Fifty Shades Freed

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 you—” 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 . . . except—” 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 and

—” 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 T-shirt.

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, Fifty—I’m sorry. He kisses my hair, I turn my face up to his, and his lips find mine,

searching, taking, giving, begging—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?”

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 baulk—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, or—” He stops. “We thought it was an unwelcome obsession, but you know”—he shrugs

—“when you’re in the public eye, people are interested. It was random stuff: news reports on me from when I was at Harvard—my rowing, my career. Reports on

Carrick—following his career, following my mom’s career—and to some extent, Elliot and Mia.

How strange.

“You said or,” I prompt.

“Or what?”

“You said, ‘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 your eyes.”

Wow. I thought we were going to have a full-on fight, and here we are, playing in the kitchen.

“Close them,” he orders.

I roll them first, then oblige.

“Hmm. Not good enough,” he mutters. I open one eye and see him take a plum-colored silk scarf out of the back pocket of his jeans. It matches my dress. Holy

cow. I look quizzically at him. When did he get that?

“Close,” he orders again. “No peeking.”

“You’re going to blindfold me?” I mutter, shocked. All of a sudden I’m breathless.

“Yes.”

“Christian—” He places a finger upon my lips, silencing me.

I want to talk.

“We’ll talk later. I want you to eat now. You said you were hungry.” He lightly kisses my lips. The silk of the scarf is soft against my eyelids as he ties it securely

at the back of my head.

“Can you see?” he asks.

“No,” I mutter, figuratively rolling my eyes. He chuckles softly.

“I can tell when you’re rolling your eyes, . . . and you know how that makes me feel.”

I purse my lips. “Can we just get this over and done with?” I snap.