Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian novel Chapter 149

“Ah!” she moans out loud, and her legs stiffen as she throws her head back once more and groans loudly. I stop moving my fingers and lift the wand from her skin.

“No! Christian,” she cries, and pushes her hips fruitlessly toward me.

So close. And yet so far.

“Still, baby,” I whisper, and kiss her. “Frustrating, isn’t it?”

She gasps. “Christian, please.”

“Hush.” I kiss her and slowly start to move my fingers inside her, grazing the wand across her skin between the two peaks of her breasts. I move so I’m leaning into her, my cock hard and ready against her.

She starts to climb again and I bring her close.

So close.

Then stop once more.

“No,” she whimpers, and I plant kisses on her shoulder as I withdraw my fingers from inside her and stop teasing her clitoris with my thumb. Instead, I increase the speed of the wand and let it travel down her stomach, over her belly and over the tiny swollen bud between her thighs.

“Ah!” she cries out, and pulls on her shackles.

And I stop once more, removing the wand from her skin.

“Christian!” she calls.

“Frustrating, yes?” I whisper against her throat. “Just like you. Promising one thing and then…”

“Christian, please!”

I let the wand touch her again.

And stop.

And start.

And stop.

She’s panting hard.

“Each time I stop, it feels more intense when I start again. Right?”

“Please,” she begs, and I switch the wand off and place it on the small shelf beside the cross and kiss her. Her lips are eager—no, desperate—for my touch. I run my nose down hers and whisper, “You are the most frustrating woman I have ever met.”

She shakes her head. “Christian, I never promised to obey you. Please, please—” I grab her behind and push my still clothed cock against her; rubbing myself over her. She groans, and I peel off the blindfold and grasp her chin; wild blue eyes meet mine.

“You drive me crazy.” My voice is hoarse as I flex my hips against her, once, twice, thrice, and she tips her head back, ready to come—and I stop. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Please,” she whispers, and looks up at me.

Oh, baby, you can take more. I know you can.

My fingers skim her breast as they travel down her body, and she stiffens beneath my touch, and turns her face away from me. “Red,” she whimpers. “Red. Red.” As tears spill down her face.

I freeze.

Fuck.

No. No.

“No!” I breathe. “Jesus Christ, no.” I unclip her hands, and, holding her, I bend down and unclip her ankles. She puts her head in her hands and starts to weep.

“No, no, no. Ana, please. No.” I’ve gone too far. I pick her up and sit down on the bed, cradling her in my lap while she sobs. Reaching for the satin sheet behind me, I pull it off the bed and wrap it around her, and I hug her close, rocking her gently, backward and forward. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I whisper, feeling like an asshole, and shower her hair with kisses. “Ana, forgive me, please.”

She says nothing. She continues to weep; each sob a twist of the knife in my dark, dark soul.

What was I thinking?

Ana. I’m sorry.

I’m a fucking asshole.

She buries her face in my neck, and her tears scorch my skin. “Please switch the music off.”

“Yes, of course.” I move with her on my lap, easing the remote out of my back pocket, and switch off the music. All I hear is her quiet keening interspersed with her shuddering breaths.

It’s hell.

“Better?” I ask.

She nods, and gently I wipe away her tears with my thumb. “Not a fan of Bach’s Goldberg Variations?” I make a desperate attempt at humor.

“Not that piece.” She looks up at me, her eyes dulled by her inner pain, and shame washes over me in a torrent.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.