Fifty Shades Freed

“Mrs. Grey, I am very pleased to a

“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.

“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.

I think Christian’s going to put me down, but he doesn’t. He carries me through the foyer, across the corridor, into the great room, and deposits me on the kitchen

island where I sit with my legs dangling. He retrieves two champagne flutes from the kitchen cupboard and a bottle of chilled champagne from the fridge—our

favorite Bollinger. He deftly opens the bottle, not spilling a drop, pours the pale pink champagne into each glass, and hands one to me. Taking up the other, he

gently parts my legs and moves forward to stand between them.

“Here’s to us, Mrs. Grey.”

“To us, Mr. Grey,” I whisper conscious of my shy smile. We clink glasses and take a sip.

“I know you’re tired,” he whispers, rubbing his nose against mine. “But I’d really like to go to bed . . . and not to sleep.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “It’s

our first night back here, and you’re really mine.” His voice drifts off as he plants soft kisses down my throat. It’s early evening in Seattle, and I am dog-tired, but

desire blooms deep in my belly and my i

Christian is slumbering peacefully beside me as I stare at the pink and golden streaks of the new dawn through the vast windows. His arm is draped loosely over my

breasts, and I try to match his breathing in an effort to get back to sleep, but it’s hopeless. I’m wide-awake, my body clock on Greenwich mean time, my mind

racing.

So much has happened in the last three weeks—who am I kidding, the last three months—that I feel that my feet haven’t touched the ground. And now here I

am, Mrs. Anastasia Grey, married to the most delicious, sexy, philanthropic, absurdly wealthy mogul a woman could meet. How did this all happen so fast?

I shift onto my side to gaze at him, appraising his beauty. I know he watches me sleep, but I rarely get the opportunity to repay the compliment. He looks so

young and carefree in his sleep, his long lashes fa

relaxed as he breathes deeply. I want to kiss him, to push my tongue between his lips, run my fingers over his soft yet prickly stubble. I really have to fight the urge

not to touch him, not to disturb him. Hmm . . . I could just tease his earlobe with my teeth and suck. My subconscious glares up at me over her half-moon spectacles, distracted from volume two of the Complete Works of Charles Dickens, and mentally chastises me. Leave the poor man alone, Ana.

I am back to work on Monday. We have today to reacclimatize, then we’re back into our routine. It will be odd not seeing Christian for a whole day after

spending almost every minute together for the last three weeks. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. One would think that spending so much time together would be

suffocating, but that’s just not the case. I’ve loved each and every minute, even our fighting. Every minute . . . except the news of the fire at Grey House.

My blood chills. Who could want to harm Christian? My mind gnaws at this mystery again. Someone in his business? An ex? A disgruntled employee? I have no

idea, and Christian remains tight-lipped about it all, drip feeding me the minimum information he can get away with in a bid to protect me. I sigh. My shining white-

and-dark knight always trying to protect me. How am I going to make him open up more?

He stirs and I still, not wanting to wake him, but it has the opposite effect. Damn! Two bright eyes gaze at me.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” I try my reassuring smile. He stretches, rubs his face, and then grins at me.

“Jet lag?” he asks.

“Is that what this is? I can’t sleep.”

“I have the universal panacea right here, just for you, baby.” He grins like a schoolboy, making me roll my eyes and giggle at the same time. And just like that

my dark thoughts are swept aside and my teeth find his earlobe.

Christian and I cruise north on the I-5 toward the 520 bridge in the Audi R8. We are going to have lunch at his parents’, a welcome-home Sunday lunch. All the

family will be there, plus Kate and Ethan. It will be strange to be in so much company when we’ve been on our own all this time. I haven’t had an opportunity to

talk to Christian most of the morning. He was holed up in his study while I unpacked. He said I didn’t have to, that Mrs. Jones would do it. But that’s something

else I need to get used to—having domestic help. I run my fingers absentmindedly over the leather upholstery of the door to distract my wandering thoughts. I feel

out of sorts. Is it the jet lag? The arson?

“Would you let me drive this?” I ask, surprised that I say the words out loud.

“Of course,” Christian replies, smiling. “What’s mine is yours. If you dent it, though, I will take you into the Red Room of Pain.” He glances swiftly at me with a

malicious grin.

Shit! I gape at him. Is this a joke?

“You’re kidding. You’d punish me for denting your car? You love your car more than you love me?” I tease.

“It’s close,” he says and reaches across to squeeze my knee. “But she doesn’t keep me warm at night.”

“I’m sure it could be arranged. You could sleep in her,” I snap.

Christian laughs. “We haven’t been home one day and you’re kicking me out already?” He seems delighted. I gaze at him and he gives me a face-splitting grin,