50 shades freed

Chapter 6

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades freed or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 6

"Do you have anything in mind?" Harry murmurs, pinning me with his bold gaze. I shrug, suddenly breathless and agitated. I don't know if it's the chase, the adrenaline, my earlier bad mood— I don't understand, but I want this, and I want it badly. A puzzled expression flits across Harry's face. "Kinky fuckery?" he asks, his words a soft caress.

I nod, feeling my face flame. Why am I embarrassed by this? I have done all manner of kinky fuckery with this man. He's my husband, damn it! Am I embarrassed because I want this and I'm ashamed to admit it? My subconscious glares at me. Stop overthinking.

"Carte blanche?" He whispers the question, eyeing me speculatively as if he's trying to read my mind.

Carte blanche? Holy fuck—what will that entail? "Yes," I murmur nervously, as excitement blooms deep inside me. He smiles a slow sexy smile.

"Come," he says and tugs me toward the stairs. His intention is clear. Playroom! My inner goddess wakes from her post-R8-sex slumber, wide-eyed and raring to go.

At the top of the stairs, he releases my hand and unlocks the playroom door. The key is on the Yes Seattle keychain that I gave him not so long ago.

"After you, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles," he says and swings the door open.

The playroom smells reassuringly familiar, of leather and wood and fresh polish. I blush, knowing that Mrs. Jones must have been in here cleaning while we were away on our honeymoon. As we enter, Harry switches on the lights and the dark red walls are illuminated with soft, diffused light. I stand gazing at him, anticipation running thick and heavy through my veins. What will he do? He locks the door and turns. Inclining his head to one side, he regards me thoughtfully and then shakes his head, amused.

"What do you want, Louis?" he asks gently.

"You." My response is breathy.

He smirks. "You've got me. You've had me since you fell into my office."

"Surprise me then, Mr. Styles."

His mouth twists with repressed humor and carnal promise. "As you wish, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles." He folds his arms and raises one long index finger to his lips while he appraises me. "I think we'll start by ridding you of your clothes." He steps forward. Grasping the front of my short denim jacket, he opens it and pushes it over my shoulders, so it falls to the floor. He clasps the hem of my black shirt. "Lift your arms."

I obey, and he peels it off over my head. Leaning down, he plants a soft kiss on my lips, his eyes glowing with an alluring mix of lust and love. The shirt joins my jacket on the floor.

"Turn around," he orders.

Relieved, I smile to myself and oblige immediately. Looks like we've overcome that little hurdle. He gathers my hair and brushes his hands through it quickly and efficiently. He tugs it, pulling my head back.

"Good thinking, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles," he whispers in my ear, then nips my earlobe. "Now turn around and take your shorts off. Let them fall to the floor." He releases me and stepsback as I turn to face him. Not taking my eyes off his, I unbutton the waistband of my shorts and ease the zipper down. They fall to the floor, pooling at my feet.

"Step out from your shorts," he orders. As I step toward him, he kneels swiftly down in front of me and grasps my right ankle. Deftly, he unbuckles my sandals one at a time while I lean forward, balancing myself with a hand on the wall under the pegs that used to hold all his whips, crops and paddles. The flogger and the riding crop are the only implements that remain. I eye them with curiosity. Will he use those?