Oh, Christian, I could watch you for hours. "One of my all-time favorites," I murmur, and he leans down and kisses me quickly, smearing shaving soap on my face.
"Shall I do this to you again?" he whispers wickedly and holds up the razor.
I purse my lips at him. "No," I mutter, pretending to sulk. "I'll wax next time." I remember Christian's joy in London when he'd discovered that during his one meeting there, I'd shaved off my pubic hair out of curiosity. Of course I hadn't done it to Mr. Exacting's high standards . . .
"What the hell have you done?" Christian exclaims. He cannot keep his horrified amusement to himself. He sits up in bed in our suite at Browns Hotel near Picca-dilly, switches on the bedside light and gazes down at me, his mouth a startled O.
It must be midnight. I blush the color of the sheets in the playroom and try to pull down my satin nightdress so he can't see. He grabs my hand to stop me.
"Ana!"
"I—err . . . shaved."
"I can see that. Why?" He's grinning from ear to ear.
I cover my face with my hands. Why am I so embarrassed?
"Hey," he says softly and pulls my hand away. "Don't hide." He's biting his lip so that he won't laugh. "Tell me. Why?" His eyes dance with merriment. Why does he find this so funny?
"Stop laughing at me."
"I'm not laughing at you. I'm sorry. I'm . . . delighted," he says.
"Oh . . ."
"Tell me. Why?"
I take a deep breath. "This morning, after you left for your meeting, I took a shower and was remembering all your rules."
He blinks. The humor in his expression has vanished, and he regards me cautiously.
"And I was ticking them off one by one and how I felt about them, and I remembered the beauty salon, and I thought . . . this is what you'd like. I wasn't brave enough to get a wax." My voice disappears into a whisper.
He stares at me, his eyes glowing—this time not with mirth at my folly, but with love.
"Oh, Ana," he breathes. He leans down and kisses me tenderly. "You beguile me," he whispers against my lips and kisses me once more, clasping my face in both his hands.
After a breathless moment, he pulls back and leans up on one elbow. The humor is back.
"I think I should do a thorough inspection of your handiwork, Mrs. Grey."
"What? No." He has to be kidding! I cover myself, protecting my recently de-forested area.
"Oh, no you don't, Anastasia." He grasps my hands and pries them away, moving nimbly so he's between my legs and pinning my hands to my sides. He gives me a scorching look that could light dry tinder, but before I combust, he bends and skims his lips down my naked belly directly to my sex. I squirm beneath him, reluctantly resigned to my fate.
"Well, what have we here?" Christian plants a kiss where, until this morning, I had pubic hair—then scrapes his bristly chin across me.
"Ah!" I exclaim. Wow . . . that's sensitive.
Christian's eyes dart to mine, full of salacious longing. "I think you missed a bit," he mutters and tugs gently, right underneath.
"Oh . . . Damn," I mutter, hoping this will put an end to his frankly intrusive scrutiny.
"I have an idea." He leaps naked out of bed and heads to the bathroom.
What on earth is he doing? He returns moments later, carrying a glass of water, a mug, my razor, his shaving brush, soap, and a towel. He puts the water, brush, soap, and razor on the bedside table and gazes down at me, holding the towel.
Oh no! My subconscious slams down her Complete Works of Charles Dickens, leaps up from her armchair, and puts her hands on her hips.
"No. No. No," I squeak.
"Mrs. Grey, if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well. Lift your hips." His eyes glow summer storm gray.
"Christian! You are not shaving me."
He tilts his head to one side. "Why ever not?"
I flush . . . isn't it obvious? "Because . . . It's just too . . ."
"Intimate?" he whispers. "Ana, I crave intimacy with you—you know that.
Besides, after some of the things we've done, don't get all squeamish on me now.
And, I know this part of your body better than you do."
I gape at him. Of all the arrogant . . . true, he does—but still. "It's just wrong!" My voice is prissy and whiney.
"This isn't wrong—this is hot."
Hot? Really? "This turns you on?" I can't keep the astonishment out of my voice.
He snorts. "Can't you tell?" He glances down at his arousal. "I want to shave you," he whispers
Oh, what the hell. I lie back, throwing my arm over my face so I don't have to watch.
"If it makes you happy, Christian, go ahead. You are so kinky," I mutter, as I lift my hips, and he slips the towel beneath me. He kisses my inner thigh.
"Oh, baby, how right you are."
I hear the slosh of water as he dips the shaving brush in the glass of water, then the soft swirl of the brush in the mug. He grasps my left ankle and parts my legs, and the bed dips as he sits between my legs. "I'd really like to tie you up right now," he murmurs.
"I promise to keep still."
"Good."
I gasp as he runs the lathered brush over my pubic bone. It's warm. The water in the glass must be hot. I squirm a little. It tickles . . . but in a good way.
"Don't move," Christian admonishes and applies the brush again. "Or I will tie you down," he adds darkly, and a delicious shiver runs down my spine.
"Have you done this before?" I ask tentatively when he reaches for the razor.
"No."
"Oh. Good." I grin.
"Another first, Mrs. Grey."
"Hmm. I like firsts."
"Me, too. Here goes." And with a gentleness that surprises me, he runs the razor over my sensitive flesh. "Keep still," he says distractedly, and I know he's concentrating hard.
It only takes a matter of minutes before he grabs the towel and wipes all the excess lather off me.
"There—that's more like it," he muses, and I finally lift my arm to look at him as he sits back to admire his handiwork.
"Happy?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
"Very." He grins wickedly and slowly eases a finger inside me.
"But that was fun," he says his eyes gently mocking.
"For you maybe." I try to pout—but he's right . . . it was . . . arousing.