and his amused expression is
gone, replaced by something hotter . . . much hotter. I reach up and push his
shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
“Ready?” I whisper.
“For whatever you want, Ana.”
My eyes stray from his eyes to his lips. Parted so that he can inhale more
deeply. Sculptured, chiseled, whatever, it is a beautiful mouth and he knows
exactly what to do with it. I find myself leaning up to kiss him.
“No,” he says and places both of his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t. If you do
that, I’ll never get my hair cut.”
Oh!
“I want this,” he continues. And his eyes are round and raw for some
inexplicable reason. It’s disarming.
“Why?” I whisper.
He stares at me for a beat, and his eyes grow wider. “Because it’ll make me
feel cherished.”
My heart practically lurches to a halt. Oh, Christian . . . my Fifty. And before I
know it I’ve circled him in my arms, and I kiss his chest before nuzzling my
cheek into his tickly chest hair.
“Ana. My Ana,” he whispers. He wraps his arms around me and we stand
immobile, holding each other in our bathroom. Oh, how I love to be in his
arms. Even if he is an overbearing, megalomaniac arse, he’s my
overbearing megalomaniac arse in need of a lifetime dose of TLC. I lean
back without releasing him.
“You really want me to do this?”
He nods and gives me his shy smile. I grin back at him and step out of his
embrace.
“Then sit,” I repeat.
He dutifully does, sitting with his back to the sink. I take off my shoes and kick
them over to where his shirt lies crumpled on the bathroom floor. From the
shower I retrieve his shampoo: Chanel. We bought it in France.
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“Would sir like this?” I hold it up in both hands like I’m selling it on QVC.
“Hand-delivered from the South of France. I like the smell of this . . . it smells
of you,” I add in a whisper, slipping out of my television presenter mode.
“Please.” He grins.
I grab a small towel off the towel warmer. Mrs. Jones sure knows how to
keep the towels
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