e’s seeing me for the first time. Leaning down, he closes
his eyes and kisses me, enraptured. His response is a wake-up call to my
libido . . . seeing him like this, undone, by me. Oh my. He releases my hands
and curls his fingers around my head and into my hair, holding me gently in
place, and my body rises and fills with my arousal, responding to his kiss.
And suddenly the nature of his kiss alters, no longer sweet, reverential and
admiring, but carnal, deep and devouring—his tongue invading my mouth,
taking not giving, his kiss possessing a desperate needy edge. As desire
courses through my blood, awakening every muscle and sinew in its wake, I
feel a frisson of alarm.
Oh Fifty, what’s wrong?
He inhales sharply and groans. “Oh, what you do to me,” he murmurs, lost
and raw. He moves suddenly, lying down on top of me, pressing me into the
mattress—one hand cupping my chin, the other skimming over my body, my
breast, my waist, my hip, and around my behind. He kisses me again,
pushing his leg between mine, raising my knee, and grinding against me, his
erection straining against our clothes and my sex. I gasp and moan against
his lips, losing myself to his fervent passion. I dismiss the distant alarm bells
in the back of my mind, knowing that he wants me, that he needs me, and
that when it comes to communicating with me, this is his fa一vorite form of
self
66 | P a g e
E L JAMES
expression. I kiss him with renewed abandon, running my fingers through his
hair, fisting my hands, holding tight. He tastes so good and smells of
Christian, my Christian.
Abruptly, he stops, stands up, and pulls me off the bed so that I am standing
in front of him, dazed. He undoes the button on my shorts and kneels quickly,
yanking them and my panties down, and before I can breathe again, I am
back on the bed beneath him and he’s unbuttoning his fly. Holy cow, he’s not
taking off his clothes or my T-shirt. He holds my head and with no preamble
whatsoever he thrusts himself inside me, making m
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