Cover.html

I reach for his left hand and plant a kiss on his wedding ring, a plain platinum band matching my own. “Mine,” I whisper.

“Yours,” he responds. He curls his arms around me and presses his nose into my hair. “Shall I run you a bath?”

“Hmm. Only if you join me in it.”

“Okay,” he says. He sets me onto my feet and stands up beside me. He’s still wearing his jeans.

“Will you wear your . . . er . . . other jeans?” He frowns down at me. “Other jeans?”

“The ones you used to wear in here.”

“Those jeans?” he murmurs blinking with perplexed surprise.

“You look very hot in them.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah . . . I mean, really hot.”

He smiles, shyly. “Well for you, Mrs. Grey, maybe I will.” He bends to kiss me then grabs the small bowl on the table that contains the butt plug, the tube of lubricant, the blindfold, and my panties.

“Who cleans these toys?” I ask as I follow him over to the chest.

He frowns at me, as if not understanding the question. “Me. Mrs. Jones.”

“What?”

He nods, amused and embarrassed, I think. He switches off the music.

“Well—um . . .”

“Your subs used to do it?” I finish his sentence. He gives me an apologetic shrug.

“Here.” He hands me his shirt and I put it on, wrapping it around myself. His scent still clings to the linen, and my chagrin about butt plug washing is forgotten.

He leaves the items on the chest. Taking my hand, he unlocks the playroom door then leads me out and downstairs. I follow him meekly.

121/551

The anxiety, the bad mood, the thrill, fear, and excitement of the car chase have all gone. I’m relaxed—finally sated and calm. As we enter our bathroom, I yawn loudly and stretch . . . at ease with myself for a change.

“What is it?” Christian asks as he turns on the faucet.

I shake my head.

“Tell me,” he asks softly. He spills jasmine bath oil into the running water, filling the room with its sweet, sensual scent.

I flush. “I just feel better.”

He smiles. “Yes, you’ve been in a strange mood today, Mrs. Grey.” Standing, he pulls me into his arms. “I know you’re worrying about these recent events. I’m sorry you’re caught up in them. I don’t know if it’s a vendetta, an ex-employee, or a business rival. If anything were to happen to you because of me—” His voice drops to a pained whisper. I curl my arms around him.

“What if something happens to you, Christian?” I voice my fear.

He gazes down at me. “We’ll figure this out. Now let’s get you out of this shirt and into this bath.”

“Shouldn’t you talk to Sawyer?”

“He can wait.” His mouth hardens, and I feel a sudden pang of pity for Sawyer. What’s he done to upset Christian?

Christian helps me out of his shirt then frowns as I turn to him. My breasts still bear faded bruises from the love bites he gave me during our honeymoon, but I decide not to tease him about them.

“I wonder if Ryan has caught up with the Dodge?”

“We’ll see, after this bath. Get in.” He holds his hand out for me. I climb into the hot, fragrant water and sit tentatively.

“Ow.” My ass is tender, and the hot water makes me wince.

“Easy, baby,” Christian warns, but as he says it, the uncomfortable sensation melts away.

Christian strips and climbs in behind me, pulling me against his chest. I nestle between his legs, and we lie idle and content in the hot water. I run my fingers down his legs, and gathering my braid in one hand, he twirls it gently between his fingers.

“We need to go over the plans for the new house. Later this evening?” 122/551

“Sure.” That woman is coming back again. My subconscious gazes up from volume 3 of The Complete Works of Charles Dickens and glowers. I’m with my subconscious. I sigh. Unfortunately, Gia Matteo’s designs are breathtaking.

“I must get my things ready for work,” I whisper.

He stills. “You know you don’t have to go back to work,” he murmurs.

Oh no . . . not this again. “Christian, we’ve been through this. Please don’t re-surrect that argument.”

He tugs my braid so my face tilts up and back. “Just saying . . .” He plants a soft kiss on my lips.

I pull on sweat pants and a camisole and decide to fetch my clothes from the playroom. As I make my way across the hallway, I hear Christian’s raised voice from his study. I freeze.

“Where the fuck were you?”

Oh shit. He’s shouting at Sawyer. Cringing, I dash upstairs to the playroom. I really don’t want to hear what he has to say to him—I still find shouty Christian intimidating. Poor Sawyer. At least I get to shout back.

I gather up my clothes and Christian’s shoes, then notice the small porcelain bowl with the butt plug still on top of the museum chest. Well . . . I suppose I should clean it. I add it to the pile and make my way back downstairs. I glance nervously through the great room, but all is quiet. Thank heavens.

Taylor will be back tomorrow evening, and Christian is generally calmer when he’s around. Taylor is spending some quality time today and tomorrow with his daughter. I wonder idly if I’ll ever get to meet her.