Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed Page 153

  I gaze at him, drinking him in as he drives. He looks casual, cool … sexy with his tousled hair, Ray-Bans, pinstripe jacket, white linen shirt, and jeans.

  He glances at me and clasps my leg above the knee, his fingers stroking gently. “I’m glad you didn’t change.”

  I did slip on a denim jacket and change to flats, but I’m still wearing the short skirt. His hand lingers above my knee. I put my hand on his.

  “Are you going to continue to tease me?”

  “Maybe.” Christian smiles.

  “Why?”

  “Because I can.” He grins, boyish as ever.

  “Two can play that game,” I whisper.

  His fingers move tantalizingly up my thigh. “Bring it on, Mrs. Grey.” His grin broadens.

  I pick up his hand and put it back on his knee. “Well, you can keep your hands to yourself.”

  He smirks. “As you wish, Mrs. Grey.”

  Damn it. This game is going to backfire on me.

  CHRISTIAN TURNS INTO THE driveway of our new house. He stops at the keypad and punches in a number, and the ornate white metal gates swing open. We roar up the tree-lined lane under leaves that are a blend of green, yellow, and burnished copper. The tall grass in the meadow is turning gold, but there are still a few yellow wildflowers dotted among the grass. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, and the salty tang of the Sound is mixed with the scent of the coming fall in the air. This is such a tranquil and beautiful place. And to think we’re going to make our home here.

  The lane curves around, and our house comes into view. Several large trucks, sides emblazoned with GREY CONSTRUCTION, are parked out front. The house is decked in scaffolding, and several workmen in hard hats are busy on the roof.

  Christian pulls up outside the portico and switches off the engine. I can sense his excitement.

  “Let’s go find Elliot.”

  “Is he here?”

  “I hope so. I’m paying him enough.”

  I snort, and Christian grins as we get out of the car.

  “Yo, bro!” Elliot shouts from somewhere. We both glance around.

  “Up here!” He’s up on the roof, waving down at us and beaming from ear to ear. “About time we saw you here. Stay where you are. I’ll be right down.”

  I glance at Christian, who shrugs. A few minutes later, Elliot appears at the front door.

  “Hey, bro.” He shakes Christian’s hand. “And how are you, little lady?” He picks me up and swings me around.

  “Better, thanks,” I giggle breathlessly, my ribs protesting. Christian frowns at him, but Elliot ignores him.

  “Let’s head over to the site office. You’ll need one of these.” He taps his hard hat.

  THE HOUSE IS A shell. The floors are covered in a hard fibrous material that looks like burlap; some of the original walls have disappeared and new ones have taken their place. Elliot leads us through, explaining what’s happening, while men—and a few women—work everywhere around us. I’m relieved to see the stone staircase with its intricate iron balustrade is still in place and draped completely in white dust sheets.

  In the main living area, the back wall has been removed to make way for Gia’s glass wall, and work is beginning on the terrace. In spite of the mess, the view is still stunning. The new work is sympathetic and in keeping with the old-world charm of the house … Gia’s done well. Elliot patiently explains the processes and gives us a rough time frame for each. He’s hoping we can be in by Christmas, although Christian thinks this is optimistic.

  Holy cow—Christmas overlooking the Sound. I can’t wait. A bubble of excitement blooms inside me. I have visions of us trimming an enormous tree while a copper-haired little boy looks on in wonder.

  Elliot finishes our tour in the kitchen. “I’ll leave you two to roam. Be careful. This is a building site.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Elliot,” Christian murmurs, taking my hand. “Happy?” he asks once Elliot has left us alone. I am gazing at this empty shell of a room and wondering where I will hang the pepper pictures that we bought in France.

  “Very. I love it. You?”

  “Ditto.” He grins.

  “Good. I was thinking of the pepper pictures in here.”

  Christian nods. “I want to put up José’s portraits of you in this house. You need to decide where they should go.”

  I blush. “Somewhere I won’t see them often.”

  “Don’t be like that.” He scolds me, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip. “They’re my favorite pictures. I love the one in my office.”

  “I have no idea why,” I murmur and kiss the pad of his thumb.

  “Worse things to do than look at your beautiful smiling face all day. Hungry?” he asks.

  “Hungry for what?” I whisper.

  He smirks, his eyes darkening. Hope and desire unfurl in my veins.

  “Food, Mrs. Grey.” And he plants a swift kiss on my lips.

  I give him my faux pout and sigh. “Yes. These days I’m always hungry.”

  “The three of us can have a picnic.”

  “Three of us? Is someone joining us?”

  Christian cocks his head to one side. “In about seven or eight months.”

  Oh … Blip. I grin goofily at him.

  “I thought you might like to eat alfresco.”

  “In the meadow?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Sure.” I grin.

  “This will be a great place to raise a family,” he murmurs, gazing down at me.

  Family! More than one? Dare I mention this now?

  He spreads his fingers over my belly. Holy shit. I hold my breath and place my hand over his.

  “It’s hard to believe,” he whispers, and for the first time I hear wonder in his voice.

  “I know. Oh—here, I have evidence. A picture.”

  “You do? Baby’s first smile?”

  I pull out the ultrasound of Blip from my wallet.

  “See?”

  Christian examines it closely, staring for several seconds. “Oh … Blip. Yeah, I see.” He sounds distracted, awed.

  “Your child,” I whisper.

  “Our child.” He counters.

  “First of many.”

  “Many?” Christian’s eyes widen with alarm.

  “At least two.”

  “Two?” He tests the word. “Can we just take this one child at a time?”

  I grin. “Sure.”

  We head back outside into the warm fall afternoon.

  “When are you going to tell your folks?” Christian asks.

  “Soon,” I murmur. “I thought about telling Ray this morning, but Mr. Rodriguez was there.” I shrug.

  Christian nods and opens the hood of the R8. Inside are a wicker picnic basket and the tartan blanket we bought in London.

  “Come,” he says, taking the basket and blanket in one hand and holding the other out to me. Together we walk into the meadow.

  “SURE, ROS, GO FOR it.” Christian hangs up. That’s the third call he’s taken during our picnic. He’s kicked off his shoes and socks and is watching me, arms on his raised knees. His jacket lies discarded on top of mine, as we’re warm in the sun. I lie beside him, stretched out on the picnic blanket, both of us surrounded by tall golden and green grass far from the noise at the house and hidden from the prying eyes of the construction workers. We are in our own bucolic haven. He feeds me another strawberry, and I chew and suck it gratefully, gazing at his darkening eyes.

  “Tasty?” he whispers.

  “Very.”

  “Had enough?”

  “Of strawberries, yes.”

  His eyes glitter dangerously, and he grins. “Mrs. Jones packs a mighty fine picnic,” he says.

  “That she does,” I whisper.

  Shifting suddenly, he lies down so his head is resting on my belly. He closes his eyes and seems content. I tangle my fingers in his hair.

  He sighs heavily, then scowls and checks the number on the screen of his buzzing Black
Berry. He rolls his eyes and takes the call.

  “Welch,” he snaps. He tenses, listens for a second or two, then suddenly bolts upright.

  “Twenty-four/seven … Thanks,” he says through gritted teeth and hangs up. The change in his mood is instant. Gone is my teasing, flirtatious husband, replaced by a cold, calculating master of the universe. He narrows his eyes for a moment, then gives me a cool, chilling smile. A shiver runs down my back. He picks up his BlackBerry and presses a speed dial.

  “Ros, how much stock do we own in Lincoln Timber?” He kneels up.

  My scalp prickles. Oh no, what’s this?

  “So, consolidate the shares into GEH, then fire the board … except the CEO … I don’t give a fuck … I hear you, just do it … thank you … keep me informed.” He hangs up and gazes at me impassively for a moment.

  Holy shit! Christian is mad.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Linc,” he murmurs.

  “Linc? Elena’s ex?”

  “The same. He’s the one who posted Hyde’s bail.”

  I gape at Christian in shock. His mouth is pressed in a hard line.

  “Well—he’ll look like an idiot,” I murmur, dismayed. “I mean, Hyde committed another crime while out on bail.”

  Christian’s eyes narrow and he smirks. “Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey.”

  “What did you just do?” I kneel, facing him.

  “I fucked him over.”

  Oh! “Um … that seems a little impulsive,” I murmur.

  “I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  His eyes narrow and his lips thin. “I’ve had this plan in my back pocket for a while,” he says dryly.

  I frown. “Oh?”

  He pauses, seeming to weigh something in his mind, then takes a deep breath.

  “Several years back, when I was twenty-one, Linc beat his wife to a pulp. He broke her jaw, her left arm, and four of her ribs because she was fucking me.” His eyes harden. “And now I learn he posted bail for a man who tried to kill me, kidnapped my sister, and fractured my wife’s skull. I’ve had enough. I think it’s payback time.”

  I blanch. Holy shit. “Fair point well made, Mr. Grey,” I whisper.

  “Ana, this is what I do. I’m not usually motivated by revenge, but I cannot let him get away with this. What he did to Elena … well, she should have pressed charges, but she didn’t. That was her prerogative.

  “But he’s seriously crossed the line with Hyde. Linc’s made this personal by going after my family. I’m going to crush him, break up his company right under his nose, and sell the pieces to the highest bidder. I am going to bankrupt him.”

  Oh …

  “Besides.” Christian smirks. “We’ll make good money out of the deal.”

  I stare into blazing gray eyes that soften suddenly.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he whispers.

  “You didn’t,” I lie.

  He arches a brow, amused.

  “You just took me by surprise,” I whisper, then swallow. Christian is really quite scary sometimes.

  He brushes his lips against mine. “I will do anything to keep you safe. Keep my family safe. Keep this little one safe,” he murmurs and splays his hand out over my belly in a gentle caress.

  Oh … I stop breathing. Christian gazes down at me, his eyes darkening. His lips part as he inhales and, in a deliberate move, the tips of his fingers brush against my sex.

  Holy shit. Desire detonates like an incendiary device igniting my bloodstream. I grasp his head, my fingers weaving into his hair, and tug hard so my lips find his. He gasps, surprised by my assault, giving my tongue free passage into his mouth. He groans and kisses me back, his lips and tongue hungry for mine, and for a moment we consume each other, lost in tongues and lips and breaths and sweet, sweet sensation as we rediscover each other.

  Oh, I want this man. It’s been too long. I want him here, now, in the open air, in our meadow.

  “Ana,” he breathes, entranced, and his hand skims over my backside to the hem of my skirt. I scramble to unbutton his shirt, all fingers and thumbs.

  “Whoa, Ana—stop.” He pulls back, his jaw clenched, and grabs my hands.

  “No.” My teeth clamp gently around his lower lip and I tug. “No,” I murmur again, gazing at him. I release him. “I want you.”

  He inhales sharply. He’s torn, his indecision writ large in his luminous gray eyes.

  “Please, I need you.” Every pore of my being is begging. This is what we do.

  He groans in defeat as his mouth finds mine, molding my lips to his. One hand cradles my head while the other skims down my body to my waist, and he eases me onto my back and stretches out beside me, never breaking contact with my mouth.

  He pulls back, hovering over me and gazing down. “You are so beautiful, Mrs. Grey.”

  I caress his lovely face. “So are you, Mr. Grey. Inside and out.”

  He frowns, and my fingers trace the furrow in his brow.

  “Don’t frown. You are to me, even when you’re angry,” I whisper.

  He groans once more, and his mouth captures mine, pushing me into the soft grass beneath the blanket.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispers, and his teeth graze my jaw. My heart soars.

  “I’ve missed you, too. Oh, Christian.” I fist one hand in his hair and clutch his shoulder with the other.

  His lips move to my throat, leaving tender kisses in their wake, and his fingers follow, deftly undoing each button of my blouse. Tugging my blouse apart, he kisses the soft swell of my breasts. He murmurs appreciatively, low in his throat, and the sound echoes through my body to my deep dark places.

  “Your body’s changing,” he whispers. His thumb teases my nipple until it’s erect and straining against my bra. “I like,” he adds. I watch his tongue taste and trace the line between my bra and my breast, tantalizing and teasing me. Taking my bra cup delicately between his teeth, he pulls it down, freeing my breast and nuzzling my nipple with his nose in the process. It puckers at his touch and from the chill of the gentle fall breeze. His lips close around me, and he sucks long and hard.

  “Ah!” I groan, inhaling sharply, then wincing as pain radiates outward from my bruised ribs.

  “Ana!” Christian exclaims and glares down at me, concern etched on his face. “This is what I’m talking about,” he admonishes. “Your lack of self-preservation. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “No … don’t stop,” I whimper. He stares at me, warring with himself. “Please.”

  “Here.” Abruptly he moves, and I’m sitting astride him, my short skirt now bunched up around my hips. His hands glide over the tops of my thigh-highs.

  “There. That’s better, and I can enjoy the view.” He reaches up and hooks his long index finger into my other bra cup, freeing that breast, too. He grasps both of my breasts, and I throw my head back, pushing them into his welcome, expert hands. He teases me, tugging and rolling my nipples until I cry out, then sits up so we’re nose to nose, his greedy gray eyes on mine. He kisses me, his fingers still teasing me. I scramble for his shirt, undoing the first two buttons, and it’s like sensory overload—I want to be kissing him everywhere, undressing him, making love with him all at once.

  “Hey—” He gently grasps my head and pulls back, eyes dark and full of sensual promise. “There’s no rush. Take it slow. I want to savor you.”

  “Christian, it’s been so long.” I’m panting.

  “Slow,” he whispers, and it’s a command. He kisses the right corner of my mouth. “Slow.” He kisses the left corner. “Slow, baby.” He tugs my bottom lip with his teeth. “Let’s take this slow.” He unfurls his fingers in my hair, keeping me in place as his tongue invades my mouth, seeking, tasting, calming … inflaming. Oh, my man can kiss.

  I caress his face, my fingers moving tentatively down to his chin and then to his throat, and I start again on the buttons of his shirt, taking my time, as he co
ntinues to kiss me. Slowly I pull his shirt apart, my fingers trailing over his clavicles, feeling their way across his warm, silky skin. I push him gently back until he’s lying beneath me. Sitting up, I gaze down at him, aware that I’m squirming against his growing erection. Hmm. I trace my fingers across his lips to his jaw, then down his neck and over his Adam’s apple to that little dip at the base of his throat. My beautiful man. I lean down, and my kisses follow the tips of my fingers. My teeth graze his jaw and kiss his throat. He closes his eyes.

  “Ah.” He groans and tilts his head back, giving me easier access to the base of his throat, his mouth slack and open in silent veneration. Christian lost and aroused is just so exhilarating … and so arousing to me.

  My tongue trails down his sternum, twirling through his chest hair. Hmm. He tastes so good. He smells so good. Intoxicating. I kiss first one, then two of his small round scars, and he grasps my hips, so my fingers halt on his chest as I gaze down at him. His breathing is harsh.

  “You want this? Here?” he breathes, his eyes hooded with a heady combination of love and lust.

  “Yes,” I murmur, and my lips and tongue graze across his chest to his nipple. I pull and roll it gently with my teeth.

  “Oh, Ana,” he whispers and, circling my waist, he lifts me, tugging at his button and fly so he springs free. He sits me down again, and I push against him, delighting in the feel of him hot and hard beneath me. He runs his hands up my thighs, pausing where my thigh-highs stop and my flesh begins, his hands running small, teasing circles at the tops of my thighs so that the tips of his thumbs touch me … touch me where I want to be touched. I gasp.

  “I hope you’re not attached to your underwear,” he murmurs, his eyes wild and bright. His fingers trace the elastic along my belly and then slide inside, teasing me, before grabbing my panties tightly and pushing his thumbs through the delicate material. My panties disintegrate. His hands splay out on my thighs, and his thumbs brush against my sex once more. He flexes his hips so his erection rubs against me.

  “I can feel how wet you are.” His voice is tinged with carnal appreciation, and he suddenly sits up, his arm around my waist again, so we’re nose to nose. He rubs his nose against mine.

  “We’re going to take this slow, Mrs. Grey. I want to feel all of you.” He lifts me, and with exquisite, frustrating, slow ease, lowers me onto him. I feel each blessed inch of him fill me.