Total pages in book: 262
Estimated words: 268603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1343(@200wpm)___ 1074(@250wpm)___ 895(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 268603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1343(@200wpm)___ 1074(@250wpm)___ 895(@300wpm)
“Mine,” she says.
“Yours,” I repeat. “Yes, I would. If it meant that much to you.” I remember surrendering myself to her here, before we were married, when I thought she was leaving.
“Does it mean that much to you?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she says.
“I thought you’d already agreed to this.”
“Yes, I have, but now that we’ve discussed it further, I’m happier with my decision.”
“Oh.”
Flynn was right. This was about her and how she feels.
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.