Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(23)

I rise and head for the bathroom. Opening the door, I find Christian inside shaving, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist. He turns and beams, not fazed that I am interrupting him. I have discovered that Christian will never lock the door if he is the only person in the room—the reason why is sobering, and not one I want to dwell on.

"Good morning, Mrs. Grey," he says, radiating his good mood.

"Good morning yourself." I grin back as I watch him shave. I love watching him shave. He pulls up his chin and shaves beneath it, taking long deliberate strokes, and I find myself unconsciously mirroring his actions. Pulling my upper lip down just as he does, to shave his philtrum. He turns and smirks at me, one half of his face still covered in shaving soap.

"Enjoying the show?" he asks.

Oh, Christian, I could watch you for hours. "One of my all-time favorites," I murmur, and he leans down and kisses me quickly, smearing shaving soap on my face.

"Shall I do this to you again?" he whispers wickedly and holds up the razor.

I purse my lips at him. "No," I mutter, pretending to sulk. "I'll wax next time." I remember Christian's joy in London when he'd discovered that during his one meeting there, I'd shaved off my pubic hair out of curiosity. Of course I hadn't done it to Mr. Exacting's high standards . . .

"What the hell have you done?" Christian exclaims. He cannot keep his horrified amusement to himself. He sits up in bed in our suite at Browns Hotel near Picca-dilly, switches on the bedside light and gazes down at me, his mouth a startled O.

It must be midnight. I blush the color of the sheets in the playroom and try to pull down my satin nightdress so he can't see. He grabs my hand to stop me.

"Ana!"

"I—err . . . shaved."

"I can see that. Why?" He's grinning from ear to ear.

I cover my face with my hands. Why am I so embarrassed?

"Hey," he says softly and pulls my hand away. "Don't hide." He's biting his lip so that he won't laugh. "Tell me. Why?" His eyes dance with merriment. Why does he find this so funny?

"Stop laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing at you. I'm sorry. I'm . . . delighted," he says.

"Oh . . ."

"Tell me. Why?"

I take a deep breath. "This morning, after you left for your meeting, I took a shower and was remembering all your rules."

He blinks. The humor in his expression has vanished, and he regards me cautiously.

"And I was ticking them off one by one and how I felt about them, and I remembered the beauty salon, and I thought . . . this is what you'd like. I wasn't brave enough to get a wax." My voice disappears into a whisper.

He stares at me, his eyes glowing—this time not with mirth at my folly, but with love.

"Oh, Ana," he breathes. He leans down and kisses me tenderly. "You beguile me," he whispers against my lips and kisses me once more, clasping my face in both his hands.

After a breathless moment, he pulls back and leans up on one elbow. The humor is back.

"I think I should do a thorough inspection of your handiwork, Mrs. Grey."

"What? No." He has to be kidding! I cover myself, protecting my recently de-forested area.

"Oh, no you don't, Anastasia." He grasps my hands and pries them away, moving nimbly so he's between my legs and pinning my hands to my sides. He gives me a scorching look that could light dry tinder, but before I combust, he bends and skims his lips down my naked belly directly to my sex. I squirm beneath him, reluctantly resigned to my fate.