“Still, Mrs. Grey,” he warns, and suddenly he flips me onto my stomach and continues his leisurely journey with his mouth up the backs of my legs, to my thighs, my behind, and then he stops. I groan.
“Please …”
“I want you naked,” he murmurs and slowly unhooks my corset, one hook at a time. When it’s flat on the bed beneath me, he runs his tongue up the length of my spine.
“Christian, please.”
“What do you want, Mrs. Grey?” His words are soft and close to my ear. He’s almost lying on top of me … I can feel him hard against my behind.
“You.”
“And I you, my love, my life … ,” he whispers, and before I know it, he’s flipped me onto my back. He stands swiftly and in one efficient move dispenses with his pants and boxer briefs so that he’s gloriously naked and looming large and ready over me. The small cabin is eclipsed by his dazzling beauty and his want and need of me. He leans down and peels off my panties, then gazes at me.
“Mine,” he mouths.
“Please,” I beg and he grins … a salacious, wicked, tempting, all-Fifty grin.
He crawls back onto the bed and trails kisses up my right leg this time … until he reaches the apex of my thighs. He pushes my legs wider apart.
“Ah … wife of mine,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on me. I close my eyes and surrender to his oh-so-adroit tongue. My hands fist in his hair as my hips swing and sway, slave to his rhythm, then buck off the small bed. He grabs my hips to still me … but doesn’t stop the delicious torture. I’m close, so close.
“Christian.” I moan.
“Not yet,” he breathes, and he moves up my body, his tongue dipping into my navel.
“No!” Damn! I sense his smile against my belly as his journey continues north.
“So impatient, Mrs. Grey. We have until we touch down on the Emerald Isle.” Reverentially he kisses my breasts and tugs my left nipple between his lips. Gazing up at me, his eyes are dark like a tropical storm as he teases me.
Oh my … I’d forgotten. Europe.
“Husband, I want you. Please.”
He looms up over me, his body covering mine, resting his weight on his elbows. He runs his nose down mine, and I run my hands down his strong, supple back to his fine, fine backside.
“Mrs. Grey … wife. We aim to please.” His lips brush. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Eyes open. I want to see you.”
“Christian … ah … ,” I cry, as he slowly sinks into me.
“Ana, oh Ana,” he breathes, and he starts to move.
“WHAT THE HELL DO you think you’re doing?” Christian shouts, waking me from my very pleasant dream. He’s standing all wet and beautiful at the end of my sun lounge and glaring down at me.
What have I done? Oh no … I’m lying on my back … Crap, crap, crap, and he’s mad. Shit. He’s really mad.
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
I AM SUDDENLY very awake, my erotic dream forgotten.
“I was on my front. I must have turned over in my sleep,” I whisper weakly in my defense.
His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his sun lounge, and tosses it at me.
“Put this on!” he hisses.
“Christian, no one is looking.”
“Trust me. They’re looking. I’m sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying the show!” he snarls.
Holy shit! Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp my breasts in panic, hiding them. Ever since Charlie Tango’s sabotaged demise, we are constantly shadowed by damned security.
“Yes,” Christian snarls. “And some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot of you, too. Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked this time?”
Shit! The paparazzi! Fuck! As I hurriedly scramble into my top, all thumbs, the color drains from my face. I shudder. The unpleasant memory of being besieged by the paparazzi outside Seattle Independent Publishing after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome to mind—all part of the Christian Grey package.
“L’addition!” Christian snaps at the passing waitress. “We’re going,” he says to me.
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
Oh shit, he’s not to be argued with.
He pulls on his shorts, even though his trunks are dripping wet, then his gray T-shirt. The waitress is back in a moment with his credit card and the check.
Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops. Once the waitress has left, Christian snatches up his book and BlackBerry and masks his fury behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. He’s bristling with tension and anger. My heart sinks. Every other woman on the beach is topless—it’s not that big a crime. In fact, I look odd with my top on. I sigh inwardly, my spirits sinking. I thought Christian would see the funny side … sort of … Maybe if I’d stayed on my front, but his sense of humor has evaporated.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” I whisper, taking his book and BlackBerry from him and placing them in my backpack.
“Too late for that,” he says quietly—too quietly. “Come.” Taking my hand, he signals up to Taylor and his two sidekicks, the French security officers Philippe and Gaston. Weirdly, they are identical twins. They have been patiently watching us and everyone else on the beach from the veranda. Why do I keep forgetting about them? How? Taylor is stony-faced behind his dark glasses. Shit, he’s mad at me, too. I’m still not used to seeing him so casually dressed, in shorts and a black polo shirt.
Christian leads me into the hotel, through the lobby, and out onto the street. He remains silent, brooding and bad-tempered, and it’s all my fault. Taylor and his team shadow us.
“Where are we going?” I ask tentatively, gazing up at him.
“Back to the boat.” He doesn’t look at me.
I have no idea of the time. I think it must be about five or six in the afternoon. When we reach the marina, Christian leads me onto the dock, where the motorboat and Jet Ski belonging to the Fair Lady are moored. As Christian unties the Jet Ski, I hand my backpack to Taylor. I glance nervously up at him, but like Christian, his expression gives nothing away. I flush, thinking about what he’s seen on the beach.
“Here you go, Mrs. Grey.” Taylor passes me a life vest from the motorboat, and I dutifully put it on. Why am I the only one who has to wear a life jacket? Christian and Taylor exchange some kind of look. Jeez, is he angry with Taylor, too? Christian then checks the straps on my life jacket, cinching the middle one tightly.
“You’ll do,” he mutters sullenly, still not turning to look at me. Shit.
He climbs gracefully onto the Jet Ski and holds out his hand for me to join him. Grasping it tightly, I manage to throw my leg over the seat behind him without falling into the water while Taylor and the twins clamber into the motorboat. Christian kicks the Jet Ski away from the dock, and it floats gently into the marina.
“Hold on,” he orders, and I put my arms around him. This is my favorite part of traveling by Jet Ski. I hug him closely, my nose nuzzling into his back, marveling that there was a time when he would not have tolerated me touching him this way. He smells good … of Christian and the sea. Forgive me, Christian, please?