Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (121 page)

With scrambling fingers I release first one and then the other gold cufflink, letting them fall carelessly to the tiled floor, and his shirt follows. His eyes search mine through the cascading water, his gaze burning, carnal, heated like the water. I reach for the waistband of his pants, but he shakes his head and grabs my shoulders, spinning me around so I am facing away from him. He finishes the long journey south with my zipper, smoothes my wet hair away from my neck, and runs his tongue up my neck to my hairline and back again, kissing and sucking as he goes.

I moan and slowly he peels my dress off my shoulders and down past my breasts, kissing my neck beneath my ear. He unclasps my bra and pushes it off, freeing my breasts. His hands reach around and cup each one as he murmurs his appreciation in my ear.

“So beautiful,” he whispers.

My arms are trapped by my bra and dress, which hang unfastened below my breasts; my arms are still in the sleeves, but my hands are free. I roll my head, giving Christian better access to my neck and push my breasts into his magical hands. I reach around behind me and welcome his sharp intake of breath as my inquisitive fingers make contact with his erection. He pushes his groin into my welcoming hands. Dammit, why didn’t he let me take his pants off?

He tugs on my nipples, and as they harden and stretch under his expert touch, all thoughts of his pants disappear and pleasure spikes sharp and libidinous in my belly. I lean my head back against him and groan.

“Yes,” he breathes and turns me once more, capturing my mouth with his. He peels my bra, dress, and panties down so they join his shirt in a soggy heap on the shower floor.

I grab the body wash beside us. Christian stills as he realizes what I am about to do. Staring him straight in the eye, I squirt some of the sweet-smelling gel into my palm and hold my hand up in front of his chest, waiting for an answer to my unspoken question. His eyes widen, then he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.

Gently I place my hand on his sternum and start to rub the soap into his skin. His chest rises as he inhales sharply, but he stands stock-still. After a beat, his hands clasp my hips, but he doesn’t push me away. He watches me warily, his look intense more than scared, but his lips are parted as his breathing increases.

“Is this okay?” I whisper.

“Yes.” His short, breathy reply is almost a gasp. I am reminded of the many showers we’ve had together, but the one at the Olympic is a bittersweet memory. Well, now I can touch him. I wash him using gentle circles, cleaning my man, moving to his underarms, over his ribs, down his flat firm belly, toward his happy trail and the waistband of his pants.

“My turn,” he whispers and reaches for the shampoo, shifting us out of range of the stream of water and squirting some onto the top of my head.

I think this is my cue to stop washing him, so I hook my fingers into his waistband. He works the shampoo into my hair, his firm, long fingers massaging my scalp. Groaning in appreciation, I close my eyes and give myself over to the heavenly sensation. After all the stress of the evening, this is just what I need.

He chuckles and I open one eye to find him smiling down at me. “You like?”

“Hmm …”

He grins. “Me, too,” he says and leans over to kiss my forehead, his fingers continuing their sweet, firm kneading of my scalp. “Turn around,” he says authoritatively. I do as I’m told, and
his fingers slowly work over my head, cleansing, relaxing, loving me as they go. Oh, this is bliss. He reaches for more shampoo and gently washes the long tresses down my back. When he’s finished, he pulls me back under the shower.

“Lean your head back,” he orders quietly.

I willingly comply, and he carefully rinses out the suds. When he’s done, I face him once more and make a beeline for his pants.

“I want to wash all of you,” I whisper. He smiles that lopsided smile and lifts his hands in a gesture that says “I’m all yours, baby.” I grin; it feels like Christmas. I make short work of his zipper, and soon his pants and boxers join the rest of our clothing. I stand and reach for the body wash and the freshwater sponge.

“Looks like you’re pleased to see me,” I murmur dryly.

“I’m always pleased to see you, Miss Steele.” He smirks at me.

I soap the sponge, then retrace my journey over his chest. He’s more relaxed—maybe because I’m not actually touching him. I head south with the sponge, across his belly, along the happy trail, through his pubic hair, and over and up his erection.

I peek up at him, and he regards me with hooded eyes and sensual longing.
Hmm … I like this look
. I drop the sponge and use my hands, grasping him firmly. He closes his eyes, tips his head back, and groans, thrusting his hips into my hands.

Oh yes! It’s so arousing. My inner goddess has resurfaced after her evening of rocking and weeping in the corner, and she’s wearing harlot-red lipstick.

His burning eyes suddenly lock with mine. He’s remembered something.

“It’s Saturday,” he exclaims, eyes alight with salacious wonder, and he grasps my waist, pulling me to him and kissing me savagely.

Whoa—change of pace!

His hands sweep down my slick, wet body, around to my sex, his fingers exploring, teasing, and his mouth is relentless, leaving me breathless. His other hand is in my wet hair, holding me in place while I bear the full force of his passion unleashed. His fingers move inside me.

“Ahh,” I moan into his mouth.

“Yes,” he hisses, and lifts me, his hands beneath my backside. “Wrap your legs around me, baby.” My legs obey, and I cling like a limpet to his neck. He braces me against the wall of the shower and pauses, gazing down at me.

“Eyes open,” he murmurs. “I want to see you.”

I blink up at him, my heart hammering, my blood pulsing hot and heavy through my body, desire, real and rampant, surging through me. Then he eases into me oh so slowly, filling me, claiming me, skin against skin. I push down against him and groan loudly. Once fully inside me, he pauses once more, his face strained, intense.

“You are mine, Anastasia,” he whispers.

“Always.”

He smiles victoriously and shifts, making me gasp.

“And now we can let everyone know, because you said yes.” His voice is reverential, and he leans down, capturing my mouth with his, and starts to move … slow and sweet. I close my eyes and tilt my head back as my body bows, my will submitting to his, slave to his intoxicating slow rhythm.

His teeth graze my jaw, my chin, and down my neck as he picks up the pace, pushing me onward, upward—away from this earthly plane, the teeming shower, the evening’s chilling fright. It’s just me and my man moving in unison, moving as one—each completely absorbed in the other—our gasps and grunts mingling. I revel in the exquisite feeling of his possession as my body blooms and flowers around him.

I could have lost him … and I love him …
I love him so much, and I’m suddenly overcome by the enormity of my love and the depth of my commitment to him. I will spend the rest of my life loving this man, and with that awe-inspiring thought, I detonate around him—a healing, cathartic orgasm, crying out his name as tears flow down my cheeks.

He reaches his climax and pours himself into me. With his face buried in my neck, he sinks to the floor, holding me tightly,
kissing my face, and kissing away my tears as the warm water spills down around us, washing us clean.

“MY FINGERS ARE PRUNY,”
I murmur, postcoital and sated as I lean against his chest. He raises my fingers to his lips and kisses each in turn.

“We should really get out of this shower.”

“I’m comfortable here.” I’m sitting between his legs and he’s holding me close. I don’t want to move.

Christian murmurs his assent. But suddenly I’m bone tired, world-weary. So much has happened this last week—enough for a lifetime of drama—and now I’m getting married. A disbelieving giggle escapes my lips.

“Something amusing you, Miss Steele?” he asks fondly.

“It’s been a busy week.”

He grins. “That it has.”

“I thank God you’re back in one piece, Mr. Grey,” I whisper, sobering at the thought of what might have been. He tenses and I immediately regret reminding him.

“I was scared,” he confesses much to my surprise.

“Earlier?”

He nods, his expression serious.

Holy shit
. “So you made light of it to reassure your family?”

“Yes. I was too low to land well. But somehow I did.”

Crap. My eyes sweep up to his, and he looks grave as the water cascades over us. “How close a call was it?” He gazes down at me.

“Close.” He pauses. “For a few awful seconds, I thought I’d never see you again.”

I hug him tightly. “I can’t imagine my life without you, Christian. I love you so much it frightens me.”

“Me, too,” he breathes. “My life would be empty without you. I love you so much.” His arms tighten around me and he nuzzles my hair. “I won’t ever let you go.”

“I don’t want to go, ever.” I kiss his neck, and he leans down and kisses me gently.

After a moment, he shifts. “Come—let’s get you dry and into bed. I’m exhausted and you look beat.”

I lean back and arch an eyebrow at his choice of words. He cocks his head to one side and smirks at me.

“You have something to say, Miss Steele?”

I shake my head and rise unsteadily to my feet.

I AM SITTING UP
in bed. Christian insisted on drying my hair—he’s quite skilled at it. How that happened is an unpleasant thought, so I dismiss it immediately. It’s after two in the morning, and I am ready to sleep. Christian gazes down at me and reexamines the key chain before climbing into bed. He shakes his head, incredulous once more.

“This is so neat. The best birthday present I’ve ever had.” He glances at me, his eyes soft and warm. “Better than my signed Guiseppe DeNatale poster.”

“I would have told you earlier, but since it was going to be your birthday … What do you give the man who has everything? I thought I’d give you … me.”

He puts the key chain down on the bedside table and snuggles in beside me, pulling me into his arms against his chest so that we’re spooning.

“It’s perfect. Like you.”

I smirk, though he can’t see my expression. “I am far from perfect, Christian.”

“Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?”

How does he know? “Maybe.” I giggle. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He nuzzles my neck.

“You didn’t call on your trip back from Portland. Was that really because of José? You were worried about me being here alone with him?”

Christian says nothing. I turn to face him, and his eyes are wide as I reproach him.

“Do you know how ridiculous that is? How much stress you put your family and me through? We all love you very much.”

He blinks a couple of times and then gives me his shy smile. “I had no idea you’d all be so worried.”

I purse my lips. “When are you going to get it through your thick skull that you are loved?”

“Thick skull?” His eyebrows widen in surprise.

I nod. “Yes. Thick skull.”

“I don’t think the bone density of my head is significantly higher than anywhere else in my body.”

“I’m serious! Stop trying to make me laugh. I am still a little mad at you, though that’s partially eclipsed by the fact that you’re home safe and sound when I thought …” My voice fades as I recall those anxious few hours. “Well, you know what I thought.”

His eyes soften and he reaches up to caress my face. “I’m sorry. Okay.”

“Your poor mom, too. It was very moving, seeing you with her,” I whisper.

He smiles shyly. “I’ve never seen her that way.” He blinks at the memory. “Yes, that was really something. She’s normally so self-possessed. It was quite a shock.”

“See? Everyone loves you.” I smile. “Perhaps now you’ll start believing it.” I lean down and kiss him gently. “Happy birthday, Christian. I’m glad you’re here to share your day with me. And you haven’t seen what I’ve got for you tomorrow … um … today.” I smirk.

“There’s more?” he says, astounded, and his face erupts into a breathtaking grin.

“Oh yes, Mr. Grey, but you’ll have to wait until then.”

I WAKE SUDDENLY FROM
a dream or nightmare, and my pulse is thumping. I turn, panicked, and to my relief, Christian is fast asleep beside me. Because I’ve shifted, he stirs and reaches out in his sleep, draping his arm over me, and rests his head on my shoulder, sighing softly.

The room is flooded with light. It’s eight o’clock. Christian
never sleeps this late. I lie back and let my racing heart calm. Why the anxiety? Is it the aftermath of last night?

I turn and stare at him. He’s here. He’s safe. I take a deep steadying breath and gaze at his lovely face. A face that is now so familiar, all its dips and shadows eternally etched on my mind.

He looks much younger when he’s asleep, and I grin because today he’s a whole year older. I hug myself, thinking about my present. Oooh … what will he do? Perhaps I should start by bringing him breakfast in bed. Besides, José may still be here.

I find José at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal. I can’t help but flush when I see him. He knows I’ve spent the night with Christian. Why do I suddenly feel so shy? It’s not as if I’m naked or anything. I’m wearing my floor-length silk wrap.

“Morning, José.” I smile, brazening it out.

“Hey, Ana!” His face lights up, genuinely pleased to see me. There’s no hint of teasing or salacious contempt in his expression.

“Sleep well?” I ask.

“Sure. Some view from up here.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty special.” Like the owner of this apartment. “Want a real man’s breakfast?” I tease.

“Love some.”

“It’s Christian’s birthday today—I’m making him breakfast in bed.”

“He awake?”

“No, I think he’s fried from yesterday.” I quickly glance away from him and head to the fridge so he can’t see my blush.
Jeez, it’s only José
. When I take the eggs and bacon out of the fridge, José is grinning at me.

“You really like him, don’t you?”