Fifty Shades Freed (85 page)

The Big House, May 2014

I lie on our tartan picnic blanket and gaze up at the clear, blue, summer sky, my view framed by meadow flowers and tall green grasses. The heat of the afternoon summer sun warms my skin, my bones and my belly, and I relax, my body turning to Jell-O. This is comfortable. Hell no . . . this is wonderful. I savor the moment, a moment of peace, a moment of pure and utter contentment. I should feel guilty for feeling this joy, this completeness, but I don’t. Life right here right now is good, and I’ve learned to appreciate it and live in the moment like my husband. I smile and squirm as my mind drifts to the delicious memory of last night at our home in Escala . . .

The strands of the flogger skim across my swollen belly at an aching, languorous pace.

“Have you had enough yet, Ana?” Christian whispers in my ear.

“Oh, please.” I beg, pulling on the restraints above my head as I stand blindfolded and tethered to the grid in the playroom.

The flogger’s sweet sting bites into my behind.

“Please what?”

I gasp. “Please, Sir.”

Christian places his hand over my ringing skin and rubs gently.

“There. There. There.” His words are soft. His hand moves south and around, and his fingers slide inside me.

I groan.

“Mrs. Grey,” he breathes, and his teeth pull on my earlobe. “You’re so ready.”

His fingers slide in and out of me, hitting that spot, that sweet, sweet spot again. The flogger clatters onto the floor and his hand moves over my belly and up to my breasts. I tense. They are sensitive.

“Hush,” Christian says, cupping one, and he gently brushes his thumb over my nipple.

“Ah.”

His fingers are gentle and enticing, and pleasure spirals out from my breast, down, down . . . deep down. I tilt my head back, pushing my nipple into his palm, and moan once more.

“I like to hear you,” Christian whispers. His erection is at my hip, the buttons of his fly pressing into my flesh as his fingers continue their relentless assault: in, out, in, out—keeping a rhythm. “Shall I make you come like this?” he asks.

“No.”

His fingers stop moving inside me.

“Really, Mrs. Grey? Is it up to you?” His fingers tighten around my nipple.

“No . . . No, Sir.”

“That’s better.”

“Ah. Please,” I beg.

“What do you want, Anastasia?”

“You. Always.”

He inhales sharply.

“All of you,” I add, breathless.

He eases his fingers out of me, pulls me around to face him, and removes the blindfold. I blink up into darkening gray eyes that burn into mine. His index fingers trace my bottom lip, and he pushes his index and middle fingers into my mouth, letting me taste the salty tang of my arousal.

“Suck,” he whispers. I swirl my tongue around and between his fingers.

Hmm . . . even I taste good on his fingers.

His hands skim up my arms to the cuffs above my head, and he unclips them, freeing me. Turning me around so I’m facing the wall, he tugs on my braid, pulling me into his arms. He angles my head to one side and skims his lips up my throat to my ear while holding me flush against him.

“I want in your mouth.” His voice is soft and seductive. My body, ripe and ready, clenches deep inside. The pleasure is sweet and sharp.

I moan. Turning to face him, I pull his head down to mine and kiss him hard, my tongue invading his mouth, tasting and savoring him. He groans, places his hands on my behind and tugs me against him, but only my pregnant belly touches him. I bite his jaw and trail kisses down his throat and run my fingers down to his jeans. He tilts his head back, exposing more of his throat to me, and I run my tongue down to his chest and through his chest hair.

“Ah.”

I tug the waistband of his jeans, the buttons popping, and he grasps my shoulders as I sink to my knees in front of him.

As I gaze up at him through my lashes, he stares down at me. His eyes are dark, his lips parted, and he inhales deeply when I free him and ensnare him with my mouth. I love doing this to Christian. Watching him come apart, hearing his breath hitch, and the soft moans he makes deep in his throat. I close my eyes and suck hard, pressing down on him, relishing his taste and his breathless gasp.

He grasps my head, stilling me, and I sheath my teeth with my lips and push him deeper into my mouth.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” he orders, his voice low.

Blazing eyes meet mine and he flexes his hips, filling my mouth to the back of my throat then withdrawing quickly. He pushes into me again and I reach up to grab him. He stops and holds me in place.

“Don’t touch or I’ll cuff you again. I just want your mouth,” he growls.

Oh my.
Like that is it?
I put my hands behind my back and gaze up at him innocently with my mouth full.

“Good girl,” he says, smirking down at me, his voice hoarse. He eases back, and holding me gently but firmly, he pushes into me again. “You have such a fuckable mouth, Mrs. Grey.” He closes his eyes and eases into my mouth as I squeeze him between my lips, running my tongue over and around him. I take him deeper and withdraw, again and again and again, the air hissing between his teeth.

“Ah! Stop,” he says, and he pulls out of me, leaving me wanting more. He grasps my shoulders and pulls me to my feet. Grabbing my braid, he kisses me hard, his persistent tongue greedy and giving at once. Suddenly he releases me, and before I know it, he’s lifted me into his arms and moved over to the four-poster. Gently, he lays me down so that my behind is just on the edge of the bed.

“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he orders. I do and pull him toward me. He leans down, hands either side of my head, and still standing, very slowly eases himself into me.

Oh, that feels so good. I close my eyes and revel in his slow possession.

“Okay?” he asks, his concern evident in his tone.

“Oh, God, Christian. Yes. Yes. Please.” I tighten my legs around him and push against him. He groans. I clasp his arms, and he flexes his hips slowly at first, in, out.

“Christian, please. Harder—I won’t break.”

He groans and starts to move, really move, pounding into me again and again. Oh, it’s heavenly.

“Yes,” I gasp, tightening my hold on him as I start to build . . . He moans, grinding into me with renewed determination . . . and I’m close.
Oh, please. Don’t stop.

“Come on, Ana,” he groans through gritted teeth, and I explode around him, my orgasm going on and on and on. I call out his name and Christian stills, groaning loudly, as he climaxes inside me.

“Ana,” he cries.

Christian lies beside me, his hand caressing my belly, his long fingers splayed out wide.

“How’s my daughter?”

“She’s dancing.” I laugh.

“Dancing? Oh yes! Wow. I can feel her.” He grins as Blip Two somersaults inside me.

“I think she likes sex already.”

Christian frowns. “Really?” he says dryly. He moves so his lips are against my bump. “There’ll be none of that until you’re thirty, young lady.”

I giggle. “Oh, Christian, you are such a hypocrite.”

“No, I’m an anxious father.” He gazes up at me, his brow furrowed, betraying his anxiety.

“You’re a wonderful father, as I knew you would be.” I caress his lovely face, and he gives me his shy smile.

“I like this,” he murmurs, stroking then kissing my belly. “There’s more of you.”

I pout. “I don’t like more of me.”

“It’s great when you come.”

“Christian!”

“And I’m looking forward to the taste of breast milk again.”

“Christian! You are such a kinky—”

He swoops on me suddenly, kissing me hard, throwing his leg over mine, and grabbing my hands so they are above my head. “You love the kinky fuckery,” he whispers, and he runs his nose down mine.

I grin, caught in his infectious, wicked smile. “Yes, I love the kinky fuckery. And I love you. Very much.”

I jerk awake, woken by a high-pitched squeal of delight from my son, and even though I can’t see him or Christian, I grin like an idiot with my glee. Ted has woken from his nap, and he and Christian are romping nearby. I lie quietly, still marveling at Christian’s capacity for play. His patience with Teddy is extraordinary—much more so than with me. I snort. But then, that’s how it should be. And my beautiful little boy, the apple of his mother and father’s eyes, knows no fear. Christian, on the other hand, is still too overprotective—of both of us. My sweet, mercurial, controlling Fifty.

“Let’s find Mommy. She’s here in the meadow somewhere.”

Ted says something I don’t hear, and Christian laughs freely, happily. It’s a magical sound, filled with his paternal joy. I can’t resist. I struggle up onto my elbows to spy on them from my hiding place in the long grass.

Christian is swinging Ted around and around, making him squeal once more in delight. He stops, launches him high into the air—I stop breathing—then he catches him. Ted shrieks with childish abandon and I breathe a sigh of relief. Oh my little man, my darling little man, always on the go.

“ ‘Gain, Daddy!” he squeals. Christian obliges, and my heart leaps into my mouth once more as he tosses Teddy into the air then catches him again, clutching him close. Christian kisses Ted’s copper-colored hair, and blows a kiss on his cheek, then tickles him mercilessly for a moment. Teddy howls with laughter, squirming and pushing against Christian’s chest, wanting out of his arms. Grinning, Christian sets him on the ground.

“Let’s find Mommy. She’s hiding in the grass.”

Ted beams, enjoying the game, and looks around the meadow. Grasping Christian’s hand, he points to somewhere I’m not, and it makes me giggle. I lie back down quickly, delighting in this game.

“Ted, I heard Mommy. Did you hear her?”

“Mommy!”

I giggle-snort at Ted’s imperious tone. Jeez—so like his dad, and he’s only two.

“Teddy!” I call back, gazing up the sky with a ridiculous grin on my face.

“Mommy!”

All too soon I hear their footsteps trampling through the meadow, and first Ted then Christian bursts through the long grass.

“Mommy!” Ted screeches as if he’s found the lost treasure of the Sierra Madre, and he leaps onto me.

“Hey, baby boy!” I cradle him against me and kiss his chubby cheek. He giggles and kisses me in return, then struggles out of my arms.

“Hello, Mommy.” Christian smiles down at me.

“Hello, Daddy.” I grin, and he picks Ted up, and sits down beside me with our son in his lap.

“Gently with Mommy,” he admonishes Ted. I smirk—the irony is not lost on me. From his pocket, Christian produces his BlackBerry and gives it to Ted. This will probably win us five minutes of peace, maximum. Teddy studies it, his little brow furrowed. He looks so serious, blue eyes concentrating hard, just like his daddy does when he reads his e-mails. Christian nuzzles Ted’s hair, and my heart swells to look at them both. Two peas in a pod: my son sitting quietly—for a few moments at least—in my husband’s lap. My two favorite men in the whole world.

Of course, Ted is the most beautiful and talented child on the planet, but then I am his mother so I would think that. And Christian is . . . well, Christian is just himself. In white T-shirt and jeans, he looks as hot as usual. What did I do to win such a prize?