Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

tantalizing feeling that I am doing something forbidden, the erotic pleasure that spirals outward from deep within me. He pulls gently on the plug.
    Oh jeez  . . . I moan, and I hear his sharp intake of breath—a gasp of pure, unadulterated pleasure. It heats my blood. Have I ever felt so wanton . . . so—
    “Again?” he whispers.
    “Yes.”
    “Stay flat,” he orders. He eases out of me and rams into me again.
    Oh . . . I wanted this. “Yes,” I hiss.
    And he picks up the pace, his breathing more labored, matching my own as he thrashes into me.
    “Oh, Ana,” he gasps. He moves one of his hands from my hips and twists the plug again, tugging it slowly, pulling it out and pushing it back in. The feeling is indescribable, and I think I’m going to pass out on the table. He never misses a beat as he takes me, again and again, moving strong and hard inside me, my insides tightening and quivering.
    “Oh fuck,” I moan. This is going to rip me apart.
    “Yes, baby,” he hisses.
    “Please,” I beg him and I don’t know what for—to stop, to never stop, to twist the plug again. My insides are tightening around him and the plug.
    “That’s right,” he breathes, and he slaps me hard on my right buttock, and I come—again and again, falling, falling, spinning, pulsing around and around—and Christian gently pulls the plug out.
    “ Fuck! ” I scream and Christian grabs my hips and climaxes loudly, holding me still.
    The woman is still singing. Christian always puts songs on repeat in here. Strange. I am curled in his arms on his lap our legs tangled together, with my head resting against his chest. We’re on the floor of the playroom by the table.
    “Welcome back,” he says, peeling the blindfold off me. I blink as my eyes adjust to the muted light. Tipping my chin back, he plants a soft kiss on my lips, his eyes focused on and anxiously searching mine. I reach up to caress his face. He smiles.
    “Well, did I fulfill the brief?” he asks, amused.
    I frown. “Brief?”
    “You wanted rough,” he says gently.
    I grin, because I just can’t help it. “Yes. I think you did . . .”
    He raises his eyebrows and grins back at me. “I’m very glad to hear it Mrs. Grey. You look thoroughly well fucked and beautiful at this moment.” He caresses my face, his long fingers stroking my cheek.
    “I feel it,” I purr.
    He reaches down and kisses me tenderly, his lips soft and warm and giving against mine. “You never disappoint.” He leans back to gaze down at me. “How do you feel?” His voice is soft with concern.
    “Good,” I murmur, feeling a flush creep across my face. “Thoroughly well fucked.” I smile shyly.
    “Why, Mrs. Grey, you have a dirty, dirty mouth.” Christian feigns an offended expression, but I can hear his amusement.
    “That’s because I’m married to a dirty, dirty boy, Mr. Grey.”
    He grins a ridiculously stupid grin and it’s infectious. “I’m glad you’re married to him.” He gently takes hold of my braid, lifts it to his lips, and kisses the end with reverence, his eyes glowing with love. Oh my . . . did I ever have a chance of resisting this man?
    I reach for his left hand and plant a kiss on his wedding ring, a plain platinum band matching my own. “Mine,” I whisper.
    “Yours,” he responds. He curls his arms around me and presses his nose into my hair. “Shall I run you a bath?”
    “Hmm. Only if you join me in it.”
    “Okay,” he says. He sets me onto my feet and stands up beside me. He’s still wearing his jeans.
    “Will you wear your . . . er . . . other jeans?”
    He frowns down at me. “Other jeans?”
    “The ones you used to wear in here.”
    “Those jeans?” he murmurs blinking with perplexed surprise.
    “You look very hot in them.”
    “Do I?”
    “Yeah . . . I mean, really hot.”
    He smiles, shyly. “Well for you, Mrs. Grey, maybe I will.” He bends to kiss me then grabs the small bowl on the table that contains the butt plug, the tube of lubricant, the blindfold, and my panties.
    “Who cleans these toys?” I ask as I follow him over to the chest.
    He frowns at me, as if not understanding the question. “Me. Mrs. Jones.”
    “What?”
    He nods, amused and embarrassed, I think. He switches off the music. “Well—um . . .”
    “Your subs used to do it?” I finish his sentence. He gives me an apologetic shrug.
    “Here.” He hands me his shirt and I put it on, wrapping it around myself. His