Текст книги "Fifty Shades Freed"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

“I know.”

“Deal with it, please. For both our sakes. And I will try and be more considerate of your . . . controlling tendencies.”

He looks lost and vulnerable, completely at sea.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs, his voice burning with sincerity.

I sigh, a long shuddering sigh. “Please do. Besides, if I had been here . . .”

“I know,” he says and blanches. Lying back, he puts his free arm over his face. I curl around him and lay my head on his chest. We both lie silent for a few

moments. His hand moves to the end of my braid. He pulls the tie from it, freeing my hair, and gently, rhythmically combs his fingers through it. This is what this is

really about—his fear . . . his irrational fear for my safety. An image of Jack Hyde slumped on the floor in my apartment with a Glock comes to mind . . . well,

maybe not so irrational, which reminds me . . .

“What did you mean earlier, when you said or?” I ask.

“Or?”

“Something about Jack.”

He peers down at me. “You don’t give up, do you?”

I rest my chin on his sternum, enjoying the soothing caress of his fingers in my hair.

“Give up? Never. Tell me. I don’t like being kept in the dark. You seem to have some overblown idea that I need protecting. You don’t even know how to shoot

–I do. Do you think I can’t handle whatever it is you won’t tell me, Christian? I’ve had your stalker ex-sub pull a gun on me, your pedophile ex-lover harass me—

and don’t look at me like that,” I snap when he scowls at me. “Your mother feels the same way about her.”

“You talked to my mother about Elena?” Christian’s voice raises a few octaves.

“Yes, Grace and I talked about her.”

He gapes at me.

“She’s very upset about it. Blames herself.”

“I can’t believe you spoke to my mother. Shit!” He lies down and puts his arm over his face again.

“I didn’t go into any specifics.”

“I should hope not. Grace doesn’t need all the gory details. Christ, Ana. My dad, too?”

“No!” I shake my head vehemently. I don’t have that kind of relationship with Carrick. His comments about the prenup still sting. “Anyway, you’re trying to

distract me—again. Jack. What about him?”

Christian lifts his arm briefly and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. Sighing, he puts his arm back over his face.

“Hyde is implicated in Charlie Tango’s sabotage. The investigators found a partial print—just partial, so they couldn’t make a match. But then you recognized

Hyde in the server room. He has convictions as a minor in Detroit, and the prints matched his.”

My mind reels as I try to absorb this information. Jack brought down Charlie Tango? But Christian is on a roll. “This morning, a cargo van was found in the

garage here. Hyde was the driver. Yesterday, he delivered some shit to that new guy who’s moved in. The guy we met in the elevator.”

“I don’t remember his name.”

“Me neither.” Christian says. “But that’s how Hyde managed to get into the building legitimately. He was working for a delivery company—”

“And? What’s so important about the van?”

Christian says nothing.

“Christian, tell me.”

“The cops found . . . things in the van.” He stops again and tightens his hold around me.

“What things?”

He’s quiet for several moments, and I open my mouth to prompt him again, but he speaks. “A mattress, enough horse tranquilizer to take down a dozen horses,

and a note.” His voice has softened to barely a whisper while horror and revulsion roll off him.

Holy fuck.

“Note?” My voice mirrors his.

“Addressed to me.”

“What did it say?”

Christian shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t know or that he won’t divulge its contents.

Oh.

“Hyde came here last night with the intention of kidnapping you.” Christian freezes, his face taut with tension. As he says those words, I recall the duct tape, and

a shudder runs through me, though deep down this is not news to me.

“Shit,” I mutter.

“Quite,” Christian says tightly.

I try to remember Jack in the office. Was he always insane? How did he think he could get away with this? I mean he was pretty creepy, but this unhinged?

“I don’t understand why,” I murmur. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“I know. The police are digging further, and so is Welch. But we think Detroit is the connection.”

“Detroit?” I gaze at him, confused.

“Detroit?” I gaze at him, confused.

“Yeah. There’s something there.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Christian lifts his face and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. “Ana, I was born in Detroit.”

“I thought you were born here in Seattle,” I murmur. My mind races. What does this have to do with Jack? Christian raises the arm covering his face, reaches

behind him, and grabs one of the pillows. Placing it under his head, he settles back and gazes at me with a wary expression. After a moment he shakes his head.

“No. Elliot and I were both adopted in Detroit. We moved here shortly after my adoption. Grace wanted to be on the west coast, away from the urban sprawl,

and she got a job at Northwest Hospital. I have very little memory of that time. Mia was adopted here.”

“So Jack is from Detroit?”

“Yes.”

Oh . . . “How do you know?”

“I ran a background check when you went to work for him.”

Of course he did. “Do you have a manila file on him, too?” I smirk.

Christian’s mouth twists as he hides his amusement. “I think it’s pale blue.” His fingers continue to run through my hair. It’s soothing.

“What does it say in his file?”

Christian blinks. Reaching down he strokes my cheek. “You really want to know?”

“Is it that bad?”

He shrugs. “I’ve known worse,” he whispers.

No! Is he referring to himself? And the image I have of Christian as a small, dirty, fearful, lost boy comes to mind. I curl around him, holding him tighter, pulling

the sheet over him, and I lay my cheek against his chest.

“What?” he asks, puzzled by my reaction.

“Nothing,” I murmur.

“No, no. This works both ways, Ana. What is it?”

I glance up assessing his apprehensive expression. Resting my cheek upon his chest once more, I decide to tell him. “Sometimes I picture you as a child . . .

before you came to live with the Greys.”

Christian stiffens. “I wasn’t talking about me. I don’t want your pity, Anastasia. That part of my life is done. Gone.”

“It’s not pity,” I whisper, appalled. “It’s sympathy and sorrow—sorrow that anyone could do that to a child.” I take a deep steadying breath as my stomach twists

and tears prick my eyes anew. “That part of your life is not done, Christian—how can you say that? You live every day with your past. You told me yourself—

Fifty Shades, remember?” My voice is barely audible.

Christian snorts and runs his free hand through his hair, though he remains silent and tense beneath me.

“I know it’s why you feel the need to control me. Keep me safe.”

“And yet you choose to defy me,” he murmurs baffled, his hand stilling in my hair.

I frown. Holy cow! Do I do that deliberately? My subconscious removes her half-moon glasses and chews the end, pursing her lips and nodding. I ignore her.

This is confusing—I’m his wife, not his submissive, not some company he’s acquired. I’m not the crack whore who was his mother . . . Fuck. The thought is

sickening. Dr. Flynn’s words come back to me:

“Just keep doing what you’re doing. Christian is head over heels . . . It’s a delight to see.”

That’s it. I’m just doing what I’ve always done. Isn’t that what Christian found attractive in the first place?

Oh, this man is so confusing.

“Dr. Flynn said I should give you the benefit of the doubt. I think I do—I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s my way of bringing you into the here and now—away from

your past,” I whisper. “I don’t know. I just can’t seem to get a handle on how far you’ll overreact.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Fucking Flynn,” he mutters to himself.

“He said I should continue to behave the way I’ve always behaved with you.”

“Did he now?” Christian says dryly.

Okay. Here goes nothing. “Christian, I know you loved your mom, and you couldn’t save her. It wasn’t your job to do that. But I’m not her.”

He freezes again. “Don’t,” he whispers.

“No, listen. Please.” I raise my head to stare into gray eyes that are paralyzed with fear. He’s holding his breath. Oh, Christian . . . My heart constricts. “I’m not

her. I’m much stronger than she was. I have you, and you’re so much stronger now, and I know you love me. I love you, too,” I whisper.

His brow creases as if my words were not what he expected. “Do you still love me?” he asks.

“Of course I do. Christian, I will always love you. No matter what you do to me.” Is this the reassurance he wants?

He exhales and closes his eyes, placing his arm over his face again, but hugging me closer, too.

“Don’t hide from me.” Reaching up, I grasp his hand and pull his arm away from his face. “You’ve spent your life hiding. Please don’t, not from me.”

He looks at me with incredulity and frowns. “Hiding?”

He looks at me with incredulity and frowns. “Hiding?”

“Yes.”

He shifts suddenly, rolling over onto his side and moving me so that I am lying beside him on the bed. He reaches up, smoothes my hair off my face and tucks it

behind my ear.

“You asked me earlier today if I hated you. I didn’t understand why, and now—” He stops, staring down at me as if I’m a complete conundrum.

“You still think I hate you?” Now my voice is incredulous.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not now.” He looks relieved. “But I need to know . . . why did you safe word, Ana?”

I blanch. What can I tell him? That he frightened me. That I didn’t know if he’d stop. That I begged him—and he didn’t stop. That I didn’t want things to

escalate . . . like—like that one time in here. I shudder as I recall him whipping me with his belt.

I swallow. “Because . . . because you were so angry and distant and . . . cold. I didn’t know how far you’d go.”

His expression is unreadable.

“Were you going to let me come?” My voice is barely a whisper, and I feel a blush steal over my cheeks, but I hold his gaze.

“No,” he says eventually.

Holy crap. “That’s . . . harsh.”

His knuckle gently grazes my cheek. “But effective,” he murmurs. He gazes down at me as if he’s trying to see into my soul, his eyes darkening. After an

eternity, he murmurs, “I’m glad you did.”

“Really?” I don’t understand.

His lips twist in a sad smile. “Yes. I don’t want to hurt you. I got carried away.” He reaches down and kisses me. “Lost in the moment.” He kisses me again.

“Happens a lot with you.”

Oh? And for some bizarre reason the thought pleases me . . . I grin. Why does that make me happy? He grins, too.

“I don’t know why you’re grinning, Mrs. Grey.”

“Me neither.”

He wraps himself around me and places his head on my chest. We are a tangle of naked and denim-clad limbs, and satin red sheets. I stroke his back with one

hand and run the fingers of my other hand through his hair. He sighs and relaxes in my arms.

“It means I can trust you . . . to stop me. I never want to hurt you,” he murmurs. “I need—” He halts.

“You need what?”

“I need control, Ana. Like I need you. It’s the only way I can function. I can’t let go of it. I can’t. I’ve tried . . . And yet, with you . . .” He shakes his head in

exasperation.

I swallow. This is the heart of our dilemma—his need for control and his need for me. I refuse to believe these are mutually exclusive.

“I need you, too,” I whisper, hugging him tighter. “I’ll try, Christian. I’ll try to be more considerate.”

“I want you to need me,” he murmurs.

Holy cow!

“I do!” My voice is impassioned. I need him so much. I love him so much.

“I want to look after you.”

“You do. All the time. I missed you so much while you were away.”

“You did?” He sounds so surprised.

“Yes, of course. I hate you going away.”

I sense his smile. “You could have come with me.”

“Christian, please. Let’s not rehash that argument. I want to work.”

He sighs as I work my fingers gently through his hair.

“I love you, Ana.”

“I love you, too, Christian. I will always love you.”

We both lie still in the calm, quiet after our storm. Listening to the steady beat of his heart, I drift exhausted into sleep.

I wake with a start, disorientated. Where am I? The playroom. The lights are still on, softly illuminating the bloodred walls. Christian moans again, and I realize this

is what woke me.

“No,” he groans. He’s sprawled out beside me, his head back, his eyes screwed shut, his face contorted in anguish.

Holy shit. He’s having a nightmare.

“No!” he cries out again.

“Christian, wake up.” I struggle to sit up, kicking off the sheet. Kneeling beside him, I grab his shoulders and shake him as tears spring to my eyes.

“Christian, please. Wake up!”

His eyes spring open, gray and wild, his pupils enlarged with fear. He stares vacantly up at me.

“Christian, you’re having a nightmare. You’re home. You’re safe.”

He blinks, looks around frantically, and frowns as he takes in our surroundings. Then his eyes are back on mine. “Ana,” he breathes, and with no preamble

whatsoever he grabs my face with both hands, pulls me down onto his chest, and kisses me. Hard. His tongue invades my mouth, and he tastes of desperation and

need. Barely giving me a chance to breathe, he rolls over, his lips locked to mine so that he’s pressing me into the hard mattress of the four-poster. One of his hands

clasps my jaw, the other spreads out on top of my head, keeping me still as his knee parts my legs and he nestles, still clothed in his jeans, between my thighs.

“Ana,” he gasps as if he can’t believe I’m there with him. He gazes down at me for a split second, allowing me a moment to breathe. Then his lips are on mine

again, plundering my mouth, taking all I have to give. He groans loudly, flexing his hips into me. His erection sheathed in denim pushes into my soft flesh. Oh . . . I

moan, and all the pent-up sexual tension of earlier erupts, resurfacing with a vengeance, flushing my system with desire and need. Driven by his demons, he urgently kisses my face, my eyes, my cheeks, along my jaw.

“I’m here,” I whisper, trying to calm him, our heated, panting breath mingling. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, as I grind my pelvis against his in welcome.

“Oh, Ana,” he pants, his voice rough and low. “I need you.”

“Me, too,” I whisper urgently, my body desperate for his touch. I want him. I want him now. I want to heal him. I want to heal me . . . I need this. His hand

reaches down and tugs on the button of his fly, fumbling momentarily, then freeing his erection.

Holy shit. I was asleep less than a minute ago.

He shifts, staring down at me for a split second, suspended above me.

“Yes. Please,” I breathe, my voice hoarse and needy.

And in one swift move he buries himself inside me.

And in one swift move he buries himself inside me.

“Ah!” I cry out, not from any pain, but from surprise at his alacrity.

He groans, and his lips find mine again as he pushes into me, over and over, his tongue possessing me, too. He moves frantically, compelled by his fear, his lust,

his desire, his—love? I don’t know, but I meet him thrust for thrust, welcoming him.

“Ana,” he growls almost inarticulately, and he comes powerfully, pouring himself into me, his face strained, his body rigid, before he collapses with his full

weight onto me, panting, and he leaves me hanging . . . again.

Holy shit. This is not my night. My inner goddess is preparing to disembowel herself. I hold him, drawing in a lungful of air and practically writhing with need

beneath him. He eases out of me and holds me for minutes . . . many minutes. Finally he shakes his head and leans up on his elbows, taking some of his weight. He

gazes down at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“Oh, Ana. Sweet Jesus.” He bends and kisses me tenderly.

“You okay?” I breathe, caressing his lovely face. He nods, but he looks shaken and most definitely stirred. My own lost boy. He frowns and stares intently into

my eyes as if finally registering where he is.

“You?” he asks, concern in his voice.

“Um . . .” I wriggle beneath him, and after a moment he smiles, a slow carnal smile.

“Mrs. Grey, you have needs,” he murmurs. He kisses me swiftly, then scoots off the bed.

Kneeling on the floor at the end of the bed, he reaches up, grabs me just above the knees and pulls me toward him so my behind is on the edge of the bed.

“Sit up,” he murmurs. I struggle into a sitting position, my hair falling like a veil around me, down to my breasts. His gray gaze holds mine as he gently pushes

my legs apart as far as they’ll go. I lean back on my hands—knowing full well what he’s going to do. But . . . he’s just . . . um . . .

“You are so fucking beautiful, Ana,” he breathes, and I watch his copper-haired head dip and plant a trail of kisses up my right thigh, heading north. My whole

body clenches in anticipation. He glances up at me, his eyes darkening through long lashes.

“Watch,” he rasps then his mouth is on me.

Oh my. I cry out as the world is concentrated at the apex of my thighs, and it’s so erotic—Fuck—watching him. Watching his tongue against what feels like the

most sensitive part of my body. And he shows no mercy, teasing and taunting, worshipping me. My body tenses and my arms start to tremble from the strain of

staying upright.

“No . . . ah,” I murmur. Gently, he eases one long finger inside me, and I can bear it no more, collapsing back onto the bed, relishing this mouth and fingers on

and in me. Slowly and gently, he massages that sweet, sweet spot deep inside me. And that’s it—I’m gone. I explode around him, crying out an incoherent rendition

of his name as my intense orgasm arches my back off the bed. I think I see stars it’s such a visceral primal feeling . . . Vaguely I’m aware that he’s nuzzling my

belly, giving me soft, sweet kisses. Reaching down, I caress his hair.

“I’m not finished with you yet,” he murmurs. And before I’ve fully come back to Seattle, Planet Earth, he’s reaching for me, grasping my hips and pulling me off

the bed to where’s he’s kneeling, and into his waiting lap and onto his waiting erection.

I gasp as he fills me. Holy cow . . .

“Oh, baby,” he breathes as he wraps his arms around me and stills, cradling my head and kissing my face. He flexes his hips, and pleasure spikes hot and hard

from deep within me. He reaches for my behind and lifts me, rocking his groin upward.

“Ah,” I moan, and his lips are on mine again as he slowly, oh so slowly, lifts and rocks . . . lifts and rocks. I throw my arms around his neck, surrendering to his

gentle rhythm and to wherever he’ll take me. I flex my thighs, riding him . . . he feels so good. Leaning backward, I tilt my head back, my mouth open wide in a

silent expression of my pleasure, reveling in his sweet lovemaking.

“Ana,” he breathes, and he leans down, kissing my throat. Holding me tight, slowly easing in and out, pushing me . . . higher and higher . . . so exquisitely timed

–a fluid carnal force. Blissful pleasure radiates outward from deep, deep inside me as he holds me so intimately.

“I love you, Ana,” he whispers close to my ear, his voice low and harsh, and he lifts me again—up, down, up, down. I curl my hands back around his neck into

his hair.

“I love you, too, Christian.” Opening my eyes, I find he’s gazing at me, and all I see is his love, shining bright and bold in the soft glow of the playroom light, his

nightmare seemingly forgotten. And as I feel my body build toward my release, I realize this is what I wanted—this connection, this demonstration of our love.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispers, his voice low. I screw my eyes shut as my body tightens at the low sound of his voice, and I come loudly, spiraling into an

intense climax. He stills, his forehead against mine, as he softly whispers my name, wraps his arms around me, and finds his own release.

He lifts me gently and lays me on the bed. I lie in his arms, wrung out and finally sated. He nuzzles my neck.

“Better now?” he whispers.

“Hmm.”

“Shall we go to bed, or do you want to sleep here?”

“Hmm.”

“Mrs. Grey, talk to me.” He sounds amused.

“Hmm.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Hmm.”

“Come. Let me put you to bed. I don’t like sleeping here.”

Reluctantly, I shift and turn to face him. “Wait,” I whisper. He blinks at me, looking all wide-eyed and innocent, and at the same time thoroughly fucked and

pleased with himself.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He nods, smiling smugly like an adolescent boy. “I am now.”

“Oh, Christian,” I scold and gently stroke his lovely face. “I was talking about your nightmare.”

His expression freezes momentarily, then he closes his eyes and tightens his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.

“Don’t,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and raw. My heart lurches and twists once more in my chest, and I clutch him tightly, running my hands down his back

and through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, alarmed by his reaction. Holy fuck—how can I keep up with these mood swings? What the hell was his nightmare about? I don’t want to

cause him any more pain by making him relive the details. “It’s okay,” I murmur softly, desperate to bring him back to the playful boy of a moment ago. “It’s okay,”

I repeat over and over soothingly.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says quietly after a while, and he pulls away from me, leaving me empty and aching as he rises from the bed. I scramble after him, keeping

the satin sheet wrapped around me, and bend to pick up my clothes.

“Leave those,” he says, and before I know it, he scoops me up in his arms. “I don’t want you to trip over this sheet and break your neck.” I put my arms around

“Leave those,” he says, and before I know it, he scoops me up in his arms. “I don’t want you to trip over this sheet and break your neck.” I put my arms around

him marveling that he’s recovered his composure, and nuzzle him as he carries me downstairs to our bedroom.

My eyes spring open. Something is wrong. Christian is not in bed, though it’s still dark. Glancing at the radio alarm, I see it’s three twenty in the morning. Where’s

Christian? Then I hear the piano.

Quickly slipping out of bed, I grab my robe and run down the hallway to the great room. The tune he’s playing is so sad—a mournful lament that I’ve heard him

play before. I pause in the doorway and watch him in a pool of light while the achingly sorrowful music fills the room. He finishes then starts the piece again. Why

such a plaintive tune? I wrap my arms around myself and listen spellbound as he plays. But my heart aches. Christian, why so sad? Is it because of me? Did I do

this? When he finishes, only to start a third time, I can bear it no longer. He doesn’t look up as I near the piano, but shifts to one side so I can sit beside him on the

piano bench. He continues to play, and I put my head on his shoulder. He kisses my hair but doesn’t stop playing until he’s finished the piece. I peek up at him and

he’s staring down at me, warily.

“Did I wake you?” he asks.

“Only because you were gone. What’s that piece called?”

“It’s Chopin. It’s one of his preludes in E minor.” Christian pauses. “It’s called Suffocation . . .”

Reaching over I take his hand. “You’re really shaken by all this, aren’t you?”

He snorts. “A deranged asshole gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife. She won’t do as she’s told. She drives me crazy. She safe words on me.” He closes

his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, they are stark and raw. “Yeah, I’m pretty shaken up.”

I squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry.”

He presses his forehead against mine. “I dreamed you were dead,” he whispers.

What?

“Lying on the floor—so cold—and you wouldn’t wake up.”

Oh, Fifty.

“Hey—it was just a bad dream.” Reaching up, I clasp his head in my hands. His eyes burn into mine and the anguish in them is sobering. “I’m here and I’m cold

without you in the bed. Come back to bed, please.” I take his hand and stand, waiting to see if he’ll follow me. Finally he stands, too. He’s wearing his pajama

bottoms, and they hang in that way he has, and I want to run my fingers along the inside of his waistband, but I resist and lead him back to the bedroom.

When I wake he’s curled around me, sleeping peacefully. I relax and enjoy his enveloping heat, his skin on my skin. I lie very still, not wanting to disturb him.

Boy, what an evening. I feel like I’ve been run over by a train—the freight train that is my husband. Hard to believe that the man lying beside me, looking so

serene and young in his sleep, was so tortured last night . . . and so tortured me last night. I gaze up at the ceiling, and it occurs to me that I always think of Christian

as strong and dominating—yet the reality is he’s so fragile, my lost boy. And the irony is that he looks upon me as fragile—and I don’t think I am. Compared to him

I’m strong.

But am I strong enough for both of us? Strong enough to do what I’m told and give him some peace of mind? I sigh. He’s not asking that much of me. I flit

through our conversation of last night. Did we decide anything other than to both try harder? The bottom line is that I love this man, and I need to chart a course for

both of us. One that lets me keep my integrity and independence but still be more for him. I am his more, and he is mine. I resolve to make a special effort this

weekend not to give him cause for concern.Christian stirs and lifts his head off my chest, looking sleepily at me.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey.” I smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Did you sleep well?” He stretches out beside me.

“Once my husband stopped making that terrible racket on the piano, yes, I did.”

He smiles his shy smile, and I melt. “Terrible racket? I’ll be sure to e-mail Miss Kathie and let her know.”

“Miss Kathie?”

“My piano teacher.”

I giggle.

“That’s a lovely sound,” he says. “Shall we have a better day today?”

“Okay,” I agree. “What do you want to do?”

“After I have made love to my wife, and she’s cooked me breakfast, I’d like to take her to Aspen.”

I gape at him. “Aspen?”

“Yes.”

“Aspen, Colorado?”

“The very same. Unless they’ve moved it. After all, you did pay twenty-four thousand dollars for the experience.”

I grin at him. “That was your money.”

“Our money.”

“It was your money when I made the bid.” I roll my eyes.

“Oh, Mrs. Grey, you and your eye rolling,” he whispers as he runs his hand up my thigh.

“Won’t it take hours to get to Colorado?” I ask to distract him.

“Not by jet,” he says silkily as his hand reaches my behind.

Of course, my husband has a jet. How could I forget? His hand continues to skim up my body, lifting my nightdress as it goes, and soon I’ve forgotten

everything.

Taylor drives us onto the tarmac at Sea-Tac and around to where the GEH jet is waiting. It’s a gray day in Seattle, but I refuse to let the weather dampen my soaring

spirits. Christian is in a much better mood. He’s excited about something—lit up like Christmas and twitching like a small boy with a big secret. I wonder what

scheme he’s dreamed up. He looks dreamy, all tousled hair, white T-shirt and black jeans. Not CEO-like at all today. He takes my hand as Taylor glides to a stop at

the foot of the jet steps.

“I have a surprise for you,” he murmurs and kisses my knuckles.

I grin at him. “Good surprise?”

“I hope so.” He smiles warmly.

Hmm . . . what can it be?

Sawyer leaps out from the front and opens my door. Taylor opens Christian’s then retrieves our cases from the trunk. Stephan is waiting at the top of the stairs

when we enter the aircraft. I glance into the cockpit and see First Officer Beighley flipping switches on the imposing instrument panel.

Christian and Stephan shake hands. “Good morning, sir.” Stephan smiles.

Christian and Stephan shake hands. “Good morning, sir.” Stephan smiles.

“Thanks for doing this at such short notice.” Christian grins back at him. “Our guests here?”

“Yes sir.”

Guests? I turn and gasp. Kate, Elliot, Mia, and Ethan are all smiling and sitting in the cream-colored leather seats. Wow! I spin around to Christian.

“Surprise!” he says.

“How? When? Who?” I mumble inarticulately, trying to contain my delight and elation.

“You said you didn’t see enough of your friends.” He shrugs and gives me a lopsided, apologetic smile.

“Oh, Christian, thank you.” I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him hard in front of everyone. He puts his hands on my hips, hooking his thumbs through

the belt loops of my jeans, and deepens the kiss.

Oh my.

“Keep this up and I’ll drag you into the bedroom,” he murmurs.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I whisper against his lips.

“Oh, Anastasia.” He grins, shaking his head. He releases me and without further preamble, stoops down, grabs my thighs, and lifts me over his shoulder.

“Christian, put me down!” I smack his behind.

I briefly catch Stephan’s smile as he turns and heads into the cockpit. Taylor is standing at the doorway trying to stifle his grin. Ignoring my pleas and my futile

struggles, Christian strides through the narrow cabin past Mia and Ethan who are facing each other in the single seats, past Kate and Elliot, who is whooping like a

demented gibbon.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says to our four guests. “I need to have a word with my wife in private.”

“Christian!” I shout. “Put me down!”

“All in good time, baby.”

I have a brief view of Mia, Kate, and Elliot laughing. Damn it! This is not funny, it’s embarrassing. Ethan gawks at us, mouth open and utterly shocked, as we

disappear into the cabin.

Christian closes the cabin door behind him and releases me, letting me slide down his body slowly, so that I feel every hard sinew and muscle. He gives me his

boyish grin, thoroughly pleased with himself.

“That was quite a show, Mr. Grey,” I murmur, crossing my arms and regarding him with faux indignation.

“That was fun, Mrs. Grey.” And his grin widens. Oh boy. He looks so young.

“Are you going to follow through?” I arch a brow, unsure how I feel about this. I mean, the others will hear us, for heaven’s sake. Suddenly, I feel shy. Glancing

anxiously at the bed, I feel a blush steal across my cheeks as I recall our wedding night. We talked so much yesterday, did so much yesterday. I feel as if we leaped

some unknown hurdle—but that’s the problem. It’s unknown. My eyes find Christian’s intense but amused gaze, and I’m unable to keep a straight face. His grin is

too infectious.

“I think it might be rude to keep our guests waiting,” he says silkily as he steps toward me. When did he start to care what people think? I step back against the