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both his hands.
After a breathless moment, he pulls back and leans up on one elbow. The humor is back.
“I think I should do a thorough inspection of your handiwork, Mrs. Grey.”
“What? No.” He has to be kidding! I cover myself, protecting my recently deforested area.
“Oh, no you don’t, Anastasia.” He grasps my hands and pries them away, moving nimbly so he’s between my legs and pi
me a scorching look that could light dry tinder, but before I combust, he bends and skims his lips down my naked belly directly to my sex. I squirm beneath him,
reluctantly resigned to my fate.
“Well, what have we here?” Christian plants a kiss where, until this morning, I had pubic hair—then scrapes his bristly chin across me.
“Ah!” I exclaim. Wow . . . that’s sensitive.
Christian’s eyes dart to mine, full of salacious longing. “I think you missed a bit,” he mutters and tugs gently, right underneath.
“Oh . . . Damn,” I mutter, hoping this will put an end to his frankly intrusive scrutiny.
“I have an idea.” He leaps naked out of bed and heads to the bathroom.
What on earth is he doing? He returns moments later, carrying a glass of water, a mug, my razor, his shaving brush, soap, and a towel. He puts the water, brush,
soap, and razor on the bedside table and gazes down at me, holding the towel.
Oh no! My subconscious slams down her Complete Works of Charles Dickens, leaps up from her armchair, and puts her hands on her hips.
“No. No. No,” I squeak.
“Mrs. Grey, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Lift your hips.” His eyes glow summer storm gray.
“Christian! You are not shaving me.”
He tilts his head to one side. “Why ever not?”
I flush . . . isn’t it obvious? “Because . . . It’s just too . . .”
“Intimate?” he whispers. “Ana, I crave intimacy with you—you know that. Besides, after some of the things we’ve done, don’t get all squeamish on me now.
And, I know this part of your body better than you do.”
I gape at him. Of all the arrogant . . . true, he does—but still. “It’s just wrong!” My voice is prissy and whiney.
“This isn’t wrong—this is hot.”
Hot? Really? “This turns you on?” I can’t keep the astonishment out of my voice.
He snorts. “Can’t you tell?” He glances down at his arousal. “I want to shave you,” he whispers
Oh, what the hell. I lie back, throwing my arm over my face so I don’t have to watch.
“If it makes you happy, Christian, go ahead. You are so kinky,” I mutter, as I lift my hips, and he slips the towel beneath me. He kisses my i
“Oh, baby, how right you are.”
I hear the slosh of water as he dips the shaving brush in the glass of water, then the soft swirl of the brush in the mug. He grasps my left ankle and parts my legs,
and the bed dips as he sits between my legs. “I’d really like to tie you up right now,” he murmurs.
“I promise to keep still.”
“Good.”
I gasp as he runs the lathered brush over my pubic bone. It’s warm. The water in the glass must be hot. I squirm a little. It tickles . . . but in a good way.
“Don’t move,” Christian admonishes and applies the brush again. “Or I will tie you down,” he adds darkly, and a delicious shiver runs down my spine.
“Have you done this before?” I ask tentatively when he reaches for the razor.
“No.”
“Oh. Good.” I grin.
“Another first, Mrs. Grey.”
“Hmm. I like firsts.”
“Me, too. Here goes.” And with a gentleness that surprises me, he runs the razor over my sensitive flesh. “Keep still,” he says distractedly, and I know he’s
concentrating hard.
It only takes a matter of minutes before he grabs the towel and wipes all the excess lather off me.
“There—that’s more like it,” he muses, and I finally lift my arm to look at him as he sits back to admire his handiwork.
“Happy?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Very.” He grins wickedly and slowly eases a finger inside me.
“But that was fun,” he says his eyes gently mocking.
“For you maybe.” I try to pout—but he’s right . . . it was . . . arousing.
“I seem to recall the aftermath was very satisfying.” Christian returns to finishing his shave. I glance quickly down at my fingers. Yes, it was. I had no idea that
the absence of pubic hair could make such a difference.
“Hey, I’m just teasing. Isn’t that what husbands who are hopelessly in love with their wives do?” Christian tips my chin up and gazes at me, his eyes suddenly
filled with apprehension as he endeavors to read my expression.
Hmm . . . payback time.
“Sit,” I mutter.
He stares, not understanding. I push him gently toward the lone white stool in the bathroom. Perplexed, he sits down, and I take the razor from him.
“Ana,” he warns as he realizes my intention. I lean down and kiss him.
“Head back,” I whisper.
He hesitates.
“Tit for tat, Mr. Grey.”
He stares at me with wary, amused disbelief. “You know what you’re doing?” he asks, his voice low. I shake my head slowly, deliberately, trying to look as
He stares at me with wary, amused disbelief. “You know what you’re doing?” he asks, his voice low. I shake my head slowly, deliberately, trying to look as
serious as possible. He closes his eyes and shakes his head then tilts his head back in surrender.
Holy shit, he’s going to let me shave him. My i
slide my hand into the damp hair at his forehead, gripping tightly to hold him still. He clenches his eyes closed and parts his lips as he inhales. Very gently, I stroke
his razor up from his neck to his chin, revealing a path of skin beneath the lather. Christian exhales.
“Did you think I was going to hurt you?”
“I never know what you’re going to do, Ana, but no—not intentionally.”
I run the razor up his neck again, clearing a wider path in the lather.
“I would never intentionally hurt you, Christian.”
He opens his eyes and circles his arms around me as I gently drag the razor down his cheek from the bottom of his sideburn.
“I know,” he says, angling his face so I can shave the rest of his cheek. Two more strokes and I’ve finished.
“All done, and not a drop of blood spilled.” I grin proudly.
He runs his hand up my leg so that my nightdress rides up my thigh and pulls me on to his lap so that I’m astride him. I steady myself with my hands on his upper
arms. He’s really very muscular.
“Can I take you somewhere today?”
“No sunbathing?” I arch a caustic brow at him.
He licks his lips nervously. “No. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer something else.”
“Well, since you’ve covered me in hickeys and effectively put the kibosh on that, sure, why not?”
Wisely he chooses to ignore my tone. “It’s a drive, but it’s worth a visit from what I’ve read. My dad recommended we visit. It’s a hilltop village called Saint Paul
de Vence. There are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like.”
Holy crap. I lean back and gaze at him. Art . . . he wants to buy art. How can I buy art?
“What?” he asks.
“I know nothing about art, Christian.”
He shrugs and smiles at me indulgently. “We’ll only buy what we like. This isn’t about investment.”
Investment? Jeez.
“What?” he says again.
I shake my head.
“Look, I know we only got the architect’s drawings the other day—but there’s no harm in looking, and the town is an ancient, medieval place.”
Oh, the architect. He had to remind me of her . . . Gia Matteo, a friend of Elliot’s who worked on Christian’s place in Aspen. During our meetings, she’d been all