Fifty Shades Freed

[books4u]

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Fifty Shades Freed
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Author : E.L. James
Category : Romance


When unworldly student Anastasia Steele first encountered the driven and dazzling young entrepreneur Christian Grey it sparked a sensual affair that changed both of their lives irrevocably. Shocked, intrigued, and, ultimately, repelled by Christian’s singular erotic tastes, Ana demands a deeper commitment. Determined to keep her, Christian agrees.
Now, Ana and Christian have it all—love, passion, intimacy, wealth, and a world of possibilities for their future. But Ana knows that loving her Fifty Shades will not be easy, and that being together will pose challenges that neither of them would anticipate. Ana must somehow learn to share Christian’s opulent lifestyle without sacrificing her own identity. And Christian must overcome his compulsion to control as he wrestles with the demons of a tormented past.
Just when it seems that their strength together will eclipse any obstacle, misfortune, malice, and fate conspire to make Ana’s deepest fears turn to reality.

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Prologue​

Prologue

Mommy! Mommy! Mommy is asleep on the floor.

She has been asleep for a long time. I brush her hair because she likes that. She doesn't wake up. I shake her. Mommy! My tummy hurts. It is hungry. He isn't here. I am thirsty. In the kitchen I pull a chair to the sink and I have a drink. The water splashes over my blue sweater. Mommy is still asleep. Mommy wake up! She lies still. She is cold. I fetch my blankie and I cover Mommy and I lie down on the sticky green rug beside her. Mommy is still asleep. I have two toy cars. They race by the floor where Mommy is sleeping. I think Mommy is sick. I search

for something to eat. In the icebox I find peas. They are cold. I eat them slowly. They make my tummy hurt. I sleep beside Mommy. The peas are gone. In the icebox is something. It smells funny. I lick it and my tongue is stuck to it. I eat it slowly. It tastes nasty. I drink some water. I play with my cars and I sleep beside Mommy. Mommy is so cold and she won't wake up. The door crashes open. I cover Mommy with my blankie . He's here. Fuck. What the fuck happened here? Oh the crazy fucked up bitch. Shit. Fuck. Get out of my way, you little shit. He kicks me and I hit my head on the floor. My head hurts. He calls somebody and he goes. He locks the door. I lay down beside Mommy. My head hurts. The lady policeman is here. No. No. No. Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't touch me. I stay by Mommy. No. Stay away from me. The lady

policeman has my blankie and she grabs me. I scream. Mommy! Mommy! I want my Mommy. The

words are gone. I can't say the words. Mommy can't hear me. I have no words.

"Christian! Christian!" Her voice is urgent, pulling him from the depths of his nightmare, the depths of his despair. "I'm here. I'm here."

He wakes and she's leaning over him, grasping his shoulders, shaking him, her face etched with anguish, blue eyes wide and brimming with tears.

"Ana," His voice is a breathless whisper, the taste of fear tarnishing his mouth. "You're here."

"Of course I'm here."

"I had a dream . . ."

"I know. I'm here, I'm here."

"Ana." He breathes her name and it's a talisman against the black choking panic that courses through his body.

"Hush, I'm here." She curls around him, her limbs cocooning him, her warmth leeching into his body, forcing back the shadows, forcing back the fear. She is sunshine, she is light . . . she is his.

"Please let's not fight." His voice is hoarse as he wraps his arms around her.

"Okay."

"The vows. No obeying. I can do that. We'll find a way." The words rush out of his mouth in a tumble of emotion and confusion and anxiety.

"Yes. We will. We will always find a way," she whispers and her lips are on his, silencing him, bringing him back to the now.

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter One​

Chapter One

I stare up through gaps in the sea grass parasol at the bluest of skies, summer blue, Mediterranean blue with a contented sigh. Christian is beside me, stretched out on a sun lounger. My husbandmdash;my hot, beautiful husband, shirtless, and in cut-off jeansmdash;is reading a book predicting the collapse of the Western banking system.

By all accounts, it's a page-turner. I haven't seen him sit this still, ever. He looks more like a student than the hotshot CEO of one the top privately owned companies in the United States.

On the final leg of our honeymoon, we laze in the afternoon sun on the beach of the aptly named Beach Plaza Monte Carlo in Monaco, although we're not actually staying in this hotel. I open my eyes and gaze out at the Fair Lady anchored in the harbor. We are staying, of course, on board a luxury motor yacht.

Built in 1928, she floats majestically on the water, queen of the all the yachts in the harbor. She looks like a child's wind-up toy. Christian loves hermdash;I suspect he's tempted to buy her. Honestly, boys and their toys.

Sitting back, I listen to the Christian Grey mix on my new iPod and doze in the late afternoon sun, idly remembering his proposal. Oh his dreamy proposal in the boathouse . . . I can almost smell the scent of the meadow flowers . . .

"Can we marry tomorrow?" Christian murmurs softly in my ear. I am sprawled on his chest in the flowery bower in the boathouse, sated from our passionate lovemaking.

"Hmm."

"Is that a yes?" I hear his hopeful surprise.

"Hmm."

"A no?"

"Hmm."

I sense his grin. "Miss Steele, are you incoherent?"

I grin. "Hmm."

He laughs and hugs me tightly, kissing the top of my head. "Vegas, tomorrow, it is then."

Sleepily I raise my head. "I don't think my parents would be very happy with that."

He thrums his fingertips up and down my naked back, caressing me gently.

"What do you want, Anastasia? Vegas? A big wedding with all the trimmings? Tell me."

"Not big . . . Just friends and family." I gaze up at him moved by the quiet entreaty in his glowing gray eyes. What does he want?

"Okay." He nods. "Where?"

I shrug.

"Could we do it here?" he asks tentatively.

"Your folks' place? Would they mind?"

He snorts. "My mother would be in seventh heaven."

"Okay, here. I'm sure my mom and dad would prefer that."

He strokes my hair. Could I be any happier?

"So, we've established where, now the when."

"Surely you should ask your mother."

"Hmm." Christian's smile dips. "She can have a month, that's it. I want you too much to wait any longer."

"Christian, you have me. You've had me for a while. But okaymdash;a month it is." I kiss his chest, a soft chaste kiss, and smile up at him.

"You'll burn." Christian whispers in my ear, startling me from my doze.

"Only for you." I give him my sweetest smile. The late afternoon sun has shifted, and I am under its full glare. He smirks and in one swift move pulls my sun lounger into the shade of the parasol.

"Out of the Mediterranean sun, Mrs. Grey."

"Thank you for your altruism, Mr. Grey."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Grey, and I'm not being altruistic at all. If you burn, I won't be able to touch you." He raises an eyebrow, his eyes shining with mirth, and my heart expands. "But I suspect you know that and you're laughing at me."

"Would I?" I gasp, feigning innocence.

"Yes you would and you do. Often. It's one of the many things I love about you." He leans down and kisses me, playfully biting my lower lip.

"I was hoping you'd rub me down with more sunscreen." I pout against his lips.

"Mrs. Grey, it's a dirty job . . . but that's an offer I can't refuse. Sit up," he orders, his voice husky. I do as I'm told, and with slow meticulous strokes from strong and supple fingers, he coats me in sunscreen.

"You really are very lovely. I'm a lucky man," he murmurs as his fingers skim over my breasts, spreading the lotion.

"Yes, you are, Mr. Grey." I gaze coyly up at him through my lashes.

"Modesty becomes you, Mrs. Grey. Turn over. I want to do your back."

Smiling, I roll over, and he undoes the back strap of my hideously expensive bikini.

"How would you feel if I went topless, like the other women on the beach?" I ask.

"Displeased," he says without hesitation. "I'm not very happy about you wearing so little right now." He leans down and whispers in my ear. "Don't push your luck."

"Is that a challenge, Mr. Grey?"

"No. It's a statement of fact, Mrs. Grey."

I sigh and shake my head. Oh, Christian . . . my possessive, jealous, control freak Christian.

When he's finished, he slaps my behind.

"You'll do, wench."

His ever-present, ever-active BlackBerry buzzes. I frown and he smirks.

"My eyes only, Mrs. Grey." He raises his eyebrow in playful warning, slaps my backside once more, and sits back down on his lounger to take the call.

My inner goddess purrs. Maybe tonight we could do some kind of floor show for his eyes only. She smirks knowingly, arching a brow. I grin at the thought and drift back into my afternoon siesta.

"Mam'selle? Un Perrier pour moi, un Coca-Cola light p our ma femme, s'il vous plait. Et quelque chose a manger . . . laissez-moi voir la carte."

Hmm . . . Christian speaking fluent French wakes me. My eyelashes flutter in the glare of the sun, and I find Christian watching me while a liveried young woman walks away, her tray held aloft, her high blond ponytail swinging provocatively.

"Thirsty?" he asks.

"Yes," I mutter sleepily.

"I could watch you all day. Tired?"

I flush. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Me neither." He grins, puts down his BlackBerry, and stands. His shorts fall a little and hang . . . in that way so his swim trunks are visible beneath. Christian takes his shorts off, stepping out of his flip-flops. I lose my train of thought.

"Come for a swim with me." He holds out his hand while I look up at him, dazed. "Swim?" he says again, cocking his head to one side, an amused expression on his face. When I don't respond, he shakes his head slowly.

"I think you need a wake-up call." Suddenly he pounces and lifts me into his arms while I shriek, more from surprise than alarm.

"Christian! Put me down!" I squeal.

He chuckles. "Only in the sea, baby."

Several sunbathers on the beach watch with that bemused disinterest so typical, I now realize, of the French as Christian carries me to the sea, laughing, and wades in.

I clasp my arms around his neck. "You wouldn't." I say breathlessly, trying to stifle my giggling.

He grins. "Oh, Ana, baby, have you learned nothing in the short time we've known each other?" He kisses me, and I seize my opportunity, running my fingers through his hair, grasping two handfuls and kissing him back while invading his mouth with my tongue. He inhales sharply and leans back, eyes smoky but wary.

"I know your game," he whispers and slowly sinks into the cool, clear water, taking me with him as his lips find mine once more. The chill of the Mediterranean is soon forgotten as I wrap myself around my husband.

"I thought you wanted to swim," I murmur against his mouth.

"You're very distracting." Christian grazes his teeth along my lower lip. "But I'm not sure I want the good people of Monte Carlo to see my wife in the throes of passion."

I run my teeth along his jaw, his stubble tickly against my tongue, not caring a dime for the good people of Monte Carlo.

"Ana," he groans. He wraps my ponytail around his wrist and tugs gently, tilting my head back, exposing my throat. He trails kisses from my ear down my neck.

"Shall I take you in the sea?" he breathes.

"Yes," I whisper.

Christian pulls away and gazes down at me, his eyes warm, wanting, and amused. "Mrs. Grey, you're insatiable and so brazen. What sort of monster have I created?"

"A monster fit for you. Would you have me any other way?"

"I'll take you any way I can get you, you know that. But not right now. Not with an audience." He jerks his head toward the shore.

What?

Sure enough, several sunbathers on the beach have abandoned their indifference and now regard us with interest. Suddenly, Christian grabs me around my waist and launches me into the air, letting me fall into the water and sink beneath the waves to the soft sand below. I surface, coughing, spluttering and giggling.

"Christian!" I scold, glaring at him. I thought we were going to make love in the sea . . . and chalk up yet another first. He bites his lower lip to stifle his amusement. I splash him, and he splashes me right back.

"We have all night," he says, grinning like a fool. "Laters, baby." He dives beneath the sea and surfaces three feet away from me, then in a fluid, graceful crawl, swims away from the shore, away from me.

Gah! Playful, tantalizing Fifty! I shield my eyes from the sun as I watch him go. He's such a tease . . . what can I do to get him back? While I swim back to the shore, I contemplate my options. At the sun loungers our drinks have arrived, and I take a quick sip of Coke. Christian is a faint speck in the distance.

Hmm . . . I lie down on my front and, fumbling with the straps, take my bikini top off and toss it casually onto Christian's sun lounger. There . . . see how brazen I can be, Mr. Grey. Put this in your pipe and smoke it. I shut my eyes and let the sun warm my skin . . . warm my bones, and I drift away under its heat, my thoughts turning to my wedding day.

"You may kiss the bride," Reverend Walsh announces.

I beam at my husband.

"Finally, you're mine," he whispers and pulls me into his arms and kisses me chastely on the lips.

I am married. I am Mrs. Christian Grey. I am giddy with joy.

"You look beautiful, Ana," he murmurs and smiles, his eyes glowing with love . . . and something darker, something hot. "Don't let anyone take that dress off but me, understand?" His smile heats a hundred degrees as his fingertips trail down my cheek, igniting my blood.

Holy crap . . . How does he do this, even here with all these people staring at us?

I nod mutely. Jeez, I hope no one can hear us. Luckily Reverend Walsh has discreetly stepped back. I glance at the throng gathered in their wedding finery . . .

My mom, Ray, Bob, and the Greys are all applaudingmdash;even Kate, my maid of honor, who looks stunning in pale pink as she stands beside Christian's best man, his brother Elliot. Who knew that even Elliot could scrub up so well? All wear huge, beaming smilesmdash;except Grace, who weeps gracio

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Two​

I am suddenly very awake, my erotic dream forgotten.

"I was on my front. I must have turned over in my sleep." I whisper weakly in my defense.

His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his sun lounger and tosses it at me.

"Put this on!" he hisses.

"Christian, no one is looking."

"Trust me. They're looking. I'm sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying the show!" he snarls.

Holy shit! Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp my breasts in panic, hiding them. Ever since Charlie Tango's sabotaged demise, we are constantly shadowed by damned security.

"Yes," Christian snarls. "And some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot of you, too. Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked this time?"

Shit! The paparazzi! Fuck! As I hurriedly scramble into my top, all thumbs, the color drains from my face. I shudder. The unpleasant memory of being be-sieged by the paparazzi outside SIP after our engagement was leaked comes unwelcome to mindmdash;all part of the Christian Grey package.

"L'addition!" Christian snaps at the passing waitress. "We're going," he says to me.

"Now?"

"Yes. Now."

Oh shit, he's not to be argued with.

He pulls on his shorts, even though his trunks are dripping wet, then his gray T-shirt. The waitress is back in a moment with his credit card and the check.

Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops.

Once the waitress has left, Christian snatches up his book and BlackBerry and masks his fury behind mirrored aviator glasses. He's bristling with tension and anger. My heart sinks. Every other woman on the beach is toplessmdash;it's not that big of a crime. In fact I look odd with my top on. I sigh inwardly, my spirits sinking. I thought Christian would see the funny side . . . sort of . . . maybe if I'd stayed on my front, but his sense of humor has evaporated.

"Please don't be mad at me," I whisper, taking his book and BlackBerry from him and placing them in my backpack.

"Too late for that," he says quietlymdash;too quietly. "Come." Taking my hand, he signals up to Taylor and his two sidekicks, the French security officers Philippe and Gaston. Weirdly, they are identical twins. They have been patiently watching us and everyone else on the beach from the verandah. Why do I keep forgetting about them? How? Taylor is stony-faced behind his dark glasses. Shit, he's mad at me, too. I'm still not used to seeing him so casually dressed in shorts and a black polo shirt.

Christian leads me into the hotel, through the lobby, and out onto the street.

He remains silent, brooding and bad-tempered, and it's all my fault. Taylor and his team shadow us.

"Where are we going?" I ask tentatively, gazing up at him.

"Back to the boat." He doesn't look at me.

I have no idea of the time. I think it must be about five or six in the afternoon.

When we reach the marina, Christian leads me onto the dock where the motorboat and Jet Ski belonging to the Fair Lady are moored. As Christian unties the Jet Ski, I hand my backpack to Taylor. I glance nervously up at him, but like Christian, his expression gives nothing away. I flush, thinking about what he's seen on the beach.

"Here you go, Mrs. Grey." Taylor passes me a life vest from the motorboat, and I dutifully put it on. Why am I the only one who has to wear a life jacket?

Christian and Taylor exchange some kind of look. Jeez, is he angry with Taylor, too? Christian then checks the straps on my life jacket, cinching the middle one tightly.

"You'll do," he mutters sullenly, still not turning to look at me. Shit.

He climbs gracefully on to the Jet Ski and holds out his hand for me to join him. Grasping it tightly, I manage to throw my leg over the seat behind him without falling into the water while Taylor and the twins clamber into the motorboat. Christian kicks the Jet Ski away from the dock, and it floats gently into the marina.

"Hold on," he orders, and I put my arms around him. This is my favorite part of traveling by Jet Ski. I hug him closely, my nose nuzzling into his back, marveling that there was a time when he would not have tolerated me touching him this way. He smells good . . . of Christian and the sea. Forgive me, Christian, please?

He stiffens. "Steady," he says, his tone softer. I kiss his back and rest my cheek against him, looking back toward the dock where a few holidaymakers have gathered to watch the show.

Christian turns the key and the motor roars to life. With one twist of the accelerator, the Jet Ski bucks forward and speeds across the cool dark water, through the marina and out to the center of the harbor toward the Fair Lady. I hold him tighter. I love thismdash;it's so exciting. Every muscle in Christian's lean frame is evident as I cling to him.

Taylor pulls alongside in the motorboat. Christian glances at him then accelerates again, and we shoot forward, whipping over the top of the water like an expertly tossed pebble. Taylor shakes his head in resigned exasperation and heads straight to the yacht, while Christian shoots past the Fair Lady and heads out toward the open water.

The sea spray is splashing us, the warm wind buffeting my face and flaying my ponytail crazily around me. This is so much fun. Maybe the thrill of this ride will dispel Christian's bad mood. I can't see his face, but I know he's enjoying himselfmdash;carefree, acting his age for a change.

He steers in a huge semicircle and I study the shorelinemdash;the boats in the marina, the mosaic of yellow, white and sand-colored offices and apartments, and the craggy mountains behind. It looks so disorganizedmdash;not the regimented blocks that I am used tomdash;but so picturesque. Christian glances over his shoulder at me, and there's the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Again?" he shouts over the noise of the engine.

I nod enthusiastically. His answering grin is dazzling, and he opens the throttle and speeds around the Fair Lady and on out to sea once more . . . and I think I'm forgiven.

"You've caught the sun," Christian says mildly as he undoes my life vest. I anxiously try to assess his mood. We are on deck aboard the yacht, and one of the stewards is standing quietly nearby, waiting for my life vest. Christian passes it to him.

"Will that be all, sir?" the young man asks. I love his French accent. Christian glances at me, takes off his shades, and slips them into the collar of his T-shirt, letting them hang.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks me.

"Do I need one?"

He cocks his head to one side. "Why would you say that?" His voice is soft.

"You know why."

He frowns as if weighing something in his mind.

Oh, what is he thinking?

"Two gin and tonics, please. And some nuts and olives," he says to the steward, who nods and quickly vanishes.

"You think I'm going to punish you?" Christian's voice is silky.

"Do you want to?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I'll think of something. Maybe when you've had your drink." And it's a sensual threat. I swallow, and my inner goddess squints from her sun lounger where she's trying to catch rays with a silver reflector fanned out at her neck.

Christian's frowns once more.

"You want to be?"

How does he know? "Depends," I mutter, flushing.

"On what?" He hides his smile.

"If you want to hurt me or not."

His mouth presses into a hard line, humor forgotten. He leans forward and kisses my forehead.

"Anastasia, you're my wife, not my sub. I don't ever want to hurt you. You should know that by now. Just . . . just don't take your clothes off in public. I don't want you naked all over the tabloids. You don't want that, and I'm sure your mom and Ray don't want that either."

Oh! Ray. Holy shit, he'd have a coronary. What was I thinking? I mentally castigate myself.

The steward appears with our drinks and snacks and places them on the teak table.

"Sit," Christian commands. I do as he says and settle into a director's chair.

Christian takes a seat beside me and passes me a gin and tonic.

"Cheers, Mrs. Grey."

"Cheers, Mr. Grey." I take a welcome sip. It's thirst-quenching, cold, and delicious. When I gaze at him, he's watching me carefully, his mood unreadable. It's very frustrating . . . I don't know if he's still mad at me. I deploy my patented distraction technique.

"Who owns this boat?" I ask.

"A British knight. Sir Somebody-or-Other. His great-grandfather started a grocery store. His daughter's married to one of the Crown Princes of Europe."

Oh. "Super-rich?"

Christian looks suddenly wary. "Yes."

"Like you," I murmur.

"Yes."

Oh.

"And like you," Christian whispers and pops an olive into his mouth. I blink rapidly . . . a vision of him in his tux and silver waistcoat comes to mind . . . his eyes burning with sincerity as he gazes down at me during our wedding ceremony.

"All that is mine is now yours," he says, his voice ringing out clearly reciting his vows from memory.

All mine? Holy cow. "It's odd. Going from nothing to"mdash;I wave my hand to indicate our opulent surroundingsmdash;"to everything."

"You'll get used to it."

"I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

Taylor appears on deck. "Sir, you have a call." Christian frowns but takes the proffered BlackBerry.

"Grey," he snaps and rises from his seat to stand at the bow of the yacht.

I gaze out at the sea, tuning out his conversation with Rosmdash;I thinkmdash;his number two. I am rich . . . stinking rich. I have done nothing to earn this money . . . just married a rich man. I shudder as my mind drifts back to our conversation about prenups. It was the Sunday after his birthday, and we were seated at the kitchen table enjoying a leisurely breakfast . . . all of us. Elliot, Kate, Grace, and I were debating the merits of bacon versus sausage, while Carrick and Christian read the Sunday paper . . .

"Look at this," squeals Mia as she sets her netbook on the kitchen table in front of us. "There's a gossipy item on the Seattle Nooz website about you being engaged, Christian."

"Already?" Grace says in surprise. Then her mouth purses as some obviously unpleasant thought crosses her mind. Christian frowns.

Mia reads the column out loud. "Word has reached us here at The Nooz that Seattle's most eligible bachelor, the Christian Grey, has finally been snapped up and wedding bells are in the air. But who is the lucky, lucky lady? The Nooz is on the hunt. Bet she's reading one helluva prenup."

Mia giggles then stops abruptly as Christian glares at her. Silence descends, and the atmosphere in the Grey kitchen plunges to below zero.
</p

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Three​

I gaze in horror at the red marks all over my breasts. Hickeys! I have hickeys! I am married to one of the most respected businessmen in the United States, and he's given me goddamn hickeys. How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush.

The fact is I know exactly whymdash;Mr. Orgasmic was using his fine-motor sexing skills on me.

My subconscious peers over her half-moon specs and tuts disapprovingly, while my inner goddess slumbers on her chaise longue, out for the count. I gape at my reflection. My wrists have a red welt around them from the handcuffs. No doubt they'll bruise. I examine my anklesmdash;more welts. Holy hell, I look like I've been in some sort of accident. I gaze at myself, trying to absorb how I look. My body is so different these days. It's changed subtly since I've known him . . . I've become leaner and fitter, and my hair is glossy and well cut. My nails are manicured, my feet pedicured, my eyebrows threaded and beautifully shaped. For the first time in my life, I'm well groomedmdash;except for these hideous love bites.

I don't want to think about grooming at the moment. I'm too mad. How dare he mark me like this, like some teenager. In the short time we've been together, he's never given me hickeys. I look like hell. I know why he's done this. Damn control freak. Right! My subconscious folds her arms beneath her small bosommdash;he's gone too far this time. I stalk out of the en suite bathroom and into the walk-in closet, carefully avoiding even a glance in his direction. Slipping out of my robe, I pull on my sweatpants and a camisole. I undo the braid, pick up a hairbrush from the small vanity unit, and brush out my tangles.

"Anastasia," Christian calls and I hear his anxiety. "Are you okay?"

I ignore him. Am I okay? No, I am not okay. After what he's done to me, I doubt I'll be able to wear a swimsuit, let alone one of my ridiculously expensive bikinis, for the rest of our honeymoon. The thought is suddenly so infuriating.

How dare he? I'll give him are you okay. I seethe as fury spikes through me. I can behave like an adolescent, too! Stepping back into the bedroom, I hurl the hairbrush at him, turn, and leavemdash;though not before I see his shocked expression and his lightning reaction as he raises his arm to protect his head so that the brush bounces ineffectively off his forearm and onto the bed.

I storm out of our cabin, bolt upstairs and out on deck, fleeing toward the bow. I need some space to calm down. It's dark and the air is balmy. The warm breeze carries the smell of the Mediterranean and the scent of jasmine and bou-gainvillea from the shore. The Fair Lady glides effortlessly through the calm co-balt sea as I rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the distant shore where tiny lights wink and twinkle. I take a deep, healing breath and slowly begin to calm. I'm aware of him behind me before I hear him.

"You're mad at me," he whispers.

"No shit, Sherlock!"

"How mad?"

"Scale of one to ten, I think I'm at fifty. Apt, huh?"

"That mad." He sounds surprised and impressed at once.

"Yes. Pushed to violence mad," I say through gritted teeth.

He stays silent as I turn and scowl at him, watching me with wide and wary eyes. I know from his expression and because he's made no move to touch me that he's out of his depth.

"Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall."

He shrugs minutely. "Well, you won't take your top off again," he murmurs petulantly.

And this justifies what he's done to me? I glare at him. "I don't like you leaving marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It's a hard limit!" I hiss at him.

"I don't like you taking your clothes off in public. That's a hard limit for me," he growls.

"I think we've established that," I hiss through my teeth. "Look at me!" I pull down my camisole to reveal the top of my breasts. Christian gazes at me, his eyes not leaving my face his expression wary and uncertain. He's not used to seeing me this mad. Can't he see what he's done? Can't he see how ridiculous he is? I want to shout at him, but I refrainmdash;I don't want to push him too far. Heaven knows what he'd do. Eventually, he sighs and holds his palms up in a resigned, conciliatory gesture.

"Okay," he says his voice placating. "I get it."

Hallelujah!

"Good!"

He runs his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at me."

Finally, he looks contritemdash;using my own words back at me.

"You are such an adolescent sometimes," I scold him, mulishly, but the fight has gone out of my voice, and he knows it. He steps closer and tentatively raises his hand to tuck my hair behind my ear.

"I know," he acknowledges softly. "I have a lot to learn."

Dr. Flynn's words come back to me . . . Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He bypassed that phase in his life totally. He's channeled all his energies into succeeding in the business world, and he has beyond all expectations.

His emotional world has to play catch-up.

My heart thaws a little.

"We both do." I sigh and cautiously raise my hand, placing it over his heart.

He doesn't flinch like he used to, but he stiffens. He rests his hand over mine and smiles his shy smile.

"I've just learned that you've a good arm and a good aim, Mrs. Grey. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me."

I arch my eyebrow at him. "Target practice with Ray. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. Grey, and you'd do well to remember that."

"I will endeavor to do that, Mrs. Grey, or ensure that all potential projectile objects are nailed down and that you don't have access to a gun." He smirks.

I smirk back, narrowing my eyes. "I'm resourceful."

"That you are," he whispers and releases my hand to circle his arms around me. Pulling me into an embrace, he buries his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, and feel the tension leave his body as he nuzzles me.

"Am I forgiven?"

"Am I?"

I feel his smile. "Yes," he answers.

"Ditto."

We stand holding each other, my pique forgotten. He does smell good, adolescent or not. How can I resist him?

"Hungry?" he says after a while. I have my eyes closed and my head against his chest.

"Yes. Famished. All the . . . er . . . activity has given me an appetite. But I'm not dressed for dinner." I'm sure my sweatpants and camisole would be frowned upon in the dining room.

"You look good to me, Anastasia. Besides, it's our boat for the week. We can dress how we like. Think of it as dress down Tuesday on the Cote D'Azur. Anyway, I thought we'd eat on deck."

"Yes, I'd like that."

He kisses memdash;an earnest forgive-me kissmdash;then we wander hand in hand toward the bow where our gazpacho soup awaits.

The steward serves our crème brulée and discreetly retires.

"Why do you always braid my hair?" I ask Christian out of curiosity. We're sitting adjacent to each other at the table, my lower leg curled around his. He pauses as he's about to pick up his dessertspoon and frowns.

"I don't want your hair catching in anything," he says quietly and for a moment, he's lost in thought. "Habit, I think," he muses. Suddenly he frowns and his eyes widen, his pupils dilating with alarm.

Holy shit! What's he remembered? It's something painful, some early childhood memory, I guess. I don't want to remind him of that. Leaning over, I put my index finger over his lips.

"No, it doesn't matter. I don't need to know. I was just curious." I give him a warm, reassuring smile. His look is wary, but after a moment he visibly relaxes, his relief evident. I lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth.

"I love you," I murmur, and he smiles his heart-achingly shy smile, and I melt. "I will always love you, Christian."

"And I you," he says softly.

"In spite of my disobedience?" I raise my eyebrow.

"Because of your disobedience, Anastasia." He grins.

I ***** my spoon through the burnt sugar crust of my dessert and shake my head. Will I ever understand this man? Hmmmdash;this crème brulée is delicious.

Once the steward has cleared our dessert plates, Christian reaches for the bottle of rosé and refills my glass. I check that we're alone and ask, "What's with the no going to the bathroom thing?"

"You really want to know?" He half smiles, his eyes alight with a salacious gleam.

"Do I?" I gaze at him through my lashes as I take a sip of my wine.

"The fuller your bladder, the more intense your orgasm, Ana."

I blush. "Oh. I see." Holy cow, that explains a lot.

He grins, looking far too knowing. Will I always be on the back foot with Mr.

Sexpertise?

"Yes. Well . . ." I desperately hunt around for a change of subject. He takes pity on me.

"What do you want to do for the rest of the evening?" He cocks his head to one side and gives me his lopsided grin.

Whatever you want, Christian. Put your theory to the test again? I shrug.

"I know what I want to do," he murmurs. Grabbing his glass of wine, he rises and holds his hand out to me. "Come."

I take his hand and he leads me into the main salon.

His iPod is in the speaker dock on the dresser. He switches it on and selects a song.

"Dance with me." He pulls me into his arms.

"If you insist."

"I insist, Mrs. Grey."

A slinky, cheesy melody starts. Is this a Latin rhythm? Christian grins down at me and starts to move, sweeping me off my feet and taking me with him round the salon.

A man with a voice like warm melted caramel croons. It's a song I know but can't place. Christian dips me low, and I yelp in surprise and giggle. He smiles, his eyes filled with humor. Then he scoops me up and spins me under his arm.

"You dance so well," I say. "It's like I can dance."

He gives me a sphinxlike smile but says nothing, and I wonder if it's because he's thinking of her . . . Mrs. Robinson, the woman who taught him how to dancemdash;and how to fuck. She hasn't crossed my mind for a while. Christian has not mentioned her since his birthday, and as far as I'm aware, their business relationship is over. Reluctantly though, I have to admitmdash;she was some teacher.

He dips me low again and plants a swift kiss on my lips.

"I'd miss your love," I murmur, echoing the lyrics.

"I'd more than miss your love," he says and spins me once more. Then he sings the words softly in my ear making me swoon.

The track ends and Christian gazes down at me, his eyes dark and luminous, all humor gone, and I'm suddenly

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Four​

I'm restless. Christian has been holed up in the onboard study for over an hour. I have tried reading, watching TV, sunbathingmdash;fully dressed sunbathingmdash;but I can't relax, and I can't rid myself of this edgy feeling. After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I remove the ludicrously expensive bangle and go to find Taylor.

"Mrs. Grey," he says, startled from his Anthony Burgess novel. He's sitting in the small salon outside Christian's study.

"I'd like to go shopping."

"Yes ma'am." He stands.

"I'd like to take the Jet Ski."

His mouth drops open. "Erm." He frowns, lost for words.

"I don't want to bother Christian with this."

He represses a sigh. "Mrs. Grey . . . um . . . I don't think Mr. Grey would be very comfortable with that, and I'd like to keep my job."

Oh, for heaven's sake! I want to roll my eyes at him, but I narrow them instead, sighing heavily and expressing, I think, the right amount of frustrated indignation that I am not mistress of my own destiny. Then again, I don't want Christian mad at Taylormdash;or me, for that matter. Striding confidently past him, I knock on the study door and enter.

Christian is on his BlackBerry, leaning against the mahogany desk. He glances up. "Andrea, hold please," he mutters down the phone, his expression serious. His gaze is politely expectant. Shit. Why do I feel like I've entered the principal's office? This man had me in handcuffs yesterday. I refuse to be intimidated by him, he's my husband damn it. I square my shoulders and give him a broad smile.

"I'm going shopping. I'll take security with me."

"Sure, take one of the twins and Taylor, too," he says, and I know that whatever's happening is serious because he doesn't question me further. I stand staring at him, wondering if I can help.

"Anything else?" he asks. He wants me gone. Crap.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask. He smiles his sweet shy smile.

"No, baby, I'm good," he says. "The crew will look after me."

"Okay." I want to kiss him. Hell, I canmdash;he's my husband. Strolling purpose-fully forward, I plant a kiss on his lips, surprising him.

"Andrea, I'll call you back," he mutters. He puts the BlackBerry down on the desk behind him, pulls me into his embrace, and kisses me passionately. I am breathless when he releases me. His eyes are dark and needy.

"You're distracting me. I need to sort this, so I can get back to my honeymoon." He runs an index finger down my face and caresses my chin, tilting my face up.

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"Please don't apologize, Mrs. Grey. I love your distractions." He kisses the corner of my mouth.

"Go spend some money." He releases me.

"Will do." I smirk at him as I exit his study. My subconscious shakes her head and purses her lips. You didn't tell him you were going on the Jet Ski, she chastises me in her singsong voice. I ignore her . . . Harpy.

Taylor is patiently waiting.

"That's all cleared with high command . . . can we go?" I smile, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Taylor doesn't hide his admiring smile.

"Mrs. Grey, after you."

Taylor patiently talks me through the controls on the Jet Ski and how to ride it. He has a calm, gentle authority about him; he's a good teacher. We are in the motor launch, bobbing and weaving on the calm waters of the harbor beside the Fair Lady. Gaston looks on, his expression hidden by his shades, and one of the Fair Lady's crew is at the controls of the motor launch. Jeezmdash;three people with me, just because I want to go shopping. It's ridiculous.

Zipping up my life jacket, I give Taylor a beaming grin. He holds out his hand to assist me as I climb onto the Jet Ski.

"Fasten the strap of the ignition key around your wrist, Mrs. Grey. If you fall off, the engine will cut out automatically," he explains.

"Okay."

"Ready?'

I nod enthusiastically.

"Press the ignition when you've drifted about four feet away from the boat.

We'll follow you."

"Okay."

He pushes the Jet Ski away from the launch, and it floats gently into the main harbor. When he gives me the okay sign, I press the ignition button and the engine roars into life.

"Okay, Mrs. Grey, easy does it!" Taylor shouts. I squeeze the accelerator.

The Jet Ski lurches forward then stalls. Crap! How does Christian make it look so easy? I try again, and once again, I stall. Double crap!

"Just steady on the gas, Mrs. Grey," Taylor calls.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I mutter under my breath. I try once more, very gently squeezing the lever, and the Jet Ski lurches forwardmdash;but this time it keeps going.

Yes! It goes some more. Ha ha! It still keeps going! I want to shout and squeal in excitement, but I resist. I cruise gently away from the yacht into the main harbor.

Behind me, I hear the throaty roar of the motor launch. When I squeeze the gas further, the Jet Ski leaps forward, skating across the water. With the warm breeze in my hair and a fine sea spray on either side of me, I feel free. This rocks! No wonder Christian never lets me drive.

Rather than head for the shore and curtail the fun, I veer around to do a circuit of the stately Fair Lady. Wowmdash;this is so much fun. I ignore Taylor and the crew behind me and speed around the yacht for a second time. As I complete the circuit, I spot Christian on deck. I think he's gaping at me, though it's difficult to tell. Bravely, I lift one hand from the handlebars and wave enthusiastically at him.

He looks like he's made of stone, but finally he raises his hand in the semblance of a stiff wave. I can't work out his expression, and something tells me I don't want to, so I head to the marina, speeding across the blue water of the Mediterranean that shimmers in the late afternoon sun.

At the dock, I wait and let Taylor pull up ahead of me. His expression is bleak, and my heart sinks, though Gaston looks vaguely amused. I wonder briefly if something has happened to chill Gallic-American relations, but deep down I suspect the problem is probably me. Gaston leaps out of the motorboat and ties it to the moorings while Taylor directs me to come alongside. Very gently I ease the Jet Ski into position beside the boat and line up beside him. His expression softens a little.

"Just switch off the ignition, Mrs. Grey," he says calmly, reaching for the handlebars and holding out a hand to help me into the motorboat. I nimbly climb aboard, impressed that I don't fall in.

"Mrs. Grey," Taylor blinks nervously, his cheeks pink once more. "Mr. Grey is not entirely comfortable with you riding on the Jet Ski." He's practically squirming with embarrassment, and I realize he's had an irate call from Christian.

Oh, my poor, pathologically overprotective husband, what am I going to do with you?

I smile serenely at Taylor. "I see. Well, Taylor, Mr. Grey is not here, and if he's not entirely comfortable, I'm sure he'll give me the courtesy of telling me himself when I'm back on board."

Taylor winces. "Very good, Mrs. Grey," he says quietly, handing me my purse.

As I climb out of the boat, I catch a glimpse of his reluctant smile, and it makes me want to smile, too. I cannot believe how fond I am of Taylor, but I really don't appreciate being scolded by himmdash;he's not my father or my husband.

Crap, Christian's madmdash;and he has enough to worry about at the moment.

What was I thinking? As I stand on the dock waiting for Taylor to climb up, I feel my BlackBerry vibrate in my purse and fish it out. Sadé's "Your Love is King" is my ring tone for Christianmdash;only for Christian.

"Hi," I murmur.

"Hi," he says.

"I'll come back on the boat. Don't be mad."

I hear his small gasp of surprise. "Um . . ."

"It was fun, though," I whisper.

He sighs. "Well, far be it for me to curtail your fun, Mrs. Grey. Just be careful. Please."

Oh my! Permission to have fun! "I will. Anything you want from town?"

"Just you, back in one piece."

"I'll do my best to comply, Mr. Grey."

"I'm glad to hear it, Mrs. Grey."

"We aim to please," I respond with a giggle.

I hear his smile in his voice. "I have another callmdash;laters, baby."

"Laters, Christian."

He hangs up. Jet Ski crisis averted, I think. The car is waiting, and Taylor holds the door open for me. I wink at him as I climb in, and he shakes his head in amusement.

In the car, I fire up the e-mail on my BlackBerry.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Thank You

Date: August 17, 2011 16:55

To: Christian Grey

For not being too grouchy.

Your loving wife

xxx

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Trying to Stay Calm

Date: August 17, 2011 16:59

To: Anastasia Grey

You're welcome.

Come back in one piece.

This is not a request.

x

Christian Grey

CEO amp; Overprotective Husband, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

His response makes me smile. My control freak.

Why did I want to come shopping? I hate shopping. But deep down I know why, and I walk determinedly past Chanel, Gucci, Dior, and the other designer boutiques and eventually find the antidote to what ails me in a small, overstocked, touristy store. It's a little silver ankle bracelet with small hearts and little bells. It tinkles sweetly and it costs five euros. As soon as I've bought it, I put it on. This is memdash;this is what I like. Immediately I feel more comfortable. I don't want to lose touch with the girl who likes this, ever. Deep down I know that I'm not only overwhelmed by Christian himself but also by his wealth. Will I ever get used to it?

Taylor and Gaston follow me dutifully through the late afternoon crowds, and I soon forget they are there. I want to buy something for Christian, something to take his mind off what's happening in Seattle. But what do I buy for the man who has everything? I pause in a small modern square surrounded by stores and gaze at each one in turn. When I spy an electronics store, our visit to the gallery earlier today and our visit to the Louvre come back to me. We were looking at the Venus de Milo at the time . . . Christian's words echo in my head, "We can all appreciate the female form. We love to look whether in marble or oils or satin or film."

It gives me an idea, a daring idea. I just need help choosing the right one, and there's only one person who can help me. I wrestle my BlackBerry out of my purse and call José.

"Who . . . ?" he mumbles sleepily.

"José, it's Ana."

"Ana, hi! Where are you? You okay?" He sounds more alert now, concerned.

"I'm in Cannes in the South of France, and I'm fine."

"South of France, huh? You in some fancy hotel?"

"Um .

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Five​

I stir, instinctively reaching for Christian only to feel his absence. Shit! I wake instantly and look anxiously around the cabin. Christian is watching me from the small, upholstered armchair by the bed. Stooping down, he places something on the floor, then moves and stretches out on the bed beside me. He's dressed in his cut-offs and a gray T-shirt.

"Hey, don't panic. Everything's fine," he says, his voice gentle and soothingmdash;like he's talking to a cornered wild animal. Tenderly, he smooths the hair back from my face and I calm immediately. I see him trying and failing to hide his own concern.

"You've been so jumpy these last couple of days," he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.

"I'm okay, Christian." I give him my brightest smile because I don't want him to know how worried I am about the arson incident. The painful recollection of how I felt when Charlie Tango was sabotaged and Christian went missingmdash;the hollow emptiness, the indescribable painmdash;keeps resurfacing; the memory nagging me and gnawing at my heart. Keeping the smile fixed on my face, I try to repress it.

"Were you watching me sleep?"

"Yes," he says gazing at me steadily, studying me. "You were talking."

"Oh?" Shit! What was I saying?

"You're worried," he adds, his eyes filled with concern. Is there nothing I can keep from this man? He leans forward and kisses me between my brows.

"When you frown, a little V forms just here. It's soft to kiss. Don't worry baby, I'll look after you."

"It's not me I'm worried about, it's you," I grumble. "Who's looking after you?"

He smiles indulgently at my tone. "I'm big enough and ugly enough to look after myself. Come. Get up. There's one thing I'd like to do before we head home." He grins at me, a big boyish yes-I'm-really-only-twenty-eight grin, and swats my behind. I yelp, startled, and realize that today we're going back to Seattle and my melancholy blossoms. I don't want to leave. I've relished being with him 24-7, and I'm not ready to share him with his company and his family.

We've had a blissful honeymoon. With a few ups and downs, I admit, but that's normal for a newly married couple, surely?

But Christian cannot contain his boyish excitement, and despite my dark thoughts, it's infectious. When he rises gracefully off the bed, I follow, intrigued.

What has he got in mind?

Christian straps the key to my wrist.

"You want me to drive?"

"Yes." Christian grins. "That's not too tight?"

"It's fine. Is that why you're wearing a life jacket?" I arch my eyebrow.

"Yes."

I can't help my giggle. "Such confidence in my driving capabilities, Mr.

Grey."

"As ever, Mrs. Grey."

"Well, don't lecture me."

Christian holds his hands up in a defensive gesture, but he's smiling. "Would I dare?"

"Yes you would, and yes you do, and we can't pull over and argue on the sidewalk here."

"Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey. Are we going to stand on this platform all day debating your driving skills or are we going to have some fun?"

"Fair point well made, Mr. Grey." I grasp the handlebars of the Jet Ski and clamber on. Christian climbs on behind me and kicks us away from the yacht.

Taylor and two of the deckhands look on in amusement. Sliding forward, Christian wraps his arms around me and snuggles his thighs against mine. Yes, this is what I like about this form of transport. I insert in the ignition key and push the start button, and the engine roars into life.

"Ready?" I shout to Christian over the noise.

"As I'll ever be," he says, his mouth close to my ear.

Gently, I pull on the lever and the Jet Ski moves away from the Fair Lady, far too sedately for my liking. Christian tightens his embrace. I pull on the gas some more, and we shoot forward and I'm delighted when we don't stall.

"Whoa!" Christian calls from behind, but the exhilaration in his voice is palpable. I speed past the Fair Lady toward the open sea. We're anchored outside the Port de Plaisance de Saint-Claude-du-Var, and Nice C?te d'Azur Airport is nestled in the distance, built into the Mediterranean, or so it seems. I've heard the odd plane landing since we arrived last night. I decide we need to take a closer look.

We shoot toward it, skipping rapidly over the waves. I love this, and I'm thrilled Christian's letting me drive. All the worry I've felt over the past two days melts away as we skim toward the airport.

"Next time we do this we'll have two Jet Skis," Christian shouts. I grin because the thought of racing him is thrilling.

As we zoom over the cool blue sea toward what looks like the end of the runway, the thundering roar of a jet overhead suddenly startles me as it comes in to land. It's so loud I panic, swerving and hitting the throttle at the same time, mistaking it for a brake.

"Ana!" Christian shouts, but it's too late. I'm catapulted off the side of the Jet Ski, arms and legs flailing, taking Christian with me in a spectacular splash.

Screaming, I plunge into the crystal blue sea and swallow a nasty mouthful of the Mediterranean. The water is cold this far from the shore, but I surface within a split second, courtesy of my life jacket. Coughing and spluttering, I wipe the sea-water from my eyes and look around for Christian. He's already swimming toward me. The Jet Ski floats inoffensively a few feet away from us, its engine silent.

"You okay?" His eyes are full of panic, as he reaches me.

"Yes," I croak, but I cannot contain my elation. See, Christian? That's the worst that can happen on a Jet Ski! He pulls me into his embrace, then grabs my head between his hands, examining my face closely.

"See, that wasn't so bad!" I grin as we tread water.

Eventually he smirks at me, obviously relieved. "No, I guess it wasn't. Except I'm wet," he grumbles, but his tone is playful.

"I'm wet, too."

"I like you wet." He leers.

"Christian!" I scold, trying for faux righteous indignation. He grins, looking gorgeous, then leans in and kisses me hard. When he pulls away, I'm breathless.

His eyes are darker, hooded and heated, and I'm warm in spite of the cold water.

"Come. Let's head back. Now we have to shower. I'll drive."

We laze in the British Airways first class lounge at Heathrow in London, waiting for our connecting flight to Seattle. Christian is engrossed in the Financial Times.

I pull out his camera, wanting to take some photographs of him. He looks so sexy in his trademark white linen shirt and jeans, and his aviator specs tucked into the V of his open shirt. The flash disturbs him. He blinks up at me and smiles his shy smile.

"How are you, Mrs. Grey?" he asks.

"Sad to be going home," I murmur. "I like having you to myself."

He clasps my hand and lifting it to his lips, grazes my knuckles with a sweet kiss. "Me too."

"But?" I ask, hearing that small word unsaid at the end of his simple statement.

He frowns. "But?" he repeats disingenuously. I tilt my head to one side, gazing at him with the tell me expression I have been perfecting over the last couple of days. He sighs, putting his newspaper down. "I want this arsonist caught and out of our lives."

"Oh." That seems fair enough, but I'm surprised by his bluntness.

"I'll have Welch's balls on a platter if he lets anything like that happen again." A shiver runs down my spine at his menacing tone. He gazes at me impassively, and I don't know if he's daring me to be flippant or what. I do the only thing I can think of to ease the sudden tension between us and raise the camera and snap another photograph.

"Hey, sleepyhead, we're home," Christian murmurs.

"Hmm," I mumble, reluctant to leave my tantalizing dream of Christian and me on a picnic blanket at Kew Gardens. I am so tired. Travelling is exhausting, even in first class. We've been up for more than eighteen hours straight, I thinkmdash;in my fatigue I've lost track. I hear my door open, and Christian is leaning over me. He unbuckles my seat belt and lifts me into his arms, waking me.

"Hey, I can walk," I protest sleepily.

He snorts. "I need to carry you over the threshold."

I put my arms around his neck. "Up all thirty floors?" I give him a challenging smile.

"Mrs. Grey, I am very pleased to announce that you've put on some weight."

"What?"

He grins. "So if you don't mind, we'll use the elevator." He narrows his eyes at me, though I know he's teasing.

Taylor opens the doors to the Escala lobby and smiles. "Welcome home Mr.

Grey, Mrs. Grey."

"Thanks, Taylor," says Christian.

I give Taylor the briefest of smiles and watch him head back to the Audi where Sawyer waits at the wheel.

"What do you mean I've put on weight?" I glare at Christian. His grin broadens, and he clasps me closer to his chest as he carries me across the lobby.

"Not much," he assures me but his face darkens suddenly.

"What is it?" I try to keep the alarm in my voice under control.

"You've put on some of the weight you lost when you left me," he says quietly as he summons the elevator. A bleak expression crosses his face.

His sudden, surprising anguish tugs at my heart. "Hey." I curl my fingers around his face and into his hair, pulling him toward me. "If I hadn't gone, would you be standing here, like this, now?"

His eyes melt, the color of a storm cloud, and he smiles his shy smile, my favorite smile. "No," he says and steps into the elevator still holding me. He leans down and kisses me gently. "No, Mrs. Grey, I wouldn't. But I would know I could keep you safe, because you wouldn't defy me."

He sounds vaguely regretful . . . Shit.

"I like defying you." I test the waters.

"I know. And it's made me so . . . happy." He smiles down at me through his bemusement.

Oh, thank heavens. "Even though I'm fat?" I whisper.

He laughs. "Even though you're fat." He kisses me again, more heated this time, and I fist my fingers in his hair, holding him against me, our tongues twisting in a slow sensual dance with each other. When the elevator pings to a halt at the penthouse, we are both breathless.

"Very happy," he murmurs. His smile is darker now, his eyes hooded and full of salacious promise. He shakes his head as if to recover himself and carries me into the foyer.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Grey." He kisses me again, more chastely this time, and gives me the patented-Christian-Grey-full-gigawatt smile, his eyes dancing with joy.

"Welcome home, Mr. Grey." I beam, my heart answering his call, brimming with my own joy.

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Six​

"Do you have anything in mind?" Christian 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 moodmdash;I don't understand, but I want this, and I want it badly. A puzzled expression flits across Christian'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 fuckmdash;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 rar-ing 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, Mrs. Grey," 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, Christian 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, Anastasia?" 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. Grey."

His mouth twists with repressed humor and carnal promise. "As you wish, Mrs. Grey." 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 camisole.

"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 camisole joins my jacket on the floor.

"Here," I whisper gazing nervously at him as I remove the hair tie from around my wrist and hold it up for him. He stills, and his eyes widen briefly but give nothing away. Finally, he takes the small band.

"Turn around," he orders.

Relieved, I smile to myself and oblige immediately. Looks like we've over-come that little hurdle. He gathers my hair and braids it quickly and efficiently before fastening it with the tie. He tugs the braid, pulling my head back.

"Good thinking, Mrs. Grey," he whispers in my ear, then nips my earlobe.

"Now turn around and take your skirt off. Let it fall to the floor." He releases me and steps back as I turn to face him. Not taking my eyes off his, I unbutton the waistband of my skirt and ease the zipper down. The full skirt fans out and falls to the floor, pooling at my feet.

"Step out from your skirt," 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?

Having removed my shoes so I'm just in my lacy bra and panties, Christian sits back on his heels, gazing up at me. "You're a fine sight, Mrs. Grey." Suddenly he kneels up, grabs my hips and pulls me forward, burying his nose in the apex of my thighs. "And you smell of you and me and sex," he says inhaling sharply. "It's intoxicating." He kisses me through my lace panties, while I gasp at his wordsmdash;my insides liquefying. He's just so . . . naughty. Gathering up my clothes and sandals, he stands in one swift, graceful move, like an athlete.

"Go and stand beside the table," he says calmly, pointing with his chin. Turning, he strides over to the museum chest of wonder.

He glances back and smirks at me. "Face the wall," he commands. "That way you won't know what I'm planning. We aim to please, Mrs. Grey, and you wanted a surprise."

I turn away from him listening acutelymdash;my ears suddenly sensitive to the slightest sound. He's good at thismdash;building my expectations, stoking my desire . . . making me wait. I hear him put my shoes down and, I think, my clothes on the chest, followed by the telltale clatter of his shoes as they drop to the floor, one at a time. Hmm . . . love barefoot Christian. A moment later, I hear him pull open a drawer.

Toys! Oh, I love, love, love this anticipation. The drawer closes and my breathing spikes. How can the sound of a drawer render me a quivering mess? It makes no sense. The subtle hiss of the sound system coming to life tells me it's going to be a musical interlude. A lone piano starts, muted and soft, and mournful chords fill the room. It's not a tune I know. The piano is joined by an electric guitar. What is this? A man's voice speaks and I can just make out the words, something about not being frightened of dying.

Christian pads leisurely toward me, his bare feet slapping on the wooden floor. I sense him behind me as a woman starts to sing . . . wail . . . sing?

"Rough, you say, Mrs. Grey?" he breathes in my left ear.

"Hmm."

"You must tell me to stop if it's too much. If you say stop, I will stop immediately. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I need your promise."

I inhale sharply. Shit, what is he going to do? "I promise," I murmur breathless, recalling his words from earlier: I don't want to hurt you, but I'm more than happy to play.

"Good girl." Leaning down, he plants a kiss on my naked shoulder then hooks a finger beneath my bra strap and traces a line across my back beneath the strap. I want to moan. How does he make the slightest touch so erotic?

"Take it off," he whispers at my ear, and hurriedly I oblige and let my bra fall to the floor.

His hands skim down my back, and he hooks both of his thumbs into my panties and slides them down my legs.

"Step," he orders. Once more I do as I'm told, stepping out of my panties. He plants a kiss on my backside and stands.

"I am going to blindfold you so that everything will be more intense." He slips an airline eye mask over my eyes, and my world is plunged into the darkness. The woman singing moans incoherently . . . a haunting, heartfelt melody.

"Bend down and lie flat on the table." His words are softly spoken. "Now."

Without hesitation, I bend over the side of the table and rest my torso on the highly polished wood, my face flush against the hard surface. It's cool against my skin and it smells vaguely of beeswax with a citrus tang.

"Stretch your arms up and hold on to the edge."

Okay . . . Reaching forward, I clutch the far edge of the table. It's quite wide, so my arms are fully extended.

"If you let go, I will spank you. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to spank you, Anastasia?"

Everything south of my waist tightens deliciously. I realize I've wanted this since he threatened me during lunch, and neither the car chase nor our subsequent intimate encounter has sated this need.

"Yes." My voice is a hoarse whisper.

"Why?"

Oh . . . do I have to have a reason? Jeez. I shrug.

"Tell me," he coaxes.

"Um . . ."

And from out of nowhere he smacks me hard.

"Ah!" I cry out.

"Hush now."

He gently rubs my behind where he's hit me. Then he leans over me, his hips digging into my backside, plants a kiss between my shoulder blades and trails kisses across my back. He's taken his shirt off, so his chest hair tickles my back, and his erection presses against me through the rough fabric of his jeans.

"Open your legs," he orders.

I move my legs apart.

"Wider."

I groan and spread my legs wider.

"Good girl," he breathes. He traces his finger down my back, along the ***** between my buttocks, and over my anus, which shrinks at his touch.

"We're going to have with some fun with this," he whispers.

Fuck!

His finger continues down over my perineum and slowly slides into me.

"I see you're very wet, Anastasia. From earlier or from now?"

I groan and he eases his finger in and out of me, over and over. I push back on his hand, relishing the intrusion.

"Oh, Ana, I think it's both. I think you love being here, like this. Mine."

I domdash;oh, I do. He withdraws his finger and smacks me hard once more.

"Tell me," he whispers, his voice hoarse and urgent.

"Yes, I do," I whimper.

He smacks me hard once more so I cry out, then sticks two fingers inside me.

He withdraws them immediately, spreading the moisture up over and around my anus.

"What are you going to do?" I ask, breathless. Oh my . . . is he going to fuck my ass?

"It's not what you think," he murmurs reassuringly. "I told you, one step at time with this, baby." I hear the quiet spurt of some liquid, presumably from a tube, then his fingers are massaging me there again. Lubricating me . . . there! I squirm as my fear collides with my excitement of the unknown. He smacks me once more, lower, so he hits my sex. I groan. It feels . . . so good.

"Keep still," he says. "And don't let go."

"Ah."

"This is lube." He spreads some more on me. I try not to wriggle beneath him, but my heart is pounding, my pulse haywire, as desire and anxiety pump through me.

"I have wanted to do this to you for some time now, Ana."

I groan. And I feel something cool, metallically cool, run down my spine.

"I have a small present for you here," Christian whispers.

An image from our show-and-tell springs to mind. Holy cow. A butt plug.

Christian runs it down the parting between my buttocks.

Oh my.

"I am going to push this inside you, very slowly."

I gasp, anticipation and anxiety charging through me.

"Will it hurt?"

"No, baby. It's small. Once it's inside you, I'm going to fuck you real hard."

I practically convulse. Bending over me, he kisses me once more between my shoulder blades.

"Ready?" he whispers.

Ready? Am I ready for this?
</

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Seven​

"You think?" Christian asks, surprised.

"It's the line of his jaw." I point at the screen. "And the earrings and the shape of his shoulders. He's the right build, too. He must be wearing a wigmdash;or he's cut and dyed his hair."

"Barney, are you getting this?" Christian puts the phone down on his desk and switches to hands-free. "You seem to have studied your ex-boss in some detail, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs, sounding none too pleased. I scowl at him, but I'm saved by Barney.

"Yes, sir. I heard Mrs. Grey. I'm running face recognition software on all the digitized CCTV footage right now. See where else this assholemdash;I'm sorry ma'ammdash;this man has been within the organization."

I glance anxiously at Christian, who ignores Barney's expletive. He's studying the CCTV picture closely.

"Why would he do this?" I ask Christian.

He shrugs. "Revenge, perhaps. I don't know. You can't fathom why some people behave the way they do. I'm just angry that you ever worked so closely with him." Christian's mouth presses into a hard, thin line and he encircles my waist with his arm.

"We have the contents of his hard drive, too, sir," Barney adds.

"Yes, I remember. Do you have an address for Mr. Hyde?" Christian says sharply.

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Alert Welch."

"Sure will. I'm also going to scan the city CCTV and see if I can track his movements."

"Check what vehicle he owns."

"Sir."

"Barney can do all this?" I whisper.

Christian nods and gives me a smug smile.

"What was on his hard drive?" I whisper.

Christian's face hardens and he shakes his head. "Nothing much," he says, tight-lipped, his smile forgotten.

"Tell me."

"No."

"Was it about you, or me?"

"Me." He sighs.

"What sort of things? About your lifestyle?"

Christian shakes his head and puts his index finger against my lips to silence me. I scowl at him. But he narrows his eyes, and it's a clear warning that I should hold my tongue.

"It's a 2006 Camaro. I'll send the license details to Welch, too," Barney says excitedly from the phone.

"Good. Let me know where else that fucker has been in my building. And check this image against the one from his SIP personnel file." Christian gazes at me skeptically. "I want to be sure we have a match."

"Already done, sir, and Mrs. Grey is correct. This is Jack Hyde."

I grin. See? I can be useful. Christian rubs his hand down my back.

"Well done, Mrs. Grey." He smiles and his earlier rancor forgotten. To Barney he says, "Let me know when you've tracked all his movements at HQ. Also check out any other GEH property he may have had access to, and let the security teams know so they can make another sweep of all those buildings."

"Sir."

"Thanks, Barney." Christian hangs up.

"Well, Mrs. Grey, it seems that you are not only decorative, but useful, too."

Christian's eyes light up with wicked amusement. I know he's teasing.

"Decorative?" I scoff, teasing him back.

"Very," he says quietly, pressing a soft, sweet kiss on my lips.

"You're much more decorative than I am, Mr. Grey."

He grins and kisses me more forcefully, winding my braid around his wrist and wrapping his arms around me. When we come up for air, my heart is racing.

"Hungry?" he asks.

"No."

"I am."

"What for?"

"Wellmdash;food actually, Mrs. Grey."

"I'll make you something." I giggle.

"I love that sound."

"Of me offering you food?"

"You giggling." He kisses my hair then I stand.

"So what would you like to eat, Sir?" I ask sweetly.

He narrows his eyes. "Are you being cute, Mrs. Grey?"

"Always, Mr. Grey . . . Sir."

He smiles a sphinxlike smile. "I can still put you over my knee," he murmurs seductively.

"I know." I grin. Placing my hands on the arms of his office chair, I lean down and kiss him. "That's one of the things I love about you. But stow your twitching palmmdash;you're hungry."

He smiles his shy smile and my heart clenches. "Oh, Mrs. Grey, what am I going to do with you?"

"You're going to answer my question. What would you like to eat?"

"Something light. Surprise me," he says, mirroring my words from the playroom earlier.

"I'll see what I can do." I sashay out of his study and into the kitchen. My heart sinks when I see Mrs. Jones is there.

"Hello, Mrs. Jones."

"Mrs. Grey. Are you ready for something to eat?"

"Um . . ."

She is stirring something in a pot on the stove that smells delicious.

"I was going to make subs for Mr. Grey and me."

She pauses for a heartbeat. "Sure," she says. "Mr. Grey likes French breadmdash;there is some in the freezer cut to sub length. I'd be happy to make it for you, ma'am."

"I know. But I'd like to do this."

"I understand. I'll give you some room."

"What are you cooking?"

"This is a bolognaise sauce. It can be eaten anytime. I'll freeze it." She smiles warmly and turns the heat right down.

"Ummdash;so what does Christian like in a, um . . . sub?" I frown, struck by what I've just said. Does Mrs. Jones understand the inference?

"Mrs. Grey, you could put just about anything in a sandwich, and as long as it's on French bread, he'll eat it." We grin at each other.

"Okay, thank you." I skip to the freezer and find the French bread cut to size in Ziplock bags. I place two of them on a plate, pop them into the microwave, and set it to defrost.

Mrs. Jones has disappeared. I frown as I return to the fridge to search for in-gredients. I suppose it will be up to me to set the parameters by which Mrs. Jones and I will work together. I like the idea of cooking for Christian on the weekends.

Mrs. Jones is more than welcome to do it during the weekmdash;the last thing I'll want to do when I come home from work is cook. Hmm . . . a bit like Christian's routine with his submissives. I shake my head. I mustn't overthink this. I find some ham in the fridge, and in the crisper a perfectly ripe avocado.

As I am adding a touch of salt and lemon to the mashed avocado, Christian emerges from his study with the plans for the new house in his hands. He puts them on the breakfast bar, saunters toward me, and wraps his arms around me, kissing my neck.

"Barefoot and in the kitchen," he murmurs.

"Shouldn't that be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?" I smirk.

He stills, his whole body tensing against me. "Not yet," he declares, apprehension clear in his voice.

"No! Not yet!"

He relaxes. "On that we can agree, Mrs. Grey."

"You do want kids though, don't you?"

"Sure, yes. Eventually. But I'm not ready to share you yet." He kisses my neck again.

Oh . . . share?

"What are you making? Looks good." He kisses me behind my ear, and I know it's to distract me. A delicious tingle travels down my spine.

"Subs." I smirk, recovering my sense of humor.

He smiles against my neck and nips my earlobe. "My favorite."

I poke him with my elbow.

"Mrs. Grey, you wound me." He clutches his side as if in pain.

"Wimp," I mutter disapprovingly.

"Wimp?" he utters in disbelief. He slaps my behind, making me yelp. "Hurry up with my food, wench. And later I'll show you how wimpy I can be." He slaps me playfully once more and goes to the fridge.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" he asks.

"Please."

Christian spreads Gia's plans out over the breakfast bar. She really has some spectacular ideas.

"I love her proposal to make the entire downstairs back wall glass, but . . ."

"But?" Christian prompts.

I sigh. "I don't want to take all the character out of the house."

"Character?"

"Yes. What Gia is proposing is quite radical, but . . . well . . . I fell in love with the house as it is . . . warts and all."

Christian's brow furrows as if this is anathema to him.

"I kind of like it the way it is," I whisper. Is this going to make him mad?

He regards me steadily. "I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It's yours."

"I want you to like it, too. To be happy in it, too."

"I'll be happy wherever you are. It's that simple, Ana." His gaze holds mine.

He is utterly, utterly sincere. I blink at him as my heart expands. Holy cow, he really does love me.

"Well"mdash;I swallow, fighting the small knot of emotion that catches in my throatmdash;"I like the glass wall. Maybe we could ask her to incorporate it into the house a little more sympathetically."

Christian grins. "Sure. Whatever you want. What about the plans for upstairs and the basement?"

"I'm cool with those."

"Good."

Okay . . . I steel myself to ask the million-dollar question. "Do you want to put in a playroom?" I feel the oh-so-familiar flush creep up my face as I ask.

Christian's eyebrows shoot up.

"Do you?" he replies, surprised and amused at once.

I shrug. "Um . . . if you want."

He regards me for a moment. "Let's leave our options open for the moment.

After all, this will be a family home."

I'm surprised by the stab of disappointment I feel. I guess he's right . . . although when are we going to have a family? It could be years.

"Besides, we can improvise." He smirks.

"I like improvising," I whisper.

He grins. "There's something I want to discuss." Christian points to the master bedroom, and we start a detailed discussion on bathrooms and separate walk-in closets.

When we finish, it's nine thirty in the evening.

"Are you going back to work?" I ask as Christian rolls up the plans.

"Not if you don't want me to." He smiles. "What would you like to do?"

"We could watch TV." I don't want to read, and I don't want to go to bed . . . yet.

"Okay," Christian agrees willingly, and I follow him into the TV room.

We have sat here three, maybe four times total, and Christian usually reads a book. He's not interested in television at all. I curl up beside him on the couch, tucking my legs beneath me and resting my head against his shoulder. He switches on the flat-screen television with the remote and flicks mindlessly through the channels.

"Any specific drivel you want to see?"

"You don't like TV much, do you?" I mutter sardonical

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Eight​

Gia Matteo is a good-looking womanmdash;a tall, good-looking woman. She wears her short, salon-blond, perfectly layered and coiffed hair like a sophisticated crown. She's dressed in a pale gray pantsuit; the slacks and fitted jacket hug her lush curves. Her clothes look expensive. At the base of her throat, a solitary diamond glints, matching the single-carat studs in her ears. She is well groomedmdash;one of those women who grew up with money and breeding, though her breeding seems to be lacking this evening; her pale blue blouse is undone too far. Like mine. I flush.

"Christian. Ana." She beams, showing perfect white teeth, and holds out a manicured hand to shake first Christian's, then my hand. It means I have to release Christian's hand to reciprocate. She's a fraction shorter than Christian, but then she's in killer heels.

"Gia," Christian says politely. I smile coolly.

"You both look so well after your honeymoon," she says smoothly, her brown eyes gazing at Christian through long mascaraed lashes. Christian puts his arm around me, holding me close.

"We had a wonderful time, thank you." He brushes his lips against my temple, taking me by surprise.

See . . . he's mine. Annoyingmdash;infuriating, evenmdash;but mine. I grin. Right now I really love you, Christian Grey. I slip my hand around his waist then into his rear pocket of his pants and squeeze his behind. Gia gives us a thin smile.

"Have you managed to look over the plans?"

"We have," I murmur. I gaze up at Christian, who grins down at me, one eyebrow raised in wry amusement. Amused at what? My reaction to Gia or me squeezing his butt?

"Please," Christian says. "The plans are here." He gestures toward the dining table. Taking my hand, he leads me to it, Gia following in our wake. I finally remember my manners.

"Would you like something to drink?" I ask. "A glass of wine?"

"That would be lovely," Gia says. "Dry white if you have it."

Shit! Sauvignon blancmdash;that's a dry white, isn't it? Reluctantly leaving my husband's side, I head over to the kitchen. I hear the iPod hiss as Christian switches off the music.

"Would you like some more wine, Christian?" I call.

"Please, baby," he croons, grinning at me. Wow, he can be so swoonworthy at times yet so aggravating at others.

Reaching up to open the cupboard, I'm aware his eyes are on me, and I'm gripped by the uncanny feeling that Christian and I are putting on a show, playing a game togethermdash;but this time we're on the same side pitted against Ms. Matteo.

Does he know that she's attracted to him and is being too obvious about it? It gives me a small rush of pleasure when I realize maybe he's trying to reassure me.

Or maybe he's just sending a message loud and clear to this woman that he's taken.

Mine. Yeah, bitchmdash;mine. My inner goddess is wearing her gladiatrix outfit, and she's taking no prisoners. Smiling to myself I collect three glasses from the cupboard, take the opened bottle of sauvignon blanc from the fridge, and place them all on the breakfast bar. Gia is leaning over the table while Christian stands beside her and points at something on the plans.

"I think Ana has some opinions on the glass wall, but generally we're both pleased with the ideas you've come up with."

"Oh, I'm glad," Gia gushes, obviously relieved, and as she says it, she briefly touches his arm in a small, flirty gesture. Christian stiffens immediately but subtly . She doesn't even seem to notice.

Leave him the fuck alone, lady. He doesn't like to be touched.

Stepping casually aside so he's out of her reach, Christian turns to me.

"Thirsty here," he says.

"Coming right up." He is playing the game. She makes him uncomfortable.

Why didn't I see that before? That's why I don't like her. He's used to how women react to him. I've seen it often enough, and usually he thinks nothing of it.

Touching is something else. Well, Mrs. Grey to the rescue.

I hastily pour the wine, gather all three glasses in my hands, and hurry back to my knight in distress. Offering a glass to Gia, I deliberately position myself between them. She smiles courteously as she accepts it. I hand the second to Christian, who takes it eagerly, his expression one of amused gratitude.

"Cheers," Christian says to us both, but looking at me. Gia and I raise our glasses and answer in unison. I take a welcome sip of wine.

"Ana, you have some issues with the glass wall?" Gia asks.

"Yes. I love itmdash;don't get me wrong. But I was hoping that we could incorporate it more organically into the house. After all, I fell in love with the house as it was, and I don't want to make any radical changes."

"I see."

"I just want the design to be sympathetic, you know . . . more in keeping with the original house." I glance up at Christian, who is gazing at me thoughtfully.

"No major renovations?" he murmurs.

"No." I shake my head to emphasize my point.

"You like it as it is?"

"Mostly, yes. I always knew it just needed some TLC."

Christian's eyes glow warmly.

Gia glances at the pair of us, and her cheeks pink. "Okay," she says. "I think I get where you're coming from, Ana. How about if we retain the glass wall, but have it open out onto a larger deck that's in keeping with the Mediterranean style.

We have the stone terrace there already. We can put in pillars in matching stone, widely spaced so you'll still have the view. Add a glass roof, or tile it as per the rest of the house. It'll also make a sheltered al fresco dining and seated area."

Got to give the woman her due . . . she's good.

"Or instead of the deck, we could incorporate a wood color of your choice in-to the glass doorsmdash;that might help to keep the Mediterranean spirit," she continues.

"Like the bright blue shutters in the South of France," I murmur to Christian, who is watching me intently. He takes a sip of wine and shrugs, very noncommit-tal. Hmm. He doesn't like that idea but he doesn't overrule me, shoot me down, or make me feel stupid. God, this man is a mass of contradictions. His words from yesterday come to mind: "I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It's yours." He wants me to be happymdash;happy in everything I do. Deep down I think I know this. It's justmdash;I stop myself. Don't think about our argument now. My subconscious glares at me.

Gia is looking at Christian, waiting for him to make the decision. I watch as her pupils dilate and her glossed lips part. Her tongue darts quickly over her top lip before she takes a sip of her wine. When I turn to Christian, he's still looking at memdash;not at her at all. Yes! My inner goddess fist pumps the air. I am going to have words with Ms. Matteo.

"Ana, what do you want to do?" Christian murmurs, very clearly deferring to me.

"I like the deck idea."

"Me, too."

I turn back to Gia. Hey, lady, look at me, not him. I'm the one making the decisions on this. "I think I'd like to see revised drawings showing the bigger deck and pillars that are in keeping with the house."

Reluctantly, Gia drags her greedy eyes away from my husband and smiles down at me. Does she think I'm not going to notice?

"Sure," she acquiesces pleasantly. "Any other issues?"

Other than you eye-fucking my husband? "Christian wants to remodel the master suite," I murmur.

There's a discreet cough from the entrance to the great room. We three turn as one to find Taylor standing there.

"Taylor?" Christian asks.

"I need to confer with you on an urgent matter, Mr. Grey."

Christian clasps my shoulders from behind and addresses Gia.

"Mrs. Grey is in charge of this project. She has absolute carte blanche.

Whatever she wants, it's hers. I completely trust her instincts. She's very shrewd."

His voice alters subtly. In it I hear pride and a veiled warningmdash;a warning to Gia?

He trusts my instincts? Oh, this man's exasperating. My instincts let him run roughshod over my feelings this afternoon. I shake my head in frustration but I'm grateful that he's telling Miss Provocative-And-Unfortunately-Good-At-Her-Job just who's in charge. I caress his hand as it rests on my shoulder.

"If you'll excuse me." Christian squeezes my shoulders before following Taylor. I wonder idly what's going on.

"So . . . the master suite?" Gia asks nervously.

I gaze up at her, pausing for a moment to ensure that Christian and Taylor are out of earshot. Then calling on all my inner strength and the fact that I've been seriously piqued for the last five hours, I let her have it.

"You're right to be nervous, Gia, because right now your work on this project hangs in the balance. But I'm sure we'll be fine as long as you keep your hands off my husband."

She gasps.

"Otherwise, you're fired. Understand?" I enunciate each word clearly.

She blinks rapidly, utterly stunned. She cannot believe what I've said . I cannot believe what I've just said. But I hold my ground, gazing impassively into her widening brown eyes.

Don't back down. Don't back down! I've learned this maddening impassive expression from Christian who does impassive like no one else. I know that renovating the Greys' main residence is a prestigious project for Gia's architectur-al firmmdash;a resplendent feather in her cap. She can't lose this commission. And right now I don't give a hoot that she's Elliot's friend.

"Anamdash;Mrs. Grey . . . I-I'm so sorry. I nevermdash;" She flushes, unsure what else she can say.

"Let me be clear. My husband is not interested in you."

"Of course," she murmurs, the blood draining from her face.

"As I said, I just wanted to be clear."

"Mrs. Grey, I sincerely apologize if you think . . . I havemdash;" She stops, still floundering for something to say.

"Good. As long as we understand each other, we'll be fine. Now, I'll let you know what we have in mind for the master suite, then I'd like a run down on all the materials you intend to use. As you know, Christian and I are determined that this house should be ecologically sustainable, and I'd like to reassure him as to where all the materials are coming from and what they are."

"Of c-course," she stutters, wide-eyed and frankly a little intimidated by me.

This is a first. My inner goddess runs around the arena, waving to the frenzied crowd.

Gia pats her hair into place, and I realize this is a nervous gesture.

"The master suite?" she prompts anxiously, her voice a breathless whisper.

Now that I have the upper hand, I feel myself relax for the first time since my meeting with Christian this afternoon. I can do this. My inner goddess is celebrating her inner bit

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Nine​

When I wake before the alarm the following morning, Christian is wrapped around me like ivy, his head on my chest, his arm around my waist, and his leg between mine. And he's on my side of the bed. It's always the same, if we argue the night before, this is how he ends up, coiled around me, making me hot and bothered.

Oh, Fifty. He is so needy on some level. Who would have thought? The familiar vision of Christian as a dirty, wretched little boy haunts me. Gently, I stroke his shorter hair and my melancholy recedes. He stirs, and his sleepy eyes meet mine. He blinks a couple of times as he wakes.

"Hi," he murmurs and smiles.

"Hi." I love waking to that smile.

He nuzzles my breasts and hums appreciatively deep in his throat. His hand travels down from my waist, skimming over the cool satin of my nightgown.

"What a tempting morsel you are," he mutters. "But, tempting though you are," he glances at the alarm, "I have to get up." He stretches out, untangles himself from me, and rises.

I lie back, put my hands behind my head, and enjoy the showmdash;Christian stripping for his shower. He is perfect. I wouldn't change a hair on his head.

"Admiring the view, Mrs. Grey?" Christian arches a sardonic brow at me.

"It's a mighty fine view, Mr. Grey."

He grins and throws his pajama pants at me so they almost land on my face, but I catch them in time, giggling like a schoolgirl. With a wicked grin, he pulls the duvet off, puts one knee on the bed, grabs my ankles, and drags me toward him so that my nightdress rides up. I squeal, and he crawls up my body, trailing little kisses on my knee, my thigh . . . my . . . oh . . . Christian!

"Good morning, Mrs. Grey," Mrs. Jones greets me. I flush, embarrassed remembering her tryst with Taylor the night before.

"Good morning," I respond as she hands me a cup of tea. I sit on the bar stool beside my husband, who just looks radiant: freshly showered, his hair damp, wearing a crisp white shirt and that silver-gray tie. My favorite tie. I have fond memories of that tie.

"How are you, Mrs. Grey?" he asks, his eyes warm.

"I think you know, Mr. Grey." I gaze up at him through my lashes.

He smirks. "Eat," he orders. "You didn't eat yesterday."

Oh, bossy Fifty!

"That's because you were being an arse."

Mrs. Jones drops something that clatters into the sink, making me jump.

Christian seems oblivious to the noise. Ignoring her, he stares at me impassively.

"Arse or notmdash;eat." His tone is serious. No arguing with him.

"Okay! Picking up spoon, eating granola," I mutter like a petulant teenager. I reach for the Greek yoghurt and spoon some onto my cereal, followed by a handful of blueberries. I glance at Mrs. Jones and she catches my eye. I smile, and she responds with a warm smile of her own. She has provided me with my breakfast of choice introduced to me on our honeymoon.

"I may have to go to New York later in the week." Christian's announcement interrupts my reverie.

"Oh."

"It'll mean an overnight. I want you to come with me."

"Christian, I won't get the time off."

He gives me his oh-really-but-I'm-the-boss-stare.

I sigh. "I know you own the company, but I've been away for three weeks.

Please. How can you expect me to run the business if I'm never there? I'll be fine here. I'm assuming you'll take Taylor with you, but Sawyer and Ryan will be heremdash;" I stop, because Christian is grinning at me. "What?" I snap.

"Nothing. Just you," he says.

I frown. Is he laughing at me? Then a nasty thought pops into my mind.

"How are you getting to New York?"

"The company jet, why?"

"I just wanted to check if you were taking Charlie Tango." My voice is quiet, and a shiver runs down my spine. I remember the last time he flew his helicopter.

A wave of nausea hits me as I recall the anxious hours I spent waiting for news.

That was possibly the lowest point in my life. I notice Mrs. Jones has stilled, too. I try to dismiss the idea.

"I wouldn't fly to New York in Charlie Tango. She doesn't have that kind of range. Besides, she won't be back from the engineers for another two weeks."

Thank heavens. My smile is partly from relief, but also the knowledge that the demise of Charlie Tango has occupied a great deal of Christian's thoughts and time over the last few weeks.

"Well I'm glad she's nearly fixed, butmdash;" I stop. Can I tell him how nervous I'll be when he flies next time?

"What?" he asks as he finishes his omelet.

I shrug.

"Ana?" he says, more sternly.

"I just . . . you know. Last time you flew in her . . . I thought, we thought, you'dmdash;" I can't finish the sentence, and Christian's expression softens.

"Hey." He caresses my face with the back of his knuckles. "That was sabotage." A dark expression crosses his face, and for a moment I wonder if he knows who was responsible.

"I couldn't bear to lose you," I murmur.

"Five people have been fired because of that, Ana. It won't happen again."

"Five?"

He nods, his face serious.

Holy crap!

"That reminds me. There's a gun in your desk."

He frowns at my non sequitur and probably at my accusatory tone, though I don't mean it that way. "It's Leila's," he says finally.

"It's fully loaded."

"How do you know?" His frown deepens.

"I checked it yesterday."

He scowls at me. "I don't want you messing with guns. I hope you put the safety back on."

I blink at him, momentarily stupefied. "Christian, there's no safety on that revolver. Don't you know anything about guns?"

His eyes widen. "Um . . . no."

Taylor coughs discreetly from the entrance. Christian nods at him.

"We have to go," Christian says. He stands, distracted, and slips on his gray jacket. I follow him into the hallway.

He has Leila's gun. I am stunned by this news and briefly wonder what's happened to her. Is she still inmdash;where is it? East somewhere. New Hampshire? I can't remember.

"Good morning, Taylor," Christian says.

"Good morning, Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey." He nods at us both, but he's careful not to look me in the eye. I'm grateful, recalling my state of undress when we bumped into each other last night.

"I am just going to brush my teeth," I mutter. Christian always brushes his teeth before breakfast. I don't understand why.

"You should ask Taylor to teach you how to shoot," I say as we travel down in the elevator. Christian gazes down at me, amused.

"Should I now?" he says dryly.

"Yes."

"Anastasia, I despise guns. My mom has patched up too many victims of gun crime, and my dad is vehemently antigun. I grew up with their ethos. I support at least two gun control initiatives here in Washington."

"Oh. Does Taylor carry a gun?"

Christian's mouth thins.

"Sometimes."

"You don't approve?" I ask, as Christian ushers me out of the elevator on the ground floor.

"No," he says, tight-lipped. "Let's just say that Taylor and I hold very different views with regard to gun control." I'm with Taylor on this.

Christian holds the foyer door open for me and I head out to the car. He has not let me drive alone to SIP since he found out that Charlie Tango was sabotaged. Sawyer smiles pleasantly, holding the door open for me as Christian and I climb into the car.

"Please." I reach across and grasp Christian's hand.

"Please what?"

"Learn how to shoot."

He rolls his eyes at me. "No. End of discussion, Anastasia."

And I am a child again to be scolded. I open my mouth to say something cutting, but decide I don't want to start my workday in a bad mood. I fold my arms instead and glimpse Taylor regarding me in the rearview mirror. He looks away, concentrating on the road in front, but shakes his head a little, in obvious frustration.

Hmm . . . Christian drives him crazy, too, sometimes. The thought makes me smile, and my mood is saved.

"Where is Leila?" I ask as Christian gazes out of his window.

"I told you. She's in Connecticut with her folks." He glances at me.

"Did you check? After all, she does have long hair. It could have been her driving the Dodge."

"Yes, I checked. She's enrolled in an art school in Hamden. She started this week."

"You've spoken to her?" I whisper, all the blood draining from my face.

Christian whips his head around at the tone of my voice.

"No. Flynn has." He searches my face for a clue to my thoughts.

"I see," I murmur, relieved.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Christian sighs. "Ana. What is it?"

I shrug, not wanting to admit to my irrational jealousy.

Christian continues, "I'm keeping tabs on her, checking that she stays on her side of the continent. She's better, Ana. Flynn has referred her to a shrink in New Haven, and all the reports are very positive. She's always been interested in art, so . . ." He stops, his face still searching mine. And in that moment I suspect that he is paying for her art classes. Do I want to know? Should I ask him? I mean it's not as if he can't afford it, but why does he feel the obligation? I sigh. Christian's baggage hardly compares to Bradley Kent from biology class and his half-assed attempts to kiss me. Christian reaches for my hand.

"Don't sweat this, Anastasia," he murmurs, and I return his reassuring squeeze. I know he's doing what he thinks is right.

Midmorning I have a break in meetings. As I pick up the phone to call Kate, I notice an e-mail from Christian.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Flattery

Date: August 23, 2011 09:54

To: Anastasia Grey

Mrs. Grey

I have received three compliments on my new haircut. Compliments from my staff are new. It must be the ridiculous smile I'm wearing whenever I think about last night. You are indeed a wonderful, talented, beautiful woman.

And all mine.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I melt reading it.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Trying to concentrate here.

Date: August 23, 2011 10:48

To: Christian Grey

Mr. Grey

I am trying to work and don't want to be distracted by delicious memories.

Is now the time to confess that I used to cut Ray's hair regularly? I had no idea it would be such useful training.

And yes, I am yours and you, my dear overbearing husband who refuses to exercise his constitutional right under the second amendment to bear arms, are mine. But don't worry because I shall protect you. Always.

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP
<

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Ten​

My heart is pounding and blood thrums loudly in my eardrums; the alcohol flow-ing through my system, amplifying the sound.

"Is hemdash;" I gasp, unable to finish the sentence and gazing wide-eyed and terrified at Ryan. I can't even look at the prone figure on the floor.

"No, ma'am. Just knocked out cold."

Relief floods through me. Oh, thank God.

"And you?" I ask, gazing at Ryan. I realize I don't know his first name. He's panting as if he's run a marathon. He wipes the corner of his mouth, removing the trace of blood, and a faint bruise is forming on his cheek.

"He put up one hell of a fight, but I'm okay, Mrs. Grey." He smiles reassuringly. If I knew him better, I'd say he looked a little smug.

"And Gail? Mrs. Jones?" Oh no . . . is she okay? Has she been harmed?

"I'm here, Ana." Glancing behind me, she's in a nightdress and robe, her hair loose, her face ashen and her eyes widemdash;like mine, I imagine.

"Ryan woke me. Insisted I come in here." She points behind her into Taylor's office. "I'm fine. Are you okay?"

I nod briskly and realize she's probably just come out of the panic room built adjoining Taylor's office. Who knew we'd need it so soon? Christian had insisted on its installation shortly after our engagementmdash;and I had rolled my eyes. Now, seeing Gail standing in the doorway, I'm grateful for his foresight.

A creak from the door to the foyer distracts me. It's hanging off its hinges.

What the hell happened to that?

"Was he alone?" I ask Ryan.

"Yes, ma'am. You wouldn't be standing here if he wasn't, I can assure you."

Ryan sounds vaguely affronted.

"How did he get in?" I ask, ignoring his tone.

"Through the service elevator. He's got quite a pair, ma'am."

I stare down at Jack's slumped figure. He's wearing a uniform of sortsmdash;coveralls, I think.

"When?"

"About ten minutes ago. I caught him on the security monitor. He was wearing gloves . . . kinda strange in August. I recognized him and decided to give him access. That way I knew we'd have him. You weren't here and Gail was safe, so I figured it was now or never." Ryan looks very pleased with himself once more, and Sawyer scowls at him in disapproval.

Gloves? The thought distracts me, and I glance once more at Jack. Yes, he's wearing brown leather gloves. Creepy.

"What now?" I try to dismiss the ramifications from my mind.

"We need to secure him," Ryan replies.

"Secure him?"

"In case he wakes." Ryan glances at Sawyer.

"What do you need?" asks Mrs. Jones, stepping forward. She's recovered her composure.

"Something to restrain himmdash;cord or rope," Ryan replies.

Cable ties. I flush as memories of the previous night invade my mind. Reflexively, I rub my wrists and glance quickly down at them. No, no bruising. Good.

"I have something. Cable ties. Will they do?"

All eyes turn to me.

"Yes, ma'am. Perfect," Sawyer says, serious and straight-faced. I want the floor to swallow me up, but I turn and head for our bedroom. Sometimes you just have to brazen things out. Perhaps it's the combination of fear and alcohol making me audacious.

When I return, Mrs. Jones is surveying the mess in the foyer and Miss Prescott has joined the security team. I hand the ties to Sawyer, who slowly, and with unnecessary care, ties Hyde's hands behind his back. Mrs. Jones disappears into the kitchen and returns with a first aid kit. She takes Ryan's arm, leads him into the doorway of the great room, and starts tending to the cut above his eye. He flinches as she dabs it with an antiseptic wipe. Then I notice the Glock on the floor with a silencer attached. Holy shit! Jack was armed? Bile rises in my throat and I fight it down.

"Don't touch, Mrs. Grey," says Prescott when I bend to pick it up. Sawyer emerges from Taylor's office wearing latex gloves.

"I'll take care of that, Mrs. Grey," he says.

"It's his?" I ask.

"Yes ma'am," says Ryan, wincing once more from Mrs. Jones's ministra-tions. Holy crap. Ryan fought an armed man in my home. I shudder at the thought. Sawyer bends and gingerly picks up the Glock.

"Should you be doing that?" I ask.

"Mr. Grey would expect it ma'am." Sawyer slides the gun into a zip-lock bag then squats to pat down Jack. He pauses and partially pulls a roll of duct tape from the man's pocket. Sawyer blanches and pushes the tape back into Hyde's pocket.

Duct tape? My mind idly registers as I watch the proceedings with fascina-tion and an odd detachment. Then bile rises to my throat again as I realize the implications. Rapidly, I dismiss them from my head. Don't go there, Ana!

"Should we call the police?" I mutter, trying to hide my fear. I want Hyde out of my home, sooner rather than later.

Ryan and Sawyer glance at each other.

"I think we should call the police," I say rather more forcefully, wondering what's going on between Ryan and Sawyer.

"I've just tried Taylor, and he's not answering his cell. Maybe he's asleep."

Sawyer checks his watch. "It's one forty-five in the morning on the East Coast."

Oh no.

"Have you called Christian?" I whisper.

"No, ma'am."

"Were you calling Taylor for instructions?"

Sawyer looks momentarily embarrassed. "Yes, ma'am."

Part of me bristles. This manmdash;I glance down at Hyde againmdash;has invaded my home, and he needs to be removed by the police. But looking at the four of them, into their anxious eyes, I decide I must be missing something so I decide to call Christian. My scalp prickles. I know he's mad at memdash;really, really mad at memdash;and I falter at the thought of what he'll say. And how he'll stress because he's not here and can't be here until tomorrow evening. I know I've worried him enough this evening. Perhaps I shouldn't call him. And then it occurs to me. Shit .

What if I'd been here? I pale at the thought. Thank heavens I was out. Maybe I won't be in so much trouble after all.

"Is he okay?" I ask, pointing at Jack.

"He'll have an aching skull when he wakes," Ryan says, gazing down at Jack with contempt. "But we need paramedics here to make sure."

I reach into my purse and pull out my BlackBerry, and before I can give too much thought to the extent of Christian's anger, I dial his number. It goes straight to voice mail. He must have switched it off because he's so mad. I cannot think what to say. Turning away, I walk down the hallway a little, away from everyone.

"Hi. It's me. Please don't be mad. We've had an incident at the apartment.

But it's under control, so don't worry. No one is hurt. Call me." I hang up.

"Call the police." I tell Sawyer. He nods, takes out his cell, and makes the call.

Officer Skinner is deep in conversation with Ryan at the dining room table. Officer Walker is with Sawyer in Taylor's office. I don't know where Prescott is, perhaps in Taylor's office. Detective Clark is barking questions at me as we sit on the couch in the great room. He's tall, dark and would be good looking if it wasn't for his permanent scowl. I suspect he's been woken and dragged from his warm bed because the home of one of Seattle's most influential and wealthy businessmen has been breached.

"He used to be your boss?" Clark asks tersely.

"Yes."

I am tiredmdash;beyond tiredmdash;and I want to go to bed. I still haven't heard from Christian. On the plus side, the paramedics have removed Hyde. Mrs. Jones hands Detective Clark and me each a cup of tea.

"Thanks." Clark turns to me. "And where is Mr. Grey?"

"New York. On business. He'll be back tomorrow evening, I mean this evening." It's after midnight.

"Hyde is known to us," Detective Clark murmurs. "I'll need you to come down to the station to make a statement. But that can wait. It's late and there are a couple of reporters camped out on the sidewalk. Do you mind if I look around?"

"Of course not," I offer, relieved his questioning is finished. I shudder at the thought of the photographers outside. Well, they won't be a problem until tomorrow. I remind myself to call Mom and Ray just in case they hear anything and worry.

"Mrs. Grey, may I suggest you go to bed?" Mrs. Jones says, her voice warm and full of concern.

Looking into her warm, kind eyes, I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to cry. She reaches over and rubs my shoulder.

"We're safe now," she murmurs. "This will all look better in the morning once you've had some sleep. And Mr. Grey will be back tomorrow evening."

I glance nervously up at her, keeping my tears at bay. Christian is going to be so mad.

"Can I get you anything before you go to bed?" she asks.

I realize how hungry I am. "I'd love something to eat."

She smiles broadly. "Sandwich and some milk?"

I nod with gratitude, and she heads into the kitchen. Ryan is still with Officer Skinner. In the foyer Detective Clark is examining the mess outside the elevator.

He looks thoughtful, despite his scowl. And suddenly I feel homesickmdash;homesick for Christian. Holding my head in my hands, I wish fervently that he were here.

He'd know what to do. What an evening. I want to crawl into his lap, have him hold me and tell me that he loves me, even though I don't do as I'm toldmdash;but that won't be possible until this evening. Inwardly I roll my eyes . . . Why didn't he tell me about the increased security for everyone? What exactly is on Jack's computer? He's so frustrating but right now, I just don't care. I want my husband. I miss him.

"Here you are, Ana dear." Mrs. Jones interrupts my inner turmoil. When I glance up at her, she hands me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, her eyes twinkling. I haven't had one of these for years. I smile shyly and dig in.

When I finally crawl into bed, I curl up on Christian's side, dressed in his Tshirt. Both his pillow and his T-shirt smell of him, and as I drift off I silently wish him safe passage home . . . and a good mood.

I wake with a start. It's light and my head is aching, throbbing at my temples. Oh no. I hope I don't have a hangover. Cautiously, I open my eyes and notice the bedroom chair has moved, and Christian is sitting in it. He's wearing his tux, and the end of his bowtie is peeping out of the breast pocket. I wonder if I'm dream-ing. His left arm is draped over the chair, and in his hand he holds a cut glass tumbler of amber liquid. Brandy? Whiskey? I have no idea. One long leg is crossed at the ankle over his knee. He's wearing black socks and dress shoes. His right elbow rests on the arm of the chair, his hand up to his chin, and he's slowly running his index finger rhythmically back and fo

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Eleven​

"Have you now?" I whisper. My mouth goes drier still, my heart pounding in my chest. Why's he dressed like this? What does it mean? Is he still sulking?

"I have." His voice is kitten soft, but he's smirking as he strolls closer to me.

Holy crap he looks hotmdash;his jeans hanging that way from his hips. Oh no, I'm not going to be distracted by Mr. Sex-on-Legs. I try to gauge his mood as he stalks toward me. Angry? Playful? Lustful? Gah! It's impossible to tell.

"I like your jeans," I murmur. He grins a disarming wolfish grin that doesn't reach his eyes. Shitmdash;he's still mad. He's wearing these to distract me. He halts in front of me, and I'm seared by his intensity. He gazes down, wide unreadable eyes burning into mine. I swallow.

"I understand you have issues, Mrs. Grey," he says silkily, and he pulls something from the back pocket of his jeans. I can't tear my gaze from his, but hear him unfold a piece of paper. He holds it up, and glancing briefly in its direction, I recognize my e-mail. My gaze returns to his, as his eyes blaze bright with anger.

"Yes, I have issues," I whisper, feeling breathless. I need distance if we're going to discuss this. But before I can step back, he leans down and runs his nose along mine. My eyes flutter to a close as I welcome his unexpected, gentle touch.

"So do I," he whispers against my skin, and I open my eyes at his words. He straightens and gazes intently at me once more.

"I think I'm familiar with your issues, Christian." My voice is wry, and he narrows his eyes, suppressing the amusement that sparks there momentarily. Are we going to fight? I take a precautionary step back. I must physically distance myself from himmdash;from his smell, his look, his distracting body in those hot jeans.

He frowns as I move away.

"Why did you fly back from New York?" I whisper. Let's get this over and done with.

"You know why." His tone carries a warning ring.

"Because I went out with Kate?"

"Because you went back on your word, and you defied me, putting yourself at unnecessary risk."

"Went back on my word? Is that how you see it?" I gasp, ignoring the rest of his sentence.

"Yes."

Holy crap. Talk about overreaction! I start to roll my eyes but stop when he scowls at me. "Christian, I changed my mind," I explain slowly, patiently as if he's a child. "I'm a woman. We're renowned for it. That's what we do."

He blinks at me as if he doesn't comprehend this.

"If I had thought for one minute that you would cancel your business trip . . ."

Words fail me. I realize I don't know what to say. I am momentarily catapulted back to the argument over our vows. I never promised to obey you, Christian. But I hold my tongue, because deep down I'm glad he came back. In spite of his fury, I'm glad he's here in one piece, angry and smoldering in front of me.

"You changed your mind?" He can't hide his contemptuous disbelief.

"Yes."

"And you didn't think to call me?" He glares at me, incredulous, before continuing. "What's more, you left the security detail short here and put Ryan at risk."

Oh. I hadn't thought about that.

"I should have called, but I didn't want to worry you. If I had, I'm sure you would have forbidden me to go and I've missed Kate. I wanted to see her.

Besides, it kept me out of the way when Jack was here. Ryan shouldn't have let him in." This is so confusing. If Ryan hadn't, Jack would still be at large.

Christian's eyes gleam wildly, then shut, his face tightening as if in pain. Oh, no. He shakes his head, and before I know it he has folded me in his arms, pulling me hard against him.

"Oh Ana," he whispers as he tightens his hold on me so that I can barely breathe. "If something were to happen to youmdash;" His voice is barely a whisper.

"It didn't," I manage to say.

"But it could have. I've died a thousand deaths today thinking about what might have happened. I was so mad, Ana. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad at everyone. I can't remember being this angry . . . exceptmdash;" He stops again.

"Except?" I prompt.

"Once in your old apartment. When Leila was there."

Oh. I don't want to think about that.

"You were so cold this morning," I murmur. My voice cracks on the last word as I remember the hideous feeling of rejection in the shower. His hands move to the nape of my neck, loosening their grip on me, and I take a deep breath.

He pulls my head back.

"I don't know how to deal with this anger. I don't think I want to hurt you,"

he says, his eyes wide and wary. "This morning, I wanted to punish you, badly andmdash;" He stops, lost for words I think, or too afraid to say them.

"You were worried you'd hurt me?" I finish his sentence for him, not believing that he'd hurt me for a minute, but relieved, too. A small vicious part of me feared it was because he didn't want me anymore.

"I didn't trust myself," he says quietly.

"Christian, I know you'd never hurt me. Not physically, anyway." I clasp his head between my hands.

"Do you?" he asks, and there's skepticism in his voice.

"Yes. I knew what you said was an empty, idle threat. I know you're not going to beat the shit out of me."

"I wanted to."

"No you didn't. You just thought you did."

"I don't know if that's true," he murmurs.

"Think about it," I urge, wrapping my arms around him once more and nuzzling his chest through the black T-shirt. "About how you felt when I left. You've told me often enough what that did to you. How it altered your view of the world, of me. I know what you've given up for me. Think about how you felt about the cuff marks on our honeymoon."

He stills, and I know he's processing this information. I tighten my arms around him, my hands on his back, feeling his taut toned muscles beneath his Tshirt. Gradually, he relaxes as the tension slowly ebbs away.

Is this what's been worrying him? That he'll hurt me? Why do I have more faith in him than he has in himself? I don't understand, surely we've moved on.

He's normally so strong, so in control, but without that, he's lost. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fiftymdash;I'm sorry. He kisses my hair, I turn my face up to his, and his lips find mine, searching, taking, giving, beggingmdash;for what, I don't know. I just want to feel his mouth on mine, and I return his kiss passionately.

"You have such faith in me," he whispers after he breaks away.

"I do." He strokes my face with the back of his knuckles and the tip of his thumb, gazing intently into my eyes. His anger has gone. My Fifty is back from wherever he's been. It's good to see him. I glance shyly up and smirk.

"Besides," I whisper, "you don't have the paperwork."

His mouth drops open in amused shock, and he clutches me to his chest again.

"You're right. I don't." He laughs.

We stand in the middle of the great room, locked in our embrace, just holding each other.

"Come to bed," he whispers, after heaven knows how long.

Oh my . . .

"Christian, we need to talk."

"Later," he urges softly.

"Christian, please. Talk to me."

He sighs. "About what?"

"You know. You keep me in the dark."

"I want to protect you."

"I'm not a child."

"I am fully aware of that, Mrs. Grey." He runs his hands down my body and cups my backside. Flexing his hips, he presses his growing erection into me.

"Christian!" I scold. "Talk to me."

He sighs once more with exasperation. "What do you want to know?" His voice is resigned as he releases me. I baulkmdash; I didn't mean you had to let me go.

Taking my hand, he reaches down to pick up my e-mail from the floor.

"Lots of things," I mutter, as I let him lead me to the couch.

"Sit," he orders. Some things never change, I muse, doing as I'm told. Christian sits beside me, and leaning forward, puts his head in his hands.

Oh no. Is this too hard for him? Then he sits up, rakes both hands through his hair, and turns to me, at once expectant and reconciled to his fate.

"Ask me," he says simply.

Oh. Well, that was easier than I thought. "Why the additional security for your family?"

"Hyde was a threat to them."

"How do you know?"

"From his computer. It held personal details about me and the rest of my family. Especially Carrick."

"Carrick? Why him?"

"I don't know yet. Let's go to bed."

"Christian, tell me!"

"Tell you what?"

"You are so . . . exasperating."

"So are you." He glares at me.

"You didn't ramp up the security when you first found out there was information about your family on the computer. So what happened? Why now?"

Christian narrows his eyes at me.

"I didn't know he was going to attempt to burn down my building, ormdash;" He stops. "We thought it was an unwelcome obsession, but you know"mdash;he shrugsmdash;"when you're in the public eye, people are interested. It was random stuff: news reports on me from when I was at Harvardmdash;my rowing, my career.

Reports on Carrickmdash;following his career, following my mom's careermdash;and to some extent, Elliot and Mia.

How strange.

"You said or," I prompt.

"Or what?"

"You said, lsquo;attempt to burn down my building, or . . .' like you were going to say something else."

"Are you hungry?"

What? I frown at him, and my stomach rumbles.

"Did you eat today?" His voice is sterner and his eyes frost.

I'm betrayed by my flush.

"As I thought." His voice is clipped. "You know how I feel about you not eating. Come," he says. He stands and holds out his hand. "Let me feed you." And he shifts again . . . this time his voice full of sensual promise.

"Feed me?" I whisper as everything south of my navel liquefies. Hell. This is such a typically mercurial diversion from what we've been discussing. Is that it?

Is that all I'm getting out of him for now? Leading me over to the kitchen, Christian grabs a bar stool and hefts it around to the other side of the island.

"Sit," he says.

"Where's Mrs. Jones?" I ask, noticing her absence for the first time as I perch on the stool.

"I've given her and Taylor the night off."

Oh.

"Why?"

He gazes at me for a beat, and his arrogant amusement is back. "Because I can."

"So you're going to cook?" I give him an incredulous smirk.

"Oh, ye of little faith, Mrs. Grey. Close you

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Twelve​

"I thought you were born here in Seattle," I murmur. My mind races. What does this have to do with Jack? Christian raises the arm covering his face, reaches behind him, and grabs one of the pillows. Placing it under his head, he settles back and gazes at me with a wary expression. After a moment he shakes his head.

"No. Elliot and I were both adopted in Detroit. We moved here shortly after my adoption. Grace wanted to be on the west coast, away from the urban sprawl, and she got a job at Northwest Hospital. I have very little memory of that time.

Mia was adopted here."

"So Jack is from Detroit?"

"Yes."

Oh . . . "How do you know?"

"I ran a background check when you went to work for him."

Of course he did. "Do you have a manila file on him, too?" I smirk.

Christian's mouth twists as he hides his amusement. "I think it's pale blue."

His fingers continue to run through my hair. It's soothing.

"What does it say in his file?"

Christian blinks. Reaching down he strokes my cheek. "You really want to know?"

"Is it that bad?"

He shrugs. "I've known worse," he whispers.

No! Is he referring to himself? And the image I have of Christian as a small, dirty, fearful, lost boy comes to mind. I curl around him, holding him tighter, pulling the sheet over him, and I lay my cheek against his chest.

"What?" he asks, puzzled by my reaction.

"Nothing," I murmur.

"No, no. This works both ways, Ana. What is it?"

I glance up assessing his apprehensive expression. Resting my cheek upon his chest once more, I decide to tell him. "Sometimes I picture you as a child . . .

before you came to live with the Greys."

Christian stiffens. "I wasn't talking about me. I don't want your pity, Anastasia. That part of my life is done. Gone."

"It's not pity," I whisper, appalled. "It's sympathy and sorrowmdash;sorrow that anyone could do that to a child." I take a deep steadying breath as my stomach twists and tears prick my eyes anew. "That part of your life is not done, Christianmdash;how can you say that? You live every day with your past. You told me yourselfmdash;Fifty Shades, remember?" My voice is barely audible.

Christian snorts and runs his free hand through his hair, though he remains silent and tense beneath me.

"I know it's why you feel the need to control me. Keep me safe."

"And yet you choose to defy me," he murmurs baffled, his hand stilling in my hair.

I frown. Holy cow! Do I do that deliberately? My subconscious removes her half-moon glasses and chews the end, pursing her lips and nodding. I ignore her.

This is confusingmdash;I'm his wife, not his submissive, not some company he's acquired. I'm not the ***** whore who was his mother . . . Fuck. The thought is sickening. Dr. Flynn's words come back to me:

"Just keep doing what you're doing. Christian is head over heels . . . It's a delight to see."

That's it. I'm just doing what I've always done. Isn't that what Christian found attractive in the first place?

Oh, this man is so confusing.

"Dr. Flynn said I should give you the benefit of the doubt. I think I domdash;I'm not sure. Perhaps it's my way of bringing you into the here and nowmdash;away from your past," I whisper. "I don't know. I just can't seem to get a handle on how far you'll overreact."

He's silent for a moment. "Fucking Flynn," he mutters to himself.

"He said I should continue to behave the way I've always behaved with you."

"Did he now?" Christian says dryly.

Okay. Here goes nothing. "Christian, I know you loved your mom, and you couldn't save her. It wasn't your job to do that. But I'm not her."

He freezes again. "Don't," he whispers.

"No, listen. Please." I raise my head to stare into gray eyes that are paralyzed with fear. He's holding his breath. Oh, Christian . . . My heart constricts. "I'm not her. I'm much stronger than she was. I have you, and you're so much stronger now, and I know you love me. I love you, too," I whisper.

His brow creases as if my words were not what he expected. "Do you still love me?" he asks.

"Of course I do. Christian, I will always love you. No matter what you do to me." Is this the reassurance he wants?

He exhales and closes his eyes, placing his arm over his face again, but hugging me closer, too.

"Don't hide from me." Reaching up, I grasp his hand and pull his arm away from his face. "You've spent your life hiding. Please don't, not from me."

He looks at me with incredulity and frowns. "Hiding?"

"Yes."

He shifts suddenly, rolling over onto his side and moving me so that I am lying beside him on the bed. He reaches up, smoothes my hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear.

"You asked me earlier today if I hated you. I didn't understand why, and nowmdash;" He stops, staring down at me as if I'm a complete conundrum.

"You still think I hate you?" Now my voice is incredulous.

"No." He shakes his head. "Not now." He looks relieved. "But I need to know . . . why did you safe word, Ana?"

I blanch. What can I tell him? That he frightened me. That I didn't know if he'd stop. That I begged himmdash;and he didn't stop. That I didn't want things to es-calate . . . likemdash;like that one time in here. I shudder as I recall him whipping me with his belt.

I swallow. "Because . . . because you were so angry and distant and . . . cold.

I didn't know how far you'd go."

His expression is unreadable.

"Were you going to let me come?" My voice is barely a whisper, and I feel a blush steal over my cheeks, but I hold his gaze.

"No," he says eventually.

Holy crap. "That's . . . harsh."

His knuckle gently grazes my cheek. "But effective," he murmurs. He gazes down at me as if he's trying to see into my soul, his eyes darkening. After an eternity, he murmurs, "I'm glad you did."

"Really?" I don't understand.

His lips twist in a sad smile. "Yes. I don't want to hurt you. I got carried away." He reaches down and kisses me. "Lost in the moment." He kisses me again. "Happens a lot with you."

Oh? And for some bizarre reason the thought pleases me . . . I grin. Why does that make me happy? He grins, too.

"I don't know why you're grinning, Mrs. Grey."

"Me neither."

He wraps himself around me and places his head on my chest. We are a tangle of naked and denim-clad limbs, and satin red sheets. I stroke his back with one hand and run the fingers of my other hand through his hair. He sighs and relaxes in my arms.

"It means I can trust you . . . to stop me. I never want to hurt you," he murmurs. "I needmdash;" He halts.

"You need what?"

"I need control, Ana. Like I need you. It's the only way I can function. I can't let go of it. I can't. I've tried . . . And yet, with you . . ." He shakes his head in exasperation.

I swallow. This is the heart of our dilemmamdash;his need for control and his need for me. I refuse to believe these are mutually exclusive.

"I need you, too," I whisper, hugging him tighter. "I'll try, Christian. I'll try to be more considerate."

"I want you to need me," he murmurs.

Holy cow!

"I do!" My voice is impassioned. I need him so much. I love him so much.

"I want to look after you."

"You do. All the time. I missed you so much while you were away."

"You did?" He sounds so surprised.

"Yes, of course. I hate you going away."

I sense his smile. "You could have come with me."

"Christian, please. Let's not rehash that argument. I want to work."

He sighs as I work my fingers gently through his hair.

"I love you, Ana."

"I love you, too, Christian. I will always love you."

We both lie still in the calm, quiet after our storm. Listening to the steady beat of his heart, I drift exhausted into sleep.

I wake with a start, disorientated. Where am I? The playroom. The lights are still on, softly illuminating the bloodred walls. Christian moans again, and I realize this is what woke me.

"No," he groans. He's sprawled out beside me, his head back, his eyes screwed shut, his face contorted in anguish.

Holy shit. He's having a nightmare.

"No!" he cries out again.

"Christian, wake up." I struggle to sit up, kicking off the sheet. Kneeling beside him, I grab his shoulders and shake him as tears spring to my eyes.

"Christian, please. Wake up!"

His eyes spring open, gray and wild, his pupils enlarged with fear. He stares vacantly up at me.

"Christian, you're having a nightmare. You're home. You're safe."

He blinks, looks around frantically, and frowns as he takes in our surroundings. Then his eyes are back on mine. "Ana," he breathes, and with no preamble whatsoever he grabs my face with both hands, pulls me down onto his chest, and kisses me. Hard. His tongue invades my mouth, and he tastes of desperation and need. Barely giving me a chance to breathe, he rolls over, his lips locked to mine so that he's pressing me into the hard mattress of the four-poster. One of his hands clasps my jaw, the other spreads out on top of my head, keeping me still as his knee parts my legs and he nestles, still clothed in his jeans, between my thighs.

"Ana," he gasps as if he can't believe I'm there with him. He gazes down at me for a split second, allowing me a moment to breathe. Then his lips are on mine again, plundering my mouth, taking all I have to give. He groans loudly, flexing his hips into me. His erection sheathed in denim pushes into my soft flesh. Oh . . .

I moan, and all the pent-up sexual tension of earlier erupts, resurfacing with a vengeance, flushing my system with desire and need. Driven by his demons, he urgently kisses my face, my eyes, my cheeks, along my jaw.

"I'm here," I whisper, trying to calm him, our heated, panting breath mingling. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, as I grind my pelvis against his in welcome.

"Oh, Ana," he pants, his voice rough and low. "I need you."

"Me, too," I whisper urgently, my body desperate for his touch. I want him. I want him now. I want to heal him. I want to heal me . . . I need this. His hand reaches down and tugs on the button of his fly, fumbling momentarily, then freeing his erection.

Holy shit. I was asleep less than a minute ago.

He shifts, staring down at me for a split second, suspended above me.

"Yes. Please," I breathe, my voice hoarse and needy.

And in one swift move he buries himself inside me.

"Ah!"

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Thirteen​

We land smoothly at Sardy Field at 12:25 p.m. (MST). Stephan brings the plane to a halt a little way from the main terminal, and through the windows I spot a large VW minivan waiting for us.

"Good landing." Christian grins and shakes Stephan's hand as we get ready to file out of the jet.

"It's all about the density altitude, sir." Stephan smiles back. "Beighley here is good at math."

Christian nods at Stephan's first officer. "You nailed it, Beighley. Smooth landing."

"Thank you, sir." She grins smugly.

"Enjoy your weekend, Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey. We'll see you tomorrow."

Stephan steps aside to let us disembark and taking my hand, Christian leads me down the aircraft steps to where Taylor is waiting by the vehicle.

"Minivan?" says Christian in surprise as Taylor slides open the door.

Taylor gives him a tight, contrite smile and a slight shrug.

"Last minute, I know," Christian says, immediately placated. Taylor returns to the plane to retrieve our luggage.

"Want to make out in the back of the van?" Christian murmurs to me, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

I giggle. Who is this man, and what has he done with Mr. Unbelievably Angry of the last couple of days?

"Come on, you two. Get in," Mia says from behind us, oozing impatience beside Ethan. We climb in, stagger to the double seat at the back, and sit down. I snuggle against Christian, and he puts his arm around the back of my seat. "Comfortable?" he murmurs as Mia and Ethan take the seat in front of us.

"Yes." I smile and he kisses my forehead. And for some unfathomable reason I feel shy with him today. Why? Last night? Being with company? I can't put my finger on it.

Elliot and Kate join us last as Taylor opens the liftgate to load the luggage.

Five minutes later, we are on our way.

I gaze out the window as we head toward Aspen. The trees are green, but a whisper of the coming fall is evident here and there in the yellowing tips of the leaves. The sky is a clear crystal blue, though there are darkening clouds to the west. All around us in the distance loom the Rockies, the highest peak directly ahead. They're lush and green, and the highest are capped with snow and look like a child's drawing of mountains.

We're in the winter playground of the rich and famous. And I own a house here. I can barely believe it. And from deep within my psyche, the familiar unease that's always present when I try to wrap my head around Christian's wealth looms and taunts me, making me feel guilty. What have I done to deserve this lifestyle?

I've done nothing, nothing except fall in love.

"Have you been to Aspen before, Ana?" Ethan turns and asks, dragging me out of my reverie.

"No, first time. You?"

"Kate and I used to come here a lot when we were teens. Dad's a keen skier.

Mom less so."

"I'm hoping my husband will teach me how to ski." I glance up at my man.

"Don't bet on it," Christian mutters.

"I won't be that bad!"

"You might break your neck." His grin gone.

Oh. I don't want to argue and sour his good mood, so I change the subject.

"How long have you had this place?"

"Nearly two years. It's yours now, too, Mrs. Grey," he says softly.

"I know," I whisper. But somehow I don't feel the courage of my convictions. Leaning in, I kiss his jaw and nestle once more at his side listening to him laugh and joke with Ethan and Elliot. Mia chimes in occasionally, but Kate is quiet, and I wonder if she's brooding about Jack Hyde or something else. Then I remember. Aspen . . . Christian's house here was redesigned by Gia Matteo and rebuilt by Elliot. I wonder if that's what's preoccupying Kate. I can't ask her in front of Elliot, given his history with Gia. Does Kate even know about Gia's connection to the house? I frown wondering what could be bothering her and resolve to ask her when we're on our own.

We drive through the center of Aspen and my mood brightens as I take in the town. There are squat buildings of mostly red brick, Swiss-style chalets, and nu-merous little turn of the century houses painted in fun colors. Plenty of banks and designer shops, too, betraying the affluence of the local populace. Of course Christian fits in here.

"Why did you choose Aspen?" I ask him.

"What?" He regards me quizzically.

"To buy a place."

"Mom and Dad used to bring us here when we were kids. I learned to ski here, and I like the place. I hope you do, toomdash;otherwise we'll sell the house and choose somewhere else."

Simple as that!

He tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. "You look lovely today," he murmurs.

My cheeks heat. I'm just wearing my travelling gear: jeans and a T-shirt with a lightweight navy blue jacket. Damn it. Why does he make me feel shy?

He kisses me, a tender, sweet, loving kiss.

Taylor drives us on out of town, and we start to climb the other side of the valley, twisting along a mountain road. The higher we go, the more excited I get, and Christian tenses beside me.

"What's wrong?" I ask as we round a bend.

"I hope you like it," he says quietly. "We're here."

Taylor slows and turns through a gateway made of gray, beige, and red stones. He heads down the driveway and finally pulls up outside the impressive house. Double fronted with high-pitched roofs and built of dark wood and the same mixed stone as the gateway. It's stunningmdash;modern and stark, very much Christian's style.

"Home," he mouths at me as our guests start piling out of the van.

"Looks good."

"Come. See," he says, an excited, though anxious, gleam in his eyes as if he's about to show me his science project or something.

Mia runs up the steps to where a woman stands in the doorway. She's tiny and her raven-colored hair is dusted with gray. Mia flings her arms around her neck and hugs her tightly.

"Who's that?" I ask as Christian helps me out of the van.

"Mrs. Bentley. She lives here with her husband. They look after the place."

Holy cow . . . more staff?

Mia is making introductionsmdash;Ethan, then Kate. Elliot hugs Mrs. Bentley, too. As Taylor unloads the van, Christian takes my hand and leads me to the front door.

"Welcome back, Mr. Grey." Mrs. Bentley smiles.

"Carmella, this is my wife, Anastasia," Christian says proudly. His tongue caresses my name, making my heart stutter.

"Mrs. Grey," Mrs. Bentley nods a respectful greeting. I hold out my hand and we shake. It's no surprise to me that she's much more formal with Christian than the rest of the family.

"I hope you've had a pleasant flight. The weather is supposed to be fine all weekend, though I'm not sure." She eyes the darkening gray clouds behind us.

"Lunch is ready whenever you want." She smiles again, her dark eyes twinkling, and I warm to her immediately.

"Here." Christian grabs me and lifts me off my feet.

"What are you doing?" I squeal.

"Carrying you over yet another threshold, Mrs. Grey."

I grin as he carries me into the wide hallway, and after a brief kiss, he sets me gently down onto the hardwood floor. The interior décor is stark and reminds me of the great room at Escalamdash;all white walls, dark wood, and contemporary abstract art. The hallway opens up into a large sitting area where three off-white leather couches surround a stone fireplace that dominates the room. The only color is from the soft cushions scattered on the couches. Mia grabs Ethan's hand and drags him farther into the house. Christian narrows his eyes at their departing figures, his mouth thinning. He shakes his head then turns to me.

Kate whistles loudly. "Nice place."

I glance around to see Elliot helping Taylor with our luggage. I wonder again if she knows that Gia had a hand in this place.

"Tour?" Christian asks me, and whatever was going through his mind about Mia and Ethan has gone. He's radiating excitementmdash;or is it anxiety? It's difficult to tell.

"Sure." Once again I'm overwhelmed by the wealth. How much did this place cost? And I have contributed nothing to it. Briefly I'm transported back to the first time Christian took me to Escala. I was overwhelmed then. You got used to it, my subconscious hisses at me.

Christian frowns but takes my hand, leading me through the various rooms.

The state-of-the-art kitchen is all pale marble countertops and black cupboards.

There's an impressive wine cellar, and an expansive den downstairs, complete with large plasma screen, soft couches . . . and a billiard table. I gape at it and blush when Christian catches me.

"Fancy a game?" he asks, a wicked gleam in his eye. I shake my head, and his brow furrows once more. Taking my hand again, he leads me up to the first floor. There are four bedrooms upstairs, each with an en suite bathroom.

The master suite is something else. The bed is huge, bigger than the bed at home, and faces an enormous picture window looking out over Aspen and toward the verdant mountains.

"That's Ajax Mountain . . . or Aspen Mountain, if you like," Christian says, eyeing me warily. He's standing in the doorway, his thumbs hooked through the belt loops on his black jeans.

I nod.

"You're very quiet," he murmurs.

"It's lovely, Christian." And suddenly I'm aching to be back at Escala.

In five long strides he's standing in front of me, tugging at my chin, and releasing my lower lip from the grip of my teeth.

"What is it?" he asks, his eyes searching mine.

"You're very rich."

"Yes."

"Sometimes, it just takes me by surprise how wealthy you are."

"We are."

"We are," I mutter automatically.

"Don't stress about this, Ana, please. It's just a house."

"And what did Gia do here, exactly?"

"Gia?" He raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Yes. She remodeled this place?"

"She did. She designed the den downstairs. Elliot did the build." He rakes his hand through his hair and frowns at me. "Why are we talking about Gia?"

"Did you know she had a fling with Elliot?"

Christian gazes at me for a moment, gray eyes unreadable. "Elliot's fucked most of Seattle, Ana."

I gasp.

"Mainly women, I understand," Christian jokes. I think he's amused by my expression.

"No!"

Christian nods. "It's none of my business." He holds his palms up.

"I don't think Kate knows."

"I'm not sure he broadcasts that information. Kate seems to be holding her own."

I'm shocked. Sweet, unassuming, blond, blue-eyed Elliot? I stare in disbelief.

Christian tilts his head to one side, scrutinizing me. "This can't just be about Gia or Elliot's promisc

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Fourteen​

The attention of the entire restaurant is trained on Kate and Elliot, waiting with bated breath as one. The anticipation is unbearable. Silence stretches like a taut rubber band. The atmosphere is oppressive, apprehensive, and yet hopeful.

Kate stares blankly at Elliot as he gazes up at her, his eyes wide with longingmdash;fear even. Holy crap, Kate! Put him out of his misery. Please. Jeezmdash;he could have asked her privately.

A single tear trickles down her cheek though she remains expressionless.

Shit! Kate crying? Then she smiles, a slow disbelieving I've-found-Nirvana smile.

"Yes," she whispers, a breathy, sweet acceptancemdash;not Kate-like at all. For one nanosecond there's a pause as the entire restaurant exhales a collective sigh of relief, and then the noise is deafening. Spontaneous applause, cheering, catcalls, whooping, and suddenly I have tears rolling down my face, smudging my Barbie-meets-Joan-Jett makeup.

Oblivious to the commotion around them, the two are locked in their own little world. From his pocket Elliot produces a small box, opens it, and presents it to Kate. A ring. And from what I can see, an exquisite ring, but I need a closer look. Is that what he was doing with Gia? Choosing a ring? Shit! Oh, I'm so glad I didn't tell Kate.

Kate looks from the ring to Elliot then throws her arms around his neck. They kiss, remarkably chaste for them, and the crowd goes wild. Elliot stands and acknowledges the approbation with a surprisingly graceful bow then, wearing a huge self-satisfied grin, sits back down. I can't take my eyes off them. Taking the ring out of its box, Elliot gently slides it onto Kate's finger, and they kiss once more.

Christian squeezes my hand. I didn't realize I'd been gripping his so tightly. I release him, a little embarrassed, and he shakes his hand, mouthing, "Ow."

"Sorry. Did you know about this?" I whisper.

Christian smiles, and I know that he did. He summons the waiter. "Two bottles of the Cristal please. The 2002 if you have it."

I smirk at him.

"What?" he asks.

"Because the 2002 is so much better than the 2003," I tease.

He laughs. "To the discerning palate, Anastasia."

"You have a very discerning palate, Mr. Grey, and singular tastes." I smile.

"That I do, Mrs. Grey." He leans in close. "You taste best," he whispers, and he kisses a certain spot behind my ear, sending little shivers down my spine. I blush scarlet and fondly remember his earlier demonstration of the quite literal shortcomings of my dress.

Mia is the first up to hug Kate and Elliot, and we all take turns congratulating the happy couple. I clutch Kate in a fierce hug.

"See? He was just worried about his proposal," I whisper.

"Oh, Ana." She giggle-sobs.

"Kate, I am so happy for you. Congratulations."

Christian is behind me. He shakes Elliot's hand, thenmdash;surprising both Elliot and memdash;pulls him into a hug. I can only just catch what he says.

"Way to go, Lelliot," he murmurs. Elliot says nothing, for once stunned into silence, then cautiously returns his brother's hug.

Lelliot?

"Thanks, Christian," Elliot chokes out.

Christian gives Kate a brief, if awkward, almost arm's-length hug. I know that Christian's attitude to Kate is tolerant, at best, and ambivalent most of the time, so this is progress. Releasing her, he says so quietly only she and I can hear,

"I hope you are as happy in your marriage as I am in mine."

"Thank you, Christian. I hope so, too," she says graciously.

The waiter has returned with the champagne, which he proceeds to open with an understated flourish.

Christian holds his champagne flute aloft.

"To Kate and my dear brother, Elliotmdash;congratulations."

We all sip, well, I glug. Hmm, Cristal tastes so good, and I'm reminded of the first time I drank it at Christian's club and later, our eventful elevator journey to the first floor.

Christian frowns at me. "What are you thinking about?" he whispers.

"The first time I drank this champagne."

His frown becomes more quizzical.

"We were at your club." I prompt.

He grins. "Oh yes. I remember." He winks at me.

"Elliot, have you set a date?" Mia pipes up.

Elliot gives his sister an exasperated stare. "I've only just asked Kate, so we'll get back to you on that, 'kay?"

"Oh, make it a Christmas wedding. That would be so romantic, and you'd have no trouble remembering your anniversary." Mia claps her hands.

"I'll take that under advisement." Elliot smirks at her.

"After the champagne, can we please go clubbing?" Mia turns and gives Christian her biggest, brown-eyed look.

"I think we should ask Elliot and Kate what they'd like to do."

As one, we turn expectantly to them. Elliot shrugs and Kate turns puce. Her carnal intent toward her fiancé is so clear I nearly spit four-hundred-dollar champagne all over the table.

Zax is the most exclusive nightclub in Aspenmdash;or so says Mia. Christian strolls to the front of the short line with his arm wrapped around my waist and is immediately granted access. I wonder briefly if he owns the place. I glance at my watchmdash;eleven thirty in the evening, and I'm feeling fuzzy. The two glasses of champagne and several glasses of Pouilly-Fumé during our meal are starting to have an effect, and I'm grateful Christian has his arm around me.

"Mr. Grey, welcome back," says a very attractive, leggy blonde in black satin, hot pants, matching sleeveless shirt, and a little red bowtie. She smiles broadly, revealing perfect all-American teeth between scarlet lips that match her bowtie.

"Max will take your coat."

A young man dressed entirely in black, fortunately not satin, smiles as he offers to take my coat. His dark eyes are warm and inviting. I am the only one wearing a coatmdash;Christian insisted I take Mia's trench coat to cover my behindmdash;so Max only has to deal with me.

"Nice coat," he says, gazing at me intently.

Beside me Christian bristles and fixes Max with a back-off-now glare. He reddens and quickly hands Christian my coat check ticket.

"Let me show you to your table." Miss Satin Hot Pants flutters her eyelashes at my husband, flicks her long blond hair, and sashays through the entryway. I tighten my grip around Christian, and he gazes down at me questioningly for a moment, then smirks as we follow Miss Satin Hot Pants into the bar.

The lighting is muted, the walls are black, and the furnishings deep red.

There are booths flanking two sides of the walls and a large U-shaped bar in the middle. It's busy, given that we're here off-season, but not too crowded with the well-heeled of Aspen out for a good time on a Saturday night. The dress code is relaxed, and for the first time I feel a little over . . . um, underdressed. I'm not sure which. The floor and walls vibrate with the music pulsing from the dance floor behind the bar, and lights are whirling and flashing on and off. In my heady state, I idly think it's an epileptic's nightmare.

Satin Hot Pants leads us to a corner booth that's been roped off. It's near the bar with access to the dance floor. Clearly the best seats in the house.

"There'll be someone along to take your order shortly." She gives us her full megawatt smile and, with a final flutter of eyelashes at my husband, sashays back from where she came. Mia is already jigging from foot to foot, itching to get onto the dance floor, and Ethan takes pity on her.

"Champagne?" Christian asks as they head off holding hands toward the dance floor. Ethan gives him a thumbs-up and Mia nods enthusiastically.

Kate and Elliot sit back on the soft velvet seating, hand in hand. They look so happy, their features soft and radiant in the glow from the tea lights flickering in crystal holders on the low table. Christian gestures for me to sit, and I scoot in beside Kate. He takes a seat beside me and anxiously scans the room.

"Show me your ring." I raise my voice over the music. I will be hoarse by the time we leave. Kate beams at me and holds up her hand. The ring is exquisite, a single solitaire in a fine elaborate claw with tiny diamonds on either side. It has a retro Victorian look to it.

"It's beautiful."

She nods in delight and, reaching over, squeezes Elliot's thigh. He leans down and kisses her.

"Get a room," I call out.

Elliot grins.

A young woman with short dark hair and a mischievous smile, wearing regulation, black satin, hot pants, comes to take our order.

"What do you want to drink?" Christian asks.

"You're not picking up the tab for this, too," Elliot grumbles.

"Don't start that shit, Elliot," Christian says mildly.

Despite the objections of Kate, Elliot and Ethan, Christian has paid for the meal we just consumed. He simply waved them aside and would not hear of anyone else paying. I gaze at him lovingly. My Fifty Shades . . . always in control.

Elliot opens his mouth to say something but, wisely perhaps, closes it again.

"I'll have a beer," he says.

"Kate?" Christian asks.

"More champagne, please. The Cristal is delicious. But I'm sure Ethan would prefer a beer." She smiles sweetlymdash; yes, sweetlymdash;at Christian. She is incandescent with happiness. I feel it radiating off her, and it's a pleasure to bask in her joy.

"Ana?"

"Champagne, please."

"Bottle of Cristal, three Peronis, and a bottle of iced mineral water, six glasses," he says in his usual authoritative, no-nonsense manner.

It's kinda hot.

"Thank you, sir. Coming right up." Miss Hot Pants Number Two gives him a gracious smile, but he's spared the fluttering of eyelashes though her cheeks redden a little.

I shake my head in resignation. He's mine, girlfriend.

"What?" he asks me.

"She didn't flutter her eyelashes at you." I smirk.

"Oh. Was she supposed to?" he asks, failing to hide his mirth.

"Women usually do." My tone is ironic.

He grins. "Mrs. Grey, are you jealous?"

"Not in the slightest." I pout at him. And I realize in that moment that I am beginning to tolerate women ogling my husband. Almost. Christian clasps my hand and kisses my knuckles.

"You have nothing to be jealous of, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs close to my ear, his breath tickling me.

"I know."

"Good."

The waitress returns, and moments later I'm sipping another glass of champagne.

"Here." Christian hands me a glass of water. "Drink this."

I frown at him and see, rather than hear, his sigh.

"Three glasses of white wine at dinner and two of champagne, after a strawberry daiquiri and two glasses of Frascati at lunchtime. Drink. Now, Ana."

How does he know about the cocktails this afternoon? I scowl at him. But actua

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Fifteen​

I am too warm. Christian warm. His head is on my shoulder, and he's breathing softly on my neck while he sleeps, his legs threaded through mine, his arm around my waist. I linger on the edge of consciousness, aware that if I wake fully I'll wake him, too, and he doesn't sleep enough. Hazily my mind wanders through the events of yesterday evening. I drank too muchmdash;boy did I drink too much. I'm amazed Christian let me. I smile as I remember him putting me to bed. That was sweet, real sweet, and unexpected. I conduct a quick mental inventory of how I'm feeling. Stomach? Fine. Head? Surprisingly, fine, but fuzzy. My palm is still red from last night. Sheesh. Idly I think about Christian's palms when he's spanked me. I squirm and he wakes.

"What's wrong?" Sleepy gray eyes search mine.

"Nothing. Good morning." I run the fingers of my uninjured hand through his hair.

"Mrs. Grey, you look lovely this morning," he says, kissing my cheek, and I light up from within.

"Thank you for taking care of me last night."

"I like taking care of you. It's what I want to do," he says quietly, but his eyes betray him as triumph flares in their gray depths. It's like he's won the World Series or the Super Bowl.

Oh, my Fifty.

"You make me feel cherished."

"That's because you are," he murmurs and my heart clenches.

He clasps my hand and I wince. He releases me immediately, alarmed. "The punch?" he asks. His eyes frost as he scrutinizes mine, and his voice is laced with sudden anger.

"I slapped him. I didn't punch him."

"That fucker!"

I thought we'd dealt with this last night.

"I can't bear that he touched you."

"He didn't hurt me, he was just inappropriate. Christian, I'm okay. My hand's a little red, that's all. Surely you know what that's like?" I smirk, and his expression changes to one of amused surprise.

"Why, Mrs. Grey, I am very familiar with that." His lips twist in amusement.

"I could reacquaint myself with that feeling this minute, should you so wish."

"Oh, stow your twitching palm, Mr. Grey." I stroke his face with my injured hand, my fingers caressing his sideburn. Gently I tug the little hairs. It distracts him, and he takes my hand and plants a tender kiss in my palm. Miraculously, the pain disappears.

"Why didn't you tell me this hurt last night?"

"Um . . . I didn't really feel it last night. It's okay now."

His eyes soften and his mouth twists. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I deserve."

"That's quite a right arm you have there, Mrs. Grey."

"You'd do well to remember that, Mr. Grey."

"Oh really?" He rolls suddenly so that he's fully on top of me, pressing me into the mattress, holding my wrists above my head. He gazes down at me.

"I'd fight you any day, Mrs. Grey. In fact, subduing you in bed is a fantasy of mine." He kisses my throat.

What?

"I thought you subdued me all the time." I gasp as he nibbles my earlobe.

"Hmm . . . but I'd like some resistance," he murmurs, his nose skirting my jaw.

Resistance? I still. He stops, releasing my hands, and leans up on his elbows.

"You want me to fight you? Here?" I whisper, trying to contain my surprise.

Okaymdash;my shock. He nods, his eyes hooded but wary as he gauges my reaction.

"Now?"

He shrugs, and I see the idea flit through his mind. He gives me his shy smile and nods again, slowly.

Oh my . . . He's tense, lying on top of me, and his growing erection is digging tantalizingly into my soft, willing flesh, distracting me. What's this about? Brawling? Fantasy? Will he hurt me? My inner goddess shakes her headmdash; Never. She's got her karate suit on, and she's limbering up. Claude would be pleased.

"Is this what you meant about coming to bed angry?"

He nods once more, his eyes still wary.

Hmm . . . my Fifty wants to rumble.

"Don't bite your lip," he warns.

Compliantly, I release my lip. "I think you have me at a disadvantage, Mr.

Grey." I bat my lashes and squirm provocatively beneath him. This could be fun.

"Disadvantage?"

"Surely you've already got me where you want me?"

He smirks and presses his groin into mine once more.

"Good point well made, Mrs. Grey," he whispers and quickly kisses my lips.

Abruptly he shifts and takes me with him, rolling over so I'm straddling him. I grab his hands, pinning them to the side of his head, and ignore the protesting ache from my hand. My hair falls in a chestnut veil around us, and I move my head so that the strands tickle his face. He jerks his face away but doesn't try to stop me.

"So, you want to play rough?" I ask, skimming my crotch over his.

His mouth opens and he inhales sharply.

"Yes." He hisses, and I release him.

"Wait." I reach over for the glass of water beside the bed. Christian must have left it here. It's cool and sparklingmdash;too cool to have been sitting here for longmdash;and I wonder when he came to bed.

As I take a long draught, Christian trails his fingers in small circles up my thighs, leaving tingling skin in their wake before he cups and squeezes my naked behind. Hmm.

Taking a leaf from his impressive repertoire, I lean forward and kiss him, pouring clear cool water into his mouth.

He drinks. "Very tasty, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs, sporting a boyish and playful grin.

After placing the glass back on the bedside table, I remove his hands from my backside and pin them by his head once more.

"So I'm supposed to be unwilling?" I smirk.

"Yes."

"I'm not much of an actress."

He grins. "Try."

I lean down and kiss him chastely. "Okay, I'll play," I whisper, trailing my teeth along his jaw, feeling his prickly stubble beneath my teeth and my tongue.

Christian makes a low, sexy sound in his throat and moves, tossing me onto the bed beside him. I cry out in surprise, then he's on top of me, and I start to struggle as he makes a grab for my hands. Roughly, I place my hands on his chest, pushing with all my might, trying to move him, while he endeavors to pry my legs apart with his knee.

I continue pushing at his chestmdash; Jeez he's heavymdash;but he doesn't flinch, doesn't freeze as he once might have. He's enjoying this! He attempts to grab my wrists, and finally captures one, despite my valiant attempts to twist it free. It's my sore hand, so I surrender it to him, but grab his hair with my other hand and pull hard.

"Ah!" He yanks his head free and gazes down at me, his eyes wild and carnal.

"Savage," he whispers, his voice laced with salacious delight.

In response to this one whispered word, my libido explodes, and I stop acting. Again I struggle in vain to wrest my hand out of his hold. At the same time I try to hook my ankles together, and attempt to buck him off me. He's too heavy.

Gah! It's frustrating and hot.

With a groan, Christian captures my other hand. He holds both my wrists in his left hand, and his right travels leisurelymdash;insolently, almostmdash;down my body, fondling and feeling as it goes, tweaking my nipple on the way.

I yelp in response, pleasure spiking short, sharp, and hot from my nipple to my groin. I make another fruitless attempt to buck him off, but he's just too on me.

When he tries to kiss me I jerk my head to the side so he can't. Promptly his insolent hand moves from the hem of my T-shirt up to my chin, holding me in place as he runs his teeth along my jaw, mirroring what I did to him earlier.

"Oh, baby, fight me," he murmurs.

I twist and writhe, trying to free myself from his merciless hold, but it's hopeless. He's much stronger than me. He's gently biting at my lower lip as his tongue tries to invade my mouth. And I realize I don't want to resist him. I want himmdash;now, like I always do. I stop fighting and fervently return his kiss. I don't care that I haven't brushed my teeth. I don't care that we're supposed to be playing some game. Desire, hot and hard, surges through my bloodstream, and I'm lost. Unhooking my ankles, I wrap my legs around his hips and use my heels to push his pajamas down over his behind.

"Ana," he breathes, and he kisses me everywhere. And we're no longer wrestling, but all hands and tongues and touch and taste, quick and urgent.

"Skin," he murmurs hoarsely, his breathing labored. He drags me up and tugs off my T-shirt in one swift move.

"You," I whisper while I'm upright, because it's all I can think of to say. I seize the front his pajamas and yank them down, freeing his erection. I grab and squeeze him. He's hard. The air whistles through his teeth as he inhales sharply, and I revel in his response.

"Fuck," he murmurs. He leans back, lifting my thighs, tipping me down onto the bed as I pull and squeeze him tightly, running my hand up and down him.

Feeling a bead of moisture on his tip, I swirl it around with my thumb. As he lowers me to the mattress, I slip my thumb in my mouth to taste him while his hands travel up my body, caressing my hips, my stomach, my breasts.

"Taste good?" he asks as he hovers over me, eyes blazing.

"Yes. Here." I push my thumb into his mouth, and he sucks and bites the pad.

I groan, grasp his head, and pull him down to me so I can kiss him. Wrapping my legs around him, I push his pajamas off his legs with my feet, then cradle him with my legs around his waist. His lips trail from across my jaw to my chin, nipping softly.

"You're so beautiful." He dips his head lower to the base of my throat. "Such beautiful skin." His breath is soft as his lips glide down to my breasts.

What? I am panting, confusedmdash;wanting, now waiting. I thought this was going to be quick.

"Christian." I hear the quiet plea in my voice and reach down, fisting my hands in his hair.

"Hush," he whispers and circles my nipple with his tongue before pulling it into his mouth and tugging hard.

"Ah!" I moan and squirm, tilting my pelvis up to tempt him. He grins against my skin and turns his attention to my other breast.

"Impatient, Mrs. Grey?" He then sucks hard on my nipple. I tug his hair. He groans and peers up. "I'll restrain you," he warns.

"Take me," I beg.

"All in good time," he murmurs against my skin. His hand travels down at an infuriatingly slow speed to my hip as he worships my nipple with his mouth. I moan loudly, my breath short and shallow, and I try once more to entice him into me, rocking against him. He's thick and heavy and close, but he's taking his own sweet leisurely time with me.

Fuck this. I struggle and twist, determined to buck him off me again.

"What themdash;"

Grabbing my hands, Christian pins them down on t

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Sixteen​

"Do you want me to send her away?" Hannah asks, alarmed at my expression.

"Um, no. Where is she?"

"In reception. She's not alone. She's accompanied by another young woman."

Oh!

"And Miss Prescott wants to talk to you," Hannah adds.

I'm sure she does. "Send her in."

Hannah stands aside, and Prescott enters my office. She's on a mission, bristling with professional efficiency.

"Give me a moment, Hannah. Prescott, take a seat."

Hannah closes the door, leaving Prescott and me alone.

"Mrs. Grey, Leila Williams is on your proscribed list of visitors."

"What?" I have a proscribed list?

"On our watch list, ma'am. Taylor and Welch have been quite specific about not letting her come into contact with you."

I frown, not understanding. "Is she dangerous?"

"I can't say, ma'am."

"Why do I even know that she's here?"

Prescott swallows and for a moment looks awkward. "I was on a restroom break. She came in, spoke directly to Claire, and Claire called Hannah."

"Oh. I see." I realize that even Prescott has to pee, and I laugh. "Oh dear."

"Yes ma'am." Prescott gives me an embarrassed grin, and it's the first time I've seen a chink in her armor. She has a lovely smile.

"I need to talk to Claire about protocol, again," she says, her tone weary.

"Sure. Does Taylor know she's here?" I cross my fingers unconsciously, hoping she hasn't told Christian.

"I left a brief voice message for him."

Oh. "Then I only have a short time. I'd like to know what she wants."

Prescott gazes at me for a moment. "I must advise against it, ma'am."

"She's here to see me for a reason."

"I'm supposed to prevent that, ma'am." Her voice is soft but resigned.

"I really want to hear what she has to say." My tone is more forceful than I intend.

Prescott stifles her sigh. "I'd like to search them both before you do."

"Okay. Can you do that?"

"I'm here to protect you, Mrs. Grey, so yes, I can. I'd also like to stay with you while you talk."

"Okay." I'll grant her this concession. Besides, last time I met Leila, she was armed. "Go ahead."

Prescott rises.

"Hannah," I call.

Hannah opens the door too quickly. She must have been hovering outside.

"Can you check to see if the meeting room is free, please?"

"I already have, and it's good to go."

"Prescott, can you search them in there? Is it private enough?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll be there in five minutes, then. Hannah, show Leila Williams and whomever she's with into the meeting room."

"Will do." Hannah looks anxiously from Prescott to me. "Shall I cancel your next meeting? It's at four, but it's across town."

"Yes," I murmur, distracted. Hannah nods then leaves.

What the hell does Leila want? I don't think she's here to do me any harm.

She didn't in the past when she had the opportunity. Christian is going to go nuts.

My subconscious purses her lips, primly crosses her legs, and nods. I need to tell him that I am doing this. I type a quick e-mail, then pause, checking the time. I feel a momentary pang of regret. We've been getting along so well since Aspen. I press send.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Visitors

Date: September 6, 2011 15:27

To: Christian Grey

Christian

Leila is here to see me. I will see her with Prescott.

I'll use my newly acquired slapping skills with my now healed hand, should I need to.

Try, and I mean try, not to worry.

I am a big girl.

Will call once we've spoken.

A x

Anastasia Grey

Commissioning Editor, SIP

Hurriedly, I hide my BlackBerry in my desk drawer. I stand, smoothing my gray pencil skirt over my hips, pinch my cheeks to give them some color, and undo the next button on my gray silk blouse. Okay, I'm ready. After taking a deep breath, I head out of my office to meet the infamous Leila ignoring "Your Love is King" humming gently from inside my desk.

Leila looks much better. More than bettermdash;she's very attractive. There's a rosy bloom to her cheeks, and her brown eyes are bright, her hair clean and shiny.

She's dressed in a pale pink blouse and white pants. She stands as soon as I enter the meeting room, as does her friendmdash;another dark-haired young woman with soft brown eyes, the color of brandy. Prescott hovers in the corner, not taking her eyes off Leila.

"Mrs. Grey, thank you so much for seeing me." Leila's voice is soft but clear.

"Um . . . Sorry about the security," I mutter because I cannot think what else to say. I wave a hand distractedly at Prescott.

"This is my friend, Susi."

"Hi." I nod at Susi. She looks like Leila. She looks like me. Oh, no. Another one.

"Yes," Leila says, as if reading my thoughts. "Susi knows Mr. Grey, too."

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I give her a polite smile.

"Please, sit," I murmur.

There's a knock on the door. It's Hannah. I motion her in, knowing full well why she's disturbing us.

"Sorry to interrupt, Ana. I have Mr. Grey on the line?"

"Tell him I'm busy."

"He was quite insistent," she says fearfully.

"I am sure he was. Would you apologize to him, and say I'll call him back very shortly?"

Hannah hesitates.

"Hannah, please."

She nods and scurries out of the room. I turn back to the two women sitting in front of me. They are both staring at me in awe. It's uncomfortable.

"What can I do for you?" I ask.

Susi speaks. "I know this is all kinds of weird, but I wanted to meet you, too.

The woman who captured Chrismdash;"

I hold up my hand, stopping her in mid-sentence. I do not want to hear this.

"Um . . . I get the picture," I mutter.

"We call ourselves the sub club." She grins at me, her eyes shining with mirth.

Oh my God.

Leila gasps and gapes at Susi, at once amused and appalled. Susi winces. I suspect Leila's kicked her under the table.

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I glance nervously at Prescott, who remains impassive, her eyes never leaving Leila.

Susi seems to remember herself. She blushes, then nods and stands. "I'll wait in reception. This is Lulu's show." I can tell she's embarrassed.

Lulu?

"You'll be okay?" she asks Leila, who smiles up at her. Susi gives me a large, open, genuine smile and exits the room.

Susi and Christian . . . it's not a thought I wish to dwell on. Prescott takes her phone out of her pocket and answers it. I didn't hear it ring.

"Mr. Grey," she says. Leila and I turn to look at her. Prescott closes her eyes as if in pain.

"Yes, sir," she says, stepping forward, and hands me the phone.

I roll my eyes. "Christian," I murmur, trying to contain my exasperation. I stand and stride briskly out of the room.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" he shouts. He's seething.

"Don't shout at me."

"What do you mean don't shout at you?" he shouts, louder this time. "I gave specific instructions which you have completely disregardedmdash;again. Hell, Ana, I am fucking furious."

"When you are calmer, we will talk about this."

"Don't you hang up on me," he hisses.

"Good-bye, Christian." I hang up and switch off Prescott's phone.

Holy shit. I don't have long with Leila. Taking a deep breath, I reenter the meeting room. Both Leila and Prescott look up at me expectantly, and I hand Prescott her phone.

"Where were we?" I ask Leila as I sit back down opposite her. Her eyes widen slightly.

Yes. Apparently, I handle him, I want to say to her. But I don't think she wants to hear that.

Leila fiddles nervously with the ends of her hair. "First, I wanted to apologize," she says softly.

Oh . . .

She glances up and registers my surprise. "Yes," she says quickly. "And to thank you for not pressing charges. You knowmdash;for your car and in your apartment."

"I know you weren't . . . um, well," I murmur, reeling. I hadn't expected an apology.

"No, I wasn't."

"You're feeling better now?" I ask gently.

"Much. Thank you."

"Does your doctor know you're here?"

She shakes her head.

Oh.

She looks suitably guilty. "I know I'll have to deal with the fallout for this later. But I had to get some things, and I wanted to see Susi, and you, and . . . Mr.

Grey."

"You want to see Christian?" My stomach free-falls to the floor. That's why she's here.

"Yes. I wanted to ask you if that would be okay."

Holy fuck. I gape at her, and I want to tell her that it's not okay. I don't want her anywhere near my husband. Why is she here? To assess the opposition? To unsettle me? Or perhaps she needs this as some sort of closure?

"Leila." I flounder, exasperated. "It's not up to me, it's up to Christian.

You'll need to ask him. He doesn't need my permission. He's a grown man . . . most of the time."

She gazes at me for a fraction of a beat as if surprised by my reaction then laughs softly, nervously twiddling the end of her hair.

"He's repeatedly refused all my requests to see him," she says quietly.

Oh shit. I'm in more trouble than I thought.

"Why is it so important for you to see him?" I ask gently.

"To thank him. I'd be rotting in a stinking prison psychiatric facility if it wasn't for him. I know that." She glances down and runs her finger along the edge of the table. "I suffered a serious psychotic episode, and without Mr. Grey and Johnmdash;Dr. Flynn . . ." She shrugs and gazes at me once more, her face full of gratitude.

Once again I'm speechless. What does she expect me to say? Surely she should be saying these things to Christian, not me.

"And for art school. I can't thank him enough for that."

I knew it! Christian is funding her classes. I remain expressionless, tentatively exploring my feelings for this woman now that she's confirmed my suspicions about Christian's generosity. To my surprise, I feel no ill will toward her. It's a revelation, and I'm glad she's better. Now, hopefully, she can move on with her life and out of ours.

"Are you missing classes right now?" I ask, because I'm interested.

"Only two. I head home tomorrow."

Oh good. "What are your plans, while you're here?"

"Pick up my belongings from Susi, return to Hamden. Continue painting and learning. Mr. Gre

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Seventeen​

"Mr. Rodriguez, what's happened?" My voice is hoarse and thick with unshed tears. Ray. Sweet Ray. My dad.

"He's been in a car accident."

"Okay, I'll come . . . I'll come now." Adrenaline has flooded my bloodstream, leaving panic in its wake. I'm finding it difficult to breathe.

"They've transferred him to Portland."

Portland? What the hell is he doing in Portland?

"They airlifted him, Ana. I'm heading there now. OHSU. Oh, Ana, I didn't see the car. I just didn't see it . . ." His voice cracks.

Mr. Rodriguezmdash;no!

"I'll see you there." Mr. Rodriguez chokes and the line goes dead.

A dark dread seizes me by the throat, overwhelming me. Ray. No. No. I take a deep steadying breath, pick up the phone and call Roach. He answers on the second ring.

"Ana?"

"Jerry. It's my father."

"Ana, what happened?"

I explain, barely pausing to breathe.

"Go. Of course, you must go. I hope your father's okay."

"Thank you. I'll keep you informed." Inadvertently I slam the phone down, but right now couldn't care less.

"Hannah!" I call, aware of the anxiety in my voice. Moments later she pokes her head around the door to find me packing my purse and grabbing papers to stuff into my briefcase.

"Yes, Ana?" She frowns.

"My father has been in an accident. I have to go."

"Oh dearmdash;"

"Cancel all my appointments today. And Monday. You'll have to finish prepping the e-book presentationmdash;notes are in the shared file. Get Courtney to help if you have to."

"Yes," Hannah whispers. "I hope he's okay. Don't worry about anything here. We'll muddle through."

"I have my BlackBerry."

The concern etched on her pinched, pale face is almost my undoing.

Daddy.

I grab my jacket, purse, and briefcase. "I'll call you if I need anything."

"Do, please. Good luck, Ana. Hope he's okay."

I give her a small tight smile, fighting to maintain my composure, and exit my office. I try hard not to run all the way to reception. Sawyer leaps to his feet when I arrive.

"Mrs. Grey?" he asks, confused by my sudden appearance.

"We're going to Portlandmdash;now."

"Okay, ma'am," he says, frowning, but opens the door.

Moving is good.

"Mrs. Grey," Sawyer asks as we race toward the parking lot. "Can I ask why we're making this unscheduled trip?"

"It's my dad. He's been in an accident."

"I see. Does Mr. Grey know?"

"I'll call him from the car."

Sawyer nods and opens the rear door to the Audi SUV, and I climb in. With shaking fingers, I reach for my BlackBerry, and I dial Christian's cell.

"Mrs. Grey." Andrea's voice is crisp and businesslike.

"Is Christian there?" I breathe.

"Um . . . he's somewhere in the building, ma'am. He's left his BlackBerry charging with me."

I groan silently with frustration.

"Can you tell him I called, and that I need to speak with him? It's urgent."

"I could try and track him down. He does have a habit of wandering off sometimes."

"Just get him to call me, please," I beg, fighting back tears.

"Certainly, Mrs. Grey." She hesitates. "Is everything all right?"

"No," I whisper, not trusting my voice. "Please, just get him to call me."

"Yes, ma'am."

I hang up. I cannot contain my anguish any longer. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I curl up on the rear seat, and tears ooze, unwelcome, down my cheeks.

"Where in Portland, Mrs. Grey?" Sawyer asks gently.

"OHSU," I choke out. "The big hospital."

Sawyer pulls out into the street and heads for the I-5, while I keen softly in the back of the car, muttering wordless prayers. Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

My phone rings, "Your Love Is King" startling me from my mantra.

"Christian," I gasp.

"Christ, Ana. What's wrong?"

"It's Raymdash;he's been in an accident."

"Shit!"

"Yes. I am on my way to Portland."

"Portland? Please tell me Sawyer is with you."

"Yes, he's driving."

"Where is Ray?"

"At OHSU."

I hear a muffled voice in the background. "Yes, Ros," Christian snaps angrily. "I know! Sorry, babymdash;I can be there in about three hours. I have business I need to finish here. I'll fly down."

Oh shit. Charlie Tango is back in commission and last time Christian flew her . . .

"I have a meeting with some guys over from Taiwan. I can't blow them off.

It's a deal we've been hammering out for months."

Why do I know nothing about this?

"I'll leave as soon as I can."

"Okay," I whisper. And I want to say that it's okay, stay in Seattle, and sort out your business, but the truth is I want him with me.

"Oh, baby," he whispers.

"I'll be okay, Christian. Take your time. Don't rush. I don't want to worry about you, too. Fly safely."

"I will."

"Love you."

"I love you, too, baby. I'll be with you as soon as I can. Keep Luke close."

"Yes, I will."

"I'll see you later."

"Bye." After hanging up, I hug my knees once more. I know nothing about Christian's business. What the hell is he doing with the Taiwanese? I gaze out the window as we pass Boeing Field-King County Airport. He must fly safely. My stomach knots anew and nausea threatens. Ray and Christian. I don't think my heart could take that. Leaning back, I start my mantra again: Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

"Mrs. Grey." Sawyer's voice rouses me. "We're on the hospital grounds. I just have to find the ER."

"I know where it is." My mind flits back to my last visit to OHSU when, on my second day, I fell off a stepladder at Clayton's, twisting my ankle. I recall Paul Clayton hovering over me and shudder at the memory.

Sawyer pulls up to the drop-off point and leaps out to open my door.

"I'll go park, ma'am, and come find you. Leave your briefcase, I'll bring it."

"Thank you, Luke."

He nods, and I walk briskly into the buzzing ER reception area. The recep-tionist at the desk gives me a polite smile, and within a few moments, she's located Ray and is sending me to the OR on the third floor.

OR? Fuck! "Thank you," I mutter, trying to focus on her directions to the elevators. My stomach lurches as I almost run toward them.

Let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

The elevator is agonizingly slow, stopping on each floor. Come on . . . Come on! I will it to move faster, scowling at the people strolling in and out and preventing me from getting to my dad.

Finally, the doors open on the third floor, and I rush to another reception desk, this one staffed by nurses in navy uniforms.

"Can I help you?" asks one officious nurse with a myopic stare.

"My father, Raymond Steele. He's just been admitted. He's in OR-4, I think."

Even as I say the words, I am willing them not to be true.

"Let me check, Miss Steele."

I nod, not bothering to correct her as she gazes intently at her computer screen.

"Yes. He's been in for a couple of hours. If you'd like to wait, I'll let them know that you're here. The waiting room's there." She points toward a large white door helpfully labeled WAITING ROOM in bold blue lettering.

"Is he okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

"You'll have to wait for one of the attending doctor to brief you, ma'am."

"Thank you," I muttermdash;but inside I am screaming, I want to know now!

I open the door to reveal a functional, austere waiting room where Mr.

Rodriguez and José are seated.

"Ana!" Mr. Rodriguez gasps. His arm is in a cast, and his cheek is bruised on one side. He's in a wheelchair with one of his legs in a cast too. I gingerly wrap my arms around him.

"Oh, Mr. Rodriguez," I sob.

"Ana, honey." He pats my back with his uninjured arm. "I'm so sorry," he mumbles, his hoarse voice cracking.

Oh no.

"No, Papa," José says softly in admonishment as he hovers behind me. When I turn, he pulls me into his arms and holds me.

"José," I mutter. And I'm lostmdash;tears falling as all the tension, fear, and heartache of the last three hours surface.

"Hey, Ana, don't cry." José gently strokes my hair. I wrap my arms around his neck and softly weep. We stand like this for ages, and I'm so grateful that my friend is here. We pull apart when Sawyer joins us in the waiting room. Mr.

Rodriguez hands me a tissue from a conveniently placed box, and I dry my tears.

"This is Mr. Sawyer. Security," I murmur. Sawyer nods politely to José and Mr. Rodriguez then moves to take a seat in the corner.

"Sit down, Ana." José ushers me to one of the vinyl-covered armchairs.

"What happened? Do we know how he is? What are they doing?"

José holds up his hands to halt my barrage of questions and sits down beside me. "We don't have any news. Ray, Dad, and I were on a fishing trip to Astoria.

We were hit by some stupid fucking drunkmdash;"

Mr. Rodriguez tries to interrupt, stammering an apology.

"Cálmate, Papa!" José snaps. "I don't have a mark on me, just a couple of bruised ribs and a knock on the head. Dad . . . well, Dad broke his wrist and ankle.

But the car hit the passenger side and Ray."

Oh no, no . . . Panic swamps my limbic system again. No, no, no. My body shudders and chills as I imagine what's happening to Ray in the OR.

"He's in surgery. We were taken to the community hospital in Astoria, but they airlifted Ray here. We don't know what they're doing. We're waiting for news."

I start to shake.

"Hey, Ana, you cold?"

I nod. I'm in my white sleeveless shirt and black summer jacket, and neither provides warmth. Gingerly, José pulls off his leather jacket and wraps it around my shoulders.

"Shall I get you some tea, ma'am?" Sawyer is by my side. I nod gratefully, and he disappears from the room.

"Why were you fishing in Astoria?" I ask.

José shrugs. "The fishing's supposed to be good there. We were having a boys' get-together. Some bonding time with my old man before academia heats up for my final year." José's dark eyes are large and luminous with fear and regret.

"You could have been hurt, too. And Mr. Rodriguez . . . worse." I gulp at the thought. My body temperature drops further, and I shiver once more. José takes my hand.

"Hell, Ana, you're freezing.

 

[books4u]

Fifty Shades Freed
Chapter Eighteen​

I stir, opening my eyes to a bright September morning. Warm and comfortable between clean, crisp sheets, I take a moment to orientate myself and am overwhelmed by a sense of déja vu. Of course, I'm at the Heathman.

"Shit! Daddy!" I gasp out loud, recalling with a gut-wrenching surge of apprehension that twists my heart and starts it pounding why I'm in Portland.

"Hey." Christian is sitting on the edge of the bed. He strokes my cheek with his knuckles, instantly calming me. "I called the ICU this morning. Ray had a good night. It's all good," he says reassuringly.

"Oh, good. Thank you," I mutter, sitting up.

For all ourfirsts on your first birthday as my beloved wife.

I love you.

nbsp;Cx

He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. "Good morning, Ana," he whispers and kisses my temple.

"Hi," I mutter. He's up and dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans.

"Hi," he replies, his eyes soft and warm. "I want to wish you happy birthday.

Is that okay?"

I offer him a tentative smile and caress his cheek. "Yes, of course. Thank you. For everything."

His brow furrows. "Everything?"

"Everything."

He looks momentarily confused, but it's fleeting and his eyes widen with anticipation. "Here." He hands me a small, exquisitely wrapped box with a tiny gift card.

In spite of the worry I feel about my father, I sense Christian's anxiety and excitement, and it's infectious. I read the card.

Oh my, how sweet is that? "I love you, too," I murmur, smiling at him.

He grins. "Open it."

Unwrapping the paper carefully so it doesn't tear, I find a beautiful red leather box. Cartier. It's familiar, thanks to my second-chance earrings and my watch.

Cautiously, I open the box to discover a delicate charm bracelet of silver, or platinum or white goldmdash;I don't know, but it's absolutely enchanting. Attached to it are several charms: the Eiffel Tower, a London black cab, a helicopter mdash;Charlie Tango, a glidermdash;the soaring, a catamaranmdash; The Grace, a bed, and an ice cream cone? I look up at him, bemused.

"Vanilla?" He shrugs apologetically, and I can't help but laugh. Of course.

"Christian, this is beautiful. Thank you. It's yar."

He grins.

My favorite is the heart. It's a locket.

"You can put a picture or whatever in that."

"A picture of you." I glance at him through my lashes. "Always in my heart."

He smiles his lovely, heartbreakingly shy smile.

I fondle the last two charms: a letter Cmdash;oh yes, I was his first girlfriend to use his first name. I smile at the thought. And finally, there's a key.

"To my heart and soul," he whispers.

Tears prick my eyes. I launch myself at him, curling my arms around his neck and settling into his lap. "It's such a thoughtful present. I love it. Thank you," I murmur against his ear. Oh, he smells so goodmdash;clean, of fresh linen, body wash, and Christian. Like home, my home. My threatened tears begin to fall.

He groans softly and enfolds me in his embrace.

"I don't know what I'd do without you." My voice cracks as I try to hold back the overwhelming swell of emotion.

He swallows hard and tightens his hold on me. "Please don't cry."

I sniff in a rather unladylike way. "I'm sorry. I'm just so happy and sad and anxious at the same time. It's bittersweet."

"Hey." His voice is feather soft. Tipping my head back, he plants a gentle kiss on my lips. "I understand."

"I know," I whisper, and I'm rewarded with his shy smile again.

"I wish we were in happier circumstances and at home. But we're here." He shrugs apologetically once more. "Come, up you go. After breakfast, we'll check on Ray."

Once dressed in my new jeans and T-shirt, my appetite makes a brief but welcome return during breakfast in our suite. I know Christian is pleased to see me eating my granola and Greek yogurt.

"Thank you for ordering my favorite breakfast."

"It's your birthday," Christian says softly. "And you have to stop thanking me." He rolls his eyes in exasperation, but fondly, I think.

"I just want you to know that I appreciate it."

"Anastasia, it's what I do." His expression is seriousmdash;of course, Christian in command and control. How could I forget . . . Would I want him any other way?

I smile. "Yes, it is."

He gives me a puzzled look then shakes his head. "Shall we go?"

"I'll just brush my teeth."

He smirks. "Okay."

Why is he smirking? The thought nags me as I head into the en suite. A memory springs unbidden to my mind. I used his toothbrush after I first spent the night with him. I smirk and grab his toothbrush in homage to that first time. Gazing at myself as I brush my teeth, I'm pale, too pale. But then I'm always pale.

The last time I was here I was single, and now I'm married at twenty-two! I'm getting old. I rinse out my mouth.

Holding up my wrist, I shake it, and the charms on my bracelet give a satisfying rattle. How does my sweet Fifty always know exactly the right thing to give me? I take a deep breath, attempting to stem the emotion still lurking in my system, and gaze down at the bracelet once more. I bet it cost a fortune. Ah . . . well.

He can afford it.

As we walk to the elevators, Christian takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, his thumb brushing over Charlie Tango on my bracelet. "You like?"

"More than like. I love it. Very much. Like you."

He smiles and kisses my knuckles once more. I feel lighter than I did yesterday. Perhaps because it's morning and the world always seems a more hopeful place than it does in the dead of night. Or maybe it's my husband's sweet wake-up. Or maybe it's knowing that Ray is no worse.

As we step into the empty elevator, I glance up at Christian. His eyes flicker quickly down to mine, and he smirks again.

"Don't," he whispers as the doors shut.

"Don't what?"

"Look at me like that."

"Fuck the paperwork," I mutter, grinning.

He laughs, and it's such a carefree, boyish sound. He tugs me into his arms and tilts my head up. "Someday, I'll rent this elevator for a whole afternoon."

"Just the afternoon?" I arch my brow.

"Mrs. Grey, you are greedy."

"When it comes to you, I am."

"I'm very glad to hear it." He kisses me gently.

And I don't know if it's because we are in this elevator or because he's not touched me in over twenty-four hours or if he's just my intoxicating husband, but desire unwinds and stretches lazily deep in my belly. I run my fingers into his hair and deepen the kiss, pushing him against the wall and bringing my body flush against his.

He groans into my mouth and cups my head, cradling me as we kissmdash;really kiss, our tongues exploring the oh-so-familiar but still oh-so-new, oh-so-exciting territory that is the other's mouth. My inner goddess swoons, bringing my libido back from purdah. I caress his dear, dear face in my hands.

"Ana," he breathes.

"I love you, Christian Grey. Don't forget that," I whisper as I gaze into darkening gray eyes.

The elevator comes smoothly to a halt and the doors open.

"Let's go and see your father before I decide to rent this today." He kisses me quickly, takes my hand, and leads me into the lobby.

As we walk past the concierge, Christian gives a discreet signal to the kindly middle-aged man standing behind the desk. He nods and picks up his phone. I glance questioningly at Christian, and he gives me his secret smile. I frown at him, and for a moment he looks nervous.

"Where's Taylor?" I ask.

"We'll see him shortly."

Of course, he's probably fetching the car. "Sawyer?"

"Running errands."

What errands?

Christian avoids the revolving door, and I know it's so he doesn't have to release my hand. The thought warms me. Outside it's a mild late-summer morning, but the scent of the coming fall is in the breeze. I glance around, looking for the Audi SUV and Taylor. No sign. Christian's hand tightens around mine, and I look up at him. He seems anxious.

"What is it?"

He shrugs. The hum of an approaching car engine distracts me. It's throaty . . . familiar. As I turn to find the source of the noise, it stops suddenly.

Taylor is climbing out of a sleek white sports car parked in front of us.

Oh shit! It's an R8. I whip my head back to Christian, who's watching me warily. "You can buy me one for my birthday . . . a white one, I think."

"Happy birthday," he says, and I know he's gauging my reaction. I gape at him because that's all I can do. He holds out a key.

"You are completely over the top," I whisper. He's bought me a fucking Audi R8! Holy shit. Just like I asked! My face splits in a huge grin, and my inner goddess does a backflip off the high dive. I jump up and down on the spot in a moment of unguarded and unbridled overexcitement. Christian's expression mirrors mine, and I dance forward into his waiting arms. He swings me around.

"You have more money than sense!" I whoop. "I love it! Thank you." He stops and dips me low suddenly, startling me, so that I have to grasp his upper arms.

"Anything for you, Mrs. Grey." He grins down at me. Oh my. What a very public display of affection. He bends and kisses me. "Come. Let's go see your dad."

"Yes. And I get to drive?"

He grins down at me. "Of course. It's yours." He stands me up and releases me, and I hurry around to the driver's door.

Taylor opens it for me, smiling broadly. "Happy birthday, Mrs. Grey."

"Thank you, Taylor." I startle him by giving him a swift hug, which he returns awkwardly. He's still blushing when I climb into the car, and he closes the door promptly once I'm inside.

"Drive safe, Mrs. Grey," he says gruffly. I beam up at him, barely able to contain my excitement.

"Will do." I promise, putting the key in the ignition as Christian stretches out beside me.

"Take it easy. Nobody chasing us now," he warns. When I turn the key, the engine thunders to life. I check the rearview and side mirrors, and spotting a rare moment of clear traffic, execute a huge perfect U-turn and roar off in the direction of OSHU.

"Whoa!" Christian exclaims, alarmed.

"What?"

"I don't want you in the ICU beside your father. Slow down," he growls, not to be argued with. I ease off the accelerator and grin at him.

"Better?"

"Much," he mutters, trying hard to look sternmdash;and failing miserably.

Ray's condition is the same. Seeing him grounds me after the heady road trip here. I really should driv