"So it's a form of therapy?"
"I've not thought of it like that, but yes, I suppose it is."
This I can understand. This will help.
"But, here's the thing - one moment you say don't defy me, the next you say you like to be challenged. That's a very fine line to tread successfully."
He gazes at me for a moment, then frowns.
"I can see that. But you seem to be doing fine so far."
"But at what personal costI'm tied up in knots here."
"I like you tied up in knots," he smirks.
"That's not what I meant!" I splash him in exasperation.
He gazes down at me, arching an eyebrow.
"Did you just splash me?"
"Yes." Holy shit... that look.
"Oh, Miss Steele." He grabs me and pulls me onto his lap, sloshing water all over the floor. "I think we've done enough talking for now."
He clasps his hands on either side of my head and kisses me. Deeply. Possessing my mouth. Angling my head... controlling me. I moan against his lips. This is what he likes. This is what he's so good at. Everything ignites inside me and my fingers are in his hair, holding him to me, and I'm kissing him back and saying I want you too the only way I know how. He groans, shifting me so I'm astride him, kneeling over him, his erection beneath me. He pulls back and looks at me, his eyes hooded, glowing and lustful. I drop my hands to grab on to the edge of the bath but he grips both my wrists and pulls my hands behind my back, holding them together in one hand.
"I'm going to have you now," he whispers and lifts me so that I'm hovering over him.
"Ready?" he breathes.
"Yes," I whisper, and he eases me on to him, slowly, exquisitely slowly... filling me...
watching me as he takes me.
I groan, closing my eyes, and I revel in the sensation, the stretching fullness. He flexes his hips, and I gasp, leaning forward, resting my forehead against his.
"Please let my hands go," I whisper.
"Don't touch me," he pleads, and releasing my wrists, he grabs my hips.
Clasping the bath ledge, I move up and then down slowly, opening my eyes to gaze at him. He's watching me. His mouth open slightly, his breathing halted, stilted - his tongue between his teeth. He looks so... hot. We're wet and slippery and moving against each other. I lean down and kiss him. He closes his eyes. Tentatively, I bring my hands up to his head and run my fingers through his hair, not taking my lips from his mouth. This is allowed. He likes this. I like this. And we move together. I tug his hair, tipping his head back and deepen the kiss, riding him - faster, picking up the rhythm. I moan against his mouth. He starts to lift me faster, faster... holding my hips. Kissing me back. We are wet mouths and tongues, tangled hair, and moving hips. All sensation... all consuming again.
I am close... I am starting to recognize this delicious tightening... quickening. And the water... it's swirling around us, our own whirlpool, a stirring vortex as our movements become more frantic... sloshing everywhere, mirroring what's happening inside me... and I just don't care.
I love this man. I love his passion, the effect I have on him. I love that he's flown so far to see me. I love that he cares about me... he cares. It's so unexpected, so fulfilling.
He is mine, and I am his.
"That's right, baby," he breathes.
And I come, my orgasm ripping through me, a turbulent, passionate, apogee that devours me whole. And suddenly Christian crushes me to him... his arms wrapped around my back as he finds his release.
"Ana, baby!" he cries, and it's a wild invocation, stirring and touching the depths of my soul.
We lie staring at each other, gray eyes into blue, face to face, in the super king bed, both hugging our pillows on our fronts. Naked. Not touching. Just looking and admiring, covered by the sheet.
"Do you want to sleep?" Christian asks, his voice soft. He is beautiful; the mix of colors in his hair vivid against the white Egyptian cotton pillowcase, gray eyes, smoldering, expressive. He looks concerned.
"No. I'm not tired." I feel strangely energized. It's been so good to talk - I don't want to stop.
"What do you want to do?" he asks.
"Talk."
He smiles.
"About what?"
"Stuff."
"What stuff?"
"You."
"What about me?"
"What's your favorite film?"
He grins.
"Today, it's 'The Piano'."
His grin is infectious.
"Of course. Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt you can playSo many accomplishments, Mr. Grey."
"And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele."
"So I am number seventeen."
He frowns at me not comprehending.
"Seventeen?"
"Number of women you've um... had sex with."
His lips quirk up, his eyes shining with incredulity.
"Not exactly."
"You said fifteen," My confusion is obvious.
"I was referring to the number of women in my playroom. I thought that's what you meant. You didn't ask me how many women I'd had sex with."
"Oh." Holy shit... there's more... How I gape at him. "Vanilla?"
"No. You are my one vanilla conquest," he shakes his head, still grinning at me.
Why does he find this funnyAnd why am I grinning back at him like an idiot?
"I can't give you a number. I didn't put notches in the bedpost or anything."
"What are we talking - tens, hundreds... thousands?" My eyes grow wilder as the numbers get larger.
"Tens. We're in the tens, for pity's sake."