Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

groan.
    “Please . . .”
    “I want you naked,” he murmurs and slowly unhooks my corset, one hook at a time. When it’s flat on the bed beneath me, he runs his tongue up the length of my spine.
    “Christian, please.”
    “What do you want, Mrs. Grey.” His words are soft and close to my ear. He’s almost lying on top of me . . . I can feel him hard against my behind.
    “You.”
    “And I you, my love, my life . . . ,” he whispers, and before I know it, he’s flipped me on to my back. He stands swiftly and in one efficient move dispenses with his pants and boxer briefs so that he’s gloriously naked and looming large and ready over me. The small cabin is eclipsed by his dazzling beauty and his want and need of me. He leans down and peels off my panties then gazes down at me.
    “Mine,” he mouths.
    “Please,” I beg and he grins . . . a salacious, wicked, tempting, all-Fifty grin.
    He crawls back onto the bed and trails kisses up my right leg this time . . . until he reaches the apex of my thighs. He pushes my legs wider apart.
    “Ah . . . wife of mine,” he murmurs and then his mouth is on me. I close my eyes and surrender to his oh-so-adroit tongue. My hands fist in his hair as my hips swing and sway, slave to his rhythm, then buck off the small bed. He grabs my hips to still me . . . but doesn’t stop the delicious torture. I’m close, so close.
    “Christian.” I moan.
    “Not yet,” he breathes and he moves up my body, his tongue dipping into my navel.
    “No!” Damn! I sense his smile against my belly as his journey continues north.
    “So impatient, Mrs. Grey. We have until we touch down on the Emerald Isle.” Reverentially he kisses my breasts and tugs my left nipple between his lips. Gazing up at me, his eyes are dark like a tropical storm as he teases me.
    Oh my . . . I’d forgotten. Europe.
    “Husband, I want you. Please.”
    He looms up over me, his body covering mine, resting his weight on his elbows. He runs his nose down mine, and I run my hands down his strong, supple back to his fine, fine backside.
    “Mrs. Grey . . . wife. We aim to please.” His lips brush. “I love you.”
    “I love you, too.”
    “Eyes open. I want to see you.”
    “Christian . . . ah . . . ,” I cry, as he slowly sinks into me.
    “Ana, oh Ana,” he breathes and he starts to move.

    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Christian shouts, waking me from my very pleasant dream. He’s standing all wet and beautiful at the end of my sun lounger and glaring down at me.
    What have I done? Oh no . . . I’m lying on my back . . . Crap, crap, crap and he’s mad. Shit. He’s really mad.

I am suddenly very awake, my erotic dream forgotten.
    “I was on my front. I must have turned over in my sleep.” I whisper weakly in my defense.
    His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his sun lounger and tosses it at me.
    “Put this on!” he hisses.
    “Christian, no one is looking.”
    “Trust me. They’re looking. I’m sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying the show!” he snarls.
    Holy shit! Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp my breasts in panic, hiding them. Ever since Charlie Tango’s sabotaged demise, we are constantly shadowed by damned security.
    “Yes,” Christian snarls. “And some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot of you, too. Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked this time?”
    Shit! The paparazzi! Fuck! As I hurriedly scramble into my top, all thumbs, the color drains from my face. I shudder. The unpleasant memory of being besieged by the paparazzi outside SIP after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome to mind—all part of the Christian Grey package.
    “L’addition!” Christian snaps at the passing waitress. “We’re going,” he says to me.
    “Now?”
    “Yes. Now.”
    Oh shit, he’s not to be argued with.
    He pulls on his shorts, even though his trunks are dripping wet, then his gray T-shirt. The waitress is back in a moment with his credit card and the check.
    Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops. Once the waitress has left, Christian snatches up his book and BlackBerry and masks his fury behind mirrored aviator glasses. He’s bristling with tension and anger. My heart sinks. Every other woman on the beach is topless—it’s not that big of a crime. In fact I look odd with my top on . I sigh inwardly,