankles and she sat down on the thin straw. He caught her up with one arm and pulled her atop him as he lay down, and she stared into his face, her hair falling around both of them. He scooped some of it back with his thumb to smooth it behind her ear. “Do you still believe what you said this morning?”

She thought back, to when she had told him. That she chose this path, that she trusted him. It was as true now as then. More so, now, for she was no longer trusting him to simply keep her from danger. She trusted him not to put her very heart in peril.

Smiling, she leaned down and brushed her lips across his. “I choose you.”

He leaned up, a hand in her hair to tug her down, crushing their mouths together. Her head reeled. This was another kind of danger, one she had no fear of losing herself in. He moved her to his side, his hands working at the laces of her tattered kirtle.

His hand cupped the base of her skull, brushing over some delightful spot. She gasped and arched her neck, forcing his fingers over that place once more. His fingertips slid through her hair, stroking her scalp with the softest of touches, and she squirmed, her breath caught on a mewling sigh.

His mouth left hers to wander over her cheek, then her jaw, to just beneath her ear, his wicked lips seeking out every bit of flesh he could reach. When his mouth closed over her earlobe, she arched up, unable to stand anymore. Her hands splayed against his chest, her only safe ground in the ocean of fierce sensation drowning her. His hand in her hair, skimming circles over that tremor-inducing place he’d found, brought a high, tight sound from her throat, surprising her. Between her thighs, she throbbed, her most private flesh grown slippery and hot.

She knew, as any maid old enough to bleed knew, how the act was accomplished, but never had she been told that it would be so exhilarating or frightening. Precious inches from losing control completely, she clung to him.

His hands slipped into her open kirtle, running over her spine through her chemise, up and then down, to cup her buttocks through the thin muslin. He pulled her hips forward, and she sat astride him as he worked her dress and chemise up. She raised her arms to help him pull the garments over her head, but reached to cover herself when she was suddenly very naked before him.

A low laugh rumbled in his chest. “I’ve seen you before, you know.”

“That was different.” She couldn’t help her blush, seeing the way his gaze roved over her, as though he were starving for her. Her skin peppered with gooseflesh in the cool room, and he smoothed it away, warming her with his touch on her shoulders, her arms, her waist. She caught his hands in hers, brought them to her breasts. Her nipples hardened beneath his palms as he cupped her flesh.

He sat half up, and she leaned to kiss him again as his hands molded her flesh. Fire swept through her, an arching flame that plunged through her body from his lips, then up again, low in her belly. It left in its wake a need that burned. Her hands delved beneath his doublet, seeking out his skin, and he leaned back, his touching leaving her body for only a moment as he divested himself of the garment.

She rose to her knees and swung her leg off him, sitting beside him on the bed expectantly. “Well?”

With a half-smile, he reached for the laces of his braies. She noticed the tremor in his hands, and that he did not work so quickly as he had at the laces of her kirtle. She brushed his hands aside and unlaced him herself, darting her hand inside the parted cloth, against the coarse gold hair that lead in a line from his navel and disappeared beneath the fabric. His cock leapt at her palm, and she could not help the flush that suffused her face even as she closed her hand around him.

It was a terribly strange thing to her, to hold him in her hand and hear him groan, feel his heart beating under her palm. She’d never touched a man this way before, and it seemed unfair that in her inexperience she wielded so much obvious power over him. Her own pulse throbbed between her legs, and she stroked him, restlessly pressing her thighs together to ease some of the ache there.

He lifted his hips, at the same time gently capturing her wrist and pulling her hand free. He pushed his braies down, and then, in a shock of realization, she knew why he’d hesitated disrobing before. His iron leg, fastened with tight straps to his thigh, was the only thing he wore on that side. On the other, a single leg of hose covered him, and he rolled that off and tossed it aside before reaching to unbuckle the false leg. The woolen bandage that wrapped his stump anchored with a length across his chest and over his opposite shoulder.

His mouth was grim as she watched him unlatch the first buckle, sliding the strap through the metal to free it. “Have you changed your mind?”

She shook her head, but no words came to her. It would not be fair to lie to him, not in this moment, when so much intimacy had already passed between them. To fear his infirmity would be an insult, but she could not help but recoil at the sight of the stump, reddened from the cup of the iron leg, knotted with scarred flesh. He raised up to discard the bandage, and fell back heavily.

When he rolled the iron to the floor, she looked up to find him watching her. He searched for disgust in her expression, and likely he found it. But she could not have him believe her repulsed by him. What was a leg, when compared to the rest of him, as perfect as any man she could have imagined? Words would not do, so she leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of his thigh, near his hip. She did not touch the raw, ruined end of that mangled leg, but she kissed him, and those kisses moved from his thigh to the slight ridges of his stomach, to his chest like stone and the hard bunches of muscle beneath the skin of his arms. She slid her body over his, reveling in the meshing of their skin, the tickle of crisp hair against her breasts.

Raf threaded his fingers in her hair again, pulling to tilt her face toward him. She met his gaze, full of self-loathing and expectation of rejection, and watched it melt into one of wonder. He kissed her, all of the tenderness gone out of him, making way for a brutal passion that she did not resist.

Rolling her to his side, his mouth found her neck, her throat, and she writhed against him, gasping for breath beneath his lips and tongue. His arm around her back held her, though she needed no restraint to keep her at his side. His lips traveled lower, to her breasts, where he sucked one nipple into his mouth. She did arch away from him then, but his grip did not release, and her gasps grew to cries, the fire in her burning harder, heat thrumming through her veins as his tongue swirled over the hard nub.

She hooked her leg over his waist, grinding her hips against his thigh, and he groaned, slipping a hand between them to venture between her legs. When his fingers touched the slick flesh there, another guttural noise sounded from his throat, and she laid back, her legs falling open. He leaned over her, kissing her shoulder, her breast as one rough finger slipped through her cleft. His fingertip brushed the very center of the desire that had been building in her, and she cried out, bucking her hips as he rubbed over and over it. The sensation tightened her muscles, dug her toes into the straw mattress beneath her as she lifted her hips higher.

“Wait,” he whispered, his voice ragged. He pulled her astride him again, and she moaned in despair at the loss of his touch. The tip of his cock touched her, and she rose up on her knees in surprise. He coaxed her down with whispered words, helped her to position herself above him. The head of him brushed her, and she shivered at the ghost of the feeling his finger had roused.

Still, at the very precipice of this intimate mystery, she felt fear. She whimpered as he pushed up, though her body opened to accept him eagerly. Gently, he pulled her down, tearing the barrier of chastity in a moment of pain that clouded her desire. The moment passed, though the pain lingered, and she opened her tightly closed eyes to find him looking up at her, worry in his expression.

“It was nothing,” she managed, choking on a gasp as she slipped farther down, taking him inside of her completely.

“Nothing?” He gave a weary laugh. “That does much for my confidence.”

She wanted to laugh with him, but her body, aflame for so long she feared she might burn up entirely, dictated that she move. She rocked her hips, sobbing aloud at the delicious tug that answered deep within her.

“Perhaps more substantial than nothing?” he asked, and though he tried to sound light and teasing, the tremor in his voice betrayed him. He struggled, just as she did, beneath the relentless battering of need, of desire restrained, and she moved again, thrilling at his wordless exclamation that resulted.

Want to win a story about hot, one-legged werewolf? You know you do. Just leave a comment, with your email address, on this post before 6pm EST next Friday for a chance to win. I’m giving away one copy of BRIDE OF THE WOLF to the lucky winner, who will be drawn at random. If you’re reading this post at GoodReads.com, please click the “More at Jennifer Armintrout’s Website” link at the bottom of the post and leave your comment at my blogger site, because GoodReads sometimes loses comments for me, and I am just sick to my butt when that happens and you miss your chance at the prize.

And after you enter to win, go visit some of these other purveyors of fine booty, who have also posted sexy excerpts today: