Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(19)

"I don't know!" I cry out. "Because I can! Because I love you! Please, Christian."

He groans loudly and thrusts deep, again and again, over and over, and I am lost, trying to absorb the pleasure. It's mind-blowing . . . body blowing . . . I long to straighten my legs, to control my imminent orgasm, but I can't . . . I'm helpless. I'm his, just his, to do with as he wills . . . Tears spring to my eyes. This is too intense. I can't stop him. I don't want to stop him . . . I want . . . I want . . . oh no, oh no . . . this is too . . .

"That's it," Christian growls. "Feel it, baby!"

I detonate around him, again and again, round and round, screaming loudly as my orgasm rips me apart, scorching through me like a wildfire, consuming everything. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face—my body left pulsing and shaking.

And I'm aware that Christian kneels, still inside me, pulling me upright onto his lap. He clutches my head with one hand and my back with another, and he comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with aftershocks.

It's draining, it's exhausting, it's hell . . . it's heaven. It's hedonism gone wild.

Christian tears off the blindfold and kisses me. He kisses my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. He kisses away the tears, clutching my face in between his hands.

"I love you, Mrs. Grey," he breathes. "Even though you make me so mad—I feel so alive with you." I don't have the energy to open either my eyes or my mouth to respond. Very gently, he lays me back on the bed and eases out of me.

I mouth some wordless protest. He climbs off the bed and undoes the handcuffs. When I'm free, he gently rubs my wrists and ankles, then lies down beside me again, pulling me into his arms. I stretch out my legs. Oh my, that feels good. I feel good. That was, without doubt, the most intense climax I have ever endured.

Hmm . . . a Christian Grey Fifty Shades punishment f*ck.

I really must misbehave more often.

A pressing need from my bladder wakes me. When I open my eyes, I'm disorientated. It's dark outside. Where am I? London? Paris? Oh—the boat. I feel her pitch and roll, and hear the quiet hum of the engines. We're on the move. How odd.

Christian is beside me, working on his laptop, casually dressed in a white linen shirt and chino trousers, his feet bare. His hair is still wet, and I can smell his body wash fresh from the shower and his Christian smell . . . Hmm.

"Hi," he murmurs, gazing down at me, his eyes warm.

"Hi." I smile, feeling suddenly shy. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Just an hour or so."

"We're moving?"

"I figured since we ate out last night and went to the ballet and the Casino that we'd dine on board tonight. A quiet night à deux."

I grin at him. "Where are we going?"

"Cannes."

"Okay." I stretch, feeling stiff. No amount of training with Claude could have prepared me for this afternoon.

I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it on. Why am I so shy? I feel Christian's eyes on me. When I glance at him, he returns to his laptop, his brow furrowed.

As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at the Casino, my robe falls open. I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked.

Holy f*ck! What has he done to me?

I gaze in horror at the red marks all over my breasts. Hickeys! I have hickeys! I am married to one of the most respected businessmen in the United States, and he's given me goddamn hickeys. How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush.