“Fuck,” he murmurs. He leans back, lifting my thighs, tipping me down onto the bed as I pull and squeeze him tightly, running my hand up and down him.
Feeling a bead of moisture on his tip, I swirl it around with my thumb. As he lowers me to the mattress, I slip my thumb in my mouth to taste him while his hands travel up my body, caressing my hips, my stomach, my breasts.
“Taste good?” he asks as he hovers over me, eyes blazing.
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“Yes. Here.” I push my thumb into his mouth, and he sucks and bites the pad.
I groan, grasp his head, and pull him down to me so I can kiss him. Wrapping my legs around him, I push his pajamas off his legs with my feet, then cradle him with my legs around his waist. His lips trail from across my jaw to my chin, nipping softly.
“You’re so beautiful.” He dips his head lower to the base of my throat. “Such beautiful skin.” His breath is soft as his lips glide down to my breasts.
What? I am panting, confused—wanting, now waiting. I thought this was going to be quick.
“Christian.” I hear the quiet plea in my voice and reach down, fisting my hands in his hair.
“Hush,” he whispers and circles my nipple with his tongue before pulling it into his mouth and tugging hard.
“Ah!” I moan and squirm, tilting my pelvis up to tempt him. He grins against my skin and turns his attention to my other breast.
“Impatient, Mrs. Grey?” He then sucks hard on my nipple. I tug his hair. He groans and peers up. “I’ll restrain you,” he warns.
“Take me,” I beg.
“All in good time,” he murmurs against my skin. His hand travels down at an infuriatingly slow speed to my hip as he worships my nipple with his mouth. I moan loudly, my breath short and shallow, and I try once more to entice him into me, rocking against him. He’s thick and heavy and close, but he’s taking his own sweet leisurely time with me.
Fuck this. I struggle and twist, determined to buck him off me again.
“What the—”
Grabbing my hands, Christian pins them down on the bed, my arms spread wide, and rests his full bodyweight on me, completely subduing me. I am breathless, wild.
“You wanted resistance,” I say, panting. He rears up over me and gazes down, his hands still locked around my wrists. I place my heels under his behind and push. He doesn’t move. Gah!
“You don’t want to play nice?” he asks astonished, his eyes alight with excitement.
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“I just want you to make love to me, Christian.” Could he be any more obtuse? First we’re fighting and wrestling then he’s all tender and sweet. It’s confusing. I’m in bed with Mr. Mercurial.
“Please.” I press my heels against his backside once more. Burning gray eyes search mine. Oh, what is he thinking? He looks momentarily bewildered and confused. He releases my hands and sits back on his heels, pulling me into his lap.
“Okay, Mrs. Grey, we’ll do this your way.” He lifts me up and slowly lowers me on to him so I’m straddling him.
“Ah!” This is it. This is what I want. This is what I need. Curling my arms around his neck, I twist my fingers in his hair, glorying in the feeling of him inside me. I start to move. Taking control, taking him at my pace, at my speed. He moans, and his lips find mine, and we’re lost.
I trail my fingers through the hair on Christian’s chest. He lies on his back, still and quiet beside me as we both catch our breath. His hand thrums rhythmically down my back.
“You’re quiet,” I whisper and kiss his shoulder. He turns and looks at me, his expression giving nothing away. “That was fun.” Shit, is something wrong?
“You confound me, Mrs. Grey.”
“Confound you?”
He shifts so that we’re face to face. “Yes. You. Calling the shots. It’s . . .
different.”
“Good different or bad different?” I trail a finger over his lips. His brow furrows, as if he doesn’t quite understand the question. Absentmindedly, he kisses my finger.
“Good different,” he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
“You’ve never indulged this little fantasy before?” I blush as I say it. Do I really want to know any more about my husband’s colorful . . . um, kaleidoscopic sex life before me? My subconscious eyes me warily over her tortoiseshell half-moon specs. Do you really want to go there?
“No, Anastasia. You can touch me.” It’s a simple explanation that speaks volumes. Of course, the fifteen couldn’t.
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“Mrs. Robinson could touch you.” I murmur the words before my brain registers what I’ve said. Shit. Why did I mention her?
He stills. His eyes widen with his oh-no-where’s-she-going-with-this expression. “That was different,” he whispers.
Suddenly I want to know. “Good different or bad different?” He gazes at me. Doubt and possibly pain flit across his face, and fleetingly he looks like a man drowning.
“Bad, I think.” His words are barely audible.
Holy shit!
“I thought you liked it.”
“I did. At the time.”
“Not now?”
He gazes at me, eyes wide, then slowly shakes his head.
Oh my . . . “Oh, Christian.” I’m overwhelmed by the feelings that swamp me.
My lost boy. I launch myself at him and kiss his face, his throat, his chest, his little round scars. He groans, pulls me to him, and kisses me passionately. And very slowly, and tenderly, at his pace, he makes love to me once more.
“Ana Tyson. Punching above your weight!” Ethan applauds as I head into the kitchen for breakfast. He’s sitting with Mia, and Kate at the breakfast bar while Mrs.
Bentley cooks waffles. Christian is nowhere to be seen.
“Good morning, Mrs. Grey.” Mrs. Bentley smiles. “What would you like for breakfast?”