Fifty Shades Freed

shoulders so it falls to the floor. He clasps the hem of my black camisole.

“Lift your arms.”

I obey, and he peels it off over my head. Leaning down, he plants a soft kiss on my lips, his eyes glowing with an alluring mix of lust and love. The camisole

joins my jacket on the floor.

“Here,” I whisper gazing nervously at him as I remove the hair tie from around my wrist and hold it up for him. He stills, and his eyes widen briefly but give

nothing away. Finally, he takes the small band.

“Turn around,” he orders.

Relieved, I smile to myself and oblige immediately. Looks like we’ve overcome that little hurdle. He gathers my hair and braids it quickly and efficiently before

fastening it with the tie. He tugs the braid, pulling my head back.

“Good thinking, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers in my ear, then nips my earlobe. “Now turn around and take your skirt off. Let it fall to the floor.” He releases me and

steps back as I turn to face him. Not taking my eyes off his, I unbutton the waistband of my skirt and ease the zipper down. The full skirt fans out and falls to the

floor, pooling at my feet.

“Step out from your skirt,” he orders. As I step toward him, he kneels swiftly down in front of me and grasps my right ankle. Deftly, he unbuckles my sandals

one at a time while I lean forward, balancing myself with a hand on the wall under the pegs that used to hold all his whips, crops and paddles. The flogger and the

riding crop are the only implements that remain. I eye them with curiosity. Will he use those?

Having removed my shoes so I’m just in my lacy bra and panties, Christian sits back on his heels, gazing up at me. “You’re a fine sight, Mrs. Grey.” Suddenly he

kneels up, grabs my hips and pulls me forward, burying his nose in the apex of my thighs. “And you smell of you and me and sex,” he says inhaling sharply. “It’s

intoxicating.” He kisses me through my lace panties, while I gasp at his words—my insides liquefying. He’s just so . . . naughty. Gathering up my clothes and

sandals, he stands in one swift, graceful move, like an athlete.

“Go and stand beside the table,” he says calmly, pointing with his chin. Turning, he strides over to the museum chest of wonder.

He glances back and smirks at me. “Face the wall,” he commands. “That way you won’t know what I’m pla

a surprise.”

I turn away from him listening acutely—my ears suddenly sensitive to the slightest sound. He’s good at this—building my expectations, stoking my desire . . .

making me wait. I hear him put my shoes down and, I think, my clothes on the chest, followed by the telltale clatter of his shoes as they drop to the floor, one at a

time. Hmm . . . love barefoot Christian. A moment later, I hear him pull open a drawer.

Toys! Oh, I love, love, love this anticipation. The drawer closes and my breathing spikes. How can the sound of a drawer render me a quivering mess? It makes

no sense. The subtle hiss of the sound system coming to life tells me it’s going to be a musical interlude. A lone piano starts, muted and soft, and mournful chords

fill the room. It’s not a tune I know. The piano is joined by an electric guitar. What is this? A man’s voice speaks and I can just make out the words, something

about not being frightened of dying.

Christian pads leisurely toward me, his bare feet slapping on the wooden floor. I sense him behind me as a woman starts to sing . . . wail . . . sing?

“Rough, you say, Mrs. Grey?” he breathes in my left ear.

“Hmm.”

“You must tell me to stop if it’s too much. If you say stop, I will stop immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“I need your promise.”

I inhale sharply. Shit, what is he going to do? “I promise,” I murmur breathless, recalling his words from earlier: I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m more than

happy to play.

“Good girl.” Leaning down, he plants a kiss on my naked shoulder then hooks a finger beneath my bra strap and traces a line across my back beneath the strap. I

want to moan. How does he make the slightest touch so erotic?

“Take it off,” he whispers at my ear, and hurriedly I oblige and let my bra fall to the floor.

His hands skim down my back, and he hooks both of his thumbs into my panties and slides them down my legs.

“Step,” he orders. Once more I do as I’m told, stepping out of my panties. He plants a kiss on my backside and stands.

“I am going to blindfold you so that everything will be more intense.” He slips an airline eye mask over my eyes, and my world is plunged into the darkness. The

woman singing moans incoherently . . . a haunting, heartfelt melody.

“Bend down and lie flat on the table.” His words are softly spoken. “Now.”

Without hesitation, I bend over the side of the table and rest my torso on the highly polished wood, my face flush against the hard surface. It’s cool against my

skin and it smells vaguely of beeswax with a citrus tang.

“Stretch your arms up and hold on to the edge.”

Okay . . . Reaching forward, I clutch the far edge of the table. It’s quite wide, so my arms are fully extended.

“If you let go, I will spank you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to spank you, Anastasia?”

Everything south of my waist tightens deliciously. I realize I’ve wanted this since he threatened me during lunch, and neither the car chase nor our subsequent

intimate encounter has sated this need.

“Yes.” My voice is a hoarse whisper.

“Why?”

Oh . . . do I have to have a reason? Jeez. I shrug.

“Tell me,” he coaxes.

“Um . . .”

And from out of nowhere he smacks me hard.

“Ah!” I cry out.

“Hush now.”

He gently rubs my behind where he’s hit me. Then he leans over me, his hips digging into my backside, plants a kiss between my shoulder blades and trails

kisses across my back. He’s taken his shirt off, so his chest hair tickles my back, and his erection presses against me through the rough fabric of his jeans.

“Open your legs,” he orders.

I move my legs apart.

“Wider.”

I groan and spread my legs wider.

“Good girl,” he breathes. He traces his finger down my back, along the crack between my buttocks, and over my anus, which shrinks at his touch.

“We’re going to have with some fun with this,” he whispers.

Fuck!

His finger continues down over my perineum and slowly slides into me.

“I see you’re very wet, Anastasia. From earlier or from now?”

I groan and he eases his finger in and out of me, over and over. I push back on his hand, relishing the intrusion.

“Oh, Ana, I think it’s both. I think you love being here, like this. Mine.”

I do—oh, I do. He withdraws his finger and smacks me hard once more.

“Tell me,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and urgent.

“Yes, I do,” I whimper.

He smacks me hard once more so I cry out, then sticks two fingers inside me. He withdraws them immediately, spreading the moisture up over and around my

anus.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, breathless. Oh my . . . is he going to fuck my ass?

“It’s not what you think,” he murmurs reassuringly. “I told you, one step at time with this, baby.” I hear the quiet spurt of some liquid, presumably from a tube,

then his fingers are massaging me there again. Lubricating me . . . there! I squirm as my fear collides with my excitement of the unknown. He smacks me once

more, lower, so he hits my sex. I groan. It feels . . . so good.

“Keep still,” he says. “And don’t let go.”

“Ah.”

“This is lube.” He spreads some more on me. I try not to wriggle beneath him, but my heart is pounding, my pulse haywire, as desire and anxiety pump through