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

  I stare down at my knotted fingers. Crap. I hope Mr. and Mrs. Grey don’t think I’m some kind of gold digger. Christian reaches over and grasps both my hands gently in one of his.

  “Stop it.”

  How does he know what I’m thinking?

  “Ignore my dad,” Christian says so only I can hear him. “He’s really pissed about Elena. That stuff was all aimed at me. I wish my mom had kept her mouth shut.”

  I know Christian is still smarting from his “talk” with Carrick about Elena last night.

  “He has a point, Christian. You’re very wealthy, and I’m bringing nothing to our marriage but my student loans.”

  Christian gazes at me, his eyes bleak. “Anastasia, if you leave me, you might as well take everything. You left me once before. I know how that feels.”

  Holy Fuck! “That was different,” I whisper, moved by his intensity. “But . . . you might want to leave me.” The thought makes me sick.

  He snorts and shakes his head with mock disgust.

  “Christian, you know I might do something exceptionally stupid—and you . . .” I glance down at my knotted hands, pain lancing through me, and I’m unable to finish my sentence. Losing Christian . . . fuck.

  “Stop. Stop now. This subject is closed, Ana. We’re not discussing it any more. No prenup. Not now—not ever.” He gives me a pointed give-it-up-now look, which silences me. Then he turns to Grace. “Mom,” he says. “Can we have the wedding here?”

  And he’s not mentioned it again. In fact at every opportunity he’s tried to reassure me about his wealth . . . that’s it mine, too. I shudder as I recall the crazy shopping fest Christian demanded I go on with Caroline Acton—the personal shopper from Niemans—in preparation for this honeymoon. My bikini alone cost five hundred and forty dollars. I mean, it’s nice, but really—that’s a ridiculous amount of money for four triangular scraps of material.

  “You will get used to it,” Christian interrupts my reverie as he resumes his place at the table.

  “Used to it?”

  “The money,” he says, rolling his eyes.

  Oh, Fifty, maybe with time. I push the small dish of salted almonds and cashews toward him.

  “Your nuts, sir,” I say with as straight a face as I can manage, trying to bring some humor to our conversation after my dark thoughts and my bikini top faux pas.

  He smirks. “I’m nuts about you.” He takes an almond, his eyes sparkling with wicked humor as he enjoys my little joke. He licks his lips. “Drink up. We’re going to bed.”

  What?

  “Drink,” he mouths at me, his eyes darkening.

  Oh my, the look he gives me could be solely responsible for global warming. I pick up my gin and drain the glass, not taking my eyes off him. His mouth drops open, and I glimpse the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He smiles lewdly at me. In one fluid move, he stands and bends over me, resting his hands on the arms of my chair.

  “I’m going to make an example of you. Come. Don’t pee,” he whispers in my ear.

  I gasp. Don’t pee? How rude. My subconscious looks up from her book—The Complete works of Charles Dickens, Vol. 1—with alarm.

  “It’s not what you think.” Christian smirks, holding his hand out to me. “Trust me.” He looks so sexy and genial. How can I resist?

  “Okay.” I place my hand in his, because quite simply, I’d trust him with my life. What has he got planned? My heart starts pounding in anticipation.

  He leads me across the deck and through the doors into the plush, beautifully appointed main salon, along a narrow corridor, through the dining room, and down the stairs to the main master cabin.

  The cabin has been cleaned since this morning and the bed made. It’s a lovely room. With two portholes on both the starboard and port sides, it’s elegantly decorated in dark walnut furniture with cream walls and soft furnishings in gold and red.

  Christian releases my hand, pulls his T-shirt over his head, and tosses it onto a chair. He steps out of his flip-flops and removes his shorts and trunks in one graceful move. Oh my. Will I ever tire of looking at him naked? He is utterly gorgeous and all mine. His skin glows—he’s caught the sun, too, and his hair is longer, flopping over his forehead. I am one lucky, lucky girl.

  He grasps my chin, pulling slightly so that I stop biting my lip and runs his thumb along my lower lip.

  “That’s better.” He turns and strides over to the impressive armoire that houses his clothes. He produces two pairs of metal handcuffs and an airline eye mask from the bottom drawer.

  Handcuffs! We’ve never used handcuffs. I glance quickly and nervously at the bed. Where the hell is he going to attach those? He turns and gazes steadily at me, his eyes dark and luminous.

  “These can be quite painful. They can bite into the skin if you pull too hard.” He holds up one pair. “But I really want to use them on you now.”

  Holy fuck. My mouth goes dry.

  “Here.” He stalks gracefully forward and hands me a set. “Do you want to try them first?”

  They feel solid, the metal cold. Vaguely, I hope I never have to wear a pair of these for real.

  Christian is watching me intently.

  “Where are the keys?” My voice wavering.

  He holds out his palm, revealing a small metallic key. “This does both sets. In fact, all sets.”

  How many sets does he have? I don’t remember seeing any in the museum chest.

  He strokes my cheek with his index finger, trailing it down to my mouth. He leans in as if to kiss me.

  “Do you want to play?” he says, his voice low, and everything in my body heads south as desire unfurls deep in my belly.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  He smiles. “Good.” He plants a featherlight kiss on my forehead. “We’re going to need a safe word.”

  What?

  “Stop won’t be enough because you will probably say that, but you won’t mean it.” He runs his nose down mine—the only contact between us.

  My heart starts pounding. Shit . . . How can he do this with just words?

  “This is not going to hurt. It will be intense. Very intense, because I am not going to let you move. Okay?”

  Oh my. This sounds so hot. My breathing is too loud. Fuck, I am panting already. My inner goddess has her sequins on and is warming up to dance the rumba. Thank heavens I’m married to this man, otherwise this would be embarrassing. My eyes flick down to his arousal.

  “Okay.” My voice is barely audible.

  “Choose a word, Ana.”

  Oh . . .

  “A safe word,” he says softly.

  “Popsicle.” I say, panting.

  “Popsicle?” he says, amused.

  “Yes.”

  He grins as he leans back to gaze down at me. “Interesting choice. Lift up your arms.”

  I do, and Christian grasps the hem of my sundress, lifts it over my head, and tosses it on the floor. He holds out his hand, and I give him back the handcuffs. He places both sets on the bedside table along with the blindfold and yanks the quilt off the bed, letting it fall to the floor.

  “Turn round.”

  I turn, and he undoes my bikini top so that it falls to the floor.

  “Tomorrow, I will staple this to you,” he mutters and tugs on my hair tie, freeing my hair. He gathers it into one hand and yanks gently so I step back against him. Against his chest. Against his erection. I gasp as he pulls my head to one side and kisses my neck.

  “You were very disobedient,” he murmurs in my ear, sending delicious shivers through me.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Hmm. What are we going to do about that?”

  “Learn to live with it,” I breathe. His soft languid kisses are driving me wild. He grins against my neck.

  “Ah, Mrs. Grey. You are ever the optimist.”

  He straightens. Taking my hair, he carefully parts it into three strands, braids it slowly, and then fastens my hair tie to the end. He tugs my braid gently and
leans down to my ear. “I am going to teach you a lesson,” he murmurs.

  Moving suddenly, he grabs me by the waist, sits down on the bed, and yanks me across his knee so that I feel his erection pressed against my belly. He smacks my backside once, hard. I yelp, then I’m on my back on the bed, and he’s gazing down at me, his eyes molten gray. I’m going to combust.

  “Do you know how beautiful you are?” He trails his fingertips up my thigh so that I tingle . . . everywhere. Without taking his eyes off me, he gets up from the bed and gathers both sets of handcuffs. He grasps my left leg and snaps one cuff around my ankle.

  Oh!

  Lifting my right leg, he repeats the process so I have a pair of handcuffs attached to each ankle. I still have no idea where he’s going to attach them.

  “Sit up,” he orders and I comply immediately.

  “Now hug your knees.”

  I blink at him then draw my legs up so they are bent in front of me and wrap my arms around them. He reaches down, lifts my chin, and plants a soft wet kiss on my lips before slipping the blindfold over my eyes. I can see nothing, all I can hear is my rapid breathing and the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the yacht as she bobs gently on the sea.

  Oh my. I am so aroused . . . already.

  “What’s the safe word, Anastasia?”

  “Popsicle.”

  “Good.” Taking my left hand, he snaps a cuff around my wrist then repeats the process with my right. My left hand is tied to my left ankle, my right hand to the right leg. I cannot straighten my legs. Holy fuck.

  “Now,” Christian breathes, “I’m going to fuck you till you scream.”

  What? And all the air leaves my body.

  He grasps both of my heels and tips me back so that I fall backward on to the bed. I have no choice but to keep my legs bent. The cuffs tighten as I pull against them. He’s right . . . they cut into me almost to the point of pain . . . This feels weird—being trussed up and helpless—on a boat. He pulls my ankles apart, and I groan.

  He kisses my inner thigh, and I want to squirm beneath him, but I can’t. I have no purchase to move my hips. My feet are suspended. I cannot move. Holy shit.

  “You’re going to have to absorb all the pleasure, Anastasia. No moving,” he murmurs as he crawls up my body, kissing me along the edge of my bikini bottoms. He pulls the strings on each side, and the scraps of material fall away. I am now naked and at his mercy. He kisses my belly, nipping my navel with his teeth.

  “Ah,” I sigh. This is going to be tough . . . I had no idea. He traces soft kisses and little bites up to my breasts.

  “Shhh . . . ,” he soothes. “You are so beautiful, Ana.”

  I groan, frustrated. Normally I’d be grinding my hips, responding to his touch with a rhythm of my own, but I cannot move. I moan, pulling on my restraints. The metal bites into my skin.

  “Argh!” I cry. But I really don’t care.

  “You drive me crazy,” he whispers. “So I am going to drive you crazy.” He’s resting on me now, his weight on his elbows, and he turns his attention to my breasts. Biting, sucking, rolling my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, driving me wild. He doesn’t stop. It’s maddening. Oh. Please. His erection pushes against me.

  “Christian,” I beg and feel his triumphant smile against my skin.

  “Shall I make you come this way?” He murmurs against my nipple, causing it to harden some more. “You know I can.” He suckles me hard and I cry out, pleasure lancing from my chest directly to my groin. I pull helplessly on the cuffs, swamped by the sensation.

  “Yes,” I whimper.

  “Oh, baby, that would be too easy.”

  “Oh . . . please.”

  “Shh.” His teeth scrape my chin as he trails his lips to my mouth, and I gasp. He kisses me. His skilled tongue invades my mouth, tasting, exploring, dominating, but my tongue meets his challenge, writhing against his. He tastes of cool gin and Christian Grey, and he smells of the sea. He grasps my chin, holding my head in place.

  “Still, baby. I want you still,” he whispers against my mouth.

  “I want to see you.”

  “Oh no, Ana. You’ll feel more this way.” And agonizingly slowly he flexes his hips and pushes partway into me. I would normally tilt my pelvis up to meet him but I can’t move. He withdraws.

  “Ah! Christian, please!”

  “Again?” he teases, his voice hoarse.

  “Christian!”

  He pushes fractionally into me again then withdraws while kissing me, his fingers tugging at my nipple. It’s pleasure overload.

  “No!”

  “Do you want me, Anastasia?”

  “Yes,” I beg.

  “Tell me,” he murmurs, his breathing harsh, and he teases me once more—in . . . and out.

  “I want you,” I whimper. “Please.”

  I hear his soft sigh against my ear.

  “And have me you will, Anastasia.”

  He rears up and slams into me. I scream, tilting my head back, pulling on the restraints as he hits my sweet spot, and I am all sensation, everywhere—a sweet, sweet agony, and I cannot move. He stills then circles his hips, and the motion radiates deep inside me.

  “Why do you defy me, Ana?”

  “Christian, stop . . .”

  He circles deep inside me again, ignoring my plea, easing out slowly and then slamming into me again.

  “Tell me. Why?” he hisses, and I’m vaguely aware that it’s through gritted teeth.

  I cry out in an incoherent wail . . . this is too much.

  “Tell me.”

  “Christian . . .”

  “Ana, I need to know.”

  He slams into me again, thrusting so deep, and I’m building . . . the feeling is so intense—it swamps me, spiraling out from deep within my belly, to each limb, to each biting metal restraint.

  “I don’t know!” I cry out. “Because I can! Because I love you! Please, Christian.”

  He groans loudly and thrusts deep, again and again, over and over, and I am lost, trying to absorb the pleasure. It’s mind-blowing . . . body blowing . . . I long to straighten my legs, to control my imminent orgasm, but I can’t . . . I’m helpless. I’m his, just his, to do with as he wills . . . Tears spring to my eyes. This is too intense. I can’t stop him. I don’t want to stop him . . . I want . . . I want . . . oh no, oh no . . . this is too . . .

  “That’s it,” Christian growls. “Feel it, baby!”

  I detonate around him, again and again, round and round, screaming loudly as my orgasm rips me apart, scorching through me like a wildfire, consuming everything. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face—my body left pulsing and shaking.

  And I’m aware that Christian kneels, still inside me, pulling me upright onto his lap. He clutches my head with one hand and my back with another, and he comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with aftershocks. It’s draining, it’s exhausting, it’s hell . . . it’s heaven. It’s hedonism gone wild.

  Christian tears off the blindfold and kisses me. He kisses my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. He kisses away the tears, clutching my face in between his hands.

  “I love you, Mrs. Grey,” he breathes. “Even though you make me so mad—I feel so alive with you.” I don’t have the energy to open either my eyes or my mouth to respond. Very gently, he lays me back on the bed and eases out of me.

  I mouth some wordless protest. He climbs off the bed and undoes the handcuffs. When I’m free, he gently rubs my wrists and ankles, then lies down beside me again, pulling me into his arms. I stretch out my legs. Oh my, that feels good. I feel good. That was, without doubt, the most intense climax I have ever endured. Hmm . . . a Christian Grey Fifty Shades punishment fuck.

  I really must misbehave more often.

  A pressing need from my bladder wakes me. When I open my eyes, I’m disorientated. It’s dark outside. Where am I? London? Paris? Oh—the boat. I feel her pitch and roll, and hear the quiet hum of the engines. W
e’re on the move. How odd. Christian is beside me, working on his laptop, casually dressed in a white linen shirt and chino trousers, his feet bare. His hair is still wet, and I can smell his body wash fresh from the shower and his Christian smell . . . Hmm.

  “Hi,” he murmurs, gazing down at me, his eyes warm.

  “Hi.” I smile, feeling suddenly shy. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Just an hour or so.”

  “We’re moving?”

  “I figured since we ate out last night and went to the ballet and the Casino that we’d dine on board tonight. A quiet night à deux.”

  I grin at him. “Where are we going?”

  “Cannes.”

  “Okay.” I stretch, feeling stiff. No amount of training with Claude could have prepared me for this afternoon.

  I rise gingerly, needing the bathroom. Grabbing my silk robe, I hastily put it on. Why am I so shy? I feel Christian’s eyes on me. When I glance at him, he returns to his laptop, his brow furrowed.

  As I absentmindedly wash my hands at the vanity unit, recalling last night at the Casino, my robe falls open. I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked.

  Holy fuck! What has he done to me?

  I gaze in horror at the red marks all over my breasts. Hickeys! I have hickeys! I am married to one of the most respected businessmen in the United States, and he’s given me goddamn hickeys. How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush. The fact is I know exactly why—Mr. Orgasmic was using his fine-motor sexing skills on me.

  My subconscious peers over her half-moon specs and tuts disapprovingly, while my inner goddess slumbers on her chaise longue, out for the count. I gape at my reflection. My wrists have a red welt around them from the handcuffs. No doubt they’ll bruise. I examine my ankles—more welts. Holy hell, I look like I’ve been in some sort of accident. I gaze at myself, trying to absorb how I look. My body is so different these days. It’s changed subtly since I’ve known him . . . I’ve become leaner and fitter, and my hair is glossy and well cut. My nails are manicured, my feet pedicured, my eyebrows threaded and beautifully shaped. For the first time in my life, I’m well groomed—except for these hideous love bites.

  I don’t want to think about grooming at the moment. I’m too mad. How dare he mark me like this, like some teenager. In the short time we’ve been together, he’s never given me hickeys. I look like hell. I know why he’s done this. Damn control freak. Right! My subconscious folds her arms beneath her small bosom—he’s gone too far this time. I stalk out of the en suite bathroom and into the walk-in closet, carefully avoiding even a glance in his direction. Slipping out of my robe, I pull on my sweatpants and a camisole. I undo the braid, pick up a hairbrush from the small vanity unit, and brush out my tangles.