Fifty Shades Freed

“I was briefly in Vegas with Mom and Husband Number Three. I was in tenth grade. His name was Bradley, and he was my lab partner in physics.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“And what’s he doing now?”

“I don’t know.”

“What base did he get to?”

“Christian!” I scold—and suddenly he grabs my knees, then my ankles, and tips me up so I fall back on to the couch. He slides smoothly on top of me, trapping

me beneath him, one leg between mine. It’s so sudden that I cry out in surprise. He grabs my hands and raises them above my head.

“So, this Bradley—did he get to first base?” he murmurs, ru

“Yes,” I murmur against his lips. He releases one of his hands so that he can clasp my chin and hold me still while his tongue invades my mouth, and I surrender

to his ardent kissing.

“Like this?” Christian breathes when he comes up for air.

“No . . . nothing like that,” I manage as all the blood in my body heads south.

Releasing my chin, he runs his hand down over my body and back up to my breast.

“Did he do this? Touch you like this?” His thumb skims over my nipple, through my camisole, softly, repeatedly, and it hardens under his expert touch.

“No.” I writhe beneath him.

“Did he get to second base?” he murmurs in my ear. His hand moves down across my ribs, past my waist to my hip. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and

gently tugs.

“No,” I breathe.

Mulder blurts from the television something about the FBI’s most unwanted.

Christian pauses, leans up, and presses mute on the remote. He gazes down at me.

“What about Joe Schmo number two? Did he make it past second base?”

His eyes are smoldering hot . . . angry? Turned on? It’s difficult to say which. He shifts to my side and slides his hand beneath my sweatpants.

“No,” I whisper, trapped in his carnal gaze. Christian smiles wickedly.

“Good.” His hand cups my sex. “No underwear, Mrs. Grey. I approve.” He kisses me again as his fingers weave more magic, his thumb skimming over my

clitoris, tantalizing me, as he pushes his index finger inside me with exquisite slowness.

“We’re supposed to be making out.” I groan.

Christian stills. “I thought we were?”

“No. No sex.”

“What?”

“No sex . . .”

“No sex, huh?” He withdraws his hand from my sweatpants. “Here.” He traces my lips with his index finger, and I taste my slick saltiness. He pushes his finger

into my mouth, mirroring what he was doing a moment earlier. Then shifts so he’s between my legs, and his erection pushes against me. He thrusts, once, twice,

and again. I gasp as the material of my sweatpants rubs in just the right way. He pushes once more, grinding into me.

“This what you want?” he murmurs and moves his hips rhythmically, rocking against me.

“Yes.” I moan.

His hand moves back to concentrate on my nipple once more and his teeth scrape along my jaw. “Do you know how hot you are, Ana?” His voice is hoarse as

he rocks harder against me. I open my mouth to articulate a response and fail miserably, groaning loudly. He captures my mouth once more, tugging at my bottom

lip with his teeth before plunging his tongue into my mouth again. He releases my other wrist and my hands travel greedily up his shoulders and into his hair as he

kisses me. When I pull on his hair, he groans and raises his eyes to mine.

“Ah . . .”

“Ah . . .”

“Do you like me touching you?” I whisper.

His brow furrows briefly as if he doesn’t understand the question. He stops grinding against me. “Of course I do. I love you touching me, Ana. I’m like a starving

man at a banquet when it comes to your touch.” His voice hums with passionate sincerity.

Holy cow . . .

He kneels between my legs and drags me up to haul off my top. I’m naked beneath. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he yanks it over his head and tosses it on the

floor, then pulls me onto his kneeling lap, his arms clasped just above my behind.

“Touch me,” he breathes.

Oh my . . . Tentatively I reach up and brush the tips of my fingers through the smattering of chest hair over his sternum, over his burn scars. He inhales sharply

and his pupils dilate, but it’s not with fear. It’s a sensual response to my touch. He watches me intently as my fingers float delicately over his skin, first to one nipple

and then the other. They pucker beneath my caress. Leaning forward, I plant soft kisses on his chest, and my hands move to his shoulders, feeling the hard, sculptured lines of sinew and muscle. Jeez . . . he’s in good shape.

“I want you,” he murmurs and it’s a green light to my libido. My fingers move into his hair, pulling his head back so I can claim his mouth, fire licking hot and

high in my belly. He groans and pushes me back onto the couch. He sits up and rips off my sweatpants, undoing his fly at the same time.

“Home run,” he whispers, and swiftly he fills me.

“Ah . . .” I groan and he stills, grabbing my face between his hands.

“I love you, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and very slowly, very gently, he makes love to me until I come apart at the seams, calling his name and wrapping myself

around him, never wanting to let him go.

I lay sprawled on his chest. We’re on the floor of the TV room.

“You know, we completely bypassed third base.” My fingers trace the line of his pectoral muscles.

He laughs. “Next time, Mrs. Grey.” He kisses the top of my head.

I look up to stare at the television screen where the end credits for The X-Files play. Christian reaches for the remote and switches the sound back on.

“You liked that show?” I ask.

“When I was a kid.”

Oh . . . Christian as a kid . . . kickboxing and X Files and no touching.

“You?” he asks.

“Before my time.”

“You’re so young.” Christian smiles fondly. “I like making out with you, Mrs. Grey.”

“Likewise, Mr. Grey.” I kiss his chest, and we lie silently watching as The X-Files finish and the commercials come on.

“It’s been a heavenly three weeks. Car chases and fires and psycho ex-bosses notwithstanding. Like being in our own private bubble,” I mutter dreamily.

“Hmm,” Christian hums deep in his throat. “I’m not sure I’m ready to share you with the rest of the world yet.”

“Back to reality tomorrow,” I murmur, trying to keep the melancholy from my voice.

Christian sighs and runs his other hand through his hair. “Security will be tight—” I put my finger over his lips. I don’t want to hear this lecture again.

“I know. I’ll be good. I promise.” Which reminds me . . . I shift, propping myself up on my elbows to see him better. “Why were you shouting at Sawyer?”

He stiffens immediately. Oh shit.

“Because we were followed.”

“That wasn’t Sawyer’s fault.”

He gazes at me levelly. “They should never have let you get so far in front. They know that.”

I blush guiltily and resume my position, resting on his chest. It was my fault. I wanted to get away from them.

“That wasn’t—”

“Enough!” Christian is suddenly curt. “This is not up for discussion, Anastasia. It’s a fact, and they won’t let it happen again.”

Anastasia! I am Anastasia when I am in trouble just like at home with my mother.

“Okay,” I mutter, placating him. I don’t want to fight. “Did Ryan catch up with the woman in the Dodge?”

“No. And I’m not convinced it was a woman.”

“Oh?” I look up again.

“Sawyer saw someone with their hair tied back, but it was a brief look. He assumed it was a woman. Now, given that you’ve identified that fucker, maybe it was

him. He wore his hair like that.” The disgust in Christian’s voice is palpable.

I don’t know what to make of this news. Christian runs his hand down my naked back, distracting me.