Fifty Shades Freed: Book Three of the Fifty Shades Trilogy Read online

  First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2012

  Copyright © E L James, 2012

  The right of E L James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Writer’s Coffee Shop

  (Australia) PO Box 2013 Hornsby Westfield NSW 1635

  (USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168

  Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-060-6

  E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-061-3

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.

  Cover image by: © Photo-Dave

  Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire

  Dr. Seuss. The Lorax. New York: Random House, 1971.

  www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/ejames

  E L James is a TV executive, wife and mother of two, based in West London. Since early childhood, she dreamt of writing stories that readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams on hold to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked up the courage to put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty Shades of Grey. E L James is currently working on a new romantic thriller with a supernatural twist.

  Thanks to: Niall, my rock;

  To Kathleen for just being a great sounding board, friend, confidante and a technical wiz;

  To Bee for endless moral support;

  To Taylor (also a technical wiz), Susi, Pam and Nora for showing a girl a good time.

  And for their advice and tact I’d really like to thank:

  Dr. Raina Sluder for help with all matters medical;

  Anne Forlines for the financial advice;

  Elizabeth de Vos for her kind counsel regarding the American adoption system.

  Thanks to Maddie Blandino for her exquisite, inspirational art.

  And to Pam and Gillian for Saturday morning coffee and hauling me back to real life.

  Also thanks to my editing team Andrea, Shay and the ever lovely and only occasionally frothing Janine, who tolerates my frothing with patience, fortitude and a great sense of humour.

  And lastly to Amanda and all at The Writer’s Coffee Shop Publishing House—Thank you.

  Mommy! Mommy! Mommy is asleep on the floor. She has been asleep for a long time. I brush her hair because she likes that. She doesn’t wake up. I shake her. Mommy! My tummy hurts. It is hungry. He isn’t here. I am thirsty. In the kitchen I pull a chair to the sink, and I have a drink. The water splashes over my blue sweater. Mommy is still asleep. Mommy wake up! She lies still. She is cold. I fetch my blankie, and I cover Mommy, and I lie down on the sticky green rug beside her. Mommy is still asleep. I have two toy cars. They race by the floor where Mommy is sleeping. I think Mommy is sick. I search for something to eat. In the freezer I find peas. They are cold. I eat them slowly. They make my tummy hurt. I sleep beside Mommy. The peas are gone. In the freezer is something. It smells funny. I lick it and my tongue is stuck to it. I eat it slowly. It tastes nasty. I drink some water. I play with my cars, and I sleep beside Mommy. Mommy is so cold, and she won’t wake up. The door crashes open. I cover Mommy with my blankie. He’s here. Fuck. What the fuck happened here? Oh, the crazy fucked up bitch. Shit. Fuck. Get out of my way, you little shit. He kicks me, and I hit my head on the floor. My head hurts. He calls somebody and he goes. He locks the door. I lay down beside Mommy. My head hurts. The lady policeman is here. No. No. No. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. I stay by Mommy. No. Stay away from me. The lady policeman has my blankie, and she grabs me. I scream. Mommy! Mommy! I want my Mommy. The words are gone. I can’t say the words. Mommy can’t hear me. I have no words.

  “Christian! Christian!” Her voice is urgent, pulling him from the depths of his nightmare, the depths of his despair. “I’m here. I’m here.”

  He wakes and she’s leaning over him, grasping his shoulders, shaking him, her face etched with anguish, blue eyes wide and brimming with tears.

  “Ana,” His voice is a breathless whisper, the taste of fear tarnishing his mouth. “You’re here.”

  “Of course I’m here.”

  “I had a dream . . .”

  “I know. I’m here, I’m here.”

  “Ana.” He breathes her name, and it’s a talisman against the black choking panic coursing through his body.

  “Hush, I’m here.” She curls around him, her limbs cocooning him, her warmth leeching into his body, forcing back the shadows, forcing back the fear. She is sunshine, she is light . . . she is his.

  “Please let’s not fight.” His voice is hoarse as he wraps his arms around her.

  “Okay.”

  “The vows. No obeying. I can do that. We’ll find a way.” The words rush out of his mouth in a tumble of emotion and confusion and anxiety.

  “Yes. We will. We’ll always find a way,” she whispers and her lips are on his, silencing him, bringing him back to the now.

  I stare up through gaps in the sea grass parasol at the bluest of skies, summer blue, Mediterranean blue with a contented sigh. Christian is beside me, stretched out on a sun lounger. My husband—my hot, beautiful husband, shirtless, and in cut-off jeans—is reading a book predicting the collapse of the Western banking system. By all accounts, it’s a page-turner. I haven’t seen him sit this still, ever. He looks more like a student than the hotshot CEO of one the top privately owned companies in the United States.

  On the final leg of our honeymoon, we laze in the afternoon sun on the beach of the aptly named Beach Plaza Monte Carlo in Monaco, although we’re not actually staying in this hotel. I open my eyes and gaze out at the Fair Lady anchored in the harbor. We are staying, of course, on board a luxury motor yacht. Built in 1928, she floats majestically on the water, queen of the all the yachts in the harbor. She looks like a child’s wind-up toy. Christian loves her—I suspect he’s tempted to buy her. Honestly, boys and their toys.

  Sitting back, I listen to the Christian Grey mix on my new iPod and doze in the late afternoon sun, idly remembering his proposal. Oh his dreamy proposal in the boathouse . . . I can almost smell the scent of the meadow flowers . . .

  “Can we marry tomorrow?” Christian murmurs softly in my ear. I am sprawled on his chest in the flowery bower in the boathouse, sated from our passionate lovemaking.

  “Hmm.”

  “Is that a yes?” I hear his hopeful surprise.

  “Hmm.”

  “A no?”

  “Hmm.”

  I sense his grin. “Miss Steele, are you incoherent?”

  I grin. “Hmm.”

  He laughs and hugs me tightly, kissing the top of my head. “Vegas, tomorrow, it is then.”

  Sleepily I raise my head. “I don’t think my parents would be very happy with that.”

  He thrums his fingertips up and down my naked back, caressing me gently.

  “What do you want, Anastasia? Vegas? A big wedding with all the trimmings? Tell me.”

  “Not big . . . Just friends and family.” I gaze up at him moved by the quiet entreaty in his glowing gray eyes. What does he want?

  “Okay.” He nods. “Where?”

  I shrug.

&nb
sp; “Could we do it here?” he asks tentatively.

  “Your folks’ place? Would they mind?”

  He snorts. “My mother would be in seventh heaven.”

  “Okay, here. I’m sure my mom and dad would prefer that.”

  He strokes my hair. Could I be any happier?

  “So, we’ve established where, now the when.”

  “Surely you should ask your mother.”

  “Hmm.” Christian’s smile dips. “She can have a month, that’s it. I want you too much to wait any longer.”

  “Christian, you have me. You’ve had me for a while. But okay—a month it is.” I kiss his chest, a soft chaste kiss, and smile up at him.

  “You’ll burn.” Christian whispers in my ear, startling me from my doze.

  “Only for you.” I give him my sweetest smile. The late afternoon sun has shifted, and I am under its full glare. He smirks and in one swift move pulls my sun lounger into the shade of the parasol.

  “Out of the Mediterranean sun, Mrs. Grey.”

  “Thank you for your altruism, Mr. Grey.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Grey, and I’m not being altruistic at all. If you burn, I won’t be able to touch you.” He raises an eyebrow, his eyes shining with mirth, and my heart expands. “But I suspect you know that and you’re laughing at me.”

  “Would I?” I gasp, feigning innocence.

  “Yes you would and you do. Often. It’s one of the many things I love about you.” He leans down and kisses me, playfully biting my lower lip.

  “I was hoping you’d rub me down with more sunscreen.” I pout against his lips.

  “Mrs. Grey, it’s a dirty job . . . but that’s an offer I can’t refuse. Sit up,” he orders, his voice husky. I do as I’m told, and with slow meticulous strokes from strong and supple fingers, he coats me in sunscreen.

  “You really are very lovely. I’m a lucky man,” he murmurs as his fingers skim over my breasts, spreading the lotion.

  “Yes, you are, Mr. Grey.” I gaze coyly up at him through my lashes.

  “Modesty becomes you, Mrs. Grey. Turn over. I want to do your back.”

  Smiling, I roll over, and he undoes the back strap of my hideously expensive bikini.

  “How would you feel if I went topless, like the other women on the beach?” I ask.

  “Displeased,” he says without hesitation. “I’m not very happy about you wearing so little right now.” He leans down and whispers in my ear. “Don’t push your luck.”

  “Is that a challenge, Mr. Grey?”

  “No. It’s a statement of fact, Mrs. Grey.”

  I sigh and shake my head. Oh, Christian . . . my possessive, jealous, control freak Christian.

  When he’s finished, he slaps my behind.

  “You’ll do, wench.”

  His ever-present, ever-active BlackBerry buzzes. I frown and he smirks.

  “My eyes only, Mrs. Grey.” He raises his eyebrow in playful warning, slaps my backside once more, and sits back down on his lounger to take the call.

  My inner goddess purrs. Maybe tonight we could do some kind of floor show for his eyes only. She smirks knowingly, arching a brow. I grin at the thought and drift back into my afternoon siesta.

  “Mam’selle? Un Perrier pour moi, un Coca-Cola light pour ma femme, s’il vous plait. Et quelque chose a manger . . . laissez-moi voir la carte.”

  Hmm . . . Christian speaking fluent French wakes me. My eyelashes flutter in the glare of the sun, and I find Christian watching me while a liveried young woman walks away, her tray held aloft, her high blond ponytail swinging provocatively.

  “Thirsty?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I mutter sleepily.

  “I could watch you all day. Tired?”

  I flush. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Me neither.” He grins, puts down his BlackBerry, and stands. His shorts fall a little and hang . . . in that way so his swim trunks are visible beneath. Christian takes his shorts off, stepping out of his flip-flops. I lose my train of thought.

  “Come for a swim with me.” He holds out his hand while I look up at him, dazed. “Swim?” he says again, cocking his head to one side, an amused expression on his face. When I don’t respond, he shakes his head slowly.

  “I think you need a wake-up call.” Suddenly he pounces and lifts me into his arms while I shriek, more from surprise than alarm.

  “Christian! Put me down!” I squeal.

  He chuckles. “Only in the sea, baby.”

  Several sunbathers on the beach watch with that bemused disinterest so typical, I now realize, of the French as Christian carries me to the sea, laughing, and wades in.

  I clasp my arms around his neck. “You wouldn’t.” I say breathlessly, trying to stifle my giggling.

  He grins. “Oh, Ana, baby, have you learned nothing in the short time we’ve known each other?” He kisses me, and I seize my opportunity, running my fingers through his hair, grasping two handfuls and kissing him back while invading his mouth with my tongue. He inhales sharply and leans back, eyes smoky but wary.

  “I know your game,” he whispers and slowly sinks into the cool, clear water, taking me with him as his lips find mine once more. The chill of the Mediterranean is soon forgotten as I wrap myself around my husband.

  “I thought you wanted to swim,” I murmur against his mouth.

  “You’re very distracting.” Christian grazes his teeth along my lower lip. “But I’m not sure I want the good people of Monte Carlo to see my wife in the throes of passion.”

  I run my teeth along his jaw, his stubble tickly against my tongue, not caring a dime for the good people of Monte Carlo.

  “Ana,” he groans. He wraps my ponytail around his wrist and tugs gently, tilting my head back, exposing my throat. He trails kisses from my ear down my neck.

  “Shall I take you in the sea?” he breathes.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Christian pulls away and gazes down at me, his eyes warm, wanting, and amused. “Mrs. Grey, you’re insatiable and so brazen. What sort of monster have I created?”

  “A monster fit for you. Would you have me any other way?”

  “I’ll take you any way I can get you, you know that. But not right now. Not with an audience.” He jerks his head toward the shore.

  What?

  Sure enough, several sunbathers on the beach have abandoned their indifference and now regard us with interest. Suddenly, Christian grabs me around my waist and launches me into the air, letting me fall into the water and sink beneath the waves to the soft sand below. I surface, coughing, spluttering and giggling.

  “Christian!” I scold, glaring at him. I thought we were going to make love in the sea . . . and chalk up yet another first. He bites his lower lip to stifle his amusement. I splash him, and he splashes me right back.

  “We have all night,” he says, grinning like a fool. “Laters, baby.” He dives beneath the sea and surfaces three feet away from me, then in a fluid, graceful crawl, swims away from the shore, away from me.

  Gah! Playful, tantalizing Fifty! I shield my eyes from the sun as I watch him go. He’s such a tease . . . what can I do to get him back? While I swim back to the shore, I contemplate my options. At the sun loungers our drinks have arrived, and I take a quick sip of Coke. Christian is a faint speck in the distance.

  Hmm . . . I lie down on my front and, fumbling with the straps, take my bikini top off and toss it casually onto Christian’s sun lounger. There . . . see how brazen I can be, Mr. Grey. Put this in your pipe and smoke it. I shut my eyes and let the sun warm my skin . . . warm my bones, and I drift away under its heat, my thoughts turning to my wedding day.

  “You may kiss the bride,” Reverend Walsh announces.

  I beam at my husband.

  “Finally, you’re mine,” he whispers and pulls me into his arms and kisses me chastely on the lips.

  I am married. I am Mrs. Christian Grey. I am giddy with joy.

  “You look beautiful, Ana,”
he murmurs and smiles, his eyes glowing with love . . . and something darker, something hot. “Don’t let anyone take that dress off but me, understand?” His smile heats a hundred degrees as his fingertips trail down my cheek, igniting my blood.

  Holy crap . . . How does he do this, even here with all these people staring at us?

  I nod mutely. Jeez, I hope no one can hear us. Luckily Reverend Walsh has discreetly stepped back. I glance at the throng gathered in their wedding finery . . . My mom, Ray, Bob, and the Greys are all applauding—even Kate, my maid of honor, who looks stunning in pale pink as she stands beside Christian’s best man, his brother Elliot. Who knew that even Elliot could scrub up so well? All wear huge, beaming smiles—except Grace, who weeps graciously into a dainty white handkerchief.

  “Ready to party, Mrs. Grey?” Christian murmurs, giving me his shy smile. I melt. He looks divine in a simple black tux with silver waistcoat and tie. He’s so . . . dashing.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” I grin, a totally goofy smile on my face.

  Later the wedding party is in full swing . . . Carrick and Grace have gone to town. They have the marquee set up again and beautifully decorated in pale pink, silver, and ivory with its sides open, facing the bay. We have been blessed with fine weather, and the late afternoon sun shines over the water. There’s a dance floor at one end of the marquee, a lavish buffet at the other.

  Ray and my mother are dancing and laughing with each other. I feel bittersweet watching them together. I hope Christian and I last longer. I don’t know what I’d do if he left me. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. The saying haunts me.

  Kate is beside me, looking so beautiful in her long silk gown. She glances at me and frowns. “Hey, this is supposed to be the happiest day of your life,” she scolds.

  “It is,” I whisper.

  “Oh, Ana, what’s wrong? Are you watching your mom and Ray?”

  I nod sadly.

  “They’re happy.”

  “Happier apart.”

  “You’re having doubts?” Kate asks, alarmed.

  “No, not at all. It’s just . . . I love him so much.” I freeze, unable or unwilling to articulate my fears.