by E. L. James
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. He mirrors his actions with his other hand so both my breasts are free and, cupping them gently, he skims each thumb over a nipple, circling slowly, teasing and taunting each one so that they harden and distend beneath his skillful touch. I try, I really try not to move, but my nipples are hotwired to my groin, so I moan and throw my head back, closing my eyes and surrendering to the sweet, sweet torture.
“Shh.” Christian’s soothing voice is at odds with the teasing, even-tempo rhythm of his wicked fingers. “Still, baby, still.” Releasing one breast, he reaches up behind me and splays his hand around the nape of my neck. Leaning forward, he takes my now bereft nipple into his mouth and sucks hard, his wet hair tickling me. At the same time, his thumb stops skimming across my other elongated nipple. Instead, he takes it between his thumb and forefinger and tugs and twists it gently.
“Ah! Christian!” I groan and buck forward on his lap. But he doesn’t stop. He continues the slow, leisurely, agonizing tease. And my body is burning as the pleasure takes a darker turn.
“Christian, please,” I whimper.
“Hmm,” he hums low in his chest. “I want you to come like this.” My nipple gets a brief respite as his words caress my skin, and it’s like he’s calling to a deep, dark part of my psyche that only he knows. When he resumes with his teeth this time, the pleasure is almost intolerable. Moaning loudly, I writhe on his lap, trying to find some precious friction against his pants. I pull uselessly against my restraining panties, itching to touch him, but I’m lost—lost in this treacherous sensation.
“Please,” I whisper, pleading, and pleasure flies through my body, from my neck, right down to my legs, to my toes, tightening all in its wake.
“You have such beautiful breasts, Ana.” He groans. “One day I’ll fuck them.”
What the hell does that mean? Openi
“Let go,” he breathes—and I do, loudly, my orgasm convulsing through my body, and he stops his sweet torture and wraps his arms around me, clutching me to him as my body spirals down from my climax. When I open my eyes, he is gazing down at me where I rest against his chest.
“God, I love to watch you come, Ana.” His voice is full of wonder.
“That was . . .” Words fail me.
“I know.” He leans forward and kisses me, his hand still at the nape of my neck, holding me just so, angling my head so he can kiss me deeply—with love, with reverence.
I am lost in his kiss.
He pulls away to draw breath, his eyes the color of a tropical storm.
“Now I’m going to fuck you, hard,” he murmurs.
Holy cow. Grabbing me around the waist, he lifts me from his thighs down to the edge of his knees and reaches with his right hand for the button on the waistband of his navy pants. He runs the fingers of his left hand up and down my thigh, stopping at my stocking tops each time. He’s watching me intently. We’re face to face and I’m helpless, trussed up in my bra and by my panties, and this has to be one of the most intimate times we’ve had—me sitting on his lap, staring into his beautiful gray eyes. It makes me feel wanton, but also so connected to him—I am not embarrassed or shy. This is Christian, my husband, my lover, my overbearing megalomaniac, my Fifty—the love of my life. He reaches for his zipper, and my mouth goes dry as his erection springs free.
He smirks. “You like?” he whispers.
“Hmm,” I murmur appreciatively. He wraps his hand around himself and moves it up and down . . . Oh my. I gaze up at him through my lashes. Fuck, he’s so sexy.
“You’re biting your lip, Mrs. Grey.”
“That’s because I’m hungry.”
“Hungry?” His mouth opens in surprise, and his eyes widen a fraction.
“Hmm . . .” I agree and lick my lips.
He gives me his enigmatic smile and bites his lower lip as he continues to stroke himself. Why is the sight of my husband pleasuring himself such a turn-on?
“I see. You should have eaten your dinner.” His tone is mocking and censorious at once. “But maybe I can oblige.” He puts his hands on my waist. “Stand,” he says softly, and I know what he’s going to do. I get to my feet, my legs no longer shaking.
“Kneel.”
I do as I’m told and kneel down on the cool tiled floor of the bathroom. He slides forward on the seat of the chair.
“Kiss me,” he utters holding his erection. I glance up at him, and he runs his tongue over his top teeth. It’s arousing, very arousing, to see his desire, his naked desire for me and my mouth. Leaning forward, my eyes on his, I kiss the tip of his erection. I watch him inhale sharply and clench his teeth. Christian cups the side of my head, and I run my tongue over the tip, tasting the small bead of dew on the end. Hmm . . . he tastes good. His mouth drops open further as he gasps and I pounce, pulling him into my mouth and sucking hard.
“Ah—” The air hisses through his teeth, and he flexes his hips forward, thrusting into my mouth. But I don’t stop. Sheathing my teeth behind my lips, I push down and then pull up on him. He moves both hands so that he fully cups my head, burying his fingers in my hair and slowly eases himself in and out of my mouth, his breathing quickening, growing harsher. I twirl my tongue around his tip and push down again in perfect counterpoint to him.
“Jesus, Ana.” He sighs and screws his eyes tightly. He’s lost and it’s heady, his response to me. Me. My inner goddess could light up Escala, she’s so thrilled. And very slowly I draw my lips back, so it’s just my teeth.
“Ah!” Christian stops moving. Leaning forward he grabs me and pulls me up onto his lap.
“Enough!” he growls. Reaching behind me, he frees my hands with one tug on my panties. I flex my wrists and stare from under my lashes into scorching eyes that gaze back at me with love and longing and lust. And I realize it’s me that wants to fuck him seven shades of Sunday. I want him badly. I want to watch him come apart beneath me. I grab his erection and scoot over him. Placing my other hand on his shoulder, very gently and slowly, I ease myself onto him. He makes a guttural, feral noise deep in his throat and, reaching up, pulls off my blouse letting it fall to the floor. His hands move to my hips.
“Still,” he rasps, his hands digging into my flesh. “Please, let me savor this. Savor you.”
I stop. Oh my . . . he feels so good inside me. He caresses my face, his eyes wide and wild, his lips parted as he breathes. He flexes beneath me and I moan, closing my eyes.
“This is my favorite place,” he whispers. “Inside you. Inside my wife.”
Oh fuck. Christian. I cannot hold back. My fingers glide into his wet hair, my lips seek his, and I start to move. Up and down on my toes, savoring him, savoring me. He groans loudly, and his hands are in my hair and around my back, and his tongue invades my mouth greedily, taking all that I willingly give. After all our arguing today, my frustration with him, his with me—we still have this. We will always have this. I love him so much, it’s almost overwhelming. His hands move to my backside and he controls me, moving me up and down, again and again, at his pace—his hot, slick tempo.
“Ah,” I groan helplessly into his mouth as I’m carried away.
“Yes. Yes, Ana,” he hisses, and I rain kisses on his face, his chin, his jaw, his neck. “Baby,” he breathes, capturing my mouth once more.
“Oh, Christian, I love you. I will always love you.” I’m breathless, wanting him to know, wanting him to be sure of me after our battle of wills today.
He moans loudly and wraps his arms around me tightly as he climaxes with a mournful sob, and it’s enough—enough to push me over the brink once more. I clutch my arms around his head and let go, and I come around him, tears springing to my eyes because I love him so.
“Hey,” he whispers, tipping my chin back and gazing at me with quiet concern. “Why are you crying? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I mutter reassuringly. He smoothes my hair off my face, wipes away a lone tear with this thumb and tenderly kisses my lips. He is still inside me. He shifts, and I wince as he pulls out of me.
“What’s wrong, Ana? Tell me.”
I sniff. “It’s just . . . it’s just sometimes I’m overwhelmed by how much I love you,” I whisper.
After a beat, he smiles his special shy smile—reserved for me, I think. “You have the same effect on me,” he whispers, and kisses me once more. I smile, and inside my joy unfurls and stretches lazily.
“Do I?”
He smirks. “You know you do.”
“Sometimes I know. Not all the time.”
“Back at you, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers.
I grin and gently place feather-light kisses over his chest. I nuzzle his chest hair. Christian caresses my hair and runs a hand down my back. He unclasps my bra and pulls the strap down one arm. I shift, and he tugs the strap down the other arm and drops my bra on the floor.
“Hmm. Skin on skin,” he murmurs appreciatively and folds me in his arms again. He kisses my shoulder and runs his nose up to my ear. “You smell like heaven, Mrs. Grey.”
“So do you, Mr. Grey.” I nuzzle him again and inhale his Christian smell, which is now mixed with the heady scent of sex. I could stay wrapped in his arms like this, sated and happy, forever. It’s just what I need after a full day of back-to-work, arguing, and bitch slapping. This is where I want to be, and in spite of his control freakery, his megalomania, this is where I belong. Christian buries his nose in my hair and inhales deeply. I let out a contented sigh, and I feel his smile. And we sit, arms clasped around each other, saying nothing.
Eventually reality intrudes.
“It’s late,” Christian says, his fingers methodically stroking my back.
“Your hair still needs cutting.”
He chuckles. “That it does, Mrs. Grey. Do you have the energy to finish the job you started?”
“For you, Mr. Grey, anything.” I kiss his chest once more and reluctantly stand.
“Don’t go.” Grabbing my hips, he turns me around. He straightens then undoes my skirt, letting it drop to the floor. He holds his hand out to me. I take it and step out of my skirt. Now I am dressed solely in stockings and garter belt.
“You are a mighty fine sight, Mrs. Grey.” He sits back in the chair and crosses his arms, giving me a full and frank appraisal.
I hold out my hands and twirl for him.
“God, I’m a lucky son of a bitch,” he says admiringly.
“Yes, you are.”
He grins. “Put my shirt on and you can cut my hair. Like this, you’ll distract me, and we’ll never get to bed.”
I can’t help my answering smile. Knowing that he’s watching my every move, I sashay over to where we left my shoes and his shirt. Bending slowly, I reach down, pick up his shirt, smell it—hmm—then shrug it on.
Christian’s eyes are round. He’s redone his fly and is watching me intently.
“That’s quite a floor show, Mrs. Grey.”
“Do we have any scissors?” I ask innocently, batting my eyelashes.
“My study,” he croaks.
“I’ll go search.” Leaving him, I walk into our bedroom and grab my comb from the dressing table before heading to his study. As I enter the main corridor, I notice the door to Taylor’s office is open. Mrs. Jones is standing just beyond the door. I stop, rooted to the spot.
Taylor is running his fingers down her face and smiling sweetly at her. Then he leans down and kisses her.
Holy shit! Taylor and Mrs. Jones? I gape in astonishment—I mean, I thought . . . well, I kind of suspected. But obviously they are together! I flush, feeling like a voyeur, and manage to get my feet to move. I scamper across the great room and into Christian’s study. Switching on the light, I walk to his desk. Taylor and Mrs. Jones . . . Wow! I’m reeling. I always thought Mrs. Jones was older than Taylor. Oh, I have to get my head around this. I open the top drawer and am immediately distracted when I find a gun. Christian has a gun!
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