Fifty Shades Freed (Fifty Shades #3)(36)
Author: E.L. James

"You smell so good, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs and closes his eyes. As I methodically wet his hair, I freely gaze at him. Holy cow. Will I ever tire of this? Long dark lashes fan across his cheeks; his lips part a little, creating a small, dark diamond shape, and he inhales softly. Hmm . . . how I long to poke my tongue –

I splash water into his eyes. Shit! "Sorry!"

He grabs the corner of the towel and laughs as he wipes the water out of his eyes.

"Hey, I know I’m an arse, but don’t drown me."

I lean down and kiss his forehead, giggling. "Don’t tempt me."

Reaching up, he curls his hand behind my head and shifts so that he captures my lips with his. He kisses me briefly, making a low contented sound in his throat. The noise connects to the muscles deep in my belly. It’s a very seductive sound. He releases me and lies back obediently, gazing up at me with expectation. For a moment he looks vulnerable, like a child. It tugs at my heart.

I squirt some shampoo into my palm and massage it into his scalp, beginning at his temples and working over the top of his head and down the sides, circling my fingers rhythmically. He closes his eyes again and makes that low humming sound again.

"That feels good," he says after a moment and relaxes beneath the firm touch of my fingers.

"Yes it does." I kiss his forehead once more.

"I like it when you scratch my scalp with your fingernails." His eyes are still closed but his expression one of blissful contentment – no trace of his vulnerability remains. Jeez, how much his expression has changed, and I take comfort knowing it’s me that’s done this.

"Head up," I command and he obeys. Hmmm – a girl could get used to this. I rub the suds into the back of his hair, scraping my nails into his scalp.

"Back."

He leans back, and I rinse off the lather, using the glass. This time I manage not to splash him.

"Once more?" I ask.

"Please." His eyes flutter open and his serene gaze finds mine. I grin down at him.

"Coming right up, Mr. Grey."

I turn to the sink that Christian normally uses and fill it with warm water.

"For rinsing," I say when his look turns quizzical. I repeat the process with the shampoo, listening to his even deep breaths. Once he’s all lathered up, I take another moment to appreciate the fine face of my husband. I cannot resist him. Tenderly, I caress his cheek, and he opens his eyes, watching me almost sleepily through his long lashes. Leaning forward I plant a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. He smiles, closes his eyes, and breathes out a sigh of utter contentment. 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 br**sts 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 f**k you seven shades of Sunday, and we can do it in here or in the bedroom. You decide."

Christian’s eyes blaze into mine, 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 f**k 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, deftly, he binds my wrists together with my panties. He fastens them tight.

"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 br**sts 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 ni**les are hotwired to my groin, so I moan and throw my head back, closing my eyes and surrendering to the sweet, sweet torture.