Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(86)

"Don't forget I'm deaf," he says, keeping his eyes closed, as he runs his hands down past my behind and starts to hitch up my skirt. I swat his arm. I'm enjoying playing hairdresser. He grins, big and boyish, like I've caught him doing something illicit that he's secretly proud of.

I reach for the glass again, but this time use the water from the neighboring sink to carefully rinse all the shampoo from his hair. I continue to lean over him, and he keeps his hands on my backside, thrumming his fingers back and forward, up and down . . . back and forth . . . hmm. I wiggle. He growls low in his throat.

"There. All rinsed."

"Good," he declares. His fingers tighten on my behind, and all at once he sits up, his soaked hair dripping all over him. He pulls me down onto his lap, his hands moving from my behind up to the nape of my neck, then to my chin, holding me in place. I gasp with surprise and his lips are on mine, his tongue hot and hard in my mouth. My fingers curl around his wet hair, and drops of water run down my arms; and as he deepens the kiss, his hair bathes my face. His hand moves from my chin down to the top button of my blouse.

"Enough of this primping. I want to f*ck you seven shades of Sunday, and we can do it in here or in the bedroom. You decide."

Christian's eyes blaze, hot and full of promise, his hair dripping water onto us both. My mouth goes dry.

"What's it to be, Anastasia?" he asks as he holds in his lap.

"You're wet," I respond.

He bends his head suddenly, running his dripping hair all down the front of my blouse. I squeal and try to wriggle off him. He tightens his grip around me.

"Oh, no you don't, baby," he murmurs. When he raises his head he's grinning salaciously at me, and I am Miss Wet Blouse 2011. My top is soaked and totally see-through. I'm wet . . . everywhere.

"Love the view," he murmurs and leans down to run his nose around and around one wet nipple. I squirm.

"Answer me, Ana. Here or the bedroom?"

"Here," I whisper frantically. To hell with the haircut—I'll do it later. He smiles slowly, his lips curling into a sensuous smile full of licentious promise.

"Good choice, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs against my lips. He releases my chin and his hand moves to my knee. It glides smoothly up my leg, lifting my skirt and skating over my skin, making me tingle. His lips trail soft kisses from the base of my ear along my jaw.

"Oh, what shall I do to you?" he whispers. His fingers halt at my stocking tops. "I like these," he says. He runs a finger underneath the top and skims it around to my inner thigh. I gasp and squirm once more in his lap.

He groans, low in his throat. "If I'm going to f*ck you seven shades of Sunday, I want you to keep still."

"Make me," I challenge, my voice soft and breathy.

Christian inhales sharply. He narrows his eyes and regards me with a hot, hooded expression.

"Oh, Mrs. Grey. You have only to ask." His hand moves from my stocking tops up to my panties. "Let's divest you of these." He tugs gently and I shift to help him. His breath hisses through his teeth as I do.

"Keep still," he grumbles.

"I'm helping," I pout, and he seizes my lower lip gently between his teeth.

"Still," he growls. He slides my panties down my legs and off. Tugging my skirt up so that it's bunched around my hips, he moves both hands to my waist and lifts me. He still has my panties in his hand.

"Sit. Astride me," he orders staring intently into my eyes. I shift, straddling him, and regard him provocatively. Bring it on, Fifty!