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“Such impatience, Mrs. Grey. So eager to talk.” His tone is playful.
“Yes!”
“I must feed you first,” he says and brushes his lips over my temple, calming me instantly.
Okay . . . have it your way. I resign myself to my fate and listen to his movements around the kitchen. The fridge door opens, and Christian places various dishes
on the countertop behind me. He pads over to the microwave, pops something in, and turns it on. My curiosity is piqued. I hear the toaster lever drop, the turn of the
control, and the quiet tick of the timer. Hmm—toast?
control, and the quiet tick of the timer. Hmm—toast?
“Yes. I am eager to talk,” I murmur, distracted. An assortment of exotic, spicy aromas fills the kitchen, and I shift in my chair.
“Be still, Anastasia,” he murmurs, and he’s close to me again. “I want you to behave . . . ,” he whispers.
Oh my. My i
“And don’t bite your lip.” Gently he tugs my bottom lip free of my teeth, and I can’t help my smile.
Next, I hear the sharp pop of a cork being drawn from a bottle and the gentle glug of wine being poured into a glass. Then a moment of silence followed by a
quiet click and the soft hiss of white noise from the surround-sound speakers as they come to life. A loud twang of a guitar begins a song I don’t know. Christian
turns the volume down to background level. A man starts to sing, his voice deep, low, and sexy.
“A drink first, I think,” Christian whispers, diverting me from the song. “Head back.” I tip my head back. “Further,” he prompts.
I oblige, and his lips are on mine. Cool crisp wine flows into my mouth. I swallow reflexively. Oh my. Memories flood back of not so long ago—me trussed up
on my bed in Vancouver before I graduated with a hot, angry Christian not appreciating my e-mail. Hmm . . . have times changed? Not much. Except now I
recognize the wine, Christian’s favorite—a Sancerre.
“Hmm,” I murmur in appreciation.
“You like the wine?” he whispers, his breath warm on my cheek. I’m bathed in his proximity, his vitality, the heat radiating from his body, even though he
doesn’t touch me.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“More?”
“I always want more, with you.”
I almost hear his grin. It makes me grin, too. “Mrs. Grey, are you flirting with me?”
“Yes.”
His wedding ring clinks against the glass as he takes another sip of wine. Now that is a sexy sound. This time he pulls my head right back, cradling me. He kisses
me once more, and greedily I swallow the wine he gives me. He smiles as he kisses me again.
“Hungry?”
“I think we’ve already established that, Mr. Grey.”
The troubadour on the iPod is singing about wicked games. Hmm . . . How apt.
The microwave pings, and Christian releases me. I sit upright. The food smells spicy: garlic, mint, oregano, rosemary, and lamb, I think. The door to the
microwave opens, and the appetizing smell grows stronger.
“Shit! Christ!” Christian curses, and a dish clatters onto the countertop.
Oh Fifty! “You okay?”
“Yes!” he snaps, his voice tight. A moment later, he’s standing beside me once more.
“I just burned myself. Here.” He eases his index finger into my mouth. “Maybe you could suck it better.”
“Oh.” Clasping his hand, I draw his finger slowly from my mouth. “There, there,” I soothe, and leaning forward I blow, cooling his finger, then kiss it gently
twice. He stops breathing. I reinsert it into my mouth and suck gently. He inhales sharply, and the sound travels straight to my groin. He tastes as delicious as ever,
and I realize that this is his game—the slow seduction of his wife. I thought he was mad, and now . . . ? This man, my husband, is so confusing. But this is how I
like him. Playful. Fun. Sexy as hell. He’s given me some answers, but I’m greedy. I want more, but I want to play, too. After the anxiety and tension of today, and
the nightmare of last night with Jack, this is a welcome diversion.
“What are you thinking?” Christian murmurs, stopping my thoughts in their tracks as he pulls his finger out of my mouth.
“How mercurial you are.”
He stills beside me. “Fifty Shades, baby,” he says eventually and plants a tender kiss at the corner of my mouth.
“My Fifty Shades,” I whisper. Grabbing his T-shirt, I pull him back to me.
“Oh no you don’t, Mrs. Grey. No touching . . . not yet.” He takes my hand, pries it off his T-shirt, and kisses each finger in turn.
“Sit up,” he commands.
I pout.
“I will spank you if you pout. Now open wide.”
Oh shit. I open my mouth, and he pops in a forkful of spicy hot lamb covered in a cool, minty, yogurt sauce. Mmm. I chew.
“You like?”
“Yes.”
He makes an appreciative noise, and I know he’s eating and enjoying, too.
“More?”
I nod. He gives me another forkful, and I chew it enthusiastically. He puts the fork down and he tears . . . bread, I think.
“Open,” he orders.
This time it’s pita bread and hummus. I realize Mrs. Jones—or maybe even Christian—has been shopping at the delicatessen I discovered about five weeks ago
only two blocks from Escala. I chew gratefully. Christian in a playful mood increases my appetite.
“More?” he asks.
I nod. “More of everything. Please. I’m starving.”
I hear his delighted grin. Slowly and patiently he feeds me, occasionally kissing a morsel of food from the corner of my mouth or wiping it off with his fingers.
Intermittently, he offers me a sip of wine in his unique way.
“Open wide, then bite,” he murmurs. I follow his command. Hmm—one of my favorites, stuffed vine leaves. Even cold they are delicious, though I prefer them
heated up, but I don’t want to risk Christian burning himself again. He feeds it to me slowly, and when I’ve finished I lick his fingers clean.
“More?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
I shake my head. I’m full.
“Good,” he whispers against my ear, “because it’s time for my favorite course. You.” He scoops me up in his arms, surprising me so much I squeal.
“Can I take the blindfold off?”
“No.”
I almost pout, then remember his threat and think better of it.
“Playroom,” he murmurs.
Oh—I don’t know if that’s a good idea.
“You up for the challenge?” he asks. And because he’s used the word challenge, I can’t say no.
“Bring it on,” I murmur, desire and something that I don’t want to name thrum through my body. He carries me through the door, then up the stairs to the second
“Bring it on,” I murmur, desire and something that I don’t want to name thrum through my body. He carries me through the door, then up the stairs to the second
floor.
“I think you’ve lost weight,” he mutters disapprovingly. I have? Good. I remember his comment when we arrived back from our honeymoon, and how much it
smarted. Jeez—was that just a week ago?
Outside the playroom, he slides me down his body and sets me on my feet, but keeps his arm wrapped around my waist. Briskly he unlocks the door.
It always smells the same: polished wood and citrus. It’s actually become a comforting smell. Releasing me, Christian turns me around until I’m facing away from
him. He undoes the scarf, and I blink in the soft light. Gently, he pulls the hairpins from my updo, and my braid falls free. He grasps it and tugs gently so I have to
step back against him.
“I have a plan,” he whispers in my ear, sending delicious shivers down my spine.
“I thought you might,” I answer. He kisses me beneath my ear.
“Oh, Mrs. Grey, I do.” His tone is soft, mesmerizing. He tugs my braid to the side and plants a trail of soft kisses down my throat.
“First we have to get you naked.” His voice hums low in his throat and resonates through my body. I want this—whatever he has pla