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“I want you,” she whimpers. “Please.”
I love it when she begs.
“And have me you will, Anastasia.” I slam into her and she screams, pulling against the cuffs.
I know she’s helpless.
And I take full advantage. Stilling. Feeling her around me, then circling my hips. She groans.
“Why do you defy me, Ana?”
“Christian, stop.”
It’s not the safe word. I circle my hips once more, deep, deep inside her. Then pull out and slam into her once more.
Don’t come! I will myself. “Tell me. Why?” I need to know.
She cries out, and her pleasure is my pleasure.
“Tell me,” I plead.
“Christian!”
“Ana, I need to know.” I thrust into her once more.
Tell me. Please.
“I don’t know!” she wails. “Because I can! Because I love you! Please, Christian.”
I groan loudly, and finally let myself love her, cocooning her head beneath my hands as I claim her. Pleasure her. And pleasure myself. She’s fighting against the cuffs. Gasping. Keening. Building beneath me.
She’s close. I feel it.
She cries out.
“That’s it,” I grind out between gritted teeth. “Feel it, baby!”
Ana screams as she comes. And comes. And comes. Shattering beneath me. Her head back. Her mouth open. Her face screwed up. I kneel up, taking her with me, pulling her into my lap. Riding out her climax. Holding her tightly, burying my head against her neck as I let go.
FUCK!
My orgasm is relentless.
When I’m finally spent, I rip off her blindfold and kiss my wife.
Her eyelids. Her nose. Her cheeks.
Thank you, Ana.
She’s crying. I kiss the tracks of her tears while I cup her face. “I love you, Mrs. Grey,” I whisper. “Even though you make me so mad—I feel so alive with you.”
She’s exhausted—listless in my arms—so I lay her down on the bed and ease out of her. “No,” she mumbles, feeling the loss of contact, I think.
Oh, baby.
You’re so done.
From the nightstand I grab the key and release her from each of the cuffs, rubbing her wrists and ankles as I do. I lay down beside her as she stretches out her legs, and wrap her in my arms. She sighs, a small, satisfied smile on her lips, and her breathing slows. She’s gone to sleep. I kiss her hair and cover us both.
Boy, that was intense for me, too.
Ana. What you do to me.
I wake fifteen minutes later from my doze. Ana is still in my arms, sleeping soundly. I kiss her forehead, untangle myself from her limbs, and get up to use the bathroom. She’s still out for the count when I return from my shower. I dress quickly, unlock the cabin door, and head up on deck to find the captain to discuss staying on board this evening.
She’s still asleep when I return. I put away the cuffs and grab my laptop to check through my e-mails, and also check on the brownfield sites in Detroit, just to make sure that I made the correct call with Ros earlier.
On deck and around the boat, the crew ready the Fair Lady. I hear the loud clanking of the anchor as it’s winched on board and the distant rumble of the engines as they’re fired up. We’re setting sail.
Dusk has been and gone and it’s dark outside when Ana stirs.
“Hi,” I murmur, eager to see her. I’ve missed you while you were sleeping.
“Hi.” Her voice is hesitant, and she pulls the cover up to her chin.
Has she gone all shy on me?
“How long have I been asleep?” she asks.
“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.”
She grins—relieved, I think, to be spending the evening on board. “Where are we going?”
“Cannes.”
“Okay.” She stretches out beside me, then gets up, grabs her robe, and slips it on.
Shit.
She has a few love-bites. It’s what I planned, but now, seeing the purple blotches on her skin, I’m not so sure it was a good idea.
This could go either way.
She ambles into the en suite bathroom and closes the door.
Hours. Minutes. Seconds. I don’t know how long she’s in there, but it takes forever. Eventually, she appears, but deliberately—it seems—she avoids eye contact with me as she darts into the closet.
This does not look good.
Maybe she’s just tired.
I wait. Again.
She’s in there for too long.
I can’t bear it. “Anastasia, are you okay?”
No answer.
Damn.
Suddenly, she bursts out of the closet, a blur of arms and hair, and hurls a hairbrush at me. Shit. I raise my arm in time to protect my head, and the hairbrush smacks me below my wrist. Ana storms out of the room and slams the cabin door.
Fuck.
She’s not impressed.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this mad. Not even over the vows, when she threatened to cancel the wedding.
Grey, what have you done?
My good humor evaporates, replaced by an anxiety I’ve not felt since before we got married. Warily, I get up, dump my laptop on the nightstand, and go in search of my furious wife.
