by E. L. James
“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? Opening my eyes, I gape down at him as he suckles me, my skin singing under his touch. I no longer feel my sodden blouse, his wet hair … nothing except the burn. And it burns deliciously hot and low, deep inside me, and all thought evaporates as my body tightens and clenches … ready, reaching … pining for release. And he doesn’t stop—teasing, pulling, driving me wild. I want … I want …
“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 farther 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 shut tightly. He’s lost and it’s heady, his response to me. Me. 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 in
to 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 his 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.”
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!
A revolver. Holy fuck! I had no idea Christian owned a gun. I take it out, slip the release, and check the cylinder. It’s fully loaded, but light … too light. It must be carbon fiber. What does Christian want with a gun? Jeez, I hope he knows how to use it. Ray’s perpetual warnings about handguns run quickly through my mind. His army training was never lost. These will kill you, Ana. You need to know what you’re doing when you’re handling a firearm. I put the gun back and find the scissors. Retrieving them quickly, I bolt back to Christian, my head buzzing. Taylor and Mrs. Jones … the revolver …
At the entrance to the great room, I run into Taylor.
“Mrs. Grey, excuse me.” His face reddens as he quickly takes in my attire.
“Um, Taylor, hi … um. I’m cutting Christian’s hair!” I blurt out, embarrassed. Taylor is as mortified as I am. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it quickly and stands aside.
“After you, ma’am,” he says formally. I think I’m the color of my old Audi, the submissive special. Could this be more embarrassing?
“Thank you,” I mutter and dash down the hallway. Crap! Will I ever get used to the fact that we’re not alone? I dash into the bathroom, breathless.
“What’s wrong?” Christian is standing in front of the mirror, holding my shoes. All of my scattered clothes are now neatly piled beside the sink.
“I just ran into Taylor.”
“Oh.” Christian frowns. “Dressed like that.”
Oh shit! “That’s not Taylor’s fault.”
Christian’s frown deepens. “No. But still.”
“I’m dressed.”
“Barely.”
“I don’t know who was more embarrassed, me or him.” I try my distraction technique. “Did you know he and Gail are … well, together?”
Christian laughs. “Yes, of course I knew.”
“And you never told me?”
“I thought you knew, too.”
“No.”
“Ana, they’re adults. They live under the same roof. Both unattached. Both attractive.”
I flush, feeling foolish for not having noticed.
“Well, if you put it like that … I just thought Gail was older than Taylor.”
“She is, but not by much.” He gazes at me, perplexed. “Some men like older women—” He stops abruptly and his eyes widen.
I scowl at him. “I know that,” I snap.
Christian looks contrite. He smiles fondly at me. Yes! My distraction technique was successful! My subconscious rolls her eyes at me—but at what cost? Now the unmentionable Mrs. Robinson is looming over us.
“That reminds me,” he says brightly.
“What?” I mutt
er petulantly. Grabbing the chair, I turn it to face the mirror above the sinks. “Sit,” I order. Christian regards me with indulgent amusement, but does as he’s told and sits back down in the chair. I start to comb through his now merely damp hair.
“I was thinking we could convert the rooms over the garages for them at the new place,” Christian continues. “Make it a home. Then maybe Taylor’s daughter could stay with him more often.” He watches me carefully in the mirror.
“Why doesn’t she stay here?”
“Taylor’s never asked me.”
“Perhaps you should offer. But we’d have to behave ourselves.”
Christian’s brow furrows. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Perhaps that’s why Taylor hasn’t asked. Have you met her?”
“Yes. She’s a sweet thing. Shy. Very pretty. I pay for her schooling.”
Oh! I stop combing and stare at him in the mirror.
“I had no idea.”
He shrugs. “Seemed the least I could do. Also, it means he won’t quit.”
“I’m sure he likes working for you.”
Christian stares at me blankly, then shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“I think he’s very fond of you, Christian.” I resume combing and glance at him. His eyes don’t leave mine.
“You think?”
“Yes. I do.”
He snorts a dismissive yet content sound as if he’s secretly pleased that his staff may like him.
“Good. Will you talk to Gia about the rooms over the garage?”
“Yes, of course.” I don’t feel the same irritation I did before at the mention of her name. My subconscious nods sagely at me. Yes … we done good today. My inner goddess gloats. Now she’ll leave my husband alone and not make him uncomfortable.
I am ready to cut Christian’s hair. “You sure about this? Your last chance to bail.”
“Do your worst, Mrs. Grey. I don’t have to look at me, you do.”
I grin. “Christian, I could look at you all day.”
He shakes his head, exasperated. “It’s just a pretty face, baby.”
“And behind it is a very pretty man.” I kiss his temple. “My man.”
