What?! Suddenly the seductive background song; Adele’s Make You Feel My Love seems oddly jarring, inappropriate.
I gape at him, disbelieving. The heat of an angry blush stings the apples of my cheeks just as humiliated tears brim dangerously in my miserable eyes. “I… It was…,”
I falter, the shock thieving my coherent thoughts while he cuts me off, barking, “spit it out Anastasia, tell me – now!”
I take a shaky breath, steeling myself when I realise that true Fifty is never far away. I also get a sense that the way I handle this will set a president for the future, I’m livid that he even thinks that I would lie but at the same time, underneath the bubbling anger, I see the inherent insecurity that was horribly compounded by me leaving.
In spite of feeling so small I force a note of certainty into my voice, making sure that I sound unwavering, delivering my message as clear as a bell. “Christian!” I say his name with meaning, to get his attention and to stop him from interrupting me again.
“You hate it when I doubt you, why would you do the same to me?” I look at him pointedly, still disconcerted about the violent shift in the mood between us.
Before he can answer I continue, “apart from being my only lover you excel at it, experienced way beyond what’s regarded as normal.” Even though I try to stay calm I can’t control the indignant rise in my pitch as I gesture in the general direction of everything. “Don’t you think that sometimes that leaves me feeling a little off-balance, unsure of myself?”
His expression changes, doubt in his own rash observation flitting across his face but not quite ready to let it go he remains silent, watching, waiting for me to continue – to put him out of his jealous misery.
There’s a part of me that wants to punish him, to let him stew in his outrageous accusation but a greater part wants to heal us – and I know just how much I’m responsible for his insecurity.
“I read it in a stupid woman’s magazine, at the doctor’s. I just thought it would be fun to try – do something different, exciting for you.” My blush is due to equal parts of humiliation and annoyance; I drop my eyes, still smarting from the hard thump coming down from what certainly looked and sounded like a stellar performance.
A hopeful light comes into his eyes, “so you didn’t…, you never…?” his timbre turns tentative, wanting to believe but not ready to trust after what must have been an unnerving shock.
“No!” I shake my head to punctuate my denial, sounding harsher than I intend.
He exhales, long and uneven, pinching the bridge of his nose over closed eyes he runs a hand through his wet hair.
“Shit! Fuck!” he grinds out the words through a tight jaw, jerking his head once, aggressively – his fury turning inward. With both hands he pushes his hair back off his forehead, eyes marred with regret, mouth turned down – unhappy.
“I’m so sorry baby. Fuck!” cloudy eyes swing away, looking into the distance as he bunches frustrated fists into tense balls. “The idea of you with someone else…” he shakes his head, despairing, bewildered. I can see how just the thought had a knife twisting in his very soul. Instantly I want to comfort him but my hurt is holding me back.
“I’m an ass, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” He slips off the edge of the tub and engulfs me in a crushing hug, kissing my hair. My body is rigid in his arms, tension and ire still leaving me highly strung. If he notices my unyielding state he ignores it, embracing me in a way that makes me feel like the centre of his universe.
He grips my shoulders, stepping back to search my face with his pained gaze, “this is my issue. Not yours. You’ve never given me any real reason not to trust you that way, even when the fucking doctor was all over you.” His eyes fall away from mine, looking uncertain, if not shy – like he’s embarrassed, “maybe because I can’t keep my hands off you I can’t believe that anyone else can either.”
Meeting my watch again his eyes burn with sincerity, glowing his contrition before he cradles my head; pressing it to his chest again. With those words he pierces my always-weak-where-he’s-concerned resistance as my arms band around him, letting him know that I accept his apology.
I can never stay mad at him for long and in the face of his heartfelt apology I simply melt but not before the reality of our respective pasts lodge firmly in the forefront of my mind. We still have lots of work to do but Fifty won’t be Fifty if he didn’t have a few shades….
We stand like that for what feels like ages, trying to repair the sweet connection we felt before Christian’s outburst when I feel a stirring at my belly.
Surely not! I think wondering where he gets the stamina from, it’s not like I want to deny him – I know that he needs this to feel that we’re okay again but I’m still too tightly wound to give into his amorous attentions right now.
Thankfully he’s perfectly attuned to me, kissing my hair again he mumbles, “ignore it, it will go away.” How can he be so daft one minute and so observant and thoughtful the next?
He runs his hands up and down my arms, over the shivering flesh, “are you cold baby?” The water is warm but our naked upper bodies are exposed to a chilly draft.
I nod against the bulges of his pectoral muscles, not wanting to leave the delicious heat source of his chest.
“Let’s get you warm.” With that beautiful sinuous grace of his he’s out of the tub and holding the fluffy robe out for me, an inviting cocoon of warmth. He ties it around my waist, taking care of me with a careful reverence, like I’m a fragile doll.
After he does his own he takes my hand and pulls me into his side, tucking me close. He stops only to extinguish he outdoor candles then leads us back into the sumptuous lounge.
“Better?” he brushes the back of his knuckles down my cheek, concern and regret clear for me to see.
I nod, smiling up at him. Even with a rueful expression he’s gorgeous, maybe more so because of it.
He presses another chaste kiss to my forehead, “go grab us another bottle of bubbly and I’ll build a fire.” He tilts his head to his left, indicating the big, glass encased double-sided fireplace that graces the lounge or, if you want, the patio.
Mmhhh, in front of the fire with Christian! My inner goddess is bounding up and down, delighted at the prospect of making love in such a romantic setting. I bet she’s right; if the tent in his robe is anything to go by I don’t think “ignoring it” is going to be an option.
He mistakes my dreamy look for hesitation, “did I wear you out Mrs Grey? Do you rather want to go to bed?” A gentle tone, soft eyes and a wistful smile tells me just how much he wants to reconnect, firm up that bond that keeps us emotionally tethered to each other. In spite of his obvious desire, he’s always so willing to put my needs first; the irony is that it makes me want to do the same for him. Maybe I’m more submissive than I ever thought.
I lift my gaze, fusing with his that instantly turns the shade of mercury as I slide my hands under the lapels of his gown, his strong heart beating a soothing rhythm under my touch. I can feel how my expression softens, moulding and filling with the light of all the love I feel for him, “no way,” I whisper, the husky tone giving rise to his wide eyes and caught breath. “I’m not ready for this night to end just yet.” My teeth find my lip, worrying it in response to my sudden flare of desire.
The sensual rumble he makes reverberates through the very depths of me, heat spilling onto the planes of my skin. I can see it takes every ounce of his restraint to hold himself back from kissing me to rather say something instead. With his timbre rasping, hoarse with need and roguishness he breathes, “I suppose I could do with more practice.”
How he can joke about my earlier “bad kisser” jibe in the midst of this jolting electricity that leaves me thoughtless and breathless, is beyond my present meagre means of comprehension. In spite of having reached two sensational orgasms already the force of need I feel when his lips meld with mine is explosive – like our meeting flesh is passing on the current of our attraction and strengthening it, amping up the voltage to near sizzling levels.
It’s exciting and terrifying at once, to need and want and love someone else like this. In the back of my mind I always worry that intensity like that can only burn out but right here, right now I’m so deeply involved, it permeates my being. I’ve long ago learnt that fighting it is futile.
The kiss doesn’t last nearly long enough, Christian releases me and I’m a doe eyed rabbit, caught in the headlights of his sensual stare. Immensely pleased with the result he smirks, “I must be getting better,” he muses dryly. “Now how about that drink Mrs Grey?” He points his thumb in the direction of the bar, stormy eyes enjoying my unresponsive, kissing induced trance.
I blink a few times and find my voice, “uhm, yes, sure.” Still a bit shell shocked I make my way to the bar in search of another celebratory bottle of Bollinger. I catch myself humming along with another beautiful and fitting love song, idly wondering if Christian had a hand in the romantic compilation that’s been spilling from the speakers tonight. At the moment it’s a slinky version of Fever by Michael Bublé, leading my thoughts astray to all the places Christian’s caresses heats to feverish pitches.
After dropping a fresh bottle into the ice bucket I sneak a quick look at my phone, inconspicuously trying to check for any messages or missed calls about Chris. Once you have children you’re always a mom, no matter what you’re doing or where you are.
When I turn around I find Christian behind me, watching me closely, “are you worried about him?” without missing a beat he makes an offer that at once melts and tugs at my heart, “we could go and fetch him if you’d rather have him here with us.”
I love that he gets it, in spite of his horrific early years the Greys have given him the gift of a stable and loving home, their unwavering affection in the face of his brokenness nurtured him into the wonderful father I know he’ll be for Chris. It’s the epitome of bitter-sweet: that he never knew unconditional parental love as a small child but that he’s willing and capable of giving it now.
I swallow against the sudden dryness of my throat and shake my head, overcome for the umpteenth time today. I give him a warm smile; the light of which I know reaches my eyes, “Thank you, that’s a beautiful offer but no.” I cup his jaw, letting my thumb skate over the days’ worth of prickly growth, “you blow me away, the way you’ve taken Chris on.” I shake my head, fresh astonishment at his all-round capabilities crowding my thoughts. “You. Are. Already. An. Awesome. Father. I. Love. That. You. Love. Him.” I jab at his chest with my finger, enunciating each word for emphasis.
His expression, at first amused turns serious, “I love him.” He says simply. There’s a possessive zeal to his words that I know only too well, something I used to fear but have grown to adore in him. He loves so totally, so completely, to the point of ownership and now, both Chris and I, are his – forever.
It makes me feel safe and excited for our future together. With both hands I pull his face closer to kiss away the last shadows of his solemnity. He closes his eyes, running his nose along mine, “I’m sorry for not trusting you, let me make it up to you.”
There’s a definite pleading note in his low voice, proving that he’s not forgiven himself even though I’m truly over it. No doubt his self-loathing brewed this unhealthy cocktail of remorse and worthlessness up for him. I know that he believes that I love him but does he believe that he deserves that love?
“Christian,” my lilt is soft, soothing, seductive, “it’s over, I understand. Please, let it go.” I let my fingers steal into his hair while I hold him close.
Coming away from me he seems to shrug off his unsettling mood but it leaves me with a nagging worry about his frame of mind. It’s so easy to lose sight of how fragile his emotional world is, especially faced with his mind-boggling competence and larger-than-life business persona.
He weaves his fingers through mine then brushes his lips over the back of my hand as we walk to the now roaring fire. Together with the gently flickering candles and a satiny throw piled with scatter cushions that he spread in front of the hearth, it adds an exotic Arabian air to the lounge.
A quick twist of his wrist pops the champagne cork with a gentle plop then he fills the crystal flutes before handing one to me. He catches my gaze, his countenance mostly in shadow but for the flames playing on the side of his angular features that only just reveal the provocative lust swirling in his eyes. He lifts the flute in a romantic salute to me that I acknowledge with a coquettish smile, all too aware of the already pregnant, sensual aura around us. Raising my own glass I clink it against his, “to us.”
We’re mirror images of each other; bringing the glass up to sip, the fizz tickling before tasting the ice cold bubbles that caress and tease tastebuds, first fruity then dry as it slips down, tantalising and refreshing.
All the while our eyes remain glued, caught up and spellbound as we’re bathed in the ripples of desire, watching the other to revel in the sexy cues that betray arousal. The parting of lips, quickening breaths, lids growing heavy, the dart of an eager tongue touching the edges of teeth all of which compound the race of tingles down my spine.
It must be the same for him because he reaches for my glass and places it on the table to the side. I hardly notice the brief moment of broken attention before he’s smouldering in front of me again. One hand tugs the bow at my waist, the other slipping beneath my robe to work it off my shoulder, “I want to see you.”
His gravelly rasp sends a bolt right to my centre, making me mewl and leak between my legs. Instead of touching me he steps back, ridding himself of his own robe that he tosses aside without a care.
As I take in the defined planes of his sculpted body I have a revelation. If I love to look at him and admiring him turns me on surely that must translate into a similar reaction for him. I mentally shrug off any coyness I feel about baring my naked body, flicking my hair over my shoulder to stand tall, proud.
The effect on Christian is immediate, clear and forceful in turn, slamming me hard with fresh lashings of desire. His slumberous eyes deeply appreciative he takes a step toward me, “I can never get enough of you.” His thumb brushes over my lips before he trails his fingertips down my cheek, my neck, the swell of my breast and over the taut pike of my nipple.
My half lidded eyes close as he draws a threaded moan from my throat, my voice involuntarily responding to the promising shivers his light touch brings. “Lie on the throw baby, face down.” His throaty whisper bathes me in his warm breath, his closeness tipping my head back to offer my mouth but he doesn’t comply. A lone, lazy finger traces the outline of my lips instead; forcing me to open my eyes to see why I’m being denied.
I find a sinful, crooked smile goading me, seconds away from turning into a stern line to remind me that I’ve been given a command. I sink to the floor, grateful that my weakened knees don’t have to hold me up in the full-force onslaught of Christian’s passion.
A tic later I feel him straddle my waist, excitement pounding through my veins as I wonder what he has planned. I feel him bend over my back and sweep my hair away, slowly combing his fingers through the tresses to catch every last strand. My whole body quivers its delight, the simple pleasure arrowing directly to my enflamed sex.
Still arched over me he skates his hands down my arms and grips my wrists to slide them up, above my head. His warm palms glide down my sides, past my underarms, the curve of my flattened breasts, right up to my hips. I’m taking almost all of his weight now as he lies with his chest to my back, the rigid length of him nestling between my bottom’s cheeks.
With his mouth to my ear I can already hear his harsher inhalation, “hopefully I’ll be able to last a bit longer this time, I want to spend some time here.” Sure hands slip in between our bodies as twin hands palm the globes of my rear, giving them a firm squeeze.
He chuckles softly when my frame stiffens in shock. I feel the pointed tip of his tongue fluttering in my ear before he puts me at ease, “it’s not what you think. Relax baby, I want to give you this, for your amazing gift earlier.” He nuzzles his nose behind my ear, taking in the concentrated scent of me.
Finally I get the praise I was hoping for but I’m worried that he’s still feeling guilty. “You…”
“Hush baby.” He admonishes with a gravely firmness, “I’m not doing this because I have to, I’m doing it because I want to, I’m desperate to spend some time reacquainting myself with your delectable body.”
Jeez, what else have we been doing these past two days? At least his heated words has put my overactive mind at rest and I close my eyes again, ready for whatever sensual thing this outrageously skilled, kinky, virile man can come up with.
“No peeking and stay still, you know what will happen if you don’t.” He’s upright again, both knees planted on either side of my waist, my back bereft for the loss of his warmth.
“Yes sir!” I say, half joking but I feel Christians thighs tense around me.
Crap! Did I push too far? He said he wasn’t quite ready for that game yet.
“Mrs Grey, if you keep that up I won’t last another minute without fucking you senseless and you’ll miss your treat.” He grinds himself against my backside, the hard evidence of his threat undeniable. His lips brush my neck as he speaks; his form arced over me once more.
Why is that so fucking hot?
Every muscle I have clenches in exquisite anticipation, greedy to see his warning in action. He catches my sharp, audible breath, “good to know we’re on the same page. So, do you want your reward Mrs Grey?” His mock sarcasm has me grinning.
“Yes please.” My breathless, needy voice doesn’t sound like my own, absurdly revealing.
I hear a click then a squirt before Christian vigorously rubs his palms together. A fraction later I feel his big hands working my back in long, even strokes. A blend of intoxicating exotic fragrances fills my nostrils; Sandalwood, Ylang-Ylang, Rose – all adding to the spicy Arabian theme.
Mmhh, a massage.
His talent in this department is on par with that of any professionals plus he has the added advantage of bringing his inherent sexuality into the mix. It makes this massage take on a whole new meaning; I may never be able to go on another spa day again.
It’s delicious because his fingers quickly work away every knot of tension but it leaves a certain other bundle of nerves more and more desperate for the same attention. With him sitting over my middle my pelvis has no purchase for the friction I know would relieve a little of the growing empty ache that’s spawned there.
I feel Christian shift down, over the curve of my behind to halfway down my upper thighs. He pushes up to stand on his knees, “lift that beautiful ass for me.” There’s a hungry throatiness to his order that leads me to believe that he’s feeling the effects of his massage as much as I am.
I lift my bottom, pushing back a bit, into the space he’s created between his open legs, a twinge of fear for the unknown stepping up my heart rate. Christian shoves a pair of cushions underneath my lower belly, effectively leaving my buttocks up and on full display.
He adjusts himself but doesn’t sit back down, this time preferring to stay on his knees only. I hear him fill his hands with more of the aromatic oil before warming it then brushing it over my bottom. His hands knead and slide over the rounded curves and the very tops of my thighs, coming oh so close to the engorged lips of my sex that’s restlessly begging for even the smallest of touches.
Urg! My rising frustration has the need in me building, edging higher and higher to a place where I’m no longer able to restrain my serrated groans every time I think he’s going to touch me and send me off, exploding from the inside out.
Every sweep of his hands brings more blood rushing, pooling in my already swollen, sodden folds – leaving me so very sensitive, my senses close to shutting down under his delightful torture.
“Please Christian. Please,” the words come out strangled and hoarse, my hands are clawing wildly, pawing at the throw along with my short, panting breaths, suddenly not sure if this is a delicious reward or a cruel punishment.
“Hang in there baby.” His strained groaning mutter gives me hope; he’s palpably, perilously close to the edge himself. Then he grants my fervent wish, finally with palms together as if in prayer, his hands dive between my thighs, dragging slowly, excruciatingly over the wet pouting lips that hold that immeasurable tight bundle of pleasure, instantly setting it off with an irrevocable quiver.
The shudders that shake through my body are so powerful that it arches my torso into an almost unnatural curve as I cry out his name with the force of it. Before the last spasm ebbs away Christian tunnels into my clenching opening, scraping past over sensitised nerves that send a fresh wave of sensation rushing through me.
The guttural groan that’s ripped from his chest as he finally allows himself to chase his own release inflames me into the start of another grinding orgasm. Our mutual race becomes a visceral urge, all-consuming and blinding that brings us crashing down like the hard breaking of a tidal wave on the shore of ecstasy.
By the time I catch my breath and open my eyes, letting the real world seep back into my consciousness Christian is lying sprawled over me, the blanket of his heat slowly receding. The cushions beneath me dislodged somehow, the satiny throw a tangled mess in the wake of our crucial, passionate melding.
Christian opens one eye and grins at me, his cheek pressed to the floor beside my head. He grunts, acknowledging my sleepy, sated smile. He gently extricates himself from the cradle of my back and pulls me into the crook of his arm. “You look thoroughly fucked Mrs Grey.”
My body is heavy, limbs still jellied and shaky, “mmmhhhh.”
He chuckles softly, “I’ll take that as a yes.” He leans closer, kissing both my closed lids. “Can I ask you something?”
“Mmmhhh?” I hope it doesn’t involve standing I think to myself as I hover at the very edge of sleep, worn out and spent.
“Answer me and I’ll carry you to bed. Can we have another baby?”
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