Fifty Shades Freed

“Mine.”

“Yours,” he says, repeating the words we spoke in the playroom only yesterday. “Yes, I would. If it meant that much to you.”

Oh my.

“Does it mean that much to you?”

“Yes.” He is unequivocal.

“Okay.” I will do this for him. Give him the reassurance he still needs.

“I thought you’d already agreed to this.”

“Yes I have, but now we’ve discussed it further, I’m happier with my decision.”

“Oh,” he mutters, surprised. Then he smiles his beautiful, boyish yes-I-am-really-kinda-young smile, and he takes my breath away. Grabbing me by my waist, he swings me around. I squeal and start to giggle, and I don’t know if he’s just happy or relieved or… what?

“Mrs. Grey, do you know what this means to me?”

“I do now.”

He leans down and kisses me, his fingers moving into my hair, holding me in place.

“It means seven shades of Sunday,” he murmurs against my lips, and he runs his nose along mine.

“You think?” I lean back to gaze at him.

“Certain promises were made. An offer extended, a deal brokered,” he whispers, his eyes sparkling with wicked delight.

“Um…” I am still reeling, trying to follow his mood.

“You reneging on me?” he asks uncertainly, and a speculative look crosses his face. “I have an idea,” he adds.

Oh, what kinky fuckery is this?

“A really important matter to attend to,” he continues, suddenly all serious once more. “Yes, Mrs. Grey. A matter of the gravest importance.”

Hang on-he’s laughing at me.

“What?” I breathe.

“I need you to cut my hair. Apparently it’s overlong, and my wife doesn’t like it.”

“I can’t cut your hair!”

“Yes you can.” Christian grins and shakes his head so his overlong hair covers his eyes.

“Well, if Mrs. Jones has a pudding bowl.” I giggle.

He laughs. “Okay, good point well made. I’ll get Franco to do it.”

No! Franco works for her? Maybe I could give him a trim. After all, I cut Ray’s hair for years, and he never complained.

“Come.” I grab his hand. His eyes widen. I lead him all the way to our bathroom where I release him and grab the white wooden chair that stands in the corner. I place it in front of the sink. When I look at Christian, he’s gazing at me with ill-disguised amusement, thumbs tucked in the front belt loops of his pants but his eyes are smoking hot.

“Sit.” I gesture to the empty chair, trying to maintain the upper hand.

“Are you going to wash my hair?”

I nod. He arches one brow in surprise, and for a moment I think he’s going to back down. “Okay.” Slowly he begins to undo each button of his white shirt, starting with the one beneath his throat. Nimble, deft fingers move to each button in turn until his shirt hangs open.

Oh my… My inner goddess pauses in her celebratory jaunt around the arena.

Christian holds out a cuff with an “undo this now” gesture, and his mouth twitches in that challenging, sexy way he has.

Oh, cufflinks. I take his proffered wrist and remove the first one, a platinum disc with his initials engraved in a simple italic script-and then remove its matching twin. As I finish I glance at him, and his amused expression is gone, replaced by something hotter… much hotter. I reach up and push his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

“Ready?” I whisper.

“For whatever you want, Ana.”

My eyes stray from his eyes to his lips. Parted so that he can inhale more deeply. Sculptured, chiseled, whatever, it is a beautiful mouth and he knows exactly what to do with it. I find myself leaning up to kiss him.

“No,” he says and places both of his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t. If you do that, I’ll never get my hair cut.”

Oh!“I want this,” he continues. And his eyes are round and raw for some inexplicable reason. It’s disarming.

“Why?” I whisper.

He stares at me for a beat, and his eyes grow wider. “Because it’ll make me feel cherished.”

My heart practically lurches to a halt. Oh, Christian… my Fifty. And before I know it I’ve circled him in my arms, and I kiss his chest before nuzzling my cheek into his tickly chest hair.

“Ana. My Ana,” he whispers. He wraps his arms around me and we stand immobile, holding each other in our bathroom. Oh, how I love to be in his arms. Even if he is an overbearing, megalomaniac arse, he’s my overbearing megalomaniac arse in need of a lifetime dose of TLC. I lean back without releasing him.

“You really want me to do this?”

He nods and gives me his shy smile. I grin back at him and step out of his embrace.

“Then sit,” I repeat.

He dutifully does, sitting with his back to the sink. I take off my shoes and kick them over to where his shirt lies crumpled on the bathroom floor. From the shower I retrieve his Chanel shampoo. We bought it in France.

“Would sir like this?” I hold it up in both hands like I’m selling it on QVC. “Hand-delivered from the South of France. I like the smell of this… it smells of you,” I add in a whisper, slipping out of my television presenter mode.

“Please.” He grins.

I grab a small towel off the towel warmer. Mrs. Jones sure knows how to keep the towels super-soft.

“Lean forward,” I order and Christian complies. Draping the towel around his shoulders, I then turn on the taps and fill the sink with a mix of warm water.

“Lean back.” Oh, I like being in charge. Christian leans back, but he’s too tall. He shifts the seat forward then tilts back the entire chair until the top rests against the sink. Perfect distance. He tips back his head. Bold eyes gaze up at me, and I smile. Taking one of the drinking glasses we keep on the vanity, I dip it into the water and tip it over Christian’s head, soaking his hair. I repeat the process, leaning over him.

“You smell so good, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and closes his eyes.

As I methodically wet his hair, I freely gaze at him. Holy cow. Will I ever tire of this? Long dark lashes fan across his cheeks; his lips part a little, creating a small, dark diamond shape, and he inhales softly. Hmm… how I long to poke my tongue-

I splash water into his eyes. Shit! “Sorry!”

He grabs the corner of the towel and laughs as he wipes the water out of his eyes.

“Hey, I know I’m an arse, but don’t drown me.”

I lean down and kiss his forehead, giggling. “Don’t tempt me.”

He curls his hand behind my head and shifts so that he captures my lips with his. He kisses me briefly, making a low contented sound in his throat. The noise connects to the muscles deep in my belly. It’s a very seductive sound. He releases me and lies back obediently, gazing up at me with expectation. For a moment he looks vulnerable, like a child. It tugs at my heart.

I squirt some shampoo into my palm and massage it into his scalp, beginning at his temples and working over the top of his head and down the sides, circling my fingers rhythmically. He closes his eyes again and makes that low humming sound again.

“That feels good,” he says after a moment and relaxes beneath the firm touch of my fingers.

“Yes it does.” I kiss his forehead once more.