I watch Christian’s eyes widen with surprise before understanding splits his mouth with a beam, his gaze turning adoring, bright with love. “No. No more pain. Just you, baby. Larger than life itself. I’m overtaken by you,” he breathes, the veracity of his confession clear in his fierce stare.
“Just us,” I correct him. The tidal wave of feelings pouring through him right now is completely shared by me. Neither one of us is whole without the other, our lives a prime example of ultimate synergy, better in every way when we’re together.
Christian acknowledges my correction with a small, awed nod before taking my mouth with a slow, deep kiss, his lips communicating everything about the emotions he’s not always able to express. It’s a juncture to get lost in, to utterly give in to, and that’s precisely what I do, savoring his sweet, wordless declaration.
When he comes away from me he moves us, rolling onto his back, taking his weight off of me, and draping me over his form. Long minutes pass in silence, his strong arms surrounding me, holding me tight. It’s one of those moments where you become aware of your heart’s vulnerability where another person is concerned, when you realize that in this other half of yourself lies your ultimate weakness. If something were to happen to Christian, if for whatever reason, his love or his life would be taken from me, the devastation of my soul would be absolute.
By his grip I can tell that he’s battling through the same crush of sentiments, the bittersweet of love, and the inherent danger of being so helplessly exposed to what the unpredictability of life can bring. To me, it’s a clear view into his soul, the reason behind his controlling ways. The more variables he can control, the more he feels that he can manage the outcomes, even more so when the lives of his loved ones are involved.
He never had an ounce of that control as a small child, and the mother who was meant to bear the responsibility failed him miserably. It’s little wonder that he holds on to it now with the full force of his formidable will. It’s another insight into my husband’s psyche, which is turning out to be less and less complicated as I immerse myself into life with him.
Keen to offer him something to soothe the fear that’s been simmering in the thread of our lives almost since the first day we found each other again, I hold him closer. “Christian Grey, husband of mine, I love you with everything I have. I want you to know – not hope, not wish – but know, that I will never leave again.” My words are fervent, whispered, with my lips brushing against his neck as I try to speak past his blade-sharp rationality, and into the deepest part of his still-hurt soul.
He turns his head, pressing his lips to my forehead. “Thank you,” he breathes, “I can see it in you now.”
Though it does nothing to change the fact that there’s still a dark cloud of danger bound to bring stormy seas, I’m relieved that Christian, at the very least, has faith in my enduring love.
With that bit of peace in my mind, it’s free to drift back to the scene we just played out. I’m still coming to grips with how mind-blowingly erotic it was; the high of being in control, and of course the subsequent, neuron-combusting orgasm, albeit a very selfish one. Just thinking about how I lost control has me chuckling quietly.
“What are you so pleased about, Mrs. Grey?” Christian purrs through what I can hear is a grin.
Feeling the burn of my blush, I burrow my head deeper into his neck, but my smile stays frozen on my face. “Nothing,” I squeak shyly.
Come to think of it, the thing that’s even more amazing is that Christian manages to maintain his control throughout these sessions, and he makes it look easy. Is this what he goes through every time? Do I drive him that crazy with desire by simply letting him take charge? The answer is startlingly obvious, but clear only now that I’ve tasted the high of that control.
“Oh, baby,” he says in a voice that’s thick with tease. He moves his head so I have no choice but to give up my hidey hole behind his ear. He slips his hands into my hair, snaring my head, and cements our stares. “Are you thinking about how hard you came? How you gushed all over me?”
Feeling a little exposed with his gaze so intent and his smirk so obvious, I can only giggle and flush some more. “It was…” I blink, shaking my head as I try to find words, “…just… wow.”
He laughs. “Wow is right! I always love watching you come, baby, but that was phenomenal. Hot as fuck! Do you think the pregnancy hormones have something to do with it?”
I snort, as always flustered that he’s so intimately acquainted with the inner workings of the female body. “Uhm… I, uhm… no,” I finally announce, unable to fight my inevitable pinking cheeks.
“How do you know? Because, baby, I’m so down with that,” he tells me earnestly, his slate eyes sparkling with excitement at the thought. “I will be everything you need, Mrs. Grey, whatever, whenever, wherever,” he smirks lasciviously, wriggling his brows suggestively.
Playfully I punch him in the arm. “It’s not the hormones!” I counter, laughing at his eager anticipation. “I think it’s too early for that, besides, I know why it was so… hot.”
He quirks a brow, amused now. “Really, Mrs. Grey? Please, by all means, why don’t you share it with me?”
Of course my sexy, arrogant husband thinks that his unequaled sexual prowess pushed me over the brink, but I’m ready to add to the list of my Red Room turn-ons. Sitting up I straddle his waist, then bend forward to kiss his chest. Speaking between a trail of kisses, I elaborate. “Hhhmmm, besides your stunning body,” kiss, “and your unparalleled stamina,” kiss, “and the heated look in your eyes,” kiss, “the thing that really got to me was the power,” I admit, planting another kiss on the corner of his mouth.
Pulling back I watch him, curious to gauge his reaction. His expression is somewhere between surprise and apprehension, making me realize that my Dom isn’t about to play switch on a regular basis, if at all. Pleased that I can read his cues, I rush to offer him the reassurance he clearly needs. “Not to worry, Mr. Grey, I won’t be demanding my own playroom and calling you my pet,” I joke, “but I’m delighted to have experienced the other side of the coin.”
The look of relief that washes over his face is dramatic enough for me to worry that he didn’t enjoy the exchange of roles at all. I feel my concerned frown when I tilt my head to one side. “Was it that hard to give up a little control?”
“Baby,” he rasps, his grip tightening on the flare of my hips, “it wasn’t giving up the control of the scene that was so hard. But fuck, not touching you was hell!” he informs me, his eyes turning cloudy just at the thought.
“So, apart from the touching you had a good time, right?” I ask with a small pout, watching my nails trace lazy circles over the beautiful plane of his chest.
Slowly he nods, moving his head to catch my gaze. “Anastasia,” he says with a serious tone, “hands down, that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, and I will do almost an-y-thing to see it again.” The grin on his mouth is sinful, reveling in my coy flush before he looks away, grimacing, suddenly distracted as he reaches underneath his back. “What am I lying on?” he asks, producing the small bottle of massage oil from under his shoulder blade.
Giggling, my rosy cheeks turn wine-red as I take the bottle from him. It was discarded along with all my kinky Mistress plans when instinct possessed my body, and made me forget all but my name. “It’s massage oil,” I explain, eliciting an I can see that look from my amused husband.
“You never used it,” he observes, not very helpfully, and still enjoying my discomfort way too much.
“Uhm… well, no,” I titter, “I was interrupted by a wild man, remember?” Eyeing my ribbing husband, I give him my best mock-reproachful look.
With an animalistic sound he rolls, toppling me from my perch, and pins me beneath him in the scant time it takes me to draw a breath. “Yes,” he rasps, clamping my wrists above my head, “a wild man, hungry for you!” His free hand takes a rough tour of my breasts, kneading them while he keeps his stare trained on mine. That he’s ready for round two is also evident as his hard length presses into my belly.
In that lust-soaked voice of his he speaks, his baritone rumbling through me with delicious vibrations. “Tell me, Mrs. Grey, what else did you have up your Domme sleeve?” Leaning closer he runs his nose along mine, creating a fiercely intimate aura around us.
“Hhmmm,” I hum, ensnared as ever by my man taking charge. My lids are lazy, blinking slowly as I succumb to the rousing heat of his frank appreciation. “I was going to give you a massage,” I murmur, my concentration scattered, luxuriating in the honeyed flow of my blood, and the desire tightening the muscles at my core.
Leaning in, Christian hovers his mouth a hair breadth from mine, teasing me with the promise of a kiss for a moment before he bites my bottom lip, gently raking his teeth along it and tugging, his accompanying growl informing me that my answer is inadequate.
With a breath I gather my wits, quickly editing the plans I may yet get a chance to see through. There’s no point in spoiling the surprise. “I was going to sit over your abdomen, facing away from you and massage your … uhm… groin.”
Christian’s head dips when he presses a hot, wet kiss to that sensitive spot just below my ear, the stunning sensation chasing a shiver over my body. Breathlessly I turn my head to better his access. “And you were going to do this while I was restrained?”
Arching into the pleasure of his mouth I hiss a reply. “Yesss.”
“And now, Mrs. Grey?” he pauses, teasingly making me wait as he leisurely licks and nibbles his way around the bared curve of my shoulder. “Do you still feel like playing?”
My eyes fly open as the implication of his words hits me like a shot of a drug. He wants more Mistress-me? “Uhm… yes,” I breathe, maybe a little too quickly, “but only if you’re comfortable with it,” I amend, watching him in earnest, his unexpected request strange in light of the conversation we just had.
“It depends,” he counters, his voice low but tinged with an unmistakable strain of desire.
My inner goddess sits up, her sex-mussed hair in tangles, but her eyes bright with interest. Double oh my!
I sigh, relishing the contrast of his soft, wet tongue and the grate of his stubble as he laves the sensitive strip of skin with the full measure of his sexy skills. “On what?” I manage, almost too sidetracked to reply.
He chuckles through his kiss. “On whether you’re prepared to compromise.”
Vaguely I register that I’m in no state to be negotiating anything, but it feels too good for me to care. “Uh-huh,” I agree easily as he works his way down from my collarbone, and onto the pert swell of my breast. I gasp, my back arcing off the bed, when he latches onto the piked tip of my nipple, the sensation darting to my sex and down my legs.
“Hhmmm,” he hums against my shivering flesh, also seemingly forgetting about our conversation. His free hand travels down the length of my body, his touch savoring the feminine contours of my breast, my waist, and my hip before he slips it between my legs.
Shamelessly I spread them, giving him access, and bucking into his hand with a juddering gasp. With three fingers he rubs me with a circular motion, pressure-perfect with the heel of his hand pressing down on my mound. “Unf,” I groan as my hips start to move of their own accord.
With a touch of pain his teeth tug at my nipple, pulling the bud taut before letting it go. “I love how responsive you are, baby,” he rumbles huskily, “and I want to see you come again – hard – like you did earlier, but no restraints, okay?” He bargains quietly. “I’ll hold on to the posts in the headboard for as long as I can, but if I need to touch you, I will.” Though his voice is calm, measured, it also holds a pleading note.
I know that I’ve been expertly distracted and coerced, but I’ve no problem with this concession, and I’m very eager to play out the scene like I had planned. The research alone got me very excited. Yes, I want the high of his submission, and what girl would say no to the earth-shattering orgasm, but mostly I’m loving how this is strengthening the bonds of trust between us. “Okay,” I agree readily, hoping that I’ll make it through the whole scene this time, as I feel my contracting muscles heralding the edge of my release.
I squeal when Christian rolls us with another swift move so I can straddle his hips once more. “Do your worst, Mrs. Grey,” he says, his lids already hooded with the want that stands so obviously proud between his muscular thighs.
The orgasm that was winking at me a moment ago melts away, leaving the desire for it banked deep inside my belly. My husband’s knowing smirk confirms my suspicion that he used those magic fingers to get his way, but with the help of my inner goddess’s bravado, I’m hoping to show my husband a trick or two of my own.
With an arched brow and my best stern-Mistress look, I prompt him to make good on his promise to hold on to the spindles in the headboard. When he gives me a suitably contrite smile, complying, I become transfixed by the flex of his body as he raises his defined arms above his head, gripping the solid wood rods. The position displays to mouthwatering perfection the latissimus dorsi muscles that make up the gorgeous, tapered shape of his torso.
Whoa! He’s hot!
Biting my lip, I straighten my back, push out my breasts, and fluff my hair in a classic, provocative show to tease him right back. “Shall I put my outfit back on, Mr. Grey?” I offer, implying that he won’t last with me clad only in my thigh-highs.
Instantly I see the roping of the long muscles in his arms bunching as he fights to hold on to the bed. His eyes are dark, and glued to my chest. “No,” he croaks hoarsely, before licking his lips. “I’ll be fine,” he adds, sounding anything but.
Jeez! That has to be the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world – to see the man you love want you with every fiber of his being, literally jonesing to touch you, to take you.
“No touching,” I remind him as I push up from my knees and turn myself around. With my back to him he can’t see my secret smile at the grunt he issues in reply. I’m pleased that I didn’t disclose the details of the massage when he asked. I’m fairly sure that he wouldn’t have been quite so keen if he knew that it entailed a dash of torture along with the pleasure.
Flipping the cap open on the bottle of oil, I squirt a liberal amount into my hand and quickly warm it between my rubbing palms. Just as the instructions said, I start on his inner thighs, massaging with firm strokes, but taking care not to touch his rigid shaft.
“Hhmmm,” I hear him groan behind me, “nice ass, baby,” he tells me cheekily, and I’m guessing that he’s feeling pretty confident that he’ll be able to keep his hands to himself.
Not for long, my inner goddess chirps, her smile positively wicked.
Intent on making this as deliciously torturous as I can, I knead and rub all around his straining member, only ever touching the base. The oil keeps my motions smooth, my hands gliding easily, sensually over his skin. I can feel him beginning to squirm underneath me, his stomach muscles rippling in waves of anticipation. Every time I make a pass at the root I hear his breath hitch.
“Ana!” he growls, jolting the bed with another wrench to the posts, as the nature of my game becomes clear.
“Ssshhh,” I soothe, trying to stay focused on the steps. “I’ve got you,” I breathe, adding a sneaky, silent eventually.
I use the heel of my hand as I work the V-join of his legs and I’m rewarded by the short, sharp gusts of his breath. It’s deeply erotic, keeping him poised between cooling down and that place that will tip him over the edge. I can’t help but squirm myself, my weeping sex seeking friction with a grind into his abdomen.
“Jeez! Fuck!” he grits, hissing the words through his teeth. He tilts his hips, first one side, and then the other, in an effort to guide my hands to where he wants my touch. I’m entranced by the twitches and jerks of his penis, almost as though it has a life of its own. I watch it swell, hardening further, when I cup his sack, massaging it gently with the slick slide of my hands.
When I slip my hands underneath his scrotum, running my middle finger along his perineum, he almost bucks me off as his powerful frame comes away from the bed. “Enough,” he groans in a pained, hoarse whisper, the tone alone telling me that he means business.
If my control is frayed just doing that to him, from feeling him respond, then his restraint is a testament to the incredible command he wields over his body, but it’s clear that my man can take no more. With the torture part over, it’s time for the sweet reward, and just as he takes pleasure in watching me, I love to see him come apart at the seams from my ministrations.
The head of his erection is heavily flared, purple with the swell of lust-rushed blood. “I’ve got you,” I say again, but this time I fist his shaft, gliding my hand along it, whilst the other remains on his balls, still massaging gently.
“Thank fuck!” he spits, sucking in a huge breath as his whole body shudders with a wracking spasm. A second later my husband lets go of the headboard, having reached the end of his patience. I feel his rough grip on my hip, while he slips his free hand, palm up, underneath my behind, urgently pushing two fingers through my sodden lips. “Arrrgg,” he moans, overcome by ecstasy, “so fucking wet!”
Behind me I can hear his head fall back onto the leather of the bed. His pleasure is mine, and by the feel of the granite cast of his erection, that pleasure is intense. I push back onto Christian’s hand, making my own strangled sound as my latent orgasm quickly springs back to life, making my core clench.
Against my palm I can feel him pulse, his release coiling tightly, readying for the imminent, violent spill. “No!” he growls, stopping me mid-jerk. “Not like this. I want to see you, baby,” he pleads, but he doesn’t wait for my reply. In record time, and before I can protest, I’m on my back, my legs are spread, and my husband is kneeling between them.
If he was wild before, he’s near mindless now. His eyes are unfocused, his breaths are choppy, and his glorious body glistens with sweat. The sight of him so overtly aroused is mind-blowing, ratcheting up my own need tenfold. I reach for him and trail a hand down my belly in a desperate bid to help us over the finish line.
“It’s my turn, baby, and I think you need a reminder of who’s in charge,” he glowers, closing his hand over his straining erection and cupping my slickened sex. “Arms up,” he commands in a gravelly baritone, his half-lidded gaze locked to my startled one.
Without a second’s hesitation I obey, my hands grasping the same posts in the headboard as I squirm uncontrollably, eager for more friction.
“Keep still!” he admonishes raggedly, pushing two fingers into my clenching opening while his thumb presses on my clitoris.
I mewl loudly when he curls those fingers upward, quickly finding and stroking that magical bundle of nerves, sending my senses into overdrive. I watch my stunning husband, his wrist moving with a practiced ease as he works his shaft, keeping the pace slow enough to make himself last a little longer. The smell of fresh sweat misting our wanton bodies rises from our heated limbs, and I can hear our urgent pants, the sound like two sprinters competing. I can feel the tension build in my body, ramping up several notches at once. “Please,” I beg, using all my reserve to keep still.
“You are mine, Anastasia,” he insists, his clever fingers keeping me just at the cusp of an orgasm that feels as though it may rip me apart.
“Yes! Yours!” I all but sob, desperate for that tipping friction.
Satisfied, he heeds my plea, increasing the speed of his thrusting fingers. Hungrily my sex ripples against the intrusion as my legs begin to stiffen. His jerking hand matches the rhythm that’s getting me off, and by the grimace on his face I can see that we’re falling together.
My orgasm hits me with the force of a crash, ripping me out of myself, my body bowing off the bed as a massive pleasure spasm pulses through me. “Christian,” I cry, completely consumed by my release.
Through the haze of my ecstasy I hear Christian coming off the same cliff, the bliss tearing a primal groan from his throat. His head lashes back as he gets caught in the throes of his discharge. I watch his hand continue to pump his thick stem through his orgasm, his semen spurting from him in long arcs, the milky-white ribbons splattering onto my sex and belly.
It’s a first for us, and something that would have been strange to me were it not for the unadulterated enjoyment painted on my husband’s handsome face. His body shudders a final time, and his hand falls away from himself. His awed eyes meet mine, burning as his focus returns, before he drops his gaze to my belly.
“Mine,” he reiterates, staring at the viscous fluid he’s left on me.
I gasp as insight bleeds through my sex-fogged mind. He’s marked me, I realize, suddenly hyperaware of his hot seed spilled so deliberately on my body.
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