Fifty Shades Freed (Fifty Shades 3) - Chapter 79

I wake with a start, disorientated. Where am I? The playroom. The lights are still on, softly illuminating the bloodred walls. Christian moans again, and I realize this is what woke me.

“No,” he groans. He’s sprawled out beside me, his head back, his eyes screwed shut, his face contorted in anguish.

Holy shit. He’s having a nightmare.

“No!” he cries out again.

“Christian, wake up.” I struggle to sit up, kicking off the sheet. Kneeling beside him, I grab his shoulders and shake him as tears spring to my eyes.

“Christian, please. Wake up!”

His eyes spring open, gray and wild, his pupils enlarged with fear. He stares vacantly up at me.

“Christian, you’re having a nightmare. You’re home. You’re safe.”

He blinks, looks around frantically, and frowns as he takes in our surroundings. Then his eyes are back on mine. “Ana,” he breathes, and with no preamble whatsoever he reaches up with both hands, grabbing my face, and pulls me down onto his chest and kisses me. Hard. His tongue invades my mouth, and he tastes of desperation and need. Barely giving me a chance to breathe, he rolls over, his lips locked to mine, so that he’s pressing me into the four-poster’s hard mattress. One of his hands clasps my jaw, the other spreads out on top of my head, keeping me still as his knee parts my legs and he nestles, still clothed in his jeans, between my thighs.

“Ana,” he gasps, as if he can’t believe I’m there with him. He gazes down at me for a split second, allowing me a moment to breathe. Then his lips are on mine again, plundering my mouth, taking all I have to give. He groans loudly, flexing his hips into me. His erection sheathed in denim pushes into my soft flesh. Oh . . . I moan, and all the pent-up sexual tension of earlier erupts, resurfacing with a vengeance, flushing my system with desire and need. Driven by his demons, he urgently kisses my face, my eyes, my cheeks, along my jaw.

“I’m here,” I whisper, trying to calm him, our heated, panting breath mingling. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, as I grind my pelvis against his in welcome.

“Oh, Ana,” he pants, his voice rough and low. “I need you.”

“Me, too,” I whisper urgently, my body desperate for his touch. I want him. I want him now. I want to heal him. I want to heal me . . . I need this. His hand reaches down and tugs on the button of his fly, fumbling momentarily, then freeing his erection.

Holy shit. My heart lurches as I fleetingly think I was asleep less than a minute ago. He shifts, staring down at me for a split second, suspended above me.

“Yes. Please,” I breathe, my voice hoarse and needy. And in one swift move he buries himself inside me.

“Ah!” I cry out, not from any pain, but from surprise at his alacrity. He groans, and his lips find mine again as he pushes into me, over and over, his tongue possessing me, too. He moves frantically, compelled by his fear, his lust, his desire, his – love? I don’t know, but I meet him thrust for thrust, welcoming him.

“Ana,” he growls almost inarticulately, and he comes powerfully, pouring himself into me, his face strained, his body rigid, before he collapses with his full weight onto me, panting, and he leaves me hanging . . . again.

Holy shit. This is not my night. My inner goddess is preparing to disembowel herself. I hold him, drawing in a lungful of air and practically writhing with need beneath him. He eases out of me and holds me for minutes . . . many minutes. Finally he shakes his head and leans up on his elbows, taking some of his weight. He gazes down at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“Oh, Ana. Sweet Jesus.” He bends and kisses me tenderly.

“You okay?” I breathe, reaching up and caressing his lovely face. He blinks and nods. He looks shaken and most definitely stirred; my own lost boy. He frowns and stares intently into my eyes as if finally registering where he is.

“You?” he asks, concern evident in his voice.

“Um . . .” I wriggle beneath him and after a moment he smiles, a slow carnal smile.

“Mrs. Grey, you have needs,” he murmurs. He kisses me swiftly, then scoots off the bed.

What?

Kneeling on the floor at the end of the bed, he reaches up, grabs me just above the knees and pulls me toward him so my behind is on the edge of the bed.

“Sit up,” he murmurs. I struggle into a sitting position, my hair falling like a veil around me, down to my br**sts. His gray gaze holds mine as he gently pushes my legs apart as far as they’ll go. I lean back on my hands – knowing full well what he’s going to do. But . . . he’s just . . . um . . .

“You are so f**king beautiful, Ana,” he breathes, and I watch his copper-haired head dip and plant a trail of kisses up my right thigh, heading north. My whole body clenches in anticipation. He glances up at me, his eyes darkening through long lashes.

“Watch,” he rasps then his mouth is on me.

Oh my. I cry out as the world is concentrated at the apex of my thighs, and it’s so erotic – Fuck – watching him. Watching his tongue against what feels like the most sensitive part of my body. And he shows no mercy, teasing and taunting, worshipping me. My body tenses and my arms start to tremble from the strain of staying upright.

“No . . . ah,” I murmur. Gently, he eases one long finger inside me and I can bear it no more, collapsing back onto the bed, relishing this mouth and fingers on and in me. Slowly and gently, he massages that sweet, sweet spot deep inside me. And that’s it – I’m gone. I explode around him, crying out an incoherent rendition of his name as my intense orgasm arches my back off the bed. I think I see stars it’s such a visceral primal feeling . . . Vaguely I’m aware that he’s nuzzling my belly, giving me soft, sweet kisses. Reaching down, I caress his hair.