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

  Okay . . . I steel myself to ask the million-dollar question. “Do you want to put in a playroom?” I feel the oh-so-familiar flush creep up my face as I ask. Christian’s eyebrows shoot up.

  “Do you?” he replies, surprised and amused at once.

  I shrug. “Um . . . if you want.”

  He regards me for a moment. “Let’s leave our options open for the moment. After all, this will be a family home.”

  I’m surprised by the stab of disappointment I feel. I guess he’s right . . . although when are we going to have a family? It could be years.

  “Besides, we can improvise.” He smirks.

  “I like improvising,” I whisper.

  He grins. “There’s something I want to discuss.” Christian points to the master bedroom, and we start a detailed discussion on bathrooms and separate walk-in closets.

  When we finish, it’s nine thirty in the evening.

  “Are you going back to work?” I ask as Christian rolls up the plans.

  “Not if you don’t want me to.” He smiles. “What would you like to do?”

  “We could watch TV.” I don’t want to read, and I don’t want to go to bed . . . yet.

  “Okay,” Christian agrees willingly, and I follow him into the TV room.

  We have sat here three, maybe four times total, and Christian usually reads a book. He’s not interested in television at all. I curl up beside him on the couch, tucking my legs beneath me and resting my head against his shoulder. He switches on the flat-screen television with the remote and flicks mindlessly through the channels.

  “Any specific drivel you want to see?”

  “You don’t like TV much, do you?” I mutter sardonically.

  He shakes his head. “Waste of time. But I’ll watch something with you.”

  “I thought we could make out.”

  He whips his face to mine. “Make out?” He gazes at me as if I’ve grown two heads. He stops the endless flicking, leaving the TV on an over lit Spanish soap opera.

  “Yes.” Why is he so horrified?

  “We could go to bed and make out.”

  “We do that all the time. When was the last time you made out in front of the TV?” I ask, shy and teasing at the same time.

  He shrugs and shakes his head. Pressing the remote again, he flicks through another few channels before settling on an old episode of The X-Files.

  “Christian?”

  “I’ve never done that,” he says quietly.

  “Never?”

  “No.”

  “Not even with Mrs. Robinson?”

  He snorts. “Baby, I did a lot of things with Mrs. Robinson. Making out was not one of them.” He smirks at me and then narrows his eyes with amused curiosity. “Have you?”

  I flush. “Of course.” Well kind of . . .

  “What! Who with?”

  Oh no. I do not want to have this discussion.

  “Tell me,” he persists.

  I gaze down at my knotted fingers. He gently covers my hands with one of his. When I glance up at him, he’s smiling at me.

  “I want to know. So I can beat whoever it was to a pulp.”

  I giggle. “Well, the first time . . .”

  “The first time! There’s more than one fucker?” He growls.

  I giggle again. “Why so surprised, Mr. Grey?”

  He frowns briefly, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at me as if seeing me in a completely different light. He shrugs. “I just am. I mean—given your lack of experience.”

  I flush. “I’ve certainly made up for that since I met you.”

  “You have.” He grins. “Tell me. I want to know.”

  I gaze into patient gray eyes, trying to gauge his mood. Is this going to make him mad, or does he genuinely want to know? I don’t want him sulking . . . he’s impossible when he’s sulking.

  “You really want me to tell you?”

  He nods slowly once, and his lips twitch with an amused, arrogant smile.

  “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, running his nose down the length of mine. He plants soft kisses at the corner of my mouth.

  “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 . . .”

  “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 dra
gs 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.

  “If anything happened to you . . . ,” he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.

  “I know,” I whisper. “I feel the same about you.” I shiver at the thought.

  “Come. You’re getting cold,” he says, sitting up. “Let’s go to bed. We can cover third base there.” He smiles a lascivious smile, as mercurial as ever, passionate, angry, anxious, sexy—my Fifty Shades. I take his hand and he pulls me to my feet, and without a stitch on, I follow him through the great room to the bedroom.

  The following morning, Christian squeezes my hand as we pull up outside SIP. He looks very much the powerful executive in his dark navy suit and matching tie, and I smile. He’s not been this smart since the ballet in Monaco.

  “You know you don’t have to do this?” Christian murmurs. I am tempted to roll my eyes at him.

  “I know,” I whisper, not wanting Sawyer and Ryan to overhear me from the front of the Audi. He frowns and I smile.

  “But I want to,” I continue. “You know this.” I lean up and kiss him. His frown doesn’t disappear. “What’s wrong?”He glances uncertainly at Ryan as Sawyer climbs out of the car. “I’ll miss having you to myself.”

  I reach up to caress his face. “Me, too.” I kiss him. “It was a wonderful honeymoon. Thank you.”

  “Go to work, Mrs. Grey.”

  “You, too, Mr. Grey.”

  Sawyer opens the door. I squeeze Christian’s hand once more before I climb out onto the sidewalk. As I head into the building, I give him a little wave. Sawyer holds open the door and follows me in.

  “Hi, Ana.” Claire smiles from behind the reception desk.

  “Claire, hello.” I smile back.

  “You look wonderful. Good honeymoon?”

  “The best, thank you. How’s it been here?”

  “Old man Roach is the same, but security has been stepped up and our server room is being overhauled. But Hannah will tell you.”

  Sure she will. I give Claire a friendly smile and head to my office.

  Hannah is my assistant. She is tall, slim, and ruthlessly efficient to the point that sometimes I find her a little intimidating. But she’s sweet to me, in spite of the fact that she’s a couple of years older. She has my latte waiting—the only coffee I let her get for me.

  “Hi, Hannah,” I say warmly.

  “Ana, how was your honeymoon?”

  “Fantastic. Here—for you.” I pop the small bottle of perfume I bought for her onto her desk, and she claps her hands with glee.

  “Oh, thank you!” she says enthusiastically. “Your urgent correspondence is on your desk, and Roach would like to see you at ten. That’s all I have to report for now.”

  “Good. Thank you. And thanks for the coffee.” Wandering into my office, I rest my briefcase on my desk and gaze at the piled up letters. Jeez, I have a lot to do.

  Just before ten there’s a timid tap on my door.

  “Come in.”

  Elizabeth looks around the door. “Hi, Ana. I just wanted to say welcome back.”

  “Hey. I have to say, reading through all this correspondence, I wish I was back in the South of France.”

  Elizabeth laughs, but her laughter is off, forced, and I cock my head to one side and gaze at her like Christian does to me.

  “Glad you’re back safely,” she says. “I’ll see you in a few minutes at the meeting with Roach.”

  “Okay,” I murmur, and she shuts the door behind her. I frown at the closed door. What was that about? I shrug it off. My e-mail pings—it’s a message from Christian.

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Errant Wives

  Date: August 22, 2011 09:56

  To: Anastasia Steele

  Wife

  I sent the e-mail below and it bounced.

  And it’s because you haven’t changed your name.
>
  Something you want to tell me?

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

  Attachment:

  From: Christian Grey

  FW Subject: Bubble

  Date: August 22, 2011 09:32

  To: Anastasia Grey

  Mrs. Grey

  Love covering all the bases with you.

  Have a great first day back.

  Miss our bubble already.

  x

  Christian Grey

  Back in the Real World CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

  Shit. I hit reply immediately.

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: Don’t Burst the Bubble

  Date: August 22, 2011 09:58

  To: Christian Grey

  Husband

  I am all for a baseball metaphor with you, Mr. Grey.

  I want to keep my name here.

  I’ll explain this evening.

  I am going in to a meeting now.

  Miss our bubble, too . . .

  PS: Thought I had to use my BlackBerry?

  Anastasia Steele

  Commissioning Editor, SIP

  This is going to be such a fight. I can feel it. Sighing, I gather up my papers for the meeting.

  The meeting lasts for two hours. All the commissioning editors are there, plus Roach and Elizabeth. We discuss personnel, strategy, marketing, security, and year-end. As the meeting progresses, I grow more and more uncomfortable. There’s a subtle change in how my colleagues are treating me—a distance and deference that wasn’t there before I left for my honeymoon. And from Courtney, who heads up the non-fiction division, there’s downright hostility. Maybe I’m just being paranoid but it goes some way to explaining Elizabeth’s odd greeting this morning.

  My mind drifts back to the yacht, then to the playroom, then to the R8 speeding away from the mystery Dodge on I-5. Perhaps Christian’s right . . . perhaps I can’t do this anymore. The thought is depressing—this is all I’ve ever wanted to do. If I can’t do this, what will I do? As I walk back to my office, I try to dismiss these dark thoughts.

  When I sit down at my desk, I quickly check my e-mails. Nothing from Christian. I check my BlackBerry . . . Still nothing. Good. At least there’s been no adverse reaction to my e-mail. Perhaps we’ll discuss this tonight as per my request. I find that hard to believe, but ignoring my uneasy feeling, I open the marketing plan I was given at the meeting.