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

  A revolver. Holy fuck! I had no idea Christian owned a gun. I take it out, slip the release and check the cylinder. It’s fully loaded, but light . . . too light. It must be carbon fiber. What does Christian want with a gun? Jeez, I hope he knows how to use it. Ray’s perpetual warnings about handguns run quickly through my mind. His army training was never lost. These will kill you, Ana. You need to know what you’re doing when you’re handling a firearm. I put the gun back and find the scissors. Retrieving them quickly, I bolt back to Christian, my head buzzing. Taylor and Mrs. Jones . . . the revolver . . .

  At the entrance to the great room, I run into Taylor.

  “Mrs. Grey, excuse me.” His face reddens as he quickly takes in my attire.

  “Um, Taylor, hi . . . um. I’m cutting Christian’s hair!” I blurt out, embarrassed. Taylor is as mortified as I am. He opens his mouth to say something then closes it quickly and stands aside.

  “After you, ma’am,” he says formally. I think I’m the color of my old Audi, the submissive special. Jeez. Could this be more embarrassing?

  “Thank you,” I mutter and dash down the hallway. Crap! Will I ever get used to the fact that we’re not alone? I dash into the bathroom, breathless.

  “What’s wrong?” Christian is standing in front of the mirror, holding my shoes. All of my scattered clothes are now neatly piled beside the sink.

  “I just ran into Taylor.”

  “Oh.” Christian frowns. “Dressed like that.”

  Oh shit! “That’s not Taylor’s fault.”

  Christian’s frown deepens. “No. But still.”

  “I’m dressed.”

  “Barely.”

  “I don’t know who was more embarrassed, me or him.” I try my distraction technique. “Did you know he and Gail are . . . well, together?”

  Christian laughs. “Yes, of course I knew.”

  “And you never told me?”

  “I thought you knew, too.”

  “No.”

  “Ana, they’re adults. They live under the same roof. Both unattached. Both attractive.”

  I flush, feeling foolish for not having noticed.

  “Well, if you put it like that . . . I just thought Gail was older than Taylor.”

  “She is, but not by much.” He gazes at me, perplexed. “Some men like older women—” He stops abruptly and his eyes widen.

  I scowl at him. “I know that,” I snap.

  Christian looks contrite. He smiles fondly at me. Yes! My distraction technique successful! My subconscious rolls her eyes at me—but at what cost? Now the unmentionable Mrs. Robinson is looming over us.

  “That reminds me,” he says, brightly.

  “What?” I mutter petulantly. Grabbing the chair, I turn it to face the mirror above the sinks. “Sit,” I order. Christian regards me with indulgent amusement, but does as he’s told and sits back down in the chair. I start to comb through his now merely damp hair.

  “I was thinking we could convert the rooms over the garages for them at the new place,” Christian continues. “Make it a home. Then maybe Taylor’s daughter could stay with him more often.” He watches me carefully in the mirror.

  “Why doesn’t she stay here?”

  “Taylor’s never asked me.”

  “Perhaps you should offer. But we’d have to behave ourselves.”

  Christian’s brow furrows. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Perhaps that’s why Taylor hasn’t asked. Have you met her?”

  “Yes. She’s a sweet thing. Shy. Very pretty. I pay for her schooling.”

  Oh! I stop combing and stare at him in the mirror.

  “I had no idea.”

  He shrugs. “Seemed the least I could do. Also, it means he won’t quit.”

  “I’m sure he likes working for you.”

  Christian stares at me blankly then shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “I think he’s very fond of you, Christian.” I resume combing and glance at him. His eyes don’t leave mine.

  “You think?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  He snorts a dismissive yet content sound as if he’s secretly pleased that his staff may like him.

  “Good. Will you talk to Gia about the rooms over the garage?”

  “Yes, of course.” I don’t feel the same irritation I did before at the mention of her name. My subconscious nods sagely at me. Yes . . . we done good today. My inner goddess gloats. Now she’ll leave my husband alone and not make him uncomfortable.

  I am ready to cut Christian’s hair. “You sure about this? Your last chance to bail.”

  “Do your worst, Mrs. Grey. I don’t have to look at me, you do.”

  I grin. “Christian, I could look at you all day.”

  He shakes his head exasperated. “It’s just a pretty face, baby.”

  “And behind it is a very pretty man.” I kiss his temple. “My man.”

  He grins shyly.

  Lifting the first lock, I comb it upward and snare it between my index and middle finger. I put the comb in my mouth, take the scissors and make the first snip, cutting an inch off the length. Christian closes his eyes and sits like a statue, sighing contentedly as I continue. Occasionally he opens his eyes, and I catch him watching me intently. He doesn’t touch me while I work, and I’m grateful. His touch is . . . distracting.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m done.

  “Finished.” I’m pleased with the result. He looks as hot as ever, his hair still floppy and sexy . . . just a bit shorter.

  Christian gazes at himself in the mirror, looking pleasantly surprised. He grins. “Great job, Mrs. Grey.” He turns his head from side to side and snakes his arm around me. Pulling me to him, he kisses and nuzzles my belly.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “My pleasure.” I bend and kiss him briefly.

  “It’s late. Bed.” He gives my behind a playful slap.

  “Ah! I should clean up in here.” There is hair all over the floor.

  Christian frowns, as if the thought would never have occurred to him. “Okay, I’ll get the broom,” he says wryly. “I don’t want you embarrassing the staff with your lack of appropriate attire.”

  “Do you know where the broom is?” I ask innocently.

  This stops Christian in his tracks. “Um . . . no.”

  I laugh. “I’ll go.”

  As I climb into bed and wait for Christian to join me, I reflect on how differently this day could have ended. I was so mad at him earlier, and he with me. How am I going to deal with this running-a-company nonsense? I have no desire to run my own company. I am not him. I need to head this off at the pass. Perhaps I should have a safe word for when he’s being overbearing and domineering, for when he’s being an arse. I giggle. Perhaps the safe word should be arse. I find the thought very appealing.

  “What?” he says as he climbs into bed beside me wearing only his pajama pants.

  “Nothing. Just an idea.”

  “What idea?” He stretches out beside me.

  Here goes nothing. “Christian, I don’t think I want to run a company.”

  He props himself up on his elbow and gazes down at me. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s not something that has ever appealed to me.”

  “You’re more than capable, Anastasia.”

  “I like to read books, Christian. Running a company will take me away from that.”

  “You could be the creative head.”

  I frown.

  “You see,” he continues, “running a successful company is all about embracing the talent of the individuals you have at your disposal. If that’s where your talents and your interests lie, then you structure the company to enable that. Don’t dismiss it out of hand, Anastasia. You’re a very capable woman. I think you could do 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.”
<
br />   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 innocence.

  “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.

  “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 announcement interrupts my reverie.

  “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 grinning at me. “What?” I snap.

  “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 who was responsible.

  “I couldn’t bear to lose you,” I murmur.

  “Five people have been fired because of that, Ana. It won’t happen again.”

  “Five?”

  He nods, his face serious.

  Holy crap!

  “That reminds me. There’s a gun in your desk.”

  He frowns at my non sequitur and p
robably at my accusatory tone, though I don’t mean it that way. “It’s Leila’s,” he says finally.

  “It’s fully loaded.”

  “How do you know?” His frown deepens.

  “I checked it yesterday.”

  He scowls at me. “I don’t want you messing with guns. I hope you put the safety back on.”

  I blink at him, momentarily stupefied. “Christian, there’s no safety on that revolver. Don’t you know anything about guns?”

  His eyes widen. “Um . . . no.”

  Taylor coughs discreetly from the entrance. Christian nods at him.

  “We have to go,” Christian says. He stands, distracted, and slips on his gray jacket. I follow him into the hallway.

  He has Leila’s gun. I am stunned by this news and briefly wonder what’s happened to her. Is she still in—where is it? East somewhere. New Hampshire? I can’t remember.

  “Good morning, Taylor,” Christian says.

  “Good morning, Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey.” He nods at us both, but he’s careful not to look me in the eye. I’m grateful, recalling my state of undress when we bumped into each other last night.

  “I am just going to brush my teeth,” I mutter. Christian always brushes his teeth before breakfast. I don’t understand why.

  “You should ask Taylor to teach you how to shoot,” I say as we travel down in the elevator. Christian gazes down at me, amused.

  “Should I now?” he says dryly.

  “Yes.”

  “Anastasia, I despise guns. My mom has patched up too many victims of gun crime, and my dad is vehemently antigun. I grew up with their ethos. I support at least two gun control initiatives here in Washington.”

  “Oh. Does Taylor carry a gun?”

  Christian’s mouth thins.

  “Sometimes.”

  “You don’t approve?” I ask, as Christian ushers me out of the elevator on the ground floor.

  “No,” he says, tight-lipped. “Let’s just say that Taylor and I hold very different views with regard to gun control.” I’m with Taylor on this.