Текст книги "Fifty Shades Freed"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

He opens his eyes and gazes at me for what feels like an eternity. He smiles as relief slowly illuminates his face. “No, I don’t think you would.” He caresses my

face with the back of his knuckles, gazing at me in wonder. “God, you’re strong, Mrs. Grey. I love you so much.” He kisses my forehead. “I didn’t know I could.”

“Oh, Christian,” I whisper, trying to contain my emotions.

“Now, that’s the end of your bedtime story.”

“That’s some bedside story . . .”

He smiles wistfully, but I think he’s relieved. “How’s your head?”

“My head?” Actually, it’s about to explode with all you’ve told me!

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Good. I think you should sleep now.”

Sleep! How can I sleep after all that?

“Sleep,” he says sternly. “You need it.”

I pout. “I have one question.”

“Oh? What?” He eyes me warily.

“Why have you suddenly become all . . . forthcoming, for want of a better word?”

He frowns.

“You’re telling me all this, when getting information out of you is normally a pretty harrowing and trying experience.”

“It is?

“You know it is.”

“Why am I being forthcoming? I can’t say. Seeing you practically dead on the cold concrete, maybe. The fact I’m going to be a father. I don’t know. You said

you wanted to know, and I don’t want Elena to come between us. She can’t. She’s the past, and I’ve said that to you so many times.”

“If she hadn’t made a pass at you . . . would you still be friends?”

“That’s more than one question.”

“Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.” I flush. “You’ve already volunteered more than I ever thought you would.”

His gaze softens. “No, I don’t think so, but she’s felt like unfinished business since my birthday. She stepped over the line, and I’m done. Please, believe me. I’m

not going to see her again. You said she’s a hard limit for you. That’s a term I understand,” he says with quiet sincerity.

Okay. I’m going to let this go now. My subconscious sags into her armchair. Finally!

“Goodnight, Christian. Thank you for the enlightening bedtime story.” I lean over to kiss him, and our lips touch briefly, but he pulls back when I try to deepen

the kiss.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “I am desperate to make love to you.”

“Then do.”

“No, you need to rest, and it’s late. Go to sleep.” He switches off the bedside light, plunging us into darkness.

“I love you unconditionally, Christian,” I murmur as I cuddle into his side.

“I know,” he whispers, and I sense his shy smile.

I wake with a start. Light is flooding the room, and Christian is not in bed. I glance at the clock and see it’s seven fifty-three. I take a deep breath and wince as my

ribs smart though not as badly as yesterday. I think I could go to work. Work—Yes. I want to go to work.

It’s Monday, and I spent all of yesterday lounging about in bed. Christian only let me go out briefly to see Ray. Honestly, he’s still such a control freak. I smile

fondly. My control freak. He’s been attentive and loving and chatty . . . and hands-off since I arrived home. I scowl. I am going to have to do something about this.

My head doesn’t hurt, the pain around my ribs has eased—though, admittedly, laughing has to be undertaken with caution—but I’m frustrated. I think this is the

longest I’ve gone without sex since . . . well, since the first time.

I think we’ve both recovered our equilibrium. Christian is much more relaxed; his long bedtime story seems to have laid some ghosts to rest, for him and for me.

We’ll see.

I shower quickly, and once I’m dry, I browse carefully through my clothes. I want something sexy. Something that might galvanize Christian into action. Who

would have thought such an insatiable man could actually exercise so much self-control? I don’t really want to dwell on how Christian learned such discipline over

his body. We haven’t spoken of the Bitch Troll once since his confessional. I hope we never do. To me she’s dead and buried.

I choose an almost indecently short black skirt and a white silk blouse with a frill. I slide on thigh-highs with lacy tops and my black Louboutin pumps. A little

mascara and lip gloss for a natural look, and after a ferocious brushing, I leave my hair loose. Yes. This should do it.

Christian is eating at the breakfast bar. His forkful of omelet stops in midair when he sees me. He frowns.

“Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Going somewhere?”

“Work.” I smile sweetly.

“I don’t think so.” Christian snorts with amused derision. “Dr. Singh said a week off.”

“Christian, I am not spending the day lounging in bed on my own. So I may as well go to work. Good morning, Gail.”

“Mrs. Grey.” Mrs. Jones tries to hide a smile. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Please.”

“Granola?”

“I’d prefer scrambled eggs with whole wheat toast.”

Mrs. Jones grins and Christian registers his surprise.

“Very good, Mrs. Grey,” Mrs. Jones says.

“Ana, you are not going to work.”

“But—”

“No. It’s simple. Don’t argue.” Christian is adamant. I glare at him, and only then do I notice that he’s in the same pajama bottoms and T-shirt he was wearing

last night.

“Are you going to work?” I ask.

“Are you going to work?” I ask.

“No.”

Am I going crazy? “It is Monday, right?”

He smiles. “Last time I looked.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you playing hooky?”

“I’m not leaving you here on your own to get into trouble. And Dr. Singh said it would be a week before you could go back to work. Remember?”

I slide onto a bar stool beside him and hoist my skirt up a little. Mrs. Jones places a cup of tea in front of me.“You look good,” Christian says. I cross my legs.

“Very good. Especially here.” He traces a finger over the bare flesh that shows above my thigh-highs. My pulse quickens as his finger runs across my skin. “This

skirt is very short,” he murmurs, vague disapproval in his voice as his eyes follow his finger.

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

Christian gazes at me, mouth twisted in an amused yet exasperated smirk.

“Really, Mrs. Grey?”

I blush.

“I’m not sure this look is suitable for the workplace,” he murmurs.

“Well, since I’m not going to work, that’s a moot point.”

“Moot?”

“Moot,” I mouth.

Christian smirks again and resumes eating his omelet. “I have a better idea.”

“You do?”

He glances at me through long lashes, gray eyes darkening. I inhale sharply. Oh, my. About time.

“We can go see how Elliot’s getting on with the house.”

What? Oh! Tease! I vaguely remember we were supposed to do that before Ray was injured.

“I’d love to.”

“Good.” He grins.

“Don’t you have to work?”

“No. Ros is back from Taiwan. That all went well. Today, everything’s fine.”

“I thought you were going to Taiwan.”

He snorts again. “Ana, you were in the hospital.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah—oh. So today I’m spending some quality time with my wife.” He smacks his lips together as he takes a sip of coffee.

“Quality time?” I can’t disguise the hope in my voice.

Mrs. Jones places my scrambled eggs in front of me, again failing to hide her smile.

Christian smirks. “Quality time.” He nods.

I am too hungry to flirt anymore with my husband.

“It’s good to see you eat,” he murmurs. Rising, he leans over and kisses my hair. “I’m going to shower.”

“Um . . . can I come and scrub your back?” I mumble through a mouth full of toast and scrambled egg.

“No. Eat.”

Leaving the breakfast bar, he tugs his T-shirt over his head, treating me to the sight of his finely sculptured shoulders and naked back as he saunters out of the

great room. I stop mid-chew. He’s doing this on purpose. Why?

Christian is relaxed on the drive north. We’ve just left Ray and Mr. Rodriguez watching soccer on the new flat-screen television that I suspect Christian has bought

for Ray’s hospital room.

Christian has been laid back ever since “the talk.” It’s as if a weight has been lifted; Mrs. Robinson’s shadow no longer looms so large over us, maybe because

I’ve decided to let it go—or because he has, I don’t know. But I feel closer to him now than I ever have before. Perhaps because he’s finally confided in me. I hope

he continues to do so. And he’s more accepting of the baby, too. He hasn’t gone out and bought a crib yet, but I have high hopes.

I gaze at him, drinking him in as he drives. He looks casual, cool . . . sexy with his tousled hair, Ray-Bans, pinstripe jacket, white linen shirt, and jeans.

He glances at me and clasps my leg above the knee, his fingers stroking gently. “I’m glad you didn’t change.”

I did slip on a denim jacket and change to flats, but I’m still wearing the short skirt. His hand lingers above my knee. I put my hand on his.

“Are you going to continue to tease me?”

“Maybe.” Christian smiles.

“Why?”

“Because I can.” He grins, boyish as ever.

“Two can play at that game,” I whisper.

His fingers move tantalizingly up my thigh. “Bring it on, Mrs. Grey.” His grin broadens.

I pick up his hand and put it back on his knee. “Well, you can keep your hands to yourself.”

He smirks. “As you wish, Mrs. Grey.”

Dammit. This game is going to backfire on me.

Christian turns into the driveway of our new house. He stops at the keypad and punches in a number, and the ornate white metal gates swing open. We roar up the

tree-lined lane under leaves that are a blend of green, yellow, and burnished copper. The tall grass in the meadow is turning gold, but there are still a few yellow

wildflowers dotted among the grass. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, and the salty tang of the Sound is in the air mixed with the scent of the coming fall. This

is such a tranquil and beautiful place. And to think we’re going to make our home here.

The lane curves around, and our house comes into view. Several large trucks, sides emblazoned with GREY CONSTRUCTION, are parked out front. The house is decked in

scaffolding, and several workmen in hard hats are busy on the roof.

Christian pulls up outside the portico and switches off the engine. I can sense his excitement.

“Let’s go find Elliot.”

“Is he here?”

“I hope so. I’m paying him enough.”

I snort, and Christian grins as we get out of the car.

I snort, and Christian grins as we get out of the car.

“Yo, Bro!” Elliot shouts from somewhere. We both glance around.

“Up here!” He’s up on the roof, waving down at us and beaming from ear to ear. “About time we saw you here. Stay where you are. I’ll be right down.”

I glance at Christian, who shrugs. A few minutes later, Elliot appears at the front door.

“Hey, bro.” He shakes Christian’s hand. “And how are you, little lady?” He picks me up and swings me around.

“Better, thanks,” I giggle breathlessly, my ribs protesting. Christian frowns at him, but Elliot ignores him.

“Let’s head over to the site office. You’ll need one of these.” He taps his hard hat.

The house is a shell. The floors are covered in a hard fibrous material that looks like burlap; some of the original walls have disappeared and new ones have taken

their place. Elliot leads us through, explaining what’s happening, while men—and a few women—work everywhere around us. I’m relieved to see the stone

staircase with its intricate iron balustrade is still in place and draped completely in white dustsheets.

In the main living area, the back wall has been removed to make way for Gia’s glass wall, and work is beginning on the terrace. In spite of the mess, the view is

still stunning. The new work is sympathetic and in keeping with the old-world charm of the house . . . Gia’s done well. Elliot patiently explains the processes and

gives us a rough timeframe for each. He’s hoping we can be in by Christmas, although Christian thinks this is optimistic.

Holy cow—Christmas overlooking the Sound. I can’t wait. A bubble of excitement blooms inside me. I have visions of us trimming an enormous tree while a

copper-haired little boy looks on in wonder.

Elliot finishes our tour in the kitchen. “I’ll leave you two to roam. Be careful. This is a building site.”

“Sure. Thanks, Elliot,” Christian murmurs, taking my hand. “Happy?” he asks once Elliot has left us alone. I am gazing at this empty shell of a room and wondering where I will hang the pepper pictures that we bought in France.

“Very. I love it. You?”

“Ditto.” He grins.

“Good. I was thinking of the pepper pictures in here.”

Christian nods. “I want to put up José’s portraits of you in this house. You need to decide where they should go.”

I blush. “Somewhere I won’t see them often.”

“Don’t be like that.” He scolds me, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip. “They’re my favorite pictures. I love the one in my office.”

“I have no idea why,” I murmur and kiss the pad of his thumb.

“Worse things to do than look at your beautiful smiling face all day. Hungry?” he asks.

“Hungry for what?” I whisper.

He smirks, his eyes darkening. Hope and desire unfurl in my veins.

“Food, Mrs. Grey.” And he plants a swift kiss on my lips.

I give him my faux pout and sigh. “Yes. These days I’m always hungry.”

“The three of us can have a picnic.”

“Three of us? Is someone joining us?”

Christian cocks his head to one side. “In about seven or eight months.”

Oh . . . Blip. I grin goofily at him.

“I thought you might like to eat al fresco.”

“In the meadow?” I ask.

He nods.

“Sure.” I grin.

“This will be a great place to raise a family,” he murmurs, gazing down at me.

Family! More than one? Dare I mention this now?

He spreads his fingers over my belly. Holy shit. I hold my breath and place my hand over his.

“It’s hard to believe,” he whispers, and for the first time I hear wonder in his voice.

“I know. Oh—here, I have evidence. A picture.”

“You do? Baby’s first smile?”

I pull out the ultrasound of Blip from my wallet.

“See?”

Christian examines it closely, staring for several seconds. “Oh . . . Blip. Yeah, I see.” He sounds distracted, awed.

“Your child,” I whisper.

“Our child.” He counters.

“First of many.”

“Many?” Christian’s eyes widen with alarm.

“At least two.”

“Two?” He tests the word. “Can we just take this one child at a time?”

I grin. “Sure.”

We head back outside into the warm fall afternoon.

“When are you going to tell your folks?” Christian asks.

“Soon,” I murmur. “I thought about telling Ray this morning, but Mr. Rodriguez was there.” I shrug.

Christian nods and opens the hood of the R8. Inside are a wicker picnic basket and the tartan blanket we bought in London.

“Come,” he says, taking the basket and blanket in one hand and holding the other out to me. Together we walk into the meadow.

“Sure, Ros, go for it.” Christian hangs up. That’s the third call he’s taken during our picnic. He’s kicked off his shoes and socks, and is watching me, arms on his

raised knees. His jacket lies discarded on top of mine, as we’re warm in the sun. I lie beside him, stretched out on the picnic blanket, both of us surrounded by tall

golden and green grass far from the noise at the house and hidden from the prying eyes of the construction workers. We are in our own bucolic haven. He feeds me

another strawberry, and I chew and suck it gratefully, gazing at his darkening eyes.

“Tasty?” he whispers.

“Very.”

“Had enough?”

“Of strawberries, yes.”

His eyes glitter dangerously, and he grins. “Mrs. Jones packs a mighty fine picnic,” he says.

His eyes glitter dangerously, and he grins. “Mrs. Jones packs a mighty fine picnic,” he says.

“That she does,” I whisper.

Shifting suddenly, he lies down so his head is resting on my belly. He closes his eyes and seems content. I tangle my fingers in his hair.

He sighs heavily, then scowls and checks the number on the screen of his buzzing BlackBerry. He rolls his eyes and takes the call.

“Welch,” he snaps. He tenses, listens for a second or two, then suddenly bolts upright.

“24-7 . . . Thanks,” he says through gritted teeth and hangs up. The change in his mood is instant. Gone is my teasing, flirtatious husband, replaced by a cold,

calculating master of the universe. He narrows his eyes for a moment then gives me a cool, chilling smile. A shiver runs down my back. He picks up his BlackBerry

and presses a speed dial.

“Ros, how much stock do we own in Lincoln Timber?” He kneels up.

My scalp prickles. Oh no, what’s this?

“So, consolidate the shares into GEH, then fire the board . . . except the CEO . . . I don’t give a fuck . . . I hear you, just do it . . . thank you . . . keep me

informed.” He hangs up, and gazes at me impassively for a moment.

Holy shit! Christian is mad.

“What’s happened?”

“Linc,” he murmurs.

“Linc? Elena’s ex?”

“The same. He’s the one who posted Hyde’s bail.”

I gape at Christian in shock. His mouth is pressed in a hard line.

“Well—he’ll look like an idiot,” I murmur, dismayed. “I mean, Hyde committed another crime while out on bail.”

Christian’s eyes narrow and he smirks. “Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey.”

“What did you just do?” I kneel, facing him.

“I fucked him over.”

Oh! “Um . . . that seems a little impulsive,” I murmur.

“I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.”

“I’m aware of that.”

His eyes narrow and his lips thin. “I’ve had this plan in my back pocket for a while,” he says dryly.

I frown. “Oh?”

He pauses, seeming to weigh something in his mind, then takes a deep breath.

“Several years back, when I was twenty-one, Linc beat his wife to a pulp. He broke her jaw, her left arm, and four of her ribs because she was fucking me.” His

eyes harden. “And now I learn he posted bail for a man who tried to kill me, kidnapped my sister, and fractured my wife’s skull. I’ve had enough. I think it’s

payback time.”

I blanch. Holy shit. “Fair point well made, Mr. Grey,” I whisper.

“Ana, this is what I do. I’m not usually motivated by revenge, but I cannot let him get away with this. What he did to Elena . . . well, she should have pressed

charges, but she didn’t. That was her prerogative.

“But he’s seriously crossed the line with Hyde. Linc’s made this personal by going after my family. I’m going to crush him, break up his company right under his

nose, and sell the pieces to the highest bidder. I am going to bankrupt him.”

Oh . . .

“Besides.” Christian smirks. “We’ll make good money out of the deal.”

I stare into blazing gray eyes that soften suddenly.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he whispers.

“You didn’t,” I lie.

He arches a brow, amused.

“You just took me by surprise,” I whisper, then swallow. Christian is really quite scary sometimes.

He brushes his lips against mine. “I will do anything to keep you safe. Keep my family safe. Keep this little one safe,” he murmurs and splays his hand out over

my belly in a gentle caress.

Oh . . . I stop breathing. Christian gazes down at me, his eyes darkening. His lips part as he inhales and, in a deliberate move, the tips of his fingers brush against

my sex.

Holy shit. Desire detonates like an incendiary device igniting my bloodstream. I grasp his head, my fingers weaving into his hair, and tug hard so my lips find his.

He gasps, surprised by my assault, giving my tongue free passage into his mouth. He groans and kisses me back, his lips and tongue hungry for mine, and for a

moment we consume each other, lost in tongues and lips and breaths and sweet, sweet sensation as we rediscover each other.

Oh, I want this man. It’s been too long. I want him here, now, in the open air, in our meadow.

“Ana,” he breathes, entranced, and his hand skims over my backside to the hem of my skirt. I scramble to unbutton his shirt, all fingers and thumbs.

“Whoa, Ana—stop.” He pulls back, his jaw clenched, and grabs my hands.

“No.” My teeth clamp gently around his lower lip and I tug. “No,” I murmur again, gazing at him. I release him. “I want you.”

He inhales sharply. He’s torn, his indecision writ large in luminous gray eyes.

“Please, I need you.” Every pore of my being is begging. This is what we do.

He groans in defeat as his mouth finds mine, molding my lips to his. One hand cradles my head while the other skims down my body to my waist, and he eases

me onto my back and stretches out beside me, never breaking contact with my mouth.

He pulls back, hovering over me and gazing down. “You are so beautiful, Mrs. Grey.”

I caress his lovely face. “So are you, Mr. Grey. Inside and out.”

He frowns, and my fingers trace the furrow in his brow.

“Don’t frown. You are to me, even when you’re angry,” I whisper.

He groans once more, and his mouth captures mine, pushing me into the soft grass beneath the blanket.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, and his teeth graze my jaw. My heart soars.

“I’ve missed you, too. Oh, Christian.” I fist one hand in his hair and clutch his shoulder with the other.

His lips move to my throat, leaving tender kisses in their wake, and his fingers follow, deftly undoing each button of my blouse. Tugging my blouse apart, he

kisses the soft swell of my breasts. He murmurs appreciatively, low in his throat, and the sound echoes through my body to my deep dark places.

“Your body’s changing,” he whispers. His thumb teases my nipple until it’s erect and straining against my bra. “I like,” he adds. I watch his tongue taste and

trace the line between my bra and my breast, tantalizing and teasing me. Taking my bra cup delicately between his teeth, he pulls it down, freeing my breast and

trace the line between my bra and my breast, tantalizing and teasing me. Taking my bra cup delicately between his teeth, he pulls it down, freeing my breast and

nuzzling my nipple with his nose in the process. It puckers at his touch and from the chill of the gentle fall breeze. His lips close around me, and he sucks long and

hard.

“Ah!” I groan, inhaling sharply then wincing as pain radiates outward from my bruised ribs.

“Ana!” Christian exclaims and glares down at me, concern etched on his face. “This is what I’m talking about,” he admonishes. “Your lack of self-preservation. I

don’t want to hurt you.”

“No . . . don’t stop,” I whimper. He stares at me, warring with himself. “Please.”

“Here.” Abruptly he moves, and I’m sitting astride him, my short skirt now bunched up around my hips. His hands glide over the top of my thigh-highs.

“There. That’s better, and I can enjoy the view.” He reaches up and hooks his long index finger into my other bra cup, freeing that breast, too. He grasps both of

my breasts, and I throw my head back, pushing them into his welcome, expert hands. He teases me, tugging and rolling my nipples until I cry out, then sits up so

we’re nose to nose, his greedy gray eyes on mine. He kisses me, his fingers still teasing me. I scramble for his shirt, undoing the first two buttons, and it’s like

sensory overload—I want to be kissing him everywhere, undressing him, making love with him all at once.

“Hey—” He gently grasps my head and pulls back, eyes dark and full of sensual promise. “There’s no rush. Take it slow. I want to savor you.”

“Christian, it’s been so long.” I’m panting.

“Slow,” he whispers, and it’s a command. He kisses the right corner of my mouth. “Slow.” He kisses the left corner. “Slow, baby.” He tugs my bottom lip with

his teeth. “Let’s take this slow.” He unfurls his fingers in my hair, keeping me in place as his tongue invades my mouth, seeking, tasting, calming . . . inflaming. Oh,

my man can kiss.

I caress his face, my fingers moving tentatively down to his chin then to his throat, and I start again on the buttons of his shirt, taking my time, as he continues to

kiss me. Slowly I pull his shirt apart, my fingers trailing over his clavicles, feeling their way across his warm, silky skin. I push him gently back until he’s lying

beneath me. Sitting up, I gaze down at him, aware that I’m squirming against his growing erection. Hmm. I trace my fingers across his lips to his jaw then down his

neck, over his Adam’s apple to that little dip at the base of his throat. My beautiful man. I lean down, and my kisses follow the tips of my fingers. My teeth graze his

jaw and kiss his throat. He closes his eyes.

“Ah.” He groans and tilts his head back, giving me easier access to the base of his throat, his mouth slack and open in silent veneration. Christian lost and aroused

is just so exhilarating . . . and so arousing to me.

My tongue trails down his sternum, twirling through his chest hair. Hmm. He tastes so good. He smells so good. Intoxicating. I kiss first one, then two of his

small round scars, and he grasps my hips, so my fingers halt on his chest as I gaze down at him. His breathing is harsh.

“You want this? Here?” he breathes, his eyes hooded with a heady combination of love and lust.

“Yes,” I murmur, and my lips and tongue graze across his chest to his nipple. I pull and roll it gently with my teeth.

“Oh, Ana,” he whispers and circling my waist he lifts me, tugging at his button and fly so he springs free. He sits me down again, and I push against him,

delighting in the feel of him hot and hard beneath me. He runs his hands up my thighs, pausing where my thigh-highs stop and my flesh begins, his hands running

small teasing circles at the top of my thighs so that the tips of his thumbs touch me . . . touch me where I want to be touched. I gasp.

“I hope you’re not attached to your underwear,” he murmurs, his eyes wild and bright. His fingers trace the elastic along my belly then slide inside, teasing me,

before grabbing my panties tightly and pushing his thumbs through the delicate material. My panties disintegrate. His hands splay out on my thighs, and his thumbs

brush against my sex once more. He flexes his hips so his erection rubs against me.

“I can feel how wet you are.” His voice is tinged with carnal appreciation, and he suddenly sits up, his arm around my waist again, so we’re nose to nose. He

rubs his nose against mine.

“We’re going to take this slow, Mrs. Grey. I want to feel all of you.” He lifts me, and with exquisite, frustrating, slow ease, lowers me onto him. I feel each

blessed inch of him fill me.

“Ah—” I moan incoherently as I reach out to clasp his arms. I try to lift myself off him for some welcome friction, but he holds me in place.

“All of me,” he whispers and tilts his pelvis, pushing himself into me all the way. I throw my head back and let out a strangled cry of pure pleasure.

“Let me hear you,” he murmurs. “No—don’t move, just feel.”

I open my eyes, my mouth frozen in a silent Ah! And he’s gazing at me, hooded, licentious gray eyes into dazed blue. He shifts, rolling his hips, but holds me in

place.

I groan. His lips are at my throat, kissing me.

“This is my favorite place. Buried in you,” he murmurs against my skin.

“Please, move,” I plead.

“Slow, Mrs. Grey.” He flexes his hips again and pleasure radiates through me. I cup his face and kiss him, consuming him.

“Love me. Please, Christian.”

His teeth skim my jaw up to my ear. “Go,” he whispers, and he lifts me up and down. My inner goddess is unleashed, and I push him down on the ground and

start to move, savoring the feeling of him inside me . . . riding him . . . riding him hard. With his hands around my waist he matches my rhythm. I have missed

this . . . the heady feeling of him beneath me, inside me . . . the sun on my back, the sweet smell of fall in the air, the gentle autumnal breeze. It’s a heady fusion of

senses: touch, taste, smell, and the sight of my beloved husband beneath me.

“Oh, Ana.” He groans, eyes closed, head back, mouth open.

Ah . . . I love this. And inside, I’m building . . . building . . . climbing . . . higher. Christian’s hands move to my thighs, and delicately his thumbs press at their

apex, and I explode around him over and over and over and over, and I collapse, sprawled on his chest as he cries out in turn, letting go and calling out my name

with love and joy.

He cuddles me against his chest, cradling my head. Hmm. Closing my eyes, I savor the feel of his arms around me. My hand is on his chest, feeling the steady beat

of his heart as it slows and calms. I kiss and nuzzle him, and marvel briefly that not long ago he would not have let me do this.

“Better?” he whispers. I raise my head. He’s grinning broadly.

“Much. You?” My answering grin reflects his.

“I’ve missed you, Mrs. Grey.” He’s serious for a moment.

“Me, too.”

“No more heroics, eh?”

“No,” I promise.

“You should always talk to me,” he whispers.

“Back at you, Grey.”

He smirks. “Fair point well made. I’ll try.” He kisses my hair.

“I think we’re going to be happy here,” I whisper, closing my eyes again.

“I think we’re going to be happy here,” I whisper, closing my eyes again.

“Yep. You, me and . . . Blip. How do you feel, incidentally?”

“Fine. Relaxed. Happy.”

“Good.”

“You?”

“Yeah, all those things,” he murmurs.

I look up at him, trying to gauge his expression.

“What?” he asks.

“You know, you’re very bossy when we have sex.”

“Are you complaining?”

“No. I’m just wondering . . . you said you missed it.”

He stills, gazing at me. “Sometimes,” he whispers.

Oh. “Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that,” I murmur and kiss him lightly on his lips, curling around him like a vine. Images of us together, in the

playroom; the Tallis, the table, on the cross, shackled to the bed . . . I love his kinky fuckery—our kinky fuckery. Yes. I can do that stuff. I can do that for him, with

him. I can do that for me. My skin tingles as I remember the riding crop.

“I like to play, too,” I murmur, and glancing up, I’m treated to his shy smile.

“You know, I’d really like to test your limits,” he whispers.

“My limits for what?”

“Pleasure.”

“Oh, I think I’d like that.” My inner goddess drops into a dead faint.

“Well, maybe when we get home,” he whispers, leaving that promise hanging between us.

I nuzzle him once more. I love him so.

It’s been two days since our picnic. Two days since the promise of well, maybe when we get home was made. Christian is still treating me like I’m made of glass.

He still won’t let me go to work, so I have been working from home. I put the stack of query letters I’ve been reading aside on my desk and sigh. Christian and I

haven’t been back in the playroom since I safe worded. And he’s said he misses it. Well, so do I . . . especially now that he wants to explore my limits. I flush,

thinking what that could possibly entail. I glance at the billiard table . . . Yes I can’t wait to explore those.

My thoughts are interrupted by soft, lyrical music that fills the apartment. Christian is playing the piano; not one of his usual laments but a sweet melody, a