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He stares at me, saying nothing and the silence expands between us again like it did this afternoon. Holy f**king crap! He's not going to talk to me, I know.
"Don't overthink this Christian," I scold quietly, and the words echo, disturbing a memory from the recent past - his words to me about his stupid contract. I reach over, take the box from his lap, and open it. He watches me passively as if I'm a fascinating alien creature. Knowing that the camera is prepped by the overly helpful salesman in the store, and ready to go, I fish it out of the box and remove the lens cap. I point the camera at him so his beautiful anxious face fills the frame. I press the button and keep it pressed, and ten pictures of Christian's alarmed expression are captured digitally for posterity.
"I'll objectify you then," I murmur, pressing the shutter again. On the final still his lips twitch almost imperceptibly. I press again, and this time he smiles . . . a small smile, but a smile nevertheless. I hold down the button once more and see him physically relax in front of me and pout - a full-on, posed, ridiculous, "blue steel" pout, and it makes me giggle. Oh, thank heavens. Mr. Mercurial is back - and I've never been so pleased to see him.
"I thought it was my present," he mutters sulkily, but I think he's teasing.
"Well, it was supposed to be fun, but it's ended up as a symbol of women's oppression." I snap away, taking more pictures of him, and watch the amusement grow on his face in super close-up. Then his eyes darken, and his expression changes to predatory.
"You want to be oppressed?" he murmurs silkily.
"Not oppressed. No," I murmur back, snapping again.
"I could oppress you big time, Mrs. Grey," he threatens, his voice husky.
"I know you can, Mr. Grey. And you do, frequently."
He blinks at me as his face falls. Shit. I lower the camera and stare at him.
"What's wrong, Christian?" My voice oozes frustration. Tell me!
He says nothing. Gah! He's so infuriating. I lift the camera to my eye again.
"Tell me," I insist.
"Nothing," he says and abruptly disappears from the viewfinder. In one swift, smooth move, he reaches over, sweeps the camera box onto the cabin floor, and grabs me, pushing me down onto the bed. He sits astride me.
"Hey!" I exclaim and take more photographs of him, smiling down at me with dark intent. He grabs the camera by the lens, and the photographer becomes the subject as he points the Nikon at me and presses the shutter down.
"So, you want me to take pictures of you, Mrs. Grey?" he says, amused. All I can see of his face is his unruly hair and a broad grin on his sculptured mouth. "Well, for a start, I think you should be laughing," he says, and he tickles me ruthlessly under my ribs, making me squeal and giggle and squirm beneath him until I grasp his wrist in a vain attempt to make him stop. His grin widens, and he renews his efforts while snapping pictures.
"No! Stop!" I scream.
"Are you kidding?" he growls and puts the camera down beside us so that he can torture me with both hands.
"Christian!" I splutter and gasp my laughing protest. He has never, ever tickled me before. Fuck - stop! I thrash my head from side to side, trying to wiggle out from under him, giggling and pushing both of his hands away, but he's unrelenting - grinning down at me, enjoying my torment.
"Christian, stop!" I plead and he stops suddenly. Grabbing both of my hands, he holds them down on either side of my head while looming over me. I am panting and breathless with laughter. His breathing mirrors mine, and he gazes down at me with . . . what? My lungs stop functioning. Wonder? Love? Reverence? Holy cow. That look!
"You. Are. So. Beautiful," he breathes.
I stare up at him, at his dear, dear divine face; bathed in the intensity of his gaze, and it's as if he's seeing me for the first time. Leaning down, he closes his eyes and kisses me, enraptured. His response is a wake-up call to my libido . . . seeing him like this, undone, by me. Oh my. He releases my hands and curls his fingers around my head and into my hair, holding me gently in place, and my body rises and fills with my arousal, responding to his kiss. And suddenly the nature of his kiss alters, no longer sweet, reverential and admiring, but carnal, deep and devouring - his tongue invading my mouth, taking not giving, his kiss possessing a desperate needy edge. As desire courses through my blood, awakening every muscle and sinew in its wake, I feel a frisson of alarm.
Oh Fifty, what's wrong?
He inhales sharply and groans. "Oh, what you do to me," he murmurs, lost and raw. He moves suddenly, lying down on top of me, pressing me into the mattress - one hand cupping my chin, the other skimming over my body, my breast, my waist, my hip, and around my behind. He kisses me again, pushing his leg between mine, raising my knee, and grinding against me, his erection straining against our clothes and my sex. I gasp and moan against his lips, losing myself to his fervent passion. I dismiss the distant alarm bells in the back of my mind, knowing that he wants me, that he needs me, and that when it comes to communicating with me, this is his favorite form of self expression. I kiss him with renewed abandon, running my fingers through his hair, fisting my hands, holding tight. He tastes so good and smells of Christian, my Christian.
Abruptly, he stops, stands up, and pulls me off the bed so that I am standing in front of him, dazed. He undoes the button on my shorts and kneels quickly, yanking them and my panties down, and before I can breathe again, I am back on the bed beneath him and he's unbuttoning his fly. Holy cow, he's not taking off his clothes or my T-shirt. He holds my head and with no preamble whatsoever he thrusts himself inside me, making me cry out - more in surprise than anything else -
