Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

murmurs and without taking his darkening eyes off mine, he runs his middle finger over my breasts, following the line of my corset. My breath shallows, and he repeats the journey over my breasts once more, his tantalizing finger sending tingles down my spine. He stops and twirls his index finger in the air, indicating that he wants me to turn around.
    For him, right now, I’d do anything.
    “Stop,” he says. I’m facing the bed, away from him. His arm encircles my waist, pulling me against him, and he nuzzles my neck. Gently he cups my breasts, toying with them, while his thumbs circle over my nipples so that they strain against the fabric of my corset.
    “Mine,” he whispers.
    “Yours,” I breathe.
    Leaving my breasts bereft he runs his hands down my stomach, over my belly, and down to my thighs, his thumbs skimming my sex. I stifle a moan. His fingers skate down each garter, and with his usual dexterity, he simultaneously unhooks each one from my stockings. His hands travel around to my behind.
    “Mine,” he breathes as his hands spread across my backside, the tips of his fingers brushing my sex.
    “Ah.”
    “Hush.” His hands travel down the backs of my thighs, and once more he unclips my garters.
    Leaning down, he pulls back the cover on the bed. “Sit down.”
    I do as I’m told in his thrall, and he kneels at my feet and gently tugs off each of my white bridal Jimmy Choos. He grasps the top of my left stocking and slowly peels it off, running his thumbs down my leg . . . Oh my . He repeats the process with my other stocking.
    “This is like unwrapping my Christmas presents.” He smiles up at me through his long dark lashes.
    “A present you’ve had already . . .”
    He frowns in admonishment. “Oh no, baby. This time it’s really mine.”
    “Christian, I’ve been yours since I said yes.” I scoot forward, cupping his beloved face in my hands. “I’m yours. I will always be yours, husband of mine. Now, I think you’re wearing too many clothes.” I bend to kiss him, and suddenly he leans up, kisses my lips, and grasps my head with his hands, his fingers threading into my hair.
    “Ana,” he breathes. “My Ana.” His lips claim mine once more, his tongue invasively persuasive.
    “Clothes,” I whisper, our breath mingling as I push back his vest and he struggles out of it, releasing me for a moment. He pauses, gazing at me, eyes wide, eyes wanting.
    “Let me, please.” My voice is soft and cajoling. I want to undress my husband, my Fifty.
    He sits back on his heels, and leaning forward I grasp his tie—his sliver-gray tie, my favorite tie—and slowly undo it and pull it free. He raises his chin to let me tackle the top button of his white shirt; then once it’s undone, I move on to his cuffs. He’s wearing platinum cufflinks—engraved with an entwined A and C—my wedding present to him. When I’ve removed them, he takes the cufflinks from me and fists them in his hand. Then he kisses his fist and shoves them into his pants pocket.
    “Mr. Grey, so romantic.”
    “For you Mrs. Grey—hearts and flowers. Always.”
    I take his hand, and glancing up through my lashes, I kiss his plain platinum wedding ring. He groans and closes his eyes.
    “Ana,” he whispers and my name is a prayer.
    Reaching up to his second shirt button and mirroring him from earlier, I plant a soft kiss on his chest as I undo each of them and whisper between each kiss,
    “You. Make. Me. So. Happy. I. Love. You.”
    He groans, and in one swift move, he clasps me around the waist and lifts me on to the bed, following me down on to it. His lips find mine, his hands curling around my head, holding me, stilling me as our tongues glory in each other. Abruptly Christian kneels up, leaving me breathless and wanting more.
    “You are so beautiful . . . wife.” He runs his hands down my legs then grasps my left foot. “You have such lovely legs. I want to kiss every inch of them. Starting here.” He presses his lips against my big toe and then grazes the pad with his teeth. Everything south of my waistline convulses. His tongue glides up my instep and his teeth skim my heel and up to my ankle. He trails kisses up the inside of my calf; soft wet kisses. I wriggle beneath him.
    “Still, Mrs. Grey,” he warns, and suddenly he flips me on to my stomach and continues his leisurely journey with his mouth up the back of my legs, to my thighs, my behind, and then he stops. I