Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

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 planning. We aim to please, Mrs. Grey, and you wanted 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.”
    “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