continue to lean over
him, and he keeps his hands on my backside, thrumming his fingers back
and forward, up and down . . . back and forth . . . hmm. I wiggle. He growls
low in his throat.
“There. All rinsed.”
“Good,” he declares. His fingers tighten on my behind, and all at once he sits
up, his soaked hair dripping all over him. He pulls me down onto his lap, his
hands moving from my behind up to the nape of my neck, then to my chin,
holding me in place. I gasp with surprise and his lips are on mine, his tongue
hot and hard in my mouth. My fingers curl around his wet hair, and drops of
water run down my arms; and as he deepens the kiss, his hair bathes my
face. His hand moves from my chin down to the top button of my blouse.
“Enough of this primping. I want to fuck you seven shades of Sunday, and we
can do it in here or in the bedroom. You decide.”
Christian’s eyes blaze into mine, hot and full of promise, his hair dripping
water onto us both. My mouth goes dry.
“What’s it to be, Anastasia?” he asks as he holds in his lap.
“You’re wet,” I respond.
He bends his head suddenly, running his dripping hair all down the front of
my blouse. I squeal and try to wriggle off him. He tightens his grip around me.
“Oh no you don’t, baby,” he murmurs. When he raises his head he’s grinning
salaciously at me, and I am Miss Wet Blouse 2011. My top is soaked and
totally see-through. I’m wet . . . everywhere.
“Love the view,” he murmurs and leans down to run his nose around and
around one wet nipple. I squirm.
“Answer me, Ana. Here or the bedroom?”
“Here,” I whisper frantically. To hell with the haircut—I’ll do it later. He smiles
slowly, his lips curling into a sensuous smile full of licentious promise.
“Good choice, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs against my lips. He releases my chin
and his hand moves to my knee. It glides smoothly up my leg, lifting my skirt
and skating over my skin, making me tingle. His lips trail soft kisses from the
base of my ear along my jaw. 160 | P a g e
E L JAMES
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