by E. L. James
I nod. He starts to unbuckle the belt on my trench coat.
“I’ll do it,” I mutter, making a halfhearted attempt to brush him off.
“Let me.”
I sigh. I had no idea I was this tired.
“It’s the altitude. You’re not used to it. And the drinking, of course.” He smirks, divests me of my coat, and throws it on one of the bedroom chairs. Taking my hand, he leads me into the bathroom. Why are we going in here?
“Sit,” he says.
I sit on the chair and close my eyes. I hear him as he messes around with bottles on the vanity unit. I am too tired to open my eyes to find out what he’s doing. A moment later he tips my head back, and I open my eyes in surprise.
“Eyes closed,” Christian says. Holy crap, he’s holding a cotton ball! Gently, he wipes it over my right eye. I sit stunned as he methodically removes my makeup.
“Ah. There’s the woman I married,” he says after a few wipes.
“You don’t like makeup?”
“I like it well enough, but I prefer what’s beneath it.” He kisses my forehead. “Here. Take these.” He puts some Advil into my palm and hands me a glass of water.
I look and pout.
“Take them,” he orders.
I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told.
“Good. Do you need a private moment?” he asks sardonically.
I snort. “So coy, Mr. Grey. Yes, I need to pee.”
He laughs. “You expect me to leave?”
I giggle. “You want to stay?”
He cocks his head to one side, his expression amused.
“You are one kinky son of a bitch. Out. I don’t want you to watch me pee. That’s a step too far.” I stand and wave him out of the bathroom.
WHEN I EMERGE FROM the bathroom, he’s changed into his pajama bottoms. Hmm … Christian in PJs. Mesmerized, I gaze at his abdomen, his muscles, his happy trail. It’s distracting. He strides over to me.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks wryly.
“Always.”
“I think you’re slightly drunk, Mrs. Grey.”
“I think, for once, I have to agree with you, Mr. Grey.”
“Let me help you out of what little there is of this dress. It really should come with a health warning.” He turns me around and undoes the single button at the neck.
“You were so mad,” I murmur.
“Yes. I was.”
“At me?”
“No. Not at you.” He kisses my shoulder. “For once.”
I smile. Not mad at me. This is progress. “Makes a nice change.”
“Yes. It does.” He kisses my other shoulder, then tugs my dress down over my backside and onto the floor. He removes my panties at the same time, leaving me naked. Reaching up, he takes my hand.
“Step,” he commands, and I step out of the dress, holding his hand for balance.
He stands and tosses my dress and panties onto the chair with Mia’s trench coat.
“Arms up,” he says softly. He slips his T-shirt over my head and pulls it down, covering me up. I am ready for bed.
He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, my minty breath mingling with his.
“As much as I’d love to bury myself in you, Mrs. Grey—you’ve had too much to drink, you’re at nearly eight thousand feet, and you didn’t sleep well last night. Come. Get into bed.” He pulls back the duvet and I climb in. He covers me up and kisses my forehead once more.
“Close your eyes. When I come back to bed, I’ll expect you to be asleep.” It’s a threat, a command … it’s Christian.
“Don’t go,” I plead.
“I have some calls to make, Ana.”
“It’s Saturday. It’s late. Please.”
He runs his hands through his hair. “Ana, if I come to bed with you now, you won’t get any rest. Sleep.” He’s adamant. I close my eyes and his lips brush my forehead once more.
“Good night, baby,” he breathes.
Images of the day flash through my mind … Christian hauling me over his shoulder in the plane. His anxiety as to whether or not I’d like the house. Making love this afternoon. The bath. His reaction to my dress. Decking Blond Giant—my palm tingles at the memory. And then Christian putting me to bed.
Who would have thought? I grin widely, the word progress running around my brain as I drift.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
* * *
I am too warm. Christian warm. His head is on my shoulder, and he’s breathing softly on my neck while he sleeps, his legs threaded through mine, his arm around my waist. I linger on the edge of consciousness, aware that if I wake fully I’ll wake him, too, and he doesn’t sleep enough. Hazily my mind wanders through the events of yesterday evening. I drank too much—boy, did I drink too much. I’m amazed Christian let me. I smile as I remember him putting me to bed. That was sweet, real sweet, and unexpected. I conduct a quick mental inventory of how I’m feeling. Stomach? Fine. Head? Surprisingly, fine, but fuzzy. My palm is still red from last night. Sheesh. Idly I think about Christian’s palms when he’s spanked me. I squirm and he wakes.
“What’s wrong?” Sleepy gray eyes search mine.
“Nothing. Good morning.” I run the fingers of my uninjured hand through his hair.
“Mrs. Grey, you look lovely this morning,” he says, kissing my cheek, and I light up from within.
“Thank you for taking care of me last night.”
“I like taking care of you. It’s what I want to do,” he says quietly, but his eyes betray him as triumph flares in their gray depths. It’s like he’s won the World Series or the Super Bowl.
Oh, my Fifty.
“You make me feel cherished.”
“That’s because you are,” he murmurs, and my heart clenches.
He clasps my hand and I wince. He releases me immediately, alarmed. “The punch?” he asks. His eyes frost as he scrutinizes mine, and his voice is laced with sudden anger.
“I slapped him. I didn’t punch him.”
“That fucker!”
I thought we’d dealt with this last night.
“I can’t bear that he touched you.”
“He didn’t hurt me, he was just inappropriate. Christian, I’m okay. My hand’s a little red, that’s all. Surely you know what that’s like?” I smirk, and his expression changes to one of amused surprise.
“Why, Mrs. Grey, I am very familiar with that.” His lips twist in amusement. “I could reacquaint myself with that feeling this minute, should you so wish.”
“Oh, stow your twitching palm, Mr. Grey.” I stroke his face with my injured hand, my fingers caressing his sideburn. Gently I tug the little hairs. It distracts him, and he takes my hand and plants a tender kiss on my palm. Miraculously, the pain disappears.
“Why didn’t you tell me this hurt last night?”
“Um … I didn’t really feel it last night. It’s okay now.”
His eyes soften and his mouth twists. “How are you feeling?”
“Better than I deserve.”
“That’s quite a right arm you have there, Mrs. Grey.”
“You’d do well to remember that, Mr. Grey.”
“Oh, really?” He rolls suddenly so that he’s fully on top of me, pressing me into the mattress, holding my wrists above my head. He gazes down at me.
“I’d fight you any day, Mrs. Grey. In fact, subduing you in bed is a fantasy of mine.” He kisses my throat.
What?
“I thought you subdued me all the time.” I gasp as he nibbles my earlobe.
“Hmm … but I’d like some resistance,” he murmurs, his nose skirting my jaw.
Resistance? I still. He stops, releasing my hands, and leans up on his elbows.
“You want me to fight you? Here?” I whisper, trying to contain my surprise. Okay—my shock. He nods, his eyes hooded but wary as he gauges my reaction.
“Now?”
He shrugs, and I see the idea flit through his mind. He gives me his shy smile and nods again, slowl
y.
Oh my … He’s tense, lying on top of me, and his growing erection is digging tantalizingly into my soft, willing flesh, distracting me. What’s this about? Brawling? Fantasy? Will he hurt me? My inner goddess shakes her head—Never.
“Is this what you meant about coming to bed angry?”
He nods once more, his eyes still wary.
Hmm … my Fifty wants to rumble.
“Don’t bite your lip,” he warns.
Compliantly, I release my lip. “I think you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Grey.” I bat my lashes and squirm provocatively beneath him. This could be fun.
“Disadvantage?”
“Surely you’ve already got me where you want me?”
He smirks and presses his groin into mine once more.
“Good point well made, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers and quickly kisses my lips. Abruptly he shifts and takes me with him, rolling over so I’m straddling him. I grab his hands, pinning them to the side of his head, and ignore the protesting ache from my hand. My hair falls in a chestnut veil around us, and I move my head so that the strands tickle his face. He jerks his face away but doesn’t try to stop me.
“So, you want to play rough?” I ask, skimming my crotch over his.
His mouth opens and he inhales sharply.
“Yes.” He hisses, and I release him.
“Wait.” I reach over for the glass of water beside the bed. Christian must have left it here. It’s cool and sparkling—too cool to have been sitting here for long—and I wonder when he came to bed.
As I take a long draft, Christian trails his fingers in small circles up my thighs, leaving tingling skin in their wake before he cups and squeezes my naked behind. Hmm.
Taking a leaf from his impressive repertoire, I lean forward and kiss him, pouring clear cool water into his mouth.
He drinks. “Very tasty, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs, sporting a boyish and playful grin.
After placing the glass back on the bedside table, I remove his hands from my backside and pin them by his head once more.
“So I’m supposed to be unwilling?” I smirk.
“Yes.”
“I’m not much of an actress.”
He grins. “Try.”
I lean down and kiss him chastely. “Okay, I’ll play,” I whisper, trailing my teeth along his jaw, feeling his prickly stubble beneath my teeth and my tongue.
Christian makes a low, sexy sound in his throat and moves, tossing me onto the bed beside him. I cry out in surprise, then he’s on top of me, and I start to struggle as he makes a grab for my hands. Roughly, I place my hands on his chest, pushing with all my might, trying to move him, while he endeavors to pry my legs apart with his knee.
I continue pushing at his chest—Jeez, he’s heavy—but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t freeze as he once might have. He’s enjoying this! He attempts to grab my wrists, and finally captures one, despite my valiant attempts to twist it free. It’s my sore hand, so I surrender it to him, but I grab his hair with my other hand and pull hard.
“Ah!” He yanks his head free and gazes down at me, his eyes wild and carnal.
“Savage,” he whispers, his voice laced with salacious delight.
In response to this one whispered word, my libido explodes, and I stop acting. Again I struggle in vain to wrest my hand out of his hold. At the same time I try to hook my ankles together and attempt to buck him off me. He’s too heavy. Gah! It’s frustrating and hot.
With a groan, Christian captures my other hand. He holds both my wrists in his left hand, and his right travels leisurely—insolently, almost—down my body, fondling and feeling as it goes, tweaking my nipple on the way.
I yelp in response, pleasure spiking short, sharp, and hot from my nipple to my groin. I make another fruitless attempt to buck him off, but he’s just too on me.
When he tries to kiss me I jerk my head to the side so he can’t. Promptly his insolent hand moves from the hem of my T-shirt up to my chin, holding me in place as he runs his teeth along my jaw, mirroring what I did to him earlier.
“Oh, baby, fight me,” he murmurs.
I twist and writhe, trying to free myself from his merciless hold, but it’s hopeless. He’s much stronger than me. He’s gently biting at my lower lip as his tongue tries to invade my mouth. And I realize I don’t want to resist him. I want him—now, like I always do. I stop fighting and fervently return his kiss. I don’t care that I haven’t brushed my teeth. I don’t care that we’re supposed to be playing some game. Desire, hot and hard, surges through my bloodstream, and I’m lost. Unhooking my ankles, I wrap my legs around his hips and use my heels to push his pajamas down over his behind.
“Ana,” he breathes, and he kisses me everywhere. And we’re no longer wrestling, but all hands and tongues and touch and taste, quick and urgent.
“Skin,” he murmurs hoarsely, his breathing labored. He drags me up and tugs off my T-shirt in one swift move.
“You,” I whisper while I’m upright, because it’s all I can think of to say. I seize the front of his pajamas and yank them down, freeing his erection. I grab and squeeze him. He’s hard. The air whistles through his teeth as he inhales sharply, and I revel in his response.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. He leans back, lifting my thighs, tipping me down onto the bed as I pull and squeeze him tightly, running my hand up and down him. Feeling a bead of moisture on his tip, I swirl it around with my thumb. As he lowers me to the mattress, I slip my thumb in my mouth to taste him while his hands travel up my body, caressing my hips, my stomach, my breasts.
“Taste good?” he asks as he hovers over me, eyes blazing.
“Yes. Here.” I push my thumb into his mouth, and he sucks and bites the pad. I groan, grasp his head, and pull him down to me so I can kiss him. Wrapping my legs around him, I push his pajamas off his legs with my feet, then cradle him with my legs around his waist. His lips trail from across my jaw to my chin, nipping softly.
“You’re so beautiful.” He dips his head lower to the base of my throat. “Such beautiful skin.” His breath is soft as his lips glide down to my breasts.
What? I am panting, confused—wanting, now waiting. I thought this was going to be quick.
“Christian.” I hear the quiet plea in my voice and reach down, fisting my hands in his hair.
“Hush,” he whispers and circles my nipple with his tongue before pulling it into his mouth and tugging hard.
“Ah!” I moan and squirm, tilting my pelvis up to tempt him. He grins against my skin and turns his attention to my other breast.
“Impatient, Mrs. Grey?” He then sucks hard on my nipple. I tug his hair. He groans and peers up. “I’ll restrain you,” he warns.
“Take me,” I beg.
“All in good time,” he murmurs against my skin. His hand travels down at an infuriatingly slow speed to my hip as he worships my nipple with his mouth. I moan loudly, my breath short and shallow, and I try once more to entice him into me, rocking against him. He’s thick and heavy and close, but he’s taking his own sweet leisurely time with me.
Fuck this. I struggle and twist, determined to buck him off me again.
“What the—”
Grabbing my hands, Christian pins them down on the bed, my arms spread wide, and rests his full body weight on me, completely subduing me. I am breathless, wild.
“You wanted resistance,” I say, panting. He rears up over me and gazes down, his hands still locked around my wrists. I place my heels under his behind and push. He doesn’t move. Gah!
“You don’t want to play nice?” he asks, astonished, his eyes alight with excitement.
“I just want you to make love to me, Christian.” Could he be any more obtuse? First we’re fighting and wrestling, then he’s all tender and sweet. It’s confusing. I’m in bed with Mr. Mercurial.
“Please.” I press my heels against his backside once more. Burning gray eyes search mine. Oh, what is he thinking? He looks momentarily bewildered and confused. He releases m
y hands and sits back on his heels, pulling me into his lap.
“Okay, Mrs. Grey, we’ll do this your way.” He lifts me up and slowly lowers me onto him so I’m straddling him.
“Ah!” This is it. This is what I want. This is what I need. Curling my arms around his neck, I twist my fingers in his hair, glorying in the feeling of him inside me. I start to move. Taking control, taking him at my pace, at my speed. He moans, and his lips find mine, and we’re lost.
I TRAIL MY FINGERS through the hair on Christian’s chest. He lies on his back, still and quiet beside me as we both catch our breath. His hand thrums rhythmically down my back.
“You’re quiet,” I whisper and kiss his shoulder. He turns and looks at me, his expression giving nothing away. “That was fun.” Shit, is something wrong?
“You confound me, Ana.”
“Confound you?”
He shifts so that we’re face to face. “Yes. You. Calling the shots. It’s … different.”
“Good different or bad different?” I trail a finger over his lips. His brow furrows, as if he doesn’t quite understand the question. Absentmindedly, he kisses my finger.
“Good different,” he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
“You’ve never indulged this little fantasy before?” I blush as I say it. Do I really want to know any more about my husband’s colorful … um, kaleidoscopic sex life before me? My subconscious eyes me warily over her tortoiseshell half-moon specs. Do you really want to go there?
“No, Anastasia. You can touch me.” It’s a simple explanation that speaks volumes. Of course, the fifteen couldn’t.
“Mrs. Robinson could touch you.” I murmur the words before my brain registers what I’ve said. Shit. Why did I mention her?
He stills. His eyes widen with his oh-no-where’s-she-going-with-this expression. “That was different,” he whispers.
Suddenly I want to know. “Good different or bad different?”
He gazes at me. Doubt and possibly pain flit across his face, and fleetingly he looks like a man drowning.
“Bad, I think.” His words are barely audible.
Holy shit!
“I thought you liked it.”
“I did. At the time.”
