Текст книги "Fifty Shades Freed"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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around me, holding me close.

“We had a wonderful time, thank you.” He brushes his lips against my temple, taking me by surprise.

See . . . he’s mine. Annoying—infuriating, even—but mine. I grin. Right now I really love you, Christian Grey. I slip my hand around his waist then into his rear

pocket of his pants and squeeze his behind. Gia gives us a thin smile.

“Have you managed to look over the plans?”

“We have,” I murmur. I gaze up at Christian, who grins down at me, one eyebrow raised in wry amusement. Amused at what? My reaction to Gia or me

squeezing his butt?

“Please,” Christian says. “The plans are here.” He gestures toward the dining table. Taking my hand, he leads me to it, Gia following in our wake. I finally

remember my manners.

“Would you like something to drink?” I ask. “A glass of wine?”

“That would be lovely,” Gia says. “Dry white if you have it.”

Shit! Sauvignon blanc—that’s a dry white, isn’t it? Reluctantly leaving my husband’s side, I head over to the kitchen. I hear the iPod hiss as Christian switches

off the music.

“Would you like some more wine, Christian?” I call.

“Please, baby,” he croons, grinning at me. Wow, he can be so swoonworthy at times yet so aggravating at others.

Reaching up to open the cupboard, I’m aware his eyes are on me, and I’m gripped by the uncanny feeling that Christian and I are putting on a show, playing a

game together—but this time we’re on the same side pitted against Ms. Matteo. Does he know that she’s attracted to him and is being too obvious about it? It gives

me a small rush of pleasure when I realize maybe he’s trying to reassure me. Or maybe he’s just sending a message loud and clear to this woman that he’s taken.

Mine. Yeah, bitch—mine. My inner goddess is wearing her gladiatrix outfit, and she’s taking no prisoners. Smiling to myself I collect three glasses from the

cupboard, take the opened bottle of sauvignon blanc from the fridge, and place them all on the breakfast bar. Gia is leaning over the table while Christian stands

beside her and points at something on the plans.

“I think Ana has some opinions on the glass wall, but generally we’re both pleased with the ideas you’ve come up with.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” Gia gushes, obviously relieved, and as she says it, she briefly touches his arm in a small, flirty gesture. Christian stiffens immediately but subtly.

She doesn’t even seem to notice.

Leave him the fuck alone, lady. He doesn’t like to be touched.

Stepping casually aside so he’s out of her reach, Christian turns to me. “Thirsty here,” he says.

“Coming right up.” He is playing the game. She makes him uncomfortable. Why didn’t I see that before? That’s why I don’t like her. He’s used to how women

react to him. I’ve seen it often enough, and usually he thinks nothing of it. Touching is something else. Well, Mrs. Grey to the rescue.

I hastily pour the wine, gather all three glasses in my hands, and hurry back to my knight in distress. Offering a glass to Gia, I deliberately position myself

between them. She smiles courteously as she accepts it. I hand the second to Christian, who takes it eagerly, his expression one of amused gratitude.

“Cheers,” Christian says to us both, but looking at me. Gia and I raise our glasses and answer in unison. I take a welcome sip of wine.

“Ana, you have some issues with the glass wall?” Gia asks.

“Yes. I love it—don’t get me wrong. But I was hoping that we could incorporate it more organically into the house. After all, I fell in love with the house as it

was, and I don’t want to make any radical changes.”

“I see.”

“I just want the design to be sympathetic, you know . . . more in keeping with the original house.” I glance up at Christian, who is gazing at me thoughtfully.

“No major renovations?” he murmurs.

“No.” I shake my head to emphasize my point.

“You like it as it is?”

“Mostly, yes. I always knew it just needed some TLC.”

Christian’s eyes glow warmly.

Gia glances at the pair of us, and her cheeks pink. “Okay,” she says. “I think I get where you’re coming from, Ana. How about if we retain the glass wall, but

have it open out onto a larger deck that’s in keeping with the Mediterranean style. We have the stone terrace there already. We can put in pillars in matching stone,

widely spaced so you’ll still have the view. Add a glass roof, or tile it as per the rest of the house. It’ll also make a sheltered al fresco dining and seated area.”

Got to give the woman her due . . . she’s good.

“Or instead of the deck, we could incorporate a wood color of your choice into the glass doors—that might help to keep the Mediterranean spirit,” she continues.

“Or instead of the deck, we could incorporate a wood color of your choice into the glass doors—that might help to keep the Mediterranean spirit,” she continues.

“Like the bright blue shutters in the South of France,” I murmur to Christian, who is watching me intently. He takes a sip of wine and shrugs, very noncommittal.

Hmm. He doesn’t like that idea but he doesn’t overrule me, shoot me down, or make me feel stupid. God, this man is a mass of contradictions. His words from

yesterday come to mind: “I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It’s yours.” He wants me to be happy—happy in everything I do. Deep

down I think I know this. It’s just—I stop myself. Don’t think about our argument now. My subconscious glares at me.

Gia is looking at Christian, waiting for him to make the decision. I watch as her pupils dilate and her glossed lips part. Her tongue darts quickly over her top lip

before she takes a sip of her wine. When I turn to Christian, he’s still looking at me—not at her at all. Yes! My inner goddess fist pumps the air. I am going to have

words with Ms. Matteo.

“Ana, what do you want to do?” Christian murmurs, very clearly deferring to me.

“I like the deck idea.”

“Me, too.”

I turn back to Gia. Hey, lady, look at me, not him. I’m the one making the decisions on this. “I think I’d like to see revised drawings showing the bigger deck and

pillars that are in keeping with the house.”

Reluctantly, Gia drags her greedy eyes away from my husband and smiles down at me. Does she think I’m not going to notice?

“Sure,” she acquiesces pleasantly. “Any other issues?”

Other than you eye-fucking my husband? “Christian wants to remodel the master suite,” I murmur.

There’s a discreet cough from the entrance to the great room. We three turn as one to find Taylor standing there.

“Taylor?” Christian asks.

“I need to confer with you on an urgent matter, Mr. Grey.”

Christian clasps my shoulders from behind and addresses Gia.

“Mrs. Grey is in charge of this project. She has absolute carte blanche. Whatever she wants, it’s hers. I completely trust her instincts. She’s very shrewd.” His

voice alters subtly. In it I hear pride and a veiled warning—a warning to Gia?

He trusts my instincts? Oh, this man’s exasperating. My instincts let him run roughshod over my feelings this afternoon. I shake my head in frustration but I’m

grateful that he’s telling Miss Provocative-And-Unfortunately-Good-At-Her-Job just who’s in charge. I caress his hand as it rests on my shoulder.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Christian squeezes my shoulders before following Taylor. I wonder idly what’s going on.

“So . . . the master suite?” Gia asks nervously.

I gaze up at her, pausing for a moment to ensure that Christian and Taylor are out of earshot. Then calling on all my inner strength and the fact that I’ve been

seriously piqued for the last five hours, I let her have it.

“You’re right to be nervous, Gia, because right now your work on this project hangs in the balance. But I’m sure we’ll be fine as long as you keep your hands off

my husband.”

She gasps.

“Otherwise, you’re fired. Understand?” I enunciate each word clearly.

She blinks rapidly, utterly stunned. She cannot believe what I’ve said. I cannot believe what I’ve just said. But I hold my ground, gazing impassively into her

widening brown eyes.

Don’t back down. Don’t back down! I’ve learned this maddening impassive expression from Christian who does impassive like no one else. I know that

renovating the Greys’ main residence is a prestigious project for Gia’s architectural firm—a resplendent feather in her cap. She can’t lose this commission. And right

now I don’t give a hoot that she’s Elliot’s friend.

“Ana—Mrs. Grey . . . I-I’m so sorry. I never—” She flushes, unsure what else she can say.

“Let me be clear. My husband is not interested in you.”

“Of course,” she murmurs, the blood draining from her face.

“As I said, I just wanted to be clear.”

“Mrs. Grey, I sincerely apologize if you think . . . I have—” She stops, still floundering for something to say.

“Good. As long as we understand each other, we’ll be fine. Now, I’ll let you know what we have in mind for the master suite, then I’d like a run down on all the

materials you intend to use. As you know, Christian and I are determined that this house should be ecologically sustainable, and I’d like to reassure him as to where

all the materials are coming from and what they are.”

“Of c-course,” she stutters, wide-eyed and frankly a little intimidated by me. This is a first. My inner goddess runs around the arena, waving to the frenzied

crowd.

Gia pats her hair into place, and I realize this is a nervous gesture.

“The master suite?” she prompts anxiously, her voice a breathless whisper. Now that I have the upper hand, I feel myself relax for the first time since my meeting

with Christian this afternoon. I can do this. My inner goddess is celebrating her inner bitch.

Christian joins us just as we’re finishing up.

“All done?” he asks. He puts his arm around my waist and turns to Gia.

“Yes, Mr. Grey,” Gia smiles brightly, though her smile looks brittle. “I’ll have the revised plans to you in a couple of days.”

“Excellent. You’re happy?” he asks me directly, his eyes warm and probing. I nod and blush for some reason that I don’t understand.

“I’d better be going,” Gia says again too brightly. She offers her hand to me first this time, then to Christian.

“Until next time, Gia,” I murmur.

“Yes, Mrs. Grey. Mr. Grey.”

Taylor appears at the entrance of the great room.

“Taylor will see you out.” My voice is loud enough for him to hear. Patting her hair once more, she turns on her high heels and leaves the great room, followed

closely by Taylor.

“She was noticeably cooler,” Christian says, looking quizzically at me.

“Was she? I didn’t notice.” I shrug, trying to remain neutral. “What did Taylor want?” I ask partly because I’m curious and partly because I want to change the

subject.

Frowning, Christian releases me and begins to roll up the plans on the table. “It was about Hyde.”

“What about Hyde?” I whisper.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Ana.” Abandoning the plans, Christian draws me into his arms. “It turns out he hasn’t been in his apartment for weeks, that’s all.”

He kisses my hair, then releases me and finishes his task.

“So what did you decide on?” he asks, and I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to pursue the Hyde line of inquiry.

“So what did you decide on?” he asks, and I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to pursue the Hyde line of inquiry.

“Only what you and I discussed. I think she likes you,” I say quietly.

He snorts. “Did you say something to her?” he asks and I flush. How does he know? At a loss what to say, I stare down at my fingers.

“We were Christian and Ana when she arrived, and Mr. and Mrs. Grey when she left.” His tone is dry.

“I may have said something,” I mumble. When I peek up at him, he’s regarding me warmly, and for an unguarded moment he looks . . . pleased. He drops his

gaze, shaking his head, and his expression changes.

“She’s only reacting to this face.” He sounds vaguely bitter, disgusted even.

Oh, Fifty, no!

“What?” He’s bemused by my perplexed expression. His eyes grow wide in alarm. “You’re not jealous, are you?” he asks, horrified.

I blush and swallow, then stare down at my knotted fingers. Am I?

“Ana, she’s a sexual predator. Not my type at all. How can you be jealous of her? Of anyone? Nothing about her interests me.” When I glance up, he’s gaping at

me as if I’ve grown an additional limb. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s only you, Ana,” he says quietly. “It will only ever be you.”

Oh my. Abandoning the plans once more, Christian moves toward me and clasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“How can you think otherwise? Have I ever given you any indication that I could be remotely interested in anyone else?” His eyes blaze as he stares into mine.

“No,” I whisper. “I’m being silly. It’s just today . . . you . . .” All my conflicting emotions from earlier resurfaces. How can I tell him how confused I am? I’ve

been confounded and frustrated by his behavior this afternoon in my office. One minute he wants me to stay at home, the next he’s gifting me a company. How am

I supposed to keep up?

“What about me?”

“Oh, Christian”—my bottom lip trembles—“I’m trying to adapt to this new life that I had never imagined for myself. Everything is being handed to me on a plate

–the job, you, my beautiful husband, who I never . . . I never knew I’d love this way, this hard, this fast, this . . . indelibly.” I take a deep steadying breath, as his

mouth drops open.

“But you’re like a freight train, and I don’t want to get railroaded because the girl you fell in love with will be crushed. And what’ll be left? All that would be left

is a vacuous social x-ray, flitting from charity function to charity function.” I pause once more, struggling to find the words to convey how I feel. “And now you

want me to be a company CEO, which has never even been on my radar. I’m bouncing between all these ideas, struggling. You want me at home. You want me to

run a company. It’s so confusing.” I stop, tears threatening, and I force back a sob.

“You’ve got to let me make my own decisions, take my own risks, and make my own mistakes, and let me learn from them. I need to walk before I can run,

Christian, don’t you see. I want some independence. That’s what my name means to me.” There, that’s what I wanted to say this afternoon.

“You feel railroaded?” he whispers.

I nod.

He closes his eyes and runs his hand through his hair in agitation. “I just want to give you the world, Ana, everything and anything you want. And save you from

it, too. Keep you safe. But I also want everyone to know you’re mine. I panicked today when I got your e-mail. Why didn’t you tell me about your name?”

I flush. He has a point.

“I only thought about it while we were on our honeymoon, and well, I didn’t want to burst the bubble, and I forgot about it. I only remembered yesterday

evening. And then Jack . . . you know, it was distracting. I’m sorry, I should have told you or discussed it with you, but I could never seem to find the right time.”

Christian’s intense gaze is unnerving. It’s as if he’s trying to will his way into my skull, but he says nothing.

“Why did you panic?” I ask.

“I just don’t want you to slip through my fingers.”

“For heaven’s sake, I’m not going anywhere. When are you going to get that through your incredibly thick skull? I. Love. You.” I wave my hand in the air like

he does sometimes to emphasize my point. “More than . . . eyesight, space, or liberty.”1

His eyes widen. “A daughter’s love?” He gives me an ironic smile.

“No,” I laugh, despite myself. “It’s the only quote that came to mind.”

“Mad King Lear?”

“Dear, dear Mad King Lear.” I caress his face, and he leans into my touch, closing his eyes. “Would you change your name to Christian Steele so everyone

would know that you belong to me?”

Christian’s eyes fly open, and he gazes at me as if I’ve just said the world is flat. He frowns. “Belong to you?” he murmurs, testing the words.

“Mine.”

“Yours,” he says, repeating the words we spoke in the playroom only yesterday. “Yes, I would. If it meant that much to you.”

Oh my.

“Does it mean that much to you?”

“Yes.” He is unequivocal.

“Okay.” I will do this for him. Give him the reassurance he still needs.

“I thought you’d already agreed to this.”

“Yes I have, but now we’ve discussed it further, I’m happier with my decision.”

“Oh,” he mutters, surprised. Then he smiles his beautiful, boyish yes-I-am-really-kinda-young smile, and he takes my breath away. Grabbing me by my waist, he

swings me around. I squeal and start to giggle, and I don’t know if he’s just happy or relieved or . . . what?

“Mrs. Grey, do you know what this means to me?”

“I do now.”

He leans down and kisses me, his fingers moving into my hair, holding me in place.

“It means seven shades of Sunday,” he murmurs against my lips, and he runs his nose along mine.

“You think?” I lean back to gaze at him.

“Certain promises were made. An offer extended, a deal brokered,” he whispers, his eyes sparkling with wicked delight.

“Um . . .” I am still reeling, trying to follow his mood.

“You reneging on me?” he asks uncertainly, and a speculative look crosses his face. “I have an idea,” he adds.

Oh, what kinky fuckery is this?

“A really important matter to attend to,” he continues, suddenly all serious once more. “Yes, Mrs. Grey. A matter of the gravest importance.”

Hang on—he’s laughing at me.

“What?” I breathe.

“I need you to cut my hair. Apparently it’s overlong, and my wife doesn’t like it.”

“I can’t cut your hair!”

“I can’t cut your hair!”

“Yes you can.” Christian grins and shakes his head so his overlong hair covers his eyes.

“Well, if Mrs. Jones has a pudding bowl.” I giggle.

He laughs. “Okay, good point well made. I’ll get Franco to do it.”

No! Franco works for her? Maybe I could give him a trim. After all, I cut Ray’s hair for years, and he never complained.

“Come.” I grab his hand. His eyes widen. I lead him all the way to our bathroom where I release him and grab the white wooden chair that stands in the corner. I

place it in front of the sink. When I look at Christian, he’s gazing at me with ill-disguised amusement, thumbs tucked in the front belt loops of his pants but his eyes

are smoking hot.

“Sit.” I gesture to the empty chair, trying to maintain the upper hand.

“Are you going to wash my hair?”

I nod. He arches one brow in surprise, and for a moment I think he’s going to back down. “Okay.” Slowly he begins to undo each button of his white shirt,

starting with the one beneath his throat. Nimble, deft fingers move to each button in turn until his shirt hangs open.

Oh my . . . My inner goddess pauses in her celebratory jaunt around the arena.

Christian holds out a cuff with an “undo this now” gesture, and his mouth twitches in that challenging, sexy way he has.

Oh, cufflinks. I take his proffered wrist and remove the first one, a platinum disc with his initials engraved in a simple italic script—and then remove its matching

twin. As I finish I glance at him, and his amused expression is gone, replaced by something hotter . . . much hotter. I reach up and push his shirt off his shoulders,

letting it fall to the floor.

“Ready?” I whisper.

“For whatever you want, Ana.”

My eyes stray from his eyes to his lips. Parted so that he can inhale more deeply. Sculptured, chiseled, whatever, it is a beautiful mouth and he knows exactly

what to do with it. I find myself leaning up to kiss him.

“No,” he says and places both of his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t. If you do that, I’ll never get my hair cut.”

Oh!“I want this,” he continues. And his eyes are round and raw for some inexplicable reason. It’s disarming.

“Why?” I whisper.

He stares at me for a beat, and his eyes grow wider. “Because it’ll make me feel cherished.”

My heart practically lurches to a halt. Oh, Christian . . . my Fifty. And before I know it I’ve circled him in my arms, and I kiss his chest before nuzzling my cheek

into his tickly chest hair.

“Ana. My Ana,” he whispers. He wraps his arms around me and we stand immobile, holding each other in our bathroom. Oh, how I love to be in his arms. Even

if he is an overbearing, megalomaniac arse, he’s my overbearing megalomaniac arse in need of a lifetime dose of TLC. I lean back without releasing him.

“You really want me to do this?”

He nods and gives me his shy smile. I grin back at him and step out of his embrace.

“Then sit,” I repeat.

He dutifully does, sitting with his back to the sink. I take off my shoes and kick them over to where his shirt lies crumpled on the bathroom floor. From the

shower I retrieve his Chanel shampoo. We bought it in France.

“Would sir like this?” I hold it up in both hands like I’m selling it on QVC. “Hand-delivered from the South of France. I like the smell of this . . . it smells of

you,” I add in a whisper, slipping out of my television presenter mode.

“Please.” He grins.

I grab a small towel off the towel warmer. Mrs. Jones sure knows how to keep the towels super-soft.

“Lean forward,” I order and Christian complies. Draping the towel around his shoulders, I then turn on the taps and fill the sink with a mix of warm water.

“Lean back.” Oh, I like being in charge. Christian leans back, but he’s too tall. He shifts the seat forward then tilts back the entire chair until the top rests against

the sink. Perfect distance. He tips back his head. Bold eyes gaze up at me, and I smile. Taking one of the drinking glasses we keep on the vanity, I dip it into the

water and tip it over Christian’s head, soaking his hair. I repeat the process, leaning over him.

“You smell so good, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and closes his eyes.

As I methodically wet his hair, I freely gaze at him. Holy cow. Will I ever tire of this? Long dark lashes fan across his cheeks; his lips part a little, creating a small,

dark diamond shape, and he inhales softly. Hmm . . . how I long to poke my tongue—

I splash water into his eyes. Shit! “Sorry!”

He grabs the corner of the towel and laughs as he wipes the water out of his eyes.

“Hey, I know I’m an arse, but don’t drown me.”

I lean down and kiss his forehead, giggling. “Don’t tempt me.”

He curls his hand behind my head and shifts so that he captures my lips with his. He kisses me briefly, making a low contented sound in his throat. The noise

connects to the muscles deep in my belly. It’s a very seductive sound. He releases me and lies back obediently, gazing up at me with expectation. For a moment he

looks vulnerable, like a child. It tugs at my heart.

I squirt some shampoo into my palm and massage it into his scalp, beginning at his temples and working over the top of his head and down the sides, circling my

fingers rhythmically. He closes his eyes again and makes that low humming sound again.

“That feels good,” he says after a moment and relaxes beneath the firm touch of my fingers.

“Yes it does.” I kiss his forehead once more.

“I like it when you scratch my scalp with your fingernails.” His eyes are still closed, but his expression one of blissful contentment—no trace of his vulnerability

remains. Jeez, how much his mood has changed, and I take comfort knowing it’s me that’s done this.

“Head up,” I command and he obeys. Hmm—a girl could get used to this. I rub the suds into the back of his hair, scraping my nails into his scalp.

“Back.”

He leans back, and I rinse off the lather, using the glass. This time I manage not to splash him.

“Once more?” I ask.

“Please.” His eyes flutter open and his serene gaze finds mine. I grin down at him.

“Coming right up, Mr. Grey.”

I turn to the sink that Christian normally uses and fill it with warm water.

“For rinsing,” I say when his look turns quizzical.

I repeat the process with the shampoo, listening to his even deep breaths. Once he’s all lathered up, I take another moment to appreciate the fine face of my

husband. I cannot resist him. Tenderly, I caress his cheek, and he opens his eyes, watching me almost sleepily through his long lashes. Leaning forward I plant a

soft, chaste kiss on his lips. He smiles, closes his eyes, and breathes out a sigh of utter contentment.

soft, chaste kiss on his lips. He smiles, closes his eyes, and breathes out a sigh of utter contentment.

Jeez. Who would have thought after our argument this afternoon he could be this relaxed? Without sex? I lean right over him.

“Hmm,” he murmurs appreciatively as my breasts brush his face. Resisting the urge to shimmy, I pull the plug so the sudsy water drains away. His hands move to

my hips and around to my behind.

“No fondling the help,” I murmur, feigning disapproval.

“Don’t forget I’m deaf,” he says, keeping his eyes closed, as he runs his hands down past my behind and starts to hitch up my skirt. I swat his arm. I’m enjoying

playing hairdresser. He grins, big and boyish, like I’ve caught him doing something illicit that he’s secretly proud of.

I reach for the glass again, but this time use the water from the neighboring sink to carefully rinse all the shampoo from his hair. I continue to lean over him, and

he keeps his hands on my backside, thrumming his fingers back and forward, up and down . . . back and forth . . . hmm. I wiggle. He growls low in his throat.

“There. All rinsed.”

“Good,” he declares. His fingers tighten on my behind, and all at once he sits up, his soaked hair dripping all over him. He pulls me down onto his lap, his hands

moving from my behind up to the nape of my neck, then to my chin, holding me in place. I gasp with surprise and his lips are on mine, his tongue hot and hard in

my mouth. My fingers curl around his wet hair, and drops of water run down my arms; and as he deepens the kiss, his hair bathes my face. His hand moves from

my chin down to the top button of my blouse.

“Enough of this primping. I want to fuck you seven shades of Sunday, and we can do it in here or in the bedroom. You decide.”

Christian’s eyes blaze, hot and full of promise, his hair dripping water onto us both. My mouth goes dry.

“What’s it to be, Anastasia?” he asks as he holds in his lap.

“You’re wet,” I respond.

He bends his head suddenly, running his dripping hair all down the front of my blouse. I squeal and try to wriggle off him. He tightens his grip around me.

“Oh, no you don’t, baby,” he murmurs. When he raises his head he’s grinning salaciously at me, and I am Miss Wet Blouse 2011. My top is soaked and totally

see-through. I’m wet . . . everywhere.

“Love the view,” he murmurs and leans down to run his nose around and around one wet nipple. I squirm.

“Answer me, Ana. Here or the bedroom?”

“Here,” I whisper frantically. To hell with the haircut—I’ll do it later. He smiles slowly, his lips curling into a sensuous smile full of licentious promise.

“Good choice, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs against my lips. He releases my chin and his hand moves to my knee. It glides smoothly up my leg, lifting my skirt and

skating over my skin, making me tingle. His lips trail soft kisses from the base of my ear along my jaw.

“Oh, what shall I do to you?” he whispers. His fingers halt at my stocking tops. “I like these,” he says. He runs a finger underneath the top and skims it around to

my inner thigh. I gasp and squirm once more in his lap.

He groans, low in his throat. “If I’m going to fuck you seven shades of Sunday, I want you to keep still.”

“Make me,” I challenge, my voice soft and breathy.

Christian inhales sharply. He narrows his eyes and regards me with a hot, hooded expression.

“Oh, Mrs. Grey. You have only to ask.” His hand moves from my stocking tops up to my panties. “Let’s divest you of these.” He tugs gently and I shift to help

him. His breath hisses through his teeth as I do.

“Keep still,” he grumbles.

“I’m helping,” I pout, and he seizes my lower lip gently between his teeth.

“Still,” he growls. He slides my panties down my legs and off. Tugging my skirt up so that it’s bunched around my hips, he moves both hands to my waist and

lifts me. He still has my panties in his hand.

“Sit. Astride me,” he orders staring intently into my eyes. I shift, straddling him, and regard him provocatively. Bring it on, Fifty!

“Mrs. Grey,” he warns “Are you goading me?” He gazes at me, amused but aroused. It’s a seductive combination.

“Yes. What are you going to do about it?”

His eyes light up with salacious delight at my challenge, and I feel his arousal beneath me. “Clasp your hands together behind your back.”

Oh! I comply obediently and, he deftly binds my wrists together with my panties.

“My panties? Mr. Grey, you have no shame,” I admonish.

“Not where you’re concerned, Mrs. Grey, but you know that.” His look is intense and hot. Putting his hands around my waist, he shifts me so I am sitting a little

further back on his lap. Water still drips down his neck and over his chest. I want to bend forward and lick the drips off, but it’s trickier now that I am restrained.

Christian caresses both of my thighs and skims his hands down to my knees. Gently he pushes them further apart and widens his own legs, holding me in that

position. His fingers move to the buttons of my blouse.

“I don’t think we need this,” he says. He starts methodically undoing each button on my clinging wet blouse, his eyes never leaving mine. They get darker and

darker as he finishes the task, taking his own sweet time about it. My pulse quickens and my breathing shallows. I can’t believe it—he’s hardly touched me, and I

feel like this—hot, bothered . . . ready. I want to squirm. He leaves my damp blouse hanging open and using both hands, he caresses my face with his fingers, his

thumb skimming across my bottom lip. Suddenly, he thrusts his thumb into my mouth.

“Suck,” he orders in a whisper, stressing the S. I close my mouth around him and do exactly that. Oh . . . I like this game. He tastes good. What else would I like

to suck? The muscles in my belly clench at the thought. His lips part when I scrape my teeth and bite the soft pad of his thumb.

He groans and slowly extracts his wet thumb from my mouth and trails it down my chin, down my throat, over my sternum. He hooks it into the cup of my bra

and yanks the cup down, freeing my breast.

Christian’s gaze never leaves mine. He’s watching each reaction that his touch elicits from me, and I’m watching him. It’s hot. Consuming. Possessive. I love it.