Because of the ever growing pack of reporters camping outside our building, and a few very resourceful ones that manages to make it to the ground floor reception desk, Christian declares our Wednesday a work-from-home day. I don’t mind. With a long list of rewrites to do for Julie I’ve got plenty on my plate. Also, this afternoon Chris will be starting his piano lessons, and even though I don’t want to cramp my little boy’s style by hover around him, I’m still desperately keen to see how it goes.
Christian is holed up in his office, his black mood all but leaking from the gap at the bottom of the firmly shut door. Fending calls and e-mails from the steering body of the Commission on Sustainable Development, his press department, and for all I know, the president of the US, we all give his study a wide berth. Taylor is the only one to brave the space that’s practically humming with irritation. By twelve thirty I consider sending him a text invitation to join us for lunch instead of knocking in his door but as the erotic images of the night before flash through my mind I find the courage to go myself.
Forcing my timid knock into something a tad more confident I walk into his office, bright smile pinned in place to hide my nerves. I get the hold-on-a-minute finger as he issues a series of barks to the poor sod in the other end of the line before slamming the receiver down with an angry groan. The second his eyes find mine the steel in his gaze melts, the windows of his soul needy with their call for comfort. The change in his demeanour dramatic as it’s flattering.
“Baby,” he beckons, opening his arms as he pushes himself away from his desk.
My smile goes from uneasy to beaming. All but skipping into his invitation, he laughs when I fling myself into his arms, “We’ve missed you,” I confess, threading my hands through his hair.
Turning his head he nuzzles into my neck, taking a long pull of the scent I know is concentrated there, “Mmmhhh, me too. Did you come to get me for lunch?”
“I did, but I’ll settle for a minute more of this if you’re too busy.” Knowing just how thinly he’s spread I’m not about to add any pressure to his day.
He scrapes his teeth along the edge of my jaw, “Maybe I could do you one better…”
Giggling, I pull away from him, “I’ll take that bet. Show your hand husband.”
He grins, arching a playful brow, “How about I see your cuddle and raise you lunch?”
Dropping my gaze I look at him through my fluttering lashes, “Mr Grey, are you talking poker to me?”
He laughs, a sexy, low throaty laugh, “I guess I am. And maybe I have one for you too,” he purrs. Tilting his hips I feel the press of something suspiciously like a poker beneath the soft swell of my rear.
“Mr Grey!” I squeal on a gasp before feeling the heat sweeping over my cheeks and down my neck.
Chuckling he lifts me to my feet, righting my skirt in the process, “I love scandalising you.” With a quick kiss followed by a sharp slap on my behind he sends me on my way, “Let’s go have some lunch.”
Apart from the line of tension in Christian’s shoulders you would never guess the strain he’s under. He eats with us, chatting and joking just like he always does. I can only admire his ability to compartmentalise his roles. After yet another scrumptious feast that looks like it would shame a nutritionist’s choice, Christian leaves me with the plans for the house on the Sound to pour over. While he and Taylor ensconce themselves in the study, I make notes in the margins of the architectural drawings. The dining room table is the ideal place to spread them out and I’m soon lost in the task as my head swells with ideas. I can already imagine an outside play area for Chris, running around in the meadow, me sitting against a tree reading for him. It will be like a park in our own back yard. Being stuck in a high rise apartment all day is not the best place for a little boy to be.
Christian’s raspy voice makes me jump just as his large hand gently skims the curve of my rear from where I’m bent, leaning over the table, “Mmmhh, maybe I should have you look over all my plans,” he purrs, running the flat of his hand up my spine until he cups the back of my neck.
I smile to myself, holding my pose, enjoying the stirring against my backside, a dead give-away of his scarcely waning interest. “I’d be more than happy to look over any of your plans Mr Grey.”
He growls a low, slow groan, running a single lazy finger down my back. Starting at the nape of my neck, between my shoulder blades, down, down, down he goes, past the waistband of my skirt, sliding it along the valley between the globes of my ass that’s visible as a dip in the fabric of my skirt as it spans over the curves there – my thong offering zero resistance for his mischievous, plunging digit. A shudder fires through me, the tingles converging in my centre, the unexpected intrusion making me jump. Turning around I graze the straining front of his slacks, first with my hip then with my belly as I straighten myself against him. I revel in the gruff catch of his breath in his throat. I rest my hands on the sides of his chest, the heat of him making me warmer that the dreary day outside should allow.
Looking up, into those clear pools of mercury that always shimmers with so many depths I give him a coquettish grin, “It’s nice to see you too Mr Grey, I wasn’t expecting to be graced with your beautiful self so soon.” It’s been two hours since lunch; with his current workload I figured we’d be lucky to see him at dinner time.
At my words his lids grow heavy, weighted, before he rests his forehead against mine, “Tell me you love me.”
“I do. I love you more than life,” I declare on a breath, my hand going up to cup the granite angle of his jaw. My insides twist with unease, his mercurial shift oddly out of place in our day of saucy banter. A few seconds later his need for affirmation becomes clear as Collins escorts the piano teacher into the great room, breaking up our intimate exchange.
Seeing him I get a sinking feeling in the well of my belly. Why Christian thought this was a good idea I don’t know. He looks every inch the young rocker with his dirty-blond hair, a good few inches too long, and artfully styled in that sexy, mussed-up way, the fingers of which falls so that he has to peek through them. His eyes are soulful, green but heavily flecked with grey and brown, giving me the impression that they change colour along with his mood. He’s rocking a designer stubble, no doubt to make him look older than the very early twenties he appears to be in and if offsets a stunningly full mouth that I’m convinced already fuels many teenage girl’s fantasies. He’s tall and lean, built like a runner and wearing a faded t-shirt with jeans that’s seen better days.
“Mr Grey, Mrs Grey, Matthew Reeves,” he confirms with his introduction. “Mr Reeves is here for Chris’ piano lesson.”
Christian steps forward, rather aggressively, extending a hand to the young man while, with his other arm, he pins me to his side, “Christian Grey and this is my wife, Mrs Grey.” There’s a distinct emphasis on the word wife that only a deaf man could miss and of course, calling me Mrs Grey will be a constant reminder that I’m very much taken. That, coupled with the pointed look he gives the poor guy, it’s no wonder he can hardly mutter a coherent reply.
“Uhm.. Mr Grey,” he shakes Christian proffered hand, darting his eyes nervously between the two of us.
My blush, I’m sure, resembles the same red as wine. It can only end badly if my precious husband stops just short of peeing on me to complete his alpha-male show of possession in front of a guy that, though attractive, does nothing for me. I sense Christian’s interested gaze on my profile, measuring my reaction to Matthew. Sensitive to the situation I offer him a reserved smile and a little finger-wave, but I don’t dare touch him, “Hello Matthew, welcome to our home.”
He looks down, clearly feeling out of his depth. “Mrs Grey,” he greets me with a coy mumble. “It’s Matt, please.” A timid smile plays on his wide mouth before lifting his muddy-green eyes to Christian’s again. “I’m a fan,” he says shyly to him, pinching the front of his t-shirt on either side so the “There’s No Planet B” logo it bears is visible.
Christian grins, his cool demeanour defrosting a tad, “Good to know. She needs all the help she can get.” Turning to me he places a tender yet calculated kiss on my lips, lingering long enough to dispel any possible notion that Matt might still harbour about my availability. Smirking he looks at me, thoroughly pleased that he’s made his point, “Will you go get our son?”
I bite back a giggle bubbling up on a whim of incredulousness, all the while fighting the roll that’s been threatening my eyeballs for the last five minutes, “Sure,” I say, way too sweetly before turning on my heel to retrieve – not Chris – but our son. Why he doesn’t just tattoo taken onto my forehead is beyond me. My inner girls are glaring at me, hands on hips, the warning on their pouty lips echoing my own sentiments – it’s obvious I need to keep my distance from the young, hot piano teacher.
Thinking better of watching Christian settle the two of them with the baby grand I retreat to the library leaving the door open so I can at least hear my boy’s first lesson. Christian wishes them well and I assume, takes his leave to continue working, but a scant three minutes later he joins me in the library, laptop in hand. A small part of me can’t help thinking it’s to keep an eye on me.
With a carefully neutral tone and a bland expression to match, he pops a hip against my desk, “What do you think of Matt?”
Caution rings like a bell in my head when I sit back to give him my full attention. “He seems friendly enough. I’m mostly curious to see how he gets along with Chris.”
Christian nods his agreement, choosing to remain still so we can listen to the pair of them. I’m still feeling disconcerted with his choice of teacher, to me it seems like a disaster waiting to happen and I toy with the idea of bringing it up again when he breaks into my thoughts as though he reads them, “I thought it would be good for me. Here, where all the variables are controlled, I might learn to get a better handle on my jealousy.”
A clench curls around my heart, the ache it brings the same one I always feel when I’m faced with the dark shades of his wretched past, triggering a powerful nurturing instinct. Rising I slide my arms around his narrow hips, my features arranged with sincerity, “There’s nothing about you I want to change.”
Eagerly he reciprocates the cuddle, giving me a boyish smile, “I’m happy to hear that Mrs Grey because I think I’m failing miserably.”
With the tip of my finger I trace the full sculpt of his lips, watching the slow path I take, “You have nothing to be jealous of. I am so completely yours, utterly taken by you…”
“But?” he probes gently, hearing my unspoken word.
“I just don’t see the point of deliberately torturing yourself. We have enough to deal with.” To ease any possible sting I switch from fingertip to lips, moulding mine to his with a gentle press.
“Let’s give it some time,” he suggest, his low baritone perfectly pitched for seduction.
His whisper is followed by his head, leaning in to give me more than the soft peck I left him with. Tilting my head I let him take my mouth with a slow kiss that’s almost sleepy, his tongue brushing mine with idle, long laps. With our son yards away I get that, for now, this kiss doesn’t have the potential a private one has, but I luxuriate in it anyway, giving myself over to the drugging oblivion of getting lost in Christian’s warm mouth.
I feel dazed when he finally pulls away, his crooked smile lazy, “I have something to show you.” Motioning for me to sit he moves my PC away to replace it with his own.
Peering at the screen I see a magazine article featuring, amongst others, Julie Logan. By the heading: Women In Publishing: The Stars Of The Editorial Corporate Ladder, I can see it’s great press blurb for Grey Publishing, “That’s wonderful publicity. Which magazine is running the article?” Meeting his intent slate gaze that’s not left my profile since he showed me the spread, I wonder if I’m missing something. I feel the crawl of heat over my cheeks, an uncertain smile tugging at my lips. What’s with his intense stare? The colour in his eyes is almost liquid with wild emotions, seizing my breath from my lungs.
Before I can ask his face splits into a beam, like the rays of the sun, melting my sudden unease. Lowering his mouth to mine he feathers a kiss over my lips, holding me in place by my chin.
“What?” I blurt, almost giggling as I shake my head in a daze.
“It’s in the current issue of Elle Magazine but it’s not a planned plug for GP. Julie was approached by them, I gave her the okay. It was meant to be about her and what it meant for her career to be poached by Grey Publishing but I want you to read her favourite project quote.” With a jut of his chin he guides my look back to the screen. Speed reading through the start I get to the section he’s so keen for me to see:
“..It’s hard to pick just one. I’ve been involved in so many wonderful projects over the span of my career. I’ve been lucky enough to work with a slew of acclaimed authors, and young first-time writers that blew me away, but I’ve never been as excited as I am about the project I’m working on at the moment. Without giving too much away, I’m overseeing a brand new author whose literary interpretation of contemporary romance is going to change the face of it entirely. We’ve already managed to secure a whole series from her so let me say this – watch this space…”
I look to Christian as he’s bent over the back of my chair, his head next to mine, then back at the monitor, blinking. My heart’s race is a little tentative; unsure if a full celebratory sprint is in order yet. Could this mention be about me?
Christian sees the disbelieving question in my stunned expression, “She’s referring to you,” he breathes, tapping me on the tip of my nose with his finger.
“How do you know?” I ask stupidly.
Quirking a brow at me he grins, “Well now. Let me see… Maybe the fact that she has no other female authors on her roster right now; and that I just may have been on the money when I told you what I saw in your work.”
My heart takes off, with full permission from my gorgeous husband and his beatific, smug smile. “I didn’t know she felt that way,” I murmur, still blinking up at Christian with wondrous surprise before realisation tears through me like a claw.
I’ve been through a rebirth, a baptism of fire with Ana 2.0 as testimony as I fought to get Christian back, making a commitment to him, to myself, to our loved ones that I would do better. That, together with my leap of understanding directed by John’s skilled, silver tongue, I grasp that I can take what most people say to me at face value provided I vet the source. It’s a startlingly simple concept, clear, but one my jaded senses blurred with insecurity.
I gasp and laugh, suddenly giddy with insight, “I…, I…, That’s…, It’s…” a thousand words rush into my mouth. Like honey they sit on my tongue, thick and sweet but I can’t seem to pick one so I stand instead, staring at Christian with eyes so wide and bright I must look like a doe.
His answering laugh is as happy as it’s perplexed, “It’s wonderful?” he tries, offering me a fitting phrase.
I find myself nodding, my hands cupped over my mouth, my thoughts zapping through my mind, buzzing with currents of awareness as my brain forges new pathways, making fresh connections.
“I love you,” I finally manage to blurt, completely off topic though it’s still oddly apt. That part of my heart, until now guarded by fear suddenly springs free, open to accept the kind words of those who care enough to give them freely – like gifts.
Christian senses the shift in me. His eyes, sparkling like silver, is fused in fascination to mine, “I love you too,” his voice a raspy breath as he cups my head in both large hands, still smiling, still frowning.
With inadequate words I try to explain, “I…, I had a moment.”
He chuckles, amused and awed, “Yes, I can see. You look alive with it, glowing.”
His stare doesn’t waver. Drinking me in, one hand slips to bracket my neck, the pad of his thumb resting on the ecstatic jump of my pulse, the other stroking my hair. Captivated I watch what he feels for me change the shade of his eyes. The bright gleam of silver turns to pewter then shifts to the solid weight of lead, the dense metal cramming molecules the way his being is packed tight with love for me. Overjoyed I see it. I see it like I see the light of day.
After dinner and putting an overstimulated toddler to bed Christian leaves me with a kiss on the forehead and a command to not wait up before holing up in his office for late night stretch of work. I refuse to be concerned about it; refuse to second guess his honest words and fall asleep holding onto my newfound confidence like it’s a super power.
Thursday morning I wake up alone, the rumpled sheets on Christian’s side evidence that he at least had some rest. Wandering to the kitchen, I’m drawn by the sound of my little boy’s incessant, happy chatter.
With a hug from behind I kiss his hair where he sits on the edge of the counter, “Good morning buddy.” Over his head I take in the state of the kitchen, my eyes bugging with shock. It looks like Christian set off a bomb of bread and all its possible fillings.
“Mommy, daddy is making me lunch for day care!”
Rounding the counter corner I make for my awfully smug husband, doing my best to supress the gape my jaw wants to drop into, “Wow,” I exclaim over my shoulder, overwhelmed by the mess, “that’s great honey.” Pushing up on my toes I brush a distracted kiss along Christian’s cheek, “Good morning Mr Grey,” I murmur, my voice still rough with sleep. “I take it we’re going to work today?”
He hugs me to him with the crook of his arm to avoid smearing me with his coated fingers, “Yep,” he says, pride glowing in his eyes as they dart from the cutting board to me, willing me to follow.
I clock the Saran wrapped abomination in front of him, coming to the realisation that he’s pleased as punch with his culinary effort. Oh boy! Christian may be supremely skilled in many things but master of the kitchen he is not. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to give in to the snorting giggles threatening to bubble from my belly. The two sides of the sandwich cannot be called slices; rather they resemble very poorly formed bricks. Off to the side are his previous efforts, maybe two loaves worth, and it becomes clear why he chose these particular two. The bread knife, evidently used in the style of a hacksaw lies discarded to one side. Each skew brick of bread sports a loosely hanging top crust where his strong fingers poked through the spongy dough while he held it down to murder it. Through the plastic wrap I can see the filling, peanut butter spread as thick as mortar with gooey purple jelly squishing from the sides like worms. I don’t think Chris’ hands are big enough to hold the thing let alone take a bite from it. How do I tell him that his own day care centre doesn’t allow food to be wrapped in plastic – their small contribution to help our planet, and that it’s a strict nut free zone due to the growing number of allergic children?
“Wow,” I say again, stalling so I can think of a nice way out. By the look on his face he’s expecting high praise for his selfless, parental act. “Thank you. That’s very helpful of you. I should have said something before, there’s no way you could’ve known, but we aren’t allowed to take anything containing peanuts or tree nuts to day care. Too many kids are allergic these days so most schools and day care centres play it safe,” I explain, pressing my lips together in what I hope is a sincere, disappointed face.
“Aaahh!” Chris gasps, “Daddy made a lot of hard work for nofing!”
“Oh,” Christian says, surveying the messy counter like he’s seeing it for the first time. “That’s okay champ, I’ll make you something else.” Picking up a discarded slice of bread he eyes it dubiously, the crust hanging limply from the top.
I’m struck by how sweet he’s being, touched by it really, but I don’t think another unsupervised attempt is on the cards for him. Gail would faint if she sees this mess.
“Buddy, why don’t you go brush your teeth while I help daddy.” I lift him off the counter and he scrambles to the bathroom, informing us that he’ll be back soon.
Next I face my adorable husband, “I’m sorry about your sandwich. I love that you did that for him.” I run my knuckles along his rough jaw, loving the scrape of the perpetual shadow against my skin. “Thank you, you did so well. Do you want to stay and help me make another?”
Mercifully the doubt leaves his eyes just as a grin tugs at the corner of his sinful mouth, “If you can salvage anything from this fiasco I’d like to see it.”
It’s my turn to look smug, accepting his challenge with glee, “Watch and learn Mr Grey.” Knowing how much he hates to waste food I grab hold of the blender, placing it before him with a pile of his bread bricks, “Break these up into chucks then blitz them in the blender. It’s always good to have crumbs and they freeze very well.”
“Crumbs?” a quizzical eyebrow arcs with scepticism.
“You know, for coating things like fish or chicken.” Taking the thickest of his slices, I carefully run the breadknife through its sides to divide it into three normal slices.
I can tell by his rapt attention that he’s impressed. I explain every step as I go, just casually enough to let him think I’m only making conversation: butter first to lock in moisture, something dry against the inside of the slices to prevent the bread from getting soggy and the wet stuff in the middle. Once I place the second slice on top I trim the edges then slice it into four triangles, just like Chris likes it. Lastly I wrap it in waxed paper, showing him how to fold the middle and sides with sharp corners. I add sliced apple and craisins to his lunchbox, each item going into a separate little compartment along with a small water bottle.
“Voila!” Smiling I hold out the cartooned lunchbox for him to admire.
“Clever Mrs Grey,” he says, his voice hitching with a catch he plays off with a wink.
I bask in his obvious appreciation, gifting him with a full beam and delighted with myself that I can accept the compliment he so earnestly gives.
Apart from battling reporters on our way out of Escala and around Grey House my day is calm and wonderfully productive under Julie’s expert tutelage. I’m pleasantly surprised with some of Derek’s ideas, especially considering that romantic fiction is probably not his first choice in literature. I also get to know him on a slightly more personal level as the dark haired assistant shares some of his funnier, love-life woes with me. An hour after lunch Chris and I head home for his piano lesson.
We find Gail in the kitchen, and while she rustles up a snack for Chris, I regale her with Christian’s kitchen shenanigans, both of us going over all gooey over Christian’s efforts to be a normal dad.
When Matt arrives I make myself scarce, mindful of keeping myself from the trouble that sometimes seems to follow me regardless of how hard I try to avoid it. Instead I finish a few more chapters while I listen to Chris’ tentatively tapping at the ivory keys under Matt’s patient instruction.
The moment Christian steps into the foyer Chris rushes into his arms with chatty tales about his day. I get a meaning full look, the salacious promise it holds for later sending a reviving charge though my body when he drops a kiss on my lips. We share dinner before Christian takes Chris for his bath and I grab a shower myself.
While I wait for Christian I draw myself a cup of Chamomile tea and settle on the couch with music and a book. The random song the iPod picks is beautiful, Lights by Ellie Goulding, and fits my mood perfectly.
Even Christian’s gait drips of sin when he comes to join me, more prowling than walking he watches me with weighted lids and darkened eyes that say everything about his intentions. In a matter of seconds the space between us fills with a coiled charge, taut and volatile with sexual potential. I feel his stare on me like a velvet rake, my blood heating, rushing to the surface of my skin, pooling in places where I become needy for his touch.
“Two days,” he all but growls as he holds out a hand for me to take.
Obliging I let him pull me off the couch, right up against the hard press of his muscled chest. Without volition my hands skate up his front, slipping into the satiny strands of his hair. Blinking I fight to keep my breath even, the short, choppy rasps of my lungs only serving to heighten my senses as my puckering nipples get teased by the crush of our embrace. Instinctively I lift my head, giving him access to the soft flesh of my neck. Greedily he takes advantage, biting, licking, sucking a hot, snaking trail to my chest.
On my shoulder he plucks the thin strap of my ankle-length, silk slip off my shoulder with his teeth, “I like you in silk baby,” he confesses with a gravelly voice before swirling his wet tongue in the hollow of my collar bone.
Pleasured noises I can’t control spill from my throat when he cups my rear, grinding the apex of my thighs onto his tight quad. He answers me with a rumbling groan when he pulls away enough to feast his hungry gaze on my exposed breast, “I can’t wait to suck the milk from your swollen breasts.”
My lids flutter, tantalising shivers chase desire on a zip line to my sex, filling, swelling, whetting.
“Come,” he commands thickly, not that I have a choice when he lifts me into his arms to carry me to the haven of our bedroom.
With a kick he closes the door before laying me onto the bed with a gentleness that belies the animal need I see in his hooded stare. Straightening again he takes a moment, adjusting the lighting to a soft glow and selecting a playlist from the iPod dock. The sensual beat of David Usher’s Black, Black Heart pulses in time with the pound of my heart.
Slowly, with raw need plain in his eyes and the severe strain of his erection against the front of his pants he unrolls the sleeves of his crisp, white, button down shirt. His gaze never leaves mine, his lids half-mast with want as he lazily pops the buttons hiding his cut chest.
Watching him strip for me is a powerful visual, all-consuming in its teasing intensity. On the bed I squirm, wantonly rubbing my thighs together, my teeth raking my lip in an unsatisfying effort to emulate Christian’s drugging kisses. Near mindless with the absence of his hands on me my own start to roam, hungry to drag him along the same erotic path he’s chosen for me. I brush my hand across my chest, slipping the remaining strap off my shoulder to show him the twin tight peak of my other breast. I get a delicious reward when his graceful strip speeds up a notch, starting with his belt. Emboldened by his approving purr, I glide my hand over the curve of my breast, ducking it below the edge of my slip, down my belly where a rhythmic clench has already started. The silk moulds nicely to my hand, daringly revealing my bare body as I go. Like I’ve been struck by a jolt I arc off the bed in a perfect bow when my touch connects with the wet folds poking from between the puckered lips of my sex.
Christian is on me in a flash, his naked form hard and beautiful in the soft light as one hand secures my wrists above my head while the other wrenches the slip down my legs with an irritated tug. “Mine,” he growls gruffly before sealing his starved mouth over mine, kissing me with violent licks.
“So fucking beautiful,” he groans into my mouth while his free hand roughly paws at my breasts.
My breaths are almost shuddering, anticipation making it impossible to draw a proper one. I mewl at Christian when he ends our kiss, my body jonesing for more. His length, thick and hard like granite, burns into my hip, and is well out of my desperate reach.
“Please Christian,” I beg, my voice a throaty rasp, hardly recognisable.
I barely register his expression, pinched with lust like my own before he looks down my body, “Are you wet for me baby?”
“Yes, yes. So very wet,” I confirm, lifting my head to see the moisture copious enough to coat my thighs.
A primal sound escapes from his chest when he sinks a finger two-knuckles deep onto my tight sheath. I hear him hiss, plunging into my channel with a luscious rhythm before extracting the digit. Breathless I scowl at him, watching as repeats the strange thing he did the other night. He rubs his glistening finger against another then gently pulls them apart as if to test the texture of my cream.
What the… I wonder when his head swings back to meet my lust filled gaze, “You’re fertile,” he declares, his voice so rough with desire he grits out the words. A change overcomes him, hard and brutal, something almost akin to possession. His nostrils flare, his eyes flash, sparking with the overpowering instinct to mate as he flips me over like I’m a rag doll. Dragging up my hips he fills me with a swift and sharp pierce, the force tearing a guttural sound from us both. Grabbing a fistful of hair at my nape, he pulls me up to meet his demanding mouth, my head turning, my body arching into an S to accommodate his needs. He pounds himself into me, the restraint he usually shows diminished by an urge as primal as it’s desperate. His free hand finds the sodden petals of my sex, halting my breath as I rush to the edge of release in a scant second.
“Not yet baby,” he orders, slowing his touch to help me recover but I hover, mere inches away from a detonation of nuclear proportions.
Even the slap on his heavy sack against my swollen lips propel me closer, a tremble starting to ripple out form my core just as Christian comes with a mighty growl, his muscle roped body shuddering against mine. I can’t wait for the words that always send me into the ether of blinding pleasure, his jaw is still locked in an ecstatic grimace but his fingers take me there, thrumming me into an almighty explosion.
He collapses onto me, his sweat slicked body covering my limp from like a blanket as we fight to regain control of our ragged breaths. The current tune helps to bring us down from our erotic high as James Blunt croons gently about being beautiful.
Having regained a bit of composure Christian rains fluttering kisses all over the side of my face, “I’m sorry baby,” he apologises, his voice thick, caught with remorse, “I was rough with you. I got carried away, the thought of knowingly planting the life of our child in you…”I feel rather than see him shake his head, overwhelmed.
I swallow; my throat dry and my thoughts still thoroughly scattered, “Please don’t apologise,” I say past the cotton in my mouth. “That was scorching hot…”
He chuckles, relieved, “I’m glad you think so, I could feel how hard you came and now you look beautiful, thoroughly fucked Mrs Grey.”
“I feel it Mr Grey but I don’t think you did too badly yourself,” I tease, remembering his feral heat, his lusty expression.
He sobers, rubbing his cheek against mine, “That was the single most intense experience of my life. Thank you Anastasia.” His gruff tone is loaded with the weight of his sentiment, infinitely touching.
“You’re welcome.” I understand only too well the profound nature of what we just shared – maybe making another human life that’s indelibly bound to you, genetically and otherwise.
We lie like this for a couple more minutes before he rolls off me, and I roll onto my back. I can sense that Christian is still reeling, his behaviour even more possessive than usual as he scoots me closer to him, fitting my jellied body into his arm. When I feel strong enough to stand my parched mouth moves me to get a glass of water.
Instantly he tightens his hold around my shoulders, “Hey, where are you going?”
Lifting my head I find his gaze troubled, “I’m okay, I’m just thirsty. I need some water.”
Extracting his arm from under my head he gets up, “I’ll get it. Don’t go anywhere,” he gives me a pointed look, waiting for me to reply.
Where would I go? I wonder before I answer him, “Okay,” I agree easily enough but I can’t help being curious about his mood.
When he returns with the water he doesn’t even let me sit up. Instead he holds the glass for me while he supports my neck with a firm grip. Oh boy, I worry’ hopefully he’s not going to treat me like a fragile, glass doll when I get pregnant.
He hops back into bed, turning on his side to face me. He pulls me onto his outstretched arm so I lay on my back, his bicep my pillow. Drawing his legs up into the foetal position he forces me to bend my knees so my legs go over his before he pulls the covers up.
“Sweet dreams,” his quiet whisper tickles the shell of my ear. Turning away briefly he flicks the light switch, plunging us into the peaceful darkness.
On Friday morning, for a change, I wake up still wrapped in Christian’s arm but he’s awake, staring at me with a dopey smile on his stunning face.
Pushing my arms up I stretch, my achy muscles protesting slightly, “Morning Mr Grey.”
“I missed you,” he whispers, his gaze soft with love.
Turning towards him I stroke his cheek, “I’m right here,” I reassure him with a copy of his happy smile.
Just then Chris burst through the door, “Daddy, Why are you still sleeping? Where is my morning story?”
We laugh, content in our morning routine with our son. “Hey champ, go get your book then we’ll read it to mommy in bed.”
Chris’ eyes brighten, his smile wide before he scampers from the room at his usual hundred-miles-a-minute, active toddler pace while we take a minute to pull on some pj’s.
We have a story, we have breakfast then Chris shows Christian what he’s learnt on the piano so far. Feeling utterly lazy I decide to work from home, have a pyjama day before the excitement of the weekend and catching up with Kate and Elliot.
Christian seems pleased with my decision when he leaves a short while later for a meeting at his office. For a while I wander around the apartment, doing this and that but not really getting focussed enough to work. My mind keeps drifting, returning to Julie’s article in Elle Magazine. On a whim I head to Christian’s office, intent on sending the link to myself so I can remind myself of my surprise ah-ha moment. Idly I scroll through my husband’s internet search history, looking for the site. I frown to myself when the word baby pops up on site after site on the list. Randomly I pick one, clicking on the Fifteen Top Tips To Make A Baby link to see what he’s been researching so fervently.
Suddenly all sorts of phrases jump out at me as I slowly begin to puzzle together my husband’s unusual behaviour of late…
Lifting your behind to aid gravity after sex when you’re trying to conceive – Christian using his folded legs to get my knees up.
Missionary and doggie style, best positions for conception – Last night’s position certainly fell in this category.
Not getting up after intercourse for at least twenty minutes – This is why Christian was so anxious for me to stay in bed, flat on my back.
Having an orgasm after the male to help the uterus bring the sperm closer – Christian coming slightly ahead of me.
Men wearing boxer shorts, or even going commando to keep their sperm cool – I giggle, wondering if that’s why he didn’t take his vomit splattered pants off in front of Gail.
Having sex only every other day, and then only once – Here I was worried my husband had lost interest in me, but he used his cunning sexpertise I realise thinking about the night where he all but attacked me with his mouth, wringing two successive orgasms out of me so I would be too exhausted to question why we weren’t having actual sex. And then last night, staying in his office, working instead of slipping into bed with me.
Healthy eating tips for optimal conception, the importance of pre-natal vitamins and exercise during conception and pregnancy.
Cervical mucus, how to determine your fertile days – This is positively cringe worthy! Christian checking the consistency of my mucus between his fingers? I didn’t even know I had mucus down there!
Because Chris was conceived by accident I’ve never really given the process of conception much thought. I should have known Christian would prepare for baby-making like he does everything else: totally, wholly and completely!
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