But I’m glad she’s come around. It’s a relief—our feud is over. I beam at her and she smiles back, so I swoop down, grab her by her waist, and swing her high.
Thank you, Anastasia.
She giggles, and I set her on her feet. “Mrs. Grey, do you know what this means to me?”
“I do now.”
I kiss her, threading my fingers through the softness of her hair, and whisper against her lips, “It means seven shades of Sunday.” I run my nose down hers.
“You think?” She leans back, her eyes narrowed, but she’s trying to hide her smile.
“Certain promises were made. An offer extended, a deal brokered,” I whisper.
And I want you.
After this fight, I need to know we’re okay.
“Um…” Ana regards me as if I’ve lost mind.
Hell, she’s backing out. “You reneging on me?” A plan pops, fully formed, into my mind. “I have an idea. A really important matter to attend to.”
Ana’s expression intensifies; she thinks I’m crazy.
“Yes, Mrs. Grey. A matter of the gravest importance.” I’m sure there’s a wicked gleam in my eye. This is a means to an end.
She narrows hers, once more. “What?” she asks.
“I need you to cut my hair. Apparently, it’s overlong, and my wife doesn’t like it.”
“I can’t cut your hair!” she exclaims, in amused disbelief.
“Yes, you can.” I shake my head and my hair falls into my eyes.
How have I not noticed this?
“Well, if Mrs. Jones has a pudding bowl.” Ana giggles.
I laugh. “Okay, good point well made. I’ll get Franco to do it.”
Her laugh turns to a grimace, and after a moment’s hesitation she grabs my hand with surprising strength. “Come.” She drags me all the way to our bathroom and releases me there.
Looks like she’s going to cut my hair.
I stand watching her as she drags the bathroom chair in front of her sink. Her high heels emphasize her legs and the tight pencil skirt sculpts her beautiful behind. This is a show worth watching.
She turns and points to the chair. “Sit.”
“Are you going to wash my hair?”
She nods.
Whoa. I can’t remember anyone washing my hair. Ever.
“Okay.” Without taking my eyes off hers, I slowly unbutton my shirt, and when it’s undone I present her with my right wrist. The cuff is held together with one of my cuff links.
Undo this, baby.
With a darkening look, she undoes the right, then the left cuff, her fingertips tantalizing my skin with a soft sweep or two over each pulse. Her blouse is undone, one button too far, and I glimpse the soft swell of her breasts encased in fine lace.
It’s a most inspiring sight. She steps closer, and I catch a hint of her lovely fragrance as she pushes my shirt off my shoulders and lets it drop to the floor.
“Ready?” she whispers, and that one word holds so much promise. It’s arousing. Deeply arousing.
“For whatever you want, Ana.”
Her eyes stray to my lips and she leans in for a kiss.
“No,” I breathe, and in a monumental act of self-sacrifice, I grasp her shoulders. “Don’t. If you do that, I’ll never get my hair cut.”
Her mouth forms a perfect o.
“I want this,” I whisper, surprising myself.
“Why?”
Because no one’s washed my hair… Ever. “Because it’ll make me feel cherished.”
She gasps at my softly spoken confession, and before I can do so much as blink, she embraces me, holding me close. She kisses my chest with soft, gentle kisses, where only two months ago I couldn’t bear to be touched.
“Ana. My Ana.” Closing my eyes, I gather her in my arms while my heart overflows.
I think I’m forgiven for railroading her.
I think we’re okay.
We stand in our embrace in the middle of our bathroom for an age, her warmth and her love soaking into me.
Eventually, Ana leans back, the love-light shining in her eyes. “You really want me to do this?”
I nod, and her smile matches mine. She steps out of my arms and points to the chair again. “Then sit.” I do as she asks while she kicks off her shoes and retrieves my shampoo from the shower. “Would Sir like this?” She holds it up as if she’s on a cheesy shopping channel, selling it to me. “Hand-delivered from the South of France. I like the smell of this.” She pops the top. “It smells of you.”
“Please.”
She places the shampoo on the vanity unit, then reaches for a small towel. “Lean forward,” she orders, and drapes the towel over my shoulders and turns the taps on behind me.
“Lean back.”
She’s bossy.
I like it.
I try to lean back, but it doesn’t work because I’m too tall. I shuffle the chair forward and then tip it so it rests against the sink.
Success. I tilt my head backward over the sink and watch Ana.
Slowly, using a glass to scoop up the warm water, she anoints my head, leaning over me. “You smell so good, Mrs. Grey.” I close my eyes, enjoying her hands on me as she continues to wet my hair.
Abruptly, she pours water over my forehead and it flows into my eyes.
“Sorry!” she squeals.
I laugh and wipe the excess off with the corner of my towel. “Hey, I know I’m an arse, but don’t drown me.”
She giggles and plants a tender kiss on my forehead. “Don’t tempt me,” she whispers. Reaching up, I place my hand on her neck and guide her lips to mine. Her breath is sweet; she tastes of Ana, and sauvignon blanc. An enticing combination.
“Mm,” I murmur, savoring the taste. Releasing her, I lean back, ready for her to continue. She smiles down at me, and I hear the sound of liquid squirting from the tube as she squeezes it into her hand. Gently, she starts to massage the shampoo into my scalp—from my temples, she works her way over my head—and I close my eyes, relishing her touch.
Sweet Jesus.
Who knew heaven resided in my wife’s fingertips?
When Franco’s cut my hair, he’s always used a spray. I’ve never had my hair washed.
Why not, Grey? This is so relaxing.