Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(168)

"Mind-blowing?" he asks.

What?

"Usually, yes."

"What was mind-blowing?" he asks, his eyes now shimmering with amused sensual curiosity. And I know he's trying to distract me.

Crap! I do not want to discuss this in SIP's meeting room. My subconscious examines her finely manicured nails with disdain. Shouldn't have brought the subject up, then.

"You know." I blush, irritated with both him and myself.

"I can guess," he whispers.

Holy crap. I'm trying to castigate him and he's confounding me. "Christian, I—"

"I like to please you." He delicately traces his thumb over my bottom lip.

"You do," I acknowledge, my voice a whisper.

"I know," he says softly. He leans forward and whispers in my ear, "It's the one thing I do know." Oh, he smells good. He leans back and gazes down at me, his lips curled in an arrogant, I-so-own-you smile.

Pursing my lips, I strive to appear unaffected by his touch. He is so artful at diverting me from anything painful, or anything he doesn't want to address. And you let him, my subconscious pipes up unhelpfully, gazing over her copy of Jane Eyre.

"What was mind-blowing, Anastasia?" he prompts, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"You want the list?" I ask.

"There's a list?" He's pleased.

Oh, this man is exhausting. "Well, the handcuffs," I mumble, my mind catapulted back to our honeymoon.

He furrows his brow and grasps my hand, tracing the pulse point on my wrist with his thumb.

"I don't want to mark you."

Oh . . .

His lips curl in a slow carnal smile. "Come home." His tone is seductive.

"I have work to do."

"Home," he says, more insistent.

We gaze at each other, molten gray into bewildered blue, testing each other, testing our boundaries and our wills. I search his eyes for some understanding, trying to fathom how this man can go from raging control freak to seductive lover in one breath. His eyes grow larger and darker, his intention clear. Softly, he caresses my cheek.

"We could stay here." His is voice low and husky.

Oh no. My inner goddess gazes longingly down at the wooden table. No. No.

No. Not in the office. "Christian, I don't want to have sex here. Your mistress has just been in this room."

"She was never my mistress," he growls, his mouth flattening into a grim line.

"That's just semantics, Christian."

He frowns, his expression puzzled. The seductive lover has gone. "Don't overthink this, Ana. She's history," he says dismissively.

I sigh . . . maybe he's right. I just want him to admit to himself that he cares for her. A chill grips my heart. Oh no. This is why it's important to me. Suppose I do something unforgivable. Suppose I don't conform. Will I be history, too? If he can turn like this, when he was so concerned and upset when Leila was ill . . .

could he turn against me? I gasp, recalling the fragments of a dream: gilt mirrors and the sound of his heels clicking on the marbled floor as he leaves me standing alone in opulent splendor.

"No . . ." The words are out of my mouth in whispered horror before I can stop them.

"Yes," he says, and grasping my chin, he leans down and plants a tender kiss on my lips.

"Oh, Christian, you scare me sometimes." I grasp his head in my hands, twist my fingers into his hair, and pull his lips to mine. He stills for a moment as his arms fold around me.