She giggles. “Well, the first time—”
“The first time! There’s more than one fucker?”
“Why so surprised, Mr. Grey?”
I run a hand through my hair. The thought of anyone touching Ana is…annoying. “I just am. I mean—given your lack of experience.”
“I’ve certainly made up for that since I met you.”
“You have.” I grin. “Tell me. I want to know.”
“You really want me to tell you?”
I’m interested in everything about you, Ana.
She takes a deep breath. “I was briefly in Texas with Mom and Husband Number Three. I was in tenth grade. His name was Bradley, and he was my lab partner in physics.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“And what’s he doing now?”
“I don’t know.”
“What base did he get to?”
“Christian!” she chastises me, and we stare at each other.
Fuck this Bradley. What kind of a name is that, anyway?
I grab her knees, then her ankles, and tip her up so she falls back on the couch, and I lay down on top of her.
“Ah,” she cries out.
I grab both her hands and raise them above her head. “So, this Bradley. Did he get to first base?” I whisper and run my nose down hers and leave soft kisses at the corner of her mouth.
“Yes,” she breathes. I release one of her hands and clasp her chin and kiss her, properly, my tongue caressing hers, and her body rises to meet mine, her tongue twisting with mine.
“Like this?” I whisper.
“No. Nothing like that.” Ana is breathless.
Releasing her chin, I skim my fingers down her body, then back to her breast. “Did he do this? Touch you like this?” Through the soft material of her top, my thumb skates repeatedly over her nipple, and it perks up at my touch.
“No.” She writhes beneath me.
“Did he get to second base?” I blow the words gently in her ear as my hand travels down to her hip. My lips suck gently on her earlobe before my teeth tug it into my mouth.
“No.” The word is a husky whisper.
I mute the TV. The X-Files can wait. I gaze down at Ana; she’s tousled and dazed and looking up at me with big blue eyes that I could drown in. “What about Joe Schmo number two? Did he make it past second base?”
I move to her side and slip my hand into her sweatpants, keeping her pinned with my gaze.
“No.”
“Good.” I hold her in the palm of my hand, the gateway to heaven. “No underwear, Mrs. Grey. I approve.” I kiss her again, and my thumb strokes her clitoris in a steady rhythm and I ease my index finger inside her.
“We’re supposed to be making out,” she murmurs with a moan.
I stop. “I thought we were?”
“No. No sex.”
“What?” Why?
“No sex.”
“No sex, huh?” I gently ease my finger out of her and remove my hand from her pants. “Here.” I circle her mouth with my finger, then push it between her lips and onto her tongue. Once. Twice. Again.
Taste good, Ana?
I shift so I’m lying on top of her, between her legs, and I rock against her, giving my cock some relief.
She groans.
Oh, wow.
I grind against her. “This what you want?” And I repeat the action, hitting her sweet spot with my erection.
It feels good.
“Yes.”
I tease her nipple with my fingers, tugging gently, feeling it lengthen beneath my touch. My teeth graze her jaw. She smells of Ana and jasmine and her arousal. “Do you know how hot you are, Ana?”
Her mouth opens, slack and wanting, as I tantalize her further, pushing at the junction of her thighs. She lets out an inarticulate moan and I seize the moment, tugging at her bottom lip, then invading her mouth with my tongue, tasting her arousal on mine.
It’s so fucking hot.
I release her remaining hand and her fingers feel their way over my biceps and over my shoulders and into my hair. She tugs and I groan, staring down at her.
“Do you like me touching you?” she asks.
Why would she ask me that now?
I stop rubbing against her. “Of course I do.” I’m breathless. “I love you touching me, Ana. I’m like a starving man at a banquet when it comes to your touch.” Kneeling up between her legs, I maneuver her to a sitting position and remove her top in one swift move. I do the same with my shirt, yanking it over my head and throwing our clothes on the floor. While still kneeling, I seat her on my lap and rest my hands on her behind. “Touch me,” I whisper.
She takes full advantage, brushing the tips of her fingers over my sternum and over my scars. I inhale sharply as her touch radiates through my body with the promise of fulfilment. My eyes stay on hers as she skims her fingers over my skin to my nipple, then to its twin; each react to her touch, hardening, erect, mirroring another part of my anatomy. She leans forward and presses her lips in a soft, sweet line across my chest. Her hands hold my shoulders, and she squeezes, and I feel her nails pinching my skin.
It’s heady.
And to think a few months ago I would have said this was impossible.
Yet, here she is. Touching me. Loving me.
And I welcome it. All of it.
“I want you,” I whisper, and her hands move to my head, her fingers in my hair. She yanks my head back and takes my mouth with hers. Claiming my tongue with hers.
Fuck. I groan loudly and push Ana back down on the couch, divesting her of her sweatpants in one hasty move, and freeing my erection at the same time. I move on her. “Home run,” I murmur, and fill her in one rapid move.
She lets out a deep, guttural cry and I still, holding her face between my hands. “I love you, Mrs. Grey.” And very slowly, I make sweet love to my wife until she cries out and falls apart in my arms, taking me with her and cocooning me with her limbs and keeping me safe.
Ana is sprawled on my chest. I think it’s the end of The X-Files.
“You know, we completely bypassed third base.” Her fingers trace a pattern on my chest.
I chuckle. “Next time.” I nuzzle her hair, inhaling her magical scent, and kiss her head. The end credits roll for The X-Files and, using the remote, I switch the sound back on.