“I thought I’d lost you,” I murmur, still dazzled and breathless from his kiss.
“Baby, it will take more than a malfunctioning 135 to keep me away from you.”
“Oh, Ana,” he breathes against my lips, and it’s an exultation that leaves me reeling. He loves me, of that I have no doubt, and I savor the taste of this delicious man, this man I thought I might never see again.
OK, now we know: She’s a closet cannibal who’s now ready to reveal her true self to the world.
“Shower time,” he declares triumphantly.
“Put me down!” I try and fail to sound disapproving. My struggle is futile—his arm is firmly clamped over my thighs—and for some reason I cannot stop giggling.
Call me a cynical Debbie Downer, but I fail to see the cuteness in Christian picking Ana up and hauling her around like a sack of potatoes, particularly when she doesn’t seem to appreciate it too much. Then she dissolves into a round of giggles at this behavior, like his total disrespect for her personal space is cute or something. To be honest, a stunt like this would piss me off.
His white shirt is stuck to his chest and his suit pants are sodden. I am soaked, too, flushed, giddy and breathless, and he’s grinning down at me, looking so . . . so unbelievably hot.
No, trust me, it’s just the shower temperature.
His kiss is gentle, cherishing, and totally distracting. I no longer care that I am fully clothed and soaking wet in Christian’s shower. It’s just the two of us beneath the cascading water. He’s back, he’s safe, he’s mine.
“I want to wash all of you,” I whisper. He smiles that lopsided smile and lifts his hands in a gesture that says “I’m all yours, baby.” I grin; it feels like Christmas.
I bet the Cratchits had better Christmases than this.
Oh yes! It’s so arousing. My inner goddess has resurfaced after her evening of rocking and weeping in the corner, and she’s wearing harlot-red lipstick.
His teeth graze my jaw, my chin, and down my neck as he picks up the pace, pushing me onward, upward—away from this earthly plane, the teeming shower, the evening’s chilling fright. It’s just me and my man moving in unison, moving as one—each completely absorbed in the other—our gasps and grunts mingling. I revel in the exquisite feeling of his possession as my body blooms and flowers around him.
I purse my lips. “When are you going to get it through your thick skull that you are loved?”
“Thick skull?” His eyebrows widen in surprise.
I nod. “Yes. Thick skull.”
“I don’t think the bone density of my head is significantly higher than anywhere else in my body.”
His penis. He’s talking about his penis.
He cocks his head to one side warily, assessing my reaction, and frowns. Then turns his attention back to the box. He tears through the pale-blue tissue paper and fishes out an eye mask, some nipple clamps, a butt plug, his iPod, his silver-gray tie—and last but by no means least—the key to his playroom.
And that’s a wrap for this week!