Fifty Shades Freed

anything you wanted if you put your mind to it.”

Whoa! How can he possibly know that I’d be any good at this?

“I’m also worried it will take up too much of my time.”

Christian frowns.

“Time I could devote to you.” I deploy my secret weapon.

His gaze darkens. “I know what you’re doing,” he murmurs, amused.

Damn it!

“What?” I feign i

“You’re trying to distract me from the issue at hand. You always do that. Just don’t dismiss the idea, Ana. Think about it. That’s all I ask.” He leans down and

“You’re trying to distract me from the issue at hand. You always do that. Just don’t dismiss the idea, Ana. Think about it. That’s all I ask.” He leans down and

kisses me chastely, then skims his thumb down my cheek. This argument is going to run and run. I smile up at him—and something he said earlier today pops

unbidden into my mind.

“Can I ask you something?” My voice is soft, tentative.

“Of course.”

“Earlier today you said if I was angry with you, I should take it out on you in bed. What did you mean?”

He stills. “What did you think I meant?”

Holy shit! I should just say it. “That you wanted me to tie you up.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Um . . . no. That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Oh.” I’m surprised by my slight twinge of disappointment.

“You want to tie me up?” he asks, obviously reading my expression correctly. He sounds shocked. I blush.

“Well . . .”

“Ana, I—” he stops, and something dark crosses his face.

“Christian,” I whisper, alarmed. I move so that I am lying on my side, propped up on my elbow like him. I caress his face. His eyes are large and fearful. He

shakes his head sadly.

Shit! “Christian, stop. It doesn’t matter. I thought that’s what you meant.”

He takes my hand and places it on his pounding heart. Fuck! What is it?

“Ana, I don’t know how I’d feel about you touching me if I were restrained.”

My scalp prickles. It’s like he’s confessing something deep and dark.

“This is still too new.” His voice is low and raw.

Fuck. It was just a question, and I realize that he’s come a long way, but he still has a long way to go. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty. Anxiety grips my heart. I lean over

and he freezes, but I plant a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“Christian, I got the wrong idea. Please don’t worry about it. Please don’t think about it.” I kiss him. He closes his eyes, groans and reciprocates, pushing me

down into the mattress, his hands clasping my chin. And soon we’re lost . . . lost in each other again.

1 William Shakespeare, King Lear, (3rd edition of Shakespeare’s First Folio, Etext #2266, Project Gutenburg, July 2000), Act 1, Scene 1, http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?

pageno=9&fk_files=1448414.

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 show—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 not—eat.” His tone is serious. No arguing with him.

“Arse or not—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 a

“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 here—” I stop, because Christian is gri

“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, but—” 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’d—” 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