Fifty Shades Freed

“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 missing—the hollow emptiness, the indescribable pain—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 ca

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.”

“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 Côte 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 seawater 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 ca

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 co

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 think—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.