Hello, all! We’re finally on the epilogue of Fifty Shades Freed. It’s been fun… and cringeworthy. But there’s still more to come, so let’s see what happens next!
I lie on our tartan picnic blanket and gaze up at the clear, blue, summer sky, my view framed by meadow flowers and tall green grasses. The heat of the afternoon summer sun warms my skin, my bones and my belly, and I relax, my body turning to Jell-O. This is comfortable. Hell no . . . this is wonderful.
I should feel guilty for feeling this joy, this completeness, but I don’t. Life right here right now is good, and I’ve learned to appreciate it and live in the moment like my husband.
Oh, go ahead and feel guilty for being happy, but trust me, I’m not jealous.
“Mrs. Grey,” he breathes, and his teeth pull on my earlobe. “You’re so ready.”
His fingers slide in and out of me, hitting that spot, that sweet, sweet spot again. The flogger clatters onto the floor and his hand moves over my belly and up to my breasts. I tense. They are sensitive.
“Hush,” Christian says, cupping one, and he gently brushes his thumb over my nipple.
His fingers are gentle and enticing, and pleasure spirals out from my breast, down, down . . . deep down. I tilt my head back, pushing my nipple into his palm, and moan once more.
And she still can’t use words having to do with vagina anything. It sounds like she’s some kind of dark, bottomless pit.
He eases his fingers out of me, pulls me around to face him, and removes the blindfold. I blink up into darkening gray eyes that burn into mine. His index fingers trace my bottom lip, and he pushes his index and middle fingers into my mouth, letting me taste the salty tang of my arousal.
“Suck,” he whispers. I swirl my tongue around and between his fingers.
Hmm . . . even I taste good on his fingers.
So ergo, everything that he feeds her should taste good? Okay, let’s try tripe. Would tripe taste good on his fingers?
“I want in your mouth.” His voice is soft and seductive. My body, ripe and ready, clenches deep inside. The pleasure is sweet and sharp.
I moan. Turning to face him, I pull his head down to mine and kiss him hard, my tongue invading his mouth, tasting and savoring him. He groans, places his hands on my behind and tugs me against him, but only my pregnant belly touches him. I bite his jaw and trail kisses down his throat and run my fingers down to his jeans.
Christian lies beside me, his hand caressing my belly, his long fingers splayed out wide.
“How’s my daughter?”
“She’s dancing.” I laugh.
“Dancing? Oh yes! Wow. I can feel her.” He grins as Blip Two somersaults inside me.
“I think she likes sex already.”
Christian frowns. “Really?” he says dryly. He moves so his lips are against my bump. “There’ll be none of that until you’re thirty, young lady.”
I giggle. “Oh, Christian, you are such a hypocrite.”
“No, I’m an anxious father.” He gazes up at me, his brow furrowed, betraying his anxiety.
Oh, Christ on a cracker! Did this scene really have to be included?
“I like this,” he murmurs, stroking then kissing my belly. There’s more of you.”
I pout. “I don’t like more of me.”
“It’s great when you come.”
“And I’m looking forward to the taste of breast milk again.”
“Christian! You are such a kinky—”
He swoops on me suddenly, kissing me hard, throwing his leg over mine, and grabbing my hands so they are above my head. “You love the kinky fuckery,” he whispers, and he runs his nose down mine.
I grin, caught in his infectious, wicked smile. “Yes, I love the kinky fuckery. And I love you. Very much.”
HE HAS A BREAST MILK FETISH, TOO?
I jerk awake, woken by a high-pitched squeal of delight from my son, and even though I can’t see him or Christian, I grin like an idiot with my glee. Ted has woken from his nap, and he and Christian are romping nearby. I lie quietly, still marveling at Christian’s capacity for play. His patience with Teddy is extraordinary—much more so than with me. I snort. But then, that’s how it should be. And my beautiful little boy, the apple of his mother and father’s eyes, knows no fear. Christian, on the other hand, is still too overprotective—of both of us. My sweet, mercurial, controlling Fifty.
It doesn’t bode well for this child that he was born in Seattle and is named Ted.
All too soon I hear their footsteps trampling through the meadow, and first Ted then Christian bursts through the long grass.
“Mommy!” Ted screeches as if he’s found the lost treasure of the Sierra Madre, and he leaps onto me.
“Hey, baby boy!” I cradle him against me and kiss his chubby cheek. He giggles and kisses me in return, then struggles out of my arms.
“Hello, Mommy.” Christian smiles down at me.
“Hello, Daddy.” I grin, and he picks Ted up, and sits down beside me with our son in his lap.
“Gently with Mommy,” he admonishes Ted. I smirk—the irony is not lost on me.
“As if he’s found the lost treasure of the Sierra Madre.” Depends on what the treasure is.
Of course, Ted is the most beautiful and talented child on the planet, but then I am his mother so I would think that. And Christian is . . . well, Christian is just himself. In white T-shirt and jeans, he looks as hot as usual. What did I do to win such a prize?
I don’t know, act like a total doormat and let some domineering, abusive, stalker billionaire control your life?
And that’s it for today!