Страница 60 из 129
“Watch,” he rasps then his mouth is on me.
Oh my. I cry out as the world is concentrated at the apex of my thighs, and it’s so erotic—Fuck—watching him. Watching his tongue against what feels like the
most sensitive part of my body. And he shows no mercy, teasing and taunting, worshipping me. My body tenses and my arms start to tremble from the strain of
staying upright.
“No . . . ah,” I murmur. Gently, he eases one long finger inside me, and I can bear it no more, collapsing back onto the bed, relishing this mouth and fingers on
and in me. Slowly and gently, he massages that sweet, sweet spot deep inside me. And that’s it—I’m gone. I explode around him, crying out an incoherent rendition
of his name as my intense orgasm arches my back off the bed. I think I see stars it’s such a visceral primal feeling . . . Vaguely I’m aware that he’s nuzzling my
belly, giving me soft, sweet kisses. Reaching down, I caress his hair.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” he murmurs. And before I’ve fully come back to Seattle, Planet Earth, he’s reaching for me, grasping my hips and pulling me off
the bed to where’s he’s kneeling, and into his waiting lap and onto his waiting erection.
I gasp as he fills me. Holy cow . . .
“Oh, baby,” he breathes as he wraps his arms around me and stills, cradling my head and kissing my face. He flexes his hips, and pleasure spikes hot and hard
from deep within me. He reaches for my behind and lifts me, rocking his groin upward.
“Ah,” I moan, and his lips are on mine again as he slowly, oh so slowly, lifts and rocks . . . lifts and rocks. I throw my arms around his neck, surrendering to his
gentle rhythm and to wherever he’ll take me. I flex my thighs, riding him . . . he feels so good. Leaning backward, I tilt my head back, my mouth open wide in a
silent expression of my pleasure, reveling in his sweet lovemaking.
“Ana,” he breathes, and he leans down, kissing my throat. Holding me tight, slowly easing in and out, pushing me . . . higher and higher . . . so exquisitely timed
—a fluid carnal force. Blissful pleasure radiates outward from deep, deep inside me as he holds me so intimately.
“I love you, Ana,” he whispers close to my ear, his voice low and harsh, and he lifts me again—up, down, up, down. I curl my hands back around his neck into
his hair.
“I love you, too, Christian.” Opening my eyes, I find he’s gazing at me, and all I see is his love, shining bright and bold in the soft glow of the playroom light, his
nightmare seemingly forgotten. And as I feel my body build toward my release, I realize this is what I wanted—this co
“Come for me, baby,” he whispers, his voice low. I screw my eyes shut as my body tightens at the low sound of his voice, and I come loudly, spiraling into an
intense climax. He stills, his forehead against mine, as he softly whispers my name, wraps his arms around me, and finds his own release.
He lifts me gently and lays me on the bed. I lie in his arms, wrung out and finally sated. He nuzzles my neck.
“Better now?” he whispers.
“Hmm.”
“Shall we go to bed, or do you want to sleep here?”
“Hmm.”
“Mrs. Grey, talk to me.” He sounds amused.
“Hmm.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“Hmm.”
“Come. Let me put you to bed. I don’t like sleeping here.”
Reluctantly, I shift and turn to face him. “Wait,” I whisper. He blinks at me, looking all wide-eyed and i
pleased with himself.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He nods, smiling smugly like an adolescent boy. “I am now.”
“Oh, Christian,” I scold and gently stroke his lovely face. “I was talking about your nightmare.”
His expression freezes momentarily, then he closes his eyes and tightens his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.
“Don’t,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and raw. My heart lurches and twists once more in my chest, and I clutch him tightly, ru
and through his hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, alarmed by his reaction. Holy fuck—how can I keep up with these mood swings? What the hell was his nightmare about? I don’t want to
cause him any more pain by making him relive the details. “It’s okay,” I murmur softly, desperate to bring him back to the playful boy of a moment ago. “It’s okay,”
I repeat over and over soothingly.
“Let’s go to bed,” he says quietly after a while, and he pulls away from me, leaving me empty and aching as he rises from the bed. I scramble after him, keeping
the satin sheet wrapped around me, and bend to pick up my clothes.
“Leave those,” he says, and before I know it, he scoops me up in his arms. “I don’t want you to trip over this sheet and break your neck.” I put my arms around
“Leave those,” he says, and before I know it, he scoops me up in his arms. “I don’t want you to trip over this sheet and break your neck.” I put my arms around
him marveling that he’s recovered his composure, and nuzzle him as he carries me downstairs to our bedroom.
My eyes spring open. Something is wrong. Christian is not in bed, though it’s still dark. Glancing at the radio alarm, I see it’s three twenty in the morning. Where’s
Christian? Then I hear the piano.
Quickly slipping out of bed, I grab my robe and run down the hallway to the great room. The tune he’s playing is so sad—a mournful lament that I’ve heard him
play before. I pause in the doorway and watch him in a pool of light while the achingly sorrowful music fills the room. He finishes then starts the piece again. Why
such a plaintive tune? I wrap my arms around myself and listen spellbound as he plays. But my heart aches. Christian, why so sad? Is it because of me? Did I do
this? When he finishes, only to start a third time, I can bear it no longer. He doesn’t look up as I near the piano, but shifts to one side so I can sit beside him on the
piano bench. He continues to play, and I put my head on his shoulder. He kisses my hair but doesn’t stop playing until he’s finished the piece. I peek up at him and
he’s staring down at me, warily.
“Did I wake you?” he asks.
“Only because you were gone. What’s that piece called?”
“It’s Chopin. It’s one of his preludes in E minor.” Christian pauses. “It’s called Suffocation . . .”
Reaching over I take his hand. “You’re really shaken by all this, aren’t you?”
He snorts. “A deranged asshole gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife. She won’t do as she’s told. She drives me crazy. She safe words on me.” He closes
his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, they are stark and raw. “Yeah, I’m pretty shaken up.”
I squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry.”
He presses his forehead against mine. “I dreamed you were dead,” he whispers.
What?
“Lying on the floor—so cold—and you wouldn’t wake up.”
Oh, Fifty.
“Hey—it was just a bad dream.” Reaching up, I clasp his head in my hands. His eyes burn into mine and the anguish in them is sobering. “I’m here and I’m cold
without you in the bed. Come back to bed, please.” I take his hand and stand, waiting to see if he’ll follow me. Finally he stands, too. He’s wearing his pajama
bottoms, and they hang in that way he has, and I want to run my fingers along the inside of his waistband, but I resist and lead him back to the bedroom.
When I wake he’s curled around me, sleeping peacefully. I relax and enjoy his enveloping heat, his skin on my skin. I lie very still, not wanting to disturb him.
Boy, what an evening. I feel like I’ve been run over by a train—the freight train that is my husband. Hard to believe that the man lying beside me, looking so
serene and young in his sleep, was so tortured last night . . . and so tortured me last night. I gaze up at the ceiling, and it occurs to me that I always think of Christian