Fifty Shades Freed

letting it fall to the floor.

“Ready?” I whisper.

“For whatever you want, Ana.”

My eyes stray from his eyes to his lips. Parted so that he can inhale more deeply. Sculptured, chiseled, whatever, it is a beautiful mouth and he knows exactly

what to do with it. I find myself leaning up to kiss him.

“No,” he says and places both of his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t. If you do that, I’ll never get my hair cut.”

Oh!“I want this,” he continues. And his eyes are round and raw for some inexplicable reason. It’s disarming.

“Why?” I whisper.

He stares at me for a beat, and his eyes grow wider. “Because it’ll make me feel cherished.”

My heart practically lurches to a halt. Oh, Christian . . . my Fifty. And before I know it I’ve circled him in my arms, and I kiss his chest before nuzzling my cheek

into his tickly chest hair.

“Ana. My Ana,” he whispers. He wraps his arms around me and we stand immobile, holding each other in our bathroom. Oh, how I love to be in his arms. Even

if he is an overbearing, megalomaniac arse, he’s my overbearing megalomaniac arse in need of a lifetime dose of TLC. I lean back without releasing him.

“You really want me to do this?”

He nods and gives me his shy smile. I grin back at him and step out of his embrace.

“Then sit,” I repeat.

He dutifully does, sitting with his back to the sink. I take off my shoes and kick them over to where his shirt lies crumpled on the bathroom floor. From the

shower I retrieve his Chanel shampoo. We bought it in France.

“Would sir like this?” I hold it up in both hands like I’m selling it on QVC. “Hand-delivered from the South of France. I like the smell of this . . . it smells of

you,” I add in a whisper, slipping out of my television presenter mode.

“Please.” He grins.

I grab a small towel off the towel warmer. Mrs. Jones sure knows how to keep the towels super-soft.

“Lean forward,” I order and Christian complies. Draping the towel around his shoulders, I then turn on the taps and fill the sink with a mix of warm water.

“Lean back.” Oh, I like being in charge. Christian leans back, but he’s too tall. He shifts the seat forward then tilts back the entire chair until the top rests against

the sink. Perfect distance. He tips back his head. Bold eyes gaze up at me, and I smile. Taking one of the drinking glasses we keep on the vanity, I dip it into the

water and tip it over Christian’s head, soaking his hair. I repeat the process, leaning over him.

“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.”

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

co

looks vulnerable, like a child. It tugs at my heart.

I squirt some shampoo into my palm and massage it into his scalp, begi

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 mood has changed, and I take comfort knowing it’s me that’s done this.

“Head up,” I command and he obeys. Hmm—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 ca

soft, chaste kiss on his lips. He smiles, closes his eyes, and breathes out a sigh of utter contentment.

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 breasts 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 fuck you seven shades of Sunday, and we can do it in here or in the bedroom. You decide.”

Christian’s eyes blaze, 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, ru

“Oh, no you don’t, baby,” he murmurs. When he raises his head he’s gri

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.