s of my fingers through the
smattering of chest hair over his sternum, over his burn scars. He inhales
sharply and his pupils dilate, but it’s not with fear. It’s a sensual response to
my touch. He watches me intently as my fingers float delicately over his skin,
first to one nipple and then the other. They pucker beneath my caress.
Leaning forward, I plant soft kisses on his chest, and my hands move to his
shoulders, feeling the hard, sculptured lines of sinew and muscle. Jeez . . .
he’s in good shape.
“I want you,” he murmurs and it’s a green light to my libido. My fingers move
into his hair, pulling his head back so I can claim his mouth, fire licking hot
and high in my belly. He groans and pushes me back onto the couch. He sits
up and rips off my sweatpants, undoing his fly at the same time.
“Home run,” he whispers, and in one swift move he’s inside me.
“Ah . . .” I groan and he stills, grabbing my face between his hands.
“I love you, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and very slowly, very gently, he makes
love to me . . . until I come apart at the seams, calling his name and wrapping
myself around him, never wanting to let him go.
I lay sprawled on his chest. We’re on the floor of the TV room.
“You know, we completely bypassed third base.” My fingers trace the line of
his pectoral muscles.
He laughs. “Next time, Mrs. Grey.” He kisses the top of my head. I look up to
stare at the TV screen where the end credits for The X- Files play. Christian
reaches for the remote and switches the sound back on.
“You liked that show?” I ask.
“When I was a kid.”
126 | P a g e
E L JAMES
Oh . . . Christian as a kid . . . kickboxing and X Files and no touching.
“You?” he asks.
“Before my time.”
Christian smiles fondly up at me. “You’re so young. I like making out with you,
Mrs. Grey.”
“Likewise, Mr. Grey.” I kiss his chest, and we lie silently watching as The XFiles
finish and the commercials come on.
“It’s been a hea一venly three weeks. Car chases and fires and psycho exbosses
notwithstandin
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