Текст книги "Fifty Shades Freed"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Holy cow . . . another first. I gape at him, my heart pounding . . . the mile high club. I’ve heard about this.

“But first I have to get you out of this fabulous dress.” His eyes glow with love and something darker, something I love . . . something that calls to my inner

goddess. He takes my breath away.

“Turn around.” His voice is low, authoritative, and sexy as hell. How can he infuse so much promise into those two words? Willingly I comply and his hands

move to my hair. Gently he pulls out each hairpin one at a time, his expert fingers making short work of the task. My hair falls in swathes over my shoulders, one

lock at a time, covering my back and down to my breasts. I try to stand still and not squirm, but I’m aching for his touch. After our long, tiring but exciting day, I

want him—all of him.

“You have such beautiful hair, Ana.” His mouth is close to my ear and I feel his breath, though his lips don’t touch me. When my hair is free of pins, he runs his

fingers through it, gently massaging my scalp . . . oh my . . . I close my eyes and savor the sensation. His fingers travel on down, and he tugs, tilting my head back

to expose my throat.

“You’re mine,” he breathes and his teeth tug my ear lobe.

I groan.

“Hush now,” he admonishes. He sweeps my hair over my shoulder and trails a finger across the top of my back from shoulder to shoulder following the lace

edge of my dress. I shiver in anticipation. He plants a tender kiss on my back above the first button on my dress.

“So beautiful,” he says as he deftly undoes the first button. “You have made me the happiest man alive today.” With infinite slowness, he unfastens each one, all

the way down my back. “I love you so much.” Trailing kisses from the nape of my neck to the edge of my shoulder. Between each kiss he murmurs, “I. Want.

You. So. Much. I. Want. To. Be. Inside. You. You. Are. Mine.”

Each word is intoxicating. I close my eyes and tilt my head, giving him easier access to my neck, and I fall further under the spell that is Christian Grey, my

husband.

“Mine,” he whispers once more. He peels my dress down my arms so that it pools at my feet in a cloud of ivory silk and lace.

“Turn around,” he whispers, his voice suddenly hoarse. I do so and he gasps.

I’m dressed in a tight, blush-pink satin corset with garter straps, matching lacy briefs, and white silk stockings. Christian’s eyes travel greedily down my body, but

he says nothing. He just gazes at me, his eyes wide with want.

“You like?” I whisper aware of the shy blush creeping across my cheeks.

“More than like, baby. You look sensational. Here.” He holds out his hand and taking it, I step out of my dress.

“Keep still,” he murmurs and without taking his darkening eyes off mine, he runs his middle finger over my breasts, following the line of my corset. My breath

shallows, and he repeats the journey over my breasts once more, his tantalizing finger sending tingles down my spine. He stops and twirls his index finger in the air,

indicating that he wants me to turn around.

For him, right now, I’d do anything.

“Stop,” he says. I’m facing the bed, away from him. His arm encircles my waist, pulling me against him, and he nuzzles my neck. Gently he cups my breasts,

toying with them, while his thumbs circle over my nipples so that they strain against the fabric of my corset.

“Mine,” he whispers.

“Yours,” I breathe.

Leaving my breasts bereft he runs his hands down my stomach, over my belly, and down to my thighs, his thumbs skimming my sex. I stifle a moan. His fingers

skate down each garter, and with his usual dexterity, he simultaneously unhooks each one from my stockings. His hands travel around to my behind.

“Mine,” he breathes as his hands spread across my backside, the tips of his fingers brushing my sex.

“Ah.”

“Hush.” His hands travel down the backs of my thighs, and once more he unclips my garters.

Leaning down, he pulls back the cover on the bed. “Sit down.”

I do as I’m told in his thrall, and he kneels at my feet and gently tugs off each of my white bridal Jimmy Choos. He grasps the top of my left stocking and slowly

peels it off, running his thumbs down my leg . . . Oh my. He repeats the process with my other stocking.

“This is like unwrapping my Christmas presents.” He smiles up at me through his long dark lashes.

“A present you’ve had already . . .”

He frowns in admonishment. “Oh no, baby. This time it’s really mine.”

“Christian, I’ve been yours since I said yes.” I scoot forward, cupping his beloved face in my hands. “I’m yours. I will always be yours, husband of mine. Now, I

think you’re wearing too many clothes.” I bend to kiss him, and suddenly he leans up, kisses my lips, and grasps my head with his hands, his fingers threading into

my hair.

“Ana,” he breathes. “My Ana.” His lips claim mine once more, his tongue invasively persuasive.

“Clothes,” I whisper, our breath mingling as I push back his vest and he struggles out of it, releasing me for a moment. He pauses, gazing at me, eyes wide, eyes

wanting.

“Let me, please.” My voice is soft and cajoling. I want to undress my husband, my Fifty.

He sits back on his heels, and leaning forward I grasp his tie—his sliver-gray tie, my favorite tie—and slowly undo it and pull it free. He raises his chin to let me

tackle the top button of his white shirt; then once it’s undone, I move on to his cuffs. He’s wearing platinum cufflinks—engraved with an entwined A and C—my

wedding present to him. When I’ve removed them, he takes the cufflinks from me and fists them in his hand. Then he kisses his fist and shoves them into his pants

pocket.

“Mr. Grey, so romantic.”

“For you Mrs. Grey—hearts and flowers. Always.”

I take his hand, and glancing up through my lashes, I kiss his plain platinum wedding ring. He groans and closes his eyes.

“Ana,” he whispers and my name is a prayer.

Reaching up to his second shirt button and mirroring him from earlier, I plant a soft kiss on his chest as I undo each of them and whisper between each kiss,

“You. Make. Me. So. Happy. I. Love. You.”

He groans, and in one swift move, he clasps me around the waist and lifts me on to the bed, following me down on to it. His lips find mine, his hands curling

around my head, holding me, stilling me as our tongues glory in each other. Abruptly Christian kneels up, leaving me breathless and wanting more.

around my head, holding me, stilling me as our tongues glory in each other. Abruptly Christian kneels up, leaving me breathless and wanting more.

“You are so beautiful . . . wife.” He runs his hands down my legs then grasps my left foot. “You have such lovely legs. I want to kiss every inch of them. Starting

here.” He presses his lips against my big toe and then grazes the pad with his teeth. Everything south of my waistline convulses. His tongue glides up my instep and

his teeth skim my heel and up to my ankle. He trails kisses up the inside of my calf; soft wet kisses. I wriggle beneath him.

“Still, Mrs. Grey,” he warns, and suddenly he flips me on to my stomach and continues his leisurely journey with his mouth up the back of my legs, to my thighs,

my behind, and then he stops. I groan.

“Please . . .”

“I want you naked,” he murmurs and slowly unhooks my corset, one hook at a time. When it’s flat on the bed beneath me, he runs his tongue up the length of my

spine.

“Christian, please.”

“What do you want, Mrs. Grey.” His words are soft and close to my ear. He’s almost lying on top of me . . . I can feel him hard against my behind.

“You.”

“And I you, my love, my life . . . ,” he whispers, and before I know it, he’s flipped me on to my back. He stands swiftly and in one efficient move dispenses with

his pants and boxer briefs so that he’s gloriously naked and looming large and ready over me. The small cabin is eclipsed by his dazzling beauty and his want and

need of me. He leans down and peels off my panties then gazes down at me.

“Mine,” he mouths.

“Please,” I beg and he grins . . . a salacious, wicked, tempting, all-Fifty grin.

He crawls back onto the bed and trails kisses up my right leg this time . . . until he reaches the apex of my thighs. He pushes my legs wider apart.

“Ah . . . wife of mine,” he murmurs and then his mouth is on me. I close my eyes and surrender to his oh-so-adroit tongue. My hands fist in his hair as my hips

swing and sway, slave to his rhythm, then buck off the small bed. He grabs my hips to still me . . . but doesn’t stop the delicious torture. I’m close, so close.

“Christian.” I moan.

“Not yet,” he breathes and he moves up my body, his tongue dipping into my navel.

“No!” Damn! I sense his smile against my belly as his journey continues north.

“So impatient, Mrs. Grey. We have until we touch down on the Emerald Isle.” Reverentially he kisses my breasts and tugs my left nipple between his lips.

Gazing up at me, his eyes are dark like a tropical storm as he teases me.

Oh my . . . I’d forgotten. Europe.

“Husband, I want you. Please.”

He looms up over me, his body covering mine, resting his weight on his elbows. He runs his nose down mine, and I run my hands down his strong, supple back

to his fine, fine backside.

“Mrs. Grey . . . wife. We aim to please.” His lips brush. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Eyes open. I want to see you.”

“Christian . . . ah . . . ,” I cry, as he slowly sinks into me.

“Ana, oh Ana,” he breathes and he starts to move.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Christian shouts, waking me from my very pleasant dream. He’s standing all wet and beautiful at the end of my sun

lounger and glaring down at me.

What have I done? Oh no . . . I’m lying on my back . . . Crap, crap, crap and he’s mad. Shit. He’s really mad.

I am suddenly very awake, my erotic dream forgotten.

“I was on my front. I must have turned over in my sleep.” I whisper weakly in my defense.

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

“Put this on!” he hisses.

“Christian, no one is looking.”

“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.

“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 SIP after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome to mind—all part of the Christian Grey package.

“L’addition!” Christian snaps at the passing waitress. “We’re going,” he says to me.

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“Yes. Now.”

Oh shit, he’s not to be argued with.

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.

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 glasses. He’s bristling with tension and anger. My heart sinks. Every other woman on the beach is topless—it’s not that big

of 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.

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

“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 verandah. 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.

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.

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

“Back to the boat.” He doesn’t look at me.

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.

“You’ll do,” he mutters sullenly, still not turning to look at me. Shit.

He climbs gracefully on to 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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks me.

“Do I need one?”

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

“You know why.”

He frowns as if weighing something in his mind.

Oh, what is he thinking?

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

“You think I’m going to punish you?” Christian’s voice is silky.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“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 lounger where

she’s trying to catch rays with a silver reflector fanned out at her neck.

Christian’s frowns once more.

“You want to be?”

How does he know? “Depends,” I mutter, flushing.

“On what?” He hides his smile.

“If you want to hurt me or not.”

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

“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.”

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.

“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.

“Cheers, Mrs. Grey.”

“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.

“Who owns this boat?” I ask.

“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.”

Oh. “Super-rich?”

Christian looks suddenly wary. “Yes.”

“Like you,” I murmur.

“Yes.”

Oh.

“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.

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

All mine? Holy cow. “It’s odd. Going from nothing to”—I wave my hand to indicate our opulent surroundings—“to everything.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

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

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

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 . . .

“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 website about you being engaged, Christian.”

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

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.”

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

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.

“No,” he mouths at me.

“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 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 then

him . . . then anywhere but at the two of us.

“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.

“No!” he snaps. I blanch once more.

“It’s to protect you.”

“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.

“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.

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

“I definitely prefer sausage,” exclaims Elliot.

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.

“Stop it.”

How does he know what I’m thinking?

“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.”

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

“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.”

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

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 any more. 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’s it mine, too. I shudder as I recall the crazy

shopping fest Christian demanded I go on with Caroline Acton—the personal shopper from Niemans—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.

“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.

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

“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.

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.”

What?

“Drink,” he mouths at me, his eyes darkening.

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, Vol. 1—with alarm.

“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?

“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.

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 main 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.

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

“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.

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.

“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.”

Holy fuck. My mouth goes dry.

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

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

Christian is watching me intently.

“Where are the keys?” My voice wavering.

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.

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

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

“Yes,” I breathe.

He smiles. “Good.” He plants a featherlight kiss on my forehead. “We’re going to need a safe word.”

What?

“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.

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

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

Oh my. This sounds so hot. My breathing is too loud. Fuck, I am panting already. My inner goddess has her sequins on and is warming up to dance the rumba.

Thank heavens I’m married to this man, otherwise this would be embarrassing. My eyes flick down to his arousal.

“Okay.” My voice is barely audible.

“Choose a word, Ana.”

Oh . . .

“A safe word,” he says softly.

“Popsicle.” I say, panting.

“Popsicle?” he says, amused.

“Yes.”

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

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.

“Turn round.”

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

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

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Hmm. What are we going to do about that?”

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

“Ah, Mrs. Grey. You are ever the optimist.”

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.

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.

“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.

Oh!

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.

“Sit up,” he orders and I comply immediately.

“Now hug your knees.”

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