e’s close to me again. “I want you to
beha一ve . . . ,” he whispers.
Oh my. My inner goddess freezes, not even blinking.
“And don’t bite your lip.” Gently he tugs my bottom lip free of my teeth, and I
can’t help my smile.
Next, I hear the soft pop of a cork being drawn from a bottle and the gentle
glug of wine being poured into a glass. He leans across behind me and I
hear a soft click and the quiet white noise of the surroundsound speakers
hissing to life. A loud twang of a guitar begins a song I don’t know. Christian
turns the volume down to background level. A man starts to sing, his voice
deep, low, and sexy.
“A drink first, I think,” Christian whispers, perting me from the song. “Head
back.” I tip my head back. “Further,” he prompts. I oblige, and his lips are on
mine. Cool crisp wine flows into my mouth. I swallow reflexively. Oh my, and
memories flood back of not so long ago—me trussed up on my bed in
Vancouver before I 223 | P a g e
Fifty Shades Freed
graduated, with a hot, angry Christian not appreciating my e-mail. Hmm . . .
ha一ve times changed? Not much. Except now I recognize the wine,
Christian’s fa一vorite—a Sancerre.
“Hmm,” I murmur in appreciation.
“You like the wine?” he whispers his breath warm on my cheek. I’m bathed in
his proximity, his vitality, the heat radiating from his body, even though he
doesn’t touch me.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“More?”
“I always want more, with you.”
I almost hear his grin. It makes me grin, too. “Mrs. Grey, are you flirting with
me?”
“Yes.”
His wedding ring clinks against the glass as he takes another sip of wine.
Now that is a sexy sound. This time he pulls my head right back, cradling me.
He kisses me once more, and greedily I swallow the wine he gives me. He
smiles as he kisses me again.
“Hungry?”
“I think we’ve already established that, Mr. Grey.”
The troubadour on the iPod is singing about wicked games. Hmm . . . how
apt.
The microwa一ve pings, and Christian releases me. I sit upright. The food
smells spicy: garlic, mint, o
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