“Still, Mrs. Grey,” I warn, and for a moment I watch her breasts rising and falling against the constraints of her corset.
It’s a thing of beauty.
Enough. It needs to go.
I flip her onto her stomach, and continue my journey of kisses up her body: the backs of her legs, her thighs, her backside. And for a moment I contemplate all that I want to do to her ass.
Ana protests. “Please.”
“I want you naked,” I murmur, and unhook her corset, one hook at a time, at a languid pace. Once it’s off, I plant a soft, wet kiss at the base of her spine, then trail my tongue up the length of her backbone.
Ana wriggles. “Christian, please.”
I’m leaning over her, my constrained cock resting against her ass, and she wriggles against me. “What do you want, Mrs. Grey?” I utter the words just beneath her ear.
“You.”
“And I you, my love, my life.” I undo my pants, kneel up beside her, and turn her onto her back. Standing, I dispense with my pants and underwear while Ana regards me, wide-eyed and wanting. I grasp her panties and whisk them off so that she’s naked in all her glory beneath me.
“Mine,” I mouth.
“Please,” Ana implores me.
I can’t help my grin. Oh, baby. I love it when you beg.
Crawling onto the bed, I lay a new path of wet kisses up her other leg, getting closer and closer to the top of her thighs. My objective. The sacred apex. When I reach my goal, I push her legs wider apart. She’s wet and wanting. Just how I like her. “Ah, wife of mine,” I whisper, and I run my tongue over her, tasting her and pinpointing her clitoris.
Hmm… Slowly, I begin to torture her with my mouth. Round and round, my tongue teases her oh-so-sensitive bud. Ana grabs my hair and writhes underneath me, her hips moving in a rhythm I know so well. She bucks once. But I hold her still and continue my sweet torment.
“Christian,” she calls, and tugs at my hair.
She’s close.
“Not yet.” I move up her body, dipping my tongue in her navel.
“No!” she cries out in frustration, and I grin against her belly.
All in good time, my love.
I kiss her soft stomach. “So impatient, Mrs. Grey. We have until we touch down on the Emerald Isle.”
When I reach her breasts, I worship each with tender kisses, and take a nipple between my lips and tug. I watch her as I lavish my attention on it; her eyes are dark and her mouth slack. “Husband, I want you. Please.”
And I want you.
I cover her body with mine, resting my weight on my elbows, and run my nose down hers. Her hands are on me.
My shoulders.
My back.
My backside.
“Mrs. Grey. Wife. We aim to please.” I brush my lips over hers. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She’s pushing her hips up for me.
“Eyes open. I want to see you.”
Her eyes are a startling blue.
“Christian. Ah,” she calls out, as I slowly claim her, inch by inch.
“Ana, oh, Ana,” I breathe. Her name is a prayer.
She is heaven. My heaven.
I start to move, relishing the feel of her.
Her fingernails dig into my butt and it drives me on.
And on.
And on.
She’s mine.
She’s really mine.
Finally, she cries out my name and falls apart beneath me, her climax triggering mine, and I come and come inside my love. My life. My wife.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
It’s the sound of the sea lapping against the hull of M.Y. Fair Lady that wakes me. The crew are on deck; I hear them, no doubt shining the brass and making their preparations for the day. We are moored in the bay outside Monte Carlo harbor. It’s a blissful summer’s morning in the Mediterranean, and beside me, Mrs. Anastasia Grey is fast asleep. I turn onto my side and study her, as I have done most mornings since we started our honeymoon. She is sun-kissed. Her hair is a little lighter. Her lips are parted, and she sleeps soundly.
As she should.
I smirk at the memory.
It was a late night. And she came and came and came.
She looks so serene; I envy her that.
Though I have to confess, I’ve relaxed a little.
There’s been the occasional call from Ros and from Marco after the drama of last week’s Black Monday. Marco and I avoided any substantial losses with some last-minute repositioning into defensive assets. We’re both keeping a watchful eye on the markets and liaising on a strategy to survive the downturn.
But generally, no work and all play has been invigorating.
I smile fondly at Ana, and still she sleeps.
I have discovered new facets to my wife.
She adores London.
She loves afternoon tea at Brown’s Hotel.
She loves pubs and the fact that Londoners spill out of them and drink pints and smoke on the sidewalks.
She loves Borough Market, especially the Scotch eggs.
She’s not keen on shopping, except at Harrods.
She is not a fan of English ale, but then neither am I. It’s warm.
Who drinks warm beer?
She’s not keen on shaving…but she’ll let me shave her.
Now, that’s a memory I’ll treasure.
She loves Paris.
She loves the Louvre.
She loves the Pont des Arts, and we left a padlock there to prove it.
She loves the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles.
“Mr. Grey. It is no hardship to see you from every angle in here.”
She loves me…or so it would seem.
I’m tempted to wake her, but we enjoyed a late night yesterday. We saw Le Songe, a ballet based on Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, at L’Opéra de Monte-Carlo, then went to the casino, where Ana won a few hundred euros at the roulette table. She was thrilled.
Her eyes flicker open, as if I’ve willed her awake. She smiles. “Hi.”
“Hi, Mrs. Grey, good morning. Sleep well?”
She stretches. “I had the best sleep and the best dreams.”
“You are the best dream.” I kiss her forehead. “Sex, or morning swim around the yacht?”
She smiles her oh-so-sexy smile. “Both,” she mouths.