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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 shampoo: Chanel. 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 down at him. 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."
Reaching up, 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.
"I like it when you scratch my scalp with your fingernails." His eyes are still closed but his expression one of blissful contentment - no trace of his vulnerability remains. Jeez, how much his expression has changed, and I take comfort knowing it's me that's done this.
"Head up," I command and he obeys. Hmmm - a girl could get used to this. I rub the suds into the back of his hair, scraping my nails into his scalp.
"Back."
He leans back, and I rinse off the lather, using the glass. This time I manage not to splash him.
"Once more?" I ask.
"Please." His eyes flutter open and his serene gaze finds mine. I grin down at him.
"Coming right up, Mr. Grey."
I turn to the sink that Christian normally uses and fill it with warm water.
"For rinsing," I say when his look turns quizzical. I repeat the process with the shampoo, listening to his even deep breaths. Once he's all lathered up, I take another moment to appreciate the fine face of my husband. I cannot resist him. Tenderly, I caress his cheek, and he opens his eyes, watching me almost sleepily through his long lashes. Leaning forward I plant a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. He smiles, closes his eyes, and breathes out a sigh of utter contentment. Jeez. Who would have thought after our argument this afternoon he could be this relaxed? Without sex? I lean right over him.
"Hmm," he murmurs appreciatively as my br**sts brush his face. Resisting the urge to shimmy, I pull the plug so the sudsy water drains away. His hands move to my hips and around to my behind.
"No fondling the help," I murmur, feigning disapproval.
"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."
