Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

soft denim of his jeans brushes against my leg, his erection at my hip. So tantalizingly close. He brings me to the brink again, my body singing with need, and stops.
    “No,” I mewl loudly.
    He plants soft wet kisses on my shoulder as he withdraws his fingers from me, and moves the wand down. It oscillates over my stomach, my belly, onto my sex, against my clitoris. Fuck, it’s intense.
    “Ah!” I cry out, pulling hard on the restraints.
    My body is so sensitized I feel I am going to explode, and just as I am, Christian stops again.
    “Christian!” I cry out.
    “Frustrating, yes?” he murmurs against my throat. “Just like you. Promising one thing and then . . .” His voice trails off.
    “Christian, please!” I beg.
    He pushes the wand against me again and again, stopping just at the vital moment each time. Ah!
    “Each time I stop, it feels more intense when I start again. Right?”
    “Please,” I whimper. My nerve endings are screaming for release.
    The buzzing stops and Christian kisses me. He runs his nose down mine. “You are the most frustrating woman I have ever met.”
    No, No, No.
    “Christian, I never promised to obey you. Please, please—”
    He moves in front of me, grabs my behind and pushes his hips against me, making me gasp—his groin rubbing into mine, the buttons of his jeans pressing into me, barely containing his erection. With one hand he pulls off the blindfold and grasps my chin, and I blink up into his scorching eyes.
    “You drive me crazy,” he whispers, flexing his hips against me once, twice, three times more, causing my body to spark—ready to burn. And again he denies me. I want him so badly. I need him so badly. I close my eyes and mutter a prayer. I can’t help but feel I’m being punished. I’m helpless and he’s ruthless. Tears spring to my eyes. I don’t know how far he’s going to take this.
    “Please,” I whisper once more.
    But he gazes down at me, implacable. He’s just going to continue. For how long? Can I play this game? No. No. No—I can’t do this. I know he’s not going to stop. He’s going to continue to torture me. His hand travels down my body once more. No . . . And the dam bursts—all the apprehension, the anxiety, and the fear from the last couple of days overwhelming me anew as tears spring to my eyes. I turn away from him. This is not love. It’s revenge.
    “Red,” I whimper. “Red. Red.” The tears course down my face.
    He stills. “No!” He gasps, stunned. “Jesus Christ, no.”
    He moves quickly, unclipping my hands, clasping me around my waist and leaning down to unclip my ankles, while I put my head in my hands and weep.
    “No, no, no. Ana, please. No.”
    Picking me up, he moves to the bed, sitting down and cradling me in his lap while I sob inconsolably. I’m overwhelmed . . . my body wound up to breaking point, my mind a blank, and my emotions scattered to the wind. He reaches behind him, drags the satin sheet off the four-poster bed, and drapes it around me. The cool sheets feel alien and unwelcome against my sensitized skin. He wraps his arms around me, hugging me close, rocking me gently backward and forward.
    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Christian murmurs, his voice raw. He kisses my hair over and over again. “Ana, forgive me, please.”
    Turning my face into his neck, I continue to cry, and it’s a cathartic release. So much has happened over the last few days—fires in computer rooms, car chases, careers planned out for me, slutty architects, armed lunatics in the apartment, arguments, his anger—and Christian has been away. I hate Christian going away . . . I use the corner of the sheet to wipe my nose and gradually become aware that the clinical tones of Bach are still echoing around the room.
    “Please switch the music off.” I sniff.
    “Yes, of course.” Christian shifts, not letting me go, and pulls the remote out of his back pocket. He presses a button and the piano music ceases, to be replaced by my shuddering breaths. “Better?” he asks.
    I nod, my sobs easing. Christian wipes my tears away gently with his thumb.
    “Not a fan of Bach’s Goldberg Variations?” he asks.
    “Not that piece.”
    He gazes down at me, trying and failing to hide the shame in his eyes.
    “I’m sorry,” he says again.
    “Why did you do that?” My voice is barely audible as I try to process my scrambled thoughts and feelings.
    He shakes his head sadly and closes his eyes. “I got lost in