Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

down at me, his lips curled in an arrogant, I-so-own-you smile.
    Pursing my lips, I strive to appear unaffected by his touch. He is so artful at diverting me from anything painful, or anything he doesn’t want to address. And you let him , my subconscious pipes up unhelpfully, gazing over her copy of Jane Eyre .
    “What was mind-blowing, Anastasia?” he prompts, a wicked gleam in his eye.
    “You want the list?” I ask.
    “There’s a list?” He’s pleased.
    Oh, this man is exhausting. “Well, the handcuffs,” I mumble, my mind catapulted back to our honeymoon.
    He furrows his brow and grasps my hand, tracing the pulse point on my wrist with his thumb.
    “I don’t want to mark you.”
    Oh . . .
    His lips curl in a slow carnal smile. “Come home.” His tone is seductive.
    “I have work to do.”
    “Home,” he says, more insistent.
    We gaze at each other, molten gray into bewildered blue, testing each other, testing our boundaries and our wills. I search his eyes for some understanding, trying to fathom how this man can go from raging control freak to seductive lover in one breath. His eyes grow larger and darker, his intention clear. Softly, he caresses my cheek.
    “We could stay here.” His is voice low and husky.
    Oh no. My inner goddess gazes longingly down at the wooden table. No. No. No. Not in the office. “Christian, I don’t want to have sex here. Your mistress has just been in this room.”
    “She was never my mistress,” he growls, his mouth flattening into a grim line.
    “That’s just semantics, Christian.”
    He frowns, his expression puzzled. The seductive lover has gone. “Don’t overthink this, Ana. She’s history,” he says dismissively.
    I sigh . . . maybe he’s right. I just want him to admit to himself that he cares for her. A chill grips my heart. Oh no. This is why it’s important to me. Suppose I do something unforgivable. Suppose I don’t conform. Will I be history, too? If he can turn like this, when he was so concerned and upset when Leila was ill . . . could he turn against me? I gasp, recalling the fragments of a dream: gilt mirrors and the sound of his heels clicking on the marbled floor as he leaves me standing alone in opulent splendor.
    “No . . .” The words are out of my mouth in whispered horror before I can stop them.
    “Yes,” he says, and grasping my chin, he leans down and plants a tender kiss on my lips.
    “Oh, Christian, you scare me sometimes.” I grasp his head in my hands, twist my fingers into his hair, and pull his lips to mine. He stills for a moment as his arms fold around me.
    “Why?”
    “You could turn away from her so easily . . .”
    He frowns. “And you think I might turn away from you, Ana? Why the hell would you think that? What’s brought this on?”
    “Nothing. Kiss me. Take me home,” I plead. And as his lips touch mine, I am lost.

    “Oh please,” I beg, as Christian blows gently on my sex.
    “All in good time,” he murmurs.
    I pull on my restraints and groan loudly in protest from his carnal assault. I’m trussed up in soft leather cuffs, each elbow bound to each knee, and Christian’s head bobs and weaves between my legs, his masterful tongue teasing me, relentless. I open my eyes and gaze unseeing at our bedroom ceiling bathed in the soft late afternoon light. His tongue moves round and round, swirling and curling over and around the center of my universe. I want to straighten my legs and struggle in a vain attempt to control the pleasure. But I can’t. My fingers fist in his hair and I tug hard to fight his sublime torture.
    “Don’t come,” he murmurs in warning against me, his soft breath on my warm, wet flesh as he resists my fingers. “I will spank you if you come.”
    I moan.
    “Control, Ana. It’s all about control.” His tongue renews its erotic incursion.
    Oh, he knows what he’s doing. I am helpless to resist or stop my slavish reaction, and I try—really try—but my body detonates under his merciless ministrations, and his tongue doesn’t stop as he wrings every last ounce of debilitating pleasure from me.
    “Oh, Ana,” he scolds. “You came.” His voice is soft with his triumphant reprimand. He flips me onto my front, and I shakily support myself on my forearms. He smacks me hard on my behind.
    “Ah!” I cry out.
    “Control,” he admonishes, and grabbing my hips he thrusts himself into me. I cry out again, my flesh still quivering from the aftershocks of my