Chapter 97 (1/2)

”I just want you to make love to me, Christian.” Could he be any more obtuse? First we're fighting and wrestling then he's all tender and sweet. It's confusing. I'm in bed with Mr. Mercurial.

”Please.” I press my heels against his backside once more. Burning gray eyes search mine. Oh, what is he thinking? He looks momentarily bewildered and confused. He releases my hands and sits back on his heels, pulling me into his lap.

”Okay, Mrs. Grey, we'll do this your way.” He reaches around my waist, lifts, and slowly lowers me on to him so I'm straddling him.

”Ah!” This is it. This is what I want. This is what I need. Curling my arms around his neck, I twist my fingers in his hair, glorying in the feeling of him inside me. I start to move. Taking control, taking him at my pace, at my speed. He moans, and his lips find mine and we're lost.

I trail my fingers through the hair on Christian's chest. He lies on his back, still and quiet beside me as we both catch our breath. His hand thrums rhythmically down my back.

”You're quiet,” I whisper and kiss his shoulder. He turns and looks down at me, his expression giving nothing away. ”That was fun.” I add. Shit, is something wrong?

”You confound me, Mrs. Grey.”

”Confound you?”

He shifts so that we're face to face. ”Yes. You. Calling the shots. It's . . . different.”

”Good different? Or bad different?” I reach up and trail a finger over his lips. His brow furrows, as if he doesn't quite understand the question. Absentmindedly, he purses his lips to kiss my finger.

”Good different,” he says, but he doesn't sound convinced.

”You've never indulged this little fantasy before?” I blush as I say it. Do I really want to know any more about my husband's colorful . . . um, kaleidoscopic, sex life before me? My subconscious eyes me warily over her tortoiseshell half-moon specs. Do you really want to go there?

”No, Anastasia, you can touch me.” It's a simple explanation that speaks volumes. Of course, the fifteen couldn't.

”Mrs. Robinson could touch you.” I murmur the words before my brain registers what I've said. Shit.

He stills. His eyes widen with his oh-no-where's-she-going-withthis? expression. ”That was different,” he whispers. Suddenly I want to know. ”Good different or bad different?”

He gazes at me. Doubt and possibly pain flit across his face, and fleetingly he looks like a man drowning. Why did I mention her?

”Bad, I think.” His words are barely audible.

Holy shit!