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His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his sun lounge, and tosses it at me.

"I was on my front. I must have turned over in my sleep," I whisper weakly in my defense.

I am suddenly very awake, my erotic dream forgotten.

"Put this on!" he hisses.

"Trust me. They're looking. I'm sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying the show!" he snarls.

Holy shit! Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp my breasts in panic, hiding them. Ever since Charlie Tango's sabotaged demise, we are constantly shadowed by damned security.

"Christian, no one is looking."

"Yes," Christian snarls. "And some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot of you, too. Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked this time?"

Shit! The paparazzi! Fuck! As I hurriedly scramble into my top, all thumbs, the color drains from my face. I shudder. The unpleasant memory of being besieged by the paparazzi outside Seattle Independent Publishing after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome to mind -- all part of the Christian Grey package.

"Now?"

"Yes. Now."

Oh shit, he's not to be argued with.

Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops. Once the waitress has left, Christian snatches up his book and BlackBerry and masks his fury behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. He's bristling with tension and anger. My heart sinks. Every other woman on the beach is topless -- it's not that big a crime. In fact, I look odd with my top on. I sigh inwardly, my spirits sinking. I thought Christian would see the funny side… sort of… Maybe if I'd stayed on my front, but his sense of humor has evaporated.

"Too late for that," he says quietly -- too quietly. "Come." Taking my hand, he signals up to Taylor and his two sidekicks, the French security officers Philippe and Gaston. Weirdly, they are identical twins. They have been patiently watching us and everyone else on the beach from the veranda. Why do I keep forgetting about them? How? Taylor is stony-faced behind his dark glasses. Shit, he's mad at me, too. I'm still not used to seeing him so casually dressed, in shorts and a black polo shirt.

"L'addition!" Christian snaps at the passing waitress. "We're going," he says to me.

He pulls on his shorts, even though his trunks are dripping wet, then his gray T-shirt. The waitress is back in a moment with his credit card and the check.

"Please don't be mad at me," I whisper, taking his book and BlackBerry from him and placing them in my backpack.

"Back to the boat." He doesn't look at me.

"Where are we going?" I ask tentatively, gazing up at him.

Christian leads me into the hotel, through the lobby, and out onto the street. He remains silent, brooding and bad-tempered, and it's all my fault. Taylor and his team shadow us.

I have no idea of the time. I think it must be about five or six in the afternoon. When we reach the marina, Christian leads me onto the dock, where the motorboat and Jet Ski belonging to the Fair Lady are moored. As Christian unties the Jet Ski, I hand my backpack to Taylor. I glance nervously up at him, but like Christian, his expression gives nothing away. I flush, thinking about what he's seen on the beach.

"Here you go, Mrs. Grey." Taylor passes me a life vest from the motorboat, and I dutifully put it on. Why am I the only one who has to wear a life jacket? Christian and Taylor exchange some kind of look. Jeez, is he angry with Taylor, too? Christian then checks the straps on my life jacket, cinching the middle one tightly.

He stiffens. "Steady," he says, his tone softer. I kiss his back and rest my cheek against him, looking back toward the dock where a few holidaymakers have gathered to watch the show.

He climbs gracefully onto the Jet Ski and holds out his hand for me to join him. Grasping it tightly, I manage to throw my leg over the seat behind him without falling into the water while Taylor and the twins clamber into the motorboat. Christian kicks the Jet Ski away from the dock, and it floats gently into the marina.

"Hold on," he orders, and I put my arms around him. This is my favorite part of traveling by Jet Ski. I hug him closely, my nose nuzzling into his back, marveling that there was a time when he would not have tolerated me touching him this way. He smells good… of Christian and the sea. Forgive me, Christian, please?

Christian turns the key and the motor roars to life. With one twist of the accelerator, the Jet Ski bucks forward and speeds across the cool dark water, through the marina, and out to the center of the harbor toward the Fair Lady. I hold him tighter. I love this -- it's so exciting. Every muscle in Christian's lean frame is evident as I cling to him.

"You'll do," he mutters sullenly, still not turning to look at me. Shit.

The sea spray is splashing us, the warm wind buffeting my face and flaying my ponytail crazily around me. This is so much fun. Maybe the thrill of this ride will dispel Christian's bad mood. I can't see his face, but I know he's enjoying himself -- carefree, acting his age for a change.

Taylor pulls alongside in the motorboat. Christian glances at him, then accelerates again, and we shoot forward, whipping over the top of the water like an expertly tossed pebble. Taylor shakes his head in resigned exasperation and heads straight to the yacht, while Christian shoots past the Fair Lady and heads out toward the open water.

He steers in a huge semicircle and I study the shoreline -- the boats in the marina, the mosaic of yellow, white, and sand-colored offices and apartments, and the craggy mountains behind. It looks so disorganized -- not the regimented blocks that I am used to -- but so picturesque. Christian glances over his shoulder at me, and there's the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Again?" he shouts over the noise of the engine.

"Two gin and tonics, please. And some nuts and olives," he says to the steward, who nods and quickly vanishes.

"Do you want to?"

"Would you like a drink?" he asks me.

"You think I'm going to punish you?" Christian's voice is silky.

Oh, what is he thinking?

He frowns as if weighing something in his mind.

I nod enthusiastically. His answering grin is dazzling, and he opens the throttle and speeds around the Fair Lady and on out to sea once more… and I think I'm forgiven.

"You've caught the sun," Christian says mildly as he undoes my life vest. I anxiously try to assess his mood. We are on deck aboard the yacht, and one of the stewards is standing quietly nearby, waiting for my life vest. Christian passes it to him.

He cocks his head to one side. "Why would you say that?" His voice is soft.

"Do I need one?"

"You know why."

"Will that be all, sir?" the young man asks. I love his French accent. Christian glances at me, takes off his shades, and slips them into the collar of his T-shirt, letting them hang.

"On what?" He hides his smile.

"I'll think of something. Maybe when you've had your drink." And it's a sensual threat. I swallow, and my inner goddess squints from her sun lounge where she's trying to catch rays with a silver reflector fanned out at her neck.

"If you want to hurt me or not."

"You want to be?"

How does he know? "Depends," I mutter, flushing.

"Yes."

Christian frowns once more.

His mouth presses into a hard line, humor forgotten. He leans forward and kisses my forehead.

"Sit," Christian commands. I do as he says and settle into a director's chair. Christian takes a seat beside me and passes me a gin and tonic.

"How?"

"Anastasia, you're my wife, not my sub. I don't ever want to hurt you. You should know that by now. Just… just don't take your clothes off in public. I don't want you naked all over the tabloids. You don't want that, and I'm sure your mom and Ray don't want that, either."

Oh! Ray. Holy shit, he'd have a coronary. What was I thinking? I mentally castigate myself.

The steward appears with our drinks and snacks and places them on the teak table.

"And like you," Christian whispers and pops an olive into his mouth. I blink rapidly… a vision of him in his tux and silver waistcoat comes to mind… his eyes burning with sincerity as he gazes down at me during our wedding ceremony.

"Who owns this boat?" I ask.

"You'll get used to it."

All mine? "It's odd. Going from nothing to"-- I wave my hand to indicate our opulent surroundings --"to everything."

Christian looks suddenly wary. "Yes."

"Yes."

Oh. "Super-rich?"

Oh.

"Like you," I murmur.

"All that is mine is now yours," he says, his voice ringing out clearly, reciting his vows from memory.

"A British knight. Sir Somebody-or-Other. His great-grandfather started a grocery store. His daughter's married to one of the crown princes of Europe."

"Cheers, Mr. Grey." I take a welcome sip. It's thirst-quenching, cold, and delicious. When I gaze at him, he's watching me carefully, his mood unreadable. It's very frustrating… I don't know if he's still mad at me. I deploy my patented distraction technique.

"Cheers, Mrs. Grey."

Taylor appears on deck. "Sir, you have a call." Christian frowns but takes the proffered BlackBerry.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

"Grey," he snaps and rises from his seat to stand at the bow of the yacht.

"Look at this," squeals Mia as she sets her netbook on the kitchen table in front of us. "There's a gossipy item on the Seattle Nooz Web site about you being engaged, Christian."

"Already?" Grace says in surprise. Then her mouth purses as some obviously unpleasant thought crosses her mind. Christian frowns.

I gaze out at the sea, tuning out his conversation with Ros -- I think -- his number two. I am rich… stinking rich. I have done nothing to earn this money… just married a rich man. I shudder as my mind drifts back to our conversation about prenups. It was the Sunday after his birthday, and we were seated at the kitchen table enjoying a leisurely breakfast… all of us. Elliot, Kate, Grace, and I were debating the merits of bacon versus sausage, while Carrick and Christian read the Sunday paper…

Oh no! A prenup? The thought has never crossed my mind. I swallow, feeling all the blood drain from my face. Please ground, swallow me up now! Christian shifts uncomfortably in his chair as I glance apprehensively at him.

Mia giggles, then stops abruptly as Christian glares at her. Silence descends, and the atmosphere in the Grey kitchen plunges to below zero.

"No," he mouths at me.

Mia reads the column out loud. "Word has reached us here at the Nooz that Seattle's most eligible bachelor, the Christian Grey, has finally been snapped up and wedding bells are in the air. But who is the lucky, lucky lady? The Nooz is on the hunt. Bet she's reading one helluva prenup."

"No prenup!" Christian almost shouts at him and broodingly goes back to reading his paper, ignoring everyone else at the table. They look alternately at me and then him… then anywhere but at the two of us.

"Christian," Carrick says gently.

"I'm not discussing this again," he snaps at Carrick, who glances at me nervously and opens his mouth to say something.

"No!" he snaps. I blanch once more.

How does he know what I'm thinking?

"Christian," I murmur. "I'll sign anything you and Mr. Grey want." Jeez, it wouldn't be the first time he's made me sign something. Christian looks up and glares at me.

"Christian, Ana -- I think you should discuss this in private," Grace admonishes us. She glares at Carrick and Mia. Oh dear, looks like they're in trouble, too.

"It's to protect you."

"Stop it."

Everyone erupts into animated conversation, and Mia and Kate leap up to clear the table.

I stare down at my knotted fingers. Crap. I hope Mr. and Mrs. Grey don't think I'm some kind of gold digger. Christian reaches over and grasps both my hands gently in one of his.

"I definitely prefer sausage," exclaims Elliot.

"Ignore my dad," Christian says so only I can hear him. "He's really pissed about Elena. That stuff was all aimed at me. I wish my mom had kept her mouth shut."

"Ana, this is not about you," Carrick murmurs reassuringly. "And please call me Carrick."

Christian narrows cold eyes at his father and my heart sinks. Hell… He's really mad.

"He has a point, Christian. You're very wealthy, and I'm bringing nothing to our marriage but my student loans."

Christian gazes at me, his eyes bleak. "Anastasia, if you leave me, you might as well take everything. You left me once before. I know how that feels."

He snorts and shakes his head with mock disgust.

"Christian, you know I might do something exceptionally stupid -- and you…" I glance down at my knotted hands, pain lancing through me, and I'm unable to finish my sentence. Losing Christian… fuck.

"Stop. Stop now. This subject is closed, Ana. We're not discussing it anymore. No prenup. Not now -- not ever." He gives me a pointed give-it-up-now look, which silences me. Then he turns to Grace. "Mom," he says. "Can we have the wedding here?"

And he's not mentioned it again. In fact at every opportunity he's tried to reassure me about his wealth… that it's mine, too. I shudder as I recall the crazy shopping fest Christian demanded I go on with Caroline Acton -- the personal shopper from Nieman Marcus -- in preparation for this honeymoon. My bikini alone cost five hundred and forty dollars. I mean, it's nice, but really -- that's a ridiculous amount of money for four triangular scraps of material.

I know Christian is still smarting from his "talk" with Carrick about Elena last night.

Holy fuck! "That was different," I whisper, moved by his intensity. "But… you might want to leave me." The thought makes me sick.

Oh, Fifty, maybe with time. I push the small dish of salted almonds and cashews toward him.

He smirks. "I'm nuts about you." He takes an almond, his eyes sparkling with wicked humor as he enjoys my little joke. He licks his lips. "Drink up. We're going to bed."

"You will get used to it," Christian interrupts my reverie as he resumes his place at the table.

"Used to it?"

"The money," he says, rolling his eyes.

What?

"Drink," he mouths at me, his eyes darkening.

"Your nuts, sir," I say with as straight a face as I can manage, trying to bring some humor to our conversation after my dark thoughts and my bikini top faux pas.

Oh my, the look he gives me could be solely responsible for global warming. I pick up my gin and drain the glass, not taking my eyes off him. His mouth drops open, and I glimpse the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He smiles lewdly at me. In one fluid move, he stands and bends over me, resting his hands on the arms of my chair.

"I'm going to make an example of you. Come. Don't pee," he whispers in my ear.

I gasp. Don't pee? How rude. My subconscious looks up from her book -- The Complete Works of Charles Dickens, volume 1-- with alarm.

"Okay." I place my hand in his, because quite simply, I'd trust him with my life. What has he got planned? My heart starts pounding in anticipation.

"It's not what you think." Christian smirks, holding his hand out to me. "Trust me." He looks so sexy and genial. How can I resist?

He leads me across the deck and through the doors into the plush, beautifully appointed main salon, along a narrow corridor, through the dining room, and down the stairs to the master cabin.

The cabin has been cleaned since this morning and the bed made. It's a lovely room. With two portholes on both the starboard and port sides, it's elegantly decorated in dark walnut furniture with cream walls and soft furnishings in gold and red.

Christian releases my hand, pulls his T-shirt over his head, and tosses it onto a chair. He steps out of his flip-flops and removes his shorts and trunks in one graceful move. Oh my. Will I ever tire of looking at him naked? He is utterly gorgeous and all mine. His skin glows -- he's caught the sun, too, and his hair is longer, flopping over his forehead. I am one lucky, lucky girl.

"These can be quite painful. They can bite into the skin if you pull too hard." He holds up one pair. "But I really want to use them on you now."

Handcuffs! We've never used handcuffs. I glance quickly and nervously at the bed. Where the hell is he going to attach those? He turns and gazes steadily at me, his eyes dark and luminous.

"Here." He stalks gracefully forward and hands me a set. "Do you want to try them first?"

"That's better." He turns and strides over to the impressive armoire that houses his clothes. He produces two pairs of metal handcuffs and an airline eye mask from the bottom drawer.

He holds out his palm, revealing a small metallic key. "This does both sets. In fact, all sets."

How many sets does he have? I don't remember seeing any in the museum chest.

"Where are the keys?" My voice wavers.

They feel solid, the metal cold. Vaguely, I hope I never have to wear a pair of these for real.

Holy fuck. My mouth goes dry.

Christian is watching me intently.

He grasps my chin, pulling slightly so that I stop biting my lip, and runs his thumb along my lower lip.

"Yes," I breathe.

Oh…

What?

"This is not going to hurt. It will be intense. Very intense, because I am not going to let you move. Okay?"

My heart starts pounding. Shit… How can he do this with just words?

"Choose a word, Ana."

Oh my. This sounds so hot. My breathing is too loud. Fuck, I am panting already. Thank heavens I'm married to this man, otherwise this would be embarrassing. My eyes flick down to his arousal.

"Do you want to play?" he says, his voice low, and everything in my body heads south as desire unfurls deep in my belly.

"Popsicle?" he says, amused.

He smiles. "Good." He plants a featherlight kiss on my forehead. "We're going to need a safeword."

"'Stop' won't be enough because you will probably say that, but you won't mean it." He runs his nose down mine -- the only contact between us.

"Okay." My voice is barely audible.

"A safeword," he says softly.

He strokes my cheek with his index finger, trailing it down to my mouth. He leans in as if to kiss me.

"Popsicle," I say, panting.

I do, and Christian grasps the hem of my sundress, lifts it over my head, and tosses it on the floor. He holds out his hand, and I give him back the handcuffs. He places both sets on the bedside table along with the blindfold and yanks the quilt off the bed, letting it fall to the floor.

"Tomorrow, I will staple this to you," he mutters and tugs on my hair tie, freeing my hair. He gathers it into one hand and yanks gently so I step back against him. Against his chest. Against his erection. I gasp as he pulls my head to one side and kisses my neck.

"Turn around."

"Learn to live with it," I breathe. His soft languid kisses are driving me wild. He grins against my neck.

"Yes," I whisper.

"Yes."

He grins as he leans back to gaze down at me. "Interesting choice. Lift up your arms."

"Hmm. What are we going to do about that?"

I turn, and he undoes my bikini top so that it falls to the floor.

"Ah, Mrs. Grey. You are ever the optimist."

"You were very disobedient," he murmurs in my ear, sending delicious shivers through me.

"Now hug your knees."

Moving suddenly, he grabs me by the waist, sits down on the bed, and yanks me across his knee so that I feel his erection pressed against my belly. He smacks my backside once, hard. I yelp, then I'm on my back on the bed, and he's gazing down at me, his eyes molten gray. I'm going to combust.

He straightens. Taking my hair, he carefully parts it into three strands, braids it slowly, and then fastens my hair tie to the end. He tugs my braid gently and leans down to my ear. "I am going to teach you a lesson," he murmurs.

Lifting my right leg, he repeats the process so I have a pair of handcuffs attached to each ankle. I still have no idea where he's going to attach them.

I blink at him, then draw my legs up so they are bent in front of me and wrap my arms around them. He reaches down, lifts my chin, and plants a soft wet kiss on my lips before slipping the blindfold over my eyes. I can see nothing; all I can hear is my rapid breathing and the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the yacht as she bobs gently on the sea.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" He trails his fingertips up my thigh so that I tingle… everywhere. Without taking his eyes off me, he gets up from the bed and gathers both sets of handcuffs. He grasps my left leg and snaps one cuff around my ankle.

"Sit up," he orders, and I comply immediately.

Oh!

Oh my. I am so aroused… already.

"What's the safeword, Anastasia?"

He grasps both of my heels and tips me back so that I fall backward on the bed. I have no choice but to keep my legs bent. The cuffs tighten as I pull against them. He's right… they cut into me almost to the point of pain… This feels weird -- being trussed up and helpless -- on a boat. He pulls my ankles apart, and I groan.

"Popsicle."

"Good." Taking my left hand, he snaps a cuff around my wrist then repeats the process with my right. My left hand is tied to my left ankle, my right hand to my right leg. I cannot straighten my legs. Holy fuck.

What? And all the air leaves my body.

"Now," Christian breathes, "I'm going to fuck you till you scream."

He kisses my inner thigh, and I want to squirm beneath him, but I can't. I have no purchase to move my hips. My feet are suspended. I cannot move.

"You're going to have to absorb all the pleasure, Anastasia. No moving," he murmurs as he crawls up my body, kissing me along the edge of my bikini bottoms. He pulls the strings on each side, and the scraps of material fall away. I am now naked and at his mercy. He kisses my belly, nipping my navel with his teeth.

"Ah," I sigh. This is going to be tough… I had no idea. He traces soft kisses and little bites up to my breasts.

"Argh!" I cry. But I really don't care.

"Shhh…," he soothes. "You are so beautiful, Ana."

I groan, frustrated. Normally I'd be grinding my hips, responding to his touch with a rhythm of my own, but I cannot move. I moan, pulling on my restraints. The metal bites into my skin.

"Christian," I beg and feel his triumphant smile against my skin.

"You drive me crazy," he whispers. "So I am going to drive you crazy." He's resting on me now, his weight on his elbows, and he turns his attention to my breasts. Biting, sucking, rolling my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, driving me wild. He doesn't stop. It's maddening. Oh. Please. His erection pushes against me.

"Shall I make you come this way?" He murmurs against my nipple, causing it to harden some more. "You know I can." He suckles me hard and I cry out, pleasure lancing from my chest directly to my groin. I pull helplessly on the cuffs, swamped by the sensation.

"Oh… please."

"Do you want me, Anastasia?"

"Yes," I whimper.

"Oh no, Ana. You'll feel more this way." And, agonizingly slowly, he flexes his hips and pushes partway into me. I would normally tilt my pelvis up to meet him but I can't move. He withdraws.

"No!"

"Christian!"

"Tell me," he murmurs, his breathing harsh, and he teases me once more -- in… and out.

"Again?" he teases, his voice hoarse.

"I want to see you."

He pushes fractionally into me again, then withdraws while kissing me, his fingers tugging at my nipple. It's pleasure overload.

"Yes," I beg.

"Oh, baby, that would be too easy."

"Shh." His teeth scrape my chin as he trails his lips to my mouth, and I gasp. He kisses me. His skilled tongue invades my mouth, tasting, exploring, dominating, but my tongue meets his challenge, writhing against his. He tastes of cool gin and Christian Grey, and he smells of the sea. He grasps my chin, holding my head in place.

"Still, baby. I want you still," he whispers against my mouth.

"Ah! Christian, please!"

"Tell me."

He slams into me again, thrusting so deep, and I'm building… the feeling is so intense -- it swamps me, spiraling out from deep within my belly, to each limb, to each biting metal restraint.

"Tell me. Why?" he hisses, and I'm vaguely aware that it's through gritted teeth.

"Christian, stop…"

"And have me you will, Anastasia."

He circles deep inside me again, ignoring my plea, easing out slowly and then slamming into me again.

I hear his soft sigh against my ear.

"I want you," I whimper. "Please."

I cry out in an incoherent wail… this is too much.

"Ana, I need to know."

"Why do you defy me, Ana?"

He rears up and slams into me. I scream, tilting my head back, pulling on the restraints as he hits my sweet spot, and I am all sensation, everywhere -- a sweet, sweet agony, and I cannot move. He stills, then circles his hips, and the motion radiates deep inside me.

"I don't know!" I cry out. "Because I can! Because I love you! Please, Christian."

He groans loudly and thrusts deep, again and again, over and over, and I am lost, trying to absorb the pleasure. It's mind-blowing… body blowing… I long to straighten my legs, to control my imminent orgasm, but I can't… I'm helpless. I'm his, just his, to do with as he wills… Tears spring to my eyes. This is too intense. I can't stop him. I don't want to stop him… I want… I want… oh no, oh no… this is too…

"Christian…"

Christian tears off the blindfold and kisses me. He kisses my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. He kisses away the tears, clutching my face between his hands.

I detonate around him, again and again, round and round, screaming loudly as my orgasm rips me apart, scorching through me like a wildfire, consuming everything. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face -- my body left pulsing and shaking.

"That's it," Christian growls. "Feel it, baby!"

And I'm aware that Christian kneels, still inside me, pulling me upright onto his lap. He clutches my head with one hand and my back with the other, and he comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with aftershocks. It's draining, it's exhausting, it's hell… it's heaven. It's hedonism gone wild.

"I love you, Mrs. Grey," he breathes. "Even though you make me so mad -- I feel so alive with you." I don't have the energy to open either my eyes or my mouth to respond. Very gently, he lays me back on the bed and eases out of me.

I mouth some wordless protest. He climbs off the bed and undoes the handcuffs. When I'm free, he gently rubs my wrists and ankles, then lies down beside me again, pulling me into his arms. I stretch out my legs. Oh my, that feels good. I feel good. That was, without doubt, the most intense climax I have ever endured. Hmm… a Christian Grey Fifty Shades punishment fuck.

"I figured since we ate out last night and went to the ballet and the casino that we'd dine on board tonight. A quiet night à deux."

"Just an hour or so."

I grin at him. "Where are we going?"

"Hi," he murmurs, gazing down at me, his eyes warm.

I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it on. Why am I so shy? I feel Christian's eyes on me. When I glance at him, he returns to his laptop, his brow furrowed.

"Hi." I smile, feeling suddenly shy. "How long have I been asleep?"

I really must misbehave more often.

As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at the casino, my robe falls open. I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked.

"Okay." I stretch, feeling stiff. No amount of training with Claude could have prepared me for this afternoon.

"We're moving?"

"Cannes."

Holy fuck! What has he done to me?

A pressing need from my bladder wakes me. When I open my eyes, I'm disoriented. It's dark outside. Where am I? London? Paris? Oh -- the boat. I feel her pitch and roll, and hear the quiet hum of the engines. We're on the move. How odd. Christian is beside me, working on his laptop, casually dressed in a white linen shirt and chino trousers, his feet bare. His hair is still wet, and I can smell his body wash fresh from the shower and his Christian smell… Hmm.