50 shades freed

Epilogue

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.

Epilogue

I lie on our tartan picnic blanket and gaze up at the clear, blue, summer sky, my view framed by meadow flowers and tall green grasses. The heat of the afternoon summer sun warms my skin, my bones and my belly, and I relax, my body turning to Jell-O. This is comfortable. Hell no . . . this is wonderful. I savor the moment, a moment of peace, a moment of pure and utter contentment. I should feel guilty for feeling this joy, this completeness, but I don't. Life right here right now is good, and I've learned to appreciate it and live in the moment like my husband. I smile and squirm as my mind drifts to the delicious memory of last night at our home in Escala . . .

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The strands of the flogger skim across my swollen belly at an aching, languorous pace.

"Have you had enough yet, Lou?" Harry whispers in my ear.

"Oh, please." I beg, pulling on the restraints above my head as I stand blindfolded and tethered to the grid in the playroom.

The flogger's sweet sting bites into my behind.

"Please what?"

I gasp. "Please, Sir."

Harry places his hand over my ringing skin and rubs gently.

"There. There. There." His words are soft. His hand moves south and around, and his fingers slide inside me.

I groan.

"Mr. Tomlinson-Styles," he breathes, and his teeth pull on my earlobe. "You're so ready."

His fingers slide in and out of me, hitting that spot, that sweet, sweet spot again. The flogger clatters onto the floor and his hand moves over my belly and up to my chest. I tense. My nipples are sensitive.

"Hush," Harry says, cupping one, and he gently brushes his thumb over my nipple.

"Ah."

His fingers are gentle and enticing, and pleasure spirals out from my chest, down, down . . . deep down. I tilt my head back, pushing my nipple into his palm, and moan once more.

"I like to hear you," Harry whispers. His erection is at my hip, the buttons of his fly pressing into my flesh as his fingers continue their relentless assault: in, out, in, out—keeping a rhythm. "Shall I make you come like this?" he asks.

"No."

His fingers stop moving inside me.

"Really, Mr. Tomlinson-Styles? Is it up to you?" His fingers tighten around my nipple.

"No . . . No, Sir."

"That's better."

"Ah. Please," I beg.

"What do you want, Louis?"

"You. Always."

He inhales sharply.

"All of you," I add, breathless.

He eases his fingers out of me, pulls me around to face him, and removes the blindfold. I blink up into darkening green eyes that burn into mine. His index fingers trace my bottom lip, and he pushes his index and middle fingers into my mouth, letting me taste the salty tang of my arousal.

"Suck," he whispers. I swirl my tongue around and between his fingers.

Hmm . . . even I taste good on his fingers.